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manheimsmuse · 4 months ago

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bejewelled ; spencer reid

what’s a girl gonna do? a diamonds gotta shine!

a/n: very mildly self indulgent, i imagine this set around season one or two-ish just ‘cause the vibe of early criminal minds season will never be matched.

warnings: spencer reid x afab!bau!reader, established, secret romantic relationship, body piercings ( bellybutton ), teasing ( derek and spencer being, well, derek and spencer )

recently these late nights in the office had become more and more frequent. the team all sat in the bullpen in comfortable silence, only broken periodically when someone offered coffee from the kitchenettes unreliable coffee machine.

you rose to your feet slowly, body aching from being sat at your desk for so long. you tilt your head side to side, humming softly at the relief in your neck and shoulders before clasping your hands together and stretching them above your head.

a grave mistake.

“what is this!” elle squealed, all but launching herself across her desk then the hem of your shirt rises to expose the sparkling jewel dangling from your navel “a piercing? how edgy.”

elle’s tone is teasing as one hand shifts the hem of your shirt up just enough for her to examine the star shaped diamond with the other.

you’re too tired to swat her away, and in all honesty you welcome the distraction from the heavy workload, even if it’s drawing unwanted attention from the rest of your team.

a low wolf whistle is sent in your direction from the one derek morgan as he peers over elle’s shoulder to get a look at the jewellery, as does jj, and, naturally, penelope.

“hey, pretty boy, you know about this?” derek taunts, glancing over his shoulder at spencer, still knee deep in paperwork and ignoring the commotion surrounding your navel.

the entire team, especially derek, loved to poke fun at spencer for his little crush on you. teasing him relentlessly for not asking you on a date, for how he occasionally stumbled over his words when you sat next to him on the jet.

a bellybutton piercing, by their assumption, should’ve sent the poor kid genius into orbit.

but spencer knew already.

the two of you had been a bit of an item for a little over six months, keeping the new relationship hidden from your team for no other reason than pettiness. it was nice having something that just belonged to you two.

“yeah, i know.”

spencers mumbled response catches even you off guard, and it doesn’t even seem to register with him what came out of his mouth as he cards his hand through his hair.

“i — excuse me, what!?” penelope squeaks, heels clicking as she shuffles her way over to spencers desk and snaps his file closed “nuh uh, open your ears mister!” she scolds, tapping his forehead with the fluffy pompom on the end of her pen.

spencers laugh, your favourite sound, reaches your ears as he finally lets you catch his gaze. his eyes quickly flick up and down your body, a speedy skill he’d been perfecting since you first got together to catch a glimpse at you without anyone else noticing.

“i knew.” spencer reinforces with a nod “she caught it in her sweater last week and took it out on me”

a half truth, it was his sweater, in his apartment, but his answer seems to be enough to satisfy elle who releases her grip on your shirt.

you watch as spencer gets to his feet and, much like you, began stretching. only, to your horror, when he craned his head to the side the collar of his button up no longer shielded the dark purple bruise on his neck.

your drunken handiwork.

“now wait a damn minute..” derek began, eyes drifting from reids neck to you “now i know y’all nasty kids aren’t doing what i’m thinking.”

“no idea what you mean,” you mumble hurriedly, burying your face back in your paperwork and ignoring the giggles and prodding coming from jj and elle at either side of you.

#manheimsmuse #spencer reid #spencer reid x you #spencer reid smut #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid fluff #criminal minds

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tadpolesonalgae · 4 months ago

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Lost In Paradise

Azriel x reader

a/n: I don’t know what the fuck overcame me when writing this—heads up they’re in the Day Court, by the way

Warnings: dear gods Azriel, Azriel in jewellery—diamond piercings to be precise, with kohl lined/smudged eyes, biting, oral (f receiving), smut, overstim, Azzie being a bit mischievous—implied orgasm denial, light wing play, light breeding kink

word count: 3,009

“We have a dinner to go to, Az,” you insist, inclining your chin as he noses along your throat, broad palms running slowly, reverently, up and down the bare skin of your back. Calloused and scarred hands rasping against the smooth, shimmery expanse of your skin, fingers touching along the knuckles of your spine.

“You’re a three course meal all on your own, pretty thing,” he murmurs beside the shell of your ear, gripping your waist lightly, letting his touch span across the sheer silk of your dress, marvelling at your feel, your shape beneath his hands—how finely you fit with him.

Your pulse spikes at the flattery, heart beating quick in your chest, head tipping back as his lips press firmly to the small notch in your throat, kissing down to your collar bones, keeping you tight to his front, grip firm and unrelenting. “We’re guests,” you try faintly, already lost in his heaven, “it would be bad etiquette to not show up to the first meal—Az…!”

In one smooth motion he’s swept you off your feet, guiding your legs around his waist, thighs squeezing his hips while his palms appreciatively support your ass. “Bad etiquette would be not eating you out before I fuck you,” he drawls atop your mouth, a cocky smirk on his softened lips, staring down at you with his kohl-smudged eyes, diamonds swinging from his ears, the gold fastenings gleaming in the burning yellow sunset, setting the ocean on fire with molten metal as the sun melts atop the glistening waves.

“Bad etiquette would be wasting a perfectly romantic evening for the sake of one measly dinner that we aren’t even required to attend,” he murmurs, that smug, self-satisfied look in his shining hazel eyes, flecks of amber and jade set alight through the refraction of the setting sun. Gleaming and swirling like they’re precious stones infinitely more valuable than even the tiny, glittering diamonds making up the jewellery adorning his marvellously handsome features.

“You look good in Day Court attire,” you mumble breathlessly, clinging onto him as he walks you out onto the balcony, laying you down atop the pillowy, padded massage table, creamy fabric turned a perfectly-baked, golden-brown in the evening light, fitted over the cushions.

“You like how much skin it shows,” he drawls, palms settling either side of you, your hair splayed out from where he’s set you, strewn in lustrous glory against the pillow. “You like how easy it is to manoeuvre around.”

Sure enough, with the soaring temperatures during a sun-filled day, with heat beating down upon the marble-carved pillars, the attire is perfectly suited for the arid climate. Clothing comes in light colours—mostly cream or off-white—and it contrasts the colour of his skin perfectly. The flush on his cheeks despite the cocky look highlights the hunger delightfully. And thanks to the opulent nature of the Court itself, it gives reason for your mate to wear some of the piercings he rarely adorns himself in for the sake of practicality. The ones you love—his ears the main focus, but with wandering hands your fingers clutch the hem of pale, heated linen, raising it from his toned stomach to reveal the incredibly self-indulgent piercing he’d gotten for his belly button, white diamonds set around the narrow golden band.

“Gods you’re edible,” you pant, the shallow breaths having little to do with the heated evening and more to do with the hot and hungry look he’s pinning you with as he pulls the troublesome shirt off and over his head. His wings flexing and flaring now they’re rid of the fabric brushing the base of the great limbs. Showing off his well-endowed magnificence, as he should.

“Feel better about skipping that dinner now, pretty thing?” Azriel asks roughly, fingers catching the hem of your dress and swiftly pulling it out from under you, pushing it away further along the pale, padded table. “Maybe you had a point about my bad etiquette,” he drawls hotly, open palm coasting up your stomach, fingers grazing between your breasts. He leans over, dark silky hair flopping across your brow, kohl-rimmed eyes making the hazel of his irises simmer with the ravenous intensity of the setting sun, setting you ablaze. “I’ll be eating first.”

“How brash,” you breathe, fingers dancing up the bare muscle of his upper arms, nails squeezing lightly at his shoulders, raking teasingly over his gloriously powerful back. He begins laying kisses to your collar bones, teeth nipping at your shimmering skin—you’d spent some time refreshing and making use of the scented, swirling lotions available—slowly trailing down between your breasts, tongue flicking over your nipples teasingly. “Weren’t you ever told not to play with your food?”

“How can I resist when there’s such a beautiful meal before me? Taste is important but it’s more than that, wouldn’t you say?” Fingers hook beneath the golden strings at your hips, guiding them down your thighs as his mouth trails lower, kissing down your stomach. “I need to appreciate all of you. Not just with my mouth, but with my skin, and touch. How can I enjoy you without indulging all my senses?”

“All of them?” You question, back arching as he reaches your abdomen, fingers threading through his hair to encourage him closer.

Azriel laughs, the sound coming from deep in his chest, splashing over your skin like melted butter and honey, bathing you in arousing sweetness. “All of them,” he whispers.

“Sight.” Dark rimmed eyes flick upwards, licking over your form as he connects with you, lashes thick and heavy atop his gaze—equally heavy.

“Smell.” He noses the intimate skin of your inner thigh, fingers digging into the soft flesh as he parts your legs to make room for himself, your ass resting just at the edge of the cushioned table.

“Touch.” Fingers slip between your parted thighs, trailing up and down your centre, slicking himself in your wetness. Circling your clit twice before dipping back down.

“Sound.” His thick digits slide in, a cocky smirk on his mouth as he curls them causing your back to arch, beckoning you forward, a heady moan spilling from your mouth as he pushes deeper, rubbing against spots he knows you like.

“Would you like to tell me the fifth one?” Azriel drawls, dangerously low, arousal thickening his tone to something dark and syrupy.

“Taste…” You breathe desperately. “Taste…Azriel!”

“Good girl.” His lips curve in a sinful grin, diamonds twinkling their mirth as he lowers himself to your cunt. “You’ve earned it.”

A rich, heady moan spills from your mouth as his tongue flattens over your clit, fingers working you with heavenly ease while his mouth remains at the apex of your thighs. It’s nothing short of paradise, floating high above in the clouds, nestled in a pillowy cushion as he bathes you in pleasure, rubbing it into you in ways that shouldn’t be permitted—how can something so good exist on this plane of reality?

Your head tips back into the cushioning, moans rising from your chest unabashedly, singing your pleasure with every curl of his fingers, every lovely flick of his tongue. The high approaches far faster than you ever would have expected, spine arching, grinding down on his mouth, hips swirling as he suckles at your clit, able to feel the impending high as your muscles brace for the powerful onslaught.

You cry out as you come, nails raking through his hair, his wings flaring with male satisfaction as you orgasm, feeling you tighten and flutter around his thick fingers, clit pulsing as pleasure rapidly fires through your body, racing up and throughout your skin, spreading right to your fingertips. Your mouth opens as sound fails you, eyes squeezing shut, Azriel’s rough palms gripping your hips tight as you begin to squirm and writhe, seeking to crawl away from the pleasure—but he likes seeing you like this, and won’t allow it to end anywhere near prematurely.

His forearm bands across your hips, pinning them down as you try to buck upward, forcing you through the aftershocks that have your body trembling, strength draining, leaving you powerless to resist his dominating touch. Azriel’s relentless in the pursuit of your pleasure, keeping his fingers tucked inside of you, keeping the pace, keeping his tongue swirling around your hardened clit, dragging it between his lips when he feels you coming down and teasingly tugging on it with his teeth.

A lovely whimper graces his ears, mouth parting into a wicked grin as you muster the strength to look down at him, your legs spread with slick gleaming on his lips, threading between your inner thighs where he’s gotten you especially messy.

“Ready for the main course?” He drawls, your nipples peaking at the rough, rolling timbre of his voice, skin prickling as awareness sweeps through you. “Main course?” You pant, already falling out of it, unable to grasp what he’s referring to with that wicked smile as he stands, wings looming over his shoulders. Shadows pull the band of his loose, pale linen trousers from their already low placement on his hips, allowing his hands to settle either side of your waist as he presses flush to your messy heat.

“Both of us,” he whispers, leaning down atop your mouth, “together?”

You think your eyes roll slightly at the reminder, nails threading through his inky hair as you pull him into a hot kiss, thighs wrapping snugly around his hips. His cock rests hot and heavy against your cunt, slowly riding back and forth to coat himself thoroughly, before aligning his tip with your entrance.

“Go slowly,” you beg, clutching onto him with anticipation—you’re far to sensitive for any of his rough treatment. But he smirks over your lips, hips drawing back so his tip drags down over your hardened clit, his leaking cock nudging the entrance of your drooling cunt, messy and sloppy from previous attention—about to be made much messier.

“Go slowly?” He muses, a low laugh in his voice that makes your skin prickle, hairs standing on end. “You’re perfectly warmed up, aren’t you? All ready and pliable, huh? What could you possibly want me to go slowly for?” You flush deeply, hands twining together over his broad shoulders, trying to push as much sternness into your gaze as you can manage—which isn’t much, judging by the way he chuckles.

“Is my girl too sensitive?”

That smirk. That sinful fucking smirk.

“Whatever you do to me I’ll be delivering right back,” you warn, thighs squeezing his hips. “I’m getting you in my mouth after this, remember…”

“How could I forget?” He groans, hips pushing forward. “Gonna taste both of us.”

A pleased moan sighs from your lips as he fills you up, gripping one leg to bring it up his chest—the underside of your thigh pressing to his lower stomach as he pushes tight against you. Azriel’s gaze is nothing short of ravenous as he takes in the arch of your spine as his palm splays across your abdomen, applying a slight pressure to really get you to feel him.

“Like that?” He asks, short on breath. Mouth curved in that smug grin. So self-satisfied. “Look at you,” he coos, shifting his hips, dragging them back so his head is again at your entrance, before pushing his cock all the way back inside. “So hot and flushed. All of this for me?” His thumb swipes across your clit, and you moan helplessly, tossing your head to the side as your eyes squeeze shut, nails scraping over the cushioning.

Before you can formulate a reply he’s setting his pace, giving deep, almost punishing thrusts of his hips that roll firmly to your own. Sharp and decisive, just as you like, spine arching with every buck.

“Can you even count to three right now?” He taunts, shadows swirling over your breasts, teasingly playing with your nipples, curling around them and tugging lightly. You try to shoot him a glare—that side of him has been coming out more frequently as of late, and you really don’t want to deal with his mean streak right now. Not on such a perfectly set up evening for romance and intimacy.

So you extend your arms toward him, fingers opening and closing as if to grasp onto him. “Azriel…” you moan, reaching. His hips buck sharply of their own accord, swearing you could feel him twitch from pleasure—he might enjoy being mean from time to time, but it’s all for getting you nice and needy. He’s an undeniable soft spot for your desperation. Like putty in your hands once you reach for him, your toes curling from pleasure.

“Fuck,” he curses low under his breath, driving his cock firmly into you as his palms splay either side of you, letting you touch and feel all over him, practically shivering with the greed in your fingers as they explore and grope. “Such a sweet little thing to everyone else, aren’t you? Such a wicked little devil when you’re with me.”

Teeth tug on your lower lip as you try to keep your smile to yourself, but you fail miserably, smiling wide as your head tips back into the pillow, relishing the pleasure. “Wicked devil?” You moan out, forcing yourself to meet simmering hazel, heat sizzling just beneath your skin, clit itching for release as his abdomen grazes the apex of your thighs.

“Like this?”

A startled noise slips from his lips as you reach further over his shoulders, stroking his wings slowly. Teasing out his pleasure to have him playing nice with yours. His forehead drops to your own, brows pressing together, close enough to share panting breaths, your breasts grazing his chest with each heaving inhale.

His lips part on an unabashed groan that licks up your spine, pooling between your legs at his deep confessions to pleasure, repeating the slow strokes to his wings.

“Like that,” he confirms, jaw wound tight as he tries to cope with the overwhelming onslaught of stimulation. Hazel eyes warily open, a sharp glint in them as his instincts snarl and grapple with reasoning, but you want him to yield to them, not fight them.

It seems he gets the message.

Azriel’s palms snatch at your wrists, slamming them down on the cushioned table to keep you pinned, forcing you to take every brutal buck of his hips and you can feel as both of you swoop for that high that’s rising. His wings flare wide, their total span easily twice his height, casting a dark, dominating shadow that you know is an instinctive show of possession.

Shadows wrap beneath the arch of your spine, clutching your hips to raise them from the table, and the angle has you going dizzy. Moans spill and babble as he pounds into you, grip remaining tight on your wrists to keep them trapped, driving in and out relentlessly until you think you might have screamed from overstimulation, panting and out of breath when you return to reality beneath him.

“Fuck, that’s it,” he growls against your skin, teeth scraping the tender length of your throat, searching for a spot to choose, to bite down on. He picks a section, pushing his teeth in, licking and sucking to push a feverish kiss into your skin, only pulling away once he’s satisfied.

“Az,” you whine, cupping his cheeks in your hands, squeezing lightly as you arch into him. “It’s my turn.”

“Your turn?” His hand wraps around your wrist, nosing the centre of your palm, pressing a kiss to its heel, delivering a small lick that zaps straight to your clit. His hips pull away, then push back in, able to feel as his cum begins seeping out of you. “You’ve hardly taken any of it, pretty thing. You need to be full up before moving onto me. Can’t have you going on empty, hm?”

“Azriel!” You yelp as he rolls his hips to yours more firmly, bucking against you with enough force to nudge you further up the table. “That isn’t fair,” you squawk indignantly.

“My sweet little devil’s going to tell me what’s fair now, is she?”

His lips curve into that smirk, and your willpower crumbles, legs wrapping themselves tighter around his waist to press him deeper. Azriel’s subsequent laugh reignites arousal in the pit of your stomach, tightening around his cock, urging him to follow through with his taunts. “Do it,” you whisper, “hurry up.”

“You wanted me to go slowly earlier. I said you needed to be filled up, not that you needed to come.”

“Azriel!” You gasp when he pulls out entirely, flipping you onto your front so you’re bent over for him, arms forcefully dragged behind your back to give him full control.

“Don’t worry, you’ll get to me,” he muses, lining himself up. “But the evening’s too good to waste, don’t you agree? It would be a shame to have it over and done with so quickly.”

“And you called me the devil,” you mumble into the cushioning, squirming lightly beneath him to feel the unrelenting strength of his grip. “You’re going to cry when I get my mouth on you.”

He chuckles again, shackling your forearms to the base of your spine with his shadows, rough palms easily gripping your hips. “It’s adorable you think you’re going to make it through that far. We both know you’ve never managed.”

Azriel leans over you, cock slowly sliding in as he settles at your back. You can feel his lips against your ear, breath fanning the sensitive expanse of your neck. “I’d tell you to hold on tight, princess, but you can’t even manage that most nights. So tonight all you need to do is lie still, and take it.”

His palm slides beneath your jaw, raising you from the cushioning, a mocking note to his deep and honeyed voice. “How does that sound?”

general taglist: @myheartfollower @tcris2020 @mali22 @slut4acotar @sfhsgrad-blog @needylilgal022 @hannzoaks @hnyclover @skyesayshi @nyotamalfoy @decomposing-writer @soph1644 @lilah-asteria @nighttimemoonlover @mrsjna

az taglist: @azrielshadows1nger @jurdanpotter @positivewitch @nightcourt-daydreaming @assassinsblade @marvelouslovely-barnes @v3lv3tf0x @kalulakunundrum @vellichor01 @throneofsmut @vickykazuya @starlitlakes @kksbookstuff @feerique @ratgirl2020

#dividers by cafekitsune #azriel x reader #azriel x reader smut #azriel x you #azriel x yn #azriel acotar #azriel smut

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starlight-incarnate · 4 months ago

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House of Feänor as Aesthetics:

Fëanor — loud voice, commanding presence, analytical, natural leader, piercing eyes, foggy hillsides, black boots, tipping their head back to breathe the air, mirrored lakes and everything below the surface, tearing leaves from trees, blunt sarcasm, long dark hair, deep sleeper, rotting tree stumps, black leather jacket, songs that makes you want to create a storm, rebellious, ambition, unstoppable passion, fast trains, polaroids, empty castles.

Maedhros — walking silently, stronger due to all the stuff meant to kill them, ignoring their mental health issues, fiery red hair, crumbling marble, oversized hoodies, raw voice, lingering touches, faint music in the distance, calming down from a panic attack, long heavy cloaks, cold hands, disillusioned with the world, insomnia, unhealthy habits, sighs made visible by cold night air, strong hugs, never sleeps, loud music, freckles, dark under-eyes.

Maglor — hypnotising smiles, a broken mind, melancholy, driving through mountains and the woods, iced coffee, the faint feeling of raindrops on your cheeks, ripped jeans, tight hugs, whispered compliments, deep conversations, late night texts, nimble hands, thin blades, white lilies, vertigo, unkept journals, lightning and thunder, rhythms so raw the heartbreak is showing, shattered glass, walking alone on a cold night, silver necklaces, regret.

Celegorm — bright eyes, climbing rock formations, cold-hearted, hard breathing after running, wood cabins, gladiator arenas, wicked smiles, twisted branches, wild hair, growing more and more dangerous, night drives, adrenaline rushes, bruises, bloody cloaks, running from society, breathless laughing, that animalistic unpredictability, silver and leather bracelets, strong coffee after a sleepless night, city lights from a high rise, addiction, barking dogs, hurricanes.

Caranthir — ironic smirks, bitten nails painted black, lightning in summer, empty threats, sunglasses hiding dead eyes, thick chain jewellery, temperamental, goes to car races just to watch the crashes, deep glares, tongue/lip piercings, midnight walks, lightbulbs burning out, diamonds, crushed ice, a glint of cat eyes in the dark, gold coins in storm drains, cold hands, storm clouds rolling in, theatres, suppressed emotions, wrought iron gates, motorcycles.

Curufin — cherries and Diet Coke, white marble, a studio apartment on the 67th floor, tattoos, neon lights, sweetened coffee, smudged makeup, too-loud music, cursive notes written in red ink, veiny forearms, sharp canines, fresh snowfall, high rise buildings, white light, sheer robes with nothing underneath, fog, stained glass windows, colourful hair, slow heartbeats, long-forgotten love, cold mountaintops, eternal silence.

Amrod — burnished copper, feverish eyes, hues of orange and gold, stars and spades, brewing tea, freckles, hardwood floors, poisonous flowers, listens to Hozier, messy hair, fake circle glasses, bullet point notes on a restaurant napkin, comfortable silence, broken wings on insects, old hungers, the whispering of trees, kicking stones on deserted paths, forgotten places, origami stars, old overgrown stone castles, morning mist, horse riding.

Amras — misplaced keys, wandering aimlessly, selectively mute, deep lakes hiding secrets, pine trees, restless nights, misunderstood, reliving the same day over and over again, graphic tees, dead moths, visual mind, muffled screams into a pillow, listens to asmr, doc martens, profanity, burned cigarettes, zoning out often, heart fluttering nervously, confusing satellites for stars, comic filled bookshelves, radios, old jeeps, glowing keyboards.

Celebrimbor — ravens, white-hot metal, the darkest shade of black, glittering skin, low waist pants, stars falling, the heat lingering in the evening, petals falling off dead flowers, trusting the wrong people, blue veins, cobblestone paths, linoleum tiles, bruises/scars easily, the heat lingering in the evening, cities awake late, card games, overanalysing everything, shiny fabrics, the slamming of a shot glass, the sting of betrayal.

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moonastro · 11 months ago

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pick a picture⋆ ˚ ꩜ ｡ ⋆୨୧˚

𝙧𝙖𝙣𝙙𝙤𝙢 𝙛𝙖𝙘𝙩𝙨 𝙤𝙛 𝙮𝙤𝙪𝙧 𝙛𝙨 𝙥𝙩.2

left to right(top)-> 1,2

left to right(bottom)-> 3,4

*ੈ✩‧₊˚*ੈ✩‧₊˚*ੈ✩‧₊˚*ੈ✩‧₊˚*ੈ✩‧₊˚*ੈ✩‧₊˚*ੈ✩‧₊˚˚*ੈ✩‧₊˚*ੈ✩‧₊˚*ੈ✩‧₊˚*ੈ₊˚*ੈ✩‧₊˚

°DO NOT take this as literal, take everything with a grain of salt as this is purely and intendedly for entertainment purposes.

°Don't be afraid to give feedback and opinions about this post (as i would entirely appreciate it).

° This is a GENERAL reading, take what resonates and leave and pass on what does not!

*ੈ✩‧₊˚*ੈ✩‧₊˚*ੈ✩‧₊˚*ੈ✩‧₊˚*ੈ✩‧₊˚*ੈ✩‧₊˚*ੈ✩‧₊˚˚*ੈ✩‧₊˚*ੈ✩‧₊˚*ੈ✩‧₊˚*ੈ₊˚*ੈ✩‧₊˚

PILE 1-

ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻ੈ✩‧₊˚ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻ੈ✩‧₊˚ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻ੈ✩‧₊˚ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻₊˚༺☆༻ੈ✩‧

˚ ༘ ೀ⋆｡˚may have a significant-like a strong/muscley back or have problems with back pain--also the spine!!

˚ ༘ ೀ⋆｡˚may regularly change hairstyle often, perhaps cut their hair a lot and dye their hair often. i see them leaning towards having red/blue/grey hair.

˚ ༘ ೀ⋆｡˚may like sparkly thing, for example diamonds, glitter, glass and so forth. anything with sparkles on it intrigues them.

˚ ༘ ೀ⋆｡˚may also be into star shaped jewellery, stars may be an interest of theirs.

˚ ༘ ೀ⋆｡˚may wear hats or like to wear hoods.

˚ ༘ ೀ⋆｡˚loves sleeping, is a deep sleeper.

˚ ༘ ೀ⋆｡˚may prefer winter/ autumn more than summer/spring. prefer the cold weather in general. may constantly have a fan/air con on at all times despite the weather outside.

˚ ༘ ೀ⋆｡˚like cooking, preparing meals for others. are interested in learning new recipes.

˚ ༘ ೀ⋆｡˚like history, are fascinated about historic events and eras.

˚ ༘ ೀ⋆｡˚are most likely into skincare and haircare, have a designated routine that they do every day.

thank you for reading and hope you enjoyed!!✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

PILE 2-

ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻ੈ✩‧₊˚ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻ੈ✩‧₊˚ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻ੈ✩‧₊˚ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻₊˚༺☆༻ੈ✩‧

˚ ༘ ೀ⋆｡˚are definitely a high achiever, may have a lot of achievements academically speaking.

˚ ༘ ೀ⋆｡˚are sensitive to sounds, sound is very important to them. For example, may like loud music blasting in their ears or are the opposite and hate loud sounds, like hating fireworks because of their loud sound.

˚ ༘ ೀ⋆｡˚may have green eyes, blonde/red hair.

˚ ༘ ೀ⋆｡˚love children, would want a family for sure. has a soft spot for kids.

˚ ༘ ೀ⋆｡˚has multiple of ears piercing, may have other body piercings also.

˚ ༘ ೀ⋆｡˚hate being in tight spaces, are picky about clothes and overall personal space.

˚ ༘ ೀ⋆｡˚very caring and nurturing. is the kind of person to anonymously do something to protect you without craving for the attention of recognition.

˚ ༘ ೀ⋆｡˚has some signature sitting position/habit that they have when sitting down. may cross their legs or bend one leg and so forth.

˚ ༘ ೀ⋆｡˚love warm weather, especially watching the sunrise- are perhaps a morning person as well.

˚ ༘ ೀ⋆｡˚love movies, might have a comfort movie that they watch over and over again.

˚ ༘ ೀ⋆｡˚have longer than average legs.

thanks for reading!!!✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

PILE 3-

ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻ੈ✩‧₊˚ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻ੈ✩‧₊˚ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻ੈ✩‧₊˚ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻₊˚༺☆༻ੈ✩‧

˚ ༘ ೀ⋆｡˚loveee music, may make/create/produce music themselves.

˚ ༘ ೀ⋆｡˚may prefer gold jewellery or may have/own a lot of gold accessories.

˚ ༘ ೀ⋆｡˚may be lactose intolerant or just hate diary, cheese-- may be vegan/vegetarian or follow some sort of a diet.

˚ ༘ ೀ⋆｡˚may like dark themes, clothes, style, music, aesthetic etc.

˚ ༘ ೀ⋆｡˚weird way to explain it but may hate how time goes fast, may be afraid of aging or growing up. even may be afraid of death also.

˚ ༘ ೀ⋆｡˚they don't get bored easily, can sit still doing nothing for hours on end.

˚ ༘ ೀ⋆｡˚have a very hypnotic/sweet/classy voice. i feel like their voice makes people melt ☆⋆｡𖦹°‧★

˚ ༘ ೀ⋆｡˚keeps to themselves most of the time, and i don't mean that in a shy matter but in a energy reserved way- they just would much rather have/prefer their own company. or aren't bothered by being alone.

˚ ༘ ೀ⋆｡˚might not celebrate their birthday. or may think that there is no need to.

˚ ༘ ೀ⋆｡˚love thinking about the higher cosmos and the outer worldly possibilities.

˚ ༘ ೀ⋆｡˚may not drink enough water/don't like water/forget to drink water.

˚ ༘ ೀ⋆｡˚prefer to stay silent than to express what they think.

hope you enjoyed this reading PILE 3!!!✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

PILE 4-

ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻ੈ✩‧₊˚ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻ੈ✩‧₊˚ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻ੈ✩‧₊˚ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻₊˚༺☆༻ੈ✩‧

˚ ༘ ೀ⋆｡˚are sly with things, almost like hypnotic. their actions are so hypnotising that you cant say no to them.

˚ ༘ ೀ⋆｡˚have a soft spot for old things, may like to go thrifting, collect lost things, love getting generational stuff passed down to them etc etc.

˚ ༘ ೀ⋆｡˚definitely go with he flow, they may not think much of their future and are too busy thinking about the present moment.

˚ ༘ ೀ⋆｡˚like to try new things, may like to go along with the current trends on the internet and social media. may like to make social media content also.

˚ ༘ ೀ⋆｡˚think about others before themselves.

˚ ༘ ೀ⋆｡˚may be from a hot country-may be racially mixed.

˚ ༘ ೀ⋆｡˚are very loyal.

˚ ༘ ೀ⋆｡˚keep very good secrets. i feel like they are the friend who is always getting the tea☕🍵😭

˚ ༘ ೀ⋆｡˚are good with little details, are always confronted with "how do you know that" or "how do you remember that??". because they surprise people of how good they remember the tiniest of details of a situation or person.

thanks so much for reading, hope you enjoyed PILE 4!!!✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

*ੈ♡⸝⸝🪐༘⋆*ੈ♡⸝⸝🪐༘⋆*ੈ♡⸝⸝🪐༘⋆*ੈ♡⸝⸝🪐༘⋆*ੈ♡⸝⸝🪐⋆*ੈ♡⸝⸝🪐༘⋆

FRIENDLY REMINDER- paid tarot readings are available (DM or check out here for more info!!)

*IMAGES ARE NOT MINE*

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lenacohenjewellery · 13 days ago

Text

BASIC DIAMOND EAR PIERCING STUD

With its wide gold border, this earring adds a touch of volume that beautifully frames the delicate sparkle of the diamond. The simple yet sophisticated design makes it an effortless addition to any curated ear, seamlessly blending with various styles and other pieces. Wearing this luxury piercing stud offers a subtle way to enhance your everyday look, effortlessly transitioning from casual outings to more polished occasions✨

The fine jewellery craftsmanship reflects a commitment to quality, allowing the piece to shine on its own or complement a thoughtfully curated ear stack. Each time it catches the light, the earring serves as a gentle reminder of the beauty in understated elegance. The single sparkling diamond cartilage piercing earring by Lena Cohen exudes a refined elegance that speaks to the essence of quiet luxury✨

#fine jewellery pieces #jewellery #jewellery uk #gold #diamond ear piercing #luxury piercing #diamond earrings #ear piercings #gold earrings #ootd (outfit of the day)#ear piercing #luxury ear piercing jewellery #luxury piercing jewellery #piercing #helix piercing #diamond piercing jewellery #cartilage piercing studs #lena cohen

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mothiir · 3 months ago

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xenobiology

pov: you’re an eldar, and the human you’re working with smells better each day.

this is the other side of eyes full of stars, told from Taleath’s perspective. fair warning that it will get pretty weird pretty fast, because writing from the pov of a murderous space elf leads to some strange avenues.

—

Whatever process that Cato Sicarius underwent to shape him into a muscle-bound killing machine clearly stripped out his — already limited — social grace and replaced it with battle acumen and bloodthirst. Taleath isn’t complaining — the creature is a worthy ally on the battlefield — but it is vexing to see the Astartes snarl and posture around you, despising how you inspire such rampant sexual desire in him, and thus despising you. It’s such a petty human trouble: denying your feelings, and having them twist into something gnarled and uncontrollable. And human emotions are so base and simple! If Cato were to feel one tenth — no, one hundredth — of the true emotional range of an Aeldari then his tiny, unwrinkled brain would combust with the effort of controlling them.

That being said: Taleath runs his tongue over his gauntlet, tasting where your lips brushed, and suppresses a full-body shiver. Oh how he wants. He’s spent almost a hundred years learning to manage his darker impulses, but before that he indulged them at will, and the hedonistic habits of three centuries are clawing at the edges of his self control. You taste sweet and mammalian. He wants to drink you down to the bone, your hot blood down his gullet, your shining soul sticking between his teeth. As he roles the fragments of you over his tastebuds, the tiny shreds of skin cells and drop of saliva, the taste thins and vanishes, and oh it is not enough.

It will never be enough.

“Come here, please,” he says, removing his gloves slowly, slowly, slowly — meditatively, focusing on the slide of metal over each of his knuckles, trying to use the sensation to ground himself. It works, up until the point when you stand before him, your warm heart racing, echoing in his marrow. His ears twitch to better capture the sound. He places one bare palm against the small of your back, pulling you closer, and declares a personal vendetta against whatever seamstress made your clothes, against whatever beast produced the fabric. He will gut them all, burn their worlds and display their loved ones on spikes, all for having the temerity of separating his hand from your flesh.

His thumb presses at your lower lip. Your flesh is softer than he expected, downed with fine hair that is invisible to a human’s eyes, but he sees it; sees how the light catches on the strands, velvety and exotic. He exerts just the tiniest amount of pressure, willing you to open your mouth, to welcome him inside, to lave that warm tongue of yours over his digit. You don’t, however. You hold yourself there, heart rabbit-swift and skin rosy with arousal, and you defy him. Your eyes fix on his: challenging. Pushing inside your mind feels all too natural; you welcome him in — subconsciously, of course — and he tastes your defiance like dandelion leaves plucked at dawn, your desire a rosy pink sunrise glow on a still pond. By the gods, this is monumentally unfair. He is meant to be reformed. A century ago, he would already have had you a dozen times over, shaping your sweet warm insides to fit him: you wouldn’t be able to move without the remnants of his pleasure leaking down your thighs. He would have braided your hair with diamonds that glittered like caught stars; you would jangle with the jewellery he draped about your throat, displaying the trophies of his latest raid. He would have have branded his sigil between your breasts and pierced your nipples, just so he could string a gold chain between them, and use it to pull you closer and —

Your breath puffs against his flesh, and he can restrain himself no longer. His fingers slot into your mouth like they were destined for it — maybe they were. The Farseers have stranger prophecies than this; it is not beyond the realm of possibility that Isha, in her infinite wisdom, sewed the seeds for your birth ten thousand years ago, knowing that one day you would be here, mouth crooked open, silk-wet and perfect.

He explores your mouth in the same way he removed his gloves: slow, deliberate; an act of meditation. He catalogues the ivory ridges of your teeth; the pillowy softness of your cheeks; the squirming wet muscle of your tongue. He coos with appreciation, his chest vibrating with a sound that few humans hear: the sound of a deeply content Aeldari.

Your drool should revolt him as it slicks between his fingers and drips down your chin — but no, it is not enough. He wants to see it pasted all over your face as you gag and hiccup, clinging helplessly to his boots for support, his cock sliding down your tight tight little throat —

It’s a trick. It’s what they do, it’s what they do. Your thoughts are abrasive: a stone splashing directly into his skull. He probes back into your head, and feels the spiderweb strands of your conviction that this is all a trap, that he is just pretending to desire you for some infernal purpose. Knife-ear, you think, and in that moment he wants to slice out the tongue of every human you have ever spoken to, just so he can mute the bastard who taught you that word.

“Do not insult me,” he growls, his voice slipping lower, losing the artificial Iyanden accent he adapts when conversing with others (once you hear the voice of a Drukhari you do not forget it, and humans often have quite dramatic reactions when they realise what he used to be. Entertaining reactions to be sure, but not ones conducive to diplomatic negotiations.) “I would not need to resort to such base measures to trick you, if I wanted to — if — “

You hollow your cheeks and suck, welcoming his fingers down into your soft palette, Taleath’s vision goes white. When he returns to himself, a fraction of a heartbeat later, you are bobbing your head back and forth, your thoughts pink-red with desire. You want so badly to hold his wrist, to urge him deeper — you are thinking of it so vividly — that for a moment he thinks you have done so. He feels the ghost of your grasp on his wrist, and — no. No, he cannot lose himself in this, he cannot.

I want him to fuck my throat —

Your desires are strident lightning, reverberating thunder. He yanks you closer, thankful that the segments of his armour shield his growing erection. He will bend you over his throne, he will carve his name into your back again and again, until there is scarce any flesh to mark that does not already bear the signs of his ownership —

No. No. He yanks his fingers free, and you mew with distress, leaning forwards after them, lips parted in canine supplication, your feelings spiking in violet defiance: give it back. Not just pleading, but entitlement; you want him, you resent him for stopping.

“I should not be doing this,” he says, swallowing thickly. Think of the ocean, his teacher would tell him when he first joined Iyanden, constantly changing, grey and endless beneath a bleak sky. “You are human.”

Your lips bump against his palm.

“Yes,” you coo, “and you want me.”

His body moves before his higher brain functions can step in; three centuries of slaking his thirst without thought for the consequence triumphing over a century of trying very hard to unlearn the impulse. In that space between one breath and the next he is not Taleath of Iyanden; he is Taleath of the Crimson Talon, kabalite warrior without peer. Your flesh gives way beneath his teeth like warm butter, and he greedily slurps down the blood that spills out. Your little cry of pain is music to his ears, and it will be the first of many; he will wring a symphony from you by the time he has finished. You open your thighs for him — so willing, so obedient — and he fully intends to give you what you both so clearly need. He will fuck you again and again and again, until even that idiot Cato Sicarius sees who owns you, body and bone and soul —

For you, the exchange is less than a heartbeat. For Taleath, it feels like an eternity: he grinds between your thighs, the heat of your cunt pulsing through his armour; he can smell how slick you are, how easily he could push inside. Your blood between his teeth and on his tongue, rich and delicious. He’ll dine on you each morning and each evening, glutting himself, because does he not deserve it? Is he not entitled to you? Sweet, soft human, so frail in his grasp — his kind built an empire whilst yours scrabbled in the mud, and —

He recognises the drift of his thoughts into old, familiar patterns and with a monumental effort of will he hauls himself away. Standing at the other side of the room, he licks your blood from his lips, rolling it between his teeth like he is sampling a fine wine. He wants the flavour to linger forever.

“Taleath —“

Gods preserve him, you smell of prey. Fearful, sweet, confused, aroused: you might as well be a fawn, tottering on long fragile legs before a hungry eagle.

“No. Stay there.”

Your fingers probe the bite mark, and he wants nothing more than to rejoin you, to replace your hand with his own; his fingers would span your throat, your jugular nuzzling comfortably into the webbing between his thumb and index finger.

But he does not move — not to join you, and not to retreat. The old soul-hunger is stirring once more; never quite gone, only denied and starved into submission. Taleath will die a thousand intricate deaths at the hands of a haemonculi before admitting it, but he understands Cato a little better now: one touch of your lips, one taste of your blood, and he is ready to tumble headlong back into the doomed ways of his former kin, willing to embrace damnation as long as he can do it with you warm and squirming under him.

“I hope that this is not a diplomatic incident.”

“No. But it could be. My kind do not engage in carnal pleasures casually — “

“—and not with mon-keigh.”

”Not often. Not usually.” An Aeldari would notice the telltale signs of sexual arousal he’s displaying, and would not-so-gently advise him to meditate until they vanish. His ears twitch; his voice echoes with that damnable coo that only the most practiced of his kind can swallow back.

You are human. You do not understand.

“I do not want you to be hurt,” he says, cursing the limitations of your language. To be hurt: what a limited, idiotic expression. There is no shorthand to specify what sort of hurt — injured pride, perhaps, which can be both a positive or a negative and thus demands at least two tenses; hurt in battle, which can be honourable; hurt in the aesthetic sense, where you view something so abysmally hideous it sears the artistic sensibilities of your soul — and so he must communicate with the linguistic equivalent of a shovel.

“I’m fine. It barely stings. It will heal up soon enough.”

That is not what he means; not even a little. Indeed, the notion of his bite healing up pains him, a searing slash across his chest worse than any bolter fire.

“—I do not want you hurt by anyone who is not me.”

“You — you want to hurt me?”

Again: your language is so limited, so primitive. There is a word in his native tongue that translates as one so precious that only I may flay them and another that means a face so beautiful it is best when attached it its bones and not even displaying it on my finest trophy wall would enhance its appeal.

He does want to hurt you — but it is more than that. He wants to own you. To devour you. To feel the warmth of your body under his, and to see your soul flare bright against the dark. He wants — and wanting, to an Aeldari, is poison.

When he leaves you, it takes more willpower than you can ever understand. And even as he sits alone in his quarters, trying desperately to reach the fathom depths of Craftworld serenity he now carries within him, he tastes your blood on his tongue.

He will be back to you. Of this, he is certain.

#my writing #aeldari/reader #drukhari/reader #implied cato/reader #even in an unrelated fic cato is getting cucked i am sorry

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