#kind of a fic teaser?

[spideyjimin]

until i found her [little teaser]

soooo as i’m slowly but surely finalising the fic, i’m dropping a little teaser 👀 i’m definitely enjoying writing this & i’m currently working on the first smut scene of the fic, be ready 🫠

p.s.: this might slightly change since i haven’t proofread it

[popotobun]

WIP Wednesday!

Lately I've been working most on my SVSSS fic that's basically a "What if Shen Yuan was a little older and a little more competant". That's it, that's the fic. I have zero idea where it's going to end up, but I've got two chapters worth scribbled down, so that's something! I've also got an outline for a Tangled-inspired Liushen AU that I don't want to start because once I do, I think I'll keep going until it's done and I want to get more done on the longer fic first xD

I've still got plans for the post-MLC fic I'm working on! I really should finish that, since it doesn't have anywhere to go and should just be the one chapter... Who knows. I let words get away from all the time.

I've still got a couple of FF14 WIPs too, though the MSQ follow-along will always be slow going... I do want to finish the Dark Knight fic, but my WoL was in a Not Good headspace when he started that, so it's on a back burner too.

Feel free to Ask me to work on any of these and I'll post a new paragraph~ but either way, enjoy the snippet!

The entire night passed while he read, the morning only making itself known to Shen Yuan when a knock sounded at the entrance to his room and Ming Fan’s voice announced, “Shizun, I left breakfast at the table for you. Please let this disciple know if there is anything further needed.”

“Nothing but privacy, Ming Fan. I am only to be disturbed by meals for the next three days.” While he recovers is not spoken aloud, but carried in the silence that he lets linger a moment longer than it needs to. “Unless another Peak Lord requires my presence.”

Ming Fan bowed and started to leave after confirming the instructions, but was stopped by Shen Qingqiu’s voice adding, “Perhaps I will meditate in the gardens today. If I am not here, let it be known that I am unavailable for company.”

That should cover most possibilities. He was sure Mu Qingfang wouldn’t be back by so soon, but he couldn’t say the same for anyone else. With the worry from Yue Qingyuan that Mu-shidi had mentioned or potential curiosity as to his recent visitors, anyone could come by! And he didn’t want them seeing him practicing basic sword forms like someone who’d never held a sword before.

Since that was exactly what he planned to be doing.

After breakfast of course.

[risetherivermoon]

writing out little kid sparrows train of thought is so fucking hilarious because it is identical to how i think,

(snippet from my long kiddads fic)

[nemonclature]

Enjoyed writing this chapter. Or, more accurately. Liked writing this chapter, fucking loved writing that one paragraph.

Lucerys froze. She was, for a moment, inside his embrace. His body bent around her. She inhaled that same scent – leather, sandalwood, and something undeniably him. His hair fell like a sheet over her shoulder, his face so close to hers, that if she turned her head, her lips would brush his jaw. His arm pressed against hers. Her heart beat wildly. Electricity shot through her chest and grounded between her legs. A yearning opened through her body. Stopped her lungs. Held her by the throat.

[jacqcrisis]

So Ronan the dragonborn cleric has his journal and a habit of drawing. Alongside his dry recounts of the day, the more spicy prose written in draconic that frustrates his nosey companions, and simplistic stick figure diagrams of action he can't draw properly, are more detailed sketches. These sketches are generally reserved for animals or plants, especially flowers, he happens across and enjoys, jotted down to the best of memory alongside the words written about the days events.

But between those, every now and then, are drawings of people, most notably people he finds important in some way. These sketches aren't hyper realistic or artful as his capabilities are amateur at best, but they are detailed and good enough you would recognize who they were depicting. He's not trying to become a master of the art, but just good enough that he can have a visual reminder of someone if they should leave him or pass away.

Sometime during Act 2, after the conversation with the mirror about Astarion not remembering what he looks like but before he confesses to feeling something more, Ronan notices his journal is missing. Again. It happens often enough that he's not worried, but he would like it back so he does the rounds around camp to see which sticky-fingered companion took it tonight.

After checking with nearly everyone save Wyll, Ronan finds Astarion a little ways away from everyone, sat near a torch and hunched over conspicuously. Upon silently walking up to him, standing just behind him, Ronan waits just a few moments until his presence is felt. Predictably, Astarion jumps to his feet, hand going for a dagger with the journal clutched to his chest as he whips around to face his would be assailant.

Of course, it's just Ronan and Astarion sighs in a melodramatic relief, commenting that they should perhaps bell the dragonborn when he isn't in his horrendously loud armor. Ronan grunts, holding out a hand expectantly and what follows is a rather typical back and forth as Astarion teasingly mentions all the 'dirty little secrets' he's supposedly gleaned from the journal while Ronan steadfastly asks for the damn thing back as he'd like to make an entry and get to sleep. But something's off, as usually after a minute or two the leather bound book is halfway into Ronan's hand, being pulled away a time or two, yet Astarion is keeping it close to himself, as if reluctant to give it back.

Ronan notices, interrupts Astarion in midst of being complained at over his assessment of the rogue's battle performance to ask if everything is alright. For a moment, Astarion says yes, of course, well as good as he can be starving and exhausted in the middle of this godforsaken place but-

And he stops, chewing on his lip, troubled as he opens the journal again to flip to the page he'd had his thumb wormed into this whole time. He touches his face and Ronan can feel what's coming before Astarion opens his mouth to ask if the person on the page is him. He doesn't even need to see the sketch Astarion shows him; there's a lot of the elf drawn in that journal.

Ronan nods and then immediately mutters something akin to an apology that his artistic talent is lacking, receiving a joke about how Astarion certainly wouldn't hang anything he's drawn by his bedroll that trails off. Then he's silent for a moment, taking the journal back to stare down at the page before he supposes it's the best he'll get. It's a want for a way to help that strikes Ronan as he watches, struggling with what to say and wishing he had some way to alleviate that grief, to show him-

But there is a way to show him, isn't there?

It takes some convincing and a promise to not probe into Astarion's thoughts, but eventually a reluctant vampire is standing illuminated in a holy daylight summoned eagerly for just the occasion. He's instructed to close his eyes as Ronan crouches down to get the best view he can and takes Astarion's hand to press his palm to a scaley temple. The connection is immediate, Astarion's sight filled with a clear picture of himself, of a face he hasn't seen in centuries mirrored perfectly through Ronan's steady and concentrated gaze.

He's given as much time as he needs, Ronan seemingly happy to stare at him as he takes it all in. There's something filtering through the cleric's ironclad concentration, made only more apparent at every observation and joke Astarion makes while refamiliarizing himself with himself. Words and phrases pop into mind, squashed before they complete like the sound of them being thrust underwater to muffle and become incoherent.

Comments about his features, about his voice, about the hand still curled against Ronan's temple, about how close they are. Noachi, that draconic nickname Ronan's given him that he still has no idea the meaning of, thought less like a word and more like a fond prayer floating through as Ronan chuckles at some quip Astarion makes about not remembering his chin being like that. But there's another thing that Ronan can't seem to stop coloring his perception and his thoughts.

It's not a word or a phrase or even a picture. Merely a feeling, a warmth, deep and radiating, growing stronger and stronger the longer Ronan is staring at Astarion. So much so, it colors the picture he's presenting as a glow emanates around Astarion that has nothing to do with the magical daylight or the nearby torch or anything about himself, as if that warmth Ronan is feeling is warping his very sight.

And it's a feeling that Astarion recognizes, has tried not to recognize for a little while now, ignoring and writing it off and burying it at every turn. A feeling that answers back within him and that shakes him. Frightens him enough, he takes his hand away, opens his eyes to break the connection.

Astarion thanks him, kind of, inbetween commenting that he hopes Ronan is happy he's probably satisfied his need to stare at Astarion for the evening before actually saying something that amounts to gratitude. It gets him another chuckle, and Ronan bows his head with a little smile, telling him 'anytime, noachi' before leaving Astarion alone. The daylight fades away to nothing and Astarion is left by the torch, watching Ronan take his journal to the rest of the rest of camp as he touches his face, lost in thought.

[amourcheol]

bonjour amigos !! sorry for being generally MIA but since it’s Christmas break ive been writing a teensy weensy bit !! just crossed a 10k count for the Vernon fic i was on about a couple of months back so 😁😁 pls do await 😁😁

[flickerintwilights]

Linktober day 12: FAVORITE GAME

rated T for a bit of swearing / botw2 2019 teaser trailer / 1341 words

“O-kay,” Zelda said from behind him, taking it in stride and rummaging for her notebook. “How bad is it?” 

He lifted his fingers carefully from the stone and felt his feet firmly planted on the ground, the sheathed sword on his back. “Extremely haunted.”

read below the cut

Zelda, he knew, was concerning herself with the murals and iconography they’d discovered littering this cave system, most of them half-crumbled but all of them retaining some noteworthy style or symbolism. They all looked like they would crumble at the slightest touch, and Zelda was taking great care not to actually, physically touch them, just using the Purah Pad’s newly added camera feature and her worn notebook. Half the time, she was scribbling away or pondering in the torchlight or relentlessly discussing ideas. 

The murals were invaluable. The underground was still dark, dank, unstable, and they were running low on supplies. Link somehow had a relatively singular concern.

Mere hours into their descent, they had turned a bend and there were stones glowing that unearthly teal — the same color as the silent flames blurring the edges of the dead Champions, the dead king, into nothingness, or at least something far beyond real. Zelda had never seen them, or she never told him, but he had. 

He knew it from more than just ghosts. Link had always thought after waking up from old dreams, half-delirious, that they might be murmuring in the background — and every night he spent in Zora’s Domain, a beautiful city entirely built of luminous stones, he felt wisps of this strange and alien grief. The water had worn itself pathways into his memories and the statue of Mipha was always reaching out for him and the luminous pendants on his armor sang; that kind of thing. Back then, he’d chalked that up to his abnormally fucked-up memories. It had been a fact of life that a part of him was constantly in despair and the other part couldn’t imagine why. 

The entire cave wasn’t made of luminous stones or that kind of crystal, but the feeling was oddly present. Like a voice in the back of his head. That first time, Link had gone straight up and placed one hand on an outcropping of luminous stone. He was trying to feel, not knowing how, if there was something alive inside. There didn’t seem to be, assuming he’d be able to tell — but a shiver raced up his arm and for one singular moment, he thought he heard a distant voice, only the note they sang was swept up in the wind and submerged into the earth. Folded in. Trapped, even, in all the layers of stone surrounding them, and in the crystals growing out of the matrices of the rock. Glowing green. 

“O-kay,” Zelda said from behind him, taking it in stride and rummaging for her notebook. “How bad is it?” 

He lifted his fingers carefully from the stone and felt his feet firmly planted on the ground, the sheathed sword on his back. “Extremely haunted.”

Zelda scribbled something furiously in her notebook. “Do you mind if I—?”

He moved aside. “Yeah, go ahead.”

She placed one palm on the stone. After a few moments, she stepped back, rubbed her eyes, and groaned. “I’ll… add it to the list.”

They went on, deeper, and Link kept seeing them. The stones appeared in increasing numbers and, he thought, saturation. Zelda told him as they walked that she couldn’t hear any voices without direct contact with the stone and was at a loss for how he should tune it out. They briefly discussed diamond effects, but those gemstones were in short supply, and after Link suggested he listen for any patterns or distinct attempts at communication, that was that. 

He was pretty sure the stones were actually speaking — to him, or each other, or… something else. It wasn’t in any way he understood; but he started to feel gradually that there was a song to it. A rhythm. Sometimes it even sounded like a heartbeat.

It was getting louder.

“You’re positive there’s something alive down here.”

“Okay, well, alive is a strong word—” 

“You’re hearing a heartbeat, Link, that means something is— well, alive. Pumping blood.”

He flopped his hands. “The cave? Is it like — a Divine Beast?”

Zelda shrugged helplessly. “Maybe, if they had a heart… no, it’s silly. I’m being serious. You can see dragons and other spirits, ones I can’t — you’ve always been more sensitive to these kinds of things — I think there’s something happening, I just don’t really know what.”

They’d stopped. Zelda was striking flint over her torch; the clang echoed briefly in the cavern, resounding off the crystals with the teal sheen, and was lost into the shadows.

“Well,” Link said, “nowhere to go but down.”

—rnhfocealpton—rgnad—narfr—

The cavern opened up after a few more hours. A massive archway stood at the end, decorated with a stylized boar at its height and carvings running down its sides. The way down was stepped. After they’d both taken a rest, Link tried the first one as Zelda took pictures and notes, and there was a strange, tangible sense in the air of — 

It smelled like death, more than any of the passageways they’d gone through so far. It felt like the air was wrapped in malice. 

Link’s hands went, by reflex, to his bow — searching for the flare of a yellow eye in the darkness — but there was none. His sword, on the other hand, was vibrating on his back. He drew it an inch out of the sheath; its blade glowed, radiant. 

He opened his mouth, then processed and quickly stepped back. Turning to Zelda, he whispered, “It’s definitely down there.”

Zelda didn’t look up from her notebook. “That seems correct. It’s a very ominous archway we’re standing under. Do you want to go in first, or should I?”

They went side by side in the end. There were more carvings within, surprisingly well-preserved. A figure descending from the heavens. A Hylian, hand interlocked with theirs. A beast trailing red in faded, cracked pigment. 

“This figure…” Zelda mumbled in snatches, flipping through her notes, “they… this can’t be…”

thump-thump-thump-thump-thump-thump

Link shoved his face into his hands. “Zel.”

“…Zonai…? Urgh. Yes, Link, I can feel malice everywhere. Just give me one minute.”

“Then we go closer to it,” Link checked. Zelda nodded several times.

—sraeyrfdtiaw—esaelpsupleh—kaerbrtlafogtel—siuoyfotfelsitahtla—epacseondeppart—

He paced for several minutes more than one, listening to the sound of Zelda’s pencil skittering across her page and the click of the Purah Pad’s camera, pointedly attempting not to hear the voices crackling at the edges of his hearing. 

“Okay!” Zelda called. 

Link stood at the top of what appeared to be a long, chipped stairway, winding down. It wasn’t as hard to see as it might have been. There was a tinge of greenish light to the stone. 

She joined him. “Ready?”

They descended into a narrowing tunnel. It felt like a long way down, too deep to be this well-lit — the light was increasing, trailing through the air, leaving greenish sparks and strange symbols that fragmented too quickly for Zelda to catch their shape. It wove pathways. It flowed. It came into contact with Link’s sword hand and jolted through his fingers.

The tunnel opened up into a wide chamber, pointed structures spiking in from the ceiling — all from the center was the light. It was the same color as the stones and his friends’ spirits before they burst into sparks (he’d seen, he’d felt it, he knew when they were gone). It twisted in a spiral from the center upwards, unearthly, otherworldly, carrying what felt like a thousand voices with it and they were all singing untuned. They rose from a massive hand and arm upon a grayed and skeletal chest. The body was arched backwards. Malice flowed, wispy and transparent, from it, and disappeared into the crevices of the rock. The hand shone teal. 

Zelda stepped forward. The Master Sword thrummed. 

—erehemocevahtondluohsuoytuotegevael—at last—

The earth shook — suddenly everything was rising up at once. The light was fragmenting and showering in threadlike particles that dissolved midair; they were crying, and the arm was trembling under the force of it. Link drew his sword and it was nowhere, nowhere near enough. 

orehtnadnecsedLEAVE. I know your names. PLEASE—

[sakuraluck]

ivan is so💕💕

the teaser is out and my suspicions are growing bigger😭😭😭 i am so excited to see how round 3 will change my headcanons of ivan

[thursdayinspace]

i wrote the thing for the last fic title prompt but then realized it fits perfectly into a longer thing i'm writing, so it will be a while before that one will see the light of day. but i was actually stuck on that longer thing, and now i'm unstuck, so that worked out really well.

[sabraeal]

Just a Second Away from Being In Love (Or Alone)

[Read on AO3]

Written for @another-miracle, who asked for any Obi POV in Wide Florida Bay-- but hopefully an obiyuki one 🤣. It actually took me a while to circle in on which one to pick; there's a few that I had my eye on earlier in the timeline, but when it came to obiyuki bits...I knew it had to be this one, which starts off a small mini-arc in the established relationship part of this fic!

It takes him two hours and two pounds of eggplant, but after five minutes of this newest crisis of morale, Obi finally gives in: he going have to use his Phone A Friend for this one. Or at least someone friendly. Ish.

“Tell me this is gonna be worth it,” he huffs, contorted into nature’s worst pretzel shape; his newest attempt to locate anything that could pass for another pie plate in this place. No way Doc’s lived here for three years without putting at least five of the most grandma-worthy vessels for piping-hot fruit somewhere in the cabinets. “Tell me this is gonna be the best thing I’ve put in my mouth my whole life. A fucking paradigm shift when it comes to food.”

“It’s eggplant parmesan. You’re gonna wish it was chicken.” Kelly Ann clucks her tongue, and god, she can be a thousand miles away, but he knows she’s got a knee balanced up on her desk, head tipped back because her eyes can’t roll far enough. “But you just spend half an afternoon drying the most finicky vegetable known to man, so you can’t turn back now. You’re committed.”

That’s the sort of talk that would have given him a life-threatening case of the hives years ago, limping around Atlanta’s unforgiving streets looking for an Urgent Care more quickly than taking a jab to the gut. But now he just asks, “But she’ll like it though, right?”

Kelly Ann sighs, already sick of him. “Yes. The poor innocent you’ve tricked into thinking you’re boyfriend material will think it’s the best thing she’s ever eaten. Even Cal’s officer buddies eat it, and they’re more picky than the four-year-old.”

“I dunno,” he hums, hand-pulverized breadcrumb scattering over sea foam ceramic. “She cooks really good. Have I told you about the Cornish hens? They—”

“I have heard all about the Cornish hens. I am sick of hearing about the Cornish hens.” Obi’s mouth twitches. Gotta be hard for her, having to share the pedestal for Gayle’s Favorite Child. At least with someone who isn’t her own kid. “What kind of guarantees are you look for here? That it’s going to get you laid? It will definitely get you laid.”

“Kelly Ann.” If his hands weren’t covered in egg, he’d be pressing one to his chest, scandalized. “I wasn’t— I’m not doing this for sex.”

She snorts. Which, frankly, he’s earned. But he’s turned over a new leaf. Become a new, better man. One who knows that the most important part of a relationship isn’t what happens between the sheets.

But it certainly helps hedge your bets, especially when you’re as much of a fuck up as he is. Hell, if sex was an option, he wouldn’t be here, debating which hand he’d used for the wet ingredients and which was for the dry. Oh no, he would have been far too busy making her see shrimp colors to worry about whether eggplants stayed crispier fried or baked. But since he’d had fallen for her absolutely genius— though, as Yuzuri warned, biologically inadvisable— beach-dinner-sex seduction strategy, Doc’s on the bench for the next quarter, sexy-time wise, and he’s—

Well, he’s got to show her he’s got talents out of the bedroom too. Or, er, off the couch. And shower. Sometimes even—

Ah, well, non-flat surface based talents. Cooking’s supposed to be one of them.

At least, it would be, if his eggplant slices weren’t eating floor. “How are you supposed to even get these slippery bastards over to the tray? They just keep— fuck.”

“Just go slow,” Kelly Ann informs him with an aggravating amount of patience. “It’s not a race.”

“I am going slow,” he snaps, gingerly transferring his next slice to the rack. “There is no possible way I could be going slower. I’m going to be here for days just doing this. Years from now, archaeologists will find my body and wonder why I’m only halfway through—”

“If there was an Olympic event for complaining, you’d take gold five years running.” She can tease him as much as she like, but there’s no bite to it anymore, no sharp teeth waiting to take a nibble. No, he’s pretty sure that the stretch on her vowels means she’s smirking; the closest thing to a smile when she’s aimed in his direction. “Maybe you should be doing this for sex, it sounds like you might need—”

“You keep this up and I’ll ask Gayle when you’re thinking you’ll have round two.” His mouth is all teeth as he adds, “After all, Laila would make such a cute big sister.”

He can’t see her, but he can hear her seething on the other end of the line. “I know where you live.”

“It’s a fourteen hour drive at best and I’ve got Mom on speed dial.”

Her scowl radiates from the speaker. “Fine,” she grits out. “Guess I’ll just have to tell her we’re waiting until number two could have a playmate.”

Obi blinks down at her picture. “Huh, Toddy’s found some girl? That’s fast. He was single at—”

“I’m not talking about Toddy.”

There’s enough silence in the kitchen to make his ears ring. “…What?”

“Oh, come on, Obi,” Kelly Ann sighs, as if he’s the one being obtuse. “The only people you two were fooling at Christmas were yourselves. And now you’re spending a whole day pampering eggplant to impress her?”

“I had a day off,” he murmurs, knees suddenly as solid as his egg dredge. “And I don’t think battering and frying count as a spa day.”

Kelly Ann grunt, unconvinced. “Sure, sure, we can sit here and have you deflect all day. But when it comes down to it…you’re serious about her aren’t you?”

As a heart attack. Which would be fine, if they weren’t barely two months in to the longest relationship of his life. “I think it’s a little soon to say that, uh…”

“That you love her?” His heart beats so loud in his ears he can hardly hear her ask, “You do, don’t you? Love her?”

“Yeah.” It’s a miracle he can even speak with his mouth this dry. “Of course I do.”

“Have you said that? With your Big Boy words?”

He has to press his hands against the counter to keep them from shaking. A strategy that would go better if both of them weren’t covered in egg gunk.

“Ah, gotta go,” he gasps, already reaching for a towel. “Making a real mess of all this.”

“Obi—”

The first finger clean shoots out, cutting off the call.

“There,” he sighs. “That’s enough of that existential crisis.”

*

The eggplant’s fresh out of the oven and sauce just off the heat when the door opens with a shush, his own personal problem stumbling out into the living room, trying to toe her sandals into the tray. If he weren’t elbow deep with this casserole dish, he’d saunter out to appreciate her attempts; there’s a lot on TV nowadays, but none of it can compete with Doc nearly giving herself a concussion trying to unlatch one of those little buckles. TLC used to say you learned something new every day, and listening to her grumble approach swears without ever intersecting, Obi agrees.

“Oh, really.” Most people might be happy just to hurl abuse at inanimate objects, but not Doc. Oh no, she’s got to reason with them.  “This sort of…of…tomfoolery is very…rude. I think you should just…stop…if you would…”

He waits until the first tell-tale clatter and clunk, to call out, “Welcome home.”

“Obi!” she yelps, and oh, he might not be able to see it, but he knows that shocked look: mouth as round as her eyes, skin flushed down to where it meets the swoop of her collar. Extremely kissable, is what he’s saying. “You’re here?”

A tap of the sauce spool sends a chunk of it skittering across the stove, but he grins anyway. “Am I not supposed to be? Did you have plans? Maybe even naughty—?”

“No!” It’s more of a croak than a gasp. “No, I mean…you’re supposed to be here. I’m happy your here. You” —her voice drops, soft, like her pillows— “belong here.”

He thought he’d known all the ways a heart could ache these past few years, but when she talks like that, ah, he’d never thought it could feel this good. Or this terrifying. “You’re not denying the naughty plans thing.”

And she still doesn’t, going so quiet a guy might get suspicious, if he didn’t know— keenly— that she was still in the shop. Taking her nice places and making delicious, boyfriend-worthy dinners has been great; a bigger rush than sex in a bathroom stall. But still, when most of their nights involve staying in, settling into the couch the way they always did, just with the new, heady knowledge that they both are wanting the same things…

Well, there’s been a few inadvisable make out sessions. Exciting ones, the kind that involve hands going under shirts and down pants and wearing hoodies in eighty degree weather the next day. But every time they wandered beneath her shorts— or, more than a few personally exhilarating times, skirts— the mood swerved off the rails, ending things before they— or well, she could get anywhere. After a three-year dry spell, Obi thought a few weeks would be a breeze, a quick breather between rounds, but after a month of having her moan his name at just the simplest touch—

It’s a special kind of torture, he thinks as the other shoe drops. Especially when Doc’s never been one to behave.

“You are home early.” Doc doesn’t often get the jump on him— in shitty childhood vs playful girlfriend, there’s a clear winner every time— but this time, when her sweet voice pipes up from his elbow rather than the galley window, he does. “And cooking dinner?”

“Yeah, I, ah…” She’s always been a curious little squirrel, skittering hither and yon, but when she leans around him to catch a peek of his hard work, her breasts brush against his arm, and, well— like he said. It’s been a long time. “Haah…just needed to let some data compile for a diagram. Thought it might do better on my laptop on our internet.”

He should be playing Tetris with these eggplant pieces right now, but Doc doesn’t make it easy, not with the way she tucks herself against him, her front pressed to his side, a burning line from shoulder to hip. “Are those eggplant?”

One small hand traces a path across his belly, just below his navel, and— and Obi can read a room. Really he can. It’s just not possible that she’s putting down what he’s picking up. “Y-yeah.” He clears his throat, willing it back into an actual, grown adult’s register. “I, uh, got the recipe from Kelly Ann. She…”

Her wrist twists, just enough to dip the tip of her finger beneath his waistband, and oh god, okay, he can’t take it. “Can we talk?” he asks, desperate, one hand gripped around her wrist. “Just for a second here. Because I…I need some clarification, I think.”

Doc flusters, every visible inch of her skin red as she tries to slip from his grasp. Which is absolutely not happening, not if she’s barking up the tree he thinks she is. “S-sorry! I just…I thought…”

One tug sends her careening back into him, every inch of her pressed against every inch of him. Or well, most of them. He's got ten or so that don't quite match up “I’m not complaining about the thinking here. I’m confused about the doing, because I thought we weren’t supposed to, er…”

Do the doing isn’t really where he wants to take this sentence. “I thought,” he starts again, a shade more collected, “that you were in the shop.”

“No.” Her cheeks flush so pink he’s half tempted to bite them, just to see what she’d taste like against his tongue. “I-I mean, I was. But I went to my doctor today, and um…?”

Every muscle in his body stiffens, tense like a cat ready to pounce. “And…?”

Doc might be bold enough to throw herself out windows and into swamps full of at least three of his most deadly fears, but at the twitch of his dick against her hip, her eyes skitter back toward the counter. “A-are you at a good place to stop?”

The eggplant’s going to get floppy in the sauce, and none of it will be as good as it would be if he finished getting this in the oven now, but he can hardly care, not when she lets out a delicious little gasp as she bumps into the counter.

“What exactly did the doc clear you for?” he rumbles, leaning in to give her parted lips the barest brush. “This?”

Her fingers clench at his shoulders, as frustrated as the moan that slips from her throat. “Obi…”

There’s a warning in that, a promise for what will wait for him if he keeps up his teasing, and it only makes his next taste all the sweeter.

“This?” It’s a whisper against her lips, one lost when she swallows it whole. Those fingers yank him down, trapping him in this endless drag of lips and tongue, each one teasing out another moan, another shiver, until he’s nearly drunk from it.

One of his palms scrapes up her side; the silky material of her dress catches on his calluses before he dips beneath it, her nipple already pebbled against his palm. “This?”

His mouth drops to catch it, and oh, if he thought she’d been close before, there’s nothing but cloth between them now, her body arched to fill the curve of his. “Obi!”

She’s trembling in his grip, only the arm at her back keeping her upright, and oh, it’s nothing to trace his fingers up her thigh, to trace the edge of her panties. “This?”

His only answer is a whimper and the bite of nails at his shoulder. It’s enough; he shoves them to the side, the small hairs there tickling his palms. And when the tip of his finger slips between her folds—

“Jesus. Fuck.” His forehead rests against her shoulder. “You’re…?”

Wet. Soaked. His mouth is too dry to get out the words. He doesn’t need to, not when she nods, wiggling against his hand. “Uh-huh.”

“Hah.” He licks his lips, hoping she can’t feel how he trembles now, every part of him drawn as tight as a bowstring. “How about this?”

His fingers dip inside, two sinking straight to the last knuckle. God, he nearly cums right there, from the noise she makes. “Is this what the doc cleared you for, Shirayuki?”

She whines, a pathetic, frustrated sound. One he’d be happy to tease out of her again, if she didn’t reach down and pump his fingers into her again, like he might need the help.

“Haah,” he breathes, hard. “Yeah, I think I can help with that.”

By the way she’s moving, it won’t be enough. Not nearly enough for either of them, not with his cock straining his jeans, soaking them where it’s trapped up against the band. He grinds against her hip, trying to get some relief, pulling her even tighter against him as his fingers work, and—

“Obi,” she gasps, pushing his shoulders away. “We eat on these counters.”

He’d argue that, if they weren’t already sharing space with dinner. Instead he leans in, giving her one, long kiss as he drags his fingers out of her. “Your room or mine?”

“Whichever,” she sighs, hopping up into his arms, “is closer.”

[melodious-tear]

wild card | heroes fic aesthetic

[darkpoisonouslove]

Burning.

That was the first sensation seared into Valtor's being. Not like a fire was burning–a natural form of existence–but how a person burned when they were suffocating, dying.

From inextinguishable Flame he’d become a creature, a living being. Breathing hadn’t been instinct yet. Amidst the flood of knowledge, of awareness he was gaining of himself as an entity cut from the fabric of the universe but separate from it, he’d not yet realized how he was supposed to exist, to survive in this new form.

He’d been omnipotent before, endless, almighty. Then he’d been confined to a body that needed oxygen to live – like ordinary, unremarkable fire.

His creation had been agony. He’d resolved to never turn back, to live with his new form–with his forced servitude to the Witches–and all the possibilities it afforded him.

[sharkingpeach]

“I know what you’re asking, Steve. And I know you don’t seriously expect me to believe you are worried that sharing a cabin is any different than being here, around the kids, at all.” Steve chewed his lip. Scott folded his hands on his desk and leaned forward, “If you were that worried, I don’t think you would still be here. Have a little faith, huh?" Steve sighed and sank in his chair.  "Steve, do you know who Socrates is?" 

[thesparklingwriter]

FDXFGHJ CELESETEEE YOUR BLOGGGG ( oml it's so fine i wanna marry it /j )-

i come here to thee to present to you some zhongli rot of the brain -

a soulmate au where people can see their soulmates in their dreams after a certain age and wake with hazy memories of them ( so they know them by instinct should they ever meet ). zhongli has never had these dreams for a long, long time and he has accepted the fact that he either has no soulmate like a few in the world, or he hasn't lived till their age yet.

at least until recent years, he starts meeting the reader in his dreamscape. of course, this being zhongli, he remembers everything and he is smitten.

angst counterpart?

the reader' suddenly stops coming.'s visits grow less frequent.

( it could either be because the reader has a terrible sleep schedule and he's worried, they don't feel safe enough to invoke pleasant dreams and meet him - and he's' worried OR they just straight up die lmao and he's - you guessed it - worried )

AHHH AINE HELLO IM SO HAPPY YOU LIKE THE NEW LOOK HEHE HOW'VE YOU BEEN BESTIE?

all decisions i make related to my blog must be validated by my moots or what was even the point /hj

this is actually so funny cause i was literally just thinking about a soulmate reincarnation au AND i also just queued the songbird brain rot you left me the last time you came around, it's like i summoned you hehe

but omg this (seriously Aine i'm going to need to know where your ideas come from)

i have so many ideas but i'm going to keep them to myself because otherwise i'll put them all here and not on a google doc, you're going to have to wait until july to see hehehe.

i'm going to break everyone's hearts with unbearable angst and then put them back together in the most unhinged way possible. like Zhongli's walking around Liyue thinking "i'll never meet them. who was i to believe i would ever be anything but alone?" and then whoops there they are sleeping on the ground in liyue harbor surrounded by a bunch of millelith cause they were up all night reading a book from Yae publishing house entitled 'seducing morax'

honestly what would i do without you? at this point you're the driving brainrot force of this blog <3

[taegularities]

for miss oc

https://vt.tiktok.com/ZS8scofPb/

i am so late to this, i apologise, babe 😭 but the way i can see oc come up with such designs bc she's a sucker for the 20th century aesthetic.

jk would have... quite a few thoughts on these :')

[rikiconne]

hey there! i just stumbled upon your blog and wanted to say i think you're pretty cool :)

i'm looking forward to your riki and heeseung fics! childhood friends to lovers is so good

i'd like to be mutuals, if that's okay with you? 🥺

hi :) thank u sm... literally made me smile. i'm happy ppl are looking forward to these fics. i love both of them a lot

yes, i'd like that! please feel free to message me 🥺