#i feel more nimble and less heavy

[yondamoegi]

Did stretches twice today

And with profound sadness I must report, they do help making your body easier to move

[trappolia]

SUNDAY IS FOR REST ── sunday x halovian!reader, 918

"do be careful, my dove," he murmurs as you straighten out the light feathers behind his ear.

"you haven't preened yourself in a while, have you?" your voice is soft, a hint of chiding to it that makes his heart flutter — there's a groggy rasp to your tone as well, having just stirred from your own dreams. sunday dares not look back at you, for there is a sweet domesticity to be found in the impression of rumpled bedsheets against your cheek and the heavy-lidded eyelids that make it known that you would love nothing more than to go back to sleep — proper sleep.

a hum resonates in sunday's chest as he allows himself to be fully immersed in the moment; early morning, messy hair and feathers, the sleepy press of lip against lip. his head tilts to the side, allowing greater access for you to tidy the feathers in question.

"you are correct. there's no need for me to do such preening in the dreamscape, though i prefer it when you offer your generous help," he replies, a mix of contentment and fondness pervading his voice.

"i'll help you only if you stay still," you grumble. your hands, which were straightening out his feathers, are now hovering just above them as sunday tries very hard not to shift in place again.

he cannot help it, truly. it is not just the factor that sunday is unused to, well, anyone touching something as intimate as his halovian wings, but also the fact that the slightest brush of your skin against his is a sensation like no other.

not that he would ever tell you, of course.

sunday nods, a silent affirmation that he will try his best to remain still, although a trace of a smile dances upon his lips. as you resume tending to his wings, each brush of your fingers brings a newfound appreciation for the sensation of your touch. he can feel the slight tingle, akin to electricity, every time your skin makes contact with his wings.

"my apologies," he murmurs, a chuckle slipping past his lips — as if he is not willing his chest to rise and fall rhythmically, having to manually breathe under your intimate ministrations. "i shall endeavour my utmost to be an inanimate statue. your wish is my command."

"haha," you say dryly.

in spite of your tone, sunday cannot help but chuckle at your jest. a cruel man he is, to find amusement in your grumpiness in the early morn. your nimble fingers gently untangle his feathers, and the sensation is a mix of tingles and warmth that spread across his wings. the act of having someone, especially someone he holds in such high esteem, tend to these parts of him that are reserved for only the most intimate moments is endearing, to say the least.

as you work, your movements deliberate and precise, your lover muses softly, "only you could make tending to feathers feel like a luxury."

"it is a luxury when you are not the one doing it yourself," you huff, hands moving around with practiced ease: smoothing a feather here, tugging a broken one out there.

sunday's chest rumbles with barely suppressed laughter at your huff of annoyance, but he remains true to his word and does all he can to keep still. his skin feels electrified with each brush of your touch, even more potent than before, and he wonders idly if it's because he's aware of how much effort you're taking in taking care of him. he is always the one caring and fussing, rather than being cared for and fussed over. it is strange, for the tables to be turnt. strange, had it been anyone else but you.

"perhaps," he manages to say between bouts of laughter, reaching back to catch one of your wrists and presses a chaste kiss upon it. "we could make a habit of this."

"is it truly proper of the head of the oak family to make a habit of keeping himself less than pristine?" you murmur.

how embarrassing; the passing thought occurs to sunday at your words. indeed, it is unbecoming for him, who stands at a position of such power and authority, to be so unkempt, so careless around you. it feels… freeing.

and so his response is a gentle tug upon your wrist, guiding your arms to wrap around his shoulders and link with his fingers. with a smile full of affection and a touch of teasing, he gently brushes his thumb over the tender flesh between your thumb and forefinger.

"i am simply indulging in the pleasure of being cared for," he answers in that same gentle rumble. "and if that means i am a tad bit less than pristine as a result, so be it."

"i suppose so," you hum, and from where sunday sits in between your legs, he feels you lean forward, hooking your chin over his shoulder. your own wings tickle his cheek, like a lover's kiss in the early morning. "preen me next?"

a low rumble resonates somewhere deep in his chest at the feeling of your breath against his neck. the closeness you've allowed between you is not something sunday takes lightly, and he relishes in it with every beat of his heart.

"with pleasure," he answers, unable to help the upwards tug of his lips as he squeezes your palms.

"let me take care of you, my dove — as you do to me."

© trappolia 2024

[cherryheairt]

Pearls

Cregan Stark x named!fem!reader no desc (gif just for vibes)

18+!

my first smut writing and it was an intrusive thought that hasn't left my mind all week I need to get it out NEOW. I don't know my audience for this but please let it not be too niche idk 😭

Lately, Cregan had been absent from their marital chambers until the darkest parts of the night. Work had been keeping him apart from his Lady wife for far too long in her eyes. One night was almost unbearable, let alone weeks of it. Sometimes, he fell asleep in his study after pouring over scrolls and plans for hours.

It was hard to sleep without her husband, she found. After their marriage less than a year ago, they had shared the same bed every night after. Their relationship was most likely the healthiest in all of Westeros. Always in sync and filling what the other lacked. Whereas Vanya was compassionate and kind, Cregan was stern and unyielding. Together, they led the North as any Stark Lord and Lady should: In harmony.

Vanya had taken care of her tasks well, managing what Cregan could not in his time of occupation. Winter was upon them, cold and unrelenting. Vanya's first as Lady Stark, and one she intended to run smoothly to set a precedent for her live's rule.

However, even though she kept herself busy til late evening, she found her needs growing by the day. Usually, her and Cregan found themselves enjoying many rounds of pleasure before they tucked in for the night. Now, since he'd been busy, they hadn't even kissed in weeks. Simple glances at him or the feel of his arm's warmth draping over her in the early hours of the morning made her almost feral with want for her husband.

But he was always gone when she awoke. She was left to get ready for her own day of duties completely alone, longing for her husband's company. An emptiness struck her heart—one that she was determined to fill.

She got to work after her day was through. Knowing Cregan wouldn't join her til long after she was finished, she enjoyed the secretive project in the privacy of the chambers.

Pearls.

Lace.

Thread.

The only three things she dained to need for her little excursion. She worked quickly and nimbly, a nervous fluttering feeling drifting in her belly and staying there until she had finished. Quickly, she put the garment on. Satisfied by the mirror's view, Vanya giddily got dressed into her sheer white night shift.

She settled into bed, only being able to fall into a light sleep in her excitement.

It was not too long before she heard the quiet creeking of the door open and close, Cregan always making a point to enter and exit their chambers considerately. With a heavy sigh, she heard him drop his clothes and boots to the floor.

Weight dropped onto his side of the bed, and a familiar arm draped itself around her waist. Cregan sighed once more into the back of her neck, breathing in the comforting scent of his wife.

Vanya reached up gingerly, lacing her fingers with his. "Husband," she whispered, gauging his mood.

"Wife," he muttered back, thumbing absentmindedly at the space below her belly button.

"How was your day? You've been kept busy, far from the warmth of our hearth." She brought his hand up to kiss gently, starting to wake herself fully.

Cregan hummed guiltily, nodding into her smooth skin. "Tiring. I promise, once Winter starts to come to a close, I will make up every minute I spent leaving my dear wife waiting." The words were muttered slowly into the shell of her ear.

Vanya only huffed a laugh, shaking her head though he couldn't see her face. "There is time now, isn't there?" She asked coyly.

When she recieved no answer, "Cregan?"

None again, but the soft breaths coming from his nose. Turning to face him, she was met with closed eyes and a content slight smile gracing her husband's handsome features. She lay her head back on her pillow, sighing in accepted defeat. Brushing a piece of hair back behind his ear, she kissed his forehead, "goodnight, my husband."

The next day was the same as the last ones. She woke up alone again, only this time Vanya was much more determined to stoke the fire she knew Cregan had. Keeping the garment on underneath her day dress, a light powder blue number with tapered sleeves, she made her way about the Great Keep conducting her business.

Her mind was heavy with thoughts of Cregan, hunched over his desk and stressfully raking his hands through his dusty brown threads. Vanya finished her duties early, freshening up in their chambers before she returned outside of them. Hurriedly, she changed into a light blue shift, similar in color to the one she had worn out. She dabbled some sandalwood perfume oil on her neck and wrists, fixing her hair quickly before making her way towards Cregan's solar. The windows she passed by showed the fresh night sky and the dotted stars along it, the perfect time for any stray servants or maids to be tucking away for their own leisure time before bed.

Vanya took a short breath in before opening his solar door, spotting the exact visage she had imagined the whole day. Dressed in only his grey tunic visible above the pine desk, he had clearly discarded his pelts and leathers for the day, seeing as he had not even left the room once. The hearth was dying, only embers remaining. Clearly, he had wished not to be disturbed by any servants throughout the day.

He was still engrossed in writing a scroll when Vanya approached his desk. A tap on the spot above his elbow had jerked his head up, a shocked look in his eyes as he looked up at his wife. "Vanya, you should be abed already—" he said quickly.

Vanya shook her head, sitting herself on the edge of his table stubbornly. "Couldn't sleep." She lied. "I missed by husband's warmth next to me."

His lips pursed as he glanced between her and his work. "I'm sorry, I will finish as fast as I can. Wait for me?" He offered, though they both knew if she left now, he would only be swallowed up by his duties once more.

Vanya placed a hand on his cheek, running her thumb over the dark undereyes that deepened his tired expression. "I wish to stay with my husband, if it please him."

Cregan's eyes softened, nodding his agreement. He scooted his chair outwards, leaving ample room for Vanya to sit between him and the desk. Instead of sitting across his lap, as she normally would when accompanying him in his seat, she lifted her skirts to her thighs and sat facing him.

He tilted his head slightly, instinctively placing his hands over her hips to adjust her. "Won't this be uncomfortable for you?" He asked, though a faint blush dusted his cheeks and ears at the position.

Vanya shook her head, choosing to sit herself closer and bury her face into his neck. "Go on, don't let me interrupt." She said innocently, earning a glance from her husband before he followed her instructions and started back on his writing.

After a few minutes, she felt enough time had passed to make him inconspicuous of her actions. Slowly, she pressed herself closer to his chest, squishing her breasts again his own thinly clothed skin. She felt him pause and take a deep breath in before continuing, and had to bit her lip to prevent herself from smiling into his tunic.

A few more minutes passed, though she grew more impaitient with every second his hands were not on her. Slowly, she pressed her pelvis into his, revealing the hardened texture of the garment to him.

This time, he paused fully, confused. Setting the quill down, he leaned back. "What is that?" He asked, placing a hand on her hip again.

Vanya only smiled, grabbing his other hand and guiding it ever so slowly down to nethermost regions. "Feel for yourself." She cooed as she led a finger to run over the string.

"What—Pearls?" He asked, brows knitting together curiously.

Vanya nodded at the question.

"Where did you find such a thing?" Cregan asked, though did not recind his hand.

"I made them myself. Don't worry, no loud-mouthed seamstress will know of Lady Stark vying for some promiscuous garments."

"And they are..." He trailed off, swallowing heavily at the indication. Indeed, he shared in his logging and need throughout these weeks apart.

"For you, dear husband." Vanya purred, nipping softly at his bottom lip and pulling away just as fast.

Immediately, he lifted her from his lap and onto the desk, tossing aside his papers to the floor. He lifted her skirts further, bunching them carelessly at her hips as he tugged her legs to wrap around his waist.

Pinching the strand of pearls between his index and thumb, his eyes stayed glued to the glistening white pearls lying between her lower folds. Vanya felt herself throb with need at the lustful glare he held, leaning back on her hands to watch only his face.

Softly, he lifted the string to make it press against her own sensitive pearl. At her slight gasp and squirm, Cregan knelt to his knees faster than he ever had before. Glancing up at his wife's face, he silently asked for permission.

After she nodded, he was quick to move. The pearls, covered in her own essence, were moved slightly to the side as Cregan pressed his face to her core. Vanya threw her head back at the sudden stimulation, Cregan's tongue wildly moving from place to place as if he couldn't find a favorite spot.

Up and down, a solid stripe from her hole to sensitive bud. Circling the pearl with an eager swipe of his tongue, he moved down just as quickly as he began. With desperate, shallow thrusts into her clenching hole, Cregan tried and failed to press himself closer, already having no air to breathe with the space between them being nonexistent. Not that he minded, of course.

With a firm tug at his loose hair, Cregan turned his head with a heaving chest to face his wife. Looking offended at the separation, his fingers clenched at the soft parts of her upper thighs, ready to dig his face back to its spot.

Vanya whined out for him, shaking her head. She closed her thighs over his head, urging him up to meet her lips. She tasted herself on his tongue, enjoying the bittersweet slick with a deep moan. Cregan pressed himself closer, moving her by her waist to seat her on the edge of the table.

"I need you, Cregan, please." She pleaded, hards still carding through his hair to ground herself. She was so empty, only able to be whole again with Cregan's help.

At her plea, Cregan couldn't help but oblige, he unlaced his breeches urgently, allowing Vanya to strip him of his tunic and run her hands over the lean muscle of his chest and back.

He stroked himself a few times, smearing himself at her entrance. They both groaned in unision as his tip hit the string of pearls. They pressed to her swollen bud, making her jerk her hips up closer to meet his own. He slid the string to the side to make room for his length, sinking into the wet heat with a soft groan.

Her head found his shoulder again as she clawed at his shoulders, mewling. He mimicked her action, hands gripping onto her hips as he bit at her neck and collarbone sharply to conceal his moans.

His thrusts were fast and desperate, both wasting no time with soft touches and sweet nothings. That could be done later, after they were both saited and content in their own bed.

She panted heavily, reaching down between them both to rub loose circles around her pearl. He groaned as she tightened, knowing what it meant.

"Where?" He grunted out, kissing at her shoulder as a wordless apology to the angry red bite lying there.

"Inside," she gasped, tightening her legs around his waist to keep him closer.

It was not long before they both reached their peaks. Cregan continued his ministrations, thrusts becoming slower and less powerful as he winded down from his high. He stayed inside her even after they both came down, the warmth too good to pass up in the cold solar. The embers had long disappeared, leaving only the cobble to block out Winterfell's chill.

Vanya couldn't mind, either, enjoying the fullness it brought even in the sensitive state.

"What brought this on?" Cregan asked after a few long moments passed. He soothed over the marks on her hips, sure that bruises would appear in the morrow.

She hummed, kissing the space connecting his ear and jawline affectionately. "Is it too obscure for a wife to want for her husband?"

Cregan raised a brow, "of course not. I have missed you, too." He said, bringing her lips to his to kiss.

She deepened it, dragging him back to her after he pulled away. Tilting her head, she shivered at the brush of his tongue over her own, the texture a familiar delight.

Cregan pulled back after a while, a heavy look in his steel eyes. "I don't think we'll get much sleep tonight if you keep doing that."

She laughed, "I am far from tired, my Lord."

He growled playfully, bringing her from the table and carrying her in his arms. Cregan chuckled at her gasp, starting his journey to their chambers.

"Someone might see us!" She squealed into his neck, hiding her face uselessly.

"Let them. The whole of Westeros will know how my wife is the most beautiful in the Seven Kingdoms." He said, pinching her bottom with a cheeky smirk.

His solar was left open behind them, work long forgotten for the next day. Tonight was for Lord Stark and his Lady Wife.

🗡

Get yourself a munch like Cregan Stark

[belovedcloud]

Treats

pairing: leon kennedy x fem! hybrid reader

✎ REQUEST: I love you for your fluffs, literally marry me, I don't really know if it's a dark cw but can you make fluff about hybrid!reader and like an owner Leon but in a sweet way? We warm up to his, just a little slowburn if you squint. Pls pls pls psklsplfpd<3333

✎ synopsis: his mission to alcatraz took way too long for his liking. he couldn't wait to come back to see you - to walk in seeing you all teary eyed, he had to make this reunion perfect.

✎ notes: thank you so much for the request and sorry for taking so long to do it! i hope you like it :) also this isn't proofread so i'm sorry if there are any mistakes! this is so short ffs

➤ WC: 1.3K

➤ CW: kisses, cuddles, basically all fluff, owner leon, reader is sensitive, very sweet tho, baking (kinda)

You didn't understand why Leon was taking so long to come back from wherever he went. He never could tell you what he was doing but he always said it was top secret! No fair. Although you weren't his for that long, you seemed to warm up to him well. Well, at least you thought you did.

Days went by with a simple message from Leon, pinging your phone just to alert you that he was still breathing but it wasn't enough. He brought out a side of you that you thought wasn't even real. The shelter he got you from discarded you away, made you feel inferior to the other hybrids that were accommodated there. With Leon adopting you and becoming your owner, the level of clinginess shot through the roof. Every step he took, you would take it too. If he was making a coffee, you would stare at him with pleading eyes. How come he was paying more attention to that damn coffee machine instead of you?

So now that your irregular but regular routine was disrupted due to his departure. It felt like step one all over again. You would have to slowly warm up to him, trust him, love him.

Leon's time over at Alcatraz was one of pure misery. His main mission being discarded due to the sheer amount of chaos occurring in the four walls that surrounded him and some people he knew long ago. Although it wasn't really a dream reunion seeing Claire or her brother Chris - alongside Jill, it was still nice seeing them all in great shape. Minus the infection but they were all still fine right?

Wrong.

Perhaps physically Leon was fine. The minor cuts and bruises he accumulated was common practice at this point. 'Unavoidable' as he would say. But this was the first mission where he would be coming home to someone. It wasn't an ordinary visit home to drink yourself to sleep like past years. His home had a new essence to it; a new being. His mental state was one of excitement and nervousness.

He left you with enough food right? Or maybe the thing he should be concerned about is your wellbeing.

It pained him that he couldn't tell you what he worked as. Bioweapons would just confuse your pretty little head and he definitely didn't want to make you panic for when he goes out to embark on such tasks.

So the footsteps he took from his car to the front door were heavy. He missed you. He missed his girl so so much. Leon promised to himself he would spoil you rotten these next few days to make up for the time lost. His fingers twitched in his jacket pocket, the smooth leather feel contrasting the calloused pads of his fingers. A slight jingle erupting from the keys as he lassoed them out.

Flicking through the multitude of keys, something caught his eye. It always caught his eye when he looked at the key circuit. A picture. A mini picture of you and him stuck in resin. Your sweet smile with his hand on your head, petting your ears softly. Leon could remember the day vividly in his mind. Your nimble fingers twitching to take the picture on his phone with giggles leaving your soft lips. A fat smile plastered Leon's lips, those blue eyes boring into the image - more or less burning it into his mind.

Snapping out of it, the front door key scratched at the lock, twisting the door open. His hands shaky; matching his breathing pattern as he took a step inside. Leon scanned the hallway, peering his eyes to try and find you somewhere near. Nope, you weren't in the kitchen, living room or downstairs bathroom. His footsteps echoed the silent house as he approached his bedroom.

The silence he once knew faded away as he heard sniffles coming from his room. A frown automatically made way to his lips as he thought about you crying. What could be wrong?

Walking in, all he could see was a fat lump under his duvet - the cover shaking every so often. Leon didn't want to alert you in your cry sesh, so all he could come up with was a hushed whisper with his hand slowly tugging the blanket.

"Sweetheart?" Oh that pet name you oh so loved. Your bunny ears twitched to the sound of his voice whilst your head popped out of the little blanket fort you had made for yourself. Blinking to try and see him properly, clumps of tears fell from your eyes landing onto the cover. Staining it with a deeper colour. No words left your lips, it was impossible to speak after seeing Leon again.

"Why are you crying sweetness?" The rough skin of his fingers wiped the tears from your wet face. All you could do was look up to him with sorry eyes. You felt almost... guilty. Here he was, comforting you and all you could do was sit there silently still moping about.

Leon wanted to know what was wrong. His pretty girl sobbing was not a sight he wanted to come home to. Especially after such a long mission. His relationship with you was more than a pet and an owner. He saw you more important than just some hybrid animal he adopted.

He would make sure you would know that too.

He managed to get you to speak even if it did take 20 minutes and a cuddle. You seemed to look a little happier in his arms - though he had a small feeling you still weren't up in your spirits. Looking down at you, your eyelashes enchanted him. The way they fluttered as you blinked whilst your head laid on his chest.

"Love?" A deep voice rumbled in your ears. Shooting your head up, you managed to smack Leon in the cheek with your fluffy ear. A giggle erupted out of you as you responded, "yeah?" Seeing him chuckle whilst giving you a heartwarming smile made you twitch in excitement. "How about we treat ourselves tonight?" Leon mumbled out, kissing your forehead.

Treat? Treat. Maybe not a treat for Leon but definitely a treat for you. Cookies! Now, yes you would make these with pure love but you wouldn't dare clean up the mass amount of flour on the countertops or on your clothes. That was Leon's treat.

Looking down into your mixing bowl, you grab the chocolate chips on the side. Leon's arms wrap around you, leaving a few pecks on your cheeks. "You're making all this mess on purpose baby, is this my punishment for going away for a long time?" He questioned, watching you mix the dough into a good consistency.

"Well... you shouldn't have left for so long!" You huff out, though your bratty behaviour isn't kept up for long when Leon tickles your sides. "Yeah?" He continues his attack on you, making you giggle and squirm under his touch."

"Stop!" The snickering word escapes your mouth as you gasp out for air. The flour is everywhere at this point. On the floor, counter and on your face.

"Look up at me." He stares down at you, awaiting for your head to turn up. Your nose twitches as you feel something touch it. Looking up at Leon and squinting at the reflection of the window - you see a dollop of wet dough on your nose.

Leon's arms around you leave your sides as he takes a step back, chuckling at the sight and snatching his phone from the countertop. Before you could say anything, a quick snap of his phone alerts your ears. "You look so silly." He laughed hysterically.

"Hey!" Your fingers paw at the pile of flour next to your bowl, without thinking - you throw it on Leon. His eyes widen and blink rapidly whilst he registers what you've done.

"Oh you're so done."

likes, comments and reblogs are appreciated! thank u for reading :)

-> masterlist

[caraphernellie]

SLOW HANDS. EIGHTEEN PLUS INTERACTIONS ONLY.

so in this drabble, i mentioned having a draft about a reader with an oral fixation and always wanting to suck on ellie's fingers. here is the aforementioned draft, mostly self indulgent because i just really want ellie's fingies in my mouth and also this is straight up more yappery about her hands and how much i love them (bordering on hand kink atp) than anything oral fixation related (but that's included, don't worry)– just using this as a thought space to get myself into the writing mood, and i'm not the proudest of it based on the writing style but thought i'd post it anyway.

ellie's hands are a true blessing, are they not? calloused and rough from years of guitar, a testament to the bond she has with loved ones (of course joel, who taught her to play) but perhaps also from the determination to perfect her art. hours spent journaling and detailing every moment of her day like a sweetheart, keeping tabs on things and always taking time to keep herself grounded. she'll sketch things throughout her days, drawing everyday from the pettiest of pretty landscapes to her most beloved people, all in the name of improving and documenting her journey through life. 

ellie is quite an awkward person in general, at least that's an observation i've made overtime – i don't mean her personality with this, although that's certainly true as well! i mean physically. she's not so coordinated. she's not precise. she's always stumbling or falling around the place, she's got that gay ass gait, and she takes less time thinking, always acting without it. 

but i think even despite her being a little challenged in a coordinational sense, and how she's rather lanky, it doesn't mean she isn't practised. moving away from a modern au for a second– think about living in the apocalypse. how she's grown so used to defending herself, handling heavy weaponry. her hands will move deftly to fire, reload, and protect herself, every action memorised after years. and moving a little more towards a modern au once again, although ellie does have a ps3 in canon, how she'd be so good at gaming. nerd activities are right up ellie's alley and of course gaming has to be up there too– her hands have a wide breadth and her fingers are nimble and long, she'd probably be really good with that advantage.

so, all this to say, it'd be hard not to be so distracted if you were dating ellie williams. especially watching her work on any of the many rather attractive passions of hers – her music, her art, or, well, gaming. large hands veiny and rough, perhaps smoothing out a page in her journal, retuning her guitar, or fumbling with a controller. and yet, all you can focus on is the capability of them, lost in memories that live in your head of the way she warmly grabs at your body or how it feels when her fingers are buried deep inside you, soaked in slick and rubbing at the walls that squeeze around them.

and it really could just be a comforting thing for you, getting to sit, observe, and take in every detail of your girl while she's right there next to you. and really, it's something she's noticed. it was nothing unexpected. it was just so cute to ellie how if she'd let you get a hold of them, you'd pepper little kisses along her wrist, up the back of her hand and onto her knuckles. she'd sit with rosy cheeks and watch you, rub her thumb along the curve of your lip gently before replacing it with her own lips.

what she never really expected was how far your fixation goes. she'd had a habit of sometimes liking to lick her fingers before or after touching you, a sight that of course made you squirm, but in some way, you started to get jealous of ellie.

before ellie could even try, you'd already grabbed her by the wrist and taken two long fingers between your lips, sighing almost in relief. best believe it shocked ellie at first, but she couldn't keep her eyes off of you, nor the way it clearly turned you on so much more than usual to suck her fingers into your mouth. 

staring down at how your cunt took her so easily after, she whispered dirty words in utter shock. "fuck, baby, just swallowin' my fingers, aren't you?" 

after that day, no longer was ellie able to indulge in the taste of your pussy on her fingers. it was commonplace for to let you lick her hands clean, and she'd started taking advantage of your fixation in other ways, too. too loud? she'll wrap her free arm around you and shove her fingers into your mouth to silence you while her other hand is between your thighs. she'll relish in the sweet humming muffled by her digits, looking into your sleepy, pleased eyes.

it starts manifesting in different ways, less heated and amorous situations, instead quiet and calm times. wrapped up in blankets together on the couch one evening, ellie so casually rubs her forefinger over your lips to play with you; teasing you with the closeness whilst pretending to be engrossed in the movie playing on screen. her thumb tugs gently at your lower lip, pulling the soft skin down before slipping into the wet warmth of your mouth. 

it's not like you were paying attention to the movie anyway, but it's much harder to look now – as if taking silent instruction, you close your eyes and slowly run your tongue along her skin. you fall victim to the sudden heat radiating the couch, holding her wrist close with three fingers in your mouth and a wet patch growing into your pyjama shorts.

photomode creds to @/stcreeka and @/T1OU_ on pinterest!!

[cramathonn]

Hello! How are you? When you have time, could you please do a Seth x FoxThiren! GN reader please? I am so obsessed with this dude but there's almost no content about him. :( I love your work! ��💜💖

Ohoho, say less! I've also been super onto this lil' fella and GOSH I love him sm, there needs to be more reader content with him. Made reader specifically an Arctic fox because, hmmm white fur with white fur.

Headcanons under the cut, I hope you enjoy!

Warnings: bigotry directed at reader, but besides that fluff!

Pronouns: none were used and reader can be viewed as any gender

Seth Lowell x FoxThiren!GN!Reader

So, foxes are know for being sneaky little tricksters and are often portrayed as great liars in media, which makes me think you'd work in the same sector as Jane;

However, you've known Seth since you two were kids, you were practically inseparable;

You two loved playing hide and seek together, Seth to train his vision and instincts better to become an amazing cop once he got older and you to train your camouflaging skills, to become a great spy for PubSec;

Yes, the two of you agreed to work for Pub. Sec. together like the true besties you were;

"Hey, Seth?" you asked, looking at the sky, clouds looking white and fluffy as always.

"Hmm?" he asked, turning his head to you. His ear flicked, eager to hear what you had to ask.

"When you become a cop, promise to not let it get to your head?"

Seth's eyes widened. He knew there were cops that turned into inconsequential idiots, believing they were above the law just because they worked to enforce it. The thiren understood your worry, but he couldn't help but feel a bit offended that you'd think he would turn out like that in the first place.

"I promise! I'd never turn out like that, and if I do, I know you'll be there to smack me across the face and bring me back to my senses!" he exclaimed, certainty in his words. After all, you were always there to snap him out of his negative daze.

You couldn't help but smile, finally turning your face to your friend.

"Then keep me in check as well. If I ever become scummy like that, you snap me right out of it!"

"Deal!"

The both of you were now turned to each other as you laid down in the grass of your local park, linking your pinky fingers to sediment the promise.

That memory played in Seth's head evey day whenever he looked at his ring finger on his right hand. It was his favorite memory, after all, making him giddy to this day;

You and Seth started dating right before each of you enroled in a training school to become a Pub Sec officer. Albeit going to different institutions, you always made time for each other;

Late night walks were a must for you two, enjoying the quiet and relaxing atmosphere. Finally having respite from the arduous training from prep school while your tails linked behind the both of you;

You also had study and training dates. You excelled in more textual exams while Seth prevailed in physical ones, so you agreed to help each other;

Now, don't get me wrong. You were the best at the academics and theoreticals, having almost fully memorized the laws of New Eridu. You were also nimble, the most agile and dexterous in your class. But you could never seem to be able to pass the physical resistance exams...;

Same for Seth, dude was the peak of endurance tests. He could run for minutes, almost hours without exhausting himself. He could lift heavy stuff easily, swam pretty well too, be whenever it came to agility or academics he was... Not the best. He has also memorized the laws of New Eridu, don't get me wrong, but he fell short in anything that didn't involve citing the law book or physical workouts;

When the two of you graduated, you applied to enter for the same district, not wanting to be too far away. Unlucky for you, however, being a member of the Criminal Behavior Specialist department means you get sent out to many undercover missions;

You obviously were not as great as Jane, considering she's done that almost her entire life, but you were pretty good at your job. You rarely ever got caught due to your mischievous nature and cautious habits. However, that never stopped Seth from worrying about you;

Whenever you were sent to missions, he would insist you sent a message whenever possible to at least let him know you were doing well. He often times personally requests to review your mission reports just to keep tabs on you (Qingyi reviews the reposts with him because she knows very well that boy AIN'T reviewing shit, he's just worried about his partner);

That doesn't mean you don't worry about him as well, however. When Seth gets called for a case of his own, be it in a team or solo (which rarely happens due to how dense he is), you always worry sick. Jane has caught your tail swishing in anxiety many times when that was the case;

But when you two get assigned to a job together? Hoo boy, you THRIVE! You keep an eye on Seth's back, stopping any sneak attacks, while your wonderful boyfriend blocks the heavy blows with his shield. Power couple at its finest;

Don't get me wrong tho, as much as both of you love your jobs, you get tired as well. Whenever you are not on missions and he isn't up late at the office doing his daily reports, you two can be found cuddling on the couch of your shared apartment, watching series or tapes Seth had brought back from Random Play with a snack you bought on the way back;

Talking about Random Play, Seth introduced you to the place and you were amazed by how good their movie stock was. You simply had to sign a family subscription with them (which Seth went red for, since you essentially just said out loud that you were a family);

And on the topic of family... FAMILY WEEKENDS! Seth has a tradition of always going to visit his parents on the weekends and you always go along;

If you're on good terms with your family, Seth agrees to alternating which parents' house you visit. One weekend you go visit his, while the next you go visit yours and so on so forth;

However, if you're not on speaking terms with your parents, then he won't force you to visit them like he does his, offering to always take you to his parents' instead. Seth is a very caring man and, while he insists on the importance of blood family, he is very much aware that not everyone has the same luck as him in having good parents;

Also, his parents love you, I'll just say that. When Seth announced he was dating you to them, they just went "Finally! We were waiting for the two of you to get together for ages!" which prompted a very red and embarrassed Seth and a very happy tail wag from you, albeit you tried (and failed) to keep your composure;

"Hey, have you heard?"

Seth's ears flicked, standing straight up as he caught the whispers of one of his fellow officers.

"Apparently a fox thiren got accepted to our district. Can you believe it?" the man whipered, disbelief in his voice.

"What?! I can't believe it... They're letting those sneaky types of thirens in now? Tsk..." Another whipered back, disdain and disgust tainting his words.

Seth's fingers curled in frustration, closing his fists. How dare they speak so illy of you when they don't even know you? Judging you merely because of a stereotype of your thiren species... And they have the courage to call themselves officers? The lynx thiren was about to get up and confront the two when he catches another voice joining in on the conversation.

"You two are aware that fox thirens have good hearing, no?"

It was your voice. And by the sounds of it, the two officers were caught off guard by your silent approach.

"Yes, us fox thirens are good at tricking and mischief... But that just means we're better at fetching criminals, no?"

You questioned them, the usual eagerness in your voice laced with a slight anger that went unnoticed.

For everyone but Seth.

"W-well, when you put it like that..."

One of the officers started. However, it didn't take long for Zhu Yuan to call them out, scolding them for judging their fellow officer merely by misconceptions and stereotypes. Seth smiled, tail gently swaying behind him as pride fueled his system. He knew he was in the right district. Having his captain aid in defending you made the lynx boy feel incredibly happy.

He knew how much judgement you went through during your prep school days. The nights when you returned to your shared apartment looking beaten up because some idiots had a brawl with you simply because of your species playing in his mind. Seth knew how hard you worked to get where you are today, and he is glad that he is not the only one ready to step up to defend your efforts.

I wasn't out of the ordinary for you to get weird looks in the street and in your office. After all, fox thirens were known for being liars and tricksters, how could one be a Public Security Officer? Well, much to your dismay, many still doubted your capabilities due to that. However, Seth made sure to not let that get to your head, always affirming that you were a much better officer than those that judged you, since no officer should judge by appearance, considering the exterior is often times misleading;

Being a couple of PubSec officers is not easy, your lives are constantly at risk and you often times come back with a couple of scratches and wounds, but neither of you would want it any other way. Life may be hectic, yes, but the two of you always managed to make do with what you had.

In the end, Seth loved you and that's all that matters to him. You share his dreams, his passions and help him improve as a person. Tldr: you're all he could ask for in a partner and more.

At night time, when you two are cuddled up in bed, Seth can't help but smile fondly at you. He can't understand how he got so lucky, but he won't complain. The lynx wraps his tail in yours and nuzzles the top of your head, happy to have you by his side and hoping it'll stay like that for years to come

Written by Cramathoon at 08:54am on 24/07/24 (24th of September of 2024)

Please don't repost!

[wolftoken]

Ticklish

a/n: my friend needs comfort???? writers block GONE ❌ i love you @pastlives-pastlie

word count: 696 • tags: gn reader, fluff, cuddling, ticklish vessel, ticklish reader

• masterlist •

He’s tired, his head resting heavy in your lap and his eyes half-lidded. His hands are softly kneading your thighs while yours rest in his hair and on his jaw. Absentmindedly you gently massage his scalp, savouring the big sigh he lets out at the feeling. Nuzzling further into you, he brings his arms up to hold your waist and since he’s entirely too tall for the couch, his feet dangle off the edge of the armrest but he couldn’t care less because all he can think about is you, your warmth, your softness.

“Should we go to bed?” you whisper, not wanting to break the gentle atmosphere. Vessel doesn’t respond, just tightens his grip on your waist. You bring your hands down to cup his jaw so you can get him to look up at you, and his eyes shine softly in the low light and you feel a swarm of butterflies start to take flight in your stomach.

“You’re comfy,” is all he can muster. His voice is quiet and monotone like he can’t summon the energy to speak properly. He does this every time you end up cuddling on the couch late at night when he has to rearrange all his limbs in order to get comfortable and you know he’d be complaining about a sore neck or back tomorrow morning if you stay here. But getting him off of you is a challenge in and of itself, especially if he’s sleepy and unwilling to move.

“You can lay on me all night if you come to bed, Ves. But you’re gonna be sore tomorrow if we stay here.”

“M’warm. Bed’s cold,” is his reply, muffled by the way his face is pressed into you.

You sigh, but a smile creeps its way onto your face nonetheless. He’s adorable even when he’s being annoying, it’s terrible. How are you supposed to survive in these conditions? He’s draped over you like a big sack of flour with insistent hands. But then you remember one thing that will get him up no matter how cozy the situation is.

Your nimble fingers find themselves at his sides and mercilessly tickle him and the reaction is almost instant.

His gleeful yelping is probably not what the neighbours want to hear at 11:45 at night but they sound so beautiful to you, especially if it’s what gets him up and moving. Only problem is, you forgot he can retaliate. His hands are much bigger than yours and can cover a larger span of sensitive skin and it feels so so good to laugh with him like this even if you can barely breath and you’re both writhing so much you’re sure to fall off the couch in a minute.

“Ves- fuck! I just want you to come to bed! Please-“ you can barely get the words out past the breathless giggling but he understands you just fine.

“Oh really? You want me to come to bed with you after you’ve viciously attacked me and disturbed my peaceful slumber? Hmm?”

Words seem you fail you as his hands find even more skin to tickle, each spot more sensitive than the last and you’re both teary-eyed and red in the face until he stops. You can tell he’s thinking about starting it again when he bites his lip and stifled a giggle, but he refrains, knowing he can get away with more tickling tomorrow when both of you are wide awake.

“Fine, you win. Let’s go to bed,” he smiles, begrudgingly getting up from on top of you and pulling you with him. He sees your hands creep down to his ribs and the mischievous smile on your face and raises his eyebrow at the sight.

“You’ve fallen victim to my hands once, you will fall again,”

“You talk like some sixteenth century knight sometimes,” you reply, retreating your ready-to-attack hands and opting to hold his instead.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Now come to bed or you’ll fall asleep on the couch,” he grins.

“You are awful!” you laugh, following closely behind him to your bedroom. You should definitely wake up him with more tickling tomorrow.

[diremoone]

— best of both | nanami kento.

w — female reader, mentions of periods, blood, and menstrual headaches, slight wordvomit haha

During his youth, he learned how to make his hands strong. Curses fell by his hands left and right, hands becoming stronger with every mission. Especially after Haibara. He wanted to be strong enough to not die, to be able to take care of himself and live another day.

That’s how he rose the ranks within jujutsu society and became a Grade 1 sorcerer.

And then he left.

Nanami’s hands became soft as a salaryman. He learned to be more nimble, going through books nowadays without bending the corners of the pages. They learned to be gentle, tending to the few pots of fragile flowers he had in his home. The callouses he’d developed over his teen and early adult years faded off slightly. Perhaps part of it was because of the lotion you’d suggested he started using.

And then there was you.

When you two first met, he’d almost broken the coffee cup in his hand. You had been in the same aisle as him in the 7-Eleven, with him gazing at you out of his peripheral vision as you grab three strawberry and white chocolate donuts and a cup of ramen and head to the checkout. You’d barely had enough to pay for them, and that’s when he stepped in—paying for them and thus introducing himself.

You’d taught him to be gentle. When you inadvertently walked him back to your apartment, you profusely apologized to him for the accident. But you realized that his attention wasn’t on you, but the cute white orchids on the little patio. Those flowers were what got you two together. But that was a story for another time.

His firm hands learned to be gentle under your love. And he was so glad he had become softer, because it wouldn’t have gotten him here—exactly where he wanted to be.

“Is this okay?” he asks.

“It’s perfect,” you mumble, less coherent than the last time you replied. “Headache’s almost gone. Thank you, Ken.”

Your period had struck you hard, first with a heavy flow in the middle of the night that made you have to throw a pair of underwear away. Then next came the debilitating cramps that left you unable to stand up and move around, ultimately keeping you confined to the couch. And to come in and top it all off, the headache finally arrived.

The blood you could deal with. The cramps you could deal with. But the headache you couldn’t. It was the absolute worst. You couldn’t think straight, or at all, really. All you could think about was the literal feeling of feeling your brain just hurting and being in agony, to the point where you thought your brain was pulsing. There was one time you’d tried to stand up to go to the bathroom, and about halfway there, a sharp pain shot through the back of your head and sent your knees buckling under the sudden pain.

Thankfully, Nanami had just come around the corner to ask how you were doing when he saw you fall backwards, reaching you in the nick of time to brace your fall. His big, burly arms wrapped around you and gently brought you to the ground. Your back was pressed against his chest as he asked if you were okay.

“I’m fine,” you replied shortly, “just needing to use the bathroom. Got a massive headache.”

Nanami insisted on staying outside the door, only to listen if you fell again. You didn’t, thankfully. But once you’d opened the door, that didn’t seem to stop him from bending down and hooking his strong arms under your knees and back, holding you to his chest while taking you back to the couch.

Sitting sideways to meet your eyes, he gently guided your head down to his lap and asked, “Your head, right? I saw you reach for it before you fell.”

All you could manage to get out was a, “Mmhmm,” over the pain.

Nanami’s index and middle fingers rubbed at the sides of your temples, alleviation instant. It was only when his thumbs reached to the back of your neck to rub out the hypertension did you let out an embarrassingly loud moan. But damn did it feel good. And you couldn’t help but come to the realization of how large your boyfriend’s hands really were—large enough to reach from your temple to the nape; encompassing half of your head.

Lord, have mercy on your soul.

And your head. Even Nanami’s massage was beginning to reach the point of being ineffective, fighting against the throbbing pain in your skull.

“Still hurts?”

“Mmm, yeah,” you hissed softly.

“Do you want some of the painkillers in the cabinet?”

“I’ve already had two today,” you say, not missing the inquisitive hum from him. “But maybe one.”

“You can take up to four in a day,” he says. “We’ll do one now, and another in two hours if the first doesn’t work.”

“So calculating,” you muse. “Or we could just get some chloroform and—”

Nanami scoffs. “As if.”

You pat his forearm and giggle. “I’m kidding.” You lift yourself up off of your lover’s lap and rub your eyes, feeling another wave of tired wash over you. “But I’m getting kinda sleepy. One may work.”

You move to stand, but Nanami firmly puts his hand on your shoulder. “I’ll get it.”

As if he’d let you anyway. Not after seeing you fall backwards earlier. Even that brings up painful memories, ones that he doesn’t care to recollect in the slightest.

As he opens and closes the cabinet, his eyes linger on his large hands—on how rough they look; on how gentle they’ve become. And when he looks to you he can’t help but acknowledge that his hardened heart has become soft, too.

He has to thank you for being with him, for teaching him that there was more to life than the callousness of being a jujutsu sorcerer and the monotony of a salaryman. He has to thank you for teaching him to care for himself, for teaching him to slow down and smell the roses that he walked past every day. For enjoying every little moment in life that he was sure to miss, had it not been for you.

“Ken…? Kento?”

You’re flopped over the arm of the couch, snapping your fingers at him to regain his attention. Your eyes are filled with concern for him, despite looking so tired. And then he remembers what he got up for.

“Let’s get you to bed,” he says. “You don’t need to be falling asleep on the couch.”

“Okay…?” You raise a brow. “Are you okay though? You stood there for a solid minute.”

“I’m fine,” he insists.

You yelp as he easily picks you up in his arms (for the second time that day) and carries you to your shared bedroom.

“Kento! I can walk!” you whine.

“Just let me take care of you.”

You want to retort back, but a wave of fatigue washes over you and you rest your head on his shoulder.

Besides, how can you argue about your boyfriend wanting to take care of you when he looks so happy doing it?

started out as a simp fic for nanami’s big hands in the pv then took a slightly different route than I intended after some of it got deleted 🥲

also: shibuya happens but gojo wins — the end 🥹

[d0llcuries]

Hey beautiful! What do you think it would be like to have a childhood love with Neteyam? I would love to see this written by you, your writing is impeccable❤️

TWO FLYING FAN LIZARDS

pairing(s): neteyam x fem!na'vi reader

summary: alongside a boy destined for greatness only, you suffer

author's note: my first ever request i am geeking out rn!!! ◝(˶˃ ᵕ ˂˶) ◜♡ this was such a delight to write and i truly hope it lives up to ur expectations :3 also pls send more requests i begggggggg. second also,, to gain the most out of your reading experience i recommend listening to “let you go” by clara la san

(i would link it but it doesn't work for sum reason ( ˶•ᴖ•) !!)

edit: oh wait nvm i figured it out :p

your earliest memories of neteyam are filled with the fond experiences of your shared childhood. you remember the days when your mothers would gather under the open sky, their laughter ringing out like music while you sat beside neteyam. he was the boy with golden eyes, always grinning, always curious, and with him, even the quietest moments seemed to hold something special.

you were shy, clinging to your mother’s side, too nervous to speak or even meet the gaze of others. but neteyam, with his patient nature, never made you feel awkward or rushed. his presence had a quiet sort of assurance, like he knew you'd come out of your shell when you were ready. all he had to do was wait. he was oh so patient and gentle with you in fear that by even speaking too loud he might scare you away from him. you didn’t have to say much, anyway; he’d simply be there, drawing you into his world without a single word.

one day, when you were no older than six, the two of you sat by a small stream, its crystal-clear waters bubbling softly as they wound their way through the lush, bioluminescent foliage. nearby, a pair of glowing fan lizards darted between the trees, their wings shimmering as they moved through the thick, humid air. neteyam pointed them out to you, comparing them to your friendship with him. “that would be us if we were kenten.” you laughed softly at his silliness. he always tried to make you laugh, being the one to make you smile brought him immense pleasure, even then.

“come on, let's go fishing.” he said, turning to look at you with that smile of his, the one that made your stomach feel fluttery and warm. you had only blinked at him, unsure of how to answer, you didn't know how to fish. but that didn’t stop him. he stood up, pulling you gently by the hand. “come on, i will show you how.”

and that’s how it was with him. he didn’t push you to speak when you didn’t want to. instead, he’d offer you his hand, his patience, and his unspoken promise that whatever he was leading you toward would always be safe.

you and neteyam shared countless quiet moments like that. together, you wove crowns from soft vines, his strong hands clumsy at first while your nimble ones worked with natural ease. when his attempts would unravel, he’d laugh, his cheeks flushing the faintest shade of blue, but you’d always fix it with a smile and a flower tucked behind his ear, then everything would be okay again.

as you grew older, you noticed that things began to change. not so much between you and neteyam—no, he was always the same, always there—but the world around you shifted. neteyam was growing into his role, becoming more of a warrior, more of a leader. he spent less time with you, not because he wanted to, but because he had to. training demanded long hours, and when he wasn’t training, he was surrounded by other boys—future warriors, like himself. there were fewer afternoons by the stream and more days where you’d find yourself watching him, your heart oddly heavy with despaira sickening feeling that made your nose burn. they laughed loudly, joked around in ways you couldn’t quite relate to. eywa.. the way your heart would twist when one of the girls would playfully shove him, her eyes bright with something you didn’t want to name. you didn’t like feeling jealous. it wasn’t something you were used to, and it made you uncomfortable. but there it was, that little knot of jealousy, always sitting heavy in your stomach whenever you saw him with someone else. maybe there was something wrong with you. while neteyam was the easygoing, confident and popular warrior, you were still the quiet one. the shy one. the one who couldn’t quite shake the feeling of being on the outside looking in.

you told yourself it didn’t matter, that this was just the way things were supposed to be, but it hurt. a lot more than you were willing to admit. you’d tell yourself it didn’t matter, you had your place in his life, but the ache in your chest told you otherwise. you couldn’t help but feel out of place, as if you were being left behind, still sitting on the sidelines while everyone else moved forward without you.

you missed him. you missed the quiet connection you shared, the way he’d look at you like you were the only person in the world. you missed having him all to yourself.

you wondered if he missed that too.

you couldn't even wallow in good conscience, either. he wasn't doing anything wrong, he hadn't hurt you intentionally. and it wasn’t that neteyam ignored you. he never did. whenever he saw you, his face would light up in that way that made your heart skip, and he’d always make time for you, even if it was just a brief moment between his training sessions. but it wasn’t the same. you weren’t the same.

you weren’t blind to the fact that some of the other boys teased him for it—hanging out with a girl, the way he always seemed to make sure you were okay, even when you were off to the side. they’d throw comments his way, playful jabs meant to make him feel embarrassed, but neteyam never let it bother him. he’d shrug it off, flash them that confident smile, and maybe toss back a joke of his own. but he never let their teasing get in the way of the way he treated you. you were his friend, his closest friend, and nothing anyone said would change that.

what you didn’t know was that neteyam never let their words change the way he saw you. no matter how much they teased or questioned why hung around you, he would always defend you, though he never told you as much. to him, you were more than just a childhood companion. you were the one who knew him in ways no one else did, the one he could always count on, even if the two of you had drifted a little. you were his person. the one he could be quiet with. the one he could just be neteyam with, not the future olo’eyktan, not the skilled hunter. just him. he’d speak of you in ways that made their words fall flat. he’d tell them about how skilled you were with weaving, how you had a way with animals that no one else did, how your quiet nature wasn’t a weakness but a strength. he’d say all these things with such conviction that eventually, the teasing would stop, and some of his friends even began to speak to you with a newfound respect. not that you ever knew why. no, neteyam never told you how he stood up for you, how he made sure everyone knew just how important you were to him.

he thought about you more than he should, really. even when he was training, his mind would wander, wondering what you were doing, if you were sitting by the stream like you used to, if you missed him the way he missed you. he never said anything, though. not because he didn’t want to, but because he didn’t know how. neteyam was a leader, a warrior—he wasn’t supposed to get caught up in feelings like this. but when it came to you, he couldn’t help it.

sometimes, he’d catch you watching him, your eyes soft and sad in a way that made his chest ache. and on those days, he’d find a way to slip away from the others, to find you and remind you that you still mattered to him. he’d sit with you in the quiet places, just like you used to, and you’d talk about everything and nothing all at once. or sometimes, you wouldn’t talk at all, and that was okay too. because being with you, even in silence, was always better than being anywhere else.

the years went on like that, this quiet dance between you. a push and pull that neither of you acknowledged but both of you felt. neteyam would go off and train, surround himself with the others, and you’d watch from a distance, feeling that familiar sting of jealousy. but then he’d come back to you, in those small stolen moments, and everything would feel right again.

in the stillness of the night, when the village had quieted and the stars blinked softly above, you would often find yourself beneath the great tree, kneeling before its glowing roots. with trembling hands, you’d reach out to the sacred tendrils, allowing them to intertwine with your queue, the warmth of tsaheylu forming a direct connection to eywa herself. as soon as the bond was made, a soft hum filled the air, a rhythm of life, and the world seemed to fade away. you would close your eyes, letting the sensation of eywa’s presence wrap around you, offering comfort to the ache deep within. through the bond, you would silently pour out your heart, sharing the loneliness that had taken root, the hurt of watching neteyam slip further into the world of others while you were left behind. you missed the days when he was yours—if only in the quiet ways no one else saw—and the memories of those moments felt like threads slowly unraveling in your hands.

as you made tsaheylu, eywa would listen, her presence gentle yet unwavering, and you could feel her understanding pulse through you, as if she too mourned the shifting tides of your life. you sought her wisdom, asking why it was that neteyam’s laughter with others felt like a knife to your chest, and why you no longer felt enough in his eyes. in that sacred connection, though, eywa offered something more than answers—she gave you peace, a quiet reminder that your worth was not tied to neteyam’s presence or absence. though your heart still ached, there was a growing strength within you, a stirring realization that you, too, were part of the balance of this world, and it was time to let yourself grow. the bond with eywa whispered gently, nudging you forward, reminding you that while you could not control neteyam’s path, you could choose your own, and in that, there was a power you had long forgotten.

it was clear that the great mother had heard you.

as time went on, you changed too. slowly but surely, your once-soft voice became stronger, more assured. you spoke up during gatherings, your words thoughtful and careful, earning the respect of those around you. your smile seemed a little brighter, your laugh rang out a little louder. even the other girls began to take notice, welcoming you into their circles in ways they hadn’t before. the quiet, shy girl he’d known since childhood was beginning to take up more space, stepping into her own.

the older women would often call on you, noticing the quiet grace with which you handled tasks. your hands had become deft at weaving intricate patterns into cloth, your fingers swift and sure, and soon enough, your skill was sought after for more than just small adornments. you became a familiar presence in the community, helping gather herbs for healers or assisting with the intricate beadwork on ceremonial attire. the elders would smile as you passed, offering words of praise, their eyes warm with approval as they watched you grow into yourself. in their gaze, you no longer felt like the shy girl trailing behind—there was a new respect, one you had earned for all by yourself.

neteyam was so proud of you. maybe now that you weren't so painfully uncomfortable in public settings, he could spend more time with you! you were more vibrant now, more seen. it was like the world was finally catching up to what neteyam had always known—that you were special. some of his friends, the very ones who used to tease him for spending so much time with you, began to gravitate toward you. they were curious, drawn in by the way you carried yourself now, with a grace and confidence that was undeniable. he’d catch glimpses of them laughing with you, their eyes lingering a little too long, and it stirred something in him that he didn’t quite understand at first. it was a strange, uncomfortable feeling—one that settled deep in his chest, coiling tight and hot.

his now, increasingly annoying, friends admired you, spoke of you in ways that made him violet with discomfort. neteyam didn’t like it. he didn’t like the way they looked at you, as if they were seeing something new in you, something that had always been his to see. he wasn’t used to sharing you like this, wasn’t used to watching other people discover the parts of you that he had cherished in private. it didn’t sit well with him, though he told himself it was just because things were changing, and change was always hard.

the realization hit him one afternoon, as he watched one of his friends catch your attention, making you laugh in that bright, easy way of yours. neteyam felt a pang of something sharp and uncomfortable, something that burned hot in his chest. jealousy. it was jealousy. and with it came the sudden, undeniable truth that he’d been avoiding for far too long.

you weren’t just his childhood friend anymore. you weren’t just the girl he’d spent years playing with, weaving crowns by the stream and catching the light in the water. you were more than that. you were special in a way he hadn’t fully understood until now, and the thought of someone else seeing you like that—of someone else making you smile the way he always had—made him feel like he was losing something important.

in that moment, as he watched you laugh, so vibrant and full of life, neteyam realized what he had been denying for far too long. maybe you weren’t just his closest friend. maybe you were more than just the girl who had always been by his side. maybe, just maybe, he liked you in a way that made his heart race and his thoughts stumble. it was a slow realization, creeping up on him like the setting sun, and by the time it fully settled in his chest, he knew. this wasn’t just friendship anymore.

lmk if this whole “shy yn” bit is annoying or uncomfortable, it feels like the most comfortable thing to write for me but i can swing in any direction u guys preferrrr

[ushiwhacka]

husband! gojo satoru + fem! reader | 1,285 words | mdni | spit kink, slight dacryphilia, overstimulation, gojo is obsessed with you and it's sickeningly sweet <3

the nights when he comes home just before daybreak are usually the hardest. when the sky is murky and unsettling and the edges of the furniture seem obscured in the light. when he doesn’t take his blindfold off before crawling into bed and under your oversized shirt. when the rest of the world washes away as he rests his head between your breasts. and he feels his lungs expand and fill with air. and he can breathe again. 

satoru presses his nose into your skin, all he wants to feel is you. this time his duties have kept him away from home for too long. two weeks without feeling your supple flesh spill in his hands. two weeks of falling asleep without you in his arms. two weeks without his very life force, the gravitational field that keeps him tethered to this world. all he needs is a kiss, to feel the love seep from your lips and into his skin, to be reminded that he belongs etched by your side. 

he feels nimble fingers scrape across his scalp over the worn-out fabric. “you’re stinky.” the words drag from your throat, slow and heavy with sleep. thumbs rubbing soothing circles into the base of his neck. “you can’t sleep like this.”

“‘m sorry for waking you.” it’s barely even a mumble, and you both know he doesn’t mean it. “i missed my wife.” that he does mean, more than anything in the world and more than anyone could ever comprehend. 

arms circle around your waist and pull you up with him, manoeuvre your drowsy body until you’re flush against his chest. it’s clumsy and a bit too tight, but it’s perfect. “and i missed my husband.” your fingers slip beneath his blindfold, lifting it gently and slipping it over his head. and his eyes almost shine in the darkness as he looks at you. eyes that hold the entire universe. eyes that are tired and strained. eyes that brim full with happiness when you place a feathery kiss over one eyelid and then the other. 

“you forgot handsome.”

“hmm?”

“your handsome husband.”

“will my handsome husband please go and bathe?” pretty pink lips brush against yours, a kiss so soft and sweet you feel your face burn. and when he returns, hair still damp, he falls asleep with his face buried in the crook of your neck and his arms looped around your tummy. holding on a bit too tight.

gojo’s love is overwhelming and needy. a little bit obsessive. it needs to be indulged and coddled. it’s clingy. too much. and he had tried so hard to hold back, the panic rising and thumping in his ears. he had tried so hard to not pour all of himself into you. but your meticulous fingers wrapped around him, wrangling and twisting, squeezing every last drop he had to offer. and he was brought down to his knees in front of you. and then just one knee. and then standing at the altar, letting big, crystal tears fall freely as he watched you walk toward him, not a single doubt in your mind. none of it too much for you - not the burden of his name, his position, the duties of a life he hadn’t chosen for himself. not even his barely tolerable personality.

satoru becomes even less tolerable when he’s with you. getting ready for work together every single morning. standing in front of the bathroom mirror, each with a toothbrush in hand, stealing glances at the other as you’ve only just met. so in love it’s a little bit stupid. there’s toothpaste dribbling down your chin, and his heart swells. soft cheeks give way to his fingers as he crashes his lips against yours. it’s messy and minty and a bit ridiculous. 

“people think we’re gross, you know?”

“mmmm don’t care,” he shrugs. “i love being gross with you.” and the lopsided grin that stretches his features is too charming to bear.

you’re still on his mind when he’s supposed to be doing paperwork but he can’t stop staring at his new wallpaper - a picture of you all pretty and smiling, your nose slightly crinkled. then the phone is just inches away from nanami’s face. followed by wistful sighs and proclamations of “nanamin, look at how beautiful my wife is!” and “i’ve never seen that speckle in her eye before…” and “can you believe she married me?” nanami can’t believe you married him. but still, there’s something endearing about how he dotes on the loving notes you put in his lunch. little heart-shaped post-its that he reads and rereads and keeps safe in his desk drawer. he doesn’t care how pathetic he looks, not when the reason for it is you.

all that matters is that his life is filled with moments like this. sitting at the kitchen table, a delicate strawberry cake between you. layers of shortcake and cream and strawberries perfectly arranged. only to be ruined by greedy hands digging into it. he insists on hand-feeding you desserts. there’s airy filling and strawberry juice smeared all over his hand as he shoves a bite that’s just slightly too big in your mouth. and he huffs in surprise when he feels teeth nipping at the tips of his fingers. 

pouting, he snatches his hand back. “no biting, you beast!”

“i just wanted a little taste,” you giggle, pulling him back towards you to leave gentle kisses over the bite marks 

and he gives you a taste. hand wrapped around your jaw to keep your mouth open. he’s looming over you as he lets spit dribble from his lips, shiny and glistening in the moonlight peeking from your bedroom window. your eyes are glazed over, mind fuzzy with the slow rhythm of his hips rutting into you. the string of saliva rolling down your tongue, and he still tastes like strawberries and cream. you take everything he gives you, and so willing to give him all of yourself. “my perfect little wife,” his hand moves down to your neck as he kisses you. it’s sloppy and wet, forceful in the way his tongue slides against yours. like he’s claiming you over and over again. you’re both drooling and breathless when he pulls away, but that doesn’t matter. you don’t need air when you have this. 

satoru is so loud as he whines into your mouth. almost incoherent watching his cock disappear inside you, sticky where your bodies connect. “this pussy was made for me, yeah?” he thrusts hard enough to make you squeal, gripping the sheets tighter to ground yourself.

“y-yeah,” hips grinding so close against yours, the tension in your thighs edging on painful, “only for you.” 

he’s being so mean. so greedy. long, languid strokes force you to feel every inch of him. you’ve lost count of the times he’s made you cum. lost all sense of time and place. all you know is him and his reverence. little chants of “fuck, baby, you’re so good for me.” and still he demands more, panting "just one more time, please." but how could you expect him to stop? he can’t when your pussy is drooling and squeezing his length so tight. despite how raw and sensitive his cock feels, he needs to keep fucking you. he needs to make up for all those nights he’s had to suffer your absence. he needs to lick the tears off your cheeks and savour the saltiness. he needs to watch your eyes roll back, to hear you whimper and whine. he needs you for as long as he can have you. for as long as you’ll have him. and you already promised you’d have him forever.

this was completely inspired by char (@utahimeow) and our very normal conversations about gojo 🤎

thank you for reading! interaction is very much appreciated! ˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

[saunne]

You Are A Weakness I Cannot Afford To Possess - Aventio/Ratiorine Snippet

[You are welcome to yell at me and demand monetary reparations to pay for your therapy because I'm not sorry]

Every risk was cautiously considered and weighed, every move carefully calculated. Obviously, emotions were something based on a much less stable basis than mathematical calculations but... 

Veritas Ratio was not blind. 

He wasn't a fool either, despite feeling like one at that very moment. 

“...What do you mean no ?” 

The man looked at him, a bittersweet smile on their thin lips, even as one of their poker chips twirled nimbly between their graceful fingers. 

"Before you ask a question, why don't you consider whether the answer has already been determined ?" Aventurine responded softly, their eyes drifting to gaze outside as they wearily parroted Veritas' own words. "It is better for everyone if such questions are not asked... Don't you think, my good Doctor ?" 

These words, Veritas uttered them regularly.  To his colleagues, his students, Enid, his superiors, strangers even. 

To be the recipient was... painful. 

Unexpected. 

"I don't understand," Veritas whispered, his voice hoarse and his throat tight. "You love me."

Every risk was cautiously considered and weighed, every move carefully calculated. Veritas Ratio would never have risked a move if he had not been absolutely certain that his feelings were returned.

And yet… And yet.

“I do,” Aventurine laughed airily. “Gaiathra help me, I do.”

The chip was strangely warm in Veritas' palm as his hand instinctively gripped around it, the smooth edges digging into his palm. Aventurine's hand was soft against his cheek, barely a caress, ghostly and fleeting presence. 

Their lips were soft and just slightly wet as they kissed him, for barely more than a heartbeat. The faint caress of their sigh as they retreated felt as icy as the incessant blizzards of this planet of eternal winters, to which Veritas had accompanied them only weeks earlier. 

Where he had warmed their frozen fingers between his. 

Where they shared laughter and kisses as light as the snowflakes that ended their fall in their pale eyelashes.

Where a cheerful “Why not, Veritas?” had met his cautious questioning, where only a silence heavy with lost words now met this same question, this "why" trembling with dashed hope.

"Because... All or Nothing only works because there is nothing left, Veritas. Nothing except myself, which is nothing in itself,” the Stoneheart confessed in a breath, in a plea that sounded more like a condemnation. “I can’t…”

They closed their eyes, taking a deep breath.

When they looked at him again, the heat of their gaze was not that of an inviting hearth, but that of a raging fire. 

A heat of desert wasteland bathed by a blind sun, of an age-old drought that a cataclysm would not be enough to repair. A heat made of prayers as numerous as the grains of sand of Sigonia-IV and as sticky as the blood that had stained it.

 “You are a weakness I cannot afford to possess, Veritas Ratio.”

A silence.

"And for what little it's worth, I'm truly sorry."

[swashbucklery]

Kit + angry to discover that she actually likes textile work

A wee circus preview and some textile sweetness for you, friend.

+

Kit was never meant to learn to mend things. She was meant - at least in her grandmother’s eyes - to have staff who might mend things for her. Money enough (from her husband) to be able to buy a new dress if one tore.

Kit has been taught, in the most begrudging possible way, the needle arts of a lady. She has been instructed on embroidering fine feather-stitch ferns, decorating handkerchiefs that were always just shy of her grandmother’s standards until her fingertips were numb and her head ached with frustration. She has only the dimmest memories of her mother sitting at the kitchen table, darning socks with her glasses on, saving the mending for midday when the light was best.

You can learn when you’re older, her mother had said, when Kit paused to watch the nimble work of her sure hands. Leave me to get this done before the matinee.

They both thought they’d have so much more time.

Now Kit is sitting by her own table; outdoors in the space meant for eating, somewhere in the wilds of Indiana. She’s got needle and thread, and tights with a run in them, and she’s so frustrated at her own clumsy work that she wants to scream.

“Kitten,” a voice says over her shoulder. Elora always jingles as she approaches; Kit must have missed the sound of it in her frustration. “What are you doing to those poor tights.”

Kit groans. “Nothing useful, I can tell you that.”

Elora sits sideways on the bench beside her. Her hair is all done up for the matinee, piled into a layer cake of curls and jewel-ended pins that turn her head into a confection. For the show she’ll add feathers: ostrich dyed rich emerald, bright magenta, coal black. She’s still wearing her own clothes, though - a soft calico dress, faded from being worn a hundred times over, her wrists heavy with bracelets in a way that Kit’s grandmother would call vulgar. It’s a familiar sort of absurdity, now.

“Who taught you how to mend, the barn cat?” Elora says.

Somehow, the teasing makes a little of Kit’s frustration lift. Elora knows, of course, why Kit couldn’t mend her way out of a wet paper bag. But she often does this. Gives Kit the kindness of forgetting. “I don’t need new ones,” Kit sighs. “It’s just a run in the leg.”

Elora takes the garment from her, runs expert hands along the outside of the cloth, turns it this way and that to get a sense of the flaw. She frowns at the clumsy stitches Kit’s put in - too lumpy, somehow pulling things tight but extending threads loose over the gap in a way that turns awkward - and pulls them out with a few swift motions. “You don’t need new ones,” Elora says. “But you’re going at it sideways. You need these for this afternoon?”

Kit’s stomach is already tight with worry; she manages a nod. “Hoping so,” she says. “They’re my best ones.”

The tights are a perfect, lurid mauve, so bright that they’re difficult to look at under the stage lights. The rest of Kit’s costume is black and cream; the whole effect highlights her legs, brings out the slowly developing shapeliness of her calves. She even found thread to match them. If she could just get her hands to -

Elora takes the mending into her own lap, and Kit doesn’t know if she wants to cry with frustration or relief. “Well, there’s no sense teaching yourself on silk like this, no wonder you’re feeling clumsy.”

She plucks a few things out of Kit’s sewing kit - a spare thread and needle, a second thimble - and clicks her tongue. Then she slings one leg into Kit’s lap.

Kit giggles. “What am I supposed to do with this?”

Elora draws her gaze down, points to a tiny, fraying worn spot - less than an inch - in the patterned river of her skirt. The print of the cloth is so complicated, with so many different places for the eye to rest, that Kit hadn’t noticed. “This needs fixing,” she says, no-nonsense. “And cotton is a lot kinder to beginners. You’re going to mend my dress, and I’m going to mend your tights.”

Coming from anyone else, the invitation would make Kit stubborn. She’s still breaking old habits; reflexes from a time when her world was stifling lace and lemonade socials and croquet. But Elora is not, she knows, offering a lesson so that she can speak ill of Kit to the next ten girls who come calling. Elora is not going to give Kit the cold shoulder at the next event of the season. Elora is warm and funny and unfailingly kind, her needle and thread already halfway up the run that’s been giving Kit trouble for over an hour.

Dutifully, Kit sets her unpracticed fingers to work threading her needle.

The thread Elora has given her is a perfect crimson; the colour of the contrast patterning that makes its way across the background cloth now faded to a pale brown the colour of prairie dust. Elora - always happiest in the glitter of a big city - likes to match herself to the dirt out here in the Midwest. Once a day, she giggles and ask Willow when he’s planning to add some trick ropers for a Wild West show. Kit sticks her hand under Elora’s skirt, gathering the cloth the way she’s been shown - by Elora, by Jade - and starts to mend.

It is easier on cotton.

The cloth doesn’t shift or slither out of Kit’s grasp the way that the silk was. Elora’s dress is never going to gleam the same way under the stage lights, but it behaves in Kit’s hands, as she draws her needle in and out. It’s easier on a frayed spot, too, instead of a place where the cloth has torn altogether. Frustration blooms at the back of Kit’s neck; the stirrings of one of those headaches she used to get over embroidery.

Elora pauses in her work, suddenly, and reaches out to grip the place on her skirt where Kit is trying her best. She brings it nearer to her eyes - exposing an amount of underskirt and lace bloomer that would have shocked Kit weeks ago - and smiles. “See, you know what you’re doing, Kitten,” she says. “Just gotta make it easier on yourself.”

She hands the section of skirt back to Kit. Kit stares down at her work. Elora doesn’t say a thing more. Not a lady’s needlework can never be too perfect, not a single note on the fact that Kit’s grid is running slightly off-center to the grain of the cloth. Kit’s repair - tidy, if not perfect - is good enough.

Kit doesn’t say anything in reply. She’s not sure how, yet, to reply. But she goes back to her work smiling.

[hanlimz]

[midnight thoughts: park jongseong + end of beginning]

rando posting on a thursday night bc this has been in my drafts 4ever. no summary you die like men. maybe i'll write a part 2. maybe.

whether the guitar is a meager subject bending to his will or an extension of his very own body, you are unable to decide. enveloped by the dim lighting and clouds of cigarette smoke, the black stained alder wood manages to melt into the obsidian of his leather jacket. the angularity of his face cuts through the darkness; the length of his nose is perfectly straight, the slant of his jaw is sharp enough to cut, and his eyebrows are two, thick lines of focus. he plays with so much precision that it almost makes you overlook the way he still purses his lips when he's concentrating—a habit he was never able to shake. it transports you back to a simpler time in which he wasn't a rockstar. instead, he was a college student studying business management who had a silly band on the side. he was a college student who never planned to make it big, who never planned to leave.

a break in the set forces you from the depths of your memories. he is almost unrecognizable as he works the crowd; a sea of people at this intimate show are screaming for him, begging for his attention, and you can't help but laugh to yourself. years ago, he used to play for you. with a timeworn guitar and a handful of hope, he shared his musings of the future. they were long-shots, pipe dreams, fantasies he entertained when his assignments proved too difficult and his imagination too wild. his voice was sultry as the nimble tips of his fingers waltzed over the fretboard; the melodies he created were happier than the ones he sings now. his stories chronicled a life with you, but now they're bittersweet—tales of olde, reminders of the past.

the show is coming to a close; the throngs of listeners are beginning to thin out. minute by minute, there are less bodies to hide behind, less background to blend into—but, you can't seem to make yourself leave. there's a part of you that wants to be seen, to be noticed by him once more. turning to the bartender, you order an elixir to forget. before you can take the first sip into oblivion, however, a shadow sits down next to you. he smells familiar—amber, sandalwood, a dark thicket. he orders a whiskey sour, and it reminds you of the first time you met. like an aged souvenir, you hold the memory delicately in the palms of your hands.

"what does it feel like, hm?" there's a momentary pause, then you hum into the thick, musky air, "to be a star?"

he takes in a labor-ridden breath. when he lets it out, it seems like more than air escapes him; the heavy exhale is almost painful as he ponders the question. a minute passes, and the quiet is stifling. "it feels good, at first. everything you want, anytime you want. but, it becomes hollow after a while—all the drinks, all the blurry faces, all the memories melting together," he admits. "it's like i'm floating, y'know ... aimless, in space, millions of miles away."

"is it lonely up there?" you ask.

"most of the time, yeah," he answers, stopping for a few seconds to think. "but, it's what i wished for. it's what i wanted."

glancing over at him out of the corner of your eye, you see he's still nursing his drink. the fingers of his left hand trace circles around the rim of the glass while he itches at his wrist with his right. the blonde streaks in his hair are tousled with a mixture of gel and sweat, and the darker parts fall forward to shield his gaze from yours. remnants of the boy you used to know, used to love are resurfacing from the deep recesses of your mind—where you had kept them hidden for years.

"you're still a terrible liar," you say.

his body tenses at the comment. as his muscles remain rigid, he scoffs, disbelieving and defensive, "what do you even know about me, anymore?"

"nothing, really ..." behind your blasé facade, there's a particular ache. his words cut you, a serrated blade shoved between the gaps of your ribs; it hurts because you know he's right. he is no longer yours to know, no longer yours to love. soon, you fear that he may not even be yours to remember—disintegrating, falling, lost to the sands of time. "i knew who you were, though. kind and gentle, the guy who would buy me flowers for no reason. every day, you would call me to tell me you loved me. you would cook dinner, light candles, wash my hair ..."

it grows quiet again; the only sounds filling the air are a symphony of closing ambience. dishes are clattering, glasses are clinking, and chairs are scratching against the floor. this time, however, the silence is not deafening. in a way, it is almost familiar—reminiscent of spring nights spent in the diner close to campus, faces full of pancakes and hearts full of joy. but, this quietude—while being peaceful—also breeds cruelty.

"i'm sorry," his voice pierces through the wisps of smoke and the faint scent of burning incense off in the distance. he leaves the rest unspoken—for leaving, for not saying goodbye, for not giving you an answer. but, you hear it. in spite of it all, you hear it. the words don't penetrate the toughened shell around your heart; instead, they echo in your mind. everything you wanted but nothing you needed.

you hesitate, "i don't know if i can believe you."

"why did you come then?" he asks, voice solemn.

pins and needles prick at the skin of your cheeks as the question makes the tips of your fingers go cold. it's almost unreal. he shouldn’t have the right to question you like this, to interrogate you like you’re the criminal—like you’re the one who left. his words make slow work of you like a bullet to the stomach. as you pour out everything for him, you come to the bitter realization that it ended this way all those years ago. it would always end this way. you, dead on the floor; him, gun in hand. “i wanted to see for myself, i guess—” you spit, “if it was all worth it.”

turning towards him, you break down the wall that time and distance had erected between the two of you. there's a ferocity that shines in your eyes; it makes them glow with a certain conviction. he avoids your pointed stare, instead choosing to swirl his watered down drink. only now do you allow yourself to take a closer look at him. his skin is pallid, a ghost of the deep, tawny beige you used to run your fingers along; the dark circles under his eyes accompany sunken cheeks and slumped shoulders. fatigue seeps down to his very being, and this life the has managed to sap the life from his veins.

"was it worth it, jongseong?"

hearing his name fall from your lips seems to send a bolt of pure lightning down the length of his spine. no one has called him that in years; the thought makes you wonder who else he left behind. the corners of his eyes crinkle as he shuts them tight, trying to be anywhere but squirming under the weight of your gaze. after a few moments, he shakes his head. it starts slowly, a gentle back and forth movement before it becomes violent and erratic. when he stops, the man finally connects with you.

his rich, umber eyes are the one of the only things you still recognize. behind the severity of his face, there is a softness dancing within them; at his waterline, tears twinkle like diamonds under a jeweler's light. jay has never cried, never felt the touch of someone who loves him for who he is—but, jongseong? jongseong misses that feeling. the freedom of being loved unconditionally, the all-encompassing warmth of not just being seen but being known.

"it wasn't worth you."

[thespiritssaidso]

Just A Pinch of Magic

Summary: Shawn is brewing up a potion. Lassiter is on standby in case something goes wrong (like it always does). 

AKA: PotionMaster/Witch!Shawn and PowerfulWitch!Lassiter

Notes: AAAAHHHH WE’RE FINALLY HERE MY MOST ANTICIPATED DAY ITS HERE!!! 

You guys have no idea how excited I’ve been for this prompt, oh my sweet goodness. Just the thought of Shassie as witches just makes me go dhsjfjsljdkals and just fucking shake /pos 

Anyways, hope you guys enjoy! Literally all of my knowledge of witches and familiars come from a Webtoon I haven’t read in over a year called Accidental Magic (go read it, it’s super cute and hella gay). So I used some of the lore on witches from that along with a little bit of my own twist~

Flufftober day 11: Ingredients and Spells

—————

Shawn leaned over his miniature cauldron, sniffing it and nodding in satisfaction. The liquid inside it bubbled and popped, the consistency resembling that of mud. But it seemed to make the potioneer happy, so it must have been right. 

Ingredients of all kinds scattered the countertop surround the electric stove. Bottles of dried herbs, jars of strange powdery substances, a mortar and pestle filled with some kind of pink glittery paste, and even a small bowl filled past the brim with twigs that sparked from the tips every now and then. 

Carefully, Shawn reached over and pinched a tiny amount of white powder from one of the many. He sprinkled it around the edges of the cauldron and let it sit, allowing it to slowly soak into the mixture. Then he lifted the tip of his pointer finger and hovered it directly over the center of his potion. With extreme concentration, hand trembling from strain, his fingertip glowed a soft yellow. Slowly, it began gathering and soon materialized into a golden liquid, dropping into the cauldron once it grew heavy enough. 

Shawn let out a breath he’d been holding in. That never got any easier, no matter how many times he had to do it. He shook his hand in an attempt to loosen up the muscles.

“Alright, just gotta let that sit for a few minutes. Startinggg… now.” The second he said that, a plume of green smoke erupted from the cauldron, staining the ceiling above. 

Inside the cauldron, the mixture had gone from mud-like to a more liquidy texture, becoming a bright shade of chartreuse where originally it had been brown. 

Quickly, Shawn reached over for the egg timer and slammed it down, setting it to go off in exactly five minutes, no more no less. If it went more than that… ah, it was best not to think about it. 

Behind him, the door opened and in stepped Lassiter with a large black cat – a familiar – draped over his shoulders. It nimbly jumped off of him as he shrugged off his matching black suit jacket. “I’m home!” 

“In the kitchen, Carly!” 

At the sound of the other man’s voice, the cat quickly trotted over to the other room to greet Shawn. Swiftly and full of agileness, it leapt onto the counter – dodging all of the objects with grace – and onto Shawn’s expecting shoulders.

“Smith! Hey buddy! Did you have a fun day with Carly? Catch any bad guys? Ohhh I bet you did! I bet you got all of them, huh?” 

The cat, Smith, purred like a motor and leaned into the finger scratching his cheek. 

Lassiter had gotten Smith when he was only eight, the age when all witches' magic matured. He could remember the naming ceremony like it was yesterday, when he could feel half of his magic being transferred to his cat and turning it into a familiar. 

Commonly, children only kept their familiar until they themselves had also matured enough to handle the full weight of their magic on their own. But Lassiter was a special case. He had so much magic that even now, at his age, if he tried to take it back — which would revert Smith into a regular cat — his body would simply be overwhelmed. No, keeping his familiar was the best choice, for his own health and safety. 

Shawn, on the other hand, didn’t have a familiar. Mostly because of the fact that he simply didn’t have enough magic inside of him to need help regulating. It was why he took to making potions so often, desperate to be part of the magical world in some capacity. 

Lassiter smiled at the sight of his two boys getting along. It felt like just yesterday they were both fighting over who got the detective’s attention at the moment. “If I had to guess, I’d say you liked Shawn more than me, Smith.” 

Smith’s head shot up, as if awakening from a daze, and quickly leapt down to the ground. He began circling Lassiter’s legs, acting as though he’d been there the whole time. 

Lassiter sniffed at the air, slightly wrinkling his nose. “What is that smell?” 

Shawn, not seeing his boyfriend’s slight look of disgust, smiled proudly and gazed at his concoction. “Oh, nothing special. Just a new sleeping draught I’ve been workshopping.” 

Immediately, Lassiter became wary. “Shawn…” 

The fake psychic was a master at potions, although he sometimes really didn’t act it. He loved experimenting and trying to improve on already existing recipes. More often than not he’d just barely miscalculate some ingredient or add it at the wrong time, causing it to explode in his face. 

Or it would, if Lassiter wasn’t always there to cast a containment spell over an unruly potion Shawn had made on a whim. 

But there were moments when Shawn would indeed improve something. One of his most successful modifications had been a newer and easier way to get rid of migraines. That one was one of his favorites.

“Don’t worry! I’ve got it all under control. I added some ground essence of moonlight this time, so it should stabilize it.”

“Should?”

“Well, it either settles after the timer goes off. Or, it… doesn’t.” 

Lassiter ran a hand down an exhausted face. “Well, I’m just glad I got home in time. What if it does something it’s not supposed to and I’m not here?” 

“But it hasn’t! And you’re here now! So if it does go up in flames and fireworks, I know I’ve got you to protect me.” 

“Mmmh… Can’t argue with that logic.”

Smith bumped his head against the detective’s shin and let out a single meow. 

Lassiter raised his eyebrows. “I’m not telling him you said that.” 

“What? What’d he say?” 

“Nothing. How much time did you say until it was done?” 

“Uh, hang on.” Shawn leaned over and checked the egg timer. “Thirty seconds left. If all goes well and it doesn’t explode, I need to add another splash of magic,” he groaned when he said that, “and then stir it counterclockwise with a stick blessed by a druid until it turns dark green.”

Lassiter noticed his less than enthused expression at the notion of having to use his already very limited magic supply. Again. “Does it have to be yours?” 

Shawn immediately caught on to what Lassiter was implying. “Well, that depends. Are you offering? Because you know it won’t work unless you actually say it.” 

“Yes. I’m offering.” 

Just then, the egg timer went off. Almost immediately the potion began to softly whine and let out bright blue sparks. “Crap on a cracker…” Lassiter mumbled under his breath, rushing to the cauldron as fast as he could. 

Like Shawn had earlier, Lassiter held his finger over the concoction. Although he didn’t have to concentrate nearly as much as his boyfriend had to. Almost immediately a drop of golden liquid dripped from the tip of his pointer finger and splashed into the potion. 

The liquid stopped throwing off sparks, and instead began to smoke. 

Lassiter looked at it with mistrust and backed away. “Is it supposed to do that?” 

Instead of answering right away, Shawn began laughing with glee. “Yes! Oh my god, yes! This is great!” He reached over to the bowl of sticks and grabbed the longest one. Without missing a beat he began stirring the potion counterclockwise. 

Nothing changed. The potion stayed the same shade of light green, smoke still pouring out heavily, and Shawn’s grin never wavering. 

“Okay, now I just need to do this until-” 

BOOM

Lassiter, ever the quick thinker, cast a containment spell — a spell he was becoming all too familiar with — faster than he’d ever done in the past. And it was just in time, too. One second later and the entire kitchen would’ve been doused in Shawn’s concoction. 

The two (three if they were counting Smith) stood in shocked silence at the disaster they had just barely managed to avoid. 

Through the cracks of liquid splattered on the transparent dome of Lassiter containment spell, they could see Shawn’s potion raging. It splashed angrily against the walls of the spell, thrashing desperately. 

A bead of sweat ran down Lassiter’s temple and he gripped a hand into a fist in an attempt to strengthen his spell. He waved the other hand, magically supercooling the heating coils of the stove underneath the cauldron. 

Lassiter held on for at least two minutes before the rogue potion finally settled down. He released the spell, and he and Shawn looked to see what the damage was. 

It was a complete mess. The cauldron — one that Shawn had bought recently — had melted halfway, the potion inside spilling all over the counter and onto the floor. 

With another wave of his hand, Lassiter was able to make the disgusting remains disappear to save them the hassle of cleaning it up. 

“Dammit!” Shawn angrily tossed the blessed stick back onto the counter. “I thought I really had something there…” 

“Hey, look, it’s alright. Accidents happen, Shawn.” Lassiter consoled his boyfriend. “What were you trying to modify, anyways?” 

“I was just trying to see if I could make the sleeping draught pineapple flavored. Don’t get me wrong, the grape flavored stuff from the store is great.” Shawn sighed. “I’m- I dunno, getting a little tired of the taste. It got really old really fast.” He looked over where the mess once was. “Back to square one now. Yippee.” 

Lassiter couldn’t help the amused grin. “Pineapple? Really?” 

“Hey! That fruit is a gift to this earth!” 

“Right, of course.” Then he remembered something. “Hey, know what’ll cheer you up?” 

Shawn looked at Lassiter, all previous signs of disappointment completely gone. “Ooo what? What is it?”

Lassiter reached behind his back and into his pocket dimension. His hands closed around the handles of a plastic bag. “Tacos from your favorite food truck,” he dramatically presented the bagged styrofoam boxes that held their food, “and we can watch whatever movie you want.” 

Shawn’s whole demeanor brightened up even more, if that was possible. “Oh Carly, you always know exactly what to say.”

—————

Notes: This was super fun to write! I hope you guys loved it as much as I do <3

ao3 link

[wearesorcerer]

How I Learned that Sleep is a Death Spell

I do not know how word from Mithral Hall had managed to reach the home of the Lórëlindalë in Arvandor nor why it was that I was selected to answer the call. That's probably from hitting my head after falling out of the portal that had opened ten feet above the floor of the stronghold's main receiving hall. Still, my rather abrupt and graceless appearance was not the biggest faux pas an outsider made that day before the shield dwarves. A random elf appearing out of nowhere unceremoniously is nothing compared to a goblin attempting to gain entry by passing himself off as a halfling. Whatever mercy stayed the dwarves' hands proved a godsend, as that goblin was a capable scout and more than willing to aid us. Nor was I alone of the faerie folk to come to the shield dwarves that day. No doubt the fair swordmaster would have wanted a better entrance to make him feel less out of place than he already did. I myself felt sheepish for other reasons: given the two dwarves who joined us -- both in heavy plate, one bristling with weapons of all descriptions, the other a devotee of Moradin -- it seemed a certainty that they'd wanted someone with more insight into the arcane than I had, and it's not like I'd made a good impression of my skills with that performance. As they say in Tethyr, c'est le vie. But beggars cannot be choosers, so despite our discomfiture we were quickly appointed to our task. It was overly simple: enter the Underdark and verify rumors of an impending incursion the drow and perhaps their allies were planning on Mithral Hall. Nothing in the Underdark is ever simple, which probably accounted for our group's great deal of experience relative to such a task. It took maybe an hour of spelunking before we came upon an advance party of hobgoblins; their leaders, one of sorcerous might and another whom I didn't have time to assess, rode their giant lizards high upon the opposite wall of the cavern. We were outnumbered two-to-one. As the dwarves charged, leaving us elves at the chamber's entrance, it became apparent that this was an ambush: our party divided, others set upon us, likely laying in wait. The dubiousness of the early incursion proved coincidental, as our roguish goblin didn't seem to be bound by notions of greatly extended kinship. I say this not because I recall specifically what the goblin did, just that he didn't try to stab us in the ensuing melee. The klink of the warrior dwarf's hammer as it split hobgoblin skulls and was quickly swapped for a variety of other weapons only barely managed to cover the prayers his compatriot intoned to the Forge Father as they held the front line, while my saber and the swordmaster's secret blade-twisting techniques were enough to fend off the few assailants on our end. It took one spell from the sorcerous goblinoid for me to realize we were in trouble. But it did give me an idea. I reached into the purse manpurse large, conspicuous pouch on my side for the only spell components I carry: rose petals. I grabbed a handful, whispered an incantation as I drew my hand up in an arc, and blew. The petals flew towards the ceiling on a swift breeze, forming a cloud around the hobgoblin, then stopped suddenly before imploding upon him. The hobgoblin blinked, shook his head a few times, then went limp as slumber -- and gravity -- took hold of him. He fell. His lieutenant and the lieutenant's lizard mount, being directly underneath him, were unable to get out of the way in time. They, too, fell. All three fell upon the front line, hobgoblin and dwarf alike. But the dwarves are a hale folk and surprisingly nimble for short men with short legs wearing large panels of metal over every inch of their bodies, so in the end were more than fine. Mostly. The same cannot be said for what had remained of the hobgoblin advance party, now a pile of limbs squashed beneath the broken remains of their commanding officers and a horse-sized reptile.

-From an account of an Underdark excursion written by Árëlómion, scion of the Lórëlindalë, moon elf bard.

This was my first Forgotten Realms campaign (though it turned out to be a one-shot), back in late Fall of 2005 (my first semester of undergrad). The DM was a friend of mine (whom I was crushing on hard at the time) and the other players were his suitemates (save one, a mutual; he effectively took the place of the remaining suitemate, who either couldn't or didn't want to play). The other noteworthy bit about the session was that I was experiencing my first bout of acute hyperglycemia: I was not yet diagnosed with type 1 diabetes, but had anyone recognized my thirst and trips to the bathroom for what they were, I would have been a textbook case. I still managed to pull off killing much of the assault squad and ending the combat with a single 1st-level spell (as a ninth-level character, though that didn't affect the spell's save DC or power at the time).

Árëlómion was meant to be the elfiest elf bard that ever did elf bard. "Fop" doesn't even begin to describe him/them. Yes, I dug through a Quenya-English dictionary to make those names. Surprisingly, no, Árëlómion is not a well-made character; I got lucky with the spell working. I have since made the character a cover identity for another, but in looking at the character sheet I'm tempted of rebuilding him/them.

[star-girl69]

I Loved You Like the Sun

a/n: i’m not ready to let go of this fic so i WILL be continuing it into the dance of dragons and i’ll be separating it into two parts. part one should conclude in what i hope to be 5 or less more chapters. i’ll be following the show plot bc that’s easiest for me. so that unfortunately means once i get through what’s happened in the show so far this book will be postponed until the new season comes in 2024 :( also- i heard all of you guys!! y/n will be claiming cannibal later in the series.

and i apologize for the weirdness with her father- after i decided to expand on this series, i decided to leave that conflict out. kinda a messy ending, but i’m eager for daemyra and reader to solidify their own family.

and btw guys it’s still me i just changed my username and stuff 😭

warnings: incest, swearing, violence, kinda sex tbh, mentions of death, tell me if i missed anything!!

Chapter Twelve- Silk Sheets

—-

Jace admits Lady Y/N confuses him.

He knows the facts- he knows that his mother and Daemon clearly feel some affection towards her.

He thinks back to their time in Kings Landing, when he saw Daemon with his hand on Y/N’s thigh and his mothers arm around her chair.

He remembers hearing a scream, muffled, coming from the other wing of their apartments. He remembers the banging on the door, and then the silence before screams of pain. They were unfamiliar. He remembers sneaking out of his bed, past the guards roaming the halls to look for something, he wasn’t sure. He remembers his mother crying, before bringing Lady Y/N into her arms. He remembers her calling the Lady “my Y/N.”

He remembers the special attention, the red dresses, the longing looks.

And he notices.

He notices how his mother and Daemon insert Y/N into their lives, scheduling bonding time with each of the children. He notices how his mother always makes sure Y/N is there.

His siblings are already entranced with her. Lucerys worships the ground she walks on, Baela proclaims Y/N to be her best friend, and Rhaena always draws her attention with soft words and nimble sewing hands. Joffrey and Aegon adore her as well, although they are too young to truly understand what is going on.

Jace does not know how his siblings have surrenders to her web. Does not know how his parents have. Does not know why he feels the webs clinging to his skin.

But now, she only watches him with fire-bright eyes. She does not carry their name. But fire burns in her, and Jace would be a fool not to see it.

He parries and blocks, rallies and ducks. He evades the wooden sword of the non-descript guard, feeling Lady Y/N’s eyes on him.

It is a blur of movement- an empty brain, devoid of thoughts about Aegon and Aemond and the rest of the Hightowers. His ailing grandfather. His poor aunt, who is subjected to a life with Aegon. How the crown already weighs heavy on his mother’s shoulders and she does not even have one yet. How one day that will be his.

He isn’t sure he can imagine it.

Baela at his side, Jace and Rhaena in Driftmark. Joffrey will be with him, of course. He needs a cupbearer if he is to be king. He likes to imagine Aegon will be a fierce warrior.

His grandparents dead. Daemon dead. His mother dead. Uncles bitter about their lack of power.

With a grunt, the knight yields. Jace’s sword at his throat. Lady Y/N claps.

Jace is burning under the spring sun.

—-

You supposed you shouldn’t be surprised how grand Daemon and Rhaenyra’s chambers were- much less the rest of Dragonstone.

Sometimes you forgot they were as powerful as they were, that the commanded the skies and the sea, the earth and the wind. They had thousands of men at their beck and call- to fight for them, to die for them.

Knowing that Daemon and Rhaenyra had all of that power at the word of a raven made you feel better about the letter from your father.

The two had wasted no time in furnishing their room to become yours as well. A bookshelf on the far wall, the comfiest chair next to the fireplace, tapestries of your choosing on the walls. It was more of a home then your room at Chambers Manor ever was.

You let your hand stretch over the silk sheets, blood red. Your hand splays, fingers dig in, making that scratching sound that makes a shiver run down your spine.

You sigh, falling back onto the bed.

What would you think if your father could see you now? You, the youngest of four, just trying to make it by unnoticed by your family. Your mother had passed years ago- one of the reasons you bonded so well with Rhaenyra.

—-

“I miss her.”

It is her mothers birthday.

She demands that you stay with her all day, so unlike her usual sweet asks and subtle coercion (you can’t refuse the feel of her lips). And her harsh tone is nothing like normal.

But she is hurting. You let her boss you around. If it made her feel better, you would rip out your own heart for her. You are already walking around with something inside of you that belongs to her, what difference does it make if it is in your chest or her hands? You never survived on blood. You survived on star power, on something mystical and otherworldly. Something no one else could understand.

Rhaenyra stifles another sob into your hair, as you hold her with tight hands. You urge her to breathe, and she does. Your chest aches.

Rhaenyra is your savior. Your lover. Your everything. She is like dragonfire being blown in your face- leaving you unscathed. She burns bright and hot but as you get closer, you see that she is just a young girl. Motherless. Powerless.

You know that one day she will burn. But today is not that day.

Besides, she is stronger than that. She is more than her loss.

It is a while before her sobs quite down.

“Tell me something. Distract me, my love.”

You sigh, mind scrambling. “Did I ever tell you about my great grandmother?” She shakes her head, and you hum. “Her name was Alyssa. She was a Targaryen, a cousin to Old King Jaehaerys. She had a dragon, you know. Pink, if the stories are to be believed. A ferocious she-dragon named Heartfyre. My grandmother claimed Heartfyre when she was only 12 years old. She said she wasn’t even sure what was happening. She thought the old dragon was going to kill her. But she did not. After my grandmother died, Heartfyre flew off- to Old Valyria, traders on the sea said. No one ever saw her again.”

Your hands tangle in Rhaenyra’s hair.

“That’s sweet,” she murmurs, and you are relieved to hear no remnants of a sob in her voice. “‘M sorry for being so rude today.”

“It’s okay, Rhaenyra. I know. I know.”

She does not cry. She is a princess. She is a Targaryen.

But here, with you, she lets herself fall. It is the sweetest thing.

—-

The door opens with a sharp creek, and voices fill the room. It is what you have been waiting for.

You stand, skirting past Rhaenyra and Daemon in the doorway.

“Y/N, come back!” Rhaenyra calls, and for once, you do not answer her. You grab the letter you received late last night. It is hidden in your bookshelf, in between the cover of your favorite book.

When you turn back around, Rhaenyra is sitting leisurely on the bed. Daemon sets Dark Sister on the side table, fingers carefully tracing down the blade. He handles it with such care and reverence, you admire it.

You pad over to the wordlessly, letter burning in your hands. You do not trust yourself to speak, and Rhaenyra frowns when you hand her the letter. She tugs on your red slip, pulling you next to her on the bed.

“What’s this?”

You sigh, wordless, placing your forehead on her shoulder. You can tell she is concerned, placing a hand on the side of your face. You hear the sound of the wax seal ripping.

You did not dare open it.

Her eyes scan over it quickly, and you hear the sound of Daemon’s holster falling to the floor.

“Your father.” She whispers, and it is a breathless thing.

You nod against her, her hand curls into your hair.

“I won’t let him take you. Not again.”

“What?” Daemon asks, walking over, finally in earshot of your hushed voices.

“Letter.” Rhaenyra whispers. “Y/N’s father.”

“Tell him to fuck off,” Daemon scoffs.

You are too nervous to admonish him, Rhaenyra too busy reading.

“He says you can stay in Dragonstone. That your siblings married better than you. He doesn’t care.”

You let out a breath of relief.

The years of letting him pass you by have paid off.

“Thank the Gods,” you murmur.

“Were you scared, my sweet girl? You must know by now, we will not let anyone take you, hm?”

You pull back from Rhaenyra. Miss her warmth.

“I know, but, still. We are not married.”

“That can be arranged.” You do not need to look at Daemon to know his face is sporting a large smirk.

Rhaenyra sighs from beside you, beginning to take down her intricate hairstyle.

“We won’t do anything until you say so, my love.” She shoots a look to Daemon, and you smile. You fall back onto the bed, on your side, cheek pressing into the silk fabric. Daemon comes into your point of view, but only for a second. He walks past you, to the other side of the bed, bed dipping as he lays down.

It is domestic. It is normal. It is all you have ever wanted.

Daemon winds a hand into your hair, tugging you up. You sit up, and he beckons you over with a lazy grin and a movement of his finger. You come to your knees, and he palms your hips.

“Made for us,” he murmurs.

He pulls you to straddle him in one swift move- and he moans at the sight of your flustered from the lack of warning.

He is drowning in his own lust, in the tightening of his pants. You can feel it below you. Pressing up against you in the most delicious way-

When your hips move, it is a reflex. A desperate chase for more of this feeling.

Daemon and Rhaenyra have not ravaged you like this. No one has. Your husband neglected his duties to you. But you are take by the sudden need to be taken by them, to be full, to feel loved.

“Daemon,” you moan. He grunts, face burying into your neck to leave hard kisses.

You hear the silk sheets rustle from behind you, the press of something warm against your back. Rhaenyra is right behind you, breath fanning the side of your face. Her hands rest on your stomach, a comforting, sure pressure.

“This is what I want to see for the rest of my life. The prettiest girl, a desperate mess for us, yeah?”

You moan at her words, hips moving again. Daemon throws his head back, hands gripping your hips tighter, pushing you down-

When Rhaenyra’s hand travels along your stomach, you grab it, instinctively. You do not know if you are ready.

“We will have you as you are,” she whispers, and you let her hand go. When her warm hand dips under your skirts you shiver with anticipation. With want. With need.

The head of Daemon’s manhood touches his stomach, and you press against the length of it. It must be a painful thing, you think, by any way Daemon grips your hips.

Her hand moves past your small clothes, and Daemon lets out another groan at the press of her hand as well.

Daemon grabs the front of your dress, ripping it in half in a show of raw strength. You shriek in suprise, but he only laughs, dark and promising.

He leans back, admiring.

Your arms come over your chest, but Daemon grabs them with a growl.

“Did you not hear me?” Rhaenyra whispers, hot and breathy in your ear. The tip of her finger circles for the first time in so many years, and you throw your head back onto her shoulder. “I said we will have you as you are.”

And when they have you, you swear you melt into the silk sheets.

—-

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