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the-golden-comet · 24 days ago

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✨Your Wish Is My Command: Available Now on AO3 and Amazon Books! 🧞‍♂️✨

Don’t mind me…just gonna casually drop YWIMC during my the Friday Kiss Tag slot 👀💋✨

✨🌈That’s right!🌈✨You read that correctly: Your Wish Is My Command is available now FOR FREE on Archive Of Our Own! Just one of the many ways I share thanks to the reading, writing and art communities~! ✍️💛

✨ For additional and optional support, a digital version is available on Amazon Kindle eBooks for $5.00 ✨

To give thanks for this Thanksgiving season, I buckled down for “Novelember” and finished all my editing, drafting, and publishing of the long-awaited Your Wish Is My Command! Figured I’d keep in line with the tradition of publishing the day after thanksgiving 😂✨

Thank you all for your support of my project, your tag games, you interactions, fanarts, fanfiction, kudos, and love!! Creating stories gives me so much joy, and sharing them with a wider audience is all the merrier. Between all of my projects, I have received so many kind comments and fanmail that have really touched my heart; To hear how much my stories have inspired creativity within the community is humbling to the point of tears. I cannot overstate my gratitude to everyone here enough: Thank you, from the bottom of my heart 💛✨

Now, sappiness aside: Enjoy the MANY kisses of Noah and Ali for yourself, and be sure to leave me kudos and a comment on AO3 and Tumblr telling me how you liked it! I’ll be on my mandatory 2 week writing break (to avoid burnout), but I’ll be around to answer asks and get your reactions 💛💫✨

As always, I will make all of my stories available for free on AO3, but if you want to support me further you can buy a digital copy of my books! ✨

Reblog this post to spread the word of YWIMC’s Release, and Happy Reading! 💫

✨👇Tag list for writing snippets below. DM me if you’d like to be added 👇✨

Tag List for writing tidbits (lmk if you want + or -) 🧞‍♂️✨

@autism-purgatory , @jev-urisk , @talesofsorrowandofruin , @castiels-favorite-hunter , @wyked-ao3 ,

@glasshouses-and-stones , @alinacapellabooks , @gioiaalbanoart , @tragedycoded , @deanwax ,

@dyrewrites , @honeybewrites , @drchenquill , @paeliae-occasionally , @lychhiker-writes ,

@thatuselesshuman , @kaylinalexanderbooks , @phynewrites , @zackprincebooks , @fantasy-things-and-such ,

@finickyfelix , @billybatsonmylove , @madi-konrad , @houseplantblank , @far-cry-from-finality ,

@froggy-pposto , @fractured-shield , @avaseofpeonies , @topazadine , @thecoolerlucky ,

@theaistired , @somethingclevermahogony , @noxxytocin , @the-inkwell-variable , @seastarblue ,

@leahnardo-da-veggie , @addicted2coke-theothercoke , @illarian-rambling , @mysticstarlightduck , @the-letterbox-archives ,

@ominous-feychild , @saturnine-saturneight , @words-after-midnight , @hemlocks-grove , @cowboybrunch ,

@yourpenpaldee , @moltenwrites , @pixies-love-envy , @davycoquette , @writeahurricane ,

@nczaversnick , @greenfinchwriter , @oliolioxenfreewrites , @lavender-gloom , @smellyrottentrees ,

@aintgonnatakethis , @thecomfywriter , @pluppsauthor , @michellekarnold , @flurrysahin ,

@authorcoledipalo , @jadeglas , @spookyceph , @astramachina , @48lexr ,

@inseasofgreen , @agirlandherquill , @saebasanart , @leatafandom , @justabigoldnerd ,

@pippinoftheshire , @just-emis-blog, @aalinaaaaa , @badscientist , @dearunreliablenarrator ,

@worlds-tallest-fairy , @rhikasa , @eccaiia , @theink-stainedfolk , @theverumproject ,

@theprissythumbelina , @riveriafalll , @revenancy , @inadequatecowboy , @amielbjacobs ,

@patternwelded-quill , @sugarchains , @garthcelyn , @prettytothink-so , @leahpardo-pa-potato ,

@winvyre , @speaknowbuckley , @lamuradex , @wintherlywords , @sharkblizzardblogs ,

@dragoninatrenchcoat , @darekasama , @recklessgirl56 , @kokoass , @ziote ,

@paletteofseaglass , @basketcase1880 , @sableglass , @halfbakedspuds , @notwritinganyflufftoday ,

@twopercentboy , @mxtansy , @menaceofmemory , @unfilteredmoonchild , @blerdsong ,

@iamwhimsy , @beansmakesthings , @birdycage , @tiagems , @narkaholic ,

@irolynn , @petitprincess1 , @macinchiz , @owlsandwich , @stephtuckerauthor,

@sarandipitywrites , @mauvecatfic , @finchwrites , @aurumni-writes , @uiraya ,

@justanotherchangeling , @ahopelessnecromantic , @ryns-ramblings , @oleanderbailey , @365runesofthesystem ,

@vesanal ,

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possamble · 8 months ago

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farcille postcanon characterization warmup that got way out of hand. beware, here be spoilers, dragoncock, and bottoming as an extreme sport.

~~~

Marcille has always loved Falin’s voice. Soft, high, airy and girlish—it was always as gentle as the rest of her, even in the midst of pitched combat. When things went to hell in a handbasket, it was always Falin’s whispery incantations that kept Marcille grounded as blood and monster guts sailed through the air.

And that hasn’t changed. No amount of dragon could really change that, Marcille thinks. Yes, she she has moments when her voice becomes rough and ragged and guttural, mostly when she’s swinging her mace or her fists, or gritting her teeth through a monster claw stuck into her side. But maybe that urge to growl was always there, and she’s just finally able to voice it now. Marcille finds that she’s loud at times she would have been silent before—grunting with exertion when she would have grimaced quietly, singing some nonsense melody over a mundane task when she would have hummed it under her breath—and that’s a good thing.

But otherwise, nothing has changed. Falin’s voice is as delicate as ever, chiming in a lilting giggle behind a dainty gesture of her hand. Rustling like pages of well-loved books as she casts her protective wards, or ponders over how to cook a new monster, or murmurs right into Marcille’s ear while she…

Well. While she’s got Marcille bent over her own desk with her nightgown pooled at her ankles. Marcille’s not sure if it’s rude or considerate that she didn’t get a chance to dress herself before she had a girthy cock shoved up her cunt first thing in the morning.

“Marcille,” Falin whispers, unfairly shaky as if she’s the one getting fucked within an inch of her life. She’s mouthing at Marcille’s neck, draped over her and pressing as close as possible in every way, gripping Marcille’s hands tight and keening like she’s found heaven between her legs. “Marcille, Marcille…”

It’s not fair. It’s not fair that she gets to do that, that she gets to sound like that—with that sweet voice she’s always had, now making obscene little noises that are still whispery fine and almost ethereal coming from her mouth. These quiet, barely voiced sighs that puff against Marcille’s ear, the dulcet moans that thrum against her skin, and that demure little gasp when she thrusts a little harder and somehow finds even more space inside Marcille to bottom out in—

“Marcille…” she whimpers like she’s in pain, on the verge of tears, fingers tight between Marcille’s as they grip the edge of the rattling desk together. “You feel—so good, oh… You’re”—another moan buried just behind her ear—"so wet, so good…”

It’s not like Marcille got the chance to be anything else right now, did she? Not when Falin fell upon her just as she was sorting through her documents, pressed against her back and already unfastening the clasps of her gown and slipping it off her shoulders. She was fully naked before she even got a playful good morning whispered into her ear—it’s a miracle she had the forethought to push her papers out of the way just before Falin had her wrapped around her finger in the most literal sense.

Well. Fingers in the plural, really, since she always starts with two. Usually while pawing at Marcille’s tit with her other hand until her stupid knees give out and she ends up buckling over whatever surface is nearby—in this case, her desk, mercifully free of any uncapped inkwells at the moment. Now slathered with sweat that makes her tits slip and slide along the wooden varnish, of course, but otherwise non-disastrous.

Hopefully her nightgown is catching most of the mess running down her thighs, or she’s going to have to make the most humiliating request to the castle staff about her carpets for the third time this month—

“Yes…!” Falin digs her heels in and fucks her even harder, taken with some kind of mindless momentum all of a sudden. “I love you,” she pants in that stupid—feathery, daisy-light tone that has no business being this sweet while she’s ravaging Marcille like this— “you’re perfect, you’re perfect—”

Marcille’s going to die like this. This is how she’s going to go: Bleating like an animal with her cheek stuck to her desk with drool, eyes just permanently rolled back in her head, toes barely touching the floor as Falin keeps fucking her further onto the desk. She hasn’t said a single coherent word since her second orgasm however many minutes ago, just broken into an endless stream of guttural noises as her cunt slobbers and squelches around Falin’s cock almost as loudly as she’s wailing.

“Marcille,” Falin keens, sounding like a bashful princess ravished to breathlessness—just something straight out of a high-minded erotica novel—all while hammering Marcille into the desk at a shallow, breakneck pace. “You feel—feel s–o good, you’re perfect, oh—oh, you’re perfect, you’re beautiful, I love you, I love you—”

For the love of—fuck. Marcille can distantly hear herself scream, can feel the desk digging into her as she flails, her grasp on sanity getting thinner and thinner with each word that tumbles out of Falin’s mouth and shoots straight through her nerves. She’s—good god, she’s not usually this talkative. It’s almost always Marcille begging and blabbering about how much she wants Falin’s cock, how good it feels, how she wants it harder and faster and more, screaming and crying Falin’s name over and over—

But now, in the absence of Marcille’s pathetic yapping—after she’s already fucked the words out of Marcille so thoroughly—Falin’s taken it upon herself to murmur a stream of honeyed nonsense into her ear, her frail and gentle voice breaking with desperation—and fuck, it’s not fair.

“Yes, yes, oh—” Falin sobs into her neck. “I love it—I love it when you sound like this, I love you—you’re so good, so good for me, my Marcille—”

No, no, no, she can’t do that, she can’t do that—she can’t say that, in that voice, while her cock is so deep in Marcille there’s hardly room for anything else, battering all her nerve endings and rearranging her so that there’s nothing left but her, Falin, Falin—

“Ah!” Falin cries out, like she’s the one getting reamed against her stupid fucking desk so hard she can barely breathe— “Yes, please, please—please say my name again!”

Well. She can beg all she fucking wants, but it’s not going to be pretty and she has no one to blame but herself—it’s her fault Marcille can hardly speak, it’s her fault her name is only coming in rough wails with both syllables separated with heaving, crying breaths. Marcille gives it her all, scrapes whatever intelligence she has left to speak, and sounds like a dying animal in a way that can’t possibly be anything but hideous to listen to—

And still, Falin sobs, as if in utter ecstasy as she fucks Marcille so hard the desk starts scraping along the floor in harsh jumps.

“Yes, yes—ah—” Her voice, not so whispery gentle now but still so melodious and clear, sounding out from deep in her chest— “I—love—you—” she weeps, punctuated by the hard slams of the desk against the floor as she drops the rapid pace in favor of mercilessly hard thrusts— “Beautiful—perfect—mine!”

Then she finally, finally comes—not that it stops her, not with how she thrusts with every spurt. Like she’s not just satisfied with letting it spill out, like she needs to fuck it into Marcille with all her strength, once, twice, then one last time, stuffing her cunt absolutely full with searing heat—

And Marcille doesn’t even realize she’s coming until she’s unceremoniously ejected out the other side of the high, that telltale swoop of vertigo rushing through her veins. The orgasm doesn't even have the grace to let her go limp with afterglow, of course, and she’s left there convulsing and twitching like a drowning fish. With her jaw pressed to the desk, she can actually hear her teeth chatter from how hard she’s shaking, Falin’s warm weight on her be damned.

(One day. One day, she’ll stop embarrassing herself like this—one day she’ll finish like a normal person during sex, instead of going off like a cheap firework every half hour and wringing an orgasm out of herself as soon as she feels Falin finish inside her, whether or not she even had one left in her to begin with.)

“M-Marcille,” Falin stammers, her voice breathless but now shy and girlish again as she slowly untangles their hands. “Are you—are you okay?”

The gall. To ask her that, when she’s nothing but a sweaty carcass slung over her desk, still twitching erratically. To be so gentle as she straightens up and kisses the back of her neck, tenderly brushing her hair to the side as she pulls out ever so slowly—

And still. Not. Slowly. Enough—apparently! Not with the sparks that explode in Marcille’s eyes again, utterly unclear if this is another orgasm or just a particularly brutal aftershock! She just goes squeaking and shaking and sliding off the desk onto her knees, hands clapped over her cunt like they’re going to protect her from the lightning racing up and down her spine. She doesn’t even know where she landed, really, convulsing and closing her thighs around her hand as cum and slick drools into her palms, falling forward and— and smacking her head against the edge of her desk.

“Oh!” Feathered arms clasp around her before she can slide past the wood with her sweaty forehead and land on her face. “Careful—are you okay?”

The gall. The audacity. The—something, or whatever, fuck, Marcille doesn’t even care anymore. Her head throbs with an oncoming bruise, she can’t feel her legs, she can feel her pussy way too much, and it’s a wonder she hasn’t fallen apart on the spot—

“Okay… let’s…” There’s some maneuvering going on, but hell if Marcille can actually tell what Falin’s doing. “Here, let’s take a bath—I’ll go draw some water.”

Marcille whines, because no—she doesn’t know where she is, she just twists until her face finds feathers and buries herself there. She even manages to bring one cum-covered hand to grip at the quils, because this mess is Falin’s fault and if she doesn't like it then she can wash it off herself—but she’s not allowed to leave.

A little chuckle under her breath—and it’s so fucking cute and girlish like she hasn’t just demolished a full grown woman to the brink of unconsciousness, but Marcille can’t even find it in herself to be mad. Falin can ask her whatever the hell she wants, do whatever the hell she wants, so long as she doesn’t let go.

“I’m bringing you with me, I promise,” Falin whispers so tenderly, pressing a kiss to Marcille’s head. There’s arms tightening around her back and under her knees, and she feels herself being lifted. “I wouldn’t leave you like that…”

Better not, Marcille grumbles to herself. Not sure if it made it past her mouth, but it doesn’t matter. Falin’s going to take responsibility for turning her morning into—into this, even if it means having to draw some bathwater with an elf clinging to her the entire time. She’s going to be the one to wash her off, bring her their missed breakfast, and tell everyone why she wasn’t there at the morning meeting—

Maybe not that last part.

“I’m sorry,” she hears, in that soft and whispery tone she’s loved for so many years. That voice that didn’t change, even with everything that happened—everything that Marcille did to her, and it’s—

It would be so, incredibly stupid if she started crying out of nowhere.

“Liar,” she whines, digging the indignant annoyance back up to pout like a spoiled brat. “You liked… every second…”

Another giggle that so infuriatingly lovely. “I did.” The sound of a squeaky valve turning, then rushing water that slaps against stone. “Did you?”

Marcille just grumbles again and clings even tighter. Falin just laughs a little louder and strokes her hair, too kind to demand an answer in so many words—or, perhaps, impishly content to let Marcille incriminate herself with her silence, as she so often does.

#farcille #fic #nsft #dungeon meshi #dungeon meshi manga spoilers #so this was just supposed to be a characterization exercise #bc i could feel my falin slipping and needed to recalibrate around her having a hayami saori voice regardless of what she's doing #and partially bc i wanted to see what my marcille narration would sound like #results: i think i did okay on recalibrating falin and reaffirming her intrinsic gentleness so i dont go too hard on the dragoning cliches #marcille narration is a little too sardonic bc im definitely borrowing from my other twinky whitegirls but i can work on it #and im so so incredibly mean to marcille this is so funny #i don't even know if this is sexy or not im so sorry i was actually laughing while i was writing #the dragoness of melini #I GUESS?? THIS COULD BE CONSIDERED A FOLLOW UP??

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mr-asa-jones · 2 months ago

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The plight of a naughty girl at Saint Helena High School for Wayward Girls...

Schoolgirls are renowned for being 'clicky' and having exclusive little groups of friends. These are like the gangs that boys make, and just as, maybe even more, competitive.

Kate seen here has just been over the stool, her bottom as you can see is bright red. Her group have great sympathy for her, but the class has been told to be quiet.

She is in pain, the heat from the plimsol is growing and spreading, but she must keep her hands on her head and not rub. She is sniffing, wiggling, and whimpering...

Alas, her longed for comfort and sympathy cannot come for half an hour, when the class finishes.

Instead, the rival groups have pea shooters, and are making paper pellets to fire in rubber bands, some dipped in the ink in the inkwells on their desks.

Mummy will instantly know what has happened when she sees them on the back of her shirt, just above her bottom. Meaning a spanking at home, as some girl has just whispered loudly.

The teacher? She does nothing, a naughty girl is fair game. And if she reacts, even in the slightest, she will get another, but more severe, spanking. Which of course will delight her tormentors.

Mr.Jones (Headmaster)

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valkyyriia · 6 months ago

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A Study in Green

Words: 2915

CW: Fingering, Artistic Liberties with History | NSFW

Pairing: Arthur Conan Doyle / Female-Bodied Reader

Prompt: Abandoned Mansion (caution!)

Notes: This is I think the third time I've ever written smut, so please bear with me. I also thought the title was rather cliche, but I liked it, so... I also think I got a little carried away. Whoops. And Mo, if you read this - I remembered that comment I left you on your fic about the Paris Green and MC freaking out and it immediately came to mind when I rolled this prompt with my dice.

Crossposted on Ao3 here.

Banners/dividers by @natimiles.

For @xxsycamore's event, Sexy Ikemen Summer!

“Are you sure this is a good idea?” You asked, eyeing the abandoned building with suspicion. It appeared to have been an older, late-eighteenth century mansion. Ivy crept up the crumbling mortar like grasping tendrils, giving it a foreboding look.

“It’ll be fine, luv,” Arthur said, a cheeky grin on his face. “A little urban exploration never hurt anyone.”

“I would like to see the evidence to back up that stateme-” You were cut off by Arthur tugging you close and kissing you sweetly.

“Come now. I swore to protect you, didn’t I?” He tapped your nose with a gloved finger. “That includes the dangers of uninhabited, derelict places and all the things that go bump in the dark. You have absolutely nothing to fear as long as I am here with you, okay?”

You exhaled shakily and offered a weak smile. “Okay.”

“Besides,” Arthur added. “You do make a rather adorable damsel in distress.”

You stuck your tongue out at him, and he laughed, taking your hand and leading you inside.

One thing you had never quite gotten used to in this era was the sticky heat and lack of air conditioning. Even though the climate wasn’t too different from what you were used to, the fashion of the day was much more stifling. The summer sun was currently high in the air, beating oppressive rays down on the building. Fortunately, the mansion was still in reasonably good repair; the roof was intact everywhere except the far left wing, where the walls had collapsed in on themselves. It offered some protection from the heat, paltry though it was.

Arthur had, true to his word, faithfully stuck by your side. The vampire hardly even let go of your hand, giving you something to anchor yourself to. You were grateful for his considerate nature.

The sunlight shining through the cracked stained glass windows cast glittering constellations on the dusty wood of the parlor floor. Furniture draped in age-stained cream cloth was positioned in key places around the room. If it weren’t for the thick layer of dust and the obvious smell of decaying wood, you would almost think the owners were just out on vacation.

Arthur had done some amount of research on the building before bringing you here, aided by le Comte and his connections. As it turns out, the owners of this mansion had fled to America twenty or so odd years ago due to some sort of legal trouble. The Crown had seized the mansion to repay the family’s debts and it had remained uninhabited since. According to Comte, the left wing collapse happened a few months after the Crown took over the property, and they hadn’t tried to renovate or rebuild the structure. Ultimately, other than the left side, the mansion should have been perfectly safe - within reason for an abandoned building - for a first-time urban explorer.

He grinned. “Look at this,” Arthur said, using your joined hands to point at the desk in the corner of the room. It was neatly organized, a couple of books stacked on the side. A half-written letter lay on the workspace. A quill pen sat in a long-since-dried inkwell, the bottom of it stained black with India ink. “They really were in a hurry,” Arthur commented, pulling his tortoiseshell glasses from his pocket and setting them on his nose. “Let’s see…”

He blew gently on the surface, scattering the dust. Your eyes watered and you cough into your elbow. “Sorry,” Arthur murmured, rubbing your back lightly as he looked at the letter.

“To my love,

“I hope the day comes when I can see you again. Father says we must leave in order to stay out of prison, and I dread leaving you behind. I had desperately dreamed of the day I would make you my wife, but I fear we must place those plans on hold for now. Wait for me, my love. I will return for you.

“Forever yours,”

And then nothing. There was no signature. You frowned. “The poor dears.. I hope he was able to stay in contact. Or at least let her know what happened.”

Arthur studied the paper intensely for a moment, before looking at the books next to it. “I can’t imagine she wouldn’t know what happened. These kinds of things are rather big gossip in the upper echelons of society.” The hand on your back moved to your waist and pulled you closer to him. “Her family likely refused any further contact with him or his family after they left. Even if he continued to write to her, she probably never saw any of those letters.”

“That’s so sad,” you said, leaning into him. “It sounds like he really loved her.”

“If he loved her half as much as I love you, he must have loved her a lot,” Arthur replied, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “If you would like, luv, we can maybe try to deliver this letter to its intended recipient. There’s probably some other correspondence between the two stashed somewhere here, if we look for it.”

You looked up at him in surprise. He had a kind smile on his lips, but his eyes were serious. If it were something you wished to do, he would make it happen somehow. “I would, but,” you started to say. “What if it opens up old wounds? What if she’s moved on and this just brings it back up?” You sighed and laid your head against Arthur’s shoulder once more. He ran his thumb up and down your waist in soothing motions. “I don’t want to make things worse.”

“Even if she has moved on, it could give her closure,” Arthur pointed out. “But you are right; it could cause more trouble for them. Maybe we should leave it here?”

You mulled it over for a moment. “If I were in her shoes.. And you had moved away for some reason against your will, I don’t think I could really move on. Even if I was forced to marry someone else. I love you too much to ever forget you.”

Arthur was silent for a moment. “Then we should do everything we can to make sure it’s delivered. Even if it is twenty-something years late,” he said, voice quiet and somewhat choked. You went to move away and look up at him, but Arthur’s hand kept your head against his neck. His free arm wrapped around you and he held you firmly to his body. You gave up fighting him, and just locked your arms around his neck. “Thank you,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to the top of your head.

Arthur finally let go and stepped away from you, looking around the room once more. “Let’s see if we can find out who the lucky lady is, yeah? The game, my dear, is on!”

The two of you went looking around the parlor for any other correspondence between the pair. Coming up empty handed there, you moved to other rooms. Normally Arthur would have been able to make an educated deduction on which room likely belonged to the author, but with the state of disrepair the house was in it was much more difficult. Or at least, that’s what Arthur said - but you suspected he just wanted an excuse to lead you around the house by the hand for a little longer. Not that you’d complain about that.

The two of you looked inside a bedroom suite on the second floor. The door creaked open, revealing a lavish room, covered in linens matching those in the parlor. A thick layer of dust coated the room as it did everywhere else in the house. You carefully stepped over to another desk, this one facing the window that overlooked the long-overgrown lawn. Spread across it were several letters in varying states of completion. Some were well-worn, clearly having been read over multiple times. Those ones appeared to have a different author than the one found downstairs.

“Alyssa Bloodwell,” Arthur murmured. “That name doesn’t ring any bells for me, but Daddy Dearest knows just about everyone worth knowing among Europe’s elite. We can ask him when we get back. For now, though…” Arthur turned to you, a devilish smile on his lips.

“Arthur,” you warned him to no avail. He quickly stepped forward and grabbed you by the hips. Your arms snaked around his neck automatically.

He grinned. “What is it, oh darling love of mine?” He gave you an innocent peck on the lips.

“Oh, don’t even start, Arthur,” you protested, but made no motion to step out of his embrace. His lips moved to the side of your face and you reflexively tilted your head to give him access. “We can’t - not here.”

“Says who?” Arthur murmured seductively, nibbling at the shell of your ear. “It’s not like there’s anyone here to stop us.” He walked you backwards to a sturdy chest of draws against the far wall, and easily lifted you up onto it. “You’ve been looking positively delectable all day. I can’t help myself from wanting a taste.” He leaned in and kissed you more insistently, his fingers dancing around the ribbon at the collar of your blouse.

“You are incorrigible,” You responded weakly, already returning his kiss.

“But you like it, don’t you?” Arthur replied, grazing your earlobe with his fangs. “You dirty little thing.” He ghosted his lips down the side of your neck, pressing a kiss right over your pulse point, before mouthing the spot and sucking hard. You cried out at the sharp pain of it.

Arthur ran his thumb over the red blooming there. “Beautiful,” he said. “I would bite you, but then I’d have to carry you back to grab a carriage.” He ran his tongue down the column of your throat, his fingers gently setting the ribbon to the side and dragging the top of your blouse down. His other hand slid up your skirt, the thumb running back and forth over the flesh of your inner thigh. “And I really don’t want to have to explain that one to the constable,” Arthur whispered, his breath coming out in puffs against your collarbone.

The drag of his sharp fangs against the skin of your chest combined with Arthur’s fingers moving higher underneath your skirt caused your breath to hitch. His gloved hand pressed gently against your clothed sex, applying a small bit of pressure through your underwear. You let out a soft whine at the contact. He rubbed his fingers back and forth between your thighs while leaving love bites all over your exposed chest.

His lips kissed back up your throat, and he pulled away to look at you. Smirking, he pulled his hand from between your thighs and took the glove in between his teeth. Arthur slowly, teasingly, pulled it off of his hand, the now bare appendage returning to its former place between your legs.

“Arthur,” you whimpered as he slid the material of your panties aside. He dragged his fingers back and forth through the wetness gathering there, circling the sensitive nub at the apex of your thighs.

You threw your head back, a low keening sound escaping your lips as he continued to swirl his fingers between your legs. Arthur shot out his other hand to catch the back of your head.

“Look at me,” he murmured. You bit your lip but did as he asked, and he smiled. “Good girl.”

Arthur’s thumb brushed against your lips and then he leaned in for a deep kiss. “You’re so cute when you come undone under my fingers like this,” he purred. “You’re normally so put together.” You probably were a sight to behold right now - skirt hiked up to your hips, blouse untied and loosely draped under your cleavage, chest heaving - you were the very image of debauchery.

Arthur leaned back in for another kiss, his tongue moving against yours in time with his fingers as they pushed inside of you.

Your gaze drifted up, suddenly settling on the walls of the room. Your eyes widened and you broke the kiss. “Arthur,” you breathed, voice scratchy. “Is it just me or is that wallpaper green?”

Arthur groaned and he pulled away with a discontent sigh, his lips forming a frown. “It is, and quite a lovely shade of it. But I don’t see how the color of the wallpaper is more important than my hand.” His fingers deftly continued their work, and you bit back a groan. “Unless you are unsatisfied, and want something more?”

“Because,” you breathed, trying to ignore Arthur’s actions and failing miserably. “Green pigments from around this time period are made of arsenic. It’s poison.” Your thighs trembled as he pleasured you. You were so close-

-and then Arthur suddenly stopped and looked at you, bewildered. You whined at the loss of stimulation. “Really?” He looked away from you, his gaze flitting all around the room that was blanketed in peeling green wallpaper. Arthur’s cobalt gaze met yours again, a light panic to his eyes. “And they didn’t know this?”

“No! The paint was invented sometime in the early nineteenth century and fell out of use during the mid nineteenth century because people were getting sick,” you sighed, the ache in your belly slowly subsiding, leaving you feeling uncomfortable and wanting for more. “It was later used as a pesticide, until they realized that was dangerous, too.” You were somewhat regretting your choice to stop Arthur at this moment. Curse your brain for being safety-conscious even with an incredibly attractive man between your legs, who wanted nothing more than to bring you pleasure.

Arthur sighed, pressing a kiss to your lips. “We should probably continue this elsewhere, then,” he conceded, removing his hands from your thighs. You shuddered at the loss of contact and watched as he lifted his slick-covered hand to his mouth, sucking on the fingers. The lewd sight sent another flare of smoldering heat right to your belly. “When we get back home, you’re going to have to make up for leaving me hanging like this. I hope you’re ready for the consequences of your actions.”

Bonus:

After speaking with Comte about what you discovered while exploring (trespassing), you and Arthur found yourselves standing outside of a beautiful, well-kept mansion in the Parisian countryside. As you approached the gate, a butler, who was trimming roses nearby, placed his garden shears down and stepped over.

“Bonjour, Mademoiselle, Monsieur,” he greeted. “How can I help you?”

“Is there an Alyssa Bloodwell at this residence?” You asked.

The butler frowned. “Madame Bloodwell does live here, yes, but we were not advised of any visitors today. Was she expecting you?”

“Not exactly,” you replied. Arthur then pulled a time-worn letter out of his pocket and showed it to the butler, explaining, “I shan’t go into the specifics on how, but we came across this letter and believe its intended recipient is your mistress. We simply wish it to go where it belongs.”

The butler looked at the letter for a moment before nodding. “If you will, follow me,” he said and led you both into the mansion’s entryway, and from there to the parlor. “Please wait here, mademoiselle, monsieur. I will inform Madame Bloodwell of your visit and we shall proceed from there.”

After a few minutes of waiting, you looked up to see a woman in her late thirties descending the stairwell. “I am Madame Alyssa Bloodwell. I was informed you had correspondence intended for me?” she asked.

You curtsied and Arthur handed over the letter. She took it, eyeing it, and her hand dropped to her chest. “Where did you get this?” she said, breathless.

“We recently came into possession of it,” Arthur said, smoothly avoiding giving the details. “We did some detective work, and determined you were the recipient.”

Lady Bloodwell walked over to an armchair on uncertain legs and sunk down into it. “Louis,” she murmured. “I haven’t heard from him in twenty four years.” Her fingers caressed the fraying edges of the paper. “His family had been found to be embezzling money from one of the royal artisans and was disgraced. They fled Paris in the middle of the night and caught a ship to America. My parents forbade mention of him and the betrothal was called off. I ended up marrying a local lord, but.. I never did stop wondering what happened to him.”

You smiled sadly at her. “I’m sorry that we didn’t come bearing current news, but I’m glad we could at least bring you the letter. It’s obvious how much he loved you.”

“Thank you, cherie,” she said. “Please, is there anything I can do to repay you for doing me this kindness?”

You began to decline, but Arthur cut in. “If you don’t mind, could you answer a question for us as payment?“

She inclined her head.

“Did you ever move on?” Arthur asked, a serious look on his face.

Madame Bloodwell shook her head. “I love my husband,” she began. “But no. Louis was - is - special to me. I never stopped loving him, and I doubt I will stop until the last breath leaves my lungs.” She looked between you and Arthur, a content smile on her face. “I see such a resemblance between you two and myself and Louis. Monsieur, whatever you do, don’t ever lose her.”

Arthur looked straight at you and squeezed your hand. “I won’t.”

Taglist: @natimiles

#sexy ikemen summer #sexy ikemen summer cc #ikemen vampire #ikevamp #ikemen vampire arthur #ikevamp arthur #ikemen vampire fanfiction #ikevamp fanfiction #arthur conan doyle x reader #ikemen vampire x reader #ikevamp x reader #ikevamp fanfic #ikemen vampire fanfic #ikevamp mdni

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pinkiedev · 8 months ago

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G/T Fluffy Domestic Story Idea

Okay I highkey wanna write this but idfk when, so if anyone else wants to give it a shot (or already has) lmk so I can read it big plz and thank ;-;

G/t story where friendly giant builds whole house to be Tiny accessible while the tiny sits nearby swinging their legs and watches and chats them up, maybe helping where they can or giving pointers over things they struggle with and would need help for:

Walkways up to counters/higher surfaces

pulley systems?

little ladders and staircases everywhere

hehe some slides for the way down

Ways for tiny to turn on sinks for water/showers

giant makes it so all drains have grate bottoms so there's no risk of tiny falling through

maybe a shoelace attached to faucet so tiny can climb out

Safely carrying tiny

if on shoulder, could be interesting if giant has an earing that tiny can attach a harness to so they can't fall (or maybe tiny just holds onto earing like one of those handles for tall people in trains)

giant makes comfy chest pockets in all the shirts they wear at home

Private nook for tiny's bedroom/nest

with a somehow working toilet XD

a cute little wardrobe filled with clothes either the giant or tiny (or both) made

soft bed, maybe out of a commandeered pillow or some of the giant's old clothes

tiny-sized mirror made from smoothed out shard of a larger one

Little sitting areas all over the house

in front of/on windowsills that get direct sunlight

a mini dining table on top of giant's dining table

Mini greenhouse

for fresh fruits/plants/veggies for tiny to pick/care for themselves

flower garden full of those little flower types <3

maybe a mini water fountain

Food storage spot for tiny that's constantly restocked

teeny containers to keep crumbs and the like fresh

something to keep fresh produce cool??

Appliances

tiny cups/plates/utensils (bought or made by giant?)

whittled down graphite for pencils

maybe a teeny inkwell to dip a pin in for a quill/pen

sheafs of paper meticulously cut into the perfect size for tiny

maybe an old iPhone is bought as a TV for the tiny XD

Ways to make sure tiny stays safe while living with a giant

Giant doesn't wear headphones at home and keeps music low

Tiny is properly accounted for before any cleaning gets done (especially vacuuming HA)

Little bells all over the house so tiny can call for help if they need it

Helium balloons periodically exchanged for fresh ones that tiny can tie around their waist when crossing over the floor so they're easy to spot ;3

----

imma prolly keep adding to this as thoughts come to me, but ye this was stuck in my brain like friggin' glue so I had to spill it out, no two ways about it

#g/t #gt community #gt writing #borrower #giant tiny #giant/tiny #borrowers #story ideas #story prompt

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cheeriecherrymain · 2 years ago

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The Bottom Of The Inkwell [Chapter 16]

Pairing: Viktor x fem!Reader Chapter Rating: M Chapter Warnings: brief saucy moments Proofread: Nah Taglist: @envyspinebender @ficfanatictrf Chapter Summary: A morning with Viktor. Also you’re insatiable.

The rest of the day spent with Viktor is light and airy, almost passing in a haze. You can’t help the bubbly feelings filling your heart, warming you so well from the inside that there’s not a moment when you’re not smiling.

You know for a fact that your mother is suspicious of the two of you, when she gets home. You know that she can see the delight that you try to hide, and how you seem to cling a little closer to your boyfriend.

To anyone else, you might just look like a sappy couple, but to a happily married woman?

She knows.

You know she knows.

And you know that she knows that you know.

Still, she doesn’t say anything to you about it, even when she manages to catch you alone for a few moments. You’re hardly embarrassed by the topic anymore, too thrilled by all your new discoveries to possibly be shy about it, but you really didn’t want to have the awkward sex conversation with your mother.

—

Later in the evening, she bids you a soft goodnight before she heads up to bed, leaving you and Viktor curled up together on the couch.

You’d been trying to study all afternoon, going over the various notes and observations you’d made in your classes. Your focus had easily drifted, though, away from the words in your textbook, over to the little crease in between Viktor’s brows.

The way his lips pressed together while he read and reread his class material, the way his honeyed eyes were sharp with concentration. The little moles on his face, each of which you desperately wanted to kiss.

Neither of you had gotten much done after that, far too focused on each other to care much for school.

Even now, while you pull your clothes off to get ready for bed - his attention is on you, helping you with the buttons of your blouse, guiding the soft fabric off your shoulders and down your arms.

Mapping a trail of warm kisses over every inch of skin he happens upon.

You slide into bed together, comfortably entangling your limbs while whispering little affections. The sheets are soft against your bare skin, sensitive from the near constant press of Viktor’s fingertips: drawing little patterns into your flesh, leaving a pleasant thrill of goosebumps as he wanders.

Wanders lower.

Sliding, sinking in, spreading you open. Murmuring praises in your ear while he reduces you to a whimpering, shaking mess. Holding you impossibly closer as you go boneless with bliss.

Holding you, while you begin to doze off.

“Hey, Vee?” you creak, barely awake. You’re not even sure he’s conscious still, with how still and quiet he lays behind you.

But eventually he shifts in his spot, humming slightly in reply.

“I think tomorrow, I’m going to go back to the market,” you tell him. “There are a few things we didn’t get to grab when we last went. I still want to get them.”

He hums again, squeezing his arms around you for a couple seconds before relaxing. It takes all of your willpower to not start giggling at his actions - you know he wouldn’t appreciate your sentiments on how adorable you think he is when he’s sleepy like this.

“I wouldn’t mind going out again,” he finally mumbles, his words slurred and his accent thicker than usual. “There are a lot of things we didn’t get to see.”

Oh.

Right. Of course he’d want to go with you.

You squirm in his hold for a couple moments, until you’re able to roll over in your spot to face him. It’s dark enough that you can’t see him clearly - can’t even find his shadowy outline against the backdrop of your room. But you can feel his warmth radiating forth, even where your bodies aren’t touching.

“I was actually thinking I might go on my own,” you explain sweetly.

You instantly feel the way he tenses, and you move quickly to pepper kisses across whatever parts of his face you can find.

“I would love to have your company, Viktor,” you assure him, “But I can’t very well shop for you if you’re out with me. It would ruin the surprise.”

But instead of relaxing at your words, like you’d hoped he would, he remains on edge - breathing shallower, shoulders tight and locked even beneath your soothing touch.

Like you’d expected.

“I promise I won’t get anything big,” you murmur, bringing one of your hands up to cup his jaw. “Just a few little things to put in your stocking, okay? And the materials to actually make it.”

He takes a couple moments to weigh your words in his mind, before the stiffness finally eases out of his body and he molds himself to you in a tired heap. Sighing deeply as he wraps his arms around your midsection again.

“I suppose I can cope for a few hours on my own,” he grumbles, and you’re unable to contain a snort of laughter.

“I’ll make sure to bring you a sweetmilk cocoa.”

—

The rest of the night is blessedly uneventful. You fall asleep cuddled up with your boyfriend, slipping into unconsciousness with an ease you haven’t experienced for months. On top of that, your dreams are silent. No trace of nightmares to addle your mind with guilt or grief or anxiety.

You remain warm, and safe, and loved.

Even when the outside world starts to creep in the next morning, you’re comfortable. You’re cozy, and you feel rested, if not a little groggy.

Cracking an eye open, you peer around your childhood bedroom. Light glows inwards from the half-drawn drapes, casting the room in a hazy sort of glow. Like a perfect moment cut from time, the dust motes in the air are illuminated by the thin beam of sun seeping in.

Floating around so slow, you swear that you must be dreaming.

You glance over at the clock on the table beside your bed, squinting a bit until you’re able to focus on the numbers.

It’s just past nine, you realize, deflating back down onto your pillow. Far later than your classes would ever allow you to wake, but still earlier than you’d risen the past couple of days.

And yet you feel completely rested.

You lay there for a handful of minutes, allowing your body to wake up on its own terms instead of forcing yourself to immediately start your day. It’s peaceful, you think, to not have a full list of tasks bearing down on you.

Sure, you have things you want to accomplish today, but you hardly feel like you’ll face some kind of dire consequence if you don’t get to them immediately.

It’s…nice.

“Mmn…” a soft whine comes from beside you, barely audible if not for the stillness of the room. You let your head fall sideways to stare at your boyfriend, who still appears to be snoozing quite deeply.

Should you wake him?

All of your instincts say not to - telling you to preserve his comfort and let him rest. He barely gets enough sleep as it is, your mind supplies, going over a list of reasons why you should leave him undisturbed, and slip quietly downstairs to start breakfast.

But…

…you’d promised him.

You’d just spoken to him about all your troubles - told him openly and honestly about what kinds of thoughts ran through your mind on a daily basis. More than that, he’d shared his anxieties, too.

His fear of losing you, the only person he had left. His anxiety around not being able to take care of you, or keep you safe. The worry he felt when you weren’t around.

If he wanted to stay in bed, that was fine. But you weren’t going to cause him any more stress.

“Vee,” you whisper, tenderly stroking the apple of his cheek with the back of your finger. “Cmon, sleepy. Time to wake up.”

He squirms a bit while you speak to him lowly, and press a couple of kisses to his forehead. It takes a good thirty seconds of prodding, and a couple of unhappy whines, but eventually his eyelids flutter open, and he blinks at you with drowsy honey eyes.

“Good morning, sleepy,” you murmur, unable to contain the smile that tugs at the corners of your mouth.

Viktor, on the other hand, stares at you with a rumpled sort of confusion that you’d never before seen him express. He was always thinking, always working to make sense of things and figure out problems - learning how things work.

But now, as he looked at you without even the barest hint of focus, you know.

There’s absolutely nothing going on behind his pretty amber eyes.

Not so soon after waking, at least.

You huff a couple laughs and gather him in your arms, earning yet another rumble of complaint. Or perhaps of affection? You can’t really tell, in all honesty. Not until he wraps his arms around you in return do you know that he’s happy.

“I’m going downstairs to cook breakfast,” you tell him, laying a kiss to his bare shoulder. “Do you want to come with me, or do you want to stay here to sleep a little longer?”

A few beats of silence.

Then,

“Mmnb…”

Your shoulders quiver with barely-contained laughter.

“You gotta use words, vee,” you snicker, pulling back slightly.

Viktor, however, uses your distracted amusement to his advantage, rolling over to knock your relaxed form off balance. You don’t really tumble very far, considering you’re both already laying down, but it gives him the leverage he needs to find a spot on top of you.

His chest pressed flat against the soft of your tummy, he sets his chin on between your breasts to stare up at you with half lidded eyes. Drowsy, you realize, but sharpening with a decisive sort of hunger that you hadn’t yet gotten to observe.

“I’ll have you for breakfast,” he says again, now unimpeded.

“Vee!” you squeak in surprise, as he very quickly makes his intentions clear and kisses his way down your body.

Never breaking eye contact, his mouth finds your core. Like you’re the finest delicacy he’s ever had the pleasure of tasting, he spreads you open, and revels in the soft squelch of your pussy clenching around his fingers.

“Jsi dokonalá, miláčku,” he whispers, before closing his lips around your clit.

—

The rest of the hour is a blur. Filled with pleasure and sighs, and Viktor’s delicious whines as you knit your fingers into his hair and pull. His love leaves you hazy and happy, wobbling on weak knees as you dress and make your way downstairs.

Breakfast doesn’t take long to get started. The first thing you do is set the percolator out on the stove to get a sufficient amount of coffee brewed - none that were in your household would be able to function well without it.

After that’s set out to boil, though, you move over to the fridge to assess what you might make.

It’s not much, you realize, when you tug the heavy door open and peer inside. There’s a little bit of this and that, but not quite enough of any one thing to make a meal that would feed the three of you.

You supposed you could make a mishmash breakfast, and use up the rest of what was available, but that…would require a lot of dishes. Dishes that you didn’t want to be the one to wash, later on.

You crinkle your nose, and grab a cardboard tray of eggs to count them, and set them on the counter.

Butter…cinnamon…sugar…?

One by one, you lay ingredients out, formulating a gameplan in your mind.

—

That’s where Viktor finds you, twenty minutes later. Bent over a frying pan filled with snapping oils, carefully and perfectly searing slices of bread before sprinkling them with what looked like…salt and pepper?

“What are you making?” he wonders, approaching slowly so as not to jar you into burning yourself.

You glance up from the stove, and beckon him closer so you can pull him into a kiss.

“It’s toast,” you tell him proudly when you part, nodding your head towards the heaping plate of fried bread slices. “And once they’re cooked and buttery, you dip them in the sugar-cinnamon mix - trust me, it’s delicious.”

He watches you for a few moments more, leaning against the counter while you work. You’re cute, he thinks, when you’re as focused as you are. The way your brows pull together and your lips mush together in the most adorable little pout.

“You can grab a plate, Vee,” you tell him, pulling the final bread out of the pan to drop in the last of the sugar.

—

It doesn’t take long for the two of you to fix yourselves up and find your spots at the table, settling into an easy conversation while you stuff sweet bread into your mouths. Until you’re both full and happy, with little sugar crystals stuck in the corners of your mouths.

That’s where your mother finds you, half an hour later.

Your plates are neatly stacked at the edge of the table to be cleaned at a later time, and both you and Viktor have a fan of cards pinched between your fingers, staring one another down with distrust and deep concentration.

“You cooked!” she chirps, barely drawing your attention away from the game at hand.

“I did,” you reply, carefully leafing through your numbers, before selecting a few and placing them face-down on the table. You can feel your mother’s presence at your back, glancing curiously over your shoulder to get an eyeful of your hand.

“It’s all under the plate with the dome on it - it should still be hot,” you tell her, hoping she might stop spying on you.

However, she only wheels herself closer, coming up beside you to fix you with a pointed smile.

“Won’t you be a dove and fix me a plate, darling?” she asks, fluttering her eyelashes in the most dramatic manner possible.

It takes all your willpower not to snort and roll your eyes - instead settling on a deep sigh.

“Fine,” you grumble halfheartedly, and set your cards face down. Really, you should have just handed them to your mother, knowing full well that as soon as you leave your seat, she’ll snatch them up and begin playing in your stead.

You stand up and stretch, and wander over to the counter where you’d stored the rest of the meal - glancing back briefly to see that yes, your mother had indeed stolen your cards and was about to ruthlessly decimate your boyfriend.

You turn away just as she slaps down each card with full confidence, biting back a grin when Viktor makes a shocked noise of complaint.

“That’s the third time!” he gripes, without any malice.

“Technically, I won that one,” your mother chimes, with an expression you just know is cheeky.

“They were my cards, Mama,” you call over your shoulder, scooping up her breakfast to return to the table. “Just because you’re the one who put them down doesn’t mean you’re the one who did the work.”

Your mother scoffs quietly, taking the plate from you and moving over to her own spot.

You find your seat again, and gather up the deck of cards to reshuffle them. Viktor watches with great interest as you expertly fold them together, flipping and throwing each little rectangle around and into the deck.

“You play cards like you’re from the undercity,” he says bluntly, his gaze on your hands with rapt attention. “I’ve never seen anyone from piltover play this game so effortlessly, or without unearned arrogance.”

You raise a brow at him, carefully observing him while he watches you. Until your hands still, and he’s finally able to draw his eyes back up to yours - beautiful honey brown almost fully eclipsed by the black of his pupils.

Oh.

You swallow thickly, willing yourself to hide how genuinely flustered you are. “Mama, do you still want me to pick up some of that pretty blue fabric while I’m out today?” you ask, a little too loudly.

She glances over at you for a second, before nodding and going back to her food.

“If they still have enough,” she replies, “You know how much I need, yes? If there’s none of the blue, pick another satin that you like.”

You nod, and pull out a folded sheet of paper from your pocket, along with a painfully short pencil. You scribble down a note about the fabric, in amongst the numerous other things you wanted to pick up while you were in the city, as well as how many yards you’d need.

“It’s chilly out today,” your mother chirps, when you fold your list back up and stuff it deep in your pocket. “Viktor, why don’t you borrow one of my husband’s wool coats when you go out-”

You open your mouth to protest.

“You too, dear,” your mother cuts you off, staring pointedly at you. “Your coat is hardly warm enough for temperatures like these, and the only woolen one you’ve got is from when you were quite a bit smaller.”

You snap your lips shut with a soft pop.

You know your mother means well - you know that she already cares dearly for Viktor, and wants him to be well taken care of. But her lack of tact makes you wince internally. Your boyfriend has seen your coat, he’s felt it, he’s commented on how soft it is! He damn well knows that it’s warm enough to withstand even the chilliest of temperatures.

You know that your mother is just making sure he stays safe.

But does he? Would he take her words the wrong way?

“I appreciate the concern,” Viktor sighs, resting his cheek on his palm, “But I am afraid I have been, ah…uninvited from this particular excursion.”

Your mother looks at you.

You look at her.

“I need to shop for presents!” you whine, when she gives you a look filled with offense. “And don’t act so put upon - now you have someone to play cards with for the afternoon.”

You quickly stand and collect all the plates that had been left on the table, carrying them over to the sink so you can dump them into the warm, soapy water.

“I’ll only be gone for three hours, maximum,” you promise, glaring over your shoulder at them. “And if I found out either one of you gambles while I’m out, there will be hell to pay.”

“But-”

“No, Mama. You will not be cheating away my boyfriend’s money.”

Silence falls across the room, so thick you can almost feel it.

And then, with a smile hidden behind his hand, Viktor mumbles, “Like how you were cheating, earlier?”

Your mother bursts out into loud raucous laughter, collapsing back into the cushioned seat of her chair to shake with uncontained mirth. Your boyfriend is quick to follow her example, chuckling alongside.

You sigh tiredly and turn back to the dishes.

You can’t let either of them see the amused smirk that tugs across your lips.

—

Some time later, after everything has settled down and you’ve cleaned the kitchen up, you start to get ready to head out. You pull your boots on and lace them up tightly, and shrug your coat over your shoulders.

You debate wearing a hat for a couple moments, but eventually decide against it - it doesn’t look windy out, even if it’s cold. You should be fine without it.

Viktor finds you in the hallway, stepping closer to you with something akin to sheepishness written on his face. He carefully reaches for you, helping you with each button on the front of your coat until he stops at your collar.

“I’m sorry,” he says, smoothing out your lapels. “I…am not used to being able to act so casually. Not up here. If I upset you, or-”

You shush him with a kiss, taking his face in your hands to hold him still until you’ve had your fill of him.

“I’m not mad,” you promise, with one final peck. “I’m happy to know that you’re comfortable here. This is your home now, too, you know? You’re part of our family.”

He slides his hand over your own, holding you tightly against his cheek for a couple moments before releasing you.

“If that is the case, then…perhaps I could add something to your shopping list?”

He pulls a scrap of paper from his pocket, and hands it to you, waiting patiently while you open it and scan over the words.

“It’s ah…it’s a recipe my mother used to make,” he explains, fidgeting with his sleeves, “It’s kind of like a…bread stew? With meat, and potatoes, sometimes onions. She told me that it was strictly a family recipe, but you-”

He pauses for a moment, pretty pink dusting across his cheeks and out to the tips of his ears. “You are my family. And this is one of the few things I’m able to give to you.”

Your heart swells in your chest at his words, knowing how deeply he must care for you - loving you to the point of trusting you, not only with himself, but with parts of his family that had long since disappeared.

His eyes widen, when he sees tears welling up behind your lashes.

“Můj drahý, don’t cry-”

“I love you,” you sniffle, wrapping your arms around his waist to pull him closer. “I love you so much.”

He settles into your hold with practiced ease, letting his cheek rest on the top of your head while he whispers sweet affection to you. Happy and tucked up together, as you’re meant to be.

#viktor x reader #viktor arcane x reader #arcane x reader #The Bottom Of The Inkwell #not the end i promise there so much more to go #i have writers block tho so #pls be gentle

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maladaptivewriting · 1 year ago

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✺ Masterlist ✺

instagram link: here

general ao3 link: here

bluesky link: here

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧

the golden king (WIP 142/160): jegulus, wolfstar, & drarry (playlist)

regulus black goes to school with the golden trio.

solar flare (WIP 22/?): jegulus, wolfstar, rosekiller, dorlene, & pandalily

a jegulus twilight au.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧

Completed

salus excorio (M. 31k words): jegulus, wolfstar, & marylily

regulus is dying, all he wants is to spend his last few months alive with his brother

a memory stolen, a memory gained (E. 30k words): wolfstar

sirius loses his memories, his friends are confused.

one last party (before we meet our end) (M. 51k words): peter/barty

peter pettigrew and barty crouch jr. have to take care of a rapidly de-aging tom riddle after a ritual goes wrong.

scarlet oak (E. 10k words): jegulus

a centaur creature fic

a torment of themselves (E. 16k words): wolfstar

a veela sirius fic

white snakeroot (E. 42k words): wolfstar, jegulus

cowboy remus and vampire sirius

one shots

the moon dog (M. 3k words): wolfstar

remus decides to break sirius out of azkaban, despite his guilt

constant vigilance (E. 4k words): jegulus

CNC one-shot with auror/death eater roleplay

bottom of the inkwell (E. 4k words): wolfstar

slytherin remus + academic rivals to lovers fic

an omen of death (G. 6k words): regulus & sirius

canon compliant regulus black character study

sloppy seconds (E. 13k words): wolfstar

remus watches several men have sex with sirius

honey, don’t feed me (E. 8k words): jegulus

stalker james au

cosmic entanglement (E. 10k words): wolfstar

multiverse wolfstar

secrets, timelines, and missing boys (T. 5k words): marylily

let the right one in au

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enderwoah · 1 year ago

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what's stronger than a diamond?

take this antarctic empire inspired fusion design of phil and techno! he was real fun to design (my favourite bit is his cape, it turns into mist at the very bottom like a waterfall (or into snow, your choice)) :D

also fun fact, this was lined with a feather pen that i had to dip into an inkwell :D my lining pen was broken by my siblings but this had the perfect nib !

red king design by @cherrifire + the gemcyt au by @chrisrin!

stupid doodle under the cut:

#he gets to swear a bit #because phil swears like a sailor and techno doesn't so it evens out #he gets to say what the hell #the hexagon around his eye is a reference to how lonsdaleite is stronger than diamond due to its hexagonal molecular structure!#(versus the cube structure diamond has)#philza #technoblade #rendog #renthedog #???#martyn inthelittlewood #inthelittlewood #gemcyt #also the idea of ren and techno being rivals has been funny to me since 3rd life #they have never interacted but the comparisons drawn between them were SO FUNNY #enderinks

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littlest-w01f · 5 months ago

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Chapter Ten

Series Masterlist

Cw: Necromancy, torture, slight mention of sa

The dinner had a rather abrupt ending to it after Rhysand mentioned visiting the Bone Carver with Feyre, the Death God was nothing new to Rheana, having read all his tales, but she'd never met him, visited The Prison all but twice to lock up traitors.

She had seen him in passing though, when the curiosity got better of her and she made her way down the prison, in the form of a young female with bright firey hair, light bronze skin, violet eyes, and large Illyrian wings, sitting in the cell, playing with bones. The female looked eerily similar to her, at the same time, she carried a stranger's face.

Rheana took a step closer to the cell, her heart pounding in her chest as she calmed herself down. She could feel the energy radiating off the girl, making her feel both uneasy and strangely drawn towards her at the same time.

But she knew better than to converse with the Carver, so she had left, even still, the thoughts of why he had shown up as that female haunted her, all because it was a question she didn't know the answer to.

The new morning she saw outside on her balcony in the townhouse, a piece of parchment in front of her, an ink pot and the fancy quill she preferred beside her, with some chamomile tea in her hands.

As Rheana sipped her chamomile tea, her mind wandered back to the Bone Carver, and the peculiar sight of him appearing as a young female, it had been years since then, centuries even. She picked up her quill and dipped it into the inkwell, changing her thoughts from the Bone Carver to Tarquin, the High Lord of Summer her brother had asked her to write to.

Rheana, despite the view people had for her Court, was very nicely received among the royal families of other Courts, she spoke in the language people wanted to hear, and read people so well that she knew what they expected without breaking into their minds.

So, the words flew freely, asking Tarquin for a visit to Summer, for herself, Rhysand, Feyre and Amren, spinning a tale of wanting to mend Court relations, after Amarantha had destroyed Prythian, she did feel a visit to other Courts would be important, especially after she had killed Tarquin's mother, an old friend of hers, along with his father for the Summer Court trying to rebel against her.

Rheana knowing full well how persuasive she could be when writing letters, hoped that this one would have the desired effect. Kallos took the chance to jump in her lap in the form of a little kitten she kept them as, purring like one too, but their skin was as scale-like as it had been when she met them. She finished writing her letter, dipping the quill again to sign her name elegantly before placing everything neatly aside, she hovered her hand over the parchment, using her magic to dry the ink.

She held the paper, and folded it thrice before summoning an envelope, setting the letter inside, and sealing it with hot wax and her court's emblem, using the quill she made three stars on the bottom of the envelope with Night Blooms under the stars, her own personal mark for Tarquin to know who it came from.

With the letter sealed and marked, Rheana stood up and walked over to the balcony, gazing out at the city below. She felt a sense of anticipation building within her, wondering what response she might receive from Tarquin. She closed her eyes, letting the warm breeze caress her face, and whispered a silent prayer to the stars, hoping that her efforts would not be in vain.

Kallos appeared on the windowsill and with a wave of Rheana's hand, they turned into a raven, a deep black coat that still had its scaley texture, bigger than most birds, Take this for me. She said in their mind.

Kallos mindlessly picked the letter with their beak and nodded, for you, They then took flight, and Rheana cast a glamour on them to keep them invisible to anyone who looked to the sky.

Rheana watched intently as Kallos took flight, carrying her letter towards its destination. A pang of worry briefly crossed her heart but she quickly banished it, trusting in the strength of her words and her bond with Kallos, they would get the message to Tarquin. She returned to her seat, pouring herself another cup of chamomile tea, she pulled a book from her shelf, settling back comfortably with the intention to pass the time by losing herself in someone else's fantastical world until news arrived.

Rhysand and Feyre returned earlier than Rheana had expected, sensing how upset Feyre was, and told her enough of the fact that they hadn't visited The Prison.

Feyre had said nothing but locked herself in her room, and Rhysand had simply asked Rheana not to try to make her come out, giving her space.

Rheana nodded understandingly, sympathizing with Feyre’s pain. "Of course," she murmured softly, casting a glance towards the door of Feyre’s room. "Give her time." She advised gently, reaching out to place a comforting hand on Rhysand’s arm. "And you should give yourself some time too. It must be difficult to see your mate hurt."

Rheana could tell from the set of Rhysand's shoulders and the distant look in his eyes that he was indeed struggling too. His emotions were so closely tied to Feyre's, that it was hard for him to remain unaffected when she suffered. Rheana moved away from him slightly, stepping over to the fireplace to stir the embers and add more wood, the crackling flames providing a comforting sound.

Rheana left Rhysand with himself and some of the calming tea she had been drinking, and made her way up the House of Winds, if she had been in a hurry, she would've flown, but for now, she had the time to walk up the spiral staircase to the top.

10,000 stairs may seem daunting to many, but for Rheana, it was a familiar trek, one she often undertook when seeking solitude or clarity. As she climbed, the air grew cooler, the scent of saltwater and seafoam wafting in through the open windows that lined the staircase. By the time she reached the top, her legs were pleasantly tired, and her mind felt refreshed.

She had the House of Winds to herself, Cassian had gone to Illyria to see how the training for the males was going, she herself would be leaving soon to train her females, as she did every morning and afternoon, but she also had business to care for before that with Azriel, who waited for her.

Her thoughts went to the library in the House of Winds, on the new Priestess that had joined them almost a few days ago, when her temple was infiltrated by Hybern soldiers, the soldiers that Azriel had ripped apart with his Siphons and the general that he had beaten till his death.

After a few moments of peace, she took flight into the caves of the mountain the House of Winds was built on, as she stepped past a spell of glamour, the dungeons formed in front of her, muffled cries coming from deep inside, the place was dark, Rheana was sure many bats lived in the cracks and crevices in the caves, which might also be why Azriel always came with a new batch of captured insets every time he visited.

"Azriel?" Rheana called out when she felt a few shadows shifting around her, she knew every knock and cranny of this place, having worked alongside Azriel to contain her power and rage before she found much more suitable ways to manage herself.

She felt the shadows move behind her and she sensed Azriel, who simply moved past her when he knew she felt him, "How nice of you to join me, Rhea, this will be like old times."

Azriel led her to a cell, where a dead body lay, the body of the Hybern general, the only physical thing left of the people who attacked Sangravah, Rhysand had been quite pissed that Azriel had left no one standing to interrogate but after what he had told the siblings, Rhysand hadn't been that mad, and besides, Rheana could make it work.

"Ah, so this is him?" Rheana tutted, her clothes transforming, leather replacing cotton, armour, and Siphons on display, the look of death in her eyes, the male's face was bruised and battered, frozen in a look of terror from when Azriel had unleashed himself upon him, "Doesn't seem too intimidating."

"He looks like someone who picks fights with people who can't fight back." Azriel growled and Rheana rested a hand on his shoulder in comfort.

"Hey, why don't I do this alone? You take care of anything else..." Rheana sighed softly, "Perhaps see over the Illyrian females, while I'm busy."

Azriel left with a huff, he'd clearly wanted to see the male suffer, but they needed information more than sadistic pleasure. The second Azriel winnowed away, Rheana exhaled, the room filled with darkness, she looked at the male, tied up to a chair with chains, body slagging in it, covered in cuts and bruises, some received way after he was dead.

Rheana weaved her hand through the dead general's hair, with a sharp inhale, her eyes turned completely black, her skin going paler than the moon as she let go of her darkness and daemati powers, weaving them both together to take control of the dead mind of the general, bringing his body back to life with a gasp of harsh breath the body took, it's eyes dark just like Rheana's were.

The general blinked open his eyes, groaning in pain, staring blankly ahead as though trying to focus on something just beyond reach. Rheana stood before him, her form barely visible amidst the darkness, that swirled around her. She wasn't the dainty princess her father had wanted his daughters to be, clad in warrior leathers, muscles tense from power, biceps flexing from her grip in his hair, nails digging right into his skull, wings flared wide, dark purple Siphons gleaming in the darkness, in front of the general stood The Lady of Darkness, the witch of the dark the Illyrians feared, and the dead general had the right mind to look frightened. She leaned down closer to the male, her voice a low whisper against the silence of the dungeon.

"Speak," She commanded firmly, her eyes burning with an otherworldly intensity. "What were you doing in the Sangravah temple? What did you take?"

The general's lips parted, but no words came out at first. He tried to struggle against the restraints holding him in place, but they held firm. Fear shone brightly in his eyes, a stark contrast to the darkness of Rheana's own gaze. But still, he remained silent. Rheana frowned, her grip tightening even more. A curl of her hand sent another surge of energy coursing through the general, forcing him to obey.

"I… I was following orders!" He finally managed to stammer out, voice almost hypnotized, fear making his voice tremble. "We were tasked with finding and retrieving something specific."

"The feet of the Cauldron, that's what missing, there would be no need for it if you didn't have the Cauldron hidden with you." Rheana's eyes shone dark like a starless cold night sky, "Does your king have it?"

The general nodded, his mind in her hands, quite literally, fear etched across his face as he struggled to keep his composure. "Yes… Yes, he does! It's hidden somewhere safe. No one knows its location except for the king and those closest to him!"

"Like you," Rheana smirked like darkness and death herself, her hold on his mind tightening, "So, where?"

The general grimaced, pain shooting through his head as he fought against the compulsion Rheana exerted upon him. His eyes darted around wildly, searching for some kind of escape, but there was none, because he was dead, nothing about him quite alive. "I… I don't know exactly! Only that it is far from here, somewhere secluded and well-guarded," He confessed, desperation creeping into his tone.

"Fine, guard it in your mind, you only can for so long." Rheana hummed, her voice dangerously sweet, "And the young female you assaulted? Was that an order too? Or do you just liked having power over a defenseless female?"

The general paled further, his mind recoiling at the mention of the assault. "It wasn't an order! We… I acted on my own, without permission. I just couldn't resist her, she was so beautiful and helpless… And that bitch hid the children! It was an easy way to punish her..." He trailed off. "Please, forgive me, I swear it won't happen again!"

"Oh no it won't. Because you suffered and died, and I brought your mind back to torture you again," Rheana smiled, "But her? She suffered, and she will heal."

The general shuddered, his entire being trembling under the weight of Rheana's command. His eyes closed tight as tears began to stream down his cheeks, Rheana was sure the male had wet himself too, there was always that downside of bringing a mind back with magic, it jolted up some other functions too. "Please… Please don't hurt me anymore," he begged, voice cracking.

"Well, if you're lying to be general, you'll wish your body was obliterated like the rest of your soldiers," Rheana cooed as if talking to an infant, "Because I will be back, and that would hurt so much more."

Rheana withdrew her hand from his head, her fingers and palm soiled in blood as the male went limp again, looking more dead than he was before.

{General Taglist- @nox-ceur @lilah-asteria @paleidiot}

{Flames and Darkness Taglist- @anuttellaa @tuggboatfishin @inloveallthetime}

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jadegretz · 2 months ago

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Jessica Rabbit: Ravishing Redhead of the Silver Screen by Jade Gretz

The scent of trouble clung to Jessica Rabbit like Roger's spilled seltzer. It wasn't the usual philandering toon drama, nor some jealous rival vying for her spotlight. This was colder, deeper - a disquiet that gnawed at the very edges of Toontown. It started with Benny the Cab. One minute he was happily chauffeuring tourists, the next, a poof of smoke and a faint echo of laughter. Then came Ms. Grunion, the sardonic gossip columnist, vanished mid-sentence, leaving behind only a fluttering butterfly-shaped brooch. The disappearances, all high-profile cartoons, had a chilling efficiency.

"Something's rotten in Toontown, doll," Roger fidgeted, his normally jaunty grin replaced by a worried furrow. Jessica ran a hand through her crimson mane, the ruby brooch at her chest seeming to hum with an unsettling warmth. "Don't worry, Puddin'," she assured him, her voice a steely whisper, "I'll get to the bottom of this." It wasn't just about protecting Toontown, though that was a given. Jessica, for all her glamour, possessed a fierce investigative spirit fueled by a childhood spent poring over detective novels. This was a puzzle, and Jessica Rabbit wasn't one to back down from a challenge.

Her first lead came from a dusty corner of the Maroon Cartoon Archives, a place untouched by time (or at least, the chaotic kind that plagued Toontown). A faded ledger mentioned the "Inkwell of Infinite Possibilities," a relic from the forgotten era of Black and White cartoons. Whispers spoke of its power to bend reality, to rewrite storylines with a single dip of the pen. Could it be linked to the disappearances?

Finding the Inkwell was no easy feat. It wasn't a shining artifact guarded by snarling beasts; it was hidden in plain sight, disguised as a chipped porcelain well in the courtyard of an abandoned animation studio, overrun by thorny vines. As Jessica pushed through the undergrowth, a raven squawked, its beady eyes gleaming with malevolent curiosity. The air crackled with an unnatural stillness, broken only by the rustle of unseen things.

Just as she reached the well, …(see the rest of the story at deviantart.com/jadegretzAI). For more supergirl, chun li, batgirl, tifa, lara croft, wonder woman, rogue and much more, please visit my page at www.deviantart.com/jadegretzai - Thanks for your support :)

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theink-stainedfolk · 1 month ago

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Writing Share Tag

Thank you for the tag @the-inkwell-variable and @drchenquill

Of Perfume and Pretence

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The night air was crisp, carrying the faint scent of rain and asphalt. Julian leaned against the brick wall of the alley, his arms crossed, his gaze fixed on the darkened street ahead. He was waiting, and his patience was thinning.

The sound of footsteps echoed, slow and deliberate, accompanied by the click of expensive shoes on wet pavement. Ezra stepped out of the shadows, his long coat swaying with each stride. He looked every bit the enigma he always was—polished, self-assured, and utterly infuriating.

“You’re late,” Julian snapped, pushing off the wall.

Ezra shrugged, his expression unreadable. “Fashionably so, I’d say. I wasn’t aware you’d miss me so much.”

Julian ignored the bait, taking a step closer. “What did you find?”

Ezra tilted his head, as if considering whether to answer. “A thank-you would be nice, you know. I risked quite a bit for this information.”

“Ezra,” Julian growled, his tone low and dangerous. “I’m not in the mood for your games.”

Ezra raised his hands in mock surrender, though the smirk tugging at his lips remained intact. “Alright, alright. No need to get testy.” He reached into his coat and pulled out a folded piece of paper, holding it just out of Julian’s reach. “But before I hand this over, let me ask you something, Detective.”

Julian’s jaw tightened. “What?”

Ezra stepped closer, invading Julian’s space like it was the most natural thing in the world. His voice dropped to a near whisper. “Why are you so determined to catch this killer? Is it justice… or is it personal?”

Julian flinched, the question striking a nerve he didn’t want to acknowledge. He reached out to snatch the paper, but Ezra was quicker, pulling it back with a playful chuckle.

“Ah, ah. Answer first,” Ezra said, his eyes glittering with something Julian couldn’t quite place—curiosity, mischief, and maybe a hint of genuine concern.

“It’s my job,” Julian bit out, his tone clipped.

Ezra’s smirk faltered, just for a second. “That’s what you tell yourself. But I wonder…” He leaned in, so close Julian could feel the warmth of his breath. “What happens when the lines between justice and vengeance blur, Julian?”

The use of his first name sent a jolt through Julian’s chest, but he refused to let Ezra see how much it affected him. Instead, he grabbed Ezra’s wrist, his grip firm but not harsh. “Enough. Hand it over.”

Ezra studied him for a moment, his usual playful mask slipping. For a brief moment, Julian thought he saw something raw and vulnerable in those sharp eyes. But then, just as quickly, it was gone.

With a sigh, Ezra relented, slipping the paper into Julian’s hand. “There. No need to get all grabby.”

Julian ignored the comment, unfolding the paper to reveal a list of names. His stomach twisted at the sight—each name tied to the victims they’d been chasing. But at the bottom, in bold handwriting, was a name he hadn’t expected to see.

His own.

The blood drained from his face, and his fingers tightened around the paper. “What the hell is this?” he demanded, looking up at Ezra, whose expression had turned uncharacteristically serious.

“It seems someone’s taken an interest in you, Detective,” Ezra said softly, his tone devoid of its usual teasing. “And not the good kind.”

Julian stared at him, his mind racing. “Why didn’t you tell me this sooner?”

Ezra’s gaze softened, his smirk replaced with something almost... protective. “Because I wanted to be sure you’d listen. And let’s face it, Julian—you only listen when your life’s on the line.”

For once, Julian didn’t have a retort. Instead, he turned his attention back to the list, the weight of the discovery settling heavily on his shoulders. He didn’t notice Ezra step closer until he felt a hand on his arm, grounding him.

“Don’t worry,” Ezra said, his voice barely above a whisper. “I won’t let anything happen to you.”

Julian looked at him, startled by the sincerity in his tone. But before he could respond, Ezra pulled away, his usual smirk sliding back into place like a well-worn mask.

“Come on, Detective,” Ezra said, turning toward the street. “We’ve got work to do.”

And with that, he disappeared into the night, leaving Julian with more questions than answers—and a growing unease he couldn’t shake.

---

I'll tag @finickyfelix @willtheweaver @leahnardo-da-veggie @illarian-rambling @winglesswriter @paeliae-occasionally @the-golden-comet @thecomfywriter @roarintheheavens @wyked-ao3 @corinneglass @seastarblue

#writeblr #writers on tumblr #writers #writerscommunity #writing #creative writing #writers and poets #writers of tumblr #writblr #my writing

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