#idk this went really dark

[skinnyazn]

Lick Your Wounds

Pairing: Simon 'Ghost' Riley x F!Reader (Jaguar) Chapters: 3/3 Notes: VERY EXPLICIT MINORS DO NOT ENTER 18+, shit gets freaky—Ghost is a very freaky gyal, very graphic knife battle scene with lots of blood, followed by some freaky seggs, TW blood and stabby stabby, Thank you to @solidly-indulgent for inspiring the fic with their request of Jag getting injured and Ghost being sad feral,

Part One | Part Two | AO3 | MASTERLIST

Everything ached. From the surface of your skin and below to the bones and soft, tender organs. The tinnitus in your ears muffled out the other noises. There were no squawks from the jungle creatures. Just a high pitch ringing that drilled into your head as you stared up at the perfect blue sky amidst all the rubble. And there it was again, that odd flow of time. You knew you were awake, alive—breathing. But everything moved so slowly. Maybe if you just closed your eyes for a little bit…

A wave of nausea hit you and you rolled to your side and dry heaved. Sweat dripped from your face onto the crumbled concrete below. It dug into your palms. You groaned as your focus slowly sharpened. The sound of gunfire made its way past the ringing in your ears. That’s right—you were on a mission. You looked down at your dirty fatigues. Smelled the smoke and dust that surrounded you from the building. A subconscious part of you groped around the floor, searching for something second nature. What was it? A glint, a few feet away from you, buried under the rubble. That’s it. Your rifle.

“Chingada madre!” You felt a rough grip on your hair as a Buluc Chabtan soldier yanked you up. His fist met your face repeatedly and split open your lip and cheek, blood splattering to the floor. You groaned, willed your brain to focus. “Sabes que le hacemos a las putas como tú?” He threw you to the ground. Somewhere, in the distance, you heard an explosion.

The silhouette of the man blocked out the sun overhead. You watched as he pulled out his pistol. Aimed it at you. Felt the adrenaline pump through your body again, speeding up that flow of time. Your heart was pounding in your chest now as your hands sought something rough on their own.

“No puedes matar a una jaguar,” it came out raspy when you spoke. “Nosotras te matamos.”

The man chuckled—no, full on laughed at you. It was a grating sound.

“Crees que eres una jaguar cuando solo eres una puta—” but his words were cut off as you sunk your bowie knife into his achilles, slicing the tendon and bringing him screaming to the floor on all fours. 

You mounted him, locked your legs around his waist and squeezed. He reached back to grab you but you stabbed into his jugular, ripping the knife out to cut the cord, then sunk it in his chest—into any part of him you could. The man writhed, slamming the both of you onto your back as he exacted his own death roll. It fucking hurt but you didn’t let up—wouldn't unlock your legs. You just held him in a tight embrace as his hot blood coated the both of you, sinking your knife in again and again. He clawed and scratched and gripped but you never relented until his body started to spasm. Finally, his arms fell limp at his side and your shirt was soaked crimson.

Releasing him, you gasped for air. Shoved his still-warm body off of you and scrabbled away. You wiped your hands and arms on your pants but that just smeared the red around. Waves of vertigo rushed over you as you struggled to find your breath. A shadow approached you on the ground and you whipped around.

The figure caught your wrists as you tried to sink your knife into them, holding onto you with a firm grip. You tried sweeping your leg behind theirs but they blocked.

“Jag, it’s me!” a deep Manchester voice. You knew it, you were sure. You thrashed anyway. “It’s me, Ghost!”

Ghost. Simon.

You met his eyes as he took account of you. “It’s okay, I’ve got you, luv. I’ve got you.” 

His intense gaze raked over your injuries and the blood soaked shirt as you gave up your struggle. Somehow, you had no problem focusing on him and his skull mask. But his eyes behind the bone and blood… you’d never seen that expression before.

“It’s not mine.” You loosened your hold on your knife, letting it fall to the floor. Rested your hands on his chest as he released his grip. Felt the damp fabric underneath your fingertips. “Most of it, anyway,” you breathed.

Simon took of his gloves to hold your face, turned it to the side and looked at the blood dripping from your lip. His palms were so warm against you; his grip, frantic. Like he wasn’t sure if you were really alive before him.

He pulled you into him, constricting you with his embrace. “Thought I lost you.” 

You groaned softly. It hurt but you wanted more of it. Pain. From him. 

“Thought I’d fucking lost you.” There was a timbre in his voice. It almost sounded like anger.

“I’m here,” you mumbled into his chest; your hands moved to span the width of his neck. He sucked in a deep breath.

Pushing you away, he ripped off his mask. His dirty blonde hair caught the sun’s rays. It caught you off guard as your mouth went slack—it was the very definition of shock. You couldn’t breathe. Your skin went clammy and your heart felt like it was about to burst while you took in Simon Ghost Riley’s face for the very first time. He was the most beautiful thing you had ever seen in your life, in spite of the smeared eye paint, sweat, and all his scars.

“Oh,” you breathed. It was all you could managed as you reached to touch his face, getting red on his cheek. His jaw flexed.

Then he crashed against your lips, tasting your blood. You still couldn’t find your breath but you opened for him—tongues vying with each other’s. He engulfed you, kissed your mouth and then your split-lip and along your jaw. Up to your cheek, licking the blooming bruise and metal of your open wound—the saltiness of your sweat. You couldn’t see straight but it wasn’t from the concussion this time.

“I need you, Simon.” It came out desperate and barely a whisper but he heard it all the same.

He pushed you backward a few steps toward a piece of wall that was still upright. Spun you around as his teeth found your ear. You gripped the concrete for stability. Wetness was already pooling between your thighs.

Simon reached around you, undoing your belt and sliding your pants just below your ass as your back rested flushed against him. Heard the metal of his own belt and zipper before feeling him already at your entrance. He pulled your hips back and you sank onto his hard cock, groaning as he stretched you wide. Your head hung heavy as you watched his hips pick up pace and snap against yours. Heard the slick sounds from your wetness over the ringing in your ears. When you rolled your head back, Simon gripped your neck, bringing you in for a kiss while he fucked you hard; your arched back formed a hollow against him. You tasted your blood on his tongue.

And you’re not sure when the tears came but he licked them away all the same. All you could feel as you closed your eyes was a numbness over your body and that sweet heat in your core—a heat that only your Ghost brought out. Simon grunted and panted in your ear as you tried to keep your moans down.

“J-Jag,” he huffed as you gripped the wall, knuckles bone-white under the blood—your name sounding like a prayer on his lips.

Simon was the only one who could ruin you like this. Bring you to this state of ecstasy. And so you made a guttural sound as fucked deeper into you, threatening to open you—take root in every part of you up and never leave. You slammed harder against him.

“Haaaa fuckkk,” he groaned against your face, slamming your hips once, twice before slowing them. You felt his cock throb inside you—felt his hot cum fill you as he fucked the fluid deeper inside. Simon’s thick arm wrapped around your waist, securing you against him, as he struggled to calm his breathing. 

“Are you alright?” he muttered softly against you. You could barely hear him as the blood pumped through your ringing ears, but attempted a nod. He rubbed his nose against your cheek before drawing away. His hot cum dripped down your leg. Simon pulled up your pants and redid your belt as you stared at the bloody handprints left on the concrete. You turned around when he was done, leaning against the wall for support. Your legs shook.

“We've gotta go, luv,” he said as he fixed his own pants.

You stared at his face. Tried to commit every detail of it to memory. Simon stared back at you tenderly. He kissed the corner of your mouth gently before slipping on his mask.

“Soap, what’s your status? Jag’s alright,” he spoke into the comms. Nodded at Soap’s response. “We’ll bring a truck to you.”

“C’mere,” he turned toward you and knelt down. You ungracefully climbed onto his back, barely able to wrap your legs around his thick waist. He supported you with his left hand while his right grabbed his rifle. 

“Getting blood on you,” you spoke as you placed your arms around his neck for support.

“Long as it’s not yours, we’re good.”

You hummed into his warm neck, head feeling unbearably heavy now.

“Stay with me, Jag. We’re nearly finished,” he murmured as he strode across the compound.

“I’m here, Ghost. I’m here."

[kinerxy]

Honrses

[ghost-proofbaby]

OH SAY LESS 14 WITH ASTARION PLEASE

so this is my first time publicly writing and posting astarion, so please be gentle. higher word count solely because i felt the need to add lore because, ya know, first time writing him! also, i changed the line just a tiny bit to better fit the character and scene. ALSO, uh... this is a little fade to black. i'm sorry. it just got too long.

14. "Oh, you're hard to please."

warnings: foreplay, sorta fade to black smut (it's there if you squint your eyes), an ungodly amount of pet names, mentions of past sexual abuse and healing from it, technical game spoilers, not edited, 18+ so minors do not interact

pairings: astarion x afab!reader (no pronouns used)

wc: 4.4k+

join the smutty party! send me one of these smut dialogue prompts with a character

How long had it been since Astarion had actually enjoyed sex? Craved it, even? 

If he recalls correctly, it had to have started to become tainted well over a century ago. Somewhere between the first and the third victim, when he’d realized how every single beautiful soul he had entrapped were simply being lured to their own death. And then, the sour taste left in his mouth only became more pungent the longer it went on, the more he came to the realization of just how used he felt. His body was no longer his own – it technically hadn’t been his from the very second he’d emerged from his own grave, and Cazador had been waiting for him – and everything about the act became an old rehearsed dance that he’d grit his teeth through. A chore, something to make his stomach churn, something to regret. A means to an end. 

Plainly put, it had been a while. 

But then you happened. You, who hadn’t blinked an eye when the first time you met him, he’d literally threatened you with a gods damned blade to your throat. You, who had repeatedly trusted him, even when it had been an objectively stupid thing to do. You, who had always offered him the utmost patience and genuine understanding, to the point in which if he thought about it too hard, he’d probably cry. You, who had led your group of misfits with brain worms right into victory, with plenty of personal demons defeated along the way. 

Personal demons including Cazador. 

Maybe that’s when things changed for Astarion. He’d already fallen for you before your group had reached Baldur’s Gate, he’d already gotten to know your body intimately before ever laying eyes on that ridiculously oversized brain you somehow made look easy to defeat. But that had been different, hadn’t it? He hadn’t really wanted to do that (not meant as an offense to you – certainly not after all was said and done), but had thought he needed to. To gain your trust, to gain your protection. And in the end, it turned out he never needed to do such a thing. You’d never said it outloud, probably at risk of making him feel even more regret after you’d learned all his secrets and darkest corners, but he knew. 

And knowing that you didn’t view him as something purely sexual, as a means to an end, as an item to use – well, it had the opposite effect of his request to no longer be viewed in that light. 

“What are you doing?” he says as he quickly looks up from his current book he’d been pursuing the moment you’d entered the room. He hardly cared for the words on the page – he just needed a way to pass the hours until you were available again. 

It was a hard habit to kick. Being so codependent on you, even with the end of the world resolved and the gift of safety being handed over to him on a silver platter. 

“We received mail,” you’re grinning wickedly as you hold up an embellished envelope, delicate fingers pinching the parchment as if it were the greatest gift to ever exist. He’d argue the real gift at hand was the last three months – time spent with you, in a place he can call home. But nothing could impede on your good mood as you throw yourself down on the mattress beside him, “From Withers, of all people!” 

His brows shoot up for just a moment before his face twists up with something akin to distrust, “Withers? What in the Hells does that sack of dust and bones wan-” 

“A reunion,” you cut him off, the look on your face warning enough against his attempt at an insult. “He’s reaching out to all of us to bring us together for a celebration, to check in on everyone, let us see each other again. Apparently, we were the easiest of the bunch to find.”

Astarion quickly lets out a tut as he snaps the book shut and discards it on the bedside table closest to him, “Well, we certainly need to fix that. Soon enough all of those little shits are going to end up on our doorstep, preaching about the power of friendship and how they want to check in on us.” 

You snort at that, laying flat on your back with your hair wildly spread out in a makeshift halo behind you. The sight causes something to stir within him, his gut twisting as he watches the way your knees knock together before slowly falling apart, your legs settling down as flat as the rest of your body.

He hadn’t taken you since that night at his grave. Before the epic final battle, before the two of you had made the decision to settle down somewhere for some well-earned peace and quiet. 

The moonlight dances past the open curtains, and his breath catches in his throat at the way the blue shadows dance across your skin. It almost reminds him of the first time he’d seen you fight. It hadn’t just been the blood splattered across your cheeks that had really gotten the better of his curiosity (even if that’s what he had told you when you asked), it had been the sunlight. Those rays of gold that had mingled with your own aura of warmth after you had helped the tieflings for the first time. 

You put the sun to shame, truly. And he missed it – Gods, did he miss it – but he was content to bask in the peace of night for a few months more before he finally cut you loose from the leash to begin your next phase of adventures to find him a cure. You had promised him you would, had already dedicated plenty of free time to research, and all you really needed was his word to begin. 

He’s selfish. The two of you can find a way for him to walk in the sun once more another day; all he wants right now is to bury himself in your warmth, to slot his body between your thighs, to hear every breathy gasp and the way you’d practically sing his name-

“Star?” you’re looking up at him from an awkward angle, eyes owlish and chin tilted painfully far back as you clearly await an answer to a question he’d been too lost in a daydream to overhear, “Did you hear me?” 

He clears his throat and adjusts the pillows behind his back, keeping him propped up as he admires you, “Of course I did, darling.” 

“Then what did I just say?”

“Something about how we’re absolutely not going to this reunion, yes?” 

Your smile is nothing but patient as you flip onto your stomach. He watches the way your shorts ride up your thighs, how the top of the soft fabric bunches at your waist. His fingers practically twitch with the need to weasel their way under it, to press his cold fingertips into warm flesh and hear you preen. 

Whenever you’re ready, you had whispered to him one night shortly after saving the world. Just tell me when, and I’m yours. 

He was ready. Insatiably ready, really. 

“Very funny. I said we should go, though. It’d be nice to see everyone again, wouldn’t it? All our friends?” 

You’re still talking about this damned reunion. Astarion has half the mind to figure out a way to summon the insufferable skeleton right here, right now, and drive a dagger into his bones until he’s truly nothing but dust. Solely for the distraction. 

“Your friends, my dear,” he corrects gently, “We both know they’re only overly fond of one of us in this relationship, and it certainly isn’t the one that they repeatedly threatened to stake.” 

The furrow of your brows is impossibly cute – he knows that look of determination. It’s the same one you wore when he mentioned it was likely that the two of you would never find a cure to his condition. 

“Our friends,” you insist, “Karlach adores you, Star. And Wyll has always been proud of you, whether he told you as much or not.”

“And what of Gale?” 

Your lips twitch at that, “Gale… certainly wouldn’t stake you on sight.”

“Ah, yes,” he flourishes, trying to keep his eyes from wandering anywhere but where your hands press into your cheeks as you prop your face up to speak to him, “Not staking me. The ultimate sign of kinship.” 

Focusing is a losing battle when you roll your eyes, and he finds his mind overtaken with insatiable lust again. Imaginative ways that he could have your eyes rolling for him under different circumstances. 

“You’re not getting out of this. They are your friends just as well as mine – so argue all you want, but we’re going to the reunion.” 

“Are you sure there’s no other way I might be able to…” he pauses with intent, finally lifting one of his docile hands to your cheek, letting his finger graze the skin with a feather light touch before it travels back into the mess of your hair, “Persuade you otherwise?” 

You almost fall for it, too. Your eyes flutter shut, your head tilts into his touch as if you were starved for the connection. But even with the lack of sexual intimacy, you both know there hasn’t been a day that has gone by in the last three months where Astarion hasn’t found a way to get his hands on you.

Holding your own, resting his cheek on your shoulder, spinning you like a child in the kitchen – he had quite the sudden arsenal of romantic gestures that didn’t involve old wounds. It had been awkward here and there, some of them landing and some of them leaving you both looking like fools, but he was trying.

Almost as hard as he was currently trying to not jump your bones. 

When you recognize the innuendo for what it is, however, you harden immediately. Your shoulders set, a frown settles, and your eyes open with set determination he knows he can’t falter without speaking plainly to you. 

“No.”

“No?”

You’re quick to lift yourself up onto your knees, putting distance between yourself and his hands, “The days of weaponizing sex are over. I don’t even want to joke about that.” 

And, oh, he’s finding himself in quite the mood tonight, because as soon as you’re retracting, he’s following. As you settle on the haunches of your calves, he’s lifting up from his reclined position, leaning forward so that his face is breaths away from yours. 

“I mean it,” you warn, narrowing your eyes and holding up a finger in that small space between you two. 

He tests his luck, wasting no time in snapping his fangs just millimeters from your skin. You both know he wouldn’t actually bite you, but it still humors him to see the way you whip your hand out of his reach. 

“Were you not the one who insisted that we ask before we bite?” you snap, and his smile only worsens. Like a cheshire cat, like a child never scorned by the world – he’s radiant and basking in the moment. 

He lets out a small hmph before saying, “You’re no fun, my dear. Come on – just play with me for a moment, won’t you?” 

Your face softens at his teasing tone, and he can see the way he’s withering away your defenses one by one. There was once a time where he’d done it with malicious intent, but this time around, it’s with nothing but good intentions. 

If you asked him, he’d go as far as to swear it on his own grave. 

“I’m sorry,” you apologize as if you’d done something wrong, and it makes more than half of his own playfulness drain from his face in absolute displeasure. Before he can so much as open his mouth to scold you about unnecessary apologies, you’re continuing on, “I just… After everything we’ve been through, it’s not something I find particularly joyous to joke about.”

What a rare thing, to have found someone to bare your soul and all your burdens to, and watch them offer to help you shoulder the weight without second thought or regret. 

He’s never met someone like you in all his years, and he might never again. 

“And if I told you I wasn’t joking?” he asks slowly, carefully, trying to choose each word with the utmost care, “I’m not weaponizing – I’m offering.” 

Whenever you’re ready. Just tell me when, and I’m yours.

He was ready. Very, desperately, sorely ready. 

The topic of the reunion is all but forgotten as you process his words, nose twitching as you decipher all that’s he laying out before you. “I want more than an offer.” 

“Excuse me?” 

He can’t help the small laugh that leaves him as he sits up properly, leaning into your space fully now with one hand pressing into the mattress just beside one of your thighs. He can feel the heat radiating from you, smell your blood rushing to your head as you try to be sensible. It’s a pitiful excuse for an internal war; all he has to do is close that conveniently small distance between your lips with his own, and you’ll have lost all sense of logic. 

“You’re…” you trail off, searching his eyes as if he holds the answer you’re currently looking for, “You’re sacred to me, Astarion. You must know that. And it will take much more than some joking offer to convince me to have sex with you when I know-”

“I’m not joking,” he’s nearly whining, letting his forehead fall forward to press to yours, “Gods, I am not joking about this. Cross my heart and hope to die again.” 

If he has to beg, he will. 

He’s spent two hundred years in an insufferable position of pure misery, pure shit, and the realization that he’s finally free has everything clicking into place. Proof of the change exists solely in the fact that he could have resorted to his tired old seduction routine from his life before to get what he wanted, but instead, he’s trying to just communicate. 

It was a novel moment. 

But he could appreciate it later, when the crotch of his pants wasn’t becoming increasingly uncomfortably tight and he wasn’t watching you closer than prey. When his stomach wasn’t so tight with desire and anticipation, just waiting for your word to indulge. 

“Do I need to beg?” he sighs, his lips brushing against yours ever so slightly from proximity. He catches the shiver that runs up your spine. “We both know I’m not particularly fond of it, but if I have to get on my knees for you- well, actually, that’s the entire point of what I’m asking.” 

You laugh at that, and his gut twists again, because it’s the most beautiful sound he’s ever had the opportunity to hear. Something more breath than any vocality, something sharp and spelling out the loss of words on your tongue. 

Your silence is enough for him to push it all a step further. Forehead still leaning against yours, he properly presses his lips to yours this time, slotting them between softer than a feather’s caress. Finding home as he can physically feel himself steal your breath away. His fangs just barely nip your bottom lip, unintentionally but still eliciting a delicious reaction of a gasp that makes him graze you a second time just to feel the way you’re leaning into him more, becoming absolute putty in his hands. Pliable for his taking, and Gods, he wants to take you. 

Something snaps. 

All hesitation has vanished as he grabs at your hips quickly, making use of the way your brain has gone blank from a simple kiss in order to lay you out below him. He moves you with ease, incredible speed in slotting himself between your legs before he’s caging your entire body in with his own. The squeak that leaves your lips from his manhandling affects him even more than your gasps had, a low growl shaking his chest as he kisses you deeper. Tasting, begging, searching – he wants this, but he needs to know that you want this just as badly. 

Your hands find purchase on each of his shoulders, squeezing tightly as if needing something to tether yourself to. You pull him in closer for a second, eagerly returning the kiss, almost feverish in the way you drink him in. But the next, you’re pushing him away, a game of want and sensibility still clouding your judgment impossibly. 

You always were stubborn about things like morals. And, well, it wasn’t very moral to just jump right into sex with your traumatized boyfriend who had explicitly said not to view him in terms of sex, was it? 

It was Astarion’s own damn fault. 

He could have just acted like a normal person, initiated a normal conversation in which he renegotiated his boundaries. But you’ve been on his mind all day, and he’s long since proven since the very day that you met him that he has little to none impulse control. 

“My, my,” he murmurs, pulling back from the kiss, eyes wild, looking at you with even more hunger than he had the first night you’d given him a taste of your blood in camp, “You’re just an impossible thing to please, aren’t you? Do you want me near, do you want me far? Tell me, my love, what do you want?” 

He settles all his weight onto one of his forearms as the other slowly brings his hand to your side, caressing over the soft fabric of your shirt – a shirt he’s quickly realizing is actually his own. He recognizes those flowy sleeves, that lacing across the chest, the off-white tone that had seen better days. Given all its wear and tear, he’s almost sure that it’s one of his shirts he had grown most comfortable wearing during the nights of your adventures against the Netherbrain. 

It’s cute. A sort of domesticity that he can ponder over later, when your legs aren’t hanging on his hips and your breaths aren’t coming out staccato as he hovers just out of reach from you. 

“I want whatever you want,” you whisper. Your eyes flutter open, looking at him with pupils so dilated they could swallow him whole. 

“Let me be very clear, then,” he hums, cold fingers creeping their way to the hem of the shirt, slipping beneath with practiced ease to find the smooth skin of your hips below. They dance and skitter up, up, up until he’s brushing against your ribs, “I want you. I want that warm cunt of yours, I want to feel every gasp and breath as your walls squeeze around me. I want to fuck you until you’re unable to walk on your own two legs, until you can only remember my name. I want to watch you come undone, my dear, and for it to be my own undoing.”

Your lips quiver in anticipation, and he feels your thighs tighten their hold on him, “Such pretty words. And… and no ulterior motives? No sense of obligation?” 

“None at all,” he smiles, a predator closing in on his prey, “I’m choosing this. If you want it, if you’ll have me, then I’m ready, pet.” 

Pet. The nickname rolls off his tongue, and he can imagine your walls fluttering just as your eyes do. 

Your hands lift from his shoulders to bury in his hair instead. One cradling the back of his head, the other resting on the nape of his neck as you toy with a snowy curl. It unfurls him further, has him humming lowly as he dips down to recapture your lips and bring you into him even closer. Closer. He needs all and any space between the two of you to become nonexistent. To feel every inch of your skin pressed to his, to allow you to physically curl up into his chest just as you had his mind all those moons ago, to make a home in a room with your name on it already somewhere between his third and fourth rib. 

“Do you really have to doubt if I’ll have you, my love?” you mutter against his mouth, smile breaking the kiss momentarily before he’s back with a vengeance. You don’t care – you’re apparently in a chatty mood, dodging his kiss to get your last words in, “There’s been a space in my heart for you since the moment I first met yo-”

“Yes, yes, very romantic,” he interrupts urgently, suddenly tugging your shirt up, “But, truth be told, love? I’m hoping there’s a space between your legs for me at this moment.” 

You snort, eyes pinched shut as you attempt to shake your head at the ridiculousness of the words that just left his mouth. At any other moment, you might point out how the outrageous comment is just another defense mechanism, veering him away from having to acknowledge the gentle sentiment behind your own words, but now’s not the time. When you open your mouth, probably to say something exactly along those lines, he rolls his hips down against yours, pinning your lower half deep into the mattress. You feel just how hard he is through his trousers – it’s impossible to miss, but he’s deliberating being sure that you feel it as he lets the tips of his fangs sink into your bottom lip. 

The resolve of fighting against his wishes is quickly dissolved. One thing after another, and Astarion has you bare beneath him before any other distractions or annoying conversation can send the two of you further off track. Your, his, shirt is tossed to one side of the room. Your parents fly to the other side of the bed. Only once he has the entire spanse of your body nude and vulnerable to him does he take the time to pause, to look down at you with absolute adoration. 

“Gods, you’re beautiful.” 

He’s said those words to you a million times before. Consistently greeting you with them, muttering them in the dead of night, whispering them as he kisses you awake. But they never lose their weight. And certainly not now, as he’s looking down at you like it’s the first time he’s ever seen that freckle on your chest or the curve of your stomach barren before him. 

“Please, if you’re comfortable with it…” you start, voice laced with desperation, but he shakes his head. 

He’s full of interruptions tonight, “Consider me comfortable with anything unless stated otherwise for this moment, my sweet.” 

“Take off your clothes, Astarion.”

His giddy smile should annoy you. That smug satisfaction in finally, finally getting his way as he undresses himself at almost twice the speed that he had stripped you. And yet he knows you’re enjoying yourself just as much as he is. You’re reveling in drinking in the bare caricatures of his body, every inch and every curve exposed to you just as you are to him. And when his cool skin meets yours again, his body sinking right into that space between your thighs that you’ve granted to him, you let out a short gasp that reminds him that you want this just as badly as he does.

You’ve waited just as long as he has. 

It almost mirrors that night on his grave. The slow descent of his body against yours, the way he slides a leg up to spread your own even further for him as he crawls his way back home to your lips. Unlike that night, however, he isn’t taking quite as much care, his movements far faster and far more needy. 

He’s been waiting long enough. He’s denied himself long enough. 

It really doesn’t matter when the last time he had enjoyed sex had been, because all that he cares about is that here and now, in this moment with you, there’s not a trace of imperfections to taint his enjoyment. 

Cazador is dead. The brain has long since been defeated. You are both safe. 

As he sinks into your heat, the only thing on his mind is that contentment, overwhelmed with the feel and smell of just you. 

He’ll never be a slave again. Never be viewed as something to simply be used and disregarded again, if you have any say. And one day, some day, he’ll even feel the warmth of the sun again. Thanks to you.

But until that day, the warmth of your love is enough.

When you sigh his name out so delicately, jaw all but unhinging itself in bliss as your back arches in reaction to his touches, he knows he’s made the right choice. 

And he supposes he lied, in a way, earlier. 

You’re not that hard to please – not when it comes to him, at least. Not when it’s his hands trailing along your skin, not when it’s his lips and fangs nipping at every opportunity. And certainly not when it’s his name that’s being chanted like a prayer from your lips in time with every thrust, every stroke, every single movement with the sole purpose of making both of you come undone. 

Astarion no longer questions when the last time he enjoyed sex was in the aftermath of it all. With you, pressed into his side, sweaty forehead nuzzling his chest, the only thing he cares about is the next time he’ll be able to do so. 

“We’re still going to that reunion,” you murmur, half asleep, fading away from him quickly to fall into blissful unconsciousness. 

He almost doesn’t breathe in fear of disturbing you. He’ll waste the night away, laying here, still as a statue for your comfort. 

It’s no surprise when he refuses to put up a fight, instead his hand simply drawing soft stars across the back of your bare shoulder blades as he sighs, “Yes, dear. We will. Now sleep.”

“I love you.” 

The words tumble from your lips so carelessly, so easily and without hesitation, he nearly shakes you awake to hear them once more. Again and again, he needs to hear them, to be reassured that you feel for him as ardently as he does you. 

But he has the rest of your forever to hear them. So he lets you sleep, sending you away with a simple press of his lips to your temples as your breathing evens.

“And I love you, my dearest sun.”

[floofysmallbob]

born again from the darkness, a cloak of heroism- I mean, a Tokoyami redesign

the darkness would have shrouded this creation, cloaked where it belonged, but without light, one cannot see the beauty of the dark(translation: I would have used a black background but then you can’t see the actual redesign)

ok I can’t think of more poetic stuff so here you go here’s edgy bird boi:

Jet-Black Hero: Tsukuyomi

honestly canon design was pretty decent

added knee/elbow/shoulder pads as usual

more avian features

feathered arms and neck(not visible)

taloned gloves

lace up knee high combat boots

the original ones were wayyyy too boring

couldnt figure out how to add any more goth aspects but if I could I would

thermal vision/night vision goggles

got the idea from the class a/b battle training

tried to give him his new haircut(feathercut?) from the latest chapter but failed

dw that’s not a spoiler

yes the arms look a lil funky but shh

all the other designs are faceless but I tried to do that with him and it just looked wrong

WITH CAPE:

cape folds up, is actually around the same as or slightly longer than canon

easily detachable don’t worry Edna he won’t get caught in any ceiling fans anytime soon

in all seriousness it’s easily detachable that would be such a huge choking hazard and easy for villains to take advantage of

made of the same material as blackout curtains

COLD WEATHER VERSION:

longer sleeves

thicker fabric

lined boots

yeah no that’s it

COLD WEATHER VERSION WITH CAPE:

cape is slightly thicker

HOT WEATHER VERSION:

sleeveless

fingerless gloves

oh yeah he has talons too forgot abt that

he doesn’t even have to paint his nails black they already are

yes his feet are also taloned but I’m not fucking drawing that

he does have custom shoes though

speaking of, shorter boots

lighter(not color wise) fabric

HOT WEATHER VERSION WITH CAPE:

thinner cape

I like this one, it’s essentially just canon with a few improvements and aesthetic changes, and I’m always a sucker for all black like the alt dumbass I am

as always, tips and advice are appreciated!

[blue-eli]

Skuld in quantum design :)

[foundfamilynonsense]

Y’know. Anakin was a real asshole in Ahsoka’s hallucination.

Like. She mentions something about what she’ll be able to teach her padawan one day, since all she’s being taught is how to be a soldier, and Anakin’s like “teaching’s not all it’s cracked up to be”

And like. Asshole move. And Ahsoka rightfully calls him out on it. And he goes on the whole “uuuh I was joking. Lighten up.” Literally a complete jackass.

But beyond how he answered the question, it’s a valid complaint Ahsoka is bringing up! Anakin’s teaching her how to live or die. But Ahsoka wants to be taught how to be a jedi.

What happens after the war is over (order 66 never happens) and she now has to navigate a galaxy without a war? The Jedi take teaching very seriously there’s no greater honor than teaching a padawan. And she’s not being accurately taught, so she will not be able to pass anything on to the next generation.

But Anakin brushes it aside because he simply does not respect her or her wishes. Like. He never wanted a padawan, despite teaching being foundational to the Jedi. And he only took ahsoka in because he started to like her and became attached to her. He doesn’t care about jedi legacy, not really. So he brushes her comment off with a joke.

But in the rest of the vision… idk it didn’t feel like we were supposed view Anakin as entirely wrong here. He wasn’t in the right, he was definitely channeling Vader and being an ass, but he was basically the reason Ahsoka survived the fall, right? Bc he was making her choose life? When Ahsoka wins against him it’s sort of like she’s both learned his lesson and moved beyond him. And then for the rest of the season he’s only talked about in positive ways.

And like. That one line ahsoka said was really powerful in relation to the entire point of the show. What does she have to pass onto her own padawan (Sabine) if she wasn’t properly trained herself? That is, perhaps, the only valid plot question asked in the entire show. And it doesn’t get an answer. It’s never even brought up again.

[danandfuckingjonlmao]

i need to steal charles rowland’s gender like i need air to breathe. not even joking. i need it so bad.

[seaweedraindraws]

Date fits from my fic Cherris outfit was based off of this

[yellow-dejavu]

Bartosz: He takes advantage of his best friend's absence to make a move on the girl they both like. Bartosz and Martha start dating.

Jonas: Makes plans with Bartosz and never shows up. Instead, he betrays his best friend by kissing Martha.

Bartosz: Becomes involved in a conspiracy with a sinister priest named Noah and discovers the betrayal. He then fights Jonas, insults him and his dad, and tells him that he shouldn't come back.

Jonas (unlocks The Stranger transformation): Disappears for years and returns as an adult. He is now a stranger to everyone. He admits that Bartosz is right about everything being his fault. Jonas saves Bartosz from the apocalypse, but they end up stuck in 1888. The Stranger tells the group that Adam killed Martha. However, Jonas hides the fact that he is Adam.

Bartosz: Sick of Jonas and gets into more fights with him. The Stranger claims to be able to fix things while making them worse. As usual Jonas is having the worst time of his life. Bartosz meets Silja. She is the younger sister of Jonas. Silja & Bartosz fall in love and have kids. Bartosz just wants to live a peaceful life with his family. It seems that someone can be happy in this story. I mean, what's the worst that can happen?

Jonas (unlocks Adam transformation): HE SENT HIS SISTER TO MEET BARTOSZ, AND GETS THEIR FAMILY INVOLVED IN A CULT. WHEN HANNO IS BORN, BARTOSZ REALIZES THAT HIS SON IS THE MAN WHO GOT HIM INTO THE WHOLE TIME TRAVEL MESS. NOAH DID IT ON ADAM'S ORDERS. SILJA DIES DURING THE BIRTH OF THEIR SECOND CHILD, AND BARTOSZ REALIZES THAT AGNES IS ALSO PART OF THE WHOLE MESS. ONLY A YEAR AFTER HIS WIFE'S DEATH, BARTOSZ MEETS HER AS A LITTLE GIRL. ADAM KILLS HIS OWN MOTHER AND SENDS HIS LITTLE SISTER TO A POST-APOCALYPTIC FUTURE. SILJA IS RAISED BY HER DAUGHTER-IN-LAW. ADAM LEAVES BARTOSZ COMPLETELY HOPELESS AND CAUSES HANNO TO KILL HIS OWN DAD. THEN ADAM MAKES AGNES TO KILL HER OWN BROTHER. THE STRANGER HAS COMPLETELY DESTROYED HIS FAMILY. BARTOSZ ONLY HAS HIS OWN FAMILY BECAUSE OF JONAS. BARTOSZ IS ALSO HIS ANCESTOR, JONAS CAN'T EVEN EXIST WITHOUT BARTOSZ. JONAS IS THE REASON FOR THE WORST AND THE BEST THINGS THAT EVER HAPPENED TO HIS BEST FRIEND.

Bartosz:

[vounoura]

ᴍʏ ᴄʜᴏꜱᴇɴ. ᴍʏ ꜱʟᴀʏᴇʀ. ᴠɪᴏʟᴇɴᴄᴇ ɪɴᴄᴀʀɴᴀᴛᴇ. ʏᴏᴜ ᴡɪʟʟ ʙᴇ ᴀ ᴛᴇꜱᴛᴀᴍᴇɴᴛ, ᴡʀɪᴛᴛᴇɴ ɪɴ ʙʟᴏᴏᴅ.

[wat-zu]

bada bing bada boom hits you with a broom aka your ocs

thx for letting me borrowing them grabs them in my pocket and gives them back to u

Pinkie by @mary-games-and-arts

Avion by @thedancingartist

Cross by @nzn43

Emerald blue by @applesaucify

Dorado by @toon-melody

Alvia by @flairya

[uygfiug]

oh btw i just got one of those big ass monstera plants today :) shes quite small still but !!! yay !!!

[challengerblue]

HIS DARK MATERIALS • THE INTENTION CRAFT I don’t believe you.

[lesbian-salamander]

im in a minecraft mood sorry

[rollforjackass]

thank god i've come back to tumblr after all this time bc where else could i say "i've been simping for the scarecrow from batman begins lately" with impunity. anyway thank you cilian murphy for your service

[sea-jello]

Day 27/October 27: Swim || Hide || "I'll just stay inside."

oh my GOD i started and finished this in a day almost NONSTOP i told myself oh it’ll just be a sketch or doodle or something you probably won’t have the time or motivation to do it really detailed and I GOT CARRIED AWAY AND WHAM 5 HOURS GONE

flat plus closeups

i pray cropping the pictures doesn’t crunch them