Ghost BC & Sleep Token fanboy. Bloody Mary, Sherlock Holmes, Frankenstein, RyGos lover, Star Trek, about a million other fandoms. 40s | tall | anxious| art/fiber art | fanfic
Sleeping In Starlight | TakeMeBackToMeliora pinned post!
Hi! My name is Baz. I'm a 40 something fanfic author and illustrator. I published my own book and I post fanfiction on AO3. I'm transmasc, he/they, and I'm a great big goofball and also opinionated.
I do fiber arts and I like movies, books, driving, and hanging out with my partners and friends. My biggest music fandoms are Ghost & Sleep Token, but I listen to a lot of other stuff as well. I have too many fandoms to count. I am kind of an introvert but I love to chat!
I write smutty fic as well as non-smutty fic, and mostly just post on AO3 but I may start posting shorter fics both places.
I love playing ask games and tag games, so feel free to include me! I love to let my friends know I care.
Please DM me if you want to follow me on Discord.
“Okay. You remember everything I told you?” Healy asks.
“Yeah,” you say. “Yeah, I think so.”
“Okay. Good. That’s good. So. Let’s try it.”
Given Healy’s line of work and the things he’s seen, it’s not a surprise he was concerned that you didn’t really know any self-defense.
Healy is sweet. You’ve seen him throw men around, and you’ve seen him throw punches that would probably break bricks. It’s hot, but he’s never like that with you. He touches you like you’re made of spun glass. You don’t see yourself as particularly delicate, but he does. That’s why he’s a little protective. And that’s why he insists you learn to defend yourself, too, just in case he’s not there to do it.
So you’re here, in your garage, while he’s giving you a few pointers. He’d taught you to throw a punch; you’d hit him as hard as you could, and he’d nodded in approval and seemed unmoved. But at least it was to his satisfaction, you suppose.
Now he comes up behind you and wraps his arms around you. “Okay,” he says. “Someone gets ahold of you. What do you do?”
You try to throw him the way he’d explained.
But it’s Healy. He’s immovable as a mountain, and your attempt at a throw just has your ass jabbing back into him, your hands grappling uselessly on his big arms around your chest. Well, a throw isn’t the only thing you can do, so you try to move, to slip out of his arms, but they’re strong and hard around you. You squirm against them, against him, and nothing happens. You aren’t weak, but trying to get away from him is like trying to break free of a goddamned bear.
You jerk back against him and quickly realize you were wrong.
Something had happened.
You squirm again in his arms, but this time you aren’t trying to escape. You can feel him hard against your ass, and now that you’re listening for it, you can hear the hiss of air when you grind back into him. Maybe you should stop.
Maybe you don’t want to.
You grind back against him again, this time very deliberately, and he lets out a groan.
“That’s—cheating,” he manages.
“I gotta do anything I can to get away from an assailant, right?” you ask him, all innocence. If he could see your face you’d probably flutter your eyelashes at him.
“Behave yourself,” he says, his voice gruff.
“Or what?” you ask. “You’ll grab me and pin me down?”
He lets out a sound just short of a growl, and then suddenly he does exactly that, so quickly it almost takes your breath away.
You’re flat on your back, on the mat he’d insisted on putting down in your garage, and he’s staring down at you. His hands are on your shoulders, pinning you in place, and his own big shoulders are heaving as if it had been an effort. It wasn’t, and you know that. You’ve seen him beat the shit out of people without breaking a sweat.
You have never seen him let go like this. Not Healy, not the man who touches you like he doesn’t entirely believe you’re real. But right now, you’re very real, and so is he, and he’s being almost, almost rough with you.
“Oh, no,” you say. “There’s this big, scary man here. Who’s gonna save me?”
“You,” he says gruffly, “are being a brat.” But even as he says it, he grinds his cock into your clothed crotch.
“You love it,” you say, letting out a rough breath because fuck he feels good.
He lets out a grumble and pulls away to push down your pants. He usually undresses you like you’re a wrapped gift. Not now. His movements are rough, jerking your pants down to your knees.
“You love me,” you add.
That gets him for a moment, and he looks at you, his expression softening, blue eyes sweet. “Yeah,” he says. “You know I do.” He reaches up and touches your cheek.
You give him a smile back, reaching up to set your hand over his.
“That doesn’t mean you aren’t a brat, though,” he adds, and pulls his hands away to spread your legs.
You let out a shaky breath as he takes his cock out, and you reach up and grip his shirt, stretching up to kiss him.
And then he jerks his hips, filling you in one swift movement. The stretch of him hurts, just for a moment. And then it’s good. And then it’s everything. Healy between your legs, Healy over you, his belly pressing down into you, his body covering you, and his fat cock pressing inside of you, everywhere, everywhere. You let out a moan and try to roll your hips, but his hands are on your hips, keeping you in place as he buries himself into you and tries to catch his breath.
The mat under you is thin, and you can feel the concrete floor of the garage underneath your back and ass. Your hands hurt a little from practicing your punches, and now you’re wondering if the floor might leave bruises. No, not wondering. Hoping. Wanting.
“Bruise me,” you say, without thinking, and your voice hitches. “Leave a mark. Hurt me.”
This time the groan echoes around your garage, and he starts to move, to thrust hard into you. His fingers dig into your hips, harder than he needs, anchoring you to the floor, to him, and you can feel his short nails cutting into your skin. His hips thud hard into yours, again, again, pounding you down into the mat. The thickness of his cock strokes every single inch inside of you, his body hair rough against your clit, all of it relentlessly building pleasure as he keeps going.
When you come you cry out, but you barely hear it over the sound he makes as you clench hard on his cock, on and on, your orgasm dragging out forever because he’s still moving, still thrusting in and out of you with an abandon you have never seen from him before.
And when he comes he jerks his hips into yours, harder than before, and you let out a shout as you come again, drawing his come up into you. Your pleasure is everywhere—in the bruising on your ass, in his fingers on your hips, in your fingers and toes. And at last he rolls off of you to collapse onto the mat next to you, breathing hard for a long moment, putting his hand over his face briefly.
Then he puts his weight on one elbow and turns to look at you. One hand comes over to touch your face again, his brows raised in a silent question.
“Oh, I’m fantastic,” you say cheerfully. You can still feel everywhere he had touched you, and you lean into his hand on your cheek, then turn to kiss his fingers. “Really.”
“Okay,” he says, and sighs, flopping back again, and then, “Ow,” because his head had cleared the mat and hit the floor. “I’m fine.”
You both lay there together for a moment, blinking in the harsh yellow light of the single bulb hanging from the ceiling before you roll onto your side and into him. And he responds in kind, turning onto his side and drawing you in against him, holding you close. His arms had been inescapable earlier, but now you don’t know why you would ever want to.
He kisses your hair, then sighs. “You’re still a brat, though,” he says.
“I know,” you say. “But it’s worth it.”
“This is not going to teach you to defend yourself,” he points out, but you can hear the smile.
“Well, I think I’d win any fight against you that way,” you say. You’re rewarded with his soft laugh, and you press your face into his chest to feel it against your cheek.
Fanfic Masterlist | My Books
as always, this will be on ao3 eventually. reblogs are welcome and appreciated!
I genuinely want V and Cardi to finally meet and it’s this wonderful heartfelt reunion of long lost brothers.
However.
What I also want, and I think we’re far more likely to get, is the two of them being absolute children to each other.
For example:
“Mom said it’s my turn with the papacy!”
“How come he got a bigger portion of chow mein than me?!” (They literally both got the same amount)
“HE’S TOUCHING ME!” (They’re barely in the same room)
“You were adopted!” (Perpetua literally starts bawling and Cardi has Regrets; still doesn’t apologize directly but a fancy gift basket of Perpy’s favorite treats mysteriously appears in his quarters.)
“He’s on my side of the Ministry!” The Ministry has in fact been divided down the middle with purple and red lines signifying each twin’s side, with a demilitarized zone in the foyer.
Some poor ghoul *cough*Dewdrop*cough* literally getting yanked back and forth between the two of them like a beloved teddy bear while they argue who’s his favorite twin.
Tripping each other as they rush to the dining room for meals. Inevitably ends in both of them falling down the stairs tangled together like Bugs Bunny and Daffy Duck.
Cardi attempting to teach the rats to infiltrate Perpetua’s quarters and ruin his belongings. Backfires spectacularly in that the rats love Perpetua. He has also somehow in exchange taught the rats to flip off Cardi.
Perpetua “borrows” the trike and leaves it outside in the rain overnight. Cardi responds by replacing V’s hair products with lube.
I am not ever going to be over just how powerful Jackson Healy looks while beating the absolute shit out of Holland March. I also need to be pounded by Jackson Healy but perhaps in a slightly different way.
pencil: Splitting hairs here: Do I own a journal. *spongebob hands together meme* Yes. Do I USE said journal. *shoves the pile of journals that are all empty further behind me* Of COURSE I do (not).
Mochi: tie between Kiki's Delivery Service and Howl's Moving Castle, but I love every Ghibli film I've seen (though my emotions still fear Grave of the Fireflies)
Favorite scent: tie between cinnamon (reminds me of fall, my favorite time of year) and my Bath & Bodyworks Bourbon Strawberry & Vanilla spray. (notes of bourbon vanilla, garden strawberry, apricot nectar, pink jasmine, white oak). It smells to me very vanilla and oak, with a flicker of strawberry, and for me it's a very masc smell and it's basically one of my faves ever (I say, smelling it currently LOL)
thank you!
Soft asks Feel free to ask! I'm always glad to answer
please..... sub!colt content....... from your genius brain....... would feed me forever......
I love when beefy men are subs, in case you didn't know that by now. Colt Seavers x gn!reader. 18+. sub!Colt; oral (reader receiving); Colt continues to never get his cup of coffee.
"He's checking to see if you're looking again. I think they're about to set him on fire," your make-up artist, Allison, says, as she reapplies your foundation. You roll your eyes and try not to smile too much so that you don't mess up her hard work. Allison has been with you for every step of your acting career, and not only is the best at what she does, but she's a terrific wingman, too.
For example, at the moment she's been trying to help you navigate this Colt Seavers thing - the stuntman who has a big, fat, very obvious crush on you. He is not subtle. The other day he called your name across the set and, when you turned around, he did a front flip on the spot, just to try and impress you. That was all. It's so cute, how desperate he is for your attention, and the more you deny him it, the wilder it drives him.
"Do you think I should turn around?" you ask her. She's watching him over your shoulder, her brow furrowed.
"No, let him do at least one take first."
"You're so right. What would I do without you?"
"Look way more washed out under these lights, that's for sure." She withdraws her brush from your face when she's satisfied with your appearance. You sigh.
"Al, would it be crazy if I fucked him?" you ask. Allison snorts.
"No, it wouldn't be crazy. He's hot and he's obsessed with you. Plus he follows you around like a dog all day which has its sort of own charm, doesn't it?"
Ah, Allison. She knows how you like your men. To heel, mostly.
"Do you think... would you mind telling him I wanna see him in my trailer after we're done today? I have an idea."
Her face lights up with conspiratorial glee.
"Of course I can." You hear the sound of a man beind set on fire behind you, the scene being played out, and then a 'cut!'. "Now you can look."
You do. Colt Seavers is being extinguished. When he sees you've finally turned around, his smile is so bright you can see it even through the fumes.
Oh, the things you're going to make that man do.
Colt knocks on your door literally two minutes after the shoot has ended for the day. You get a glimpse of him out of your window and you can see him practising what pose will make him look the most nochalant when you greet him. You have to bite back an actual laugh as you watch him work out if he should have his sleeves rolled up or not.
When you do open up, he's propped up against the doorframe with his elbow, resting his face on his fist, trying to give off an aura of coollness. It's knocked out of him when you flash him your brightest grin.
"Colt, hey! I'm so glad you could make it. Come on in."
"Of course, sure!" he says when he gets his wits back, eagerly walking inside when you step out his way. He looks so big in these small spaces, all wide shoulders and thick chest. He is hot, even when he isn't being literally set on fire. "Allison said you wanted to see me?"
He tries not to sound too delighted, but it slips around the edge of his words like sunshine behind a cloud.
"Mmm, I wanted your help with a scene, actually. Take a seat. Coffee?"
"Yeah! I mean, uh, yes please, if that's cool."
He tries to look chill again. He's bouncing his leg very fast though.
You torture him just a tiny bit as the coffee is spit out of your machine and fills up the little cup. You can see him out the corner of your eye open and close his mouth a few times, trying to work out the perfect sentence to captivate you now he's within touching distance.
"So, uh, what's the scene? Is it the part where you're in the big fight? Want to practice being thrown around a little?"
You place the cup on the table in front of him and take note of his proud little smirk. He keeps his eyes locked with yours as he blows on it to cool it down.
"Actually, there's just been a couple of rewrites for tomorrow. I needed to go over them."
"Oh. You wanted me to run lines with you?" his face contorts in confusion. He's so cute when he's clueless.
"No, I'm gonna read them. You're gonna go down on me while I do."
He spits out the sip of coffee he's just taken, then fumbles the whole cup and drops it all over the floor.
"Uhh, oh, fuck, uh, sorry, I didn't mean-- let me get some tissues--"
He grabs them from the box you keep nearby and starts to daub up the mess. You have to fight back a vulpine grin.
"If you're not happy to help, I can always ask the other stunt driver who--" you say with an exaggerated sigh. His head snaps up from the puddle of americano.
"No! No. I'll do it."
You think he wants it to to come out sounding sure and sexy, but it's just begged. He looks up at you so desperately that you think, in that moment, he'd do anything for you.
"You will?" you ask.
"Yeah. I wanna... help."
He swallows thickly. His throat bobs. Delicious.
"Okay. Let's go."
You don't hesitate as you pull off your slacks and your underwear with them. You do hear Colt actually gasp, though. You sit down on your sofa, legs akimbo, and pick up the couple of new pages you have to memorise.
"Go on, then."
Colt practically runs towards you, hesitating only for a moment before he strips off his jacket and throws it to the side. His hands go to the hem of his shirt. He glances at you.
"Should I take this off, too?" he asks.
"You should, baby."
He makes a whiny little noise in the back of his throat at the command and the pet name. His knees hit the floor too hard to be comfortable but he looks at your sex like what you have between your thighs is the centre of his entire world, mouth ever-so-slightly open as he watches how shiny your arousal is in the low light.
You begin to read and make a show of not focussing on him at all. Strong, calloused hands slowly alight on your legs and trace them all the way up to your hips. Eager fingers slowly map out every inch of you he can see, every inch of you he can reach. You allow him to explore you as you mutter your new lines to yourself. He can enjoy watching you get worked up; he has been very well-behaved so far, after all.
"Can I taste you?" it's barely more than a gravelly whisper.
You nod. From behind freshly-printed papery pages, you watch his head dip forwards so his pink tongue can lick a long stripe along you.
His breath shudders in a sigh, and now he knows how you feel on his palate, he can't hold himself back. He dives in between your legs, burying himself at the apex of your thighs, and worships you with his tongue. Your hands grip the script until it begins to crumple. When you throw a leg over his back so you can dig your heel into the thick muscle you find there, you both moan.
"That's it, Colt, you're doing so well," you hum, allowing him the treat of one hand coming to fist his dirty blond hair. You practically drag his head closer and he goes willingly. You know your first orgasm isn't going to be far off... and you have no plans on stopping at one for the night.
He's such a good stuntman. He takes direction so well.
tags: @kenstimetoshine @nerd-do-well @kiffycreative @bookerdefay @pixiebuggz @regalfirebird @go-bonkers-go-foolish @inthegalaxxy@sexyleftist @julepod @cosmicyeehaw @s4turnsb3st @qardasngan@valentine-blue @wereallbrokenangels(lmk if you wanna be added or removed!)
freckles: my Copia and roses tanktop @vintageandroid got me. It is wearing out hahaha.
clouds: favorite dream. I think currently I think of one I had where I married Creature V in a huge gothic castle. semi-sorta inspired an rp VA and I did
Sunkissed: Autumn all the way! It doesn't change leaves as much here as elsewhere. But I love sweater weather and coffee and pumpkin things and cinnamon smells and leaves falling and going crunch underfoot
watermelon: oh my god so many films make me cry. sometimes it's not surprising, and Im like oh yeah sure ok and sometimes it's like where did THAT come from but y'know I am always okay with crying at a film
"Touch" a Lars Lindstron x Reader fluff & smut story 1630 words
You were cooking in the kitchen, making soup on one side of the stove, and jam on the other. Lars did most of the cooking, he liked to, and he was very good at it. Like chopping wood, which he was doing now.
You were stirring the jam and humming to yourself when you heard his footsteps coming inside. You’d recognize them anywhere, his slow, almost tentative gait, as if he was afraid of how much space he took up.
You heard him hang up his jacket, and toss aside his knit hat (one you made for him, and he loved very much), and come into the kitchen. He didn’t say anything, but suddenly he was behind you, not touching you, but boxing you in, resting his hands on the stove on either side of your arms.
You were used to his affection being largely closeness rather than touching, though now and then you held hands like shy youngsters.
You could feel him lean in and smell your hair, a soft exhalation as he did, his breath fanning against your ear. He loved the way you smelled, no matter what. He had told you, once, abashed and nervous, afraid you might make fun, but you thought it was sweet.
You two lived together, in his little garage, sleeping in separate beds, and sometimes when you laid there, he’d reach for your hand, holding it as long as he could bear before drawing away.
It was hard for him, the burning when someone touched him wasn’t going to just go away, but you didn’t mind. Practice made perfect, you often teased, and he loved that you never tried to push him.
You two had a little game, where you would hold your hands close to his cheeks, and air kiss at him, or he would do the same for you, and oh how he would blush when you did it.
You were interrupted from your Lars-warm reverie as he ceased boxing you in without touching you, his chest pressing against your back. You leaned into it, and he let out a sigh tinged with a little whine.
His chin pressed into your shoulder, his arms still far from yours, but close enough to feel his body heat, and you shut your eyes. Reveling. And then he moved closer still, and you felt the line of his body pressed to yours, and heard the sharp intake of breath the same moment you noticed how hard he was.
He usually hid in the bathroom to jerk off, not so much ashamed as not wanting you to feel pressured into watching or anything else. Occasionally he would press himself into you before he left, and you suspected that was about what he was going to do now.
Except then he said your name in a shaky little voice, and you turned around in that little space, his head moving from your shoulder. You looked up at him, and his cheeks were pale with hectic red patches, his ears burning, his eyes earnest. He gave you that flat, shy little smile, the ends of his mustache quirking up. Nervous. So nervous.
“What is it?” you ask him softly, adjusting his collar but not touching.
“Touch me,” he whispered, and you hesitantly set your hand on his chest, feeling the rapid beating of his heart, the catch of his breath. “Touch me touch me touch me please,” he begged, and you slid your hand over his chest to his neck, and he jolted and whined, but his mouth found yours and you let out a startled sound.
You kissed him back and it was like something unlocked in him, at least for now, and he kissed you back, hard, earnest, urgent, clumsy, his mouth opening against yours, his tongue seeking. You met it, sweeping your tongue over his. He moaned and pushed against you, trying to move closer, and pushing you across the small kitchen and into the wall with a thump.
His arms braced against the wall, and he drew back, his eyes searching yours, and he kissed you again, so delicately your breath caught. You could feel him through his pants, but it was like his own needs didn’t matter anymore.
His hands reached for your face, and you tipped your face up just like you always did. But his palms found your cheeks this time, and you felt your stomach flutter with butterflies, and when your eyes met his again, his were wet with tears.
Without thinking, you slipped your arms around his neck, and he let out a low sound you had never heard from him before, and his hips moved against yours, his hands dropping from your cheeks to your waist. Layers of clothing in the way, but he pushed them aside, fingers digging into your skin as if he was seeking the burning pain.
“I need you,” he whispered, blinking hard several times before he managed to control it, and you had to fight back a moan at the thought.
You nodded fast, and his hands fisted in your pants, yanking them down, baring you to him, and he unfastened his own, before hefting you up into his arms. Right there against the wall.
You could have never dreamed that this would happen. He was strong, so strong from all the hours of chopping wood, and he had no trouble pinning you to the wall. You were thankful for the curtains that he mostly kept closed as he pushed into you without hesitation, feeling his body meet yours without resistance.
He tucked his face into the crook of your neck and shoulder, pressing into the fabric of the turtleneck you always wore, and you could feel him shaking. You folded your arms a little tighter around him, and he didn’t move. You could hear his breath coming in quick little gasps, and you stroked one hand over his back, over the skin-warmed sweater.
“It’s okay if you have to stop,” you said softly, knowing that this must be incredibly difficult for him. You’re stretched wide around his surprisingly big cock, settling into the sensation of him, aching. But you could handle it if he couldn’t. This was a lot at once.
He shook his head into your shoulder. Tension ran down his back as he took slow, deliberate breaths. And then his hips jerked against yours and you both moaned in tandem, and suddenly he couldn’t stop.
He could only move a little, the way he was standing, but it was enough for you, the slight movements of him inside you incensing you, and clearly enough for him because the torrent of moans and whines that came from him told you plenty.
And then he came and went tense again, his hips tight against yours. You felt it, and it sent you over the edge as his cock throbbed inside you, filling you until you might burst. He let out a breathless sound against your shoulder.
He didn’t withdraw until his body forced him to, and then he let you down gently, pulling up your underwear oh so carefully, and then sliding your pants up, before even turning to his own.
Then he gave you such a tender look before he vanished into the bedroom.
You went to check on the jam and it was perfectly done. The soup needed a bit more attention though.
You took the jam off the stove and poured it into a jar, your whole body feeling warm and almost syrupy, tenderly fucked into oblivion by your touch-averse boyfriend.
After you stirred the soup and added a bit more water before putting the lid on, you went into the bedroom to check on him.
Lars lay on his bed, staring up at the ceiling with a surprisingly blissful look on his face.
“Hey,” you say, “can I come in?”
He patted your bed, so you went to sit on it, near the gap between them. He didn’t say anything, but that sweet, soft little smile you love was there on his face, and he left his hand on your bed.
That was a hint that you could put your hand on his if you wanted to, and you do.
He didn’t hug you often, he couldn’t, so all of this had been a surprise, but a welcome one.
“I liked that,” you said, your hand set loosely on his.
“Me too,” he said softly. “I- I wish I could do more.” He fell silent again. “But this time the burning… it hurt but it was good.”
“That’s good,” you said. “But you don’t have to do more.”
He turned onto his side to look at you instead of the ceiling. “I want to though,” he said. “Is that okay? That I want to even if I don’t know if I can?”
You reached out with your free hand and brush your hand over the air as close to his hair as you can without touching him. “It’s nice that you want to,” you said gently. “Even if you can’t.”
He fell silent, and you repeated the air-gesture, and he spoke softly after a long time. “You can touch my hair if you want to.”
You bit your lip, and lightly, so lightly, touched his hair, brushing your palm over it.
He let out a contented little sound, and your heart ached and warmed. You did the same thing again, and his hand shifted beneath yours, twisting so that your palm rested against his, and his fingers slipping between yours. The rarest occurrence, but one you loved.
“I love you, Lars honey,” you murmured, and his mustache curved along with his smile.
“Love you too,” he mumbled, and you knew he was almost asleep.
