#they saw how much I needed them and plucked me out of the sky and held me so tight in their arms in this big group hug | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

margowritesthings · 9 months

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A Job Well Done

pairing: Arthur Morgan x reader (f) word count: 4944 words warnings: 18+ minors dni, sexually explicit, oral (f giving), rough oral, a little choking, a touch of voyeurism, explicit language, it's pretty much a blowjob fic authors note: idk what to say... this started as a little drabble because me and my fiancé love having a little smoke together at night and.... well, here we are I guess?? i hope you enjoy you lovely lot, and if you've asked to be tagged and you're not please let me know!! I have a new system for keeping track of my taglist and I may have lost some requests in the transfer

taglist: @cowboydisaster @inkandbloodbound @counteveryfreckle @elifsukirdaghehe @reaveries @delilah-grimes @mrsarthurmorgan7 @twola@the-marsh-harrier @wildfloweroutlaw @photo1030 @luvliewriting@pine4pple-b0i *if i've missed you please let me know!!!*

You pull Arthur’s jacket tighter around your shoulders, settling into the old wooden chair while it creaks beneath you. Thanks to being in the middle of the Lemoyne swamps, it isn’t too cold despite the moon hanging so high in the sky above you, the jacket is more for comfort. From where you sit, you can see near the whole camp, watching lanterns flicker off incrementally as each member of your makeshift family retires for the night. A few of the boys stay up, drinking by the fire, their voices muffled and distant in the thick air.

It’s been a week to the day since you last saw Arthur, before he left to track a rather sizable bounty down and attempt to cushion out the camp funds, and God do you miss him. The days feel so much longer, nights so lonely you’ve considered saddling up and finding the bastard yourself just to bring him home sooner. Comfort can be found, though, in the ways Arthur’s presence has bled so deeply into your life that his physical being doesn’t even need to be here.

His smell lingers on the jacket he left (the one he wore every day before he had to leave just so you could wear it when you missed him), that perfect mix of tobacco and whiskey and something so ineffably Arthur that you soak up every time you wrap it around your frame.

He’s there in the routines you've built your lives around, intertwined as they are, the ones you can’t shake even if he’s not beside you. The cup of coffee in a morning, his so much better tasting than yours but you try anyway. The first morning after he left, you made two, ending up giving the extra to a very grateful Abigail to save face.

There’s a nightly routine, too. The one where you get ready for bed, then climb through the window to meet him on your balcony. He’s always there waiting with a cigarette hanging from his lips, patting his lap ready for you to crawl on. He’ll drag a match across his boot, (or sometimes the bottom of yours, if you’re still wearing them) lighting up the smoke before handing it to you. You’ll pass it between each other, catching up on your days, limbs entangled just how they should be as you watch Shady Belle fall asleep around you.

Without him, those routines bring you comfort, grasping onto the remnants of your cowboy until his safe return. That’s why you’re sitting in this spot, pulling a cigar out of the little tin stash box Arthur left behind. Normally it’s just a cigarette, you could never survive a cigar a night and have the throat to tell the tale, but there’s something inexplicably Arthur about this brand of smokes, something you’re seeking tonight.

You pluck a match from the tin, striking it against the table beside you, never having gotten the knack of igniting the thing on your boot as effortlessly as Arthur does, and light the cigar between your lips. The all-familiar woody essence dances across your tongue, your tired muscles relaxing from the first few tokes.

It’s just you, the moon and the crickets as you sit on the balcony, Arthur’s smoke between your lips. You wonder what he’s doing. He should be sleeping, but knowing him he’s probably up planning, or doing exactly what you are right now. You pray he’s safe, hasn’t been gotten by the law or worse, gotten himself killed. You can’t let yourself even think about that, the very idea bringing a tremble to your limbs. To combat the sudden spike in anxiety, the next time you bring the cigar to your lips you drag in just that bit more smoke, letting it soak down your spine. Not nearly as experienced in smoking as Arthur, you cough a little, but you recover much quicker than you used to.

Memories of that first time, of Arthur offering you the little brown stick and you nervously nodding, bring a little smile to your face. Oh, how you spluttered, Arthur giving you his drink on instinct, only realising that the whiskey burn would do the opposite of help once it was too late. You’d have been in your right mind to be embarrassed as hell, but by the way he chuckled as he rubbed circles around your back told you that he found it nothing but adorable.

You sit there for a few minutes, basking in the precious peace so seldom found nowadays and taking a drag every now and then, the smoke riding a sigh from your lips. Your eyes slip closed, trying to shut off as many senses as you can to really connect with that smell and taste, imagining him emerging from your bedroom window to be here with you.

He’s much less graceful than you are, often catching some part of his person on the windowsill when he climbs out onto the balcony. So many nights spent patching up little holes in his pant legs, right where that out sticking nail used to be in the frame before he ‘bested it in combat’ (i.e. pulled it out with a hunting knife and threw it ceremoniously in the lake).

Manifestation is a powerful tool, you’ve always believed that, but you still nearly jump out of your skin when you feel a large hand grasp your shoulder just as you imagined, Arthur’s gruff, hushed whisper tickling the words “hey, sweetheart” into the skin of your neck. It takes you a second to catch your breath, heart racing from the shock before everything registers and reality sets in.

“Arthur?”

He’s here.

“C’mere, darlin’.”

You fly out of your seat, the rickety old thing nearly splintering under the force, launching yourself into his open arms to burrow yourself into him. Every part of him consumes your senses and you drink it all in like an addict. The smell, the real thing, much more of that Arthur essence than the whiskey or cigars, probably because he forewent breaks in his journey for those little pleasures to get back to you sooner.

He seems to be taking you in as much as you are him, inhaling long through his nose and sighing it out contentedly, feeling whole again after so long without you in his arms.

“I missed ya’, beautiful.” He says softly into your hair, holding you tight against him, his knuckles brushing up and down the small of your back through layers of clothes you’ve stolen from him.

“I missed you so much…” You mumble into his shirt, hardly able to breathe through the wall of hard chest muscle you’re pressed against, caring even less.

It’s only then do you remember the cigar, forgotten and abandoned, smoking away on the table propped up on a jar lid turned makeshift ashtray. Most of the boys don’t bother with one, and neither did Arthur, until a fateful night a few months before you started dating when you first handed him the jar and told him you read something about birds and rabbits eating the butts of cigarettes. He kept the little piece of junk right next to his bedside, waiting for you to find it after that first night together.

Arthur spots your momentary pull of attention, pulling his chest away to raise a brow down at you with a little chuckle rumbling his chest.

“Having a fancy smoke of a night, are we?”

A cheeky little smirk- Arthur’s favourite, actually- tugs at the corner of your lips, waiting patiently for him to kiss it away.

“The smell reminds me of you…” you play coy, earring yourself that kiss when Arthur lifts you up to his height, kissing you softly, letting his world and yours fall back into place together.

“Well I’m here now, angel. Wanna sit? Could do with a nice cigar with my girl to celebrate a job well done.”

You’re eager to nod, heart fluttering at the prospect of getting to sit with him and hear all about his trip. He untangles from you to sit down first, patting his lap for you to crawl into. You fit perfectly together (you should do, you were made for eachother), head resting on his shoulder, legs splayed over his thighs with your arm draped over his shoulder. The cigar has gone out, so Arthur strikes a match so expertly on his spurs before shaking it out and placing his hand on the small of your back for support. You lean into him, watching him take puffs of the cigar and feeling the tiniest bit of tension leave his joints. He looks so natural with a smoke between his teeth, commanding an air of power with each movement he makes. Smoking doesn’t suit just everyone, you think, but God, does it suit him.

“We’re celebrating? You got the bastard, then?”

“Sure did,” he says, smoke spilling from his lips with each syllable. Arthur looks you over again, drinking in the dearly missed view, before kissing you on the forehead and flipping the cigar between his fingers to offer it up, “Eventually found him up in Fort Brennand, but he weren’t alone. Nearly lost a damn eye, but luckily only Woffard had to be brought in alive, so I dropped the other bastards and ran.”

You hang on his every word, your hero. You know he’s downplaying the fight, the danger of it all, but he does it so that you don’t worry every time he’s gone. It never works, and you always do, but you love him for trying.

“Oh, Arthur, I’m so glad you’re alright…” You coo, pressing a hand to his cheek, feeling the weeks worth of stubble scratching against your palm. He nuzzles into your touch, not unlike a cat, and your find yourself keeping your hand there to mindlessly play with his hair, tipping his hat off to put on your own head. He chuckles, reaching to adjust it on you.

“Course I am, couldn’t leave you here all alone with this buncha’ fools, could I? Besides, someones gotta bring home the bacon around here, and you know Marston’s too trigger happy to bring a bounty in alive.”

“So you got the full price?” Your eyes gleam, the proudest smile on your features as Arthur nods and shifts both your weights for a moment to pull out a stack of bills and smack them on the table dramatically.

“You’re damn straight I did, baby.”

Of course he did. Arthur never fails, and God knows how much the camp needs this right now, freedoms diminishing by the day as Dutch makes more enemies and plans jobs that just seem to keep going wrong. But you don’t want to think about that right now. Right now, there is only you and Arthur, and the promise of a whole night spent with him uninterrupted. You hand him the cigar back, along with a stolen kiss, and he takes another mesmerising drag. The way he holds it, every so often tipping the ash into the first gift you ever gave him, it does things to you that you just can’t explain. It’s just a cigar, and yet you’re pressing your thighs together tight to futilely subdue the tightness coiling between them.

“I’m so proud of you… I always am.” Unkempt locks of hair are twisted between your fingers, your face so close to Arthur’s you can pepper his cheek, temple and lips, whenever not occupied, with little kisses, Arthur’s hat sometimes tipping up against his forehead on your head. The two of you are always like this after a few days apart, unable to get enough of each other or keep your hands off one another. You shift your weight to access him better, catching his bottom lip between your teeth to press a long, tender kiss there. He hums under you, hand splaying under your jacket to grasp at your shirt. It’s seconds before you feel it, that hardening that nudges up against your thigh, prodding and reminding you just how much Arthur has missed you.

You pull away from the kiss, just enough to raise a teasing brow at how sensitive your cowboy is to your touch. He shrugs, unashamed, with that cheeky grin and those glistening eyes directed right at you.

“What? I missed ya…” His words are accompanied with a pinch of your ass, which makes you writhe on top of his stiffness, the friction dragging a low growl from deep within his chest.

“I can see that, cowboy… I missed you too. I missed you more.” You emphasise, nipping at his lip again and splaying your fingers across his chest. He rises to your touch, and you feel him stiffen more so under you. It takes a second of manoeuvring, but you’re soon straddling him, hovering above him like the angel he sees you to be. From this angle, with the moon behind you, you’re glowing.

“You absolutely did not, you little siren…” He growls again, pulling at the flesh of your ass so that you’re grinding against him, the friction of denim against denim igniting you both and burning so wonderfully.

“Oh, yeah? I can prove it.” There’s a little cock of your head, a raise of one teasing brow as you start to slide off him. He looks confused, disappointed, even, until your knees rest on the planks of wood on the balcony floor and he instinctively spreads his legs to give you the space between them. Your fingers splay across his thick thighs, and they tense under your touch, as does Arthur’s jaw. He’s starved after a week without you, clearly trying to reign in a control he’s struggling to possess. There’s no wonder, having his girl knelt before him like this.

“You wanna take this to the bedroom?” He growls out, abandoning the still smoking cigar in the jar lid. You look up at him, peeking out from under the rim of his hat.

“No.” You reach for the cigar, taking a few drags yourself before flipping it in your fingers just like he did and placing it between his teeth, “Finish your smoke.”

A distant laugh captures Arthur’s attention for a second, reminding you both just how close you are to the other gang members. You’re somewhat hidden by the railing, but if they looked in your direction, Arthur is fully visible from the chest up. A simple bob of your head- and you’re planning on plenty- would bring you into view.

The look Arthur gives you when he quickly diverts his attention back from Marston and the others is downright feral, especially when your hands reach for his belt buckle. Nimble fingers make quick word of the obstruction, and you’re soon pulling Arthur’s thick, long length out from his jeans. He groans at your very touch, involuntarily bucking his hips up into your hand.

You laugh, the sound a tempting little giggle as you tell him “Patience, cowboy…”

He almost snarls in response, clearly having been goddamn patient enough over the last week where all he could do is fuck himself with your name on his lips and the thought of you knelt just like this between his legs at the forefront of his mind, always.

Just as you lean in, when your soft lips trace over his rosy, swollen head, he pulls you back by plucking his hat from atop your head and throwing it to the side. He rests the cigar between the fingers of his free hand to free his mouth to speak to you.

“Need to see you while I fuck that pretty little moutha’ yours, angel…”

His words soak through you (and soak you through), and you just can’t wait a second longer, needy to have his cock deep down your throat, desperate for the burning of your lungs and the stinging in your eyes when he loses that control he so often vehemently clings to.

Unable to wait a second longer, you run your tongue from base to tip, feeling every vein pulsing under your muscle and eliciting a deep groan from Arthur. When you finally take him in your mouth, his hand reaches to cup your cheek, following you down as you take as much of him as you can.

“Fuck.” He groans, fingers reaching to tangle in your hair, scratching at your scalp. He’s probably louder than he should be, your eyes flickering to the general direction of the others as a warning, but they soon snap back to your cowboy, an intense eye contact burning at your skin as the head of his cock bumps the back of your throat. Arthur never takes his eyes off you, guiding you up and down his length and bringing the smoke to his lips. The tip of the cigar flares a deep, fiery orange, and smoke billows from his mouth with each laboured breath you coax from him. The way he’s sitting, fingers of one hand pulling at your hair, controlling your movements, and the other limply holding the smoke, he exudes a power many seek to master but never quite get. It makes your heart swell and your cunt throb for him, knowing on your knees before him is the only place you ever want to be, knowing only you inhabit it.

You can taste Arthur, his salty essence leaking from the pure ecstasy you’re providing and spit pools in your throat, mixing with it and dribbling down your chin. Arthur catches it with his thumb, guiding you off his cock to push the digit into your mouth and let you suckle from it. You do, hungrily, adjusting on your knees to better take Arthur deep down your throat and-

“Arthur! That you?”

Marston.

For eyes widen at each other, Arthur instinctively pushing you a little lower by your shoulder to keep you out of sight. John hasn’t seen you, and you’d like to keep it that way, being in the incriminating position you are between Arthur’s legs.

You spot the irritated sigh, the twitch of Arthur’s jaw as he plasters a fake friendliness onto his features and peers over the balcony to see his brother standing on the clearing below.

“Sure is. Whatchu’ want?”

Straight to the point.

“We didn’t hear you get back. How long’ve you been here?”

All that tension you’ve worked so hard to dissipate comes back to Arthur’s form with a crashing force. You can almost hear his plea for just one second a’ goddamn peace, merely by the way he sighs before answering.

“Not long, thought I’d try and sneak past you fools and get some shut eye.”

Subtle, cowboy.

Ever oblivious, or simply not caring, John continues, “How’d it go, then? You got the bastard?”

He has you pressed against his thigh to hide you from sight, cock standing to attention right beside your face. It’s too tempting, especially with a none the wiser Marston stood right below. When your tongue darts out, hovering above Arthur’s twitching, aching cock, his eyes flick down to you, warning residing deep in his eyes. You take it as less of a warning, more a challenge.

You wouldn’t.

Oh, but I would.

And you do. You lift up, just enough to fit the head of his throbbing cock past your lips and slide the whole length in. It bumps the back of your throat, but upon hearing Arthur’s strangled, poorly hidden groan, you can’t seem to stop yourself.

“Y-uh… Yeah, I got ‘em…”

It’s impressive, how he can just about hold a conversation despite his cock being so far down your throat his balls rest on your chin.

You can’t see John, but you can only imagine how his head must tilt and his brows must pull together at the strange response from Arthur.

“You alright, brother?”

He won’t be.

You blink up at Arthur, feigning an innocent, near angelic expression as you inhale through your nose and push him even further into you. You hum, low and quiet, letting the vibrations pass through him. Arthur whimpers, instantly knocking any and all sounds you’ve ever heard from top spot and replacing them as your favourite in the whole world.

“I-I’m fine. Just tired.” He tries to hint again, to no avail. His fingers are digging into your shoulder with a bruising force, that control slipping bit by bit with every passing second, every little movement. Tears prick at your eyes, that burning in your lungs you’ve been reaching for finally igniting. You’re stuffed with him, feeling so full that it’s hard to breathe. When you go to release him, to be able to gasp for precious air, you realise you can’t, Arthur’s huge hand holding you right in place with his palm flush against the back of your neck. Revenge.

“Where’s the Mrs?”

A raise of a brow. You’re not married, but everything is so naturally right between you and Arthur that the gang just seem to have defaulted to that. It makes you beam, wanting nothing more than to be this man’s wife, the kind of wife that makes him cum down your throat while he has a menial conversation.

“S-She’s- fuck…” When he grips harder at you, you gag around his length, tears now streaming down your cheeks and mixing with your spittle and the little bits of precum that leak out from Arthur. “She’s in bed. I-I better go check on her, a-actually.” He whimpers again, fingers now gripping into your hair to keep you in place. You’re not sure how much longer you can last like this, struggling to breathe, overflowing and, God, so wet for him.

John sounds unconvinced. You��d giggle, if you could.

“Alright… Well, g’night, brother.”

Arthur barely manages a grunt, and you can feel his thighs tensing and twitching from the sheer effort of not bucking his hips up into you and giving the pair of you away. He stills, most likely waiting for Marston to fuck off already, before he rips you away from him and pulls you to your feet, gripping your aching jaw with force enough force to keep it open.

“You goddamn siren.” He isn’t mad. He’s trying to be, but you know Arthur far too well, and he’s burning with a fire far hotter than mere anger. Need.

The mischievous glint in your eye is all you can offer for response, what with his iron grip on your face, but you do manage to slip your tongue out and lick the pad of his thumb, tasting the mixture of fluids still lingering.

It’s all getting too much, knowing what you just did and who you did it around, hearing Arthur unable to string a sentence together because of you. You don’t think you’ve ever been so turned on in your life, so desperate for a release that you’re pathetically writhing in Arthur’s hold. He notices, forced anger on his features replaced with a cockiness that only comes from knowing he’s regaining the power in the situation.

Your cheeks tingle when he releases you, sitting back in the seat and leaning back, one elbow resting on the arm of the old wooden chair and picking the cigar back up. God, you could ride him in that chair till morning, if you thought the wood wouldn’t splinter under the force.

“You gonna finish what you started, my little siren?” He asks, taking an especially long toke from the smoke while he waits for you to drop to your knees before him. Your cunt throbs, screaming out for his attention, but it would seem your antics have earned you punishment.

Your knees hit the wood with a force, though an involuntary whimper escapes you, hips grinding pathetically against nothing. Arthur notices, smirking like a goddamn cheshire cat at his little wanton whore.

“Patience, angel.” Your own words echo back to you like a slap in the face. You definitely deserve this.

The grip you had on the power in this game you’re playing with Arthur officially disappears when his hand snakes around the back of your neck, grasping at your hair and winding it around his wrist like a leash. You have to tilt your head so the tugging at your scalp is a mere burn rather than a sharp pain, but that’s just where he wants you.

“Now, little siren, I’m gonna teach ya’ some manners, and you’re gonna finish what you started, alright? And if you’re a good girl, maybe I’ll think about getting that sweet little cunt of yours off…”

It’s all it takes, the promise of Arthur’s fingers deep inside you while he sucks on your clit just how you like it, lapping up your juices like a man starved, and the defiance in your eyes dissipates. Arthur bends you to his whim, messy, sloppy putty in his hands as he drags you onto his weeping cock. You’re all but drooling for him, leaking out of the corners of your mouth when he slips into you. Your scalp tingles with the pull, especially when Arthur involuntarily tightens his grip with a hiss of his breath. His tip bumps the back of your throat, but he doesn’t stop even when you’ve fit all of him in that you can.

“Fuck, good girl, just like that baby girl…” he groans, and when you open your eyes to look up to him, he is watching you with a gaze so intense you feel like it could tear you apart. The tension burns between you, coiling so tight the chirp of a nearby cricket could snap it.

There’s an unspoken question in your eyes when you start to nearly choke on his length of when you’ll be released, but his eyes darken, “Come on, baby, you can take more, can’t you?”

He seems to register your fear, but it phases him little. It seems more a challenge, really, coaxing him into rocking his hips into you, pushing you even further onto his cock until you feel it start to breach past your throat in a way you didn’t even know possible. You splutter, wriggling and writhing as you try your hardest to breathe through your nose.

“Shh… good girl,” he coos, a ravenous look taking over your usually so lovable cowboy. You’ve pushed him, and God do you live for it. “Not much further… wanna see you take all of my cock, alright? You gonna do that for me, angel?”

You can’t nod, but it isn’t much of a question, not much choice available with your limited movements and the way Arthur has completely commandeered your body. You’re irrevocably his, body and soul.

It doesn’t feel possible to fit more of him in, your throat burning for relief that won’t come until Arthur is satisfied, but when he bucks his hips into you, you feel his base press against your nose. He groans hard, the noise initially from the sensation of having your throat wrapped around his cock, but when he sees the sight of you, tear stained and gagging on him, the moan is pulled out into a noise of pure ecstasy.

“Good girl… my good fuckin’ girl.”

His thumb rubs lovingly over your wet cheek, a sensation you cling to as the corners of your vision get fuzzy. Fuck, you’re not sure how much longer you can hold out, but you’re so desperate to feel Arthur’s spend trickling down your throat, feel him lose control and moan just for you that you’d honestly be willing to die for it.

Your expression, complete with lust-fogged, watery eyes, and beautifully flushed skin, teases the last of Arthur’s restraint like a razor thin blade against that final thread. When it finally snaps, you’re allowed one gasp for air, before he’s thrusting back into you hard. You can feel him stiffen, even more so than before, as his hips splutter into your mouth and he starts to tumble over the precipice into that realm of pleasure that only the two of you share.

“F-Fuck, sweetheart, I’m gonna-” But he interrupts himself with a visceral, primal groan, the vibration of it shattering the both of you. You take advantage of his practically inebriated state to regain some of your own anatomy, managing to swirl your tongue around his pulsing head inside your mouth. The hot, salty spend blooms across your tongue at that, Arthur guiding you by the cheek to bob up and down on his cock while he paints your throat white. His moans are a melody you’ll never tire of, animalistic and vulnerable all the same.

It feels like it never stops, Arthur’s spend filling your mouth up and leaking out from the corners of your lip. You can hardly stay still, writhing your needy cunt against your own heel, desperate for a reward you’re earning when you look him in the eye and swallow it all down. Pride blooms across Arthur’s features, saturated with a love that warms you from the inside out. His thumb caresses your face softly, wiping the tear tracks as you finally release his cock from your mouth and he guides you to your feet, pressing a kiss to your forehead, then nose, then lips.

“My good girl…” He coos, barely above a whisper as you breathe each other in, both as breathless as the other. Your throat aches, your jaw burning, but you’d do it a thousand times over to experience what you just did all over again.

“Now…” He splits the sentence with another kiss, catching your chin between his thumb and forefinger, “Get on inside, sweetheart, I think you’ve earned yourself a reward.”

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bloodycassian · 10 days

Text

Striking a Deal - Reader x Azriel

Reader is a demon, capable of granting information in exchange for things she wants. When Azriel summons her, she may be more than he can handle.

Warnings - ‘forced’ sex due to circumstance, bondage, unbreakable ties, choking, teasing, orgasm denial, HFO/hands free orgasm, cock milking, squirting, cum paly, g-spot and clitoral stim, fingering, mention of knot (no knotting), hand job, wing play, mention of blood ingestion (not super sexual, not in scene),

As always, skip to ++++++++++ for just the nasty stuff. <3

NSFW 18+ MDNI

Azriel was desperate. Fully, truly desperate for stooping this low.

Still, he chanted on, plowing through verse after verse of the summoner’s spell.

He had little regret over what he’d done. Scaring away fifteen priestesses hadn’t been hard, but finding the right tome had been. He should have asked for the book first.

“Of blood, and by this flame I summon you.” He finished, slicing a cut into his wrist deep enough to coat the pile of bones and herbs he’d gathered for this ritual.

And there was silence. He glanced around, taking in the painted walls of the temple and carved archways. The moon was little more than a sliver, the thing he’d summoned could be anywhere. He scented his own fear and clamped down on it, forcing his mind to ease.

To fear would be fatal, now.

“I expected someone more powerful than a shadowsinger.” Her voice was like honey dripping into his ears. His neck went stiff, as if a puppeteer was controlling him. His shadows lashed out into the darkness, quickly finding the owner of the voice and wrapping them - no.. her - in bindings.

Very much her. Gorgeous proportions and the hair, his mind went foggy with lust. He saw her now that his shadows had pinpointed her, and was wholly overwhelmed with the perfection of her. Something deep inside him rumbled with warning, though.

This was no witch or sorcerer, not even a Queen. This was something far more powerful and deadly, and he struggled to remember that.

“I may be more powerful than you know.” He said, attempting to put on the saam air of seduction the female radiated.

She walked through his shadows as if they weren’t even there, and again his mind quaked with unfamiliar fear.

“What is it such a powerful shadowsinger needs then?” She hummed, bending beside him and plucking a bone from the floor. She stuck out her tongue and lapped at the length of it, staring at Azriel the whole time. His cock surged, and he cleared his throat.

“I seek a weapon. Something to end a God.” Azriel began, gauging her unimpressed reaction.

“And?” She prompted, taking another lick of his blood. Goosebumps broke out along his flesh.

“Would you be able to help with something like that?” He his his irritation behind an easy smile, watching her tongue. At least her beauty made up for such informality.

“I suppose. It depends how much the asker is willing to pay for such a thing.”

“I have gold.” He supplied, not convince his lowest bid would be enough. Especially not with a demon this peculiar.

“I do too.” She smiled, and waved a hand. His vision went blurry for a moment, then all around him appeared as if he were in a vault of gold marks, gold pillars, stretching from the floor going up and up into the blackened sky. A hot breath fell on his neck, and when he whipped around, the golden eye of a massive beast greeted him.

He jumped backwards, knocking his ritual items over, sending them clattering through the temple. He whirled back around, facing the demon he’d brought here. She shrugged, casting the bone aside and approaching him.

“Show me what you’re really willing to lose, Shadowsinger.” She walked two fingers up his abdomen, to his chest and rested them under his jaw, forcing him to look up. “A weapon that powerful is going to cost more than anything I sense you carry.”

“What do you want?” He hissed, hating how much her touch turned him on. Her nails scratched down his neck, and it was like a branding iron on his skin. Chills raced along his arms.

She sighed, admiring the way his throat bobbed, the way the tendons in his neck stuck out when he was so tense. “I’ve been so… lonely, stuck in the Pit by myself.” She pouted, making his cock ache with the suggestion of what she was proposing. “No one summons us anymore. All you fae and mortals trust so much in your common magics and healers. No one is desperate enough to call upon us anymore.”

He took a steadying breath, his heart hammering in hsi chest. She leaned in, so close to his ear he could feel her hot breath against it. “I want you… to summon me. To bring me back to this planet and allow me to live. Even for the short while before they pull me back. Cast this same ritual, and bring me back.” She took his hand and brought it to her breast, squeezing his fingers tight around it. A groan fell from him, and before he could even think about the implications of striking such a deal, his mouth was on hers.

The deal had been struck.

++++++++++++++++++++++

The searing burn of his tongue upon yours was so deliciously delightful, so full of need and challenge that you could hardly feel the brand of the deal writing itself on your neck.

The kiss had sealed the bond, the rest of this would be just for fun.

“Your weapon-” You say between moans, pulling his tunic off and freeing his muscled body. “Will be found in the deepest lake on the highest peak-”

He rips your clothes off, tearing and urgent with need. “I didn’t summon you for a riddle.” He growls, dipping his head to catch a nipple between his teeth. A sharp gasp escapes you, and you squeeze his cock in your hand.

“You didn’t summon me as your whore, either.” You correct, yanking him back by the hair. He bares his teeth, and his shadows wrap around your ankles, thick and cool against your skin.

“You certainly act like that’s what you’re here for.” He grunts, and those shadows snake farther up your exposed legs until they’re massaging into your thighs. A ripple of want shoots through you at their closeness to your waiting cunt.

You’re too distracted by his hands and shadows on you to really give him a comeback. Truthfully, his filthy mouth could be saying anything at this moment and you wouldn’t care, not as long as he was touching you. It’d been a century since you’d seen anything other than the black pit of your home, and with such a gorgeous male before you, how could one resist? Your blood had been thrumming with need the second you’d crawled out of your home.

He pulls you forward, onto one of the short steps that leads to the recessed center of the room. “Now, what do I have to do to get you to bring me this weapon?” He rasps against your skin, biting your shoulder as he sat you down on the step. He pulls away, only to start lapping down your body until he is between your thighs, joining his shadows there.

“You want another deal, Shadowsinger?” You pant, leaning back on the step behind you and spreading your legs wide for him. He groans and the shadows ghost over your folds with teasing, almost-touches.

“Tell me.” He demands, and laps at you with a flattened tongue. “Such a pretty pussy.” He praises.

Your legs snap together, squeezing his head. “I cannot retrieve it for you, but I can take you to where it is.” You promise, and the half - truth of it feels sour on your tongue. You could retrieve it, but it’d take much more time than you had after you were released from the Pit.

He hums, seemingly content with the answer as he laps at you. His shadows join, dipping into your pussy and writhing there, fucking you softly but with ferocity. Your breaths are coming in shallow, frantic spurts as you focus on not coming on his face.

You want his cock for that.

A lick of your power lashes out, breaking his shadows away and freezing him in place with a leash of your own making. Magic bound, he straightens at your command and the sight of his surprise sets you giggling.

“You’re eager.” You critique. Sitting up, you take his cock in your hands and admire it, loosening your magic on him when you feel him relax and sigh at your touch. “Much too eager.” You observe the thick rivulets of pre-come dripping from his tip. You dip down and take a taste of him, humming at the sense of it. The salty, needy taste of him.

You wrap your hand around him and give him a long, slow pump and he shudders. His cock is magnificent. You can barely touch your fingers together around him with his thickness, and the knot at the base of him is hardly formed. Was he one of the fae able to change his cock at will? A ripple of excitement rolls though you at the possibility of it. You stroke him again, and another drop of precome wets his tip and you tap the tip of your finger with it, trailing it over his shaft and up his abdomen until you reach his lips. He takes it eagerly still, enjoying the taste of himself it seems.

You bind his hands to his sides, and ghost your fingers over his cock. Barely touching him, just as his shadows had teased you. He spits venom, cursing you with each delicate touch. You stroke him hard and through occasionally, but watching him be so needy for the touch is such a turn-on.

Your nails trail from his balls and up his shaft, then you circle the tip of him gently with the pad of your finger, swirling his lubrication there. He’s watching you the entire time, his brows pulled together and his lips a deep shade of red that matches the tip of his cock.

“I am glad that you were the one who’s summoned me.” You hum, getting up and going behind him. Even with him on his knees, he still reaches the height of your breast. He’s huge and lithe in his build, even his wings are a powerful kind. You touch them gently, humming when he hisses curses under his breath.

That gets your attention.

“Sensitive. Illyrian wings are different than the wings of other winged species, aren’t they?” You question, raking your nails over the arches of them. He cries out, lurching forward but your magic catches him, hauling him back up and in place before he can fold onto the step.

You kneel behind him, and wrap an arm around to take his cock into your hand again. He shudders and thrusts forward, into your grip. He’s needy and desperate and with you touching his wings he’s going to cum embarrassingly quickly. He hates how much he’s loving this, how the control you have over him is making him so fucking desperate.

He fucks into your hand, his precome wetting him enough that it heightens the experience further. Your hand is wet and hot and not nearly as good as your mouth had been but it’s better than the teasing touches you’d been giving him earlier, and he’s grateful. His need is rising and his muscles are working, his balls going tight with the need of release.

Then, you pull away. Your hand is gone and he’s left fucking the air like an animal, and he’s shuddering. “You fucking- bitch..” He grinds out, his abdomen flexing with how close he’d been. His balls tighten and relax, his cock twitching and slapping against his stomach.

You stand and go back to be in front of him, watching him twitch and writhe uncomfortably. His cock is surging and desperately seeking more stimulation, The angry redness of the tip a delicious strawberry color that makes you salivate.

You go back to tracing over him, and you can feel his power, his every fiber struggling against your magic. He’s close, so on the edge that you’re sure he’ll break with only a few more strokes. Good. You want him to. You want him to remember the only female who’d bested him at his own desires. You want him to fuck you endlessly, if that is the only time you have on this planet.

His balls are tight and heavy, and when you trace a finger along his ridge he shudders, leaning forward again. You allow it this time, catching his lips with yours and letting your tongue flick over his own. He groans into your mouth and snaps his hips forward when you make a loose fist over his cock.

His needy cries echo across the temple like a song.

You tighten your hand, allowing him to fuck into it for a few more strokes before pulling away again. But it’s too late. You pull back and watch as he thrusts into the air, his cock pulsing with his orgasm. He’s snarling and cursing as the pleasure takes him in a violent way. You watch in supreme pleasure as he gets what he finally wants. His cum shoots out and lands on your legs, your belly. The stone floor and steps. His spend is hot and dribbles from his tip when you release his bindings.

He wavers, and his shadows return slowly. His muscles flex as he leans forward, clearly exhausted with the experience.

His hands shake when he leans over you, catching your chin in his hand. “You are a horrible little thing.” He curses, then forces his tongue into your mouth.

He forces you back, so you’re arched against the steps, and the fingers of his other hand go between your folds, slickening them before plunging in. The most exquisite burn fills you, and is then eased by his curling fingers. He draws out your wetness, coating your clit with it and rubbing firm circles for a moment before pushing deep back inside of you.

He uses his entire forearm and wrist while he does it, truly fucking you with his hand. His fingers are thick and they do satiate a part of your own need, but it’s nothing compared to what his cock would be.

But this part of the game is up to him. You’d had your fun, and now it was his turn.

His tongue is aggressive in your mouth, fighting your own and showing you exactly what he’d been doing against your pussy before. He pulls away, leaving drool on your chin. His shadows go to your wrists, and you allow them to lock you in place, legs spread wide and wrists bound to the floor.

This is his turn. If you want him to stay true to his bargain not just for bargaining sake, you’ll let him have his turn. You could use him, sure, - force him in place and take him as you wanted - but where was the fun in that?

“Azriel-” You pant, and he takes your throat in a hand. Not hard, not dangerous, but certainly a silent command.

He’s working you deep and swiping against your g-spot with every stroke, and if he doesn’t stop you’re not sure if you’ll be able to either.

“Making me cum without even letting me really touch you first?” He scolds, punctuating it with his thumb stroking over your clit. Your yes clamp shut, your thighs desperately trying to do the same but his shadows - as weak as they are - won’t allow you to. You moan, the pressure of his hand against your throat a devious thing.

Your body is betraying you, reaching your high peaks so quickly while he rubs your clit. Your walls squeeze him, wanting more. Needing more than just two fingers. But his thumb is relentless and consistent, you try to fight the building orgasm but it only makes your g-spot more sensitive.

“Azriel please-” You whine, panting and squirming as much as you can under him. His hand leaves your throat and instead goes to the back of your head, knotting in your hair there. He forces you to watch his hands word, how spread you are for him, the way your wetness shines against this dark skin. He’s humming something in your ear but you can barely hear it over the mounting pleasure, the cascade of twitching need that writhes inside you, begging to be released. A dam too overflowed, your control slips, and slips.

You push against the heat, the pressure of the orgasm but again, he brushes into that spot inside you and your clit again, and you’re shaking - coming apart in his grasp. Wetness coats him, your own juices flowing out of you in an intense way, splattering against the floor and coating his arm. The wet sounds of his fingers still working you echo against the high ceilings and stone walls.

You’re shaking, shuddering and breathing hard when he gently removes his fingers then laps at them.

The sight nearly sends you into another orgasm.

“Safe to say you’ll be summoned often, little demon.” He says, offering you a finger wet with your own juices.

You take it greedily, sucking on his finger the same way you wanted to suck his cock.

“Next time I expect you to last longer.” You critique, earning a laugh from him.

“If I make that promise now, does that mean we get to fuck again and seal that bond?”

#azriel #azriel x reader #reader x azriel #acotar fic #acotar smut #azriel shadowsinger #shadowsinger #azriel fic

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jovialmoonprincess · 5 months

Text

AU: Journey to Redemption (Part 2)

First Part. / The Winter Ball

Coriolanus Snow x Fem!reader

Summary: Y/N, a young idealist in Panem, dreams of making a difference in a post-war society. As the winner of the prestigious Plinth Prize is about to be announced, a mysterious woman unveils a grim fate for Coriolanus Snow, Y/N's nemesis. Offered a chance to alter destiny, Y/N must navigate her conflicting emotions and intervene in pivotal moments to prevent Snow's descent into darkness. The story unfolds against the backdrop of complex relationships, past connections, and the challenges of a changing world, as Y/N grapples with the responsibility of shaping an unexpected destiny and challenging the very fabric of fate.

Word Count: 2k.

Warning(s): None, 15 yo Corio!! FLUFF FLUFF THE KIISS READ IT FOR THE KISS

A/N: First Fic EVER, dont be mean pls. Also Im not a english native speaker, sorry for any spelling errors. Just saw Songbirds and Snakes and Tom Blyth as President Snow is living rent free in my head! Feedback is appreciated! Comment to be tag in the next part" And REQUESTS ARE OPEN!!!

Y/N was nervous. Attending parties wasn't something she was used to, especially in the Capitol. Her father always reminded her not to trust anyone, and distrust had become second nature to her. Tigris, her friend, had borrowed her a dress, even though her father could now afford to buy as many as she wanted. Tigris insisted she needed something special, something she had that would be perfect. When Y/N asked if Tigris was going to wear it, the answer was no; the dress wasn't hers and wouldn't fit, but it would look gorgeous on Y/N. Tigris, with her generous heart, always tried to cheer up Y/N when she cried out of fear and missed her friends from the districts. And surprisingly, Tigris never judged her, perhaps because she shared her own fears and people to care about.

Tigris understood when Y/N called suggesting a girls' night. It was a code for "my father is unbearable, only talks about war, and I want to stay away from him at least tonight." Tigris simply made a list of activities for them, from plucking eyebrows to watching romance movies on TV.

Y/N's dress was stunning, in a bright navy blue shade. And it was the first time she wore heels. Tigris also borrowed her the jewelry. Y/N walked with cautious steps, afraid that someone would look at her and discover she was an imposter. Even though she was part of the Capitol now, she didn't know how people would react.

After almost an hour of pretending to be invisible and enjoying the chocolate dessert on the table, people started leaving the dance floor. They got tired of dancing and were heading for the food, the only activity they seemed to practice. Y/N left the table to get some air; so many people were starting to tire her, even without talking to them yet. Outside, the scenery was beautiful, with a flower-filled garden, water mirrors, and something like an illuminated gazebo. She walked there; it was already night, and she wanted some fresh air. Looking at the night sky was comforting, something shared by everyone, regardless of their districts.

"Hey, this dress looks beautiful on you." She almost had a heart attack; it wasn't for anyone to notice her. "Sorry, didn't mean to scare you." It was Corio, Tigris's cousin, always kind when he saw her.

"Thank you, it was Tigris…" She couldn't finish the sentence.

"It was my mother's; my grandmother gave it to Tigris, but it suits you much better. Tigris likes things less… simple." A compliment, perhaps?

"Thank you, it's a really beautiful dress." She replied with a smile. Almost too beautiful that it doesn't suit me. She felt guilty for undoing the memory of the boy's mother.

"What are you doing here?" He asked. Y/N couldn't stop looking into his blue eyes; how could someone be so beautiful? It was almost painful.

"I came out to get some air; it was too hot inside." She replied.

"Just when I was about to invite you to dance?" He smiled; my God, he looked even more beautiful smiling. Y/N! What's happening to you?? He's from the Capitol. You shouldn't be getting involved with these people, at least not sincerely.

"Oh, I don't know how to dance." She lied; what if he leaves and forgets that she's wearing his mother's dress. Maybe that's why he's here; he must have confused his feelings. After all, why else would he approach her? Oh, maybe he just wants to be friends with his cousin's friend. Could be, right?

"I can teach you." He was already so close to her; she could feel her heart beating in her throat. "If you want…" He extended his hand to her, and Y/N took it. What harm could it do, after all?

The touch of their skins was electrifying. He placed a hand on her waist, and she breathed; it was as if there wasn't enough air between them. She didn't even realize she was holding her breath. The music could be heard clearly from there, as well as the sound of their feet on the wooden floor.

"Tigris talks a lot about you. I think you're the only friend she really likes. She feels at home with you." There was sincerity in his words.

"We have very similar stories; I also went hungry during the first rebellion." Corio was an intriguing character; Y/N didn't know what his real intentions were. He seemed like a good guy, even if he was closed off.

"I heard your father is sick, is it true?" He seemed slightly concerned. Y/N met Trigis first, because of their parents. They became good friends despite the age difference.

"Oh, yes, it seems that sometimes winning a battle doesn't mean winning the war. The battle ends, but life goes on, and problems still arise." She spoke with a sad and thoughtful voice.

"It's kind of unfair, isn't it?" He asked as they continued to dance slowly.

"What?"

"Having to worry about hunger while there are people inside who claim to be hungry all the time, even without knowing the real meaning." She didn't expect to hear that, at least not from him. Corio seemed quite comfortable among his friends.

"Yes, it's unfair." She replied seriously. "I wish I could change all of this."

"You know, people like you, me, and Tigris. We deserve more; we have to strive to reach the top." Corio was ambitious; anyone could see that.

"I think we're already at the top." Whether she liked it or not, feeling hungry in the Capitol was different from living in the outer districts. At least here, they had a chance to be heard if they spoke at the right time.

"This isn't the top, Y/N." She didn't know how much she needed to hear him say her name until he said it for the first time. "We're in the Capitol, but we're still not at the top."

"What would be the top for you, Corio?"

"Being president. It's the highest position; I'm sure that when I get there, I can really do something." The way he spoke was as if he wanted to improve the country's situation. To be a fair and democratic leader.

"Sorry about the dress; I didn't know it was your mother's." Y/N didn't want to ruin the moment by talking about politics. They would have better opportunities for that.

Tigris probably said something about Corio's mother, but Y/N's memory was terrible.

"It's been a while since she died, in my sister's birth." She could see a glimpse of pain in his eyes.

"I'm sorry."

"The dress looks beautiful on you; I'm glad my grandmother kept it." Y/N's heart skipped a beat.

"Thank you."

All was silent. All was still. But as they looked at each other's eyes, they heard the unmistakable clamor of their own hearts. Corio was getting closer to her, his lips so close to hers. It was like one of the movies she watched with Tigris.

When their lips touched, something ignited inside Y/N; it was as if nothing else existed. It was a feeling that, if cultivated, promised to become addictive, a sweet dependence that she wouldn't be in a hurry to overcome. His lips were soft, an irresistible invitation, and his touch was like a gentle caress, unhurried, as if he wanted to savor every moment of that unique moment. One of Corio's hands held Y/N's waist with care, while the other stroked her face gently and firmly, as if sealing a silent pact between them. The kiss was like a hot summer day in the middle of winter, a comforting surprise that transported her to a place where there was only the softness of Corio's lips and the delicate and firm touch of his hands.

It was a kiss that transcended time and space, a promise of something deeper and more intense that awaited on the horizon. Breaking the kiss, the gaze they exchanged contained the promise of a future that, at that moment, seemed full of exciting possibilities. The world around them may have continued in silence, but within them, the melody of that kiss would echo for a long time.

The first kiss was a revelation, a sublime experience that transcended circumstances. It wouldn't be an exaggeration to attribute part of this enchantment to the beauty of the setting, but above all to the even more dazzling figure of Coriolanus. At that moment, for the first time, Y/N felt truly beautiful, removed from the ruthless clutches of war. It was as if, for a brief moment, she found the calm before the storm.

Although she wanted to prolong the kiss, Y/N interrupted it, yielding to the inevitable need for a pause. Their gazes intertwined in silence, a communication deeper than any words could express. Coriolanus's eyes, an ocean of blue fascination, were irresistible, and Y/N felt submerged in the intensity of that gaze. Withdrawing gently, she sought refuge on a nearby bench, and Corio, in silence, took a seat beside her. Hesitation hung between them, neither daring to initiate the next exchange of words.

"Did you enjoy the chocolate dessert, didn't you?" Corio's soft voice broke the silence, eliciting a sincere laugh from Y/N. Had he noticed the taste of chocolate on her lips, or had he just watched her during the dance in the hall? The question lingered in the air, hovering between them, lacking the courage to be asked.

"I loved it," confessed Y/N, although she couldn't determine if she was talking about the dance, the dessert, or the kiss. Perhaps all the options were correct.

"You lied to me," accused the young Snow.

"What?" Y/N laughed again.

"You said you didn't know how to dance." The accusation came with a smile from Corio.

"Maybe," she replied, smiling.

Hours unfolded in deep conversations, a natural harmony between Y/N and Corio. Words flowed, laughter echoed, and the kiss, a magical moment that both chose to ignore, was never mentioned again. Corio, a dreamer aligned with Y/N's aspirations, revealed remarkable ambition and unwavering confidence. Meanwhile, Y/N still struggled with uncertainties about her destiny, eager to capture some of the determination radiating from Corio.

It was the ultimate moment when Y/N felt truly connected to Corio. At that moment, she sincerely believed that he was destined for an extraordinary future as a student in the Capitol. With the passage of time, that memory became nostalgic, a pearl of an irrecoverable past.

In present times, in the Capitol (4 years later)

Y/N, immersed in reverie, contemplated a photo taken with Tigris during the ball. After this glimpse of the past, resentment towards Corio increased. How could he get so close so quickly and distance himself just as fast? They could have continued. However, after that winter break that year, Snow didn't spend more than 5 seconds near her. Their interactions were limited to fights, but even so, Y/N couldn't ignore the boy's beauty.

A last dance preceded the Plinth Prize weekend. It would be an opportunity to meet Corio again, four years after that memorable kiss, in drastically altered circumstances. Y/N awaited eagerly, sometimes questioning her sanity, pondering if everything that woman had said would come true. Corio would graduate, go to university, meet someone, and find happiness. He wouldn't become a murderer, let alone a dictator.

Y/N couldn't help but notice that something had changed in Corio since that first kiss. The boy who was once dreamy and affable now exhibited a more closed-off side, as if a shadow had settled in his soul. Every word was measured, and his smiles were scarce, replaced by a serious and concerned expression.

Corio had become more abrupt, and the lightness that characterized his personality seemed to have been replaced by intense seriousness. Y/N noticed that he closed himself off, keeping a distance that didn't exist before. That touch of softness and charm, present in the boy who taught her to dance and gave her an unforgettable kiss, had turned into an aura of tension.

Y/N remembered one of their first fights.

In a classroom full of tension and academic expectations, the teacher announced with a firm voice, "For the next assignment, we'll have randomly assigned pairs." The students' gazes met, a mixture of anxiety and curiosity. Among them were Y/N and Corio, both already known for their rivalries and fierce competitions.

The draw took place, and fate decided that Y/N and Corio would be partners in the next academic endeavor. A wave of murmurs ran through the room, accompanied by intrigued looks directed at the two protagonists.

On a cold study afternoon in the library, Y/N was immersed in her books, tracing meticulous notes and underlining important passages. Corio, on the other hand, flipped through pages with a serious expression, focused on absorbing all available knowledge.

As the hours passed, tension grew. Each had their own approach to the task, and soon the differences became apparent. Y/N preferred to explore ideas and theories more broadly, while Corio delved into specific details, prioritizing accuracy.

"You need to focus, Y/N. These assignments will shape our academic future," said Corio, his tone a mixture of concern and impatience.

Y/N lifted her eyes from the books, facing Corio with a resistant expression. "I'm not disregarding the importance, Corio. I just believe that there are more ways to learn than simply burying yourself in books all the time."

Y/N's words hit Corio like a challenge, and his response came with an unexpected intensity. "Do you think you can afford not to dedicate yourself entirely to studies? The competition here is fierce, Y/N, and only the best succeed." The discussion unfolded, and sharp words flew between them like arrows. Y/N advocated the idea that university life should be more than just grades and rankings, while Corio insisted that the path to success was paved with tireless effort and dedication.

The tension reached its peak when Y/N, driven by frustration, accused Corio of having lost the ability to dream and live beyond academic expectations. Corio, in turn, responded with the accusation that Y/N was being naive and reckless about her future.

The argument, fueled by intense emotions and fundamental differences, echoed through the silent library, drawing curious glances from other students trying to focus on their own studies. As the inflamed words dissipated, Y/N and Corio stared at each other, aware that they had crossed a line separating their views, revealing the depth of the differences that now threatened the stability of their relationship. The ensuing silence was laden with resentment and the bitter feeling that something significant, beyond grades and books, was shattering between them.

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Just wanted to drop a quick note to say a massive thank you for all the love, likes, comments, and follows on my story. <3

Big virtual hugs and high-fives to each and every one of you. See you on Part III.

Taglist: @shari-berri @h-l-vlovesvintage @tea-bobba @daenerysqueenofhearts

Again: REQUESTS ARE OPEN!!!!!

#coriolanus snow #tbosas #president snow #the hunger games #coriolanus x reader #enemy to lovers #angst #angst with a happy ending #coriolanus x you #coriolanus snow x reader #fem reader #hunger games au #fluff #tigris snow #thg #snow #tom blyth #coriolanus x fem!reader

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kaeyas-beloved · 10 months

Note

💐 with kaeya please? i love him so much sfjhkkhbdj

YASSSS ANON I LOVE HIM SM TOO I UNDERSTAND HES SO PRETTY AND SO CUTE AND SO SWEET AND JUST 🥺😭💞💞 (so much so that this fic takes a little bit of a sweet, tooth-rotting turn)

CW: gn!reader, petnames (my love)

[ 💐 ] - buying them flowers, just because

Acts of service prompts: open!

“I have a surprise for you,” Kaeya had suddenly whispered in your ear, a familiar charming smile along his face.

There was a brief moment after, among the comforting warmth of his hand in yours and the closeness as you both walked home, where you feared your heart would detangle itself from you and fly away. It’s not like it’s metaphorically impossible, not when its none other than Kaeya Alberich, the cutest, kindest and most lovable man in Mondstadt who’s making it beat so fast. From the shy touches of his hand as he reaches for your own to the way he begins to fumble over his words when you compliment him back, it's hard not to smile and promise yourself that you'll give him the world and more.

But you digress, continuing to head home for the evening, a constant brushing and bumping of Kaeya's arm against yours, hands entangled and filling you with warmth. “Oh? Kaeya, you spoil me too much I swear,” you chuckle, giving his hand a squeeze.

“Not as much as I’d like to,” he responds, planting a kiss to your cheek. You open your mouth as if to tease him back, but the truth is you didn’t have anything more to say, so you shook your head and kept walking. By time you both got home the moon was high, stars dotting the indigo canvas that was the night sky.

Stepping through the door Kaeya grabs your hand, giving it a kiss before asking you to stay right there while he goes to grab your gift. Nodding, you watch as he leaves with a happy smile, giddy and obviously in love as he strides up the stairs. A myriad of possibilities circle your mind - perhaps he got you a new shirt? Or maybe it’s a book? Or or, maybe it’s something small like your favourite snack? - but all of them turn out to be wrong when the man reappears with a decent sized bouquet.

Your heart does a flip, breath getting caught in your throat. “For you, just because,” he says, handing you the flowers. Without even needing to smell them their fresh fragrance wafts towards you, relaxing you further than you already were.

“Really?” You raise a brow, smiling as you look from the flora to him and back (you can’t help but draw similarities between the two - things no one else would be able to conclude about the two), “are you sure you got them ‘just because’?”

Something between a shy and teasing smile comes over his face, “my, do you doubt me so? Truly, I was walking back from work today, on my way to fetch you so we could go on our date, when I saw them.” He steps forward then, reaching up to fix one of the flowers in the arrangement. His gaze visible softens as he looks at you, “they made me think of you,” beautiful, gentle, calming, “I just had to get them.” You look at them again, this time singling out the one your lover had been attending to.

A cecilia, one that’s mixed in among windwheel asters. A thought appears in your mind and you pluck it from the bunch, careful as you set the others aside. “I think it’s kinda funny Kae; that while you were telling me these reminded you of me, all I could think about was how they remind me of you.” Pretty, gentle, something to treasure.

You’re careful in your movements and gentle in your touch as you reach towards Kaeya, flower in hand. Brushing a stray strand of hair behind his ear, you tuck the white flower through his hair, taking your time in securing it. When you’re finished your hands fall from his hair and to his face, cupping both cheeks in your hands. “Beautiful, just like you.”

From under your hands you feel his skin warm, even more so after you speak your next words, “Thank you for the gift my love, but if it’s okay, I’d like to share it with you,” you place a kiss to his nose and then his lips, soft and delicate yet so full of love, much like the flowers he so lovingly gave - his sign of unwavering and never ending love for you.

Tomorrow you’ll be sure to spoil him in your love, as an extension of your thanks. You’ll be sure to display the flowers in your home as well, so you can be reminded of him every time you see them.

Tag list: @spoopy-fish-writes // @that-enby-alien // @xenuuu // @mariposa666haruka // @quackquackmfs // @kaerui-kaisen // @ajaxstar // @genshin-impact-writings // @stage-lucida // @ventisweetheart // @lordbugs // @leena-shi // @lemontum // @akiria12167 // @ari-the-wr1ter // @dontmindmebeing // @xiaos-wif3 // @irethepotato // @milkwithspiceyicecubes // @stygianoir // @x-zho // @kaeyaloml

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#kaeya x reader #genshin x reader #genshin impact x reader #kaeya x gender neutral reader #genshin kaeya x reader #genshin impact #genshin fluff #kaeya fluff #genshin kaeya #kaeya x you #kaeya x y/n #genshin x you #genshin imagines #genshin fanfic #genshin impact kaeya #genshin impact kaeya x reader #genshin impact imagines #genshin impact scenarios

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neverchecking · 11 months

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Hello!

May I request a Yandere! Sky x Female! Reader? How she tempts him away from Hylia on Skyloft? Plus with a 18+? 😉😄

Have a wonderful day/night! Stay safe and healthy!

By July-Angel-Wings

You absolutely can, Darling! Stay safe and healthy as well, drink your water too!

This is such a delicious idea. I'm ngl, this kinda got away with me bc I got on the idea of Sub! Sky whimpering and just being total putty during a good all sloppy toppy and I just- yeah.

I'm tagging all NS*W on this blog as #Cindersins in case you all were curious!

There is 18+ smut so MDNI!

Smut CW: Blowjob, Sky Whimpers, and cries. Just a little. As a treat.

He had seen you in passing a few times. A few times seemed to be all he needed. Because those few times were all that was needed for him to fall absolutely head over heels for you. Call him a hopeless romantic, because that was what he was. Hopeless, for you.

It wasn't hard. He found himself comparing you a Loftwing at times. Dastardly evasive when you didn't want to be found, bright and exuberant when you did, and gloriously beautiful. Full of life and the spark freedom that he sometimes saw in Crimson's own eyes. Perhaps you were a Loftwing's spirit locked in a Hylian's shell. It would make sense.

What made even more sense with that analogy was the fact that Loftwings were soul partners. One part of his, admittedly, shattered soul. Sky had seen a lot of things in his travels, things that wore him down to his core. That broke him apart into pieces, free for the taking by the right person. One would always reside with Crimson, but the others? They were yours. All yours. Free for you to pluck and give as you saw fit.

All of them were for you.

Always for you.

His problem lied, however, in where he resided. Skyloft was where he was born and raised, trained to be a knight, where Zelda and Groose and those he once saw as relevant lived. You lived down below. Among the trees and wildlife, scaling mountains as if you put them there yourself. Hiding among caves and dwelling near rivers with the softest patters of feet. You were of the Hylians below, he was not. But he would fall for you. Jump from the edge of Skyloft, leaving everything behind for you. In a heartbeat. You were tempting him with your luscious curves and fluttering lashes, eyes that reflected the stars and moon above you. He would tumble from grace, from the position of Hylia's chosen hero, if it meant you would look at him that way he saw you looking at the night sky.

Full of nothing but pure innocence and awe.

He ached to just hold you, cherish you, sings your praises to the Golden three themself just so they could see you in half of the same light he saw you.

Perhaps that was why he found himself gently easing forward. Sun had warned him of the Earth dwellers. How they were to be of no use to him, not when she could have everything up in Skyloft. Up with her, Hylia incarnate herself, but she was a damned fool to not see the worth you provided. How your natural glow, just soft enough to create an effervescent halo around your form, was more than enough for him for a thousand lifetimes. It was soft and comforting, like a dimming fireplace in a cabin as the occupants lie in each others arms, content with each other's presence. Rather than Sun's own. Her's was bright and intruding, something you would have to shield yourself from before taking it in. Like a sudden crack of lightning, hot and sudden. It was one of the many things that differentiated the two of you. One of the many things he favored and reasoned was something worthy of eternal damnation.

Honestly, he simply couldn't help himself when he saw you out in the open. Nothing but gentle movements and anoetic simplicity. Of course, your eyes landed on him right away. Of course, he offered his name, introducing him to you in a way that would paint him in such a way he couldn't be a threat no matter how one looked at it.

And it worked. It took time, so, so much time, but he got close. Close enough you could sink your perfect little claws into and drag him into whatever depths you deemed suitable. And he fell. He fell hard.

Right into your hands, exactly where you wanted him.

A whimper left his lips as your hands toyed with his shaft, gently dragging up and down as your drool dribbled over the ruddy head of his cock. It gleamed with both spit and pre-cum, which bulbed out in clear pears before you were lapping it up. He couldn't even begin to describe the sensation of your tongue, firm and sure, swiping around his dick before you were enveloping the tip with your mouth.

Sky jolted with a start, hands flying to your hair, weaving between the strands as pure euphoria shot through his system. Igniting his nerves in a hit of pure adrenaline as every one of them sang in delight. His toes curled within his boots as they kicked and dug at the dirt, aching for some sort of traction as you refused to part. He yelped low in his throat, trying to swallow his cries when you bobbed further. Every part of him curled in a tight coil, curling tighter and tighter, nearly snapping before you popped up with a lewd suck. You licked your lips, tongue darting out to wet your plump lips, painting them with a shiny sheen as you stared him down, eyes narrowed like a pure temptress.

The hand returned, squeezing right above his balls and cooling any premature bust. His eyes burned at the lose of control, but not for the reasons you may have thought. No, they were tears of pure, unaltered adoration. His fall may have been great, but it was worth it. To have you, his newly crowned Goddess, on your knees before him, deeming him worthy enough to bless with your presence. What he wouldn't do for you, to you, with you. You merely had to ask.

You returned your mouth to his leaking cock, starting from where your fingers continued to squeeze and leading back up to the head of his cock. You pressed a final parting kiss to the head, looking up at him through your lashes.

He cried out in agony, bucking into your hand against his own wishes. He wanted to paint your pretty face a divine white. It was otherworldly as it was, and to mark it had to be a sin beyond simple punishment, but to have it marked with something screaming that you were his and his alone was to tempting. Too much.

Tears pearled in his eyes before leaking over in fat pearls over the apples of his cheeks as his fingers curled tighter in your hair. Your fingers remained steady around his aching cock as it bobbed along your lips, which parted just enough for your devilish tongue to dart out and kitten lick the head. Just enough to have it bounce back against your tongue and for you to repeat the process.

The tears didn't stop as he curled over your form holding as close as you would allow. Eventually, you felt he had earned your mercy, loosening your fingers and sucking harshly on the head of his dick, cheeks hollowed as you gave a silent demand in your eyes. While it wasn't highlighting your features, he was more than happy to obey your whim this way, pulling your head close enough your nose brushed along the plain of his stomach, dumping your hard earned prize down your throat-- which constricted around his length every time you swallowed. A strangled whine left his throat, something he wasn't even aware he was capable of, as his back arched.

When he pulled away, eyes stinging and red as he stared down at you.

His fall was great, but he would do it a million times over, re-shatter his soul, brand his being with your mark, do it all should you demand, if only to keep you this close to him for the rest of time. He would slaughter kingdoms if you so pleased if just to see you smile. He would orchestrate Hylia's own demise should you ask. All for you, you, you.

His free little bird.

#lu Sky #yandere linked universe #linkeduniverse #linked universe #yandere linked universe x reader #linked universe x reader #loz x reader #loz #legend of zelda #yandere legend of zelda #sky whimpers #and cries #just a bit #as a treat #to me #Cindersins

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synthetickitsune · 6 months

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Angel!San (Ateez) | Caged angst | 0.7k | gn!reader A/N: i saw this prompt somewhere but i can't find it now T-T

A sharp, high-pitched scream resonates through your room. The sound is aided by rattling of chains, flurry of wings beating against their bindings and pained whimpers. It’s music to your ears. A balm to your tortured soul. Alas, you can’t afford him to be this loud.

“Shhh,” you click your tongue. He’s so quick to obey - try to obey to the best of his ability - that it’s pathetic and almost cute. You twirl the lone feather between your fingers. You bring it to your nose and inhale deeply. They always smell of Heaven when they’re freshly plucked. “Quiet, angel. Or do you wanna go back to your cage?”

“No, no, no, please, I’ll be good,” he whimpers, and you look past the feather at his trembling, kneeling figure. He’s chained so that he keeps still, so he can’t flinch away from you. No more free here than in his cage. You watch him as he takes in deep breaths and slowly calms down until only the large white wings sprouting from his back are shaking. They’re just too tempting.

You reach a hand towards them and see all the muscles on his back tensing. The scent of blood reaches your nose as he bites his tongue to keep quiet. You smirk.

“Relax, San,” you coo, “I’m just going to reward you for listening so well.”

This time you’re nice - so nice, actually, that it almost makes you nauseous. This time, you don’t wait for him to actually relax before you touch his wings as gently as you know how to. You run your hands over the soft white feathers and smooth them out, fix them until they’re nice and neat. Then you keep petting them, mindful of how sensitive the wings of the angels are. San’s body can’t help but react, melting under your touch until he’s putty in your hands. And maybe, just maybe, you like it that way. Sometimes it’s nice to see him happy. As much as you love to see him in tears, this is also good. The small smile tugging at his lips and his wings fluttering, betraying his happiness this time. It’s all about balance.

The magic is lost for a second while you turn back to the scroll on your table and dip the feather in your hand into the blood-like ink, making him tense once more. You chuckle and scratch the space between his shoulder blades just to make a chill run down his spine. Oh how well you know his body.

“Let me work, hm? If you keep being helpful, you’ll get a proper reward,” you hum. You both know it might be a trap, depending on your mood, but to be fair - you’re actually feeling great and you think San knows that as well.

He makes a quiet sound of acknowledgement and shifts his weight on his knees. Perhaps you should get a mat that would be more comfortable, seeing as he spends so much time on his knees by your desk. But that’s for later, now you need to focus on the task at hand. The glyphs need to be drawn precisely, without a mistake, to do what they’re supposed to do. Just one look at them should be enough to burn the angel’s eyes. (And that’s why they’ll be safely locked away once you’re finished with them - which he doesn’t need to know about.)

You must admit it’s easier to focus while playing with the feathers of his wings and San’s occasional involuntary happy hum, followed by a deep, anxious silence full of expectation of a punishment that doesn’t come. As you said - you’re in a great mood today. The white plumage feels just like a cloud. It makes you think of flying, of the sky and sun, of spring and freedom. It’s addictive, really. It’s all his fault that you can’t let him go.

Your mood doesn’t sour, but there’s a bitter leftover in your mind as you think of everything Heaven. You can’t stand it.

“Oh no,” you sigh in mock-surprise, “This one’s dull already.”

It’s not. You know it, and he must know it too. But he doesn’t protest, he doesn’t beg. He only braces himself and screams as you pluck another feather from his wings.

Much better.

#ateez reactions #ateez scenarios #ateez imagines #ateez x reader #ateez angst #san x reader #san scenarios #san angst #drabble #angst #supernatural au

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crowned-aeris · 2 months

Text

The preqel to my Reverse Robins Wingfic; aka "To Brace Upon Benign Feathers"

Its from tim’s POV, because he’s my pookie and I love him very much. it also briefly switches to bruce’s POV toward the end, so i hope it’s not too jarring

Also: Warning for self harm, ig. Y’know how some species of birds pluck their feathers when they’re stressed? that’s what Tim does

===

Tim watched; his eyes glimmered with an awe-struck light as Batman and his Shadow soared through the sky. The pair weaved through the air, their dark-clothed forms momentarily blotting out the streetlight as they descended upon the cluster of criminals.

The edge of Shadow's blade flashed as a criminal's scarlet blood spilled across the ground. The wounds were shallow and non-lethal, but Tim still captured Batman's disapproving look.

"Tt," Shadow scoffed before flaring out his dyed wings, the criminals shrieking before scrambling away from the teen, only to end up in the grasp of the looming Batman.

Tim raised his camera and snapped a photo, his teeth digging into his bottom lip to silence his excited hums.

Click.

Batman tied the criminals together before leaving them on the side of the road and contacting the GCPD. Shadow glared at the criminals, "Tt. In the League, dissenters would have their wings sawed off as a warning to other potential traitors."

The criminals stared at the Bat with wide, fearful, and pleading eyes. Tim winced, ruffling his still-fresh flight feathers.

"But we aren't in the League," Batman sighed. It sounded like the pair had had this conversation multiple times, and Tim wouldn't doubt it.

Shadow narrowed his eyes behind the domino mask, pivoting before launching himself onto the roof Tim was on. The falcon stifled an undignified squeak before ducking behind the HVAC unit. The sound of heavy wingbeats filled the air as Batman chased after his son.

"Everything would be easier if you adopted the League's teachings as Mother suggested," Shadow growled, unconsciously ruffling his wings in a manner glaringly similar to Batman's.

"We've been over this," Batman sighed, sounding more frustrated than ever, "Talia left you with me. You're not in the League anymore, D- Shadow. You need to follow my rules, which means no killing. No Maiming. And no lethal use whatsoever."

Shadow hissed in irritation, but he didn't bother to argue.

Tim hummed. What was Batman about to say?

As the fledgling watched the pair leap off the roof to continue their patrol, he prepared to procure a list of names that began with "D."

-----

How likely were Batman and Shadow to be Bruce and Damian Wayne?

It would make sense...

Oh god, his neighbors were the Batman and the Shadow! Wow, that... actually made sense.

Huh… that’s so cool.

-----

This... was decidedly less cool...

Tim stared at the social worker, his expression lax with shock. In his chest, Tim's heart jack-rabbited against his ribcage, beating out an incredulous tone that filled him with disbelief as dread pooled in his gut.

His parents had died in a plane accident while on a plane back from Taiwan. Tim had talked to them last night, and his mom had even said he'd bring back a souvenir and some snacks for Tim to try out and- and-

"Sorry, son," the man said, but he didn't look too sorry. In fact, he looked guilty.

It took everything in him to force his disposition to remain calm and collected. He was a Drake, and Tim would be hard-pressed before he demolished the castle his mother and father had built brick-by-brick that was their reputation. He will not allow the Drake Name to fall into ruin just because he was careless.

"Will I be going into the system?" Tim asked, feeling his claws pick against the skin of his palms. His parents hadn't even seen his first flight... and now they never will.

The man pressed his wings tighter against his body; he was uncomfortable, unsure, and way out of his depth. That was... suspicious... shouldn't social workers try to calm children rather than agitate them further? This one didn't seem trained, either.

"What will happen to me, Mister?" Tim asked, hitching his wings up and drawing in his shoulders to appear smaller. The falcon tilted his head down and forced his eyes to water before gazing up at the man through lashes that glimmered with tears. Tim was smaller than most other kids his age; he would use that to his advantage.

The man's feathers bristled, and he took a half-step back. Tim pushed out a pathetic-sounding chirp. He remembers his mother's lessons on the intricacies of body language, and Tim will not allow himself to forget.

Tim chirped again. From how he reacted, the man seemed familiar with the chicklet calls, so he could've been a father, teacher, or just someone around kids enough to be swayed by a random kid's chirps.

To really sell the "hapless, pathetic, hopeless chick act," Tim sniffed and allowed the beginnings of pitiful sobs to fall from his lips.

"You know what, fuck this!" the man shouted before turning tail and striding down the stairs. Once he was out of sight, Tim sobered and wiped the tears from his cheeks, uncertainty brewing in his chest.

The falcon relaxed his wings and draped them over his shoulder like a cape. He struggled to open the door, but Tim eventually struggled his way in. With a deep breath, Tim steeled himself, grabbed his mother's conditioner, and shuffled into his parents' bathroom.

As the days blinked past, Tim noticed his appetite waning. Mrs. Mac, the heron house-keeper, had stopped coming over after Tim had told her about his parents' death. She'd said something about not working if she wasn't paid, and then she'd hung up.

He was sitting at the base of his parent's Alaskan king bed, the one they've barely used, his hands gently running through his plumage before plucking out some feathers. Tim sees the blood rush from where the sensitive, newly-grown feather was yanked. The blood joined the other trails and pooled onto the floor. He released the feather in his hand and watched it gently drift to join the other gray-black fluff on the hardwood floor.

Tim reached for another clump of feathers, only to have the action interrupted by a hand that eclipsed his own. The hand gently pushed Tim's bloodied hands away from his wings, and he couldn't find the energy to resist. A soothing croon and low churring rumbled through Tim's chest and settled a roiling feeling he didn't know he had. The fledgling answered with a weak chirp, and Tim was swept into someone's arms. The low vibration continued to rumble through his chest, and Tim allowed his eyes to slip shut and his body to fall boneless.

("-long has been there? He's practically skin and bones!"

"They've been dead for at least a week now... He's seven."

"Can't we just hand him to the social services?"

"Damian..."

"Fine!")

When Tim wakes up, he is somewhere different. His wings felt stiff like they were covered or wrapped with something. He opened his eyes, and his theory was confirmed. White bandages made specifically for wings were applied to the patches of missing feathers, and a glance around the room confirmed that he was somewhere completely foreign.

With a twist of his lip, Tim forced his wings shut, ignoring the protesting pain of the bandages tugging against his feathers before shoving himself against the corner. The wall was cool against his skin, and Tim twisted onto his stomach and wedged himself farther into the corner.

A few minutes later, the door to the room creaked open, washing the box with warm light.

"Master Timothy, are you awake?" a British voice asked.

Tim didn't respond.

The door closed, and the light vanished.

Not even fifteen seconds later, the door opened again, and someone entered. Their footsteps were solid against the wooden floor. Tim didn't bother with looking up.

"Hey," Bruce Wayne said in a low yet gentle voice. The bed shifted under the man's weight, "I know you're awake."

No response.

"Damian used to do the same thing, you know," Bruce said, his tone light and careful, "he'd pretend that he was asleep so he wouldn't have to get up for school. He was close to his mother, and when he moved in with me, Damian had a rough time being away from her."

The silence was filled only by their soft breaths.

"When was the last time you've eaten?" Bruce Wayne asked.

Tim did not respond.

"...Is it alright if I touch you?"

The fledgling did not respond. Timothy was small, especially for a fledgling, and Bruce found it difficult not to sweep him under his wing.

The harpy eagle carefully kept his claws tucked against his palms before gently lifting Tim from the corner he'd wedged into. After a few seconds of deliberate maneuvering, Bruce has Tim slumped against his chest, the fledgling limp and his wings drooping. If it wasn't for his lethargic blinks and barely-there breaths, Bruce would've thought that he'd died.

When he entered the dining room, Damian was sitting at the dinner table with a furious expression as he addressed a blank-faced Alfred.

"Why hasn't Father arrived yet?" Damian demanded, his voice just shy of a growl.

"Master Bruce had something he needed to see to," Alfred responded, "he will join you shortly, Master Damian; patience is a virtue."

Damian seethed, but he'd learned better than to disobey the barn owl. Bruce grunted a greeting as he sat beside Alfred's spot and directly in front of Damian. But as he sat Tim on the chair to his left, Damian caught Bruce's eye with a furious expression.

"Why is he here? Damian hissed, eyes narrowed as Alfred returned with plates of food.

Bruce gave a weary exhale. The noise wasn't quite a sigh, but it was just about. "Damian..."

"I do not wish to be replaced by a catatonic- rat!" his son spat, pushing back the chair with the harsh sound of wood scraping against wood as he leaped to his feet. The fledgling flared open his wings and slammed his palms on the table, causing the dishes to rattle and shake dangerously.

"Son-"

"You obviously don't view me as your son," Damian sneered, eyeing Tim with a positively venomous expression.

Bruce held back a frustrated hiss. Damian's mule-headedness was undoubtedly Talia's fault. No way in hell was Bruce this stubborn when he was a teenager. "Damian, you are not being replaced."

"Then what in the world do you call this?" Damian jabbed a finger in Tim's direction.

Alfred, unbothered, made a crooning noise at Tim, and the fledgling began to mechanically start gently sipping at the soup the butler had made.

""This,"" Bruce returned, "is a fledgling who'd lost his parents and was almost kidnapped. Damian, you are being unreasonable-"

His son snapped his wings shut, his feathers bristling in an offended fashion, "Then why haven't you snatched up the other children who have lost their parents? Answer that, Father. There are other younger chicks on the streets of Gotham, yet I don't see them bounding around right now!"

"Timothy doesn't have a next-of-kin, and he was plucking," Bruce was fighting desperately not to raise his voice at Damian. From experience, it was only going to make him fight harder. Talia was the exact same...

"And that hardly narrows down the other children on the streets of Gotham! What makes him so different that you resorted to bringing an outsider into OUR HOME!" Damian borderline screamed before his voice dropped to a whispered hiss, "Mother would disapprove."

Bruce bit back the retort that clung to the tip of his tongue. He decidedly didn't say, "Then good thing she's not here"; "She's never not disapproving something or another"; "What's one more tick against my record"; "This manor is owned by Bruce Wayne, not Talia Al Ghul"; and the countless other responses that would be inappropriate for this situation.

But what he does say, in retrospect, probably should've stayed unsaid as well.

"Don't bring Talia into this."

The two harpy eagles stared off in a silent battle of wills that ended in a draw when Tim slowly blinked himself into reality. His breathing shifted slightly, and his gauze-covered wings tucked closer to his back.

"Of course, you'd say that," Damian's voice dropped to a low growl, "you never did care for Mother, did you?"

"Damian!" Bruce snapped, his hands clenching on the table.

"You never wanted me- don't you dare deny it! You are seeking to replace me!" Damian spat, his claws digging into the wood of the vintage table. Alfred made a disapproving trill, and the fledgling instantly released his grip.

"If you'd just listen to me," Bruce grounded out, but Damian steamrolled over him.

"There is nothing to listen to, Father. You've made your stance clear as-"

"You're acting like a child," Tim huffed, staring into Damian's eyes with no shortage of defiance. The fledgling's wings were eerily still and unexpressive. Although it was relieving to see Timothy out of his depressive state, Bruce only wished it had happened while Damian wasn’t in one of his, to put it lightly, moods.

"Excuse me?" Damian growled, his tone dangerously still. Unlike many other people, Damian had zero reservations about harming a younger person.

Tim's hands clenched slightly before relaxing, but his expression remained bored and lax. Where did their son know how to mask so well? It was... concerning.

"You complain about Bruce not caring for you, but he still took you in even though Talia left you at his doorstep. If he didn't want you or didn't care for you, he would've placed you somewhere else, or he could've also handed you back to Talia."

"You don't know what you're talking about," Damian hissed. Bruce stood up to try and defuse the situation.

"You don't either!" Tim hissed, but it lacked the threatening rattle that someone truly enraged would possess, "You're entitled, conceited, and you can't see beyond your over-inflated ego!"

Damian flared his wings and pounced across the table. Bruce cursed under his breath as he lunged forward, crashing into his son in a whirlwind of wings and thrashing feathers. Damian bit into Bruce's forearm, and he frowned as his son's needle-like fangs ripped into his skin and his atavistic claw slashed inches away from Bruce's neck.

Alfred had grabbed Tim and swept the fledgling away to someplace more secure, and Bruce wrestled Damian off the table and onto the floor.

"DAMIAN!" Bruce shouted, frustration dripping off every word, "We do not. Hurt. Chicks."

"THEN WHY ARE YOU HURTING ME?!" Damian screamed, and Bruce instinctively lightened his grasp on Damian's limbs.

His son took that chance and twisted in Bruce's grasp, thrashing his wings to loosen Bruce's grip before lunging for his throat. Bruce ducked before pinning Damian against the ground, a firm grip on the back of the fledgling's neck and his wings forced against the ground.

Bruce narrowed his eyes, waiting for Damian to stop thrashing before speaking, "Tonight, Batman will be going out alone."

Damian froze.

"You can't do that!" he protested. Anger blazed brightly in his eyes as his thrashing continued. "You- You can't bench me! You need me- Father! Father, please! Batman needs- he needs Shadow! You need-"

"You need to go to your room," Bruce interrupted. "Batman did fine in his years before Shadow arrived, so I don't see why Batman can't go back out on his own."

Damian opened his mouth, probably to argue some more, but Bruce cut him off with a growl, "I will allow you back out when you learn how to behave yourself. I am disappointed, Damian. You should know better."

#tim drake #batman #fanfic #batfamily #bruce wayne #damian wayne #reverse robins #wing fic #world building #batfam #feral damian #angry damian wayne #canon?#who’s canon? Idk a canon #they’ll get along….#eventually #Fic: to brace upon benign feathers

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awfullordhenry · 13 days

Text

Caught Ya Doc! (Scout x Medic) (Giant/Tiny Vore) (Chapter 2)

It was the next morning. The sky was mostly blue with a yellow horizon. The Sun was shining a bright dandelion that touched anything in its way. It beamed through the window where Scout's room is. Scout was lying on his back with his mouth open and snoring.

Medic was underneath Scout's right hand while he snug on top of his unclothed chest. He was comfortable throughout the night, surprisingly. The sun rays hit his face, causing him to wake up.

He yawned and stretched, then saw Scout's face and realized that the rest of his colleagues would find him on top of his chest, including Heavy. Medic slowly gets up, not to wake up the giant. He carefully crawls out of his hand and tip toes away from him. However, Scout has woken up and finds Medic standing up. "Hey, Doc!" He exclaimed before Medic froze in place.

"Going somewhere without me?" Scout said with a smirk on his face. "N-no, I'm not -" " yea you are! Why not take me with ya?". Scout plucked Medic by his collar and levels him to his face. He licked his lips while Medic was making a nervous laugh.

"Scout, zhis is getting awkward." "Yea, but at least I have a new home for you. I haven't had breakfast yet ~." Scout said while he rubbed his belly. Medic was confused by the comment and said, "Vhat are you talking abo-".

Scout, out of nowhere, pasted his warm tougue on Medic, much to his distress. Medic tried to escape from the giant's maw. "Aww, but you look tasty!" Scout mumbled. "SCOUT WHY THE FUCK DID YOU DO THAT?!" "Because I'm starving!"

Medic thought about Scout's saliva and how nice and warm it felt. "Well, on second thought, your saliva felt so... wonderful...". Scout felt obligated to eat the morsel, so he opened his maw and gently put him in it. "NO WAIT, I DON'T MEAN BY EATING ME -" Medic screamed until Scout closed his mouth. The giant tilts his head upwards and swallows Medic.

Scout is now satisfied and happy with something inside his plump belly! "Damn it, Scout, why do you have to eat me?" Medic grumbles. He was struggling inside of the muscular prison. He was pushing back the stomach walls to prevent them from crushing him. He felt immediately comfortable with the heat and almost fell asleep.

Scout's belly is almost growling for any second. "Aw crap, I need to keep him quiet!" He said while holding his belly. Medic was feeling the movements of his kidnapper, including him getting off of his bed. He pressed his ear to try to listen to outside noises. He heard a muffled cloth like sound, assuming that Scout had put on his shirt.

Medic can feel Scout walking, probably to another room where the rest of his colleagues would be. He listened to the familiar voices from the outside. "Yo, wassup? Am I too late? " Scout said. "SCOUT, YOU'RE 5 MINUTES LATE!" Soldier replied aggressively. Medic covered his ears with how loud Soldier's voice is.

"AND WHERE'S MEDIC?!" Soldier continues. Medic's ears perked when his name was mentioned, so he kicked Scout's stomach walls for freedom. Scout felt the kick and said, " 'cuse me for sec' ". He ran to a private area where he could try to tire out his prey. "Alright, you little shit, you wanna get out? This'll make ya pass out!".

Scout walked up into a wall and pressed his belly against it, crushing Medic in the process. Medic screamed in pain while Scout tried to make him quiet. Medic then realized that he had injectable emetics this entire time! He reached for his pocket and grabbed the needles, and stabbed them into the stomach walls. Scout felt the pain and got on fours.

Scout gagged for 5 seconds before throwing up Medic along with some vomit. Medic slowly got up while Scout recovered. Scout looked at Medic and said "look maybe I shouldn't eat ya anymore. I could kill ya!". Medic responded with, "It's okay, Scout...I forgive you...". Scout gently picked up Medic and held him against his cheat like a puppy.

Scout's heartbeat is robust and fast. Medic was mesmerized by his heartbeat. He did checks up with him, but actually listening to his heartbeat up close, and being the size of a mouse is better! Both of them looked at each other, with Medic smitten with Scout. "Scout, I have a confession to make, but promised me that you won't tell anyone." he said while Scout nodded at him with trust. "I-I-I" Medic shuddered.

"What doc, what?" Scout said impatiently. "I love you..." Medic whimpered. Scout's eyes lid up with excitement upon this information. "Y-you really mean it?!" He said while standing up. "Yes..." Medic responded calmly.

Both of them lean into their faces for a kiss. However, before they touch lips, Solder yelled out Scout's name. Scout gently tucked Medic in his right pocket and sprinted towards the other direction. He went into the room where Soldier was. "Ay yo, wassup?!" Scout said while Soldier is visibly annoyed.

The administrator's voice came from speakers saying, "Mission begins in thirty seconds." The 8 mercenaries immediately get into position for battle. Scout is worried that both him and Medic will get hurt or killed during battle. He went to his locker and picked up his typical weapons. The same voice on the speakers blurred out, "Mission begins in 20 seconds."

Medic slowly grasped the fabric of Scout's pocket for safety as the countdown finishes. Scout speed through the door and into the battlefield. Scout has been running for a long time that Medic felt sick. Scout stopped moving when he heard he encountered the BLU Scout. The BLU is the female counterpart of the RED Scout, with a pony tail on the back of her head and knee long shorts.

"Hey, loser. Planin' on dying all over again?" BLu Scout said while the 3 inch Medic is trying to escape from the situation.

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jessefandomunited · 5 months

Text

Library Vibes

I had a very short idea about being a librarian starting to close up for the night and realizing Spencer is still there. I was at work late and my brain is mush so bear with me lol

Spencer Reid x GN reader ( I made extra care to not put anything regarding gender, race, or name .trying to be as inclusive as possible enjoy)

It was a cold rainy night , one that always caused my mind to wander. The sky darkened much quicker and I thought of nothing but the rhythmic thrumming of the rain pattering against the expansive windows and skylight. The thunder rumbled as I finished putting another book back into its place and casually checked my watch. " ITS NINE," I Gasped much louder then I mean to which made, probably the last person here, drop their book , startled.

" I'm so sorry," I apologized walking towards the man hunched over picking up his book," the rain made me lose track of time, we've been closed for thirty minutes." He stood up and I knew who he was. Instantly I was flustered. Spencer Reid of the BAU came here often when he wasn't busy to just read surrounded by books. I noticed he'd always grab about ten thick books and get through them all quicker than I thought anyone could read. We've had a few conversations about books and his job but nothing more. I wanted more , so much more . I wanted to pluck up the courage to ask him on a date, but I just didn't know how, but this may be my best chance.

" hey im sorry too i should have known to leave i just assumed you'd kick me out whenever it was time to close up," he said awkwardly piling the stack of books he had been reading ," im typically very good at keeping track of time." I laughed ," I'm sure you are the genius that you are." I swore I saw him blush when I said that . Instead of brining it up though I began gathering the books he had been reading to put them in the return basket for me to resell later. " I can do that , I shouldn't have kept you here so late," he blurted scooping up the remaining books, " I mean , I remember where got them all too." I smiled and instead of telling him what my original plan was I nodded and said ," I'd love that."

As we methodically put back each book I noticed that he had been reading a series I'd mention was my favorite. It was a bit childish compared to his other ones but I felt touched. " so how did you like it,"I pried handing him each book in the series. " not what I normally read but it was fun, I thought the story was very fanciful and reminded me of being a kid again, at least the good parts of that," he said stumbling over his words. "Oh," I said not wanting to pry into his childhood," well I'm really touched you read it." Red was creeping up his face again ," it's no problem, I enjoyed it." I felt this push in my gut saying " here is your chance." " you know .... I havnt had dinner yet have you," I pressed measuring out my words carefully. He shook his head," no ." " perfect, would you like to go out then," I blurted feeling a bit foolish. He looked stunned like he couldn't believe I had actually said that ," yes... like out out , like a date or like a friend thing?" My smile broadened," a date, I am asking you, Spencer Reid, on a date." " I'd be honored," he said almost giddy.

With that we walked to the front of the library, I locked up, and we were officially on a date. Now I just needed to find a place that was open

#spencer ried #spencer reid x reader #fanfics #fanfiction #criminal minds #I'm trying to ease myself back into writing so be gentle with me lol

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luteandsword · 1 year

Text

Come to me, in the night hours; I will wait for you.

Pairing: Geraskier.

Warnings: no real warnings!! jealousy (which I do not condone),Jaskier is a pouty baby.

Word count: 1.6k

Geralt had been invited to the Baron’s dance, this Jaskier knew. But he also knew, that amidst the shimmering curtains of the summer night, Geralt had vanished from his side. Now he was across the room talking to some bird.

Bird, Jaskier noted with some finality, due to the feathers on her dress. At least he wasn’t dressed like a bird. Just stuck into an uncomfortable outfit that he hadn’t wanted to wear.

Unfortunately, Geralt looked completely at ease speaking to the woman, therefore Jaskier couldn’t jump in and rescue him.

Jaskier looked into the dregs of his goblet, and tossed back the mulled wine. He kept an eye on the Witcher as he meandered from woman to woman, led on by the Baron.

An exceptionally wealthy man, to be sure, but it wasn’t as if Geralt had killed every single monster in his territory! Jaskier poured wine into his goblet, refreshing himself, and retreated back into the corner.

He was struck by how their roles had been reversed-- once, Geralt had sat in the corner, and social butterfly, bard to the core, Jaskier had found him.

It stung to think about-- how they had barely known each other, but had been drawn to each other.

Geralt wasn’t his-- never could be wholly his, ever, because Jaskier didn’t want to treat the dear Witcher as if he were his property-- but it still hurt, for Geralt to be so far from him.

They had shared the Path, shared bread and wine, shared a bed once or twice-- it wasn’t normal for Geralt to be speaking to others, especially at parties such as this one.

Jaskier sighed, dejectedly, and swept through the curtains, into the night air, and onto the balcony.

He interrupted two lovers kissing-- both not much more than youths-- and they shrieked and giggled, pushing past him back into the fray. Jaskier raised his cup to them.

“To young love, hopeless as it might be,” he sighed, looking out over the acreage and the forest, the moon cold and silent as ever in the night sky.

Cold and silent; that was all Jaskier needed to think about. It reminded him too much of one Witcher, one he was trying too hard to forget.

“Any advice, dear lady? Should I go in and sing a bawdy song, and steal him away? Or serenade him on the dance floor?” Jaskier asked the moon, chuckling to himself. “Ah, it’s ridiculous. It’s useless.”

The flap of the curtains in the night breeze, the cicadas, the soft music in the background; Jaskier shut his eyes and tried to drift away on them.

Soft footfalls made his eyes open.

“The parties over there,” he said, jerking his head backwards, and sloppily sipping from his glass. “I’m afraid that this bard is unable to perform.”

“No one asked you to,” Geralt muttered, stepping to Jaskier’s side.

Close-- a bit too close. Jaskier shifted away, just a bit.

“Why aren’t you in there?” Jaskier said. He knew he sounded bitter-- and fuck, he was. Truly bitter. Truly sad, that Geralt wasn’t looking at him.

“I saw you come outside, and wanted to make sure you were all right.”

“Right.” Jaskier chuckled. “Well, as you can see, I’m fine. So be off with you, and let the Baron lead you to yet another woman who wants to bed a Witcher.”

A strong hand grasped his forearm, and pulled, so he was turned towards the Witcher. The liquid in the goblet sloshed dangerously, and Jaskier looked brazenly into the impassive face of Geralt of Rivia.

“What? Am I not right?” Jaskier yanked his arm out of the grip, and turned away.

“You’re wrong,” Geralt said, from behind him, his hands coming up to grasp Jaskier’s shoulders.

Jaskier shook out of the touch, stepping further away. “Why can’t you just leave me alone, Geralt? I’m not in the mood to see everyone throw themselves at you!”

Geralt stepped in front of him, his broad body making Jaskier pause.

“Well, am I to be here all night or may I leave to fill my glass?”

“You’ve had enough,” Geralt replied, plucking the goblet from his hand, and putting it behind him on the lip of the railing. “Jaskier, do you truly believe that any of these women could entice me?”

“I don’t see why not,” Jaskier huffed, aware that he was pouting.

War torn hands, hands that had seen battle-- they guided him, pressed his body against the railing, and Geralt loomed over him, between him and the party.

"Jaskier, look at me, and tell me what you see.” Geralt said-- was Jaskier imagining it, or was his voice softer than normal?

“I see a Witcher waiting to woo someone else,” Jaskier muttered. “May I go now?”

“You’re not looking at me,” Geralt pleaded-- yes, he was being gentle tonight.

Jaskier let his eyes flicker over Geralt-- stiff in the uncomfortable clothes, his hair loose round his shoulders, his eyes staring down at Jaskier.

“I see Geralt of Rivia, and my close friend,” Jaskier hung his head, suddenly ashamed. “I’m sorry, for what I said, Geralt. It was... uncouth, and cruel.”

“Never mind that, Jaskier. I understand why you said it.”

“You do?” Jaskier stared up at the one he loved.

Calloused hands slipped under his chin, and around to the sides, and then Geralt was cradling his face, cupping it as if Jaskier were water for him to drink.

“Jaskier. I will tell you as many times as you need to hear it, on the Path, in Lettenhove, in Kaer Morhen, and now and here. But I need you to tell me you want to hear me say it.”

Jaskier fought back the desperate ‘yes’ that threatened to escape his lips, and nodded.

“Verbally,” Geralt growled, and Jaskier groaned.

“Fine, fine, say it,” he said, feigning disinterest.

“You. You are the one I love, Jaskier.” Geralt said quietly, tenderly, too intimately for them being in a public space.

“Again.” Jaskier begged, his resolve crumpling under Geralt’s soft stroking of his cheek, the cradling of his face when Jaskier turned his face into his palm.

“You are the one I love.” Geralt repeated, and Jaskier let himself go, wrapping his arms around the Witcher’s waist, his face into his hair...

His heart into his hands.

“And I love you, my Witcher.”

fin.

Taglist: @howdoistormspirit @tellhound

My askbox is open and I accept prompts!

Title is from the song I listened to While Writing.

#geraskier #geralt x jaskier #jaskier x geralt #geralt of rivia #jaskier #louwrites #promptsforlou #def not jealous darling <3 promise <3 #surprise darling?#this is for you #tellhound #cc #something for while im gone #hopefully you'll pick up that this a gift for you x #see you in two days!#written on christmas day

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scionshtola · 8 months

Text

i pray you won't stop looking at me like that

pairing: Corisande Ymir/Y'shtola Rhul summary: When the celebration at the Crystarium becomes too much for Corisande, they seek time alone at the rookery. Y'shtola finds them there, and has a better suggestion for how they might spend their time. word count: 3071 | rating: Explicit | read on ao3 notes: spoilers for ShB. also PLEASE note the rating!!

The stars are still shining bright against the dark night sky when Corisande slips away from the celebration. It is not an easy thing to get away—a few people call out to them as they pass, and though guilt tugs heavily at their conscience, imploring them to turn around, they feign ignorance and continue on their way. The past few hours have been a decidedly loud blur, music and shouting and people coming up to them to shake their hand and thank them effusively. More than one person burst into tears at their feet, and one couple declared they would name their first born child after them.

They only need a moment to themself. A moment for their blossoming headache to subside, to restore their worn down nerves, and then perhaps they can return to the festivities. A party full of people who simply want to thank Corisande for restoring to them the very night sky they celebrate under.

She sighs. The danger, the sleepless nights thinking only of the nigh impossible problems before her, the near deaths experienced by both herself and those closest to her, are far easier to grapple with than the acclaim that follows. She is not likely to ever be comfortable with the recognition that comes with being the Warrior of Light—or Darkness, as it were—particularly when it comes in the form of hours and hours of conversation with strangers.

The rookery is quiet though, and blessedly devoid of other people, just as they hoped. The chocobos and amaros are still roaming their pen, their Zun caretakers likely caught up in the celebration before stabling them for the night, but they do not seem to mind. Corisande forgoes the gate and seats herself on top of the fence, her legs dangling inside the pen. Most of the animals are asleep, though a few still mingle about, plucking at the piles of hay or dipping their beaks into the trough for a drink. A chocobo ambles toward them, poking its beak into the back of her hand.

“My apologies, but I did not come bearing treats,” Corisande says, lifting their hand and stroking the bird’s head. “You will simply have to make do with hay like everyone else.”

But he seems content enough with attention, and the stress of the past few hours begins to ebb away as she pets him. She is just beginning to wonder if she ought to check the stables for a grooming kit when the chocobo’s kweh alerts her to quietly approaching footsteps. Corisande straightens, steeling themself, plastering on their best smile and readying their excuses—I was just on my way back, the Crystarium is so large, I got lost searching for a bathroom, I thought I saw something but it was only an amaro.

“I thought I might find you here,” Y’shtola teases, coming up behind them. Corisande sighs in relief at the sound of her voice, letting their shoulders sag. They glance over their shoulder as she leans against the pen and tilts her head back to meet their eyes, her gaze warm.

The tender feeling between them is as familiar to Corisande as she and Y’shtola are to each other, a feeling shared between them almost as long as their friendship has existed. But it has only been a day since the first kiss they shared in the aftermath of the battle against Hades, and there is a new undercurrent of excitement with every familiar look and touch. One that makes their cheeks warm at the soft affection written in her expression and their heart beat faster as her lips curve into a smile.

“What gave me away?” Corisande jokes, already feeling better for having Y’shtola at their side. The chocobo, likely feeling ignored, butts his head against their arm.

Y’shtola shrugs. “After several hours of celebration, I had grown quite tired of the crowd. I desired more particular company, and suspected you might feel the same. I sought you out but once I realized you had already departed, the rookery was the next logical stop. If there is some kind of stable around, ‘tis usually where I can find you.”

“There were a lot of people,” Corisande murmurs, with considerably less irritation than she might have only moments ago. They turn back to the chocobo, hiding the smile that came with the rush of affection at being so well known, and scratch its chin, the motion soothing for both her and the bird. “And a lot more crying than I was prepared for.”

“Urianger mentioned as much when I came upon him during my search. I am sorry, Corisande. It sounds…overwhelming.” Y’shtola’s soft voice is a balm to the frayed edges of their nerves, as is the gentle touch of her hand to their elbow. She glances at the chocobo they are still petting. “I can leave you with your thoughts, if you prefer. You seem to have found more than acceptable company.”

“You know your presence is always welcome,” Corisande says with a smile. Indeed, perhaps the only thing more perfect than the solitude she sought was sharing that solitude with Y’shtola. She shifts, twisting her body until she faces her. “Please, stay.”

Y’shtola smiles and tips her head back, staring up at the stars that she cannot see, and Corisande’s gaze is drawn down the line of her neck. Across the latticework of laces over her chest, down to the swell of her breasts just above the furred neckline of her dress.

“’Tis a rather pleasant night, is it not?” Y’shtola says. Their gaze snaps to her, only to find her already watching them, the quirk of her lips telling her she knows exactly where their eyes lingered. She reaches for their hand, tangling their fingers together, tugging them back to the ground and reeling them into her space.

A tiny thrill courses through her at the realization that this is the first time they have been truly alone together since their kiss—the first time she can do anything about the pull she feels toward Y’shtola, the desire that has simmered so long beneath her skin. She puts a hand on her waist, thumb gliding over the black fabric that clings to her full curves, pulse racing at her proximity.

“If I may make a suggestion, however?” she continues, touching Corisande’s cheek and guiding them closer, until her words ghost across their lips. “Mayhap our time would be more pleasurably spent in my quarters at the Pendants.”

“I was going to return to the party,” they murmur, surprised they can even muster a thought for the celebration with Y’shtola’s hand on the back of their neck, with the perfect view they have of the hunger in her gaze, with the heat of her body pressed against theirs.

Y’shtola hums. Only a whisper of space between them. Her eyes drop to their lips as she says, “I prefer my idea.”

Corisande closes the gap, tilting her head to deepen the kiss, and Y’shtola rises on her toes, pressing herself closer, closer, her fingers twisted in the lace of their lapel. When they part, chests rising and falling rapidly, lips swollen, Corisande says, “I like your idea, too.”

Y’shtola’s soft laugh is sweet to their ears, a familiar sound they never grow tired of hearing. She kisses the back of their hand, and tugs them toward the Pendants. The chocobo kwehs after them and Corisande turns around to wave goodbye to their friend before hurrying after her.

They are hardly through the door of Y’shtola’s quarters before their lips find each other again. They kiss as they tug off boots and socks, pull at laces and buttons, hands slipping under hems and breastbands. In the silver light of the moon pouring through the open balcony doors, Y’shtola’s dress pools at her feet and Corisande pauses, gaze drawn by the expanse of bare skin, the last parts of Y’shtola she has neither seen nor touched before. An excited tremble rolls down her spine—after tonight, there will be no part of each other they do not know.

Y’shtola catches her hand, kisses her knuckles, and leads her to the bed. Corisande follows, pressing parted lips against any bit of Y’shtola’s skin they can reach. The back of her hand, the round of her shoulder, the top of her spine. They do not stop when Y’shtola pushes them firmly onto the bed and climbs into their lap, kissing a line down the side of her neck, across her chest. They wrap their arms around her waist and shift her higher, pressing their lips to the skin between her breasts.

Y’shtola tugs gently at the end of the ribbon holding back their hair, pulling it free and sliding her fingers into the newly loose strands. She tips Corisande’s head back and kisses her, mouth open, warm, inviting. Both of their hands roam, cupping, caressing, pulling each other closer. Each kiss, each touch, each soft gasp elicited only feeds the flame of their long-simmering desire, until it boils over into a desperate need for Y’shtola.

She is not alone in her desperation. Y’shtola pushes at her shoulders, guiding her onto her back, and her breath catches in the brief moment that she hovers above her. Limned in silver moonlight and gold from the low light of the bedside lamp—switched on for Corisande’s benefit, and full glad she is for that—she is so impossibly beautiful that for a moment she thinks she must be dreaming.

They are brought back to reality by Y’shtola lying between their parted legs and pressing searing kisses over their chest that set their skin aflame. Her hand glides over the inside of their thigh, presses against their center in a way that makes their hips jump, desperate for more. They slide a hand into Y’shtola’s hair and try to tug her mouth back to theirs but she resists, devoting her attention to their breasts instead.

They would laugh, were they not otherwise preoccupied. They know this side of Y’shtola well, devoted to the task at hand, unable to be swayed from her purpose until she found what she sought, and curious above all else. They give in to Y’shtola’s questing fingers, the testing touches and kisses as she seeks the spots that make their back arch, their hips chase, their fists curl in the sheets and her name escape their lips in a moan, until their whole body quivers with pleasure.

She trails kisses across Corisande’s belly, over the curve of her hip. She pauses between their thighs, her breath ghosting over them as she holds them apart. They push themself onto their elbow and glance down, thinking Y’shtola seeks permission they are only too happy to give. But the moment their gazes meet, she dips her chin, eyes never leaving theirs.

The firm swirl of her tongue over their clit elicits a low moan, the heat of her mouth almost too much on their already heated skin. Her hands, her tongue, her lips—Corisande cannot keep track of which touch causes which pleasure, her body taut and aching with need. It is not long until Y’shtola pushes her past the precipice, kissing her through the throes of her climax.

Like any competent academic, Y’shtola seeks to replicate her results, mouth still moving over them even as they still. But Corisande guides her away with a gentle hand in her hair, and this time she lets them. With a hand around her waist, they shift them both onto their sides, close enough that their warm breaths mingle.

Y’shtola’s fringe is matted to her forehead, her lips shiny, cheeks rosy and warm under their hand as they brush her hair away from her face. There is a fondness in her gaze—not new, exactly, but different, her feelings laid bare in a way Corisande has not been privy to before.

“I hoped for this for so long,” Y’shtola says between kisses, so softly Corisande is unsure if she is meant to hear. She tucks herself into them, her next words barely more than a whisper against their skin. “I ached for this—for you.”

“How long?” Corisande asks, without really meaning to ask, still caught up in the bliss of the night, of Y’shtola in her arms. They trail the tips of their fingers over her back, enchanted by the way she melts into their embrace.

Y’shtola hums against their neck, silent for so long they think she will not answer, but eventually she says, “Years.”

Her teeth graze their collar bone, and she follows the slight sting of the bite with a gentle kiss. Corisande’s hand stills, their heart skipping a beat. Just how long had they spent ignorant of Y’shtola’s affections?

She cups Y’shtola’s cheek in the palm of her hand, and Y’shtola covers her fingers with her own, soft and warm and gentle. “I am sorry for making you wait,” she whispers. How much longer could they have had, if only Corisande noticed?

“There is no need for apologies, love. There is no blame to be laid at anyone’s feet, except perhaps Fate’s, for it’s continuously horrible timing.” Y’shtola’s smile is gentle, almost wistful. She squeezes their fingers. “We are here now, no matter the arduous course we walked to arrive.”

Corisande kisses her, slow and deep, fingertips pressing into her skin to hold her close. They trail one hand over her chest, her side, cupping her rear and sliding their hand along the underside of her thigh, hitching her leg over their waist. “Are you certain you want no apologies?” she asks, her hand finding its way between Y’shtola’s legs, fingers stroking the small, pale patch of hair before dipping lower.

Her eyelids flutter closed when they brush their fingers featherlight across her sex, a soft gasp escaping her that they catch with a kiss. Her fingers scrabble at their shoulders, her tail flicks frantically over their calves, and her kisses grow desperate, sloppy and wanting, as their hand moves against her, inside her. She moans against their lips, and the new sound delights them equally as much as it quickens their own desire. She wants to hear it again, over and over, the same as her laugh.

Y’shtola breaks the kiss, dropping her forehead against their shoulder, her rapid breaths hot and tickling across their collarbone. Corisande kisses her hair and holds her flush against her, feeling her chest, her soft belly, move against her with the slow roll of her hips seeking their hand, nothing left to separate them but a thin sheen of sweat.

Y’shtola has wanted this for years, but how long has Corisande wanted this? Does she even really know? Can she pinpoint a moment in time when her feelings for Y’shtola had grown into a desperate yearning to know her in all ways, beyond the pale of dedicated friendship? It was not the first time that she had been blind to her own romantic feelings for another and with Y’shtola the lines between platonic and romantic had blurred so quickly, so early in their friendship, it was difficult to say exactly when the feelings had grown.

And how had she gone so long without it? Without Y’shtola’s lips on their skin, without her hands stoking the flames of their desire, without every inch of her body pressed to theirs atop silky sheets? Without knowing the taste of Y’shtola on her lips, without hearing her whimpers and curses as they touched her, without knowing the soft feel of her bare hips beneath their hands? The idea was inconceivable to her now. She wanted to know all of it, every spot that made her toes curl, every twist of her fingers that drew a moan from her lips, where she could kiss and touch that made her tremble and gasp.

They feel her climax roll through her, pressed together as they are, her hips jerking, her fingers digging into their waist. When she comes down, she slides her hand into Corisande’s hair and kisses her sloppily, so unlike the focused way she had drawn out their pleasure. She smiles into the kiss, pleased at the way Y’shtola has come undone under her touch.

“Apology accepted,” Y’shtola mutters against her lips, and Corisande laughs.

They move, straddling Y’shtola’s waist. She looks as gorgeous stretched beneath them as she did leaning over them: skin golden in the low lamplight; wet, parted lips; skin marked where their hands and mouth have touched her; silvered eyes watching them. She pushes herself up when they lean over her, meeting them with a kiss until they guide her gently back onto the bed with a firm but gentle push on her shoulders.

She trails her hands down her body, delighted by the shiver that runs through her at the whisper of a touch, and follows the path with her lips. Y’shtola tries to watch but her eyes fall closed when their tongue flicks across her nipple, their hand cupping and kneading her other breast. They press their smile into her skin as they kiss over her soft stomach, lower, lower.

“I am not quite done apologizing,” Corisande says, and seeks her forgiveness between her thighs.

The stars are fading, the dark night sky giving way to the purple beginnings of dawn, when they collapse into each other’s arms. Corisande folds herself into Y’shtola’s embrace, resting their head on her chest, their long ears laying comfortably flat as she trails her hand gently through their hair.

She has not known this kind of contentment in years, and she basks in the warmth of it, exhausted but satisfied. She tilts her head, resting her chin on Y’shtola’s chest so she can look into her eyes.

“Was it worth the wait?” she teases.

“I have always known you were worth waiting for,” Y’shtola answers, sincere, and they do not hide their smile that follows the love and warmth that tides through them. It seems to Corisande the sort of answer that she would normally be embarrassed to give, uncomfortable with emotional displays as she is. But what room is there for embarrassment between them now?

Corisande reaches over and switches off the lamp, and Y’shtola pulls the quilt over their shoulders. They close their eyes, warm and happy, and let the slow rise and fall of Y’shtola’s chest lull them to sleep.

#kels writes #oc: corisande ymir #corishtola fic #please....be nice to me i am still new to writing smut and i am Afraid sdlkjfgh #i went into a week long fugue state trying to get this out after work only to rewrite half of it today lmao #but i am happy with it i think #i have extensive director's commentary. but i will hold onto it. for now jkdshfgh #shadowbringers spoilers #idk about the title...it makes sense to me thoug hsdkjfgh #okay running away forever now goodbye!!!!#ffxiv fic

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chiangyorange · 1 year

Note

I really need to reread all the peepaw fics because my brain has trouble keeping them separate, but I'm pretty sure WMAS has the wonderful marigolds scene that is very memorable to me. (I'd double check, but you know, jail!)

MARIGOLDS!!!!!!!!!!!!

(v excerpt taken ch3 v)

Mikey opens his eyes and he sees a city around him. This… is new. The sky is a pale red like the sunrise and as he looks around him, the city is destroyed. It doesn’t scare him somehow. He takes his time turning around in place, seeing the tall battered buildings covered in bright colors of paint. Greenery of plants overtake the sides of buildings, framing the bright formless graffiti, the dull grey of concrete to something colorful. It clings to the bricks in a relentless enduring grasp of life. From the windows of the buildings shine lights through them. Multicolored, like they are the LCD screens from Times Square. It’s bright. There are no people, the city is in shambles, but it’s still alive.

i wanted mikey to be somewhere that is so familiar but not at the same time. in this one, i was thinking "if you were to make a place, a physical plane that defines yourself by you dreams, your hopes, your desires, what would that look like?" and for this dreamscape, the obvious answer was new york.

(and i think that everyone knows it by now that this is future!mikey's dreamscape) i thought, how different would this be from our mikey in the present?

so i added the broken city, the apocalypse feel, but unlike the city we saw in the movie, this is clean. its not overrun by kraang bio-whatever the fuck, and instead with plants, flowers. i took most inspiration from tlou in this because even though THAT setting is an apocalypse, well, fuckin LOOK

and then the graffiti and glowing windows, those are colorful, the proof what was alive, the people of new york, the community, the art.

(v excerpt taken from ch1 v)

Uncle Michelangelo said that the old New York could be really pretty. There were so many lights that made the fog glow a brilliant color that makes everything magical. Quieter, he told Casey that there was always a person behind those lights. Someone was always adding to the beauty.

and then we come to mikey's exploring

(v excerpt taken ch3 v)

Mikey looks through the streets as he walks. He sees something move in the periphery and his eyes catch onto an overgrown patch of marigolds from a window’s flower pot bobbing from a breeze. His eyes follow as the flowers seemingly grow in pathways, falling out from the pot, down the walls, and to the streets. He follows the trail. The path of marigolds becomes denser and denser, but the petals slowly recede from the flower heads until the floors are simply just the leaves and plucked stems. Mikey finds himself at an intersection, the metal poles of lightstops fallen over at angles around the area like fencing. In the middle of the intersection is a massive patch of marigolds with bursting orange petals. The rendering petals from before cover the concrete of the street like a carpet. The patch of marigolds in the middle looks like a bed, how the orange flowers pop out of the ground into a perfect circle like a mattress.

i chose marigolds specifically because 1) theyre orange and 2) to continue that life, everything that's sprawling but in a good way. (and maybe in a smaller, but no less important way, tie back to donnie's passion to botany)

mikey is fire, that much is true, but more than that, its a wish to go back. back to the time where people COULD have planters on their balcony rails of bursting flowers, back to when spray paint breathe life to dull concrete walls.

its a dream, its a hope.

its planting marigold seeds in a pot and nurturing it to brighten your home.

#wmas asks #we'll meet again soon #wmas creator commentary

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luck-and-larceny · 1 year

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"Hey there, Malikat. How 'bout ya' tell me a tale 'bout th'best heist ya' ever done? I don't even care if its true. I jus' want t'hear a story."

Oh, now this was fun. Malika could always count on Law to catch her attention with a particularly creative question. She could also count on him to allow her complete freedom in how she answered. That this question was more about watching her spin a story than about recounting a historical record of her life charmed her.

"I could tell you about a terrifying, magical artifact liberated from a museum that has the power to briefly change its wearer's personality and how it affected mine. Or maybe about how I once smuggled a prisoner out of captivity right under the noses of his captors. Possibly, I could tell you about the time I dressed as a maid to steal a rowdy opo-opo…"

But those were verifiably true stories. He ought to be told something different.

"But instead… I'll tell you about when I stole a single thread spun from Nymeia's loom."

She smiled, eyes shining as brightly as the stars she'd soon reference.

"Every person, every one of us, has a destiny woven into Nymeia's loom. A common misconception is that this means that our fates are already made for us and there's no deviating from the course already set in motion. But that's a horribly sad, frustrating, and, frankly, boring way to look at life, isn't it? She's not the Author in the Stars. She hasn't written the conclusion and worked backwards. And we are not born with finished tapestries that can't be changed. She actively spins new paths for us as we live. The choices we make affect her work as much as her work affects the situations we find ourselves in.

Sometimes the tapestry she creates for us snags. It needs to be unraveled and redone. You ever feel like you just barely escaped certain doom at the very last moment? Or experienced deja vu? Met someone you knew immediately would change your life, but had no explanation for how you knew that? Those are snags in the weave of fate.

And those snags keep things interesting for her. She doesn't like easy projects. She likes a challenge. So I've made it my mission to be her greatest challenge! And what better challenge is there than to pluck a thread from my own tapestry and genuinely control a measure of my fate?"

She smiled again and shrugged, "I'd say I'm sorry for this long-winded tale, but I'm not. So…

On nights when the sky is the color of spilled ink, when there is a hazy aura around the full moon, and the stars are shining so brightly it's hard to believe they're not diamonds… that's when Nymeia is closest. That's when she takes a break from spinning and dares to sneak a peek at the world below and look upon the creatures whose destinies she's been making art of. She turns her back from her loom and turns her face to the world.

On nights like that? Anything can happen. You can feel the magic in the air connecting all of us to one another.

And if you sleep with an astrologian deck beneath your pillow and a powerful wish upon your lips and then fall into a dream… It might be more than a dream.

My wish was to see my own tapestry. And I did. In the dream I walked through a room of them. I'd never seen anything so beautiful. Such colors! Such magic. All of them for those who had left this world, joined the Lifestream, but none finished. A person's tapestry is never finished, it turns out. It can't be. Because long after we're gone, we still touch the living, still affect them. In that way, we still exist. Our story isn't over.

I walked and walked for what felt like bells and bells until I saw it. The most beautiful thing I'd ever laid eyes on: threads of the darkest blue, the most brilliant purples, silvers unlike any I'd seen before and I knew, _knew_, this one was mine. But I'm no good at seeing but not touching. I have to touch. And I'm not so good at touching and not taking either. I reached out and felt my own fate beneath my fingers. And I plucked a single thread. And replaced it with a mundane thread from the waking world. All while Nymeia's face was turned."

Malika finished her drink, and the stars in her eyes twinkled ever so brighter. "And now, every so often, I can see what will come to pass for me before it happens. For instance… you're about to buy me Blackbelly whiskey, Roman." She winked. "How'd I do?"

#ffxiv #ffxiv rp #Asks #Answers #Writings #Fate #Nymeia #The-wanted-man #She's not sorry this is long but I am!#I'll try editing it down later #I just kinda blarghed out some words here #I hope it's fun anyway!#Thank you for this Ask!

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queer-acacia · 1 year

Text

Secret Santa for @mete0rm0ss

Finally, I'm posting my secret Santa project. I meant to put this out a lot earlier, but at least now it's done.

Characters: JoeHills and ZombieCleo

Words: 747

Tags: slight existentialism

Cleo was finishing cleaning out one of the rooms of the castle when she saw Joe pass by the castle wall. He looked like he was counting something in his hand- most likely a few diamonds he’d found. She jumped down from the window and glided to the ground, landing squarely in front of Joe’s path.

“Howdy, Joe!”

Joe looked up and smiled. “Howdy Cleo, whatcha been up to?”

“Not too much, just cleaning up some stuff from the castle.”

“Oh, speaking of which… do you know what we’re supposed to be doing with these emeralds?” Joe asked, holding out the small green jewels in his hand.

“Dunno,” Cleo said with a shrug. “I don’t think Ren had a plan for what would happen if the monarchy fell.”

“Hm. Maybe someone needs some emerald blocks for a build, or for villager trading?”

“We can go look around and find out,” Cleo suggested. “If we don’t we can always throw them in some lava.”

Joe chuckled as he stuffed the emeralds in his pocket. “Sure, sounds fun!” He began to take out his elytra, but Cleo stopped him.

“Uh, think we can walk this time? We don’t have to be that fast or anything.”

Joe raised his eyebrow for a moment but nodded as he put the elytra away. “Fine with me,” he said as he stuffed his hands in his pockets. “Dunno how far away the next base is, but we’ll find our way, I’m sure.”

Cleo chuckled as she headed out into the forest, motioning for Joe to follow her. “Well, don’t leave me hanging now!”

Joe chuckled and jogged after her, not wanting to fall behind. With Cleo being undead, she pretty much had endless stamina, so falling behind meant bad news for him.

The two of them walked in silence for what felt like at least twenty minutes. Every so often, Joe picked a stray flower on their path, and he slowly began to weave them together.

“Joe, can I ask you something?” Cleo said, interrupting their silence and making Joe jump a little. He took a second to compose himself before responding.

“Sure, what’s up?”

“Do you feel like we’re being… watched?”

“I mean, it depends on what you mean by ‘being watched’,” Joe replied, his tone as calm as ever. “If you mean watched by all the zombies and creepers around, then yeah, it's pretty normal to me at this point-”

“No, that’s… that’s not what I mean,” Cleo interrupted, knowing if she didn’t that Joe would keep rambling. “I mean by… something else. I don’t… I don’t know by what but it creeps me out.”

Joe shrugged as he stepped onto a fallen tree, walking along the length of the log with his arms out to keep balance. The mass of woven flowers was gripped in his hand. “Huh. Well, I always just kind of figured it was a fact of life. The sky is blue, the grass is green, and we’re watched by a higher power.”

“I dunno how you’re able to accept it so easily,” Cleo muttered as she swiped a tree branch out of her path. If she thought about it for too long, that would creep her out more, so she decided to ignore the feeling.

“I mean, what does it change? Someone is watching us build castles and reforage the earth? We still have the will to go do and say what we want to.”

Cleo pressed her lips together and made a dissatisfied sound. Joe looked at her, then hopped down from the log. He plucked one more flower from the ground and wove it into the other flowers. Oh, it was a flower crown. A little messy, but still a flower crown nonetheless.

“Well, I do know for certain, that even if we’re being watched, I’d still be your friend.” He gingerly placed the flower crown on Cleo’s head. “I think that’s all we need to know is real, don’t you think?”

Cleo tilted her head up a bit, trying to get a proper look at the flowers... and it slid off her head and fell onto the ground, quickly becoming a small pile of flowers and leaves. The two of them stared at each other for a second and burst into laughter as they picked up the crown’s remains.

“Thanks, Joe,” Cleo said, taking one of the flowers from Joe’s hand and tucking it behind her ear. “I’ll be sure to remember that.”

#zombiecleo #joehills #joe hills #zombie cleo #hermitcraft #Hermitshipping #<- Not reallly stated outright but there definitely is some implied romantic attraction

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electrasev5nwrites · 2 years

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The Beast Within 3/9

On their second week of being a team, Asuma-sensei started getting them missions. They were grunt work, the kind of thing that fresh genin had to endure. Ino sniffed as she sorted through the offered scrolls, picking out a mission cleaning a river. “Asuma-sensei,” she said sweetly. She saw him note the mission in her hand and his eyebrows raised. “This would be a very good opportunity to work on water-walking, don’t you think? We could get the bits of plastic tangled in the driftwood.”

Shikamaru groaned.

“Do you know how to water-walk, Ino-chan?” Asuma-sensei grinned indulgently. He seemed more relaxed around them, although he’d been casual from the start.

“No,” Ino said innocently. “How remiss of me. Could you give me pointers?”

“You just want to see us fall in the water,” Choji accused ruefully. He flung a hand up over his face in misery. “Asuma-sensei, don’t listen to her!”

‘That would be a fringe benefit at best, dummy. I want to water walk. I’ve been a genin for nearly two whole weeks now.’

“If you fall in the water, clean behind your ears,” Ino said sweetly. She blinked big doe eyes up at her teacher. “Littering is terrible. That’s what I care about.”

“Of course it is.” Asuma-sensei plucked the scroll out of her hands and winked at her. “Return those others. We have to protect the environment. God forbid Kakashi was left to ensure the integrity of our waterways.”

Who?

Well. She didn’t care that much.

Ino cheered as she brought the rejected scrolls back to the left hand side of the mission desk. The chuunin accepted them as Asuma-sensei strolled over to the right side and started signing off on the paperwork. Ino went outside and bounced in place, stretching her arms one at a time. Her teammates slunk out to join her. Choji gave her a side-eye.

“Ne, Ino-chan,” he started. She gave him her full attention. “Why do you push so much? Asuma-sensei is teaching us what he thinks we need to know.” He looked away from her, uncomfortable with confrontation.

She hummed and interlaced her fingers. “I want more,” Ino chirped. “I always want more.”

“Pain in the ass,” Shikamaru muttered. He leaned against the wall and looked up at the sky. “We could just not, you know. There’s no reason to go harder than we have to.”

“The reason is that I don’t want to die as a genin,” Ino said pleasantly. She gave him her sweetest smile. It was mostly wasted since he didn’t look at her. “Don’t you ever think about how fragile you are? You’re very breakable. Anything could happen, you know.”

Shikamaru scoffed. “We’re twelve,” he rejected. “They’re not going to make us do anything dangerous for years and years. By then, we’ll be better than everyone else.”

“You can’t just wait for skill to happen to you.” Ino felt her eyebrow twitch. “It’s not a prophecy. It’s hard work.”

Shikamaru gave her an infuriatingly superior expression and didn’t answer. She felt her hands curl into fists.

‘I want to smack the smug right out of him. I can’t stand him sometimes!’

“Maybe it won’t be that hard.” Choji looked out into the city contemplatively. He pulled open a bag of chips without even looking. “If every average genin can do it, it probably isn’t that hard. And once we have the foundational skills, we can relax more, Shikamaru.”

“Once we have the foundational skills, we should-”

Asuma-sensei stepped out and cut Ino off mid-scold with a grin at Choji. “Once you have water walking down, you’ll definitely deserve a treat!”

Choji beamed back. “Take us out for lunch!” he suggested.

Their teacher snorted. “I doubt you’ll get it down before today’s lunch. But eventually, sure.”

Things started off fine. They got to the river. Asuma-sensei gave a demonstration and a short explanation about how water walking was different from tree walking. And then they were off!

By that, Ino meant that she walked in the shallows, occasionally managing to walk on the shallows, and picked up trash. Choji trudged dutifully through undergrowth and occasionally waded in for something. Shikamaru made a series of mournful expressions, put a foot through the surface of the water, and made a face like a wet cat. Then he sat down cross-legged.

Ino shot a glare at him. “Move it, lazybones!” She shook her trash bag at him. “The rest of us are working here.”

“Ah, I’m not really working,” Asuma-sensei said, amused. He ignored Ino’s glare from his perch on a branch overlooking the river. “Mind your own business, Ino. He has time to work on his share of the job.” He took another drag of his cigarette.

Ino felt her hackles go up at being told to mind her business, but the stern quality that Asuma-sensei inserted into his voice at the end reassured her that he wasn’t going to let Shikamaru do nothing.

She focused on her own work, balancing the actual mission and water walking. She was getting it! Her steps were getting steadier and breaking the surface less. Ino started to feel confident. She grinned as she speared a floating bottle and shook it off the stick into her trash bag.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Shikamaru suddenly stand. She watched him walk into the river- no. Onto the river. He didn’t so much as make a splash or falter. He walked into the center, made eye contact with her, and smirked. Then he made an unenthused attempt at picking up something floating in the water.

‘He let us pick up the slack with the actual job and just thought through how to water walk based off of one failure? It’s not fair. It’s really not fair. I’ve been actually working.’

She remembered their conversation earlier, where she’d tried to convince him that he would actually have to work hard.

This was why he thought he didn’t have to. He was so insufferably smug because things were just that easy for him.

Ino felt irritated. She acknowledged it. And then she pushed it down and away because it was unhelpful. “Good job,” she said magnanimously. “You can get the things in the middle, then.” She stabbed her next target that much harder. This was fine.

“Feh.” Shikamaru dismissed the idea, but he kept at it. The hint that sensei would disapprove if he slacked too much apparently held some weight for him.

‘He never cares about what I have to say.’

At the end of the day, they had roughly even bags of trash. Ino had a shaky mastery of water-walking, and a hefty amount of poorly disguised irritation that Shikamaru had gotten it down so easily. He hadn’t stumbled once.

By contrast, poor Choji hadn’t gotten very far. His ankles were soaked and his body language was morose as they went back to the tower to report their mission completed. “I didn’t get it at all,” he groaned. His sandals made wet slaps against the pavement. “Why are you guys so good at things?”

Ino blinked and frowned. Why was he including her in that?

“They’re ahead of the curve,” Asuma-sensei reassured. He put a hand on Choji’s shoulder. “It takes most people a few days to master water walking. And even then- once you have it, it won’t make any difference if it took you one hour or one week to master.”

“...I understand.” Choji held himself a little bit higher.

Bemused, Ino tilted her head and examined her teacher’s back. Was that right?

‘It’s probably true,’ she thought. It mollified her bruised ego a bit. ‘Shikamaru is a genius, and I have really good chakra control.’

“Sensei, do you have time today to supervise me?” Ino asked. She tapped her fingers against her hip, full of unspent energy. “I want to work on that earth jutsu.” She ignored the way that both of her male teammates rolled their eyes.

“Ino-chan, I need to rest sometimes,” Asuma-sensei said. He reached back to ruffle her hair. Ino dodged expertly. He laughed at her under his breath. “Tomorrow, okay? I have other commitments tonight.”

Ino pursed her lips. “...Thank you,” she said, a little grudgingly. She really wanted to work at it. She was so close to working through the fundamental logic of the technique. There were no other options for appropriate supervision, though. Daddy was too busy with work.

She went home, dissatisfied with her day and the progress she was making in her career. Ino flopped down on her bed and looked up at the ceiling. “It’s not enough,” she muttered. She dragged her pillow onto her stomach and hugged it. “I’m not improving enough. I want to be a department head in a decade. I don’t have time to do anything but excel.”

Without her conscious thought, her gaze drifted over to her dresser. Her eyes glazed without focus, boring through the thin panel of wood hiding the secreted scroll from sight.

“Would it really hurt to look?” Ino asked herself. She tightened her grip on the pillow. Summons were a huge boon. She might learn something just from reading the scroll, she told herself. Ino levered up to a seated position and fought to balance logic and her desire. She wanted to- she really wanted to read the scroll.

‘I will,” she decided. Her chest fluttered with excitement the instant it was decided. ‘If it was in the clan library it has to be useful for Yamanaka. And besides, it’s clan history! That’s worthwhile on its own merits.’

“Ino!”

She nearly jumped out of her skin. “Yes, Mama?” she called back. Ino tried to calm her racing heart.

“Dinner is ready! Could you get your father?”

Ino tossed the pillow aside and stood up. “Okay,” she hollered back. “Love you!”

She would look after dinner.

#electrasev5nwrites #electra rose halloween 2022

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