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unfinishedslurs · 1 year

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party king (steddie)

“You want me to what?”

“Go to a party with me,” Eddie says, looking at Steve like he’s the weirdo here. “What’s the big deal, King Steve? You’ve been to plenty of parties.”

“You know, no one actually called me that,” Steve tells him, abandoning his tapes to put his hands on his hips. “Billy started it. I think he just wanted people to call him a king.”

Eddie visibly considers this before nodding, like it makes sense. Which it does. Billy was, in Steve’s private thoughts, an egotistical maniac who needed to calm down.

May he rest in peace.

“But you’ll come to the party with me, right?”

“Give it up, Eddie,” Robin calls from where she’s rewinding tapes. “Steve hasn’t been to a party in forever. He’s basically a grandpa now.”

“Hey!” Steve objects. That’s rich, coming from her. Going to bed at nine some nights so he gets a few more hours of sleep before waking up in a cold sweat does not make him a grandpa. It just makes him traumatized

“Steeeeeeeve,” Eddie whines, widening his eyes until it looks like they’re going to pop out of his sockets. His exaggerated pout isn't going to do him any favors either. No matter what the kids say behind his back (looking at you, Henderson) he isn't a pushover.

“Why would I want to go to a high school party?” He crosses his arms, leaning against the counter. “I graduated. I have better things to do with my time.”

“Like lose arcade games to freshmen?” Robin asks. He flips her the bird.

“Please, Steve?” Eddie asks. “Pretty please? Pretty pretty please, with cherries and whipped cream and six little nuggets on top?”

“What the hell are you even saying anymore?”

“You want him to eat his babies?” Robin shrieks. “Like Kronos? Is one of them going to cut off his head and free the rest?”

Eddie’s eyes light up, and Steve slaps a hand over his mouth. He doesn’t know who that guy is, and he doesn’t want to deal with the two of them chattering over whatever movie villain he’s assuming is in their weird cult classic films when he still doesn’t know why Eddie is asking him to this party.

He doesn’t even flinch when Eddie licks his hand.

“I’ve been slobbered on by actual monsters,” he says flatly. “Your spit has zero effect on me.”

Eddie bats his eyes and gives his palm a kiss, right where he’d laved his tongue. Steve rolls his eyes and wipes his hand on the side of Eddie’s face.

“Hey!”

“Don’t dish what you can’t take,” Steve says. “Now, why exactly am I getting asked to go to a high school party?”

“Jessica Roberts needs some kush, and she asked me to sell there.”

“Okay? Still not answering my question.”

“There’s gonna be jocks at the party,” Eddie finally confesses, “and I don’t know if they’ll try shit. But given my track record lately…”

“So you need a bodyguard?”

“Hey!” Steve shouts, and is summarily ignored by everyone. So he does what any normal person would do, and slams an abandoned beer bottle against the edge of the counter so it shatters.

The jocks turn and look at him after that.

Steve glances down at the jagged edges of the bottle in his hands, flipping it like it’s his old ice cream scoop. Yeah, this should work.

“Leave him alone,” he says, steely inflection to his voice.

“Or what, Harrington?” One of them asks. “Heard you just been sittin’ in this room all night. What, you hanging around the queers now? Didn’t take you for a f-”

He stops talking when Steve grabs him by the hair and presses the broken bottle against his throat.

“Here’s what's gonna happen,” he says quietly, taking a look at his buddy. He’s let go of Eddie, a lot more spooked now that his friend is shaking in his Nike’s. “You’re going to leave this room. You’re going to leave Munson here alone. You’re not going to bother him, or anyone else in his dragon club ever again. If I hear that you or your little friends are fucking with him, I have a very nice nail-studded baseball bat in my trunk I’d be more than happy to introduce you to. Capisce?”

“Woah, woah, woah,” the guy that was holding Eddie says. “What the hell, Harrington?”

Steve doesn’t break eye contact with the guy he’s threatening. “Capisce?” He asks again, putting a little more force into the word.

“C-capisce.”

“Good,” he says, shoving him away. “Now get outta here.”

They scramble away. Steve walks over to the trash can and throws away the remains of the bottle, running a hand through his hair. He finally turns around to see Eddie staring at him with wide eyes, frozen.

“Sorry-”

“Fuck me.”

“What?”

Eddie’s entire face flushes, like he didn’t mean to say that. “Uh.”

Steve looks at him, and then around the kitchen they’re in. Glass and beer on the floor, music blasting loud enough to set him on edge, a crowd of people that look at him like a zoo exhibit. Fuck, his head hurts.

“Yeah, okay,” he decides. “We’re going to mine, though.”

“Wh-what?” Eddie looks like a deer in headlights, even though Steve’s offering exactly what he asked.

“I…have no idea what I’m doing,” Eddie confesses.

“Oh, are you not…” He trails off, gesturing towards Eddie’s back pocket. “I assumed…”

Eddie laughs abruptly, slapping a hand over his mouth like he startled himself with it. “You know hanky code, Harrington?”

“Can you call me Steve when you’re in my bed?” He’s already got his shirt off, for God’s sake. “Listen, man, if you don’t want this, it’s no biggie.” He starts to get off, and Eddie’s hand clamps over his thigh.

“No, no, no, don’t you dare. Just gimme a minute, I’m processing.”

“Processing,” he repeats flatly.

“Yes, processing. I’ve got the guy of my extremely virginal wet dreams shirtless on top of me. I did not think this would ever happen. I didn’t even know you were queer until tonight.”

Steve’s mouth shapes into an “o” of understanding. “You’re a virgin?”

“Jesus, could you focus on anything else I said?”

“You dream about me?”

“Let’s go back to the virgin part.” His fingers start nervously tapping against Steve’s leg.

“You’re not subtle,” Steve says flatly. “I know when you stare at my ass.”

Eddie colors in a flood of bright red. “What if I wasn’t? What if I was…uh, jealous or something?”

“I guess that’d make sense, since you’re flat as a board.”

“Wh—hey!”

#party king au #stranger things fanfic #steddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #steve being unhinged is so fun #furthering my 'eddie has a flat ass' agenda one fic at a time #honestly i don't think steve is UNpopular after s1-2 like i feel like he'd exist in this weird space #where everyone likes him but he has no friends outside the party #and maybe he went to a couple of parties post s3 with robin but they got bored and bailed

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heybiji · 4 months

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dandelion casually dropping traumatic information while insisting that instead of killing the problem wizard they simply burn his tongue

#dungeons and dragons #dnd #dnd character #dnd oc #dnd art #dandelion treehollow #warlock #drow #all he does is talk... and talk... and talk #they did not actually burn the wizard's tongue it's cool #instead dande used his disguise magic to look like a sexy vampire and promised the vampire larper wizard the dark gift if he behaved #love when dande gets to put on a show because he says wild shit like i hate when people beg for their lives it makes me want to act out #dande had a wild episode #start of the episode: gets to pretend to be a sexy domineering vampire #end of episode: screaming and sobbing in pain after the curse-bomb in his head went off because he broke one of the curse-rules #where he can't sneak away from the party because the last time he did that be betrayed them big time #it's complicated... and delicious #also right before that the paladin was telling him he needs to find god LOL because he's worried about dande's soul #and dande blew him off saying he has plenty of time he's not gonna die (again)#only to then be convinced he's being killed by the curse in his head......#embarrassing.................

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cordiallyfuturedwight · 2 months

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dice (2022) - onew

#he went off okay #shinee #lee jinki #onew #dice #shineeedit #dailyshinee #annietrack #raplineuser #kpopedit #mine!#listen to voice when i wash my face. dice when i want to party. circle when i want to shake ass in an existential way #there's a jinki for every mood #hope he’s doing okay <3 #tw flashing #flashing tw

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icewindandboringhorror · 3 months

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HAPPY 16TH BIRTHDAY!!! To this elderly bapy boye!!! he...!!!

#cats #ghhbbb this is the first time I've genuinely considered tumblr blazing a post lol but no.. i shant.. I feel too weird putting financial #information into tumblr or whatever unless I made like a seperate bank account or something not associated with anyhting else lol #but I gave it serious contemplation which is really sayng something (the evil magical spell that all cats cast over u by their perfection)#ANYWAY.................... old man!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!#it's technically like march 8th but I did his party a little early. I have other pictures to post later maybe too..hrmm #The '1' candle is actually a '4' candle with the side part cut off because they didn't have any 1s #I went all out (like under $15 still lol) and got new birthday decorations for him instead of using the same old #ones from the past like 5 birthdays that I've done for the cats lol..#His theme was rainbows mostly in as light of colors as I could find #The legal age to drive a car in the US is 16 so.... honk honk beep beep.. I shall go out and buy him the most expensive car on the market #as soon as March 8th comes. then he can run little errands (probably mostly getting kibbles or chicken somewhere)#stealing the rotisserie chickens from walmart or something lol #AND they would let him have them. He would drive up and walk inside and they'd call the manager to come over #and they would be so moved by his presence and his big goofy stare that they would just be like..... okey.. have all the chicken in the #entire store. Actually. have the store. it's yours now. And This would continue all the way up the chain until he was handed #the entire walmart company. And every other company. a boy who owns everything. probably wouldnt use it for evil. he'd just abolish #everything and then focus on eating chickens.. ........ chibken son...

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suntails · 8 months

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⚔️♠️

#3rd!!! they are friends now they went to deuce's hometown together. big slumber party and deuce's mom called so sil is saying hi #spigngn in CIRCLES and giggling MADLY #i think theyre so silly billy i literally love them. deuce is one of my absolute favs theyre the sons Ever. he is Also my lil guy #pajama partyyyyyy i want pajama set cards so fuckign bad id give up a kidney #i gave silver the pjs from wreck it ralph 2. it felt fitting. i like it #twst #twisted wonderland #twst silver #silver vanrouge #deuce spade #suntails

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ghost-proofbaby · 4 months

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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.”

#ghost's stories #smutty party #astarion #astarion x reader #astarion smut #astarion x you #my writing #there's a line in here that my best friend watched me write in real time IN PERSON that we both cackled about #i went 'i really shouldn't include it' and she went 'but it's HIM'#it's giving 'i'd rather be the only dark power inside you'#idk if this is good but it is what it is ya know #if the ending feels rushed it's because i felt terrible for how long it was getting lol #i just wanna love on the boy #i just wanna love him and he love me is that too much to ask #so many pet names i considered editing but the voices won

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notbecauseofvictories · 1 year

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My best friend and I had a call recently---she’s back with her family for a bit helping out with some hometown stuff. As part of the stuff, she’s been going through a (deceased) relative’s scrapbook, compiled in the American Midwest circa 1870-1900 and featuring mostly cut-out figures from the ads of the day.

She talked about how painstaking this relative’s work was. (Apparently the relative was careful to cut out every finger, every cowlick; this was by no means carelessly or hastily assembled.) But she also she talked about how---the baby on the baking soda ad is ugly, it is so ugly, why anyone would clip this heinously ugly illustrated baby and paste it into a scrapbook? Why would you save the (terribly told, boring) ghost story that came with your box of soap?

(Why include these things in the first place? we asked each other. ”There’s a kind of anti-capitalism to it,” she mused.)

And we discussed that for a bit---how most of the images, stories, artists, and ads were local, not national; they’re pulled from [Midwestern state] companies’ advertisements in [Midwestern state] papers, magazines, and products. As a consequence, you’re not looking at Leyendecker or Norman Rockwell illustrations, but Johann Spatz-Smith from down the road, who took a drawing class at college.

(College is the state college, and he came home on weekends and in the summer to help with the farm or earn some money at the plant.)

But it also inspired a really interesting conversation about how---we have access to so much more art, better and more professional art, than any time in history. As my bff said, all you have to do to find a great, technically proficient and lovely representational image of a baby, is to google the right keywords. But for a girl living in rural [Midwestern state] of the late 1800s, it was the baking soda ad, or literal actual babies. There was no in-between, no heading out to the nearby art museum to study oil paintings of mother and child, no studying photographs and film---such new technologies hadn’t diffused to local newspapers and circulars yet, and were far beyond the average person’s means. But cheap, semi-amateur artists? Those were definitely around, scattered between towns and nearby smallish cities.

It was a good conversation, and made me think about a couple things---the weird entitlement that “professional” and expensive art instills in viewers, how it artificially depresses the appetite for messy unprofessional art, including your own; the way that this makes your tastes narrower, less interesting, less open.

By that I mean---maybe the baby isn’t ugly! Maybe you’ve just seen too many photorealistic babies. Maybe you haven’t really stopped to contemplate that your drawing of a baby (however crude, ugly, or limited) is the best drawing of a baby you can make, and the act of drawing that lumpen, ugly baby is more sacred and profoundly human than even looking at a Mary Cassatt painting.

And even if that isn’t the case....there was this girl in [American Midwestern state] for whom it was very, very important that she capture every finger, curl, and bit of shading for that ugly soap ad baby. And some one hundred years later, her great-something-or-other took pains to preserve her work---because how terribly human it is, to seek out all the art we can find that resonates with us, preserve it, adore it.

It might be the most human impulse we have.

#I of course went on a tangent about henry darger because I love darger and he was also pulling/tracing/finding inspiration in local ads #I was also thinking of the scenes in banshees of inisherin where gleeson plays the fiddle in the bar and the woman sings #clearly not professional! nowhere near mozart.#but you know what? those people are making art. they are engaged in the most human thing you can possibly do #my mother once talked about how when she was growing up in the chicago area the irish immigrants would sing and play at parties #and her mother (one generation removed from immigration) would scoff #because who did they think they were! they weren't professionals. they were making a spectacle of themselves.#''and then it died out. no one sings and plays at parties anymore'' she said quietly #celestial emporium of benevolent knowledge

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housecow · 4 days

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i always wonder what it’ll take for how fat i am to get acknowledged. the only time ive ever had it publicly or privately called out (besides in kink situations) was in 9th grade. i didn’t go to anime club because im not into anime (im still not) even though i told this dude i would be there lol.

he was pissed at me the next day and just mouthed the words “you’re fat” in the hallway like that would mean anything… i’ve never rlly been insulted for my weight or had it poked fun at. is it weird i want to get big enough for that to happen??

#also fuck that guy fr #he’s always been a bit of a dick #and i don’t think he’s even done anything since graduating?? idk i don’t have him on insta #perhaps. stalking time #in high school i assume it was bc i had a different reputation #my parents party w ppl i went i HS with now (small towns are fucking weird)#and this one guy was like ‘yeah i would’ve asked her to do my homework but she seemed snobby’#i never did ANYONES homework #i didn’t even do my own #i literally copied off my best friend if i couldn’t do it in <20 minutes #this girl from HS that went to the same university i did asked me to write an essay for her #freshman year. lmfao #anyways. i like to ramble :3 #talk

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unspecifiedfigure · 11 months

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redraw of one of my first steddie pieces!! <3

#doodling this cured me of all ailments #i think steve loves nothing more than to bury his hands in eddie’s hair and kiss all over his face #eddie smells like incense and weed and cigarette smoke #oh and steve’s cologne after he spends the night (so basically every day)#he used to wear wayne’s cologne too when he went to parties to deal #it was to impress all the jock boys he secretly had crushes on #anyways #i’m starting a tag for my art so it’s easier to find it on here #quoodles #my art #idk #stranger things #eddie munson #steve harrington #steddie

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krenenbaker · 7 months

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Trick or Treat~!

Pairing: Che'nya x Floyd (could be read platonically or romantically)

Summary: It's finally Halloween night, but Floyd is in a bit of a slump. However, the arrival of a curious companion may just make the Halloween party a bit more interesting for him.

Notes: This is my first attempt at something following a prompt - specifically, "Trick or Treat" for the 2023 TWST Rarepair Halloween event. I'm trying to get more comfortable/practiced with writing prose (which is why this wasn't posted on the 30th... oops), and only vaguely ended up following the prompt. I'm fairly happy with how this little piece turned out, though!

Tags: @dove-da-birb, @azulashengrottospiano, @inkybloom-luv, @eynnwwyjth, @officialdaydreamer00 (please let me know if you'd like to be included or excluded from future writing of mine, or only want to be included in specific types of creations)

Floyd wanted to take a break.

It was Halloween, and all he had done the entire week was work, work, work. Getting costumes ready, decorating, helping with their dorm's presentation, plus cooking and serving at the Lounge, all on top of normal classes?

Sure, it was fun, especially getting to show off Octavinelle's cool setup, and 'taking care of' those misbehaving visitors. But now? Everything felt draining and boring, and Floyd simply wanted to leave, which sucked because the actual Halloween party had just started!

Maybe he should just ditch and go back to his dorm; being in a funk when everyone else is having fun around you is not enjoyable. He slumped down on a bench and unwrapped a sweet he had picked up earlier, before wrapping it up again. Ugh, not even in the mood for that candy he wanted only a few minutes ago.

As he shoved the sweet back into his pocket and was about to get up from the bench to leave, Floyd heard a rustle behind him. Someone was quietly humming, and… laughing? The sound gradually moved to his side, towards the empty side of the bench.

“Trick or treat~”

Floyd turned to face the voice. "Listen, man, I'm not in the mood to—” he froze, staring at the figure beside him. “Hang on a second, where's your body!?"

A toothy smile came to the face of the head that currently floated beside Floyd. "Oh, it's here.... or maybe it's there." A pair of hands materialized on either side of this boy's head, followed by the rest of his body.

“I'm just kidding. Mind if I take a seat? I’d like to rest up before I keep purrowling around and startling people.”

Floyd blinked, then raised an eyebrow. “Uh, go for it.”

This guy was... weird, and it was hard to tell if he'd be annoying, or interesting. "You don't go here, do ya? At least, I’ve never seen you before. And you’re no ghost, either.”

The cat-like boy shook his head, his jewellery jingling softly. "I'm just passing through for the festivities and collecting treats. Scaring some people, too. That’s loads of fun. And it's always nice to see my friends let loose."

Floyd had a vague memory surface. "Ohh... you must be that RSA boy who's friends with Sea Turtle and Goldfishie."

"'Sea Turtle' and 'Goldfishie', hey? Those are good names for my green and red friends. Cats are known for liking fish." He leaned forward, his grin growing. “Artemiy Artemiyevich Pinker. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

Floyd nodded, “Floyd Leech. It's nice to meet you, too.” He looked curiously at the boy beside him, taking in his shaggy hair, piercings, and impish smile.

"You're not what I expected.” Floyd smiled, "But you seem fun, Catfish. I didn't think Goldfishie would get along with someone so... interesting."

Che'nya's eyes lit up slightly. "Catfish? Heh heh heh, most people call me Che'nya, but I guess that works. And I’ve heard some… interesting stories about you, too."

He stretched his legs out in front of him, leaning back with his arms behind his head as he sighed. "But yeah, I don't think Riddle could shake me if he tried."

"I'm almost jealous." Floyd tipped his head slightly. "Most of the time, Goldfishie likes to swim away before I can play with him."

Che'nya laughed, "Well, if you're wondering, he 'swam off' that way." He pointed off to the side. “Just don’t be rough with him. I don’t like people mistreating my friends.”

Floyd looked off into the crowd where he had pointed, and let out a small laugh. “Alright, good to know. Maybe I’ll find him later, if I feel like it”, he smiled and sat back. “And Goldfishie’s stronger than he looks, but I guess you’d know that.”

Che’nya nodded, then leaned closer with a mischievous glint in his eye. "You know, I bet we could do something that would really surprise him.”

Floyd turned slightly towards Che’nya, and flashed a smile. “Yeah, we probably could. I think we should talk more in the future, Catfish. You seem pretty fun.”

Che’nya grinned, “You seem pretty fun, too.”

"Well,” he stretched his arms above his head. “I think I’m going to go and find some more treats… and play some more tricks tonight. I'll catch you around, Floyd."

With a haunting giggle echoing in his ears, Floyd watched as the boy beside him faded into nothingness, just the same way he had arrived.

What a weird guy.

Floyd unwrapped the candy he had pocketed earlier, then popped it into his mouth. Maybe this party was worth staying at after all.

#twst #twisted wonderland #twst rarepair halloween #rarepair halloween #floyd leech #che'nya #artemiy artemiyevich pinker #che'nya x floyd #krenenbaker's :)#krenenbaker's creations #and now... for the ramble-y tags #first: I desperately need more people to write Che'nya and Floyd interacting. their dynamic would be so damn silly!!#second: I had SUCH a hard time figuring out Che'nya's speech patterns - he really doesn't have many lines in canon!#I based some of his lines on the Cheshire Cat's lines in the 1951 film. I think they fit?#and I have no idea is this feels at all natural or in character for either Che'nya or Floyd... but there was an attempt :)#I need to practice writing more stuff like this #I also went through about 4 different possible ways their conversation could have gone before getting this down #here... it's almost like Che'nya's taking a break from tricking AND treating at the NRC Halloween party #that's how I'm saying the prompt applies at least #anywho... I GOT IT FINISHED! I WROTE A THING!!#and I'm going to write more. that IS a threat ^v^

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