#Valorous Cape
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#flight rising#flight rising polls#fr#fr polls#fr familiar bracket#round 1#valorous cape#inquisitive shroud#sumptuous cape
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Shadows of Valor
The grand chandelier of the Wayne Manor ballroom glittered like a constellation trapped in crystal, casting a warm, golden glow over the sea of Gotham’s elite. The air was thick with the scent of expensive perfumes, the clink of champagne flutes, and the low hum of polite conversation. You stood at the edge of the gala, a vision in a deep emerald gown that hugged your frame before spilling into a cascade of silk. Your hair, usually left to its natural, untamed state, was swept into an elegant updo, each strand meticulously pinned to play the part of the perfect Wayne daughter. The spoiled princess, as the tabloids loved to call you. The family disappointment.
You weren’t a hero. You didn’t wear a cape, didn’t patrol the shadowed streets of Gotham, didn’t have a codename whispered in the dark. Unlike your siblings—Dick with his effortless charm, Jason with his raw intensity, Tim with his brilliant mind, or Damian with his fierce determination—you had no desire to chase danger. You wanted peace, or at least as much peace as a Wayne could claim. A quiet life, away from the chaos of the Batcave, away from the weight of a legacy you’d never been invited to carry.
Your family didn’t understand. To them, you were a mystery, a puzzle they’d long since stopped trying to solve. Bruce, your father, had once looked at you with something like hope, but that had faded when you’d politely declined his offer to train, to join the family business. Dick had tried to coax you into the fold, his warm smiles and gentle encouragement almost tempting, but you’d held firm. Jason had scoffed, calling you soft. Tim had barely noticed, too absorbed in his own world. And Damian—well, Damian had never considered you worth his time.
So, you played the role they’d assigned you. The frivolous one. The one who spent her allowance on designer clothes and charity galas, who smiled for the cameras and let the world believe she was nothing more than a spoiled heiress. It was easier that way. Easier than explaining the truth.
Tonight, though, the role felt heavier than usual. The gala was in full swing, and you were doing your part—mingling, laughing at the right moments, letting the older socialites pinch your cheeks and coo over how much you’d grown. Your siblings were scattered throughout the room, each playing their own version of the Wayne charade. Bruce stood near the center, his presence commanding, his smile practiced. You caught his eye once, but he looked away quickly, as if you were a ghost he couldn’t quite see.
Your phone buzzed in your clutch, a sharp vibration that cut through the haze of the evening. You excused yourself from a conversation with a particularly chatty councilman, slipping the phone out as you stepped toward a quieter corner of the ballroom. The screen lit up with a name that made your heart lurch: *Martha*.
Martha was the director of Gotham’s Hope Orphanage, a place you’d been volunteering at for years, far from the prying eyes of your family or the press. You’d poured your heart into the children there, especially one little boy named Mathew. Two years old, with wide brown eyes and a laugh that could melt the coldest heart, Mathew had claimed you as his favorite person. You’d spent countless hours reading to him, playing with him, holding him when nightmares woke him in the night. He was your secret joy, a piece of your life no one else knew about.
You answered the call, your voice low. “Martha? What’s wrong?”
“Y/N,” Martha’s voice was strained, urgent. “It’s Mathew. There was an accident—a car hit the playground fence while he was playing. He’s at Gotham General, but he’s hurt, and he’s asking for you. He won’t let the doctors touch his leg. He’s terrified.”
Your breath caught, the world around you fading to a dull roar. “I’m on my way.”
You didn’t think. Didn’t pause to tell anyone where you were going. You slipped through the crowd, your heels clicking against the marble floor as you made for the exit. Outside, the cool night air hit you like a slap, but you barely noticed. You flagged down a cab, your heart pounding as you gave the driver the hospital’s address.
The ride was a blur, your mind consumed with images of Mathew—his tiny hands clutching your fingers, his trust in you so absolute it humbled you. You couldn’t let him down.
At the hospital, you found him in a small, sterile room, his little body curled on the bed, his face streaked with tears. His left leg was bandaged, the sight of it making your chest tighten. The doctors hovered, frustrated, as Mathew whimpered, shaking his head at their attempts to examine him.
“Y/N!” he cried when he saw you, his voice breaking.
You rushed to his side, dropping to your knees beside the bed. “I’m here, Matty. I’m right here.” You took his hand, brushing his damp curls from his forehead. “You’re so brave, you know that?”
With you there, he calmed, his sobs easing into hiccups. The doctors explained the situation—a fractured leg, not life-threatening but requiring surgery. Mathew clung to you as they prepped him, his small hand never leaving yours until the anesthesia took effect and his eyes fluttered closed.
You stayed through the night, sitting by his bedside, your gown crumpled, your hair falling loose in wild strands. Your eyes burned with unshed tears, but you held it together for him. For Mathew, you could be strong.
ᴥᴥᴥᴥᴥᴥᴥᴥᴥᴥᴥᴥᴥᴥᴥᴥᴥᴥᴥᴥᴥᴥᴥᴥᴥᴥᴥᴥᴥᴥᴥᴥᴥᴥᴥᴥ
Meanwhile, across town, the gala continued without you. No one noticed your absence at first—not your siblings, not Bruce. But a reporter, a vulture named Carl Hensley, had been watching. Hensley was desperate for a scoop, his career teetering on the edge of obscurity. He’d followed you when you’d left, snapping a photo as you stumbled out of the hospital in the early morning hours, your appearance disheveled, your eyes red. He didn’t know why you were there, didn’t care. He saw an opportunity.
By the next morning, the headline was everywhere: *“Wayne Princess Ditches Gala for Wild Night Out!”* The article was vicious, painting you as a reckless party girl who’d abandoned her family’s event for a night of debauchery. The photo of you outside the hospital was splashed across every tabloid, your expression twisted into something that looked like guilt or shame.
You didn’t see the article until you returned to Wayne Manor, exhausted and emotionally drained. You’d stayed at the hospital until Martha arrived to take over, promising to call with updates on Mathew’s recovery. The cab ride home was silent, your mind still with the little boy who’d clung to you like a lifeline.
When you stepped into the manor, the air was thick with tension. Your family was gathered in the living room, their faces a mix of anger and disappointment. Bruce stood at the center, his jaw tight, the newspaper clutched in his hand. Dick, Jason, Tim, and Damian flanked him, their eyes fixed on you with varying degrees of accusation.
“Where the hell were you?” Jason snapped, his voice cutting through the silence. “You just disappear in the middle of a gala, and then *this*?” He gestured to the newspaper, the headline screaming its lies.
You blinked, confused. “What are you talking about?”
“Don’t play dumb,” Damian said, his tone venomous. “You’ve humiliated us. Again.”
Bruce stepped forward, his voice low and controlled, but the anger in it was unmistakable. “You left without a word, Y/N. And now this—this garbage is all over Gotham. Do you have any idea what this does to our family’s reputation?”
You took the newspaper from his hand, your eyes scanning the headline, the photo. Your stomach dropped. “This isn’t true,” you said, your voice trembling. “I didn’t—I was at the hospital—”
“Hospital?” Tim cut in, his voice skeptical. “For what? A hangover?”
The words hit like a slap. You opened your mouth to explain, to tell them about Mathew, about the orphanage, about the truth, but Dick spoke before you could.
“Y/N, we’ve given you everything,” he said, his voice softer but no less cutting. “And you keep throwing it back in our faces. We’re trying to keep this family together, and you’re out there making a mockery of us.”
Tears pricked your eyes, but you refused to let them fall. “You don’t understand,” you said, your voice breaking. “If you’d just listen—”
“Enough,” Bruce said, his tone final. “You’ve done enough damage. You’re grounded, Y/N. And until you can prove you’re capable of responsibility, you’re not leaving this house.”
You stared at him, disbelief washing over you. “You’re grounding me? For something I didn’t do?”
Bruce didn’t answer. Instead, he gestured to the staircase that led to the basement—a cold, windowless room used for storage, a place you’d always avoided. “You’ll stay down there tonight. Maybe some time alone will help you reflect.”
Your blood ran cold. “No,” you whispered, your voice barely audible. “Not the basement.”
You’d never told them about your fears, never shared the way tight spaces and darkness clawed at your mind, suffocating you with memories of a childhood trauma you’d buried deep. They didn’t know because they’d never asked.
“Bruce, please,” you said, your voice rising. “I’m telling you the truth—”
“Now,” he said, his voice unyielding.
You looked at your siblings, searching for an ally, but their faces were closed off, their eyes hard. With no other choice, you turned and descended the stairs, each step heavier than the last. The door closed behind you, the lock clicking into place.
The basement was a tomb. The walls seemed to press in, the darkness swallowing the faint light from the single bulb overhead. Your breath came in shallow gasps, your heart racing as the familiar panic set in. You backed into a corner, sliding to the floor, your arms wrapped around yourself as the world closed in.
Minutes passed, or maybe hours—you couldn’t tell. The fear was too much, the darkness too heavy. Your vision blurred, your chest tightened, and then—nothing
ᴥᴥᴥᴥᴥᴥᴥᴥᴥᴥᴥᴥᴥᴥᴥᴥᴥᴥᴥᴥᴥᴥᴥᴥᴥᴥᴥᴥᴥᴥᴥᴥᴥᴥᴥᴥ
The truth came to light the next day, as it always does. A news report flashed across every screen in Gotham: *“Orphanage Director Sues Reporter for Defamation, Defends Wayne Daughter’s Honor.”*
Martha stood before a crowd of reporters, her voice steady as she recounted the real story. She spoke of your years of volunteering at Hope Orphanage, your quiet dedication, your love for the children—especially Mathew. She explained the accident, your rush to the hospital, the way you’d stayed by his side through the night, calming him when no one else could. She revealed the donations you’d made, millions of dollars funneled into the orphanage under a pseudonym, never seeking recognition. She called you a hero, the kind Gotham didn’t deserve.
The Batfamily watched the broadcast in stunned silence, the weight of their mistake settling over them like a shroud. Bruce’s face was a mask, but his hands trembled. Dick’s eyes were wide, guilt twisting his features. Jason cursed under his breath, his anger turned inward. Tim stared at the screen, his mind racing to piece together the clues he’d missed. Damian, for once, was speechless, his usual arrogance replaced by something like shame.
“Oh God,” Dick whispered, the realization hitting him like a freight train. “She’s still in the basement.”
He bolted from the room, the others close behind. They reached the basement door, Dick fumbling with the lock in his haste. When it finally swung open, your body tumbled out, limp and pale, collapsing into his arms.
“Y/N!” Dick’s voice cracked as he cradled you, his fingers brushing your clammy skin. “No, no, no—come on, wake up.”
Bruce was there in an instant, checking your pulse, his training kicking in even as panic clawed at him. “She’s breathing, but she’s in shock. We need to get her to a hospital.”
Jason scooped you up, his usual bravado gone, replaced by a quiet urgency. “I’ve got her,” he said, his voice rough. “Let’s move.”
They rushed you to Gotham General, the same hospital where you’d spent the night with Mathew. The doctors worked quickly, diagnosing a severe panic attack brought on by claustrophobia and nyctophobia—conditions your family had never known you had. They stabilized you, but you remained unconscious, your body exhausted from the ordeal.
In the waiting room, the Batfamily sat in silence, each grappling with their guilt. Bruce stared at his hands, the weight of his failure as a father crushing him. He’d locked you away, ignored your pleas, dismissed you without a second thought. Dick kept replaying your desperate words, the way you’d begged them to listen. Jason’s anger simmered, directed at himself for believing the lies. Tim felt sick, realizing how easily he’d accepted the narrative without question. And Damian—Damian felt something he rarely did: regret.
When you finally woke, hours later, you found Dick at your bedside, his eyes red-rimmed. “Y/N,” he said, his voice hoarse. “I’m so sorry.”
You looked at him, then at the others gathered around—Bruce, Jason, Tim, Damian, all looking at you like you were a stranger they were seeing for the first time.
“We didn’t know,” Bruce said, his voice low, heavy with guilt. “About the orphanage, about Mathew, about… you.”
You turned your head away, your throat tight. “You didn’t ask,” you whispered.
The words hung in the air, a quiet indictment. They stayed with you through your recovery, through the awkward attempts at reconciliation. Your family tried to make amends—Bruce with his quiet presence, Dick with his gentle encouragement, Jason with his fierce protectiveness, Tim with his thoughtful gestures, Damian with his rare, halting apologies. But the hurt lingered, a scar that would take time to heal.
Mathew recovered, his leg healing under your careful attention. You returned to the orphanage, to the children who needed you, to the life you’d built outside the shadow of the Bat. And though your family began to see you—truly see you—the road to forgiveness was long, paved with the truths they’d ignored for too long.
But you were strong. You’d always been strong. And in the end, you didn’t need their approval to shine. You were enough.
#batfam x reader#batfamily x reader#bruce wayne x reader#yandere batfamily x reader#yandere batfam x reader#damian wayne x reader#yandere x reader#yandere dc x reader#dc x reader#reader#jason todd x reader#tim drake x reader#the neglected reader#batfamily x neglected reader#batfam x neglected reader#neglected reader#jason todd x y/n
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Here's the prologue of what I'm currently writing which I'm calling
Gamer girl gets transmigrated into a farm boy Ao3 link
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If you could choose a world to be isekaied into, you probably wouldn't choose the videogame Age of Tales. It's not that it's too dark or gritty or dangerous, quite the opposite. Age of Tales is boring.
It's a painfully generic mediaeval RPG with a very generic "farm boy becomes a hero" storyline. Or farmgirl, if you go that route. There's some moral choices, but overall the story is very linear from start to finish, and no matter how evil you try to play it, the game inevitably ends with the chosen farmboy (or girl) saving the world. Age of Tales has a very generic cast of characters with very generic backstories, even more generic villains with very basic evil plots, and side quests right out of early free to play mmorpgs. Overall the game is just very… mid.
It flopped within a week of being launched, deservedly so. It landed without a splash and was forgotten within the month, and its only saving grace was that at least it wasn't a live service and as such didn't have to go through the indignity of being shut down on top of being a failure. All in all, the game was a massive flop.
And Katie had sunk nearly six hundred hours into it.
She would have explained the appeal, if she knew what it was. The weirdly cosy art design in a game where you eventually end up leading armies in hopeless battles? The character creator that let her create a beautiful two meter hundred kilo blue-eyed wall of muscle as her player character? The weird charm of 80' and 90's fantasy novels, as depicted by the game's story? The glitch that let her literally duplicate gold bars in the tutorial section? The way you can trip the big bad down a staircase if you just happen to fill the boss arena with chairs, benches and barrels?
Katie has hundred percented the game twice, found all known Easter eggs and best glitches, and she still couldn't say why she loved it so much. Why, even as Valthor the Vile generically monologues about how he would fill the world with darkness before the final boss fight, she's already planning to play the game again from the start.
Van the Valorous - as her character this time is called - met the big bad with a big sword in one hand and tall shield in the other, his build a pitch perfect Paladin this time. Katie has played through the final battle so many times that she knows all of Valthor's moves, and Van is fully leveled at 120, so the battle isn't exactly a challenge. She spends most of it admiring the battle arena and Valthor's design. He's a classic long-haired pretty boy, with a rapier and elaborate long coat with enormous shoulders.
Valthor takes the coat off for the final phase of the battle, which Katie had always rather appreciated. She usually takes the opportunity to take Van's clothes off for the final round too, just for the aesthetic. It's not like Van needs the defence offered by clothing at that point anyway.
"So this is what you have chosen," Valthor says on the screen. "These people, with their puny concerns and petty squabbles. You, who like me, could've been a God!"
Katie is offered a final choice of dialogue. "You are no God, Valthor - a devil, at most," Van says and points his sword at Valthor. "And your evil reign ends now!"
"Fine. Let's end it," Valthor answers, and off goes the coat in a completely unnecessary bit of theatrical dramatics. "Have at thee!"
Katie sighs fondly, a smile stretched wide on her face as she plays through the final disappointing mini game of quicktime prompts while on her screen two shirtless men slash bloodlessly at each other.
Valthor loses and falls down. "I had… such plans," he rasps, reaching towards Van. "I was going to bring peace…and prosperity…"
"And yet you brought only war and devastation," Van says and kneels beside his fallen enemy - now, mysteriously, clothed again in his armour and cape. "Your reign is over, Valthor. It's over."
"So it is," Valthor sighs and lets his head fall to the floor. "I wonder… What kind of reign will yours be… oh Valorous one…"
And so Valthor dies and the game ends with the victorious player character walking determinately towards the camera with cape billowing behind them in the most dissatisfying sequel bait ending Katie has ever seen. It's supposed to imply what happens next, how the player character, now a General and Saviour, would probably go on to take charge of the land left behind by Valthor or whatever.
Of course, the game never got a sequel, but there's something endearing about how hopeful they were, making an ending like that. The developers really thought they did something there.
"Ten out of ten, premium trash," Katie sighs with pleasure. "Would not recommend to anyone - except me."
She skips through the final credits and back to the starting screen, intending to start a new game. Maybe this time she'd make Van look older - a huge grizzled old man playing the part of an innocent farm boy should be hilarious.
She stops before hitting [New Game], because the starting screen has changed. There's a new option there, one she's never seen before.
[New Game∞]
"What? I didn't know there was a New Game+," Katie mutters, confused. "Where was this the other times I finished the game, huh?" And why'd they use the infinity sign? Another of Age of Tales' weirdnesses?
Not sure if it would actually be any fun to play the game with a New Game+ but curious about what would actually transfer over with the save, Katie selects the [New Game∞]...
And is promptly sucked into her TV.
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[Chapter 1>>]
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Since some people were expressing interest, lmao. Still on a litrpg kick, pretty much everything I've tried to write lately has been litrpg. This one I'm more hopeful than the rest though. It has actual characters and stuff. Edit: replaced with version proofread by @nimadge, many thanks.
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everything i see, everything i feel (you are my universe)
pairing: astarion/tav wordcount: 8746 content warnings: astarion is not a vampire nor ascended & tav is not the dark urge but i use pet names from his ascended route because i think they fit & some of the dark urge connections are necessary, brief mention of tav being raised as a child soldier by gortash, tav is gender neutral, nearly 8k of pure smut other tags: alternate universe - royalty, character study, porn with plot, dom/sub undertones, mi.ssionary style, do.ggy style, riding, cr.eampie, marriage proposal, sort of archiveofourown: here. note: depending on reception & if i have time, there may be a part two or a prequel. i ended coming up with lore for this verse so i like it a lot. summary: ‘We are the Prince and his Shield,’ Astarion tells you sweetly, voice melodic in your ear. ‘This will be our world. You were made for me, and I was made for you, and we will do as we are meant to do.’
𝐈. ﹕previous fic 𝐈𝐈. ﹕next fic
You can already tell what kind of evening it will be just from the way Astarion looks at you from beneath his eyelashes, so coy and pretty and unabashed in the way he glances over you. Whatever happened tpday at court has pleased him. He practically purrs when he steps past you to enter the sanctuary of his expansive bedroom.
‘You’ll come,’ he murmurs, ‘won’t you, darling?’
You’ll play his game because he likes it. You keep your lips pressed together in a firm line despite the way his hand slides gracefully across your waist, warming the chainmail that you wear dutifully every day so that you can keep the crown prince safe. He pouts when you pretend to not notice the playful mood he’s in. And when you change your mind after only a few minutes, Astarion will wear the same mischievous frown and think he has claimed victory over you once more.
You recite your vows to yourself to keep your mind from wandering, but it’s difficult. I am the Sword of the Crown, the Shield of the Realm. I serve no one but the Rightful King, the First of His Name, the Soul of Truth, Astarion Ancunin. It’s…admittedly hard to remember the rest. You’re distracted by the most impure thoughts. Memories of nights before. The taste of him on your tongue, the feel of him between your thighs, the sight of him as he grinds above you, the gleam of his skin as dawn begins to creep over the horizon. You squeeze your thighs together and try to wait out at least five minutes before you cave.
You peek down the hallway. There are no other guards skulking around at night. You’re not technically supposed to leave your post, but if the prince commands it… Well, it’s an excuse. You rush inside before you can feel the call of your valor and close the door after you with a soft click. Astarion sits with his legs crossed at the edge of his bed. He grins. It’s almost as predictable as you are, but you would never admit it.
‘You called, my prince?’ you ask carefully, trying to keep your tone even.
‘I did,’ he says with a delicate shrug. ‘I thought I could use entertainment, and you were there…’
You smile beneath your helm. You were always there. Astarion tries to hide it a little too much, but there’s no one else he would seek out to keep him entertained when his mood is like this. He tries to play into the expectations everyone has of him. That he’s ambitious, unpredictable, easy to rile up. The truth of the matter is that Astarion longs for you in a way that he will never admit except into the curls of your hair when he thinks you’ve fallen asleep. You care for him — love him — and there’s nothing you adore more than the way he laughs around you as though you were born for him and him alone.
‘I take it the court wasn’t too uneventful,’ you say.
He grimaces. ‘I saw Lord Gortash, unfortunately. I believe the sight of him has ruined my week.’
‘So cruel,’ you hum. You touch the buckles of your cape and release it from your bodice.
‘It’s true, isn’t it?’ Astarion asks defensively, playfully.
You touch the latch of your armor. ‘He’s head of the city guard.’
‘I ought to fire him,’ the prince says darkly. ‘Hire a new one.’
‘Who would protect the city instead?’
‘You,’ Astarion says without pause.
‘Alas, I am duty bound to serve the prince,’ you disagree. You pull the weight of your chest piece off your shoulders and drop it to the floor. ‘How can I serve the city when my mind is filled with nothing but you?’
Astarion smiles, a true smile. ‘Oh, you honor me. You truly mean every word.’
‘Without question,’ you promise.
You think about kneeling before him and looking up at him, but your chest piece is still in the way. You pull and untangle and twist until it all slides to the floor, leaving you in a simpler top. His honor, a single white rose, is pinned to the front of your shirt. You can still remember the day he gave it to you, the day you knelt in the throne room and he pressed his sword to your shoulder to claim you.
‘You are mine,’ Astarion says slowly.
‘I am yours,’ you repeat fondly.
‘Until the end of time?’
‘Until the end.’
‘And,’ Astarion begins playfully, ‘if I asked you to please me?’
‘I would be duty bound,’ you reply.
‘Then may I ask you to please me?’ he murmurs, eyes dangerous.
Astarion practically preens under your careful attention, his eyes unwavering as he watches you. You take your time. You remove the rest of your armor slowly, savoring the hungry way he watches. Even in court when you are his shadow, Astarion barely hides it. The hunger. The longing. The darkest of desires. He would claim you in public if it wouldn’t be a scandal.
You lower yourself before him, groveling on your hands and knees. You place your head in his lap and sigh when he threads his fingers through your hair. These are the moments you live for. When he is no longer a prince and you are no longer a knight. You are you, and Astarion is Astarion.
You don’t have to wonder where his mind is. Not during times like these. He’s anxious to feel you, but you take your time in this. You slip his fancy boots from his feet then take your time undoing his belts and buttons, sliding everything down his lean legs with careful intent. His cock greets you, already half hard and growing still.
It still makes you nervous, deep down inside. Astarion is a prince and the pinnacle of perfection. He could have any duke or duchess he wanted, yet it’s you he takes care of when the standing watch for hours on end from dusk til dawn has caused your bones to grow weary. The least you could do is love him like this. You lean forward and kiss the side of his cock, and Astarion’s fingers tighten in your hair.
‘Please, your highness,’ you whisper.
You are perched at his feet still awaiting commands. Like a good little pup. You shiver.
‘Go on,’ Astarion encourages.
You barely stick the tip of your tongue out and watch as his cock throbs in anticipation. This is dangerous. Obscene, even. You’ve seen him hundreds of times yet it still excites you. Carefully, you take him into your mouth and admire his debauched moan.
You have half a mind to tease him, but when you glance upwards at him, he’s as pretty as an aasimar. Or something worse, but you don’t give yourself much time to think about it. You know his desires. What he enjoys. What he tolerates for you. You know Astarion likes your little hums as you glide your mouth over his cock. He likes being pampered more than anything.
Astarion’s hand is tender as he moves your bangs out of your eyes. It’s the eye contact he wants. He likes to see and always acts like it’s the first time. He holds the edge of your jaw while you rub the tip of his cock against the inside of your cheek, eyebrows scrunching. It’s divine for you as well.
Astarion lives for the pomp and circumstance, absolutely devours court rumors with a delight you barely understand — but he would let his kingdom fall into the Underdark if it meant he could spend every hour of every day fucking you.
It’s the same for you.
It always has been ever since your coronation.
You were not like the other knights who were born into houses of servitude, second born sons and daughters who were the spares of their family names. You were given to Astarion by Lord Gortash as a way to buy favor from the crown. You were once his favorite, well-trained dog.
But unlike Lord Gortash, you are coveted by the crown in a way no other knight has been before. Astarion kisses you every morning and finishes against your spine every evening. But he is your salvation, your savior, and you are on your knees to show what that means to you.
Astarion stirs beneath your ruminations, his thighs tensing beneath your elbows, his hips doing those unconscious lusty jerks that you like so much. His head falls back as he gets lost in the feel of your tongue and mouth and he moans so sweetly that it almost distracts you from your ministrations. You take his cock as far back into your mouth as you can manage, closing your eyes to squeeze out any embarrassing tears that might threaten to fall. Like the prettiest bird, he sings for you.
‘Wait,’ he moans. ‘Not yet, I want — ’
You pull away from him as commanded, licking your lips clean of spit. His hands dance frantically against your shoulders as he pulls you up against him, cock hard against both of your bellies. He kisses you hotly, one hand fisting in your hair and the other tugging uselessly at your shirt.
‘You are needy today, my prince,’ you whisper against a barrage of kisses.
‘You were too perfect,’ he whines. ‘Always perfect for me.’
You laugh against his cheek. ‘You did say to please you.’
‘And now I’m saying to get on the fucking bed,’ Astarion fusses. ‘Oh, and clothes off. I want to see you.’
‘Yes, your — ’ you begin.
‘You,’ Astarion accuses with an affectionate pinch to your side, ‘are being quite the obstinate charge tonight. I want to taste you and be tasted in return, but be familiar with me, my love. Come back to me. Share my bed.’
You are in the middle of doing as he requests, sitting with one leg on either side of his thighs when he slides his hands to your waist and forces you to roll to the side. He pushes you further into the many adorning pillows of his bed and starts devouring you, his mouth dancing from your neck to your collarbones while he tears your shirt apart with his hands, though he does slow down enough to place the white rose on the bedside table. He pushes his palms flat against your chest and leaves bite marks and bruises across your chest and down your belly, chasing after you as you try to squirm away. Astarion finally takes interest in leaving his mark on your throat.
You set to work pushing your leggings and small clothes down your thigh, but Astarion, in all his impatience, gets in the way of that too. He presses his thigh between your legs on purpose, rolling his cock against your hip while his thigh applies almost perfect pressure to the most sensitive parts of you.
You moan and turn your face away, but Astarion chases the sound. He nuzzles your noses together until you look at him, bleary and dazed, your bottom lip caught between your teeth. He rolls his hips again with intent. He catches the sound of your moan on the tip of your tongue and returns it, his own ragged breath warm against your cheek.
‘There you are, my love,’ he whispers deliciously. ‘I’ve missed you. My treasure, my pet…’
‘Yours,’ you moan.
‘Mine,’ Astarion agrees. ‘All mine.’
He drags his fingernails across the swell of your hip, and you can’t help but chase the curve of his wrist. Your cheeks burn, but you’re tempted to beg him. To ask if he’ll please you with his hands. You want to feel his fingers pressed up inside you, to feel them curl and twist. You want it more than anything else you’ve ever wanted to. Astarion watches the way you twist and turn with a small smile on his face. He pets your hip and slides his fingers between your thighs. You can feel the cool of his jeweled rings against your heated flesh.
Astarion is grateful for your reckless display. He acquiesces to your silent begging, brushing his fingers between your folds and pressing the tip of his middle finger against you. He watches with delight as you grind against the pressure. His cheeks and the tips of his pointed ears are ruddy, and though he’s pretending to be controlled right now, you can hear how shaky his breath has become.
And then, like a god answering a prayer, he presses a finger inside of you so painstakingly slow it’s almost maddening. You mewl, watching his expressions in fascination, because his own mouth falls open as he cranes his next to watch. He adds another. He twists and twirls his fingers as deeply as he can reach it. His eyes flutter with desperation. He’s so beautiful that you can hardly stand it. You want more, so much more, and you press your wrist against your mouth to keep from begging.
‘Don’t hide from me,’ he says hoarsely. ‘I want to hear everything. Please, sing for me.’
‘More,’ you whisper thickly. ‘More, I need more, I want more.’
He kisses your jaw sloppily. ‘I’ll give you everything.’
‘It’s not enough!’
‘You’ll take it,’ Astarion tells you. ‘You’ll take what I give.’
‘Astarion,’ you weep. ‘I want you. I want — ’
This time, he might as well have ripped the rest of your clothes with his haste. You aren’t sure what he does with them, you just know that you’re naked and in his bed, surrounded by all his pillows with your thighs slick from how wet you are.
Your eyes watch your star’s every movement. He rids himself of his finery as well, shrugging out of his layers until there’s nothing left. The moonlight hits his skin prettily, almost as dainty as the way his eyes catch in the candlelight. He chases you, chases your mouth, presses his cock against you and ruts for a moment. You can’t help but be dizzy with lust yourself. You leave your own marks across his collarbones and chest, mindful of his neck and what skin would peek above his elegant collars. You wonder how he’ll take you. Astarion has always been the creative type. Sometimes you’ll ride him, and sometimes he’ll ride you until you see stars. Despite his urgency, he seems tender tonight.
Astarion wants to make you feel good. He wants to find your heat and bask in the warmth. You can tell in the way he watches your face ever so fondly. He’s always been so good at masking how much he prefers you to anyone he’s spoken to before. You’ve stood and listened as the perfect guard during meetings with dignitaries from neighboring cities, and Astarion always spoke to them with practiced politeness bearing a practiced albeit bored undertone. Yet with you, he seems to hang onto your every word. He takes it in until there was nothing left to share. He cares when you are supposed to be nothing more than a knight at his door.
‘I have a gift for you tonight,’ Astarion says suddenly. He blushes. It’s adorable how much it’s unlike him.
‘What is it?’ you ask.
‘Patience,’ he complains, but he doesn’t mean it.
Astarion reaches for something just beyond your sight, and when he sits back up, you feel as though someone has released a cage of birds in the pit of your stomach. He holds out a small silver band for your inspection. ‘A warding ring,’ he explains. ‘I had my Master of the Arcane enchant it for you — for us.’
‘Kiss me,’ you whisper. ‘Please.’
‘Put it on first,’ he insists. ‘For me.’
Something must show on your face, because he’s quick to show you his own hand. There is a matching silver band there, and it causes your heart to swell so much you think your heart will give out. Astarion, with great care, slides the band onto your finger and then looks at you, hopeful.
‘Whatever you feel, I shall feel,’ he says like a promise. ‘You and I, together.’
You guide his mouth to yours before you can do something silly like cry. When you touch his chest, intent on finding his heartbeat, you can feel it so frantic against your palm.
What is a better story than a prince and his knight? A savior and his sword? The bards will sing forever about the prince and his favored knight, their matching rings, their sacred vows. You ache with longing. You surge with love. It is all Astarion’s fault.
You push your hands through his thick curls and guide him to lie on top of you. You can feel the ring humming with magic. Though you are sure this isn’t its intended use, you can’t help but feel nervous.
You take him into your arms. He collapses into you and your only thought is that it’s a little poetic. You have caught a star as it fell from the sky. Now, it rests in your hands again and again and again until, slowly, you cannot exist without one another. His mouth finds yours, and your hands with the matching rings reach out for one another as though choreographed. Astarion presses you against his sheets and you willingly let him devour you once more. It’s all you’ve ever wanted.
Astarion kisses down your chest again. He kisses your tummy and all the muscle you’ve earned from being a knight. He kisses every scar from every battle you’ve ever endured all the way down to your hips, to that warm core that lies between them. You moan unapologetically, head rushing until you’re almost positive you’re going to faint. Astarion presses a kiss between your legs, growls as though he was a man starved before finding you, and takes you into his mouth.
It’s a little romantic how you’ve grown together. You were each other’s firsts — Astarion taught you how to kiss, and you taught him how to fondle someone else’s body without feeling shy about it. You had first used your mouth on him, but he had taken all of the knowledge you had given and weaponized it against you the next moment that he could. He’s determined to please, desperate for compliments, hopeless in all his endeavors to please you almost as much as you’ve pleased him. But unlike you, Astarion is selfish and he reaches for fruit to pluck that anyone else would have discarded as soon as something better came along. He chose you.
He licks and bites and nuzzles and feasts upon the very fruit of you, groaning at how you taste. It’s his favorite taste in the world, and he would brag about it if it didn’t make your cheeks flush. He laps at your folds hungrily and squeezes the thickness your thighs until they’ve bruised.
‘Little star,’ you whine, pressing your hands to your eyes. ‘Please, please.’
His tongue is like torture. Astarion never does anything without fully committing, and from your time together, you know he’s memorized every little thing he can do to drive you absolutely wild. He’s pulled your legs over his shoulders, his fingers moving on after bruising them to dig into your hip bones, and he hums so prettily for you.
Even you aren’t sure what you’re begging for. You want Astarion to stop teasing you so insistently. You want to feel his heartbeat, you want to taste his lips. There’s a part of you so empty and full of longing that if you wait any longer, if you withhold anymore, you might lose yourself. The only thing serving to ground you to this world is depravity, twisting carnal lust, and the depths of your love. You shiver under his touch and moan even as you try to hush it.
‘ — star!’ you cry sharply.
You try to twist out of his grasp, crying at how determined he is, but Astarion simply drags you back down to where he is as if it’s nothing to him. He doesn’t stop torturing with your tongue until you’ve choked out a sob and chased your release, chest heaving from the effort. He doesn’t let you go for long either, climbing up your body so that he can press encouraging kisses to your jaw, pushing your damp curls back from your temple.
Astarion pushes his nose against your ear and breathes in, almost so desperate to have memorized your very scent. It’s always been his little habit. As if just by knowing your smell, he is able to do whatever he needs to accomplish in this world.
‘You,’ he murmurs between kisses, ‘are always so magnificent for me.’
You reach for his hip, the back of your knuckles sweeping against his sharp bone. ‘I want to do the same for you,’ you say shakily. ‘Let me have you, please. It’s all I want.’
He moans, soft and quiet, and settles between your legs. He kisses you again with that same hunger. The same, almost desperate kind of lust. He presses you so far into his sheets that you’re not sure you’ll ever be released from them again. And you think you would be fine with that. There’s nothing more that you want than to stay here with him. His hands joined with yours, your hips pressed to his, forever until the world has ended.
You slide your hands across the broad sweep of his shoulders and feel as his muscles shift. He is so gentle with you even when he doesn’t have to be. He’s cautious, meticulous, almost ridiculously polite because it’s you. His love is like an apology for everything you’ve been through, and when he cradles the back of your head, you lean into his touch.
‘You are mine,’ he says tenderly. His thumb sweeps across your cheek.
‘Take me,’ you say hungrily. ‘I am your prize.’
‘You were created by the gods for me,’ Astarion tells you sincerely. He sits onto his knees and pulls your hands flush against his stomach. ‘Look at how well you fit against me.’
You were never one to be shy before, but his praise causes you to turn your cheek aside and look away. He pushes his hands up your thighs, searching, admiring. He says pretty words, but he’ll never understand if you were to repeat the things he’s said back to him. Underneath that prestigious bravado and practiced façade, Astarion still understands little of his own divinity and worth. You’re thankful for him as much as he is for you, and you allow him this. He finds his worth at your core and marvels in it, allowing you to see him as Astarion. Like a mortal making a deal with a cambion, he reaches for you.
‘Do you want me inside of you?’ he asks in a graveled voice.
‘More than anything else,’ you reply, choking on how thick your want is. You think about how it feels every time he’s claimed you and shudder. ‘Please.’
‘I am going to get lost in you for hours,’ Astarion promises. He smiles, dangerous and dark. ‘When you return to your post, you’ll feel me still. You’ll be sorer than you’ve ever been.’
You are so aroused it’s painful. You ache and twist, spreading your legs so that he might take you then and there without so much as a second thought. You need the closeness. His grounding touch. His cock, as much as it would embarrass you to say aloud, has been on your mind ever since he invited you inside his room. He strokes your hip.
‘You’re shaking,’ he says fondly.
He leans forward and kisses you. He connects with you like that, nose brushing yours affectionately, before he stares at the little shivers you’re now aware you’re doing. He sees everything, knows everything. It delights him.
And then he slides his cock into you. Slowly, agonizingly, inch by inch. He squeezes your hip in encouragement, but you’re too full and he’s too thick for you to manage any coherent thought. He’s determined to reach the deepest parts of your core.
Astarion speaks through gritted teeth. ‘You are perfect.’
‘No,’ you say. ‘You are.’
‘I like to watch,’ he says honestly. ‘I like to see how you take me. You’re so tight here, did you know?’
‘More — ’
‘Use your words for me.’
You swallow. ‘I want you — to fuck me.’
‘You’ve been a good pup,’ Astarion says with a small laugh. ‘I’ll make love to you until dawn calls.’
For the faintest few heartbeats, this is the only way you want to exist. He is pressed inside of you, and you are surrounded by nothing but him and his scent and his bed and his pretty words, longing so intently to memorialize this moment. Astarion is haloed by the silver moonlight. He shines prettier than the crown he wears at court.
He shines brighter than the stars.
You’re aware of how fragile your breathing sounds. You forcefully drag air down into your lungs and hold his gaze, so warm and soft when he looks at you. You don’t know why it’s so different this time with him, but you reach out until he entwines your fingers together and you lose yourself in a way you haven’t before. You don’t realize you’re crying until he coos at you and calls you beautiful.
Astarion only moves once he’s assured you’re not in any pain. He’s conscious of the way you tense, but you shake your head and try to dry your tears.
If you’re being honest, you aren’t really sure why you’re so emotional tonight. You’re ignoring what the rings promise on purpose. A meaning that you are too nervous to confront. You know it’s how much you wish this was your fate. It all comes to a boil when he leans forward and kisses the tip of your ear. Astarion wraps his arms around you and moans softly in your ear, the heat of his cheek flush against your temple.
‘I love you,’ he whispers.
‘I can feel you,’ you whisper back, voice uneven. ‘All the way inside.’
‘Our souls are touching tonight,’ Astarion promises you. ;This is what I want to give you.’
Once he’s assured that you’re fine, Astarion begins moving inside you. You still feel overly full. It’s almost difficult to breathe, that you’re so aware of how deep his cock is inside of you — as if it’s the first time you’ve experienced him before. He murmurs encouragement into your hair and ruts further and further, but when you press your fingers against his biceps, you can feel how he’s shaking too.
‘Let me be yours,’ you say softly, eyes fluttering closed. ‘Let me be with you, Astarion, please.’
‘You are my pretty consort,’ Astarion says fiercely. ‘You belong to me, and I to you.’
His consort, his knight. The one he comes home to, that he ignores all the other lovely people at court for. The idea of it makes your blood warm, makes you feel a little wild and different. You rock your hips back against Astarion’s. Feeling him lose what little of his control pushes you over the edge. You start mumbling nonsensically, thank you, thank you, my prince, my star, thank you, I feel it, Astarion and he growls low in the bottom of his throat. His hips stutter against yours and you know with a little wiggle, you could make him spend then and there.
It’s only when Astarion pushes into you as far as he can go, the tip of his cock pressed as deep into your core as you can handle it, that you remember what a devout worshiper you are. You’re fully aware of how your spine protests the way your back arches up off the bed. You feel Astarion’s mouth hot and desperate against the side of your throat, his hands slowly sliding down your skin to grip your hips, the tips of his fingers digging in harshly to the curve of your ass.
When you dare meet his gaze, you’re mesmerized.
Astarion has always been the most beautiful person you’ve ever set eyes on. The height of his cheekbones, the way they flush when you moan his name. His uneven smile, the way his teeth point when he laughs. His intense eyes that take in even your faintest moves. He is sharp and calculated, cunning and keen on dramatics — but underneath, you can see the gentler side. The warmth in his gaze. The way he laughs ugly with you instead of with practiced finesse. You fit rather well together. Perfectly, like a puzzle. Intoxicatingly. He catches you staring and his breath catches in his throat.
You must be quite the sight as well. Astarion always lavished you with the utmost attention, often buying you things you’d never need as a knight. Rings, gowns, circlets and other finery to wear with him on your occasional strolls through Baldur’s Gate when you were off-duty and carefree.
You feel nearly feral at this moment. It takes all your self-control to not rake your nails down his spine or bite his shoulder because you’re too full and he’s too much and you’re almost certain you’re going to explode, but you wrap your legs around his hips and pull him tighter to you until there’s almost nothing else he can do that grind uselessly, desperate sounds coming from both of your mouths as you try to hold on just a little longer.
Without thinking, without caution, you whisper, ‘Inside — Tonight, I want you to — ’
‘Gods,’ he chokes out. ‘You’ll be the death of me.’
‘Please,’ you beg. ‘I’ve been good. I’ve been — ’
Astarion burrows his face against your collarbone, whining unceremoniously. That’s when you can feel it, his cum, hot and warm, so wonderful and dizzying that you also forget to be dignified. Your fingers stutter against his skin, and if it was painful to experience, the only proof is the way Astarion hisses at the burn and coils dangerously beneath your touch.
‘That’s it,’ he soothes proudly. ‘You’ve done well, my sweet.’
You murmur, ‘So much.’
‘Don’t tease me,’ Astarion says. He pouts his bottom lip. ‘You’re quite beautiful, you know.’
‘Not as beautiful as you,’ you say.
‘Well,’ Astarion allows with a small laugh, ‘I am rather perfect, I agree.’
He groans when he pulls away from you, brow furrowed in concentration. He trembles with exertion, and whatever other plans he might have had are forgotten, for Astarion drops down into his sheets beside you in all his naked and exhausted glory and presses close to you, an arm thrown over your waist.
A pang of guilt hits you at the sight of his closed door. Your armor is thrown carelessly across this floor, and while you wish you could enjoy this moment of bliss with him, you must continue to do your actual duty of guarding the prince. You move, delicate, to stand up. Astarion wraps his other arm around you.
‘Where are you going?’ he demands tiredly. ‘The sun is not yet up. Come back.’
‘My post — ’
‘Fuck your post,’ he snorts. ‘Your only duty is to lie in my bed and look pretty.’
You open your mouth to protest, but Astarion fusses. It’s hard to deny him even though you know only what the Captain of his Kingsguard has instilled in you. The moonlight is a gorgeous embellishment on his skin, and the ridges of his body are enticing enough that you forget your vows for the time being. Your heart squeezes at the tenderness. Astarion welcomes you back into his arms without further complaint. It’s your turn to tuck your head against his shoulder, basking in the warmth of his body as he cradles you close.
‘This is where you belong,’ Astarion tells you plainly. ‘You and I belong in bed having forgotten our other duties forevermore. The kingdom may fall to rot and ruin for all I care. As long as I have you, I care not.’ He touches your hip. ‘I know what you must be thinking. That it isn’t that easy. But it is that easy. I’m the prince and I want it to be so. I see our fate in my dreams.’
You allow yourself to daydream and doze for the moment. He’s murmuring sweet things into your hair, and your eyes are so heavy you know when you close them, it’ll be hard for you to wake up if you give in. The ache in your muscles is comforting. It’s a reminder of all the ways Astarion has ever had you, and you can’t help but wonder if this really is where your life was always meant to head.
You do fall asleep. Despite your best efforts to stay awake, you fall into a peaceful slumber with Astarion’s hand petting your spine. When you next awake, Astarion is no longer at your side. He’s sitting on the edge of his bed staring out of the window watching as dawn begins to peek through.
He hasn’t left you entirely alone. He’s draped his many fancy satin blankets over you and somehow managed to coax your head onto a pillow without waking you. You’re almost inspired to fall back asleep at the sight, but the view of Astarion basking in an orange glimmer keeps you from entering the depths of your mind once more.
‘No,’ Astarion says. He’s smiling. ‘Don’t move. I like the way you look.’
‘And how do I look, your highness?’
‘Sated.’
‘Come back to me, my love,’ you say. You try to hold one of your hands out, but you’re still so very tired from before. You press your cheek further into the pillow. ‘’m cold.’
‘I was thinking,’ he says.
‘Enough thinking,’ you whine. ‘I miss you beside me.’
‘Promise me something first.’
‘What shall I promise?’
‘That when I am king, you will help me create my new world,’ Astarion says, peering affectionately at you from over his shoulder. ‘A world where you are both my shield and my consort. A world where no one else like us has to get hurt.’
You start to sit up at that, blood suddenly rushing to your head as you try to think of what he means. Were you not already his Shield, extending your Sword to his greatest foes? Were you not already his Consort in all but proper name? You furrow your eyebrows, too sleepy and overwhelmed, but Astarion is quick to come to your side, to press kisses into your hair and against your ear and at the tears on your cheeks.
‘When I am king, there will be no need for us to hide like this,’ Astarion promises, petting his hand comfortingly down your spine. He shushes you. ‘I will sit on the throne and you will sit beside me.’ When he’s certain you’re done crying, he adds, ‘Or in my lap, if you prefer.’
Somehow, there’s only one thing you can manage to say. ‘I love you.’
‘And I love you,’ Astarion says. ‘That’s why I will do this for us.’
‘Will it go well?’
He hums. ‘Of course it will go well. I will be king. I will make it go well.’
You say again, ‘I love you.’
‘We are the Prince and his Shield,’ Astarion tells you sweetly, voice melodic in your ear. ‘This will be our world. You were made for me, and I was made for you, and we will do as we are meant to do.’
‘I promise,’ you say, ‘to help you.’
‘Then say no more, my love,’ he whispers. He kisses the side of your throat again and slowly pulls his silk sheets away from your skin. The cold morning air leaves a trail of gooseflesh down your spine, and he tastes every knot of it with his mouth and tongue. He gives you commands, ‘Let me have you again. You’re so beautiful in the morning light. I need you now more than ever. Gods, the things you do to me.’
You rock your hips back to meet his. It’s an alluring situation straight from your wildest, most longing of dreams — a world where you might sit alongside Astarion as he rules, no longer a simple guard dog to follow commands, but something else. Something sweeter.
It was like marriage but better. The thought of you and Astarion rising to godhood through his own determined means rather than falling into the same song the bards often liked to play on unrequited love. You allow him to trace his fingers down your stomach to that place between your legs, your warm core where you’re certain he’s found his divinity. Astarion presses his cock against your lower back and gives into his own avarice. He bites your shoulder almost a touch too rough and leaves a bruise in the shape of his teeth, reveling in your shocked cry.
You want him.
You want to be by his side, to kneel at his feet. You want to watch him dress in the mornings and fall into his arms every evening. You want to place his crown atop his brow. You arch your hips against his waist, and ponder about the creation of the empyrean heavens above. You will guide him to become celestial.
It’s with a near untamed fervor that Astarion tears through his sheets to get to you. He slides his knee beneath yours and pushes it forward, his breath warm and hiccuped against the blade of your shoulder. He doesn’t hurt you and he never would, but he slides his cock inside, the tenderness of earlier forgotten.
‘Be loud,’ he encourages you, groaning, his hand still scrambling against the arc of your belly. He sounds debauched. ‘Let them all hear. Let them know.’
He fucks into you like he wants you both to grow together. One body and one soul. You’re glad for it. It only intensifies the burn from the evening and pushes you to a place you’ve never been before. You’re almost certain you see sparks in your vision, but you do as asked. You don’t swallow down your moans. They’re taut, sharp, staccato ah-ah-ahs that match the sun’s rise.
It’s almost sweet how hard Astarion fucks into you. His princely demeanor is gone now, the control he tries to exhibit. He moans freely as well and kisses without meaning. Your shoulder, the back of your head, the nape of your neck, and he’s babbling things that don’t make sense. But you’re no better. Your cheeks are so warm you’re feverish, hands clenched in his sheets, and the pleasure borders on welcomed pain when he sits up behind you, knee still forcing you to be pliant, as he drags his cock in and out of you from behind. Astarion is watching again, one hand on your lower back, the other on your ass. When you try to hide your face in mild embarrassment, he scolds you.
‘Let me see you,’ Astarion rasps. ‘Let me see, I want to see everything — ’
So you let him, shifting and arching as much as your back will let you. Your muscles feel strained. Your mind is hardly there. But the prince has asked, and it would be rude of you to not heed his call. It’s not as though it matters. You’re easily distracted by the way he presses himself in and out of you, intoxicated by the gravitational pull he’s created between you. You can’t help but lean into his every touch, to mewl, to whine the exact way he likes.
You wonder what Lord Gortash would think of his loyal dog if he saw it now. You were taught the blade and the bow, how to use a lance and a shield, and you were never meant to be anything more than a warrior given to the ground so that he could get on the good side of the king. There isn’t much of your life you can remember before you were brought to the steps of the throne room and thrown down before the prince and his father. All you remember is looking up and seeing an angel smiling down at you.
So you arch your back and push up into your elbows, looking over your shoulder to catch Astarion’s eyes. He’s constantly looking between your face to make sure you’re alright and looking down at your hips where your bodies meet. He has the audacity to blush. It makes him look sweet and less severe.
‘More — ’
The fairest thought you have is that you’re not sure you can take more. There’s something ferocious building in the pit of your stomach, a volatile hunger unlike anything you’ve ever experienced before. Your almost delirious with how much greed is inside you, how you long to do this all day if you could. Sitting pretty on your hands and knees and belly while Astarion ravishes you — forgetting your duties and the kingdom — but it’s somehow worse than before when you’re aware that he would do the same. Gone is any sense of decency, replaced by something carnal, something infernal.
Just when you think he might be done with you, Astarion pulls out and drags your body along. He lays handsomely in the center of his pillows, a deep blue and rich satin and silk display, and pulls you into his lap. His bottom lip is ruined from where he’s bitten it in an attempt to maintain control.
He arranges for you as he likes. He tilts his head to the side as if looking upon a painting. Finally, he coaxes you upwards and whispers kind encouragements as you guide and slide his cock back inside of you. You aren’t sure how far it can go, but then it goes deeper and deeper and deeper until you’re sick.
‘Oh,’ you cry sweetly. ‘It’s too much. It’s too much, I can’t — ’
‘You can,’ Astarion promises, rubbing his thumb across your hip. ‘You can do anything. You were made for me, and I was made for you, and we were created for this.’
You sit atop him, your ass flush against his hips, and try desperately to not squirm in his lap. The wiggling makes it worse, you think. You feel swollen around him. He feels thickest inside of you. And you can’t help but lean forward as he rubbs his hands up and down your spine, kissing your temple and cheek and jaw. You can kiss him better this way. You can taste the sweetness of his mouth, taste his words.
‘I love you,’ you say over and over.
‘I know,’ he murmurs, kissing your tears.
And you do cry in this position, overwhelmed and stuttering. Astarion guides your hips back and forth across his so that he’s not necessarily drilling inside of you, but watching how you dance across his cock. He always watches so intently as if he’s afraid to miss anything you do. He guides you intently, humming, tensing beneath your thighs as you try to balance yourself with your hands on his belly.
Astarion moans at the sight. He sounds positively wrecked. You decide that you want to hear him sing for you again, so you raise your hips this time and slide them back down. You squeeze your eyes shut in concentration, treating it more like trying to hit a tricky shot with an arrow rather than taking and un-taking every inch of his cock. You’re trembling so much that you seek out his hands, guiding them away from your hips so he can tuck them under your thighs for help.
‘Ah,’ Astarion says hoarsely. ‘Fuck.’
And that’s how he helps you, his hands helping carry your weight so that you can bounce on his cock and enjoy every minute of it. The physical strain is worth it. You know Astarion likes to watch, possessive of the way you look and ride, and his eyes shine with a certain kind of deviance that you’ve grown to love.
It’s a long way from where you started as a poor soul standing on the steps, but you lean forward and kiss your raison d'être on his open mouth, savoring the way his bruised lip tastes in your mouth, enjoying just how much he enjoys you. The sunlight warms your skin and basks Astarion in a golden glow, so impossibly handsome that they should write songs about the way he looks after a night of lovemaking. He groans, trapping your bottom lip between his teeth and bites down hard enough you’re almost certain he’s drawn blood.
You don’t mind it. You welcome the rougher things, enjoy them as much as he does. You lean back, hands now behind you on his thighs, and try to not feel too self-conscious about how open you’re being with your body. You’re encouraged to do it. His reactions are what drive you to be better. Because Astarion’s eyes widen slightly to take in the sight of your legs spread apart as you sit on his cock, your skin shining with a delicate veil of sweat. He comes with a rough moan.
Gods, you could listen to the sound of him all day.
You fall forward onto Astarion’s chest. Your limbs feel like nothing after a night of increasingly more difficult sex, but it’s worth it for the way he spoils you after. Astarion kisses you nice and slow, lips and tongue and teeth, as if an apology for the roughness you willingly endured. He cradles you close to his body. He always seeks your warmth, always tries to press as close as he can.
It’s your turn to preen under his careful ministrations. Astarion pushes your sweaty hair back from your face and runs the tips of his fingers across your cheekbones and forehead, following the delicate lines of your bone structure. He lightly pinches your cheeks as if to savor the heat of your blush, but it doesn’t hurt when he does it. He kisses them better. He helps you slide back down into his sheets and takes note of the mess, smoothing his fingers against the bruises and love bites he’s left as gifts against your skin.
Astarion takes gentle care as he lifts your hand. He admires the ring on it and watches as he slides his fingers into yours so that his ring can crowd the empty spaces of your fingers. He kisses the back of your hand like a proper prince and then unceremoniously collapses down by your side, boneless and lazy.
‘You’ve made a mess,’ you accuse him sleepily.
‘I made you happy,’ Astarion corrects.
You reach out and touch his throat. ‘You’ve ruined your sheets.’
‘These sheets are perfect, my love,’ he murmurs. ‘Just like you.’
Later in the morning, after you’ve rested again despite your attempts to stay awake, you’re coaxed back into existence by Astarion’s lips dancing softly against the nape of your deck. You’re almost certain he’s going to ask for more — a thought that startles you — but instead he lifts you from the depths of his blankets and carries you to a bathing tub in the corner of his quarters. He lowers you into freshly warmed water, and you try to not let how much you long for him show.
‘The maids — ’
‘They’ve seen you,’ he says with a shrug. ‘But they did not care. You should have heard the way they swooned over us.’
He lavishes you again with rose petals and fancy perfumes and soaps. He guides a cloth over your skin and even massages a rather determined knot in your hip. You lean into his touch, eyes fluttering closed. You’d let him pamper you for the next month if you could.
‘I will have you like this often,’ Astarion warns. ‘Tonight. Every night. You have no idea what you’ve done to me. It’s like you’ve enchanted me.’
He’s climbed in with you at this point, tucked behind you so that he can style your hair in a plait. He likes the way it’s gotten long. You can tell how hard he’s thinking by how silent he is. His fingers trickle water down your spine and occasionally trace the shape of a petal against your skin. You shiver and allow him these idle distractions, basking in his touches and singing while he allows himself to wander in his lost thoughts. You fall asleep again briefly, lulled into a dream by the warmth and the relaxing scents of the many perfumes and Astarion humming softly in your ear.
Astarion washes your chest again to avoid having to leave the bath. He’s in one of his contemplative moods, eyes somewhere a thousand miles away, lips twisted in curiosity. You would’ve stayed forever as well, but the water is slowly getting colder and you’re beginning to shiver. You look over your shoulder at him. You watch as his eyelashes flutter and close as if he too is moments away from falling asleep, but then you see it. A sign of melancholic hope.
‘You and I belong together,’ you tell him.
‘We are the greatest match together the world has ever seen,’ Astarion agrees. ‘There is no one else.’
‘It is an honor,’ you say. You catch a petal in your palm and show him.
He pulls your fingers up to his mouth with his own hand guiding you. He kisses your palm and the petal, and then each of your fingertips one by one.
‘I’m doing this for you, you know,’ he murmurs.
‘You are doing this for us,’ you say, shaking your head. ‘We are a family.’
‘We are more than a family,’ he insists. ‘We are more than lovers. Our souls belong together.’
‘I’ve never been happier,’ you say.
Whatever world Astarion is imagining, you’re beginning to see it too. A world where being a king means more than throwing extravagant parties and hosting masquerades and balls and ignoring those in need. Astarion cares because you care, and that makes your heart squeeze dangerously. You are with Astarion when he usurps his father’s court. He had called them weak-willed men in front of his own council, his lip curled in distaste. They had allowed a shadow ruler to take his father’s place for years, had controlled the crown like a puppeteer would his prized puppet. And now, Astarion has pulled together enough favor to overthrow those who had betrayed him, who had betrayed you, and who had betrayed Baldur’s Gate most of all.
‘I believe you are sitting in my chair,’ Astarion calmly tells Ketheric Thorm.
The removal of the pretenders is fairly certain. Ketheric’s own daughter Isobel aids in his arrest. The installation of Astarion’s council is relatively easy with such esteemed replacements. Wyll Ravengard takes his father’s place as Lord Commander of the Flaming Fist. Karlach takes Enver Gortash’s place as leader of the city guard, betrayed as you were, and her eyes burn with heat when she pulls him from his tower. Gale and Shadowheart had been planning the entire thing for years behind the scenes, favoring Astarion against the old court. All you do is stand beside Astarion with your hand on the hilt of your blade though no one dared raise their arms against him.
Astarion’s coronation takes place later that week, and even with all the planning, he does not allow you to stray from his side. You are with him when meeting with the emissaries Lady Lae’zel and Lord Halsin and Lady Jaheira. You are with him during his fittings. You are with Astarion the night before when he fucks you so hard you see stars.
You are there the day of his coronation. He is dressed in brilliant reds and off-whites and wears a crown with rubies. You stand alongside him in the armor he commissioned for you styled after Dame Aylin’s and hold the sword gifted to you from the crown.
It is a wedding as well.
A wedding of peace and resilience. A wedding of love and understanding.You drop down before him to one knee and swear anew your vows, though now they taste sweeter on your tongue. I am the Sword of the Crown, the Shield of the Realm, the Consort of the Chosen. I serve no one but the Rightful King, the First of His Name, the Soul of Truth, Astarion Ancunin. When you rise, Astarion kisses you.
#astarion#astarion ancunin#astarion bg3#astarion x tav#astarion x reader#astarion x oc#astarion smut#bg3 smut#from ,carcosa .#my fic#* et toi,et moi
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Herakles #3: A Fit of Rage
Now a young man, Herakles embarks on heroic adventures, hunting the lion of Cithaeron for King Thespius, and sleeping with his fifty princess daughters over fifty nights, before capturing the lion and wearing the hide and scalp as a helmet. Returning home, Herakles finds himself defending Thebes against the warring Minyans. Victorious, King Creon’s daughter Megara is given in marriage as a reward for his valor. By her they have three sons.
But Hera still plots vengeance against the descendent of Zeus. She curses Herakles with a fit of violent rage, and, thinking those around him are enemies, he brutally fells his own wife and children with bow and arrows. When he finally awakens from his madness, and realizes what he has done, he is inconsolable.
He exiles himself and finds refuge and purification with his ally, King Thespius, then journeys on to Delphi to consult the Pythia priestess of Apollo, who orders him to atone for his atrocity by serving his cousin, king Eurysthius for twelve years. If successful, he will attain immortality.
According to Apollodorus, the war between Thebes and the Minyans is a grim affair, with Herakles treating his enemies with cruelty when he “cut off their ears and noses and hands, and having fastened them by ropes from their necks” Apollodorus also mentions Herakles receiving divine weapons here: a sword from Hermes, Bow and arrows from Apollo, A golden breastplate from Hephaestus, and a cape from Athena.
When Herakles kills his family, he shatters his own Oikos (paternal line/household), a crucial building block for ancient Greek society. There are two major reasons Herakles is ordered to serve his cousin; first, to atone for the murders of his wife and sons, and thus attain redemption and second, to prove his worth and attain great Kleos (glory/renown), and achieve his highest Arete (potential for human excellence)
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#hercules#heracles#Herakles#Thespius#Apollodorus#greekmythology#greekgods#pjo#mythology#classics#classicscommunity#myths#ancientgreece
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The 2nd Character Design Tournament
Please remember to vote for characters solely based on their design, rather than which character you are more familiar with or like more!
Space Dread | Val and Isaac
“The red one in this image”
Omen | Valorant
“It's me, spreading Valorant propaganda again :P Omen is just really cool overall, he has some really nice voicelines, his colour scheme stands out, and his tiny hood and cape are cool details. Also, he can teleport.”
#ultimate character design tournament#poll bracket#tumblr polls#tumblr tournament#bracket tournament#tumblr bracket#character design#round 1#space dread#val and isaac#omen#valorant
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Tierlist of the Great Sea costumes from Hyrule Warriors Legends.
I plan on doing more for the other costumes from the rest of the Adventure Mode maps.
(Costumes and explanations below the cut. There's a lot to go over, so it'll be long)

They probably couldn't make Warriors' costume based on Toon Link because it would likely be too similar to the Skyloft outfit, so they went with the crayfish pajamas. And I gotta say, I really like it. The blue shirt, white scarf, orange pants and gray boots go really well together.

I don't know why they made Impa wear pink. Maybe they were trying to reference the King of Red Lions? I'm not sure. But I do think it works pretty well for her.

I only just realized that Sheik's costume is colored that way as a reference to Tetra. That makes me like it a bit more. These colors are very striking, but they look good on her in my opinion.

Lana's costume is apparently based off the koroks, which I don't know if it matches up well with her. But the outfit looks really nice. My only complaint is that I don't know if the green hair fits her, so I've deducted points for that. Otherwise, she looks pretty cute and festive.

Of course, they gave Valor the princess dress that Tetra wears for the latter half of the game. The color of the dress is fine, but the dull armor and too bright hair kind of ruin it for me. Also, my partner is PISSED that this costume isn't based on Tetra. I think that would look substantially cooler, even if Sheik's costume would make it redundant.

I don't know who decided to make Ganondorf's costume fuck so goddamn much, but I am so glad they did! Everything about this Phantom Ganon costume is incredible. It kind of gives me Metroid Prime vibes, which is a very good thing.

Darunia's Phantom Hourglass goron costume isn't too big of a change, especially when compared to the masterpiece that was Ganondorf's. I don't really care for the brown spikes, but the stomach tattoo looks pretty cool.

The Laruto costume that Ruto has is very striking, and I think it works very well. Between the color combination and the character reference, I like it quite a bit.

I'm not sure why they decided to make Agitha a goth with this costume, but I think it suits her. Unfortunately, the way her face paint looks kind of lessens my fondness for it. But I definitely don't hate it.

Midna is already my favorite character in this game, so I was probably going to like whatever costume she had. But this Floormaster-inspired look is incredible! The changes are pretty slight, but the pink markings and the darker color of the Fused Shadow adds so much to what was already peak character design. In fact, she probably could have been on the top of S Tier if they'd leaned a bit more into it.

I don't know if Zant's costume is based on Gohdan or Jabun. Neither of those options really fit him, in fact they're kind of the opposite, and it may seem a bit weird to give him such bright colors. However, I actually like how he looks in this costume, even if it does look a bit more regal than he deserves.

Given that Fi's design was partially based on the Fairy Queen, this costume was only natural. And I'd describe it in the same way. This coloration is perfect for Fi, and the purple ribbon-markings down her legs are a nice touch.

Kalle Demos is one of my favorite Zelda bosses from a strictly aesthetic view. So it only makes sense that they were the base for one as, shall we say, colorful as Ghirahim. I love the gradients on his suit and cape, and I only recently noticed the green gem on his belt.

Like with Agitha, I don't really get the reference in Cia's costume. But I will not deny that she looks really good in that dark red, especially with the sunset colors of her shoulder cape. I do think that her hatless outfit is the best looking of the three, though.

Volga's costume is another with a subtle change. But like Midna's, I think that this one looks really good. The colors look good, and the reference to Valoo is quite fitting.

Unfortunately, the same cannot be said about Wizzro. I think his costume is based off of Jalhalla, which could have worked. But I really don't like the brown.

I'm already conflicted about how I feel about the design of Midna's true form, or 'Twili Midna' as she's called in Hyrule Warriors (I don't get why), and this costume only adds to it. I get that it’s based on Cassiopeia, but I do not appreciate the reference. And while I don't hate the color combination they used, I don't think it works with her. It's really a shame.
Also, why did they change the color of her skin here?

I have a lot of questions about Young Link's costume. What is the costume supposed to be? Why is he purple? Why does he have red hair? I don't hate this costume, but it doesn't make much sense to me.

This may be surprising, but I actually kind of like how Tingle looks in this costume. The gray and blue work well together, and I like the reference to Ankel or Knuckel. It's good.

Given what costume they gave to Warriors, I think it makes sense that Linkle's is based off of Aryll's dress. Not only do the colors work, but I like the little flower designs on the tunic. It's adorable.

Oh, Hell yes! I love Skull kid's costume. Not only do the white and purple go well together, but they look perfect when put with the colorful Majora's mask. I think it's also based on the poes, which also works. I can't think of anything I would improve with this one.

Another Link, another set of crayfish pajamas. I don't know why he has a belt, but it doesn't take too much away from the appeal. It's just a solid design. Although, if they did this one twice, then maybe they could have made Valor's costume look more like Tetra

Speaking of Tetra, her costume is also pretty cool. I think it's cool how the colors of her jacket and bandana are swapped. My only complaint is that I don't really care for the striped shirt. But I guess it helps to get the reference to Niko across. I like this one, even if my partner doesn't get why she needs a Great Sea costume

Finally, we have King Daphnes. His costume is based on Oshus’s disguised form, which is rather fitting. The bright colors are very striking and mesh decently well together. It actually kind of reminds me of a movie I saw when I was a kid.
#legend of zelda#hyrule warriors#wind waker#long post#costumes#zelda memes#tier list#warriors#impa#sheik#lana#zelda#ganondorf#darunia#ruto#agitha#midna#zant#fi#ghirahim#cia#volga#wizzro#time#tingle#linkle#skull kid#majora#winds#tetra
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Smut for super earth! 🫡
Sir yes sir 🫡 Smut for democracy!
Launching Helldivers 2 smut in 3...2...1
C-01
[heavy smut, dom/sub, blood, slight humiliation, exhibition, penteration, aphrodisiac, objectification, use of military titles in bed, obedience kink]
[Dark themes, parody of fascism]
[Reader is a helldiver and gender neutral]
[updated, legacy version on AO3]
“Welcome aboard, Helldiver, and great job out there” the ship master held her clipboard as she went over your mission report, “the samples you've collected will be put to great use.”
Droplets of red follow your trail as you move past her towards the ship management screen. The usual heroic wind-flowing cape now sticking to your body, forming a silhouette of your armoured back, drenched in blood, both human and not. The ship master was polite enough not to comment on the limp in your steps, or maybe it was stoic professionalism that let her ignore the shortness of your breath.
Looking over the list of newly unlocked weaponry, it was difficult to decide on which weapon of destruction to spend your requisition slips on, especially with the aching pain in your leg. Each forced step sends a barrage of electrifying pain through your nervous system.
You've already been treated by the onboard medic. By all forms of regulations, your leg is technically service ready… only that you've exhausted your government-assigned monthly allowance of painkillers.
The doctor wasn't keen on describing you any, for that would be treason, Helldiver, wouldn't it? To steal from the government just to fulfil your own selfish desires, are you so greedy to take from the needy because of one measly injury? Those are not the traits of a valorant soldier.
Even as the pain was bordering unbearable, you knew better than to argue or haggle. Thanking her for her services, you limped your way out of the med bay—set up directly next to the evacuation shuttle landing zone for ease of access and efficiency—and onto the barebone elevator
Rations were running tight at the moment. They cut back on Helldivers' luxury medical comforts in order to fund the fight for democracy, mainly by boosting the research for the upcoming mech suits. Just what kind of enemies would require a mech suit when they usually throw you bare at Bile Titans, you wonder.
And so, having exhausted all other options, with the acute pain muffling any remaining voices of reason in your brain, your hand reaches inside a familiar pocket under your armour. Moving by pure instincts, you've done this a thousand times before. The stem injection fits perfectly between your fingers, or was it your fingers that moulded perfectly around its shape.
Head tilting to the side, the most vulnerable part of your neck exposed—akin to a show of submission seconds before a set of sharp teeth tear into their prey—with experienced movement, you swiftly stab the substance over a vital vein.
A shudder runs through your body as waves of adrenaline quickly shoot through your blood stream like a bolt of lightning, every single muscle in your body stiffens in response, pupils dilating, mouth agape under your helmet.
With the injection needle thrown somewhere on the ground, you latch onto the nearby monitor instead, armoured grip almost cracks the screen, wasn't it for the reinforced glass.
Finally, it washes down your body. A sigh of relief is all that's heard as you fix your hunched posture.
Back straightened as all the pain evaporates from your leg, the synthetic adrenaline aids the process of cell regeneration, rushing it is the goal.
Pumping the blood faster by pushing your heartbeat to the edge of the dangerous zone, tricking your immune system into attacking the faulty damaged cells.
With nowhere for the excess energy to go, the dosage bounces through your veins, a pressurised force failing to find any escape. It was meant to be taken amidst a battlefield where you can find release through spreading freedom in the name of democracy at your enemies, in the shape of an RS-422 Railgun, of course.
With no shooting ranges or infiltrating enemies to be found in the safety of your own destroyer ship, the excessive energy rushes wherever your body allows, blood filling every nook and cranny to the brim.
Heat flashes throughout different parts of your body, seemingly at random, sparks fly behind your eyelids whenever you close your eyes.
Eventually, simmering down as it settles between your thighs.
Reigniting your libido, a different kind of throbbing overwhelms your senses. Hyper-aware of the under-armour rough texture squeezing your body.
Left at the mercy of the smallest of frictions between your clothes and your flesh, the sinful stimulating rise and fall of the fabric above your chest offers with every breath you take.
Thighs turned into another erogenous zone; blood wasn't the only wetness seeping into your armour padding.
Heat gnawing at your core, cinders reigniting the flame of desire, of desperation, of depravity as your whole body is turned into one big aching bundle of nerves.
You don't make a single sound, pursed lips, and clenched fists. Resist the siren call, restraint by your own merits, discipline, and not much more.
What else is there to do but endure?
For it wasn't different from enduring the pain of a gaping chest wound. Laying on the battlefield ground whilst holding back waves of crawling terminids, each leg lined with razorsharp thorns, pistol quickly running out of ammo. A blazing spark descending from the sky above as the airdrop resupply approaches its landing spot, inches away from you.
You've signed away your body to be given for the cause long ago, for the future of Super Earth and all of its civilians. Naturally so, you've learned to endure and obey all commands, like the excellent little soldier you are.
Pushing your weight off of the desk, you head towards the navigation map at the end of the ship.
One step after another, the pleasure intensifies. Legs light as a feather, buzzing with energy. Brain plagued by an overactive imagination, heightened senses twisting every otherwise mundane sensation into a suggestive one-person affair, to squeeze any resemblance of sexual gratification it could from it.
The tantalising way your under-armour hugs your body. The stimulating pressure of the padding pressing between your legs, against the inside of your thighs and right over your chest. The sinful looking straps securing the metal plates.
Another step, your body is screaming at you for any relief from the overwhelming pressure building inside with nowhere to go. You're nearly blanking out from the overwhelming bliss.
A final step, and you've reached your destination. The familiar sight of the war map greets you, showing Super Earth at its centre, with the two enemy factions creeping in from the borders. The automatons hugging the figurative walls as their red territory crawls its way upwards the map. While the terminids are swarming towards the homeplanet of Lady Liberty herself at an alarming speed.
“Your fellow Helldivers are fighting on the frontlines for our freedom as we stand here.” The ship's executive officer found his way to your side—a routine the two of you grew into overtime—looking over the dwindling liberation percentage on the yellow territory.
His orders remain unspoken, yet were orders all the same. Go join the fight.
You're not certain about the legitimacy of these said orders. Can he give you orders? Is that something a ship executive is authorised to do to someone of your status?
… And what exactly is your status?
Foot soldier? General? Commander? An overworked janitor?
The ship is yours by name, that much is clear. It was handed over to you alongside the armour from another Helldiver who failed to evacuate in time before the shuttle took off.
But does ownership make you the Captain with a capital C?
You haven't even met the pilot of your supposed own ship. You've made acquaintance with less than a third of your ship crew so far, and that's with you being generous by eyeballing the amount of crew you've seen around. Who knows how many souls are stuffed with you in this floating tincan, merely hidden behind titanium walls.
It's been endless missions after missions, and anything in between is a hibernation blur spent in cryosleep stasis.
To prevent the Helldivers from being at less than their optimal physical age, prolong your lifespan, or years of service, which are basically the same thing. Saved hours add up over time and turn into days, months, and years! It's to get the most mileage out of every single Helldiver before their bell tolls.
With the side benefits of cutting down on unnecessary expenses like food rations, sleeping quarters, body maintenance, symptoms of traumatic experiences that rear their head during idle times, and shore leave.
The brief time spent at your own destroyer in-between missions has become the only waking moments when your fighting instincts aren't pushed to the limits alongside your sanity. A glorious sacrifice to upkeep the daily privileges and rights of humans everywhere.
The Democracy Officer must have noticed the trembling of your fingers, reaching across the map to pick the next destination. Your thighs unconsciously squeeze against one another, seeking relief through frictions, your body steadying itself against the round table.
He must've seen this case before in many soldiers like you, for he clocked you at a glance.
That's why you didn't question it when his hand went under your cape, arm wrapping around your back to help steady you, preferring you lean against him than the table.
Ordering you to follow him—not that you had much choice with your body being half-carried by him—with the same stoic professionalism… if only it wasn't for his gruff voice trailing into a softer tone. Was it your delirium at play, or are you simply noticing things you were once oblivious to.
Registering just how strong he must be under his uniform to be able to endure the weight of a helldiver clad in full armour. His arm kept you in place, and you didn't resist as he led you through the staff quarters. Unlocking the door with a simple face scan,
You were surprised with what you saw inside.
How long has it been since you've seen a bed?
An actual real bed stood before you in all of its mundane glory, barebone army frame, with a thin white mattress above.
It looks uncomfortable, but compared to your standing cryo freezer, it's a paradise of manufactured steel and cheap polyester.
“Now, I assume you're familiar with the rules and regulations set in place concerning fraternisation amidst ranks, Helldiver?”
The same hand that once steadied you, now was the cause of your downfall. A simple nudge with his fingers against the small of your back was all that it took to get you tumbling over face first into the bed. Your current state was a dire one indeed.
“It's highly encouraged.” You couldn't see his face, but you felt his eyes trail over your sprawled body without a hint of shame. Even with all of your armour, he managed to pin you with his gaze.
To boost troops' morale, cure homesickness, and prevent any deviating thoughts about returning to civilian life. Rule C-21 was put in place to allow soldiers to aid each other when it comes to stress relief activities, no matter its nature.
Of course, like any other activity that involved sexual Intercourse with another human, it required an immediate report in the aftermath to the ministry of healthcare in the form of paperwork. In the case that the activity could result in a child, extra paperwork is in order to request a permission slip that you could forward to the ministry of population regulation, which in turn will start your work towards getting pre-pre-approval for the right to create a child. Additional screening and testing are required to pass, plus an additional wait period depending on how many other people are requesting permission to repopulate during this year. All fall under the rule of C-01. Failure to abide by regulations might result in having the right to your reproductive organs revoked for not meeting the standards of civility expected of every loyal citizen to uphold the constitution of managed democracy.
Surrendering all control to your Democracy Officer, you obediently parted your legs in response to his hands taking hold of your hips, feeling down your covered thighs. Grip tightening as he lifted your body, just a mere inch above the bed, positioning you to lay on your knees instead.
Just how he loved to see you.
Face down, ass up, with your captain cape falling off to the side.
A moment passed where he just stood there, admiring his handy work. To have a whole Helldiver below you would do a number on anyone's ego, the saviours of the galaxy, the superheroes who ever so graciously sacrifice their lives for our freedom.
Your figure is a sight for sour eyes. This display of submission is certainly to burn its memory in his brain. Flash behind his eyes for years to come whenever you're standing next to him, peering down at the galaxy map, bending ever so slightly to assess the situation, oblivious to the cocktease that you're acting like.
His grip finally let go of your thighs, one knee climbing into the bed just behind you. You feel the heat radiating off his body, you wonder if he can tell just how wet you are under all of this armour.
The Democracy Office's index finger moves under one of your straps, lifting the elastic up slowly, before watching it snap back into place. Your surpassed shudder didn't go past him.
Settling on only removing the necessary parts, he unbuckled a select few of the straps, most importantly the belt to pants. His front pressed against your back, hand reaching below your stomach, taking advantage of your now exposed waist to bury itself under the armour of your torso, brushing by your chest courtesy of the tight space, and finally reaching the zipper just below your neck, the one necessary to peel off your under armour suit.
Sure, it means your upper body will be completely exposed to press against the cold rough metal interior of your armour, but surely you of all people can endure?
Bring the zipper fully down to have your most intimate parts completely bare, to compliment the view of your ass up, of course. Be thankful he left the rest of your body covered, a gesture meant to save you some face and offer a resemblance of dignity… then why did it just leave you feeling ever more exposed and vulnerable?
“You're dripping… making a mess already.” His voice cut through the silence, quieter and more breathy than his usual tone. Chastising almost.
True to his words, the inner lining of your under armour was shiny with your wetness, be it pre-cum or else. The rest seemed to stick to your skin, dripping down your thighs, making you extremely sensitive to the smallest touch. Even the still-air in this room brushing by you was enough stimulation to have your fingers digging into the mattress below, threatening to tear into the cheap polyester.
Faced with evidence of your extreme arousal and depravity, your Democracy Officer trailed two fingers from the side of your knee to the inside of your thigh. Scooping up as much of your wetness as he could manage in one stroke, carefully
Circling the rim of your hole with the very same fingers, encouraging you to relax. Repeating this process over and over to make it easier for your body to open up to him, for his finger to seamlessly slide in and out.
For lube was another luxury expense, an unnecessary cost the budget simply had to shrug off in order to allocate funds into the actually important places.
You laid there helplessly with not much to do, for he held the reins. You only had to keep quiet and obey, go along with his every whim. Not knowing what might be coming next, you were left anticipating the feeling of being prodded open on his fingers, unconsciously tensing up your muscles.
In an instant, a new wave of electric pleasure shot through you like a bullet, his cupping between your spread thighs, rough leather pressing into your most intimate parts, taking you by surprise.
Just from this simple gesture of having his hand there, not even moving it, you were gasping for air. All remaining walls of your self-restraint came crumbling down as primal desire took over, pure untainted lust dampening all your other senses.
Body moving with a mind of its own, making a display of yourself by grinding down onto his hand with no remorse or shame. The overwhelming ecstasy spirals into an addiction.
Mind blanking out, all forms of rationality, decorum, and courtesy thrown out the window. You couldn't care less for the fact you are his captain, that he was technically your inferior. The sweet friction against your oversensitive messy parts clouded your eyes with a glossy coat of lust.
He merely kept his hand there as you did all the work. desperately pushing against it in search of release. It wasn't enough, but he didn't make any effort to help you, preferring to keep you squirming in neglect.
It was nothing more than a temporary nicotine patch, akin to a band-aid against a gushing wound. Just enough to give you a taste of pleasure and have you pathetically grinding and seeking more. A distraction to unclench your muscles, turn your body pliant and eager to take him inside.
Just like clockwork, as you were busy humping his hand and chasing your own release, two of his fingers pushed inside you, lubricated by your own leaking wetness and nothing more.
Pushing them inside with enough force to have your body caving into the mattress below, sandwiched between his fingers sliding to the knuckles into your hole, and his hand cupping you.
Forcing sounds of pleasure from the back of your throat, whines, and cries muffled by your helmet .
His fingers are wet enough to reach further inside, fucking in and out of you at a steady pace that grew faster and faster.
Clear as day why he was deadset on neglecting your genitals; the only fitting time for any respectable Helldiver to cum, is whilst stuffed to the brim with the cock of your inferior officer.
Because that's what good little soldiers do.
The loss of the leather friction from below you elected an especially pitiful whine from your lips, only to be interrupted shortly by a sinful gasp as a third finger spread your insides even further.
With his hand now covered in your own wetness and pre-cum. In a rare tender moment, instead of wiping it on the sheets or returning the bruising grip on your bare hips, the Democracy Officer went to hold one of your closed fists with his own.
You couldn't feel his skin below the leather, he couldn't feel yours engulfed in metal. Yet he entangled your fingers all the same, his reassuring message was clear: he is here, with you, despite the many walls separating you two.
In contrast to this gentle show, the three fingers pushing in and out of you were brutal, never faltering for a second, never giving you time to catch your breath. Exploring your insides with a purpose, almost bruising in their roughness, the stem injection distorting all pain receptors into another source of pleasure was your saving grace.
The more the pleasure grew, the harder it was to think, to realise the world around you. The light in your brain was dimming as your view narrowed on your utmost basic carnal desires.
In this instance, all you care about is the feeling of being filled, stretched on someone's cock, anyone, human or else. To be thoroughly taken care of.
Paying no mind to your own quickly numbing knees, much like you had to crawl through dirt on the battlefield, kneel amidst the mud and viscera to achieve better accuracy on your machine gun, you could endure staying in this position for hours.
You were made to fight, your body honed for combat, endurance, and stamina.
Every scar painted across your flesh with a sharp brush is proof of every near-death experience you escape, with nothing but its claws scraping your skin as you slipped by. Celebrating another day of living by getting sent to an equally dangerous mission immediately after.
It puts things into perspective, doesn't it? How it is within your Democracy Officer's every right to act as rough and brutal as he wants with you. Because you'll take it, you'll take it with obedience, you'll take it with no fuss or qualms, you'll take it like you took all those souls without a hint of sympathy.
You'll take it like you took everything else the world throws your way.
Because taking it is your sole purpose in life.
It was decided for you, like everything else in your life. You don't need to ponder or get curious about anything. You don't even need to think because your government will do the thinking for you.
Relax, stay pliable and malleable. Just like you are right now. Put this position on a pedestal, and remember to present yourself in a similar manner whenever any governing power approaches your way, even if you outrank them. That this is exactly how you should be facing any difficulty and hardships in life, face down and ass up.
You're clearly not capable enough to make these decisions for yourself; you don't know what's better for you, we do.
You don't even need to touch yourself, just say the word and the closest democracy officer will bend you over the nearest surface to fuck your brain out In front of everyone, even with other helldivers in the room. It's their job, looking out for the helldivers’ wellbeing is a vital role all democracy officers must adhere to.
The armoury is already placed in the middle of the ship, after all, exposed for all to see much like your dignity each time you get ready for a mission. Everyone's already seen everything you have to offer, multiple times, all your officers and engineers, from the lowest ranking crew member to the highest ranking ship master, they know what you look like naked as the day you were born.
There is very little courtesy offered in times of war.
So, really, this whole ‘taking you to a secluded place’ ordeal is frivolous at best, a luxury, a privilege.
What difference would it make to have you pressed against the armoury wall? Haven't we already established that you have nothing to hide? It's more time efficient for the democracy officer to administer your stress relief in the middle of the ship, for any passersby to witness.
Your legs wrapped around his waist, drool seeping from the corner of your swollen lips as his fingers press down your tongue, holding your mouth open, preventing you from speaking coherently.
The engineers on the deck behind the railing resume their work like nothing is happening. As if the wet sounds of every thrust into you isn't echoing in their brain, as if your downright obscene pornographic moans aren't causing a fuse to fry in their brain, a dusting of pink to cover their cheeks, a tartness in their dipping productivity.
Don't worry, you won't have to face them. The second you're stuffed with the cum of your democracy officer, he's zipping you up and shoving you into the nearest landing pod. We can't have you missing your mission, Helldiver.
Landing on the planet with your legs all wobbly, body aching, your hole sore and gaping. Desperately attempting to keep all the cum inside, to no avail. You're too used, your hole can't close long enough before the cum leaks out, dripping down your legs, seeping into your armour padding and staining it permanently.
You're just going to have to fight like this, running for your life from falling meteors, gunning down nightmare fuel looking aliens that would love nothing more than to feast on your flesh, to trample you into a mush of blood and cum below.
Having to work with the teammates who just watched you take a generous load inside. Who heard the sounds you make while struggling not to finish embarrassingly soon with so many people watching you get fucked.
Then join them like it's nothing. Eyeing you up like a strung piece of meat, a predatory gaze hidden behind a shaded helmet, allowing them plausible deniability.
You know that they know what the growing stain between your legs is made of.
Circling you like wolves, under the guise of covering your flank. Their touches start to linger, pinching your thigh whenever one lends you their stem injection, groping your ass as you help them reload their heavy weapon, letting you go with a demeaning spank as a parting gift, just before another breach arrives.
You're the first on the evacuation shuttle, they insisted. Guiding you by the nape of your neck, giddy voices as they gave you an encouraging push inside, causing you to tumble onto the floor of the shuttle.
Not waiting for you to get up before filtering from behind you, one by one. By the time the shuttle takes off, you're kneeling its floor.
Face to face with their spread legs, all three heads turn to look at you. Using you to their heart's content in the brief journey to the main ship. Helldivers are supposed to cooperate together, so help them vent out the aftermission adrenaline from their bodies while the Pelican 1 pilot enjoys the sound of your gagging.
That's the humiliating fate that you could be subjected to. That's the life of a soldier you signed up for.
Instead, you're here, laying on a bed, in the privacy of a secluded room.
Having the luxury of getting prepared beforehand, of being taken on a subjectively soft mattress instead of the cold metal floor.
The privilege of working with such professional Helldivers that would never do such a thing during missions. I mean what's next? Helldivers throwing down eagle strikes right before boarding evac shuttles, or using the reinforcement as stratagems by throwing you into hordes of enemies?
Don't be so absurd, those things never happen; your overactive imagination might just land you a mandatory trip to a freedom camp for re-education, as a way to quell your… paranoid tendencies.
Taking you to his own quarters, giving you the exemption of privacy. Going out of his way to treat you with thoughtful kindness, your Democracy Officer must really care for you.
Just don't think too hard about how he's the one to call down the missile strikes on you whenever you stray a little too far outside your mission zone. Charges of treason of all, you know how it is.
How about… don't think too hard ever again?
That would solve so many of your problems, it would make your life so much easier if you'd simply give up this rotten part of your brain.
When has thinking ever done you good?
Stay the way you are, endure everything life throws your way. Keep saying yes to every order, saying no to every break. Keep showing up everyday and obey all commands. Fulfill everyone's expectations of you, and never dare have expectations of your own towards anything. Numb your brain, muzzle your conscience.
Be the good obedient little soldier that you are deep down.
An eager overachiever. A glorified breeding puppy with a cape. A killing machine that's powered by army rations and cum. A medal decorated floormat.
Three fingers pull out of you with a wet pop, your now empty insides desperately clench around nothing. As if you were robbed of a vital organ, a part of you that made you whole.
In all of your haziness and arousal drunk mind, a moment of clarity descends down as you scrounge enough self-will to stop yourself from whining pathetically like a bitch in heat, because it's not becoming of a ship captain.
Patience is a virtue you must embody, laying there with your ass lifted in the cold air. The sound of a zipper pulled down offers you a glint of hope.
Something big and warm slots against your back, squished between your ass cheeks. It slides back and forth, collecting your wetness along the way.
Your throat goes dry, breathing shallow, an agonising hollowness inside as you swallow down. You want to rub against it, want it to spear you whole, you need it inside you more than you need air.
It recedes far enough to rub its swollen head against your once-tight hole. Now gaping in response each time the head gives it a wet tap, slapping it against your opening, making your body quiver.
In your entire life, you've never wanted something more than you wanted this big mean cock inside you.
To feel it stretch you out and finally push you towards your release. Afterall you can't cum on your own, it's not within your democratic rights.
You must wait for permission in the form of your democracy officer's cock fucking you until the lights in your brain turn off.
Very early in training, you're taught never to beg. Be it for your own life against an enemy or anything else, for death is preferable to cowardice; cowardness is treason, and treason is bad.
Even when every nerve in your body feels like it's on fire from anticipation, even when you're being deliberately teased and toyed with for nothing more than another's amusement.
You're a Helldiver, and your job is to endure and follow orders. That's the only thing you're good for.
“Good job, soldier.” Your democracy officer's praise is shortly followed by the head of his cock splitting you open, the delicious stretch of being filled with something so large that it forces your legs to spread apart on their own just to make space for it.
If you reach down, and press on your tummy, you might just feel its silhouette rearranging your guts.
“Thank-” you attempt to stutter a reply, but the air is pushed out of your lungs as he bottoms out inside you. You've never been this full in so long. The less than ideal lubricant amount makes it burn oh so sweetly. For the second time, what was supposed to be pain gets turned into overwhelming pleasure yet again. You keep clenching around him as you adjust to his size. “Thank you, Sir.”
Adjusting your position, the democracy officer closes the remaining distance between you two. Your arms are pulled back, body forced into submission as they're held in place behind your back.
While the hand that was once inside you grips onto your exposed hip, what a docile little being you are, to be manhandled and bent around. Allowing yourself to be put in such a compromising position, truly helpless and left at his mercy.
Fingers dig into your hip leaving their marks behind, as if desperate to etch themselves into your skin, to leave some kind of trace behind, a showcase of ownership for all to see, a sigil that'll be displayed each and every time you change your equipment.
They'll know that you were the one being fucked and not the other way around. That you were the one bent over taking it inside like a champ.
Every thrust pushes you upwards the bed, moving your entire body with its sheer force before he drags you down by your hip and restrained arms as if they were a makeshift handle. Bouncing you back and forth, the creaking of the metal bed frame fills the room.
Your panting and moans would've joined, wasn't it for the helmet muffling the sound to everyone except your own ears. Forcing you to hear your own loud cries in crystal clarity as they echo back at you.
Every hiccup and groan digging into your ego, chipping at your self image, painting you as the obscene slut more than the heroic guardian of humanity.
Thankfully your ego is used to the bruising from being put in place each morning as you stood up and swore allegiance to super earth. They really do unfreeze you each day without prior notice, only for 10 minutes tops.
Ten whole minutes of you repeating how you're nothing more than a servant for democracy, carved stone to be stepped on for a brighter future in the ladder of liberty. Retaking your oath of complete servitude and obedience, a reminder of the autonomy you've surrendered to join the most special of army forces.
His thrusts are powerful and deliberate, a steady pace that doesn't leave you any room to meet them or wiggle away. Making it evidently clear that he is the one in charge, your inferior Democracy Officer. He could do anything to you, strip you naked and devour you like a beast in this bed, mark every inch of your body with his teeth and coat it with his cum.
And not only will you never object, but you'll thank him for it, accept his praise, and take it to heart.
Just how many details about this encounter will go in the report, you wonder.
Is it mandatory for him to describe how he defiled you? Precisely word and phrase how he fucked you? Conduct sentences to give justice to the way your insides milked him dry, spasming and squeezing around his cock with every thrust as if it was your first time getting properly dicked down.
Detail just how you felt, how your body fit against his own like a missing puzzle piece, how your fingers entangled, how he didn't have to jerk off, for he was stone hard the second the two of you stepped into his room. Pushing you head-first into the mattress to conceal the poking boner in his pants from your view.
Maybe he didn't want to scare you, maybe he did it so you wouldn't feel used. It's supposed to be him getting you off by filling you with his cum, then clock off.
Ideally, he should be the epitome of sterile professionalism.
You're supposed to think that this is solely about you. It's against regulations for him to enjoy this as well, let alone how blasphemous it's for him to dare and look forward to it, to get turned on at the sight of your own arousal.
Will he have to specify how he prepared you beforehand? How he didn't use any lube—not that there was any—just your own sticky wetness instead because he knew how much of a slut for pain his Helldiver is.
His Helldiver. You're his responsibility, afterall. Him, and the ship and the crew, they all belong to you, and you belong to Super Earth.
Is it note-worthy to mention how obedient and patient you were the whole time, how you didn't whine or make a fuss? How you still adorably addressed him as sir despite outranking him. How you let him tug and throw you around like you were a common whore instead of an honourable disciplined soldier.
Or does he only have to refer to the time-period in which he defiled you on his bed?
Management can just pull the surveillance camera footage, the same one in the corner of this room right now. Mandatory in each compartment of any ship, because you never know when a cowardly robot or a nasty bug could infiltrate the Helldivers' ranks. So there are cameras everywhere to ensure the safety of the collective, no exceptions made, ever.
For privacy is a small price to pay for liberty and freedom! Or are you so selfish to prefer having your entire crew killed without warning by a bug? Just because you didn't want to give up something as insignificant as personal space? Shame on you, Citizen.
As we all know, it's the people with nothing to hide who have nothing to fear. Could you imagine what people might get up to in their own time if it wasn't public knowledge for all to see? That's why it's important for the government to monitor everyone. It's for the safety of the collective.
For the many shall suffer for the sins of the one.
By now most of the stem injection aftermath has been fucked out of you. The adrenaline is wearing off, and you're growing more exhausted by the minute. How long has it been? You've lost track of time, brainless and limb, only aware of the cock abusing your overstimulated swollen insides.
The same brutal pace that he used with his fingers, only instead, it's a thick cock now, melting your brain into a mushy puddle of pleasure, rewiring your very being to memorise this moment for eternity.
You'll never be whole again once this ends, you've tasted the apple, and now you'll be cursed with the knowledge of just how good it can feel. A sprouting addiction nursed and nourished by your Democracy Officer.
You will always seek this out. He has ruined his Helldiver to everyone else.
You could fuck yourself with your fingers all you want, use toys or gun barrels. Nothing will ever match the real thing.
Let your fellow helldivers use you, sit on their lap and grind down, let them fuck you standing up, it will never be enough.
But… maybe, if no other human can… then maybe an alien—No. No, absolutely not. You will not dare go there. This is undemocratic thinking. Be grateful the liberty tracking brainchip is still in development, otherwise you'd be charged with the worst of crimes for having these oppressive thoughts. Even in the delirium of climax, you must be held accountable for all passing throughs in your brain at all times, whether your own or not.
This is as good as it will ever get. This is what true happiness feels like.
This is your purpose.
You belong with him, you belong to your Democracy Officer.
You're so close. The sweet relief you've been so desperate for is barely out of reach.
Collecting your remaining brain cells to try and form something coherent between all the moaning and whimpering, you manage to make a full word at last.
“Sir-I” a hoarse cry is forced out of you, his cock pressed against a rough patch of skin inside you that lights your nerves up. Almost pushes you over the edge, biting your lips you force yourself to resist the painful temptation to cum.
You attempt again “I'm close, officer. Permission to-” it's burning and clawing at your core from sheer intensity, threatening to burst at any seconds. You put all of your self control into holding it back as tears collect in the corners of your eyes.
You're pulled upwards by your restrained arms, now kneeling on the bed instead. Manhandled by your officer like it's nothing, despite all of your armour. Much like you ragdolled whenever a charger flung you around as you attempted to dodge being crushed by its claws.
Immediately, your body collapses. Deflating down, your vision shakes as you blink away the dark spots clouding it.
He steers you to fall back against his chest. Your neck limb as his shoulder carries the weight of your head instead, turned upwards staring at the ceiling.
With his chest pressed flush against your back, cock buried to the hilt, you meet his eyes through the tinted windshield of your helmet, not that he could tell.
With your arms released, they ache in protest before falling limb to your sides. He scoops you into his arms, wrapping them around your front, to steady you for the second time today, to keep you from falling to the side with your jelly-like knees.
How much the gesture resembles a hug isn't lost on you.
You trace the beads of sweat glistening against his face. A choking sound leaves the back of your throat as he begins moving again, thrusting in and out of you with his cock. Rocking your body up and down. With him caddying most of your weight, you're reduced to a fleshlight in his embrace
One of his hands brushes slightly below your stomach, pressing, pressing into your flesh, changing the angles of his thrusts. It takes you a moment to realise what he's doing.
Attempting to feel his cock bulging from inside you, to trace its shape below your skin with his fingers.
“Permission granted.” His own voice is breathless, unlike the collected tone you've grown used to. The very same one that you returned its greeting with comfortable familiarity whenever you approach the map.
The same voice praising you at the end of each mission, encouraging you before the start of another, that very same voice is giving you permission to cum, a subtle order that you will obey like all the others.
You've held it in for so long, it takes a massive toll on you. Stretching itself long as tears fall from the corner of your eyes, a miserable cry of overwhelming pleasure followed by another. Words of gratitude turning into an incomprehensible mess of yes-sirs and thank-yous
You look him in the eyes as you climax, he must notice your helmet slightly turning to get a better look at him.
Your executive officer watching waves of intense pleasure going through his captain's body, making you spasm, add to the mess on his bed.
He fucks you through it, cradles and rocks you through your painful jarring orgasm. Your once limb body is now a trembling overstimulated mess, all the whines you've tried to suppress so far are pouring out of you, mewling and hiccuping. Clumped eyelashes and glazed-over eyes.
All the injection has been flushed clean out of your system, now you must experience the sour aftermath of a sore overused hole, aching joints, and a dull throbbing pain making your intimate parts pulse against the sharp sting of exposed air.
Except, you're not done yet.
He is not done yet, your Democracy Officer must finish inside you to seal the operation.
You're much more honest when you're completely fucked out and drained of orgasms, much more reactive and vocal. It's highly stimulating for him, he can't tear his eyes away from you, can't register anything but the feeling of your malleable body still shaking against his own, your insides still convulsing around him as if you're still cumming.
“Sir, I need it. I need your cum inside me. I—” you don't want to beg, you can't beg, but you can't take much longer either. You feel like you're going crazy. “Ple—”
Hand cramping over your helmet where your mouth should be as if to shut you up
With one last thrust he makes you swallow your word before it's fully out. Pushing his cock as deep as he can, pressing down your stomach harshly, you feel a warm fluid filling out the deepest of your insides.
His last thread must have snapped.
A ring of white forms around the base of his cock, overflowing cum attempting to leak, as he empties himself inside you, refusing to pull out.
Your knees scream at you, numb legs and heavy feet.
His remaining hand on your stomach gives an experiment press, and your back immediately arches, a choked whine leaves your lips. The more pressure he adds, the more your insides convulse around the cock plugging you, involuntarily spasming and attempting to push it out with no space left for the cum to go.
The hold on your stomach turns softer, letting go of the pressure. Opting to gently rub circles around the now slightly-pudgy part of it. Enjoying the short-lived bulging while it lasts, the second he pulls out, all the cum will pour and deprive him of his favourite view.
Moving down to your hips and thighs, he squeezes them tightly, messaging the cramped muscles with a firm touch. Easing you into a sense of safety, melting away your stiffens, slowly pulling his cock out, inch by inch, dragging the whole process as your frantic breathing slows down.
Only the head is left inside, a sigh leaves him at the feeling of pressure weighing down against the tip, his cum desperate to flood out.
He almost feels bad about what he's about to do.
You thought it was over, anticipating the loud pop of his cock. Except it thrusts back inside, pushing in so fast when you least expect it, while your muscles are still relaxed, fucking his cum back into you.
It's too much.
You're cumming again before you realise it, now an involuntary reflex not under your volition anymore. Your cries sound less and less human, more that of a wounded animal. Your dry tears stain your cheeks, your body drenched in sweat and cum.
He's mean, he's so mean. You thank him for it, thank your Democracy Officer for his cruelty, stutter out a reply of gratitude because that's what good little soldiers do.
You're completely spent in every sense of the word.
One thrust, it took one thrust to steal your breath, to have you overpowered by your own orgasm again.
He pulls all the way out, watching the cum pour out, dripping down your legs, making a small puddle between your kneeling figure, feet completely drenched in the sticky fluid.
Before your insides could close, the same two fingers thrust back in and keep your hole spread open. The other hand continues to rub and squeeze your thighs reassuringly, as you push all the cum out.
Aware of his eyes watching you through this whole thing. Of his fingers buried deep inside, scooping the cum off your walls, much like he did to your wetness at the start.
It's humiliating, plain and simple. There is no other way to describe this. You had to be guided and ordered throughout this whole activity from the moment your ass was up until the second you're having your insides cleaned by your inferior officer.
After what feels like an embarrassing eternity of probing, you're finally pushed forward to lay flat on the bed. Your knees give out instantly as the blood rushes to them. Your arms ache, and your thighs are all sticky and wet.
He picks the hem of your cape, offering you a resemblance of dignity by covering you with it like a blanket.
Even now, laying on a bed, in a puddle of cum, you're reminded of how more comfortable it is than being frozen to sleep each night in your cryo chambers.
Your racing heartbeat slows down. The officer leaves the bed for a moment before coming back with a warm wet towel, wiping between your thighs and cleaning you out as you lay there.
You didn't see the point, any cleaned body part will just get dirty again the second he laid it back on the mess-covered bed. Still, he tried his hardest to wipe away all the sweat, cum, and even some of the crusted blood from your last mission.
He fixes your armour back afterwards, pulling your now ruined underwear back up. It's completely drenched, making you wear the mess you've made.
Your pants follow after, then under armour padding and finally strapping the armour pieces back into place.
The screen monitor on your wrist flashes, an invitation request to join a mission from a fellow helldiver.
You just laid down, but it seems the world can't give you a break. With no time to relish in the bliss that follows an orgasm, that luxury, too, must be sacrificed. Pressing the option to accept the mission, the coordinations get sent to the entire team as the destroyer prepares to make the jump across the galaxy.
The democracy officer extends his hand to you, and you hold on to it as you slowly get up from the bed. Taking the towel and wiping away any stains on your armour.
Your body pulses with soreness and aches in pain. Protesting your every move. You can't tell where the blood ended or cum started in the mess that is your cape, proudly showing off your Helldiver status as Captain on the back.
The Democracy Officer cups the side of your helmet, turning your head to face him. There's a look in his eyes that you can't place; it's too perfect of a poker face to make any details from.
He knows you can't feel it, and yet his hand caresses the side of your helmet with softness all the same.
Knitted brows above his glistening eyes as he attempts to meet your gaze behind the tinted windshield. Searching for a pair of human eyes behind the endless dark void of the helmet.
Do you remember the colour of your eyes? The destroyer doesn't have any mirrors.
Is he looking at you with pity? Or is it pride? These days, you can't tell these two emotions apart, be it in yourself or others.
He tilts his face closer to yours, eyes fluttering shut. time slows down, and you could count the wrinkles on his hardened skin.
Just what kind of life did he lead? What hardships did he endure?
What is the price for surviving this far? What is the cost of keeping one's life during a galactic war? Did he pay for it with his sanity, body?
Or heart?
Chapped lips press against the cold metal of your helmet, a small kiss. tender and fragile like a single snowflake amidst a hail storm. No one will bear witness to it, and yet it's beautiful for having existed at all.
It's over, just like that. Barely having lasted a second. A vulnerable show of intimacy.
“You did well.” There's more he wants to say, more questions he wants to ask, more time he wants to spend holding you. Give you a proper bath and bury you in his chest as he works out all the knots in your muscles. But it's clear he can't, not without repercussions, not with his position as your inferior.
Especially not with the camera watching.
And so he steps to the side, politely waiting for you to finish tidying up your uniform. The once clean towel is now ruined and stained, he doesn't mind.
His uniform was as pristine as ever, except for the few wrinkles standing out where he held you against his body. Still, he looked more put-together than your dishevelled state. Thankfully your crew have never been anything less than professional no matter what state you show up in.
He speaks one last time, the same reassuring hand going under your cape to pat your shoulder lightly “I'll take care of the paperwork. The galaxy needs you to save it, Helldiver.”
You're reminded of each time a fellow helldiver waited for you to reach the shuttle before boarding, each time one hugged you after a successful mission, tight enough to almost lift you off the ground as they laughed from the sheer joy of being alive.
Each time someone watched your flank for you, fistbumped you after an especially difficult fight. The weight of their heavy helmet on your shoulder during the evacuation take-off, stealing some seconds of rest, of actual real sleep and none of that frozen crap, dozing off cuddling to your side.
A stranger behind a mask, holding your hand and reassuring you that everything is going to be fine, knowing that making it out alive is nothing more than an optional bonus in all of your assignments.
His touch doesn't linger, and the world becomes colder after it's gone. Like someone turned off the sun, a familiar freezing numbness barrows in the hollows of your heart, urging you to forget the sweetness of Eve's apple and move on.
“Thank you.” Is all you manage to reply before the announcement chimes, requesting all helldivers to report to the hell pods. A timer starts counting down from 30 seconds on your wrist monitor.
Walking ahead of your democracy officer, your cape trails behind in a show of authority. Another Helldiver is off to save the galaxy and defend Super Earth.
#☆otherfandoms#☆helldivers 2#☆smut#helldivers 2 smut#helldivers 2 x reader#democracy officer x reader#democracy officer x helldiver#gn reader#gn helldiver#helldivers x reader
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Thoughts on the International PreCure: Cure Gonna and Cure Pantaloni (Italy)
What were they thinking when they were naming these two? Gonna and Pantaloni translate to "skirt" and "pants" in Italian. Why would they name themselves that? Based on their capes, I think they were going for a superhero aesthetic? I headcanon that their team name is Valorose PreCure (if I'm correct, and please correct me if I'm wrong, "valorose" is the Italian feminine plural adjective word for "valiant" or "valorous"). Going by their colors, if I could rename them, I'd rename Gonna (blue) Cure Ombra ("shadow" in Italian) and Pantaloni (yellow) Cure Luce ("light" in Italian).
The capes are a cool way of making them distinct, and them wearing ties instead of ruffles or ribbons under their brooches is a unique detail. The double skirts are trying to be different, but it would've been better if they were just one skirt with ribbons running across the bottom to imitate traditional Italian dresses. I'd give them 3 ribbons, the colors from top to bottom being green, white, and red, referencing the Italian flag.
With their official names, I'd name their finisher Trapano Gemello ("Twin Drill" in Italian). They hold hands and envelop themselves in a drill of energy before crashing into their target. With my non-canon renames, I'd name their finisher Crepuscolo Gemello ("Twin Twilight" in Italian), but the attack itself remains the same, just with crescent moon sparkles on Ombra's (Gonna's) side and sun sparkles on Luce's (Pantaloni's) side.
One last thing I want to mention: during the final battle, the twins were grouped with Southern Cross and Katyusha. Also, based on this shot, I'm gonna assume Gonna is the older twin.
See also:
Bomber Girls PreCure (America)
Merci PreCure/Cure Art (France)
Wonderful Net PreCure (India)
Cure Nile (Egypt)
Alo~ha PreCure (Hawaii)
Cure Continental (England)
Cure Katyusha (Russia)
Cure Southern Cross (Australia)
Matador PreCure (Spain)
Cure Shelly
Unnamed International PreCure
Cure Mirage (Japan)
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Superhero AU!! This is Luis as a superhero. His superhero name is Valor :D
He comes with a cape but can save the world without it! Just might be a touch more difficult ^^;
Valor’s cape is disguised as his normal jacket but it can transform into his cape, the cape can then transform into a shield, a lance or his very own trusty steed ^^
#alitan99 art#drawing#doodle#fan art#resident evil#my art#luis sera#re4 remake#valor#superhero#superhero au
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This is so niche but I'm bored:
Rook, in his feathered hat wearing a Guy Faux mask: I can assure you I mean you no harm.
MC on the ground clutching pepper spray: Who are you?!
Rook: Who? Who is but the form following the function of what, and what I am is a man in a mask.
MC: Well I can see that.
Rook: Of course you can. I am not questioning your powers of observation. I am merely remarking upon the paradox of asking a masked man, Who. He is.
MC: Oh.... right.
Rook: But on this most auspicious of nights, permit me then, in lieu of the more commonplace subriquet to suggest the character of this dramatic persona.
*Rook bows and places his cape across his face. Then with a swift swish he "emerges" from behind.*
Rook: Voila! In view a humble vaudevillian veteran cast vicariously as both victim and villain by the vicissitudes of fate. This Visage no mere veneer of vanity is a vestige of the vox populi, now vacant, vanished.
*Rook's words quicken a sense of urgency present in every syllable.*
Rook: HOWEVER, This valorous visitation of a bygone vexation stands vivified. And has vowed vanquish these venal and virulent, vanguarding vice and vouchafing the violent and viscious in violation of volition.
*A brief pause. Rook begins again but this time his voice is lower with a slight rasp to it.*
Rook: The only verdict is vengeance, a vendetta. Held as a votive not in vain, for the value and veracity of such shall one day vindicate the vigilant and the virtuous.
Rook: *Chuckles breathlessly* Verily this viscious visage of verbiage veers most verbose. So let me simply add that it is my very good honor to meet you and you may call me V. *Rook bows to MC*
MC: ..... Are you like a crazy person?
Rook: I am quite sure they will say so.
#not to toot my own horn but i wrote this whole thing from memory#pretty sure that makes me mentally ill#twisted wonderland#twst incorrect quotes#rook hunt#rook x reader#rook x yuu#v for vendetta
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gonna talk about a dream i had so i don’t forget it
so i was at this camp, which was a lot like one i’ve been to for several years, we couldn’t have our phones or any food or even art for whatever reason? like we couldn’t keep anything we made, they would occasionally raid our stuff to look for anything contraband, so it was lights out, and i knew i wasn’t the only one with contraband, but for whatever reason i was the only one good at hiding it, so the counselor came in and caught one girl, so she sacked our stuff, and i was the only one that got caught, and blah blah blah timeskip, she comes in later asking if anyone has any trash, and i’m like “oh shit this is a trap” so i hide my stuff, and she comes in and takes everyone else’s stuff and blows up on them, sends them out of the cabin, and she’s stuffing people’s art in the trash bag and i’m like “why can’t we have any of this stuff?” she goes “it’s not allowed.” and so i argue eith her and she’s finally like whatever. one of you can keep some art at the end. so she leaves and suddenly for whatever reason sniper tf2 comes in????? and he’s like “m8 you look different, you alright?” because apparently we’re friends in my dream??? and i look down and i’ll have to draw it later because it was sick, but i had knights armour but it was more agile, and i had a cape and these giant crazy red feather wings, and an old grecian helmet with a red plume, and he’s like “that’s the lord high admiral’s uniform, yeah?” (wtf is the lord high admiral??) and i’m like oh shit youre right so apparently the lord high admiral just gets chosen by an act of valor and you have to fight the other one to the death to recieve your formal title??? so sniper’s like “you gotta scram, m8, lil birdy told me the prev one is wreakin havoc in the castle��� which was apparently where the grounds of the camp was???? so i hug him and walk out the door and my armor like flickers and dissapears, classic “hero doesn’t know how to use their powers until theyre in the heat of battle” so i’m like whatever and then as i’m running towards the drawbridge of this bigass castle it comes back and i’m fckin flying, and i crash through this giant stained glass window into a corridor that for skme reason i know leads into the bell/clock tower, and there’s a ton of like, narnia style fighters, like rabbits and beavers and bears with battering rams and stuff, and they clear the way for me with my majestic ass cape and wings to the huge oak doors and they creak open and it’s like a greenhouse instead of the bell? so in the middle is a wooden throne, and sitting in it in the most faggy like legs over the armrest position, is my brother scout with the same gear i got, but in blue. and so i stand in front of him, and oh so dramatic dream me, as the doors are slamming shut, draws my blade and says “hello, brother.” AND THEN I WOKE UP???????
#it was crazy. like it would make a CRAZY book.#anyway. i didn’t wanna forget it because it was a sick dream
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Herakles #3: A Fit of Rage
Now a young man, Herakles embarks on heroic adventures, hunting the lion of Cithaeron for King Thespius, and sleeping with his fifty princess daughters over fifty nights, before capturing the lion and wearing the hide and scalp as a helmet. Returning home, Herakles finds himself defending Thebes against the warring Minyans. Victorious, King Creon’s daughter Megara is given in marriage as a reward for his valor. By her they have three sons.
But Hera still plots vengeance against the descendent of Zeus. She curses Herakles with a fit of violent rage, and, thinking those around him are enemies, he brutally fells his own wife and children with bow and arrows. When he finally awakens from his madness, and realizes what he has done, he is inconsolable.
He exiles himself and finds refuge and purification with his ally, King Thespius, then journeys on to Delphi to consult the Pythia priestess of Apollo, who orders him to atone for his atrocity by serving his cousin, king Eurysthius for twelve years. If successful, he will attain immortality.
According to Apollodorus, the war between Thebes and the Minyans is a grim affair, with Herakles treating his enemies with cruelty when he “cut off their ears and noses and hands, and having fastened them by ropes from their necks” Apollodorus also mentions Herakles receiving divine weapons here: a sword from Hermes, Bow and arrows from Apollo, A golden breastplate from Hephaestus, and a cape from Athena.
When Herakles kills his family, he shatters his own Oikos (paternal line/household), a crucial building block for ancient Greek society. There are two major reasons Herakles is ordered to serve his cousin; first, to atone for the murders of his wife and sons, and thus attain redemption and second, to prove his worth and attain great Kleos (glory/renown), and achieve his highest Arete (potential for human excellence)
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#hercules#heracles#Herakles#Thespius#Apollodorus#greekmythology#greekgods#pjo#mythology#classics#classicscommunity#myths#ancientgreece
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Feng Xin Week Day 5: Childhood
fenglian drabble from my modern AU fenglian childhood best friends wip for @fxweek <3
Xie Lian had liked Feng Xin immediately when they first met. Their mothers were good friends and Feng Xin’s father worked for Xie Lian’s, so when their parents met, the children would play together. Xie Lian liked this boy who had funny jokes and remarks on everything and used words that grown-ups said were inappropriate for ten-year-olds. He was also a wonderful playmate who enthusiastically participated in the make-believe stories that Xie Lian dreamed up.
Today, while their parents had tea and discussed grown-up matters, Xie Lian was showing Feng Xin his figurine collection.
“Feng Xin, choose one!”
“Hmm…” Feng Xin scratched his head. “I dunno, they’re all good. What are you gonna choose?”
He looked up at Xie Lian, who was smiling. “I’m gonna be the crown prince.”
Xie Lian reached out a hand to pick up the figurine of the crown prince, testing its weight in his hands. He showed it to Feng Xin - the Crown Prince was an intricately carved figurine with flowing white-and-gold robes, a smiling face, wielding an elegant sword in one hand and a flower branch in the other.
Feng Xin stared openly in admiration. “Wah, that’s a good one!”
He turned his gaze back to the remainder of the figurines, scanning each one. “Then I’ll be this Imperial Guard.”
He picked up the figurine of a young man in sturdy armour plates, with a bright red half-cape trimmed with gold.
Xie Lian smiled, his nose wrinkling. “Perfect! You can be my loyal guard.”
Feng Xin gave a salute. “Taizi Dianxia, your general reports for duty!”
Xie Lian laughed. “You promoted yourself to a General already?”
Feng Xin scratched his head. “Is that not how it works? I can be your loyal guard, who fought by your side valiantly in battle, and was promoted into becoming the general of the imperial army!”
“That’s an awesome backstory! Then, you just need a title.”
Feng Xin tilted his head to one side in thought. “How about Nan Yang?”
Xie Lian laughed. “Perfect.”
Together, Xie Lian and Feng Xin wove grand tales of epic battles, General Nan Yang’s valor in battle and steadfast faith in his prince, and Xie Lian’s feats as the young but noble-hearted crown prince who trained diligently in martial arts and would one day grow into a fair, compassionate and just king.
In the end, the nickname “Dianxia” stuck, and Feng Xin would call Xie Lian that even when they weren’t playing make-believe. The halcyon days of their childhood were perfect, all endless summers flying kites and games of hopscotch and shuttlecock, racing each other down the hills and collapsing in a heap of laughter when they reached the bottom, patching up one another’s bruises when one of them fell from a bike, lapping up ice-cream and laughing when Feng Xin got some on his nose.
In some ways, their personalities could be different as night and day - Xie Lian being a responsible class president and student councilor and consisting topping the cohort in most subjects, and Feng Xin being the kind of student who would snore in class and later try to cheat by copying their friend Mu Qing’s homework, which incurred Mu Qing’s wrath.
But in other ways, there could not be a better pair of friends. They stuck to each other like niangao, and in class Xie Lian would spend his time managing their rowdy classmates and comforting kids who went to him crying, while Feng Xin would be his faithful best friend who assisted him in his duties, tried to carry Xie Lian’s books, and swore up a storm at anyone who ever tried to give Xie Lian trouble. Though Xie Lian was, more often than not, vastly well-liked, with many of the other students looking up to his exemplary grades and conduct, and drawn to his warm and kind personality.
They grew up together, growing into one another as tightly as two vines who twined around one another, inseparable, and each summer, they would light sparklers and laugh and vow to always be the best of friends.
#feng xin week#fenglian#fxweek#my writing#not posting on ao3 bc im not satisfied with this#i have 4k words of this wip written but i may scrap half of it
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Flight Rising Mimic Melee! Round 1
The Top 2 winners from this poll will go on to the next round!
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Character files 008: Jonathan Samuel Kent
Superboy is a young superhero who is the third & biological son of Superman, & the youngest brother of Conner & Christopher Kent aka Valor & Super Phantom. He is the hope of his team: (New) Young Justice.
Appearance: a young white man with black shaggy hair with a S curl in front, violet eyes, & freckles.
Outfit: a red & blue Superman pullover hoodie with a red cape with a yellow S just below the hood. He also has an alternate outfit where he wears his dad’s suit with the red trunks while wearing a denim jacket with a yellow S on the back. (Look at the concept art for Jon with the trunks outfit & picture a jacket on him, plus no cape)
Personality: Kind, sarcastic, sassy, emotional, energetic, smart.
Powers: due to him being the son of Superman, Jon has all the powers of a kryptonian: super strength, speed, durability, senses like x-ray vision, heat vision, super breath/freeze, flight, & a “new” ability called solar flare which allows him to expel solar energy from his body like a bomb. In my universe, half kryptonians are way weaker than regular kryptonians but they can have transforming powers to become potentially stronger than pure ones; superboy gains red/orange spiky glowing hair that increases his powers & have the ability to shoot solar energy out of his hands & transmit it into swords & guns for extra damage. (& for the giggles, yes he can shoot it out of his butt & front area XD)
Trivia/FunFacts
He loves baseball; he’s on his middle schools baseball team and his favorite baseball movies are The Sandlot & benchwarmers (his favorite moment is the infamous beef stew scene.)
A fan of Star Wars, his favorite is Han Solo & prefers originals than prequels (he likes both but prefers originals more)
Loves the anime’s Dragonball z & naruto (canon) a goku & naruto fanboy (dresses like naruto one Halloween)
He likes the TMNT franchise, his favorite is Mikey.
Can juggle, learned from Nightwing (saw Nightwing do it in canon)
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