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wroteclassicaly · 8 months

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For The Record

(Steve Harrington x Female Reader)

Summary: You have a surprise for your best-friend Steve.

Word count: 1,647

Warnings: Language, NSFW, creampie, vaginal sex, slight choking, slight breeding kink if you squint, and fluff.

Pairings: Steve Harrington x Female Reader

A/N: Just a filthy little thing that I’ve been nurturing for a few days. No point to it, just showing Stevie some love! Haven’t written anything this lengthy in a while, but I hope y’all enjoy? ;P 💕❤️🥰♥️

Steve. Steve-fucking-Harrington. The heart of your group with a head of hair (that you’d washed, brushed, picked monster guts out of, and pulled, one too many times), a comforting smile that reminded you of Summer’s fading sunsets that give way to fall colors. All copper, rust, orange, mossy caramels swirling together, deep browns that look like cinnamon (smells like the gum he chews, or the breath spray he carries in his back pocket), sometimes even red in how his cheeks tinge on cold days, the way he makes your body warm. To his protective - fighter mode, like a crafted out of the finest marble guardian-angelic-god.

You’d worship at his temple. All day. Every single day.

His mouth has been in as many places as his hands. He knows every scar, just as much as he’s aware of spots, in which kissing you will cause goosebumps to electrify, sparking themselves known across your skin, or where his fingers will cause that high pitched whine to come from between your lips. You can’t really fathom that it’s been happening, especially for how long. There’s been no talk of labels, what anything means, it’s just been two friends crossing a line and fucking one another on it. You don’t know what you would’ve done, had it not been for Steve-the-hair-Harrington, King Steve, your extra heartbeat, your best-friend, your everything.

And that’s what led you to your current predicament, your planned leap of faith. Wrapped in a maroon colored mini gift bag, you had placed the packet. Steve arrived not long after, movies and pizza balanced in his massive hands, keys dangling from the middle finger of his left hand, a cheesy grin pressing into that beautiful mouth. “Hey, honey,” he had said. “Really missed you today, you know that?”

You’d taken in his appearance of dark Levi’s and a black belt, his signature Nike’s, and a low dipped white v-neck that he’d thrown a plain blue button over, leaving it open, his gold chain visible, nestled in that patch of chest hair. Salivating more at him than the food, it took you a second to help him inside.

You ate in avid chatter, watched one of the lamest, but most comforting horror films Steve could find on the shelves (that no one rented but he knew you’d appreciate), whilst being tucked beneath his bicep, warmed at his side. That’s when you’d retrieved the gift off your coffee table, his palm rubbing circles across your spine, kneading tension until you returned to your position. You handed him the bag and his bushy brows had pinched together, an adorable confusion clear. “For me? What did I do?”

“Just open it, Harrington. Before my nerves make me take it back.”

He cradled the parcel protectively, a pout forming as his watch strapped wrist dips inside. “No way, no how. Nope, not now.”

“Steve…” you laughed lightly, suddenly swallowing as he pulled the packet out, trying to make sense of the name.

“Contraceptive? I don’t… Isn’t this birth control?” He shook the packet before planting it in his massive palm.

You could feel your heartbeat in your throat, choking you like a vice, preventing you from answering in a full sentence.

“Yeah.”

“So, it’s yours? Why did you wrap it up and give it to me?”

“There’s a few missing already, Steve. I just wanted to get used to them before… Before I told you.”

“Told me, what?” He still looked puzzled, seeking out where you’d opened the package and taken a few tablets.

“That I just wanna use these from now on. Nothing else. If you, if that’s okay with you...?” You had felt the sharp claws of the butterflies, threatening to demolish your remaining courage. But this was Steve, you needed to remember that.

It took him a few moments, but then his pupils expanded within the enriching mossy flecks of his irises, at a rapid pace. His tongue licked at the five o’clock shadow above his upper lip. His voice, you’ll never forget how it sounded. Honey-hot and hoarse, raspy with bitten want, raw fucking desire. You’d clenched your thighs together, tongue eager to lick him… every-fucking-where — the burn of it felt on the muscle’s tip.

“Isn’t that something you do with a boyfriend, though? Not casual sex with a good friend, one of your best-friends?”

And you nod, vision swimming with shapes. Had you messed up? Fuck it. “It is.” Is what you’d responded with, taking the packet from him and tossing it with the bag back onto the table. The movie was rolling credits in the background and you were watching Steve’s dotted jugular as he swallowed, showcasing those tendons, all the way up to that stubble bitten jawline, dotted with freckles and moles.

“And who is your boyfriend, honey?” He had to hear you say it. If it’s what he thought it was, or you’d simply break his heart and move on to this guy. Could he really believe in a good thing again?

You leapt off that faithful precipice, years and feelings following, eyes locking, gaze unrelenting. “I was hoping it would be you.”

He was obviously choked up, orbs alight with mirth and excitement, among other things. “Funny that you mention that, because I’ve been hoping for the exact same thing.”And he’d fallen into your arms, seizing you with a kiss, noses nudging, tongues eager and messy. Clothes couldn’t come off fast enough.

The king sized condom lays unopened on your plush blush rug. Having fallen out of Steve’s wallet, that had also tumbled from his jean pocket in haste. Everything was out of control in the best possible way. You could’ve sworn you died a few minutes prior and came back as immortal — able to see through particles that floated on the air, hear cars, horns, music from houses all across town, smell the leaves that clung to the trees, damp with rain water and Autumn air. Your eyes roll back, perspiration damp behind the backs of your knees, where he’s got his current pinching grip, the fat of your thighs pressed into your tits, squishing them.

You realize in the moment, that you truly loathe condoms. Because this? Feeling that wet pre-cum smear down his shaft and around your opening as he pushed himself into you without a barrier for the first time, it was an indescribable experience. Each ridge, every vein, so hot, soft, and fucking, soaking wet. You aren’t sure where he ends and you begin. It hurts like hell, aches in the deepest parts of you, a place you know that he could easily put a child if you slipped up on your only remaining protection.

That thought makes you tighten around him, cream spilling out and further slicking back the curls gathered at his base. He drops your thighs, sweat-slick pelvis smashing into yours, stimulating your swollen clit. His chest hair scrapes against your pebbled nipples, making you arch your back and your toes curl, legs locking around his lower waist. He whines, palm coming up to grasp at your breast, calloused thumb strumming around your areola. “God, honey, your fucking nipples were made for my mouth to suck on.”

And he’s descending, his lips closing over one, tongue flicking and stimulating. You cry out, hand fisting into his honey streaked, chestnut locks. His shoulders work and bend, the dips and freckles and moles visible, glittering with the salt of sweat, his gold chain swaying out from his hairy chest and back again when he stops, nose bumping yours, hot breath on your mouth. “This pussy was made for my cock.”

And holy hell, his vocalizing focus doesn’t cease. “Who took your virginity, honey?” You both know it wasn’t him. But you are well aware what he’s getting at, and as he gives a harsh snap, those full and fat balls smacking your slick ass, you lose further coherency. “That’s right,” he’s speaking again. “They don’t matter, but I do.”

You weren’t aware that you could make the noises that you are. Only able to speak once Steve’s tugging himself and pulling out, stringing from your cunt to his shaft, a squelch echoing. You both groan, emptiness already jumpstarted. You plead for him. “Please, Stevie, need you! Put it back in —“

“Say it, say you’re just a hole for me to fill. That you’re only mine, baby.”

“I… Fuck! Stevie, all my holes are only yours, I’m only yours!”

He sinks his teeth into his bottom lip, before his jaw drops open and he whimpers. His hand leaves your breast and slides across your sternum, your collarbone, and settles at your neck. You nod to encourage, and those defined digits wrap around your throat.

“Tell me you love these big hands, sweetheart. Because they’re for you. They belong to you!”

“Want them all over me, Steve. All the time. Can’t get enough of you.”

He’s holding firm to his cock, stroking and teasing. You lick your lips as you stare at it, drooling. Reaching down, you tap his wrist (his arm, all muscles and tendons, thick and available to trace with your tongue), as he presses the thick red head into your clit, smearing the combination of you two all around. You mewl in appreciation, legs stretching so far apart that your muscles protest. He’s speaking next, panting out, “Like that? Hey, look at me. He grabs your chin, thumb tugging down your bottom lip. “Like. That?”

Your lip releases with a plop.

“Yes, yes! Don’t stop, Steve, never wanna not feel you again, baby boy!”

“That’s a good girl, that’s my girl.” He circles your sore opening and slips back inside with a loud, wet ease. You bite back the burning pain, welcoming the damp tears of pleasure along your lashes.

Your manicured nails cling to his back, his chest gliding along yours, heartbeat to hammering heartbeat. It’s frantic whispers and begging cries. And when he’s close to coming, you find his cheek with one hand, holding. “For the record, you’ve never been casual to me, Steve Harrington.��

// Eat me paragraph //

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tamlinweek · 2 months

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#spring court #spring court aesthetic #tamlin #pro tamlin #tamlin poll #tamlin week #tamlinweek #tamlin week 2024 #acotar #a court of thorns and roses

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lex-the-flex · 1 year

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A Withered Will

Luke Skywalker x reader

Summary: Following a set of dutiful instincts, a newly transformed Master must fight his inner demons to strengthen his heart for another.

Word Count: 1.3k

Warning(s): PURE FLUFF, the beginnings of an established relationship (cause Luke deserves it), Luke and the reader being their best selves, moments of heavy angst, moments of anxiety, nightmares/sleep paralysis, mentions of the hardships of a Jedi, and brief descriptions of smut and nudity. Dreams in italics.

A/N: Just pure love for Graham Hamilton and his portrayal of Luke. I can’t get enough of him and he makes me feel so soft. Feedback is always appreciated and enjoy!

Basking in the vast layers of shade, the protective layer of bamboo stalks shedding their leaves swayed in the cool breeze from the small lake, where a new pupil sat on the mossy rocks. Silently tilting his head towards the rays of warmth, Luke Skywalker enjoyed this new feeling of serenity, along with the guidance of a new ally.

Descending to the lake’s edge, the young Jedi Master walked along the shore with his hands folded behind his back.

“It’s more like he’s remembering than I’m actually teaching him anything.” He said to the acclaimed Grey Jedi, Ashoka Tano.

“Sometimes the student guides the master.” She replied with a smile.

Humming to himself, Luke reminisced in this newfound bond, the relationship you and he shared. While you two were skilled Jedi in your own right, there was something more, and Ashoka could sense these emotions like following a trail of breadcrumbs.

“Are you worried about her? About Y/N?” Ashoka asked, moving closer to Luke.

Turning his attention to her, Luke nodded. Glancing at Grogu, who now made his way to the water’s edge, Luke couldn’t help but feel a lump rise in the back of his throat.

“Yes, I am. Y/N left to track a small supply raid outside of the Coreilla System and hasn’t reached out in two weeks. I fear that– the …compass failed her.” Luke explains, trying to hide his lower lip from quivering.

Stepping closer to him, Ashoka gave Luke a reassuring touch to Luke’s shoulder, which was the kind gesture he needed.

“I know your feelings for her are strong, Skywalker. They are powerful and your love for Y/N may be what you need to conquer anything. Even the demon you’re secretly fighting. So listen to this. Listen to the very rhythm of your heart, as yours and hers are the same. Only then will you both learn to love one another.” She calmly explains, moving her hand over to cover Luke’s chest, allowing his heart the freedom it deserved.

*****

Distant echoes of waves crashing against the shore allowed a long overdue motion of serenity to be ignited on the oceanic planet's secluded beaches containing tide pools. Amongst a series of long forgotten marble ruins, specks of sunlight peeked in from the cracked dome ceiling, and the cool salty breeze filled your lungs.

Wrapping his arms around you, Luke's ebony cloak was a comfortable invisible shield covering your nude bodies whilst his lips fell to your collarbones. The soft fabric was strewn underneath your hot skin, blocking the cold marble. Nestling deeper between your hips, your grip tightened around Luke's muscular shoulders, and your fingertips traced over the fading series of lightning scars on his freckled skin.

Remaining here in this dream-like state, your shared moans and whimpers were more valuable than the sound of a harp in the Naboo War Room. It brought a different kind of music to Luke’s ears and his lungs were clogged with ecstasy. However, the vision faded, and the image of you vanished.

*****

Jolting awake from this hellish dream, the once peaceful oceanic atmosphere collapsed into the quaint bamboo forest. Lying awake in his single cot, Luke darted his eyes around the small tent, only to discover that he couldn’t move. As his light orbs desperately looked around the tent, Luke could see a glimpse of R2 in the corner, but his loyal droid was powered off for the night.

Struggling for a minute, Luke tried his best to free himself from the blanket that now became heavy at this moment, preventing him from breathing. A brief gasp escapes from his chapped lips, hoping to call out to someone – to anyone who would hear him.

But there was no one.

Until he saw the sight of you ducking your head under the tent’s entrance, and you removed the hood of your cloak, revealing your beautiful features in the dim lamp light. Rushing to his side, you take Luke’s face in your hands, gently stroking his cheeks.

“Hey, hey. Just breathe, Luke.” You advise, removing the thin camping blanket from his shoulders drenched in sweat.

Sitting on your knees, you carefully place a damp cloth on Luke’s forehead, hoping to cool him down. Even in the dark, Luke smiles at your calm demeanor, trusting you in this vulnerable state.

Taking the back of his bare neck in your right hand, you carefully made Luke sit up, and a large gasp exited his lungs, as if it was crushing his soul.

“You came back?” He asks, reeling from this sudden state of shock.

Your brows scrunched at this question, wondering why he’d ever question you.

“Of course, Luke. You're lucky I sensed something was wrong once I entered the atmosphere.” You reply, offering him your canteen.

Taking the cylinder bottle, Luke quickly downs the cool liquid, and you silently gaze at his half-naked seated stature before you. Even in the dark, your e/c eyes could make out the fading lightning scars on the brim of his shoulders. Turning away, you quietly proposed that he should get some more rest, and that you wouldn’t leave him.

*****

“So how reliable is this thing?” You ask, taking the silver compass from Luke’s hand.

“I’m not entirely sure. But there’s just something …strange about it, Y/N. I don’t know. I just know that it’ll lead us in the right direction.” Luke explains, taking the compass back.

“Well, if anything, it’ll lead us all the way to Lake Country. My father always talked about how beautiful Naboo was. Especially the mission he was assigned to with my mother. I’m so jealous of Leia right now.” You joked, nudging Luke’s bare bicep with your elbow.

Glancing at you, a furrow formed in between his brows, and the images of his previous dream. You and him, finally alone on the beaches of Naboo. Pulling himself from these thoughts, he quietly shook his head.

“Are you okay?” You ask.

“I’m fine. Let’s just set up this course.” Luke replies, with a bit of strength in the back of his voice.

Nodding at his explanation, the forest’s landscape transformed into a rocky and a mountainous place past the bamboo. Heading out of the shady forest, Luke advised to scour the area for a quiet spot for a much harder training course. After mapping out a medium sized piece of land by a rocky hill leading to a cave, Luke started to sketch out a small blueprint in the soil when a slight shiver crept up your spine.

Turning your attention to the cave’s entrance, you began to subconsciously walk up the hill, dropping your bag in the process. Alerting him, Luke quickly rushed to his feet once he saw you were gone. Hearing the same series of sounds that initially pulled you in, Luke walked up the hill, and into the cave.

Reaching the end of the minuscule cave, the vision of an old and decaying tree sprouting its roots on the stone walls. Among the roots was a single intact shelf with a few old and nearly ruined books. Stepping forward, you extended your arm to grab one, however your foot got lodged in something unusual, and the vision evaporated.

Breaking the plastic cap of a chemical light, Luke wanders father towards your presence, only to discover that you’re stuck in a pool of tar. Tossing the light to the floor, the bright blue light illuminates the dark cave walls.

“Y/N!!” He shouts, pulling you away from this hypnotic state.

Facing him, you realize where you are, and the tar has taken hold of your hips.

“Luke?! What– What happened?” You frantically ask, trying to free yourself.

“It’s alright, don’t move! Here, take my hand!” Luke calls out, offering his hand to you.

Quickly taking his hand in your own, Luke desperately pulls you from the sticky tar. Shaking some remnants of the black liquid off your leg, Luke tightens his grip around you.

“You alright?” He asks, bringing his face to meet your own.

“Yeah, I- I’m okay. I’m sorry, I don’t know what came over me. It’s like I was…” You try to explain, but tears begin to form in your eyes.

Surrounding his arms around you, Luke pulls you in for an embrace, reassuring you that everything would be alright.

a/n pt ii. ~ ngl, i kinda want to write that smut section as an entire fic now 👀

star wars taglist ~

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#star wars #star wars fandom #star wars fanfiction #star wars luke #luke skywalker #luke skywalker fluff #luke skywalker angst #luke skywalker x reader #luke skywalker fanfiction #luke skywalker fic #luke skywalker smut #luke skywalker request #luke skywalker imagine #graham hamilton #mark hamill

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fermentedfanfics · 1 year

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a little wine and charcoal.

hello welcome to my first writing that wasn’t a rewrite in a while. i hope you guys enjoy this ?? i randomly thought of this idea at like three in the morning and wanted to write it so bad– so forgive me if this is a little all over the place or written badly because i finished writing this at like six am and wanted to post it immediately. i might make a sequel to this, i kinda wanna write some smut for them. please know that this fic is explicit and for 18+ audiences only, minors dni.

summary: you enjoy taking figure drawing classes at your local college a few times throughout the year– this month you take up figure drawing again and find you’ve caught the model’s eye. (model!loki x artist!f!reader)

warnings: (possible smut for future sequel) fem!reader, make out sesh, reader is a little drunk, more than a little she’s a lightweight like me, light praise kink, kind of dry humping, orgasm denial, slight dom/sub dynamic (reader calls loki sir.) i’ll add more if i think of anything. word count: 3.2k

You are keenly aware of a pair of eyes on you, and you’re almost afraid to lift your gaze off the newsprint paper in front of you.

For a moment you wonder if you’re the only person who feels uncomfortable, but when you drag your gaze across the room you find everyone hard at work– focused on properly taking in the form of the man in front of you. Was he really a man though?

His ivory skin is chiseled like a marbled statue, and his thick, pitch-black hair was pulled back tucked behind his ears at the start of the class but has loosened and fallen into his face now. It’s given him a disheveled look and you’re rattled by how attractive he is. You’ve barely drawn anything, but you’re glad he’s not fully nude. Well– he is, but the way he’s posed has completely covered himself. You aren’t sure how you’d hold up if you were able to see him completely.

These figure drawing classes were supposed to be a source of relief for you. Twenty-five dollars and three hours of drawing live figures in silence with a couple of cups of wine was such a steal, and you’d truly enjoyed the last few times you’ve been– but the recent model has stolen that comfort from you.

At first you didn’t want to be conceded, clearly he was not staring at you directly. But the entirety of this month, each time you’d come and sit in that stuffy little classroom and painfully tried to draw the most beautiful being you’ve ever laid your eyes on, you could always feel him staring. It’s intensified by the wine you sip on throughout the class, your skin humming with the warmth of the alcohol and hot just from his mossy shaded eyes watching your every move.

Your hands delicately slip around the epicure of the glass next to you, it’s red and stinks of cheap wine but you drink it anyways to break the edge. Finally taking your eyes from the paper in front if you to the model, you swallow thickly when your eyes meet. You didn’t mean to look directly at his face, but curiosity got the best of you. Gripping the piece of charcoal in your hand, you begin to sketch.

You avert your stare from his face and to his body, and your mind wanders as your hand moves. Does he like your gaze? Observing every curve and rocky edge to his sculpted form– does it turn him on as much as it does you? You’d probably notice if it did. Each sip of the wine has your mind cloudy, and fills you with a kind of confidence you know isn’t good for you. Sneaking a peek to his face, you instantly regret it. His stare is intense, and the shine on his lips indicate he’s wet them with his tongue sometime between you taking your time studying every part of him and the last time you looked him in the eyes. You shiver.

The class wraps up faster than you expected. The conductor of the class brings the model a robe, and when he leaves the room bursts with conversation. “My god he was sexy, I couldn’t focus the entire time!” One of the women next to you boasts. Each class has a set of people who've never tried it before, or you’re simply just not lucky enough to get paired with anyone you’ve drawn with before. You feel seasoned among those around you, but you would be lying if you said the model hadn’t affected you in the same way.

You swallow the rest of the wine from your last glass, setting it down on the nearby tray it sat on. Trying to drown out the chattering and clattering of the class putting themselves together to leave, you try to pull an image of the model from your brain. You’ve seen him three or four times now, you didn’t keep count– each time you try to engrave him into your mind. You think this drawing is the closest you’ve ever gotten, fingers stained with charcoal. You decide to take this drawing home instead of leaving it like that last time.

By the time the room is empty, you’ve finished gathering your things. You take your time, knowing you have to call an uber since you finished about three cups of wine and you were a lightweight. Taking one last look at your drawing, you begin to take it down from the isle you used.

“I think yours is my favourite out of the bunch.”

His voice completely startles you, causing you to tear the top of the paper for a split second. You quickly stop yourself, letting go of your drawing allowing it to float helplessly to the ground so you wouldn’t completely destroy it. Instantly annoyed, your hazy, drunk gaze looks over your shoulder. It’s then you realize the class model is speaking to you.

He’s fully dressed, the first time you’ve seen it. It seems more intimate, you feel yourself burn hot at his voice as he apologizes, bending over and picking up your drawing. Smooth, sultry, and thickly accented– he’s rendered you speechless. “I always like the ones you draw– you’re very good.” He offers the paper to you.

“Thank you..”

You barely whisper your thanks, carefully taking the drawing from him. The rip doesn’t reach the art, thankfully. All your words are caught in your throat, he’s openly staring at you this time and you think he knows the effect he has on you. Swallowing your spit, you visibly relax ever so slightly as you begin to roll it up ready to leave.

“Do you come here often? I’ve seen you before.”

“Couple times a month.”

“Mr. Kilmyer let me keep some of yours of me, they’re hanging in my home. You’re incredibly talented– is this your profession?”

You’re trying to be respectful and listen to him, but you can’t. Your skin is boiling and the way the stupid cashmere turtleneck he wears fits him so perfectly that you can practically see his sculpted form beneath it is driving you up the wall. Though, that’s probably because you’ve seen him naked before and want to see it again. It’s fresh in your mind, and every time you blink you get a flash of his intense gaze. Wine plus him does not mix well.

“No.” You breathe out. He’s stepped closer, you’re in a full blown conversation with him now and you can see the quality of his face better. He has beautiful high cheekbones and strong brows giving him an intoxicating expression. His lips are thin and pink, you see he’s put chapstick on now. You wonder what it tastes like.

“It’s just a hobby. Um, thank you– I’m glad you like them.”

He cracks a smile, and your heart leaps so far into your throat you’re sure you can taste it. He seems to realize he hasn’t introduced himself, and offers you his hand. You’re delighted. “I am Loki, it’s a pleasure.” Your hand slips into his easily, a friendly shake sending electrifying shocks across your sensitive skin. You’re too drunk for this.

A little smile curls onto your lips, finally he thinks. “Y/N.”

He catches the slow blink of your eyelids, it’s late. You’re tired, and drunk– he can tell. He pulls his hand away and tucks a strand of his own hair behind his ear, drawing you in more. Does he know how sexy he is? You think he does. “I apologize, you must be tired. I don’t mean to take up your time, it’s just amazing to me how you’re able to master the human form in such a beautiful way.” His compliments give you a dopamine rush, your brain is fuzzy like the sizzling of a firecracker.

“I have to order an uber, so it’s okay..I have time.” You simply respond, he watched you drink those three glasses of wine.

Loki opens his mouth to say something, closing it as a thought come across his face. He sucks his lip in ever so slightly, biting it. He thinks for a moment, finger coming to his chin to caress it. His skin looks so soft and you’re instantly jealous of his own hand. Everytime you see him your mind floats away. Every single time he models, he’s fueled the bank in your mind to use late at night when you’re feeling lonely. You feel guilty a lot of the time, using a stranger to pleasure yourself– but you simply think of it as a one night stand. (That you keep going back to.)

You’ve imagined what it would be like to kiss his pretty lips, how it would feel and taste. You think he tastes like some kind of bourbon, and maybe caramel. A delicious mix. You especially enjoy remenecing on how he’d look at you while you drew him, how his mossy eyes bore deep into your soul and ignited a sexual flame in you faster than anyone ever had.

“Those can get quite pricey, hm?” He pauses, drawing your mind back to your conversation and away from your intrusively nasty thoughts about him. Loki rubs the side of his neck slightly, almost as if he’s embarrassed. “Well, I know we only just officially met– but I could drive you home if you’d rather save the money?”

His offer lingers in the air for a moment, before a surprised oh leaves you and your brows raise. Free ride from the pretty model that eats you up with his stare every single time you see him? Yes please!

“I would hate to bother you..”

“It’d be my pleasure, truly! I do feel a bit honoured talking with someone who views me in such a lovely perspective.”

You don’t fight again after that, a sheepish grin taking hold of your lips– you giggle. It’s heaven to his ears. “Sure.”

The walk to his car was short, but he continued to ask you questions– egging you to socialize with him. You wanted to just stare and eat up his features, engrave as much as you could of him into your brain because you’re sure this is the last time you’ll see him. You’re able to muster up questions to ask him, so you’re not such a boring chatting partner. He is giving you a ride home after all. Loki does not model often, but he did get roped into it after his brother suggested him. It’s relaxing for him, because he’s able to mentally check out for a few hours and not worry about anything– it’s nice.

You realize he may have just been spacing out in your direction and you’re deeply embarrassed that you came to the conclusion that he was equally staring at you. Loki opens the door of the passenger side for you, it’s amusing to your intoxicated little brain and you can’t help but laugh as you get into the car. “It feels like you walked out of a fairytale.” You murmur.

“Never had a gentleman open the car door for you? Such a shame.” He tuts at whatever past relationships you’ve had, and you can feel your standards raising.

Your drunk limbs find immediate comfort in the seat of his car, relaxing and laying your head back. The car ride is peaceful, and he lets you roll your window down so you can feel the cold wintery air on your skin. I’m a fan of the cold. Loki simply stated when you worried over him becoming too chilled. The cold air feels good on your warm skin, you know you’re in for a good night sleep.

Loki comfortably chats with you the entire car ride to your home, giving him weak directions as you try not to drift to sleep. Is it weird you feel completely at ease, and safe, with a complete stranger? Yes. But so far, he hasn’t given you any reason to feel any other way. In reality you wanted to fall asleep in his arms, but his car would have to do.

Thankfully you’re able to keep yourself awake, and when he pulls into your driveway you raise your arms above your head to stretch. It’s a damn good stretch, a euphoric feeling rushing through your body as you feel your muscles contract. Loki delightfully takes in the rise of your shirt, the sliver of skin showing your belly before you plop your arms back into your lap. You’re eternally thankful to him.

Looking back over to Loki to thank him for the ride home, you’re unsettled by his deep stare on you. It makes your chest and head thump once more. “Thank you for driving me home, Mr. Loki..” You try to be respectful, but you’re only turning him on.

“Of course,” He hums, not sure if he wants to let you leave just yet.

You don’t think your night will go much further with Loki, your hopes are not high. But when you grab for the handle to open your car door, his warm hand is wrapping around your free one. “Y/N..” He starts, and the way Loki says your name is magical. It’s the first time, and you’re a little worried at how much of an effect it has on you. You shiver once more, gulping thickly. “Yes, sir?” Your voice wavers for a moment, and you can’t help your usage of sir. You do wish to be respectful to him afterall. Your usage of sir seems to break him, make him snap– Loki is quickly leaning over the console and caressing your face with his hands.

“May I kiss you, Y/N?”

“Yes, please.” Your response is quick, and his lips crashing into yours is quicker.

Your stomach explodes like fireworks feeling his lips on you, and the desperation that follows only makes the heat rising in your core burn brighter. His lips are much softer than you were expecting, coating your own in that chapstick you can now taste is strawberry. You moan after tasting it, and Loki takes this free time to work his tongue towards yours. His lips are sweet like strawberries, but his tongue and mouth is minty and the stark contrast makes your head spin.

Loki’s left hand is wrapped around the back of your neck, pulling you closer while his right hand cradles your face like you’d simply disappear if he let you go. The desperation in his kisses make your stomach twist in the familiar sense of need, want. Your hands have found his biceps to hold onto, fingers digging into the fabric of his pine-green cashmere turtleneck. “You taste so divine.” He breathes into you, devouring the whimpers and moans that float from your throat with every kiss.

Each compliment he spews is another match thrown into the fire thats on your skin. Your head is indescribably fuzzy, and you feel like you’re going to pass out. But it’s good. It’s so, so good. You might doubt this to be a dream later on.

The hand on your face is exploring you now, and it doubles all of what your feeling. His hand slides to your hip, rubbing circles into the fabric of your shirt. It’s overstimulating at best, and turning you on even more. You instinctively rub his biceps, feeling his muscles underneath. Loki drags his hand down your thigh, rubbing and caressing just the same as you are to his biceps. It’s stimulating the heat growing in your pants but it’s not enough and when you buck your hips ever so slightly all thoughts are thrown out the window.

Loki’s hand palms your clothed cunt, ripping a ragged groan from the back of your throat. He hasn’t even moved yet and you feel like you’re about to melt, about to cum. Please, please, please, please. Your tortured voice peeps into his mouth as he bites your lip. You spur him on without even trying too hard. Slowly, but with pressure, Loki begins to rub his fingers and thumb up and down the length of your cunt.

You hiss, and before you can moan out his kisses are occupying you once more. His tongue barrages your crevices once again, exploring your tongue, teeth, roof of your mouth– anything he can. “So good for me, good girl.” He moans praises, and you echo his vocal pleasure with your own. Thank you Mr. Loki, please! Feels so good, sir.. Your groan hitches when his thumb glides over your clit through your jeans and panties– he’s instantly dragging his thumb across the area. It shocks you like a voltage, your body tensing in utter glee as it begins to climb for it’s release.

Please, sir! You gasp as his simple drags of up and down have turned into calculated wiggles and zigzags that have you keening. Your skin is burning, and you’re so close. So, so close. He can tell by your breathing, your gasping between kisses– it’s so cute. Just as you’re about to reach your climax, just as your about to cum Loki seamlessly removes his hand from your warm, wet clothed cunt and grabs the side of your face in a deep kiss.

You finally tap his biceps, and he releases you from the passionate, breath-stealing kiss he pulled you into. You’re gasping for air, trying to ignore the wetness of your panties and dull ache coming from your hole.

Loki catches you slightly as you slump, head far too heavy for you to hold up now. He remembers you’re drunk, and a giddy smile comes to his features. “Oh dear, I ‘ought to get you inside, yes?” He’s so sweet again, like he hadn’t just stolen your soul and heart with those kisses. If you weren’t so drunk you’d be pissed.

Scratch that– you are pissed. Your body is screaming for release, and you know you’re going to be too tired to rub one out once you’re inside your home. But Loki looks so mesmerized by you, so encaptured.

A small line of drool has dripped from the corner of your mouth, and tears have streaked your cheeks– your eyes still welling from lack of release. “Oh, princess..” He murmurs, kissing your cheeks where your tears roll down from.

Without another word, Loki gently releases you to rest against your car seat before exiting the car and making his way around. He opens the door for you, and helps you get out of the car. Your legs are wobbling, like a new-born deer. You want to throw yourself against him, beg him to come inside and finish what he started but you’re too tired. You’re too exhausted, and it’s hard keeping your eyes open. Perhaps it’s best the two of you stopped here.

He escorts you to the front door of your house, and places a loving kiss on your forehead and lips. He watches you fumble to open your door and get inside, bidding you a goodnight before heading back to his car.

You’re still buzzing with excitement by the time you crawl in bed, your bag and rolled up drawing laying haphazardly on your desk. You want to cry, weep even. You’re unbelievably horny and he simply just left you like that– although you want to keep thinking about how much he screwed you over and how much you’re going to pounce him the next time you see him, sleep has taken over.

You fall asleep with Loki on your mind, and a determined mind for next time.

Next time.

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picturesofthegoneworlds · 20 days

Note

For one word prompts, I'm finally seeing some green in my garden again, so: Sage?

Oh, of course you know how to appeal to me. I hope this brings the vibes <3 ~

There was a variety of sage (still is, most likely) - sanctified – a herb that they would dry hanged from the rafters and tie into bundles like broomstick bristles, its own fibrous stem knotted in noose around the neck and ankles of the bale, burnt at the stakes and raised pitchforks to sweep away the wicked.

The smoke was what woke her, herbaceous floral distress signal, thrown through the open (paneless) window, accompanied by salt and circle.

They hoped to lure her out the front ‘door’ - she concluded with groggy post-dream clarity - strategized to trap her between saline force field and stone and mortar.

She stumbled over herself, gathered her few possessions. In time shorter the flames carpeted the threshing covering the floor, climbed into her bed to alight the straw stuffing the mattress, exorcised from there to cross exposed rafters to the mossy thatching comprising the roof-

She left through the vacant fireplace.

From a distance fled she observed the thick grapevine coiling of smoke as it billowed out above the forest canopy from a chimney that had crumbled decades ago.

Fire-licked masonry, tattered and scorched fabrics. Perhaps their malice left the cabin more befitting, well-suited, paralleled - outfitted in ash grey skin and soot ichor stains. The hunting party retreated but she could not return. She wondered who would take up residence in the hollow shell - as such a body must be an invite, must be a vessel (at least that was a lesson she was soon to learn) - but who would cohabitate with the spiders, birds, and other small mammals?

The thick smoke filtered through the pines

All of her grievances aside (packed away once again with her bedroll and cauldron), it smelt rather wonderful-

There was another sage (surely must be, still) - common - cultivated in window boxes and allotments, the leaves torn to marinade meats, to infuse healing balms, unbiased towards the dead or the living, transmuting itself for both in order to permeate soft tissue.

Laudna would grab handfuls of the silver-furred leaves; amass them in pocket-lint-lined-bundles of potpourri. Crushed the sage between her fingers, rubbed it on her pulse points, tied it with red twine dried in parcels of cheesecloth that she decorated around her person. Loose in her coin pouch, trinkets, her spell component satchel too, sewn into Pâté’s stuffing, flattened behind her belts and tucked into the front of her bodice and trampled in the soles of her shoes-

Never sure if it was necessity or in her head, not like when she wore flushing and sweating flesh, saturated, awkward teenager dealing with the stubborn stench of puberty or drenched in the fragrance of a farm-girl-butcher’s-daughter composting straw manure and coagulated pigs’ blood –

-not the perfume of The Ladies, certainly, refined with their age, aged mahogany liquor barrel vintage sophisticated palate, finery of silks satin lace velvet layers stored in lacquered marquetry hardwood armoires and mausoleum-sized wardrobes, aired in gilded vase and bouquet’ed marble surroundings, chandeliers ornately framed paintings in alabaster hallways-

She would feel rather self-conscious of it; of her differences - but continued her play with the worms in the forest regardless.

Then, for a short time, she slept with them.

Or rather, she woke to fall onto a heap moving with them, dancing drunken room-spin carpet shag pile of maggots and flies and mosquitoes and pillows of other larvae unidentified, turning familiar faces into fertiliser.

She was not sure if it was the memory, or the actual (un)working order of things

Permanently rotting

Hard to smell past the end of a decomposing nose

Perhaps it wasn’t so hard to tell for others?

Every time she passed the plant she filled her pockets and hands - ironically unaware of how time had stilled, that she was embalming herself - hoping it would fight the trauma-ever-present smell, that she could throw off the(ir) scent.

There is a sage that blooms violet throughout the summer - wild - like early humid evenings with head thrown back in laughter and perspiration jeweling tanned neck, clouds underlit and voluminous as purple-sunset tousled hair.

Imogen points it out with inquisition; at the gatherings of spears of blossoms lanced into soil growing not far from the bank of a river in the sun-bleached and crunching-under-foot tall grasses of an open field.

Seeds from dried out flower heads are carried along the docile breeze, ashes falling in hazing-heat ground fog, smithing dandelion diamond rings to decorate the fingers of the willows that lazily wave, bid farewell to the jewellery that doesn’t fit, allowing it to marry elsewhere between clumps over the grass and charms accumulated at the banks of the gently moving river.

“D’ya know what this is? Smells good.”

She kneels down with her palm held open to the purple blooming sage, presentory, skin offering the tan lines above her knees exposed from the displacement of the tops of her tall leather boots, a dandelion seed catching in the mass of her mane like a feather, her hand not designated to indicating specimen shading above one of her eyes squinted shut and the corner of her mouth raised baring teeth as she looks to Laudna with the midday sun over her shoulder.

It’s a bit overwhelming, the life and the bliss it elicits.

Laudna walks the few paces over to her, gives a quick inspection with the cast of her shadow.

Smiles in familiarity, nods to the plant in greeting

“Would you like to try it?”

Imogen starts the fire, uses the abundance of dried grasses as kindling. It smells just like the burning cottage had, does so every time. Laudna prunes the wild sage, gathering toothed leaves and small violet petals into her wicker basket, rolls the fragranced stems between the pads of her fingers and inhales, implores the herbal scent to momentarily mask the memory of deterioration as it once had. Imogen sets up the frame for hanging the cauldron, drives the iron spikes into the dry ground, fills it from the river, has to submerge her hand into the gathered water, fingers tweezers removing errant dandelion parachutes that she wipes onto her gauzy dress skirt, skin glistening with the cascading droplets that intuitively follow the scarring of her lightning marks and drip onto the floor, where a lizard with skin like stones flees under the weave of the trodden grass once her footfall returns, retreats for safer ground. Laudna questions whether it will turn to watch the fire or let instinct tell it to keep running-

“You’re quiet…”

Imogen states, offers a softened and upturned corner of her mouth.

Another feather of an airborne seed lands in her hair. A warning arrow shot through the window and puncturing her pillow, innards flying-

“I seem to be having a reflective day, sorry.”

“Anythin’ you wanna share?”

Imogen wears her empathetic apology in her brow, strained, and Laudna isn’t sure of how legible abstract memories are to her, if the furrow is from an attempt at unknotting the tangles, mostly it feels a weight too unquantifiable to know what to share with intention.

“Not now. I think this is good, something new.”

Present is good, a gift, shared (willingly, in part).

“I don’t dislike it…”

Imogen declares, staring into her cup as she swirls its contents under inquisitive-eyed assessment.

“It sounds like you are warming up for a caveat there.”

She pauses, holds the pottery between her hands on her lap.

“I’m not, s’just new. Tea back home was mostly black and made with lemons and alotta honey or sugar; was cold if the occasion were special-” she tucks her hair behind her ear as her eyes read the pattern of the blanket they had laid over the floor. Laudna wonders if there were birthday parties on picnic blankets out in the paddocks, waited by her father, Imogen and her childhood friends drinking sweet tea and running around in daisy crowns “-I guess we had other teas, but they were more for if y’all were sick?”

She doesn’t like to think of that.

The birds and the crickets carry on their background accompaniment, Imogen's hand returning to the other cradling the cup. Laudna feels as though she can see the slow turn of the skin on her exposed thighs from bronzed tan to sun-kissed red, convinced she is observing the freckles multiplying.

“This one is supposed to be good for anxiety.”

Imogen scoffs, it causes a nearby bird in the brush to scatter

“Yeah? Well I’ll report back on that - maybe we should take more with us just in case.”

Laudna laughs agreeably, enthusiastic. She knows how to make plenty of room for sage.

To follow the tea she also makes them a salad with the plant’s greens; a field-foraged thing prepared with borage and dandelion leaves, fleshed out with wild strawberries, a little olive oil and a little cider vinegar, served in a wooden bowl.

finishes the assemblage with an intentionally random flecking of the wild sage's violet petals, as though the bowl is a miniature diorama of the meadow in which they sit, olive oil babbling brook and cast iron fork fallen-tree bridge ready to present on a plinth, garden plans proposed by the landscaper in the study to a snooty gent stroking his chin and um-ing and ah-ing -

the hidden door that was disguised behind ornate wooden panelling, adjoining the ransacked and emptied floor to ceiling shelves of the study via dark stone corridors to the equipped and practical, cell-like laboratory-

She thinks that was the layout, at least - worries who she will rouse if she thinks too hard on it. There is comfort in the answer being left immaterial.

“All’a those times I was sittin’ in fields of flowers, I never really thought I could be eatin’ them.”

It is so nice to have someone she adores break up her ruminations.

“You had a lot of quality produce, there wasn’t really the need.”

"I guess not. Honestly, I think I prefer the salad to the tea."

Imogen licks her teeth, reveals a violet petal plastered over incisor that she shortly removes with a blade-of dry-grass toothpick, re-places the petal on the flat of her tongue, rolling it around her mouth and swallowing it.

Laudna stares.

"You like the flowers?" she finds herself leaning towards Imogen. Wants to tell her that for years this one was her perfume - pomanders adorned and concealed in tattered layers.

“They’re purple, ‘course I do.” she giggles, resting sat cross-legged with her weight behind her on her palms. Her head rolls towards Laudna, leaves their foreheads almost resting against one another, Laudna able to count each individual eyelash.

Purple, like the deep undertones of her hair. That much Laudna was very aware of.

“I should have guessed that that would be what caught your attention.” She brings her hand up and wraps her bony index finger in a ringlet of Imogen's hair.

“More like your magic, I was thinkin’…” She drawls, tenor lowered and breathy.

“And the taste?”

Imogen visibly swallows, cheeks flushing a further tint than what the sun has already given - it makes Laudna feel overly aware of the networking of her own heart and veins.

Imogen clears her throat

"’s’good - kinda familiar."

Laudna feels overwhelmed by the compelling need to kiss her - so she does. Her hand with finger still tied in ringlets of hair sprawling over Imogen's chest as she responds with a squeaked moan that reverberates underneath it. Her lungs halt in their expansion as her mouth is sealed with her own, the increasing pulse at the base of her neck decipherable carved runes under the tip of her fingers, her heart thudding against her palm.

Familiar. Laudna can muse on that in the future, certainly.

She sits back from Imogen - already breathless and chest heaving, lips kiss-swollen - and appreciates the sight she helped curate; the picture of her looking a little dazed on their tartan blanket with the surrounding flora densely reaching above her shoulders, crowned in multi-coloured paint strokes.

“Familiar? And here I thought that was your first time eating a flower.”

Causes her to blush furiously

“Don’t you use ma’words against me.” She pushes Laudna playfully at her shoulder, pretends to look away in dissatisfaction, bottom lip pouting.

“I apologise, that is your advantage to keep. My words are but humble ammunition for your armoury.” Laudna exaggeratedly plays acting pious at Imogen’s half-turned back, Imogen turning back to her with one eyebrow raised and a laugh she is clearly trying to keep within her stomach murmuring at the corners of her lips.

"That so? Well alright, how would y’all describe it?"

She puffs out air towards her head, hairs previously put behind her ear falling back out of (or into, depending on which of them you ask) place, sits forward again, arms folded. Adorable. Laudna is aware of how susceptible Imogen is to her teasing, always so charming and charismatic, and so often a bumbling mess - and it is intoxicating - to exercise any sort of outcome on such a gifted sorceresses’ disposition, is doing her best to learn what the differences and distinctions are between that and her own longer ongoing situation…

Focus.

Despite the more imposing associations, she can still remember

Can still remember her father butchering the pig, her mother in the kitchen slicing its fatty flesh into patchwork diamonds, stuffing the incised indents with sage and garlic and other seasonings, the slab of flesh tied with butcher’s twine around a whole peeled onion and roasted, skin crackling, the three of them sat around the oak table, talking about the small things, Laudna's mother showing off the basket Laudna had weaved that day, presented like a cornucopia on the kitchen table top, holding that weeks offering of vegetables.

She would describe it as herbaceous, sweet, and floral. Peppery, perhaps like a minty aniseed. Earthy. Mulchy. Rich as the soil it grew from. Could also admit to it being 'like the first home I'd made burning down, like the incense I'd crush between my palms and rub behind my ears so as to not offend any people who would be so kind as to get close enough to notice the death’

what she does say is

"nostalgic."

not a lie - though she hopes in futures she won’t be drowned marinating in it, the complex layering of all of the ingredients and flavours, hopes one can remain dominant, bountiful and nourishing.

Imogen there, seen over the end of a nose that did not rot and fall off. She’s sure that it can change.

#Imodna #Imogen Temult #Laudna #Critical Role #Bells Hells #Emma writes #Prompt fill

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object-vault-9 · 23 days

Text

Week 72 (2/2)

Cameos galore oh my cod. But they needed a happy social week for once ha ha

So I drew the panel with Marble (random guy I made) before I got so many more cameos...but I did it I fit everyone in

Cameos: Atlas from @bug-boness , Sands of Time from @levitanias and Mossy from @randomloserlover

Cameos: Microwavey from Pik (offsite) and Filet o Fish (mine, but inside joke) .

Cameos: Magnolia from @heartkitties , Crayon (Tallkit) from @chaosclan .

Cameos: Demonic Manuel (simplified a little) from @icyrose-cat , Flip from @scorpion-candy , Gas Pump from @tris10g .

Alpine and Lake are genuine loners in the game .

#clangen #osc #object show #post apocalyptic #v9update #object

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mintywolf · 3 months

Text

She can’t blame them for wanting to tear down the ivy from the barn. After all, it had tried to eat several of her friends the first time they had visited it, in the other here. But at Laudna’s insistence, they have left it climbing on the walls of the cottage. She likes the wild, overgrown look of it, and the reminder of the passage of time in its reach.

Chetney has repaired the roof, loudly decrying the state of the timbers all the while, and there’s now a fresh cover of fragrant heather thatching. Thanks to Orym the new window boxes are full of violets and petunias, and the flowerbeds beside the door lined with columbine and the long stems of purple and blue larkspur and hollyhocks. Fearne, in the shape of a mossy-hoofed water buffalo, has turned over one of the dormant fields to make a vegetable patch, and there’s an herb garden in progress by the kitchen door. Ashton has contributed a scarecrow in the gangly shape of the Nightmare King and evened out the cobblestone path. Imogen’s magic has determinedly cleaned the dust and grime of forgotten decades from the interior, and Laudna’s has mended what she could find to mend.

It’s surprising how much there was still there to find. A kettle left hanging on its hook over the hearth. Dishes still stacked in warped and lopsided kitchen cupboards. A blue and white quilt, mostly preserved from the harrowing of time, folded up in a blanket chest at the foot of her parents’ bed. A faded needlepoint Sun Tree in a frame on the kitchen wall. A rusted tea tin in the haymow containing a crow feather, two empty spools, a handful of mismatched buttons, a pewter unicorn, and other child’s treasures. A dented copper washtub and a washboard in the scullery, now home to a family of voles. A glass jar of marbles in a trunk underneath the rickety structure that used to be her bed up in the loft. Fifteen numbered markings on the kitchen doorframe, ending at her own height. Pegs on the entryway wall still waiting to receive the coats and hoods of the family who went out one winter night and never returned. It’s eerie, stepping into a place that has, like the rest of the world, gone on aging without her, but not entirely unwelcoming.

They clear out what she doesn’t want to save, or is beyond saving, and move around what she does, just so it’s a little different. With the kitchen table at a new angle she’s less likely to expect to see her mother there cutting apples, and instead able to think of Imogen kneading bread dough with her capable hands. Imogen framed by firelight as she reads on the couch by the living room hearth instead of her father in his armchair whittling. Imogen holding the other end of a blanket as they spread it out over the bed in the room that is no longer the place she would come running from a scary dream, but their own.

When the sun begins to set on a day of hard work they wave goodbye to the other Hells as they set off to return to Whitestone for an evening with the crew of the Silver Sun, docked at the skyport. Laudna wipes her work-grimy hands on her apron and takes Pâté out of the pocket, tossing him up into the air so he can stretch his wings. She slips her hand into Imogen’s as they amble around their farmstead, the late spring grass cool and dewy between her bare toes. Pâté bobs after them like a large and particularly ungainly bumblebee. In the soft-footed gloaming, beneath a sky the same color as her wife’s hair, everything looks both new and familiar at once.

(Read more on AO3)

And so I guess Remember Us is now complete! Thank you so much to everyone who has been following it for the past year.

💜🖤

#critical role #critical role fic #imodna #southerngothic #imogen x laudna #laudna #imogen temult #matilda bradbury #it’s done!

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slowfalter · 9 months

Text

softness incarnate

——

Your thighs are a deep sigh of relief

Your hips reverberate through me

Like an orchestra

In a canyon

Like honey slick marble

Like quivering cliches

Your body is a loving home

At long last a triumphant slow dance

In the warm ocean

You make every hair on my body arch toward you

Like a flower to the sunlight

On your eyelashes

Like a desperate prayer

You will never see your eyes like I do

And what a gift

Like a crystal stream

In some mossy nowhere

Like your belly a bouquet of fresh cream

The peaks of a gasp

Like you don’t even know

How perfect

Your hands are

Folding like silk napkins

Your neck makes my teeth sink

Into thick velvet book covers

Old ones made of wedding cake icing

When you are pillowed feathers

Gently proving on the windowsill

Dripping from the heavens

And I can’t believe you’re there

——

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hretoprvdthepltnx · 9 months

Note

would you please write a fic about being (fully platonic) roommates with Loki? I want to see just how much chaos would happen between the literal god of chaos and a chaotic ADHDer

Mx. Mischief

Loki x gn!reader

Summary: In the years of old, when both Loki and y/n were still young and welcome in Asgard, the prince and the forgotten one had a game they liked to play during the dark hours. During the night, while the golden heir slept peacefully in the chambers next, they played their game until the night they were caught. It was then that they decided to move on to bigger prizes. Prizes shaped in the form of realms. Here is one of their stories from Before.

Content: platonic soulmates, inseparable pairing, young Loki x young reader, they/them pronouns used for reader, Loki is genderfluid, brief non-sexual nudity,

Rating: 14+ || 600+ words

The raven perched on a shoulder clad in the darkest of green silks. The iridescence of its manicured feathers glimmered in waves of blue-purple-green in the drifting light of the hanging torches. Their gown made no rippling sound as they slinked through the palace, silent-like, with the raven for companion.

"Are you sure it's this way?" They whispered, and the wind drifting through the open corridor killed the sound before it could reach any unintended ears. Sharp nipping and the scrape of a beak against metal rings carried an assault on their ear, and they turned that way in to the dimly lit passage. "Stop it," they hissed, batting at the raven so that it flew up off of its shoulder perch and into the night sky. "You know this place gets confusing sometimes."

The raven squawked and the human cursed its feeble existence, but they both carried on deeper into the grounds, until human feet touched mossy stone and the raven found a branching perch. "So, it was the way." They spoke under their breath, giving the garden a quick look over for guards. There were none.

"I told you," said the raven, its eyes a marbled emerald green, "I know my palace." The human scoffed, pulling a worn leather pouch from the abyss of their silken robes and an identical set for their companion. "You don't know shit. You're just lucky that you can fly."

Loki, now in the shape of the godchild that he perhaps truly was, and unfazed by his arrant nudity, swung himself down from his branch with impeccable grace. His pale and lanky frame shinning as beautifully in the moon light as his feathers had minutes before. He accepted the green silks from the outstretched palm of his beloved partner in crime as he had time and time before.

"You're lucky that I don't loathe your company." He retorted, the threat every bit as empty as his smirk was twisted up in smugness. He was charming, this trickster. The rightful heir of Asgard. He was a cunning little bastard too. "So, who shall be our victim tonight?" They asked him, eyes gleaming with violent excitement. "Why my oaf of a brother, of course. I thought that was clear."

The pair sat down on the soft bedding of grass beneath the tree, a sacred monument, and spread out the contents of their fraying bag of schemes. "How shall we do it?" Y/n asked, flipping through the pages of the spell book they had stollen, together with Loki, from Frigga's library. "Like this," Loki told them, thin, black painted fingertip stopping the progression of their flipping pages. The page had been marked already, and Loki wore a beaming smile of malevolent intent. "We'll use this."

Y/n fixed him with a look and Loki, persuasive as ever, started to defend his case. "It won't be permanent. It might just interfere slightly with his courtship to the lady Sif." Loki watched the sly grin creep up his best friend's face and replace the uncertainty in their eyes with mischief. "How will we get in?" They asked, leaning over the open book to look at him with worshipful glee.

They always made him feel like the god he knew he was, like the king he was destined to be. They trusted him. They loved him. Loki smiled, beautiful and deadly, and leaned in towards his friend as well. The wind rattled the sacred branches overhead and Loki's eyes sparkled green in the reflected glance of his favored companion. "We'll use magic. How do you feel about being a bird?"

|| masterlist ||

#platonic fanfiction #loki laufeyson #loki series #loki x y/n #loki x reader #young loki #loki x reader platonic #loki x best friend reader #mcu loki #loki x gn!reader #platonic mcu #mcu x reader #mcu x reader platonic #Loki #Loki x gn reader #loki marvel

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sweet-faerie-mossbell · 3 months

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Flopped on the back of the sofa after a long day of socialising

#mossie mumbles #Marble #Lizard Blogging #lizardblr #Dragon Daughter #Bearded Dragon #I love her so much

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mossyinkynebulous · 4 months

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Totally not my friends judging me hella hard a couple nights ago for being able to identify a man with just a glimpse of his jean pocket/ass.

We only had a shot of his shoes and jeans for the beginning shots, like what do you want? I can't identify a man by his shoes. The way his jeans rest, I got you.

#mossy thoughts #I'm joking btw #I'm not upset or anything #I found the situation to be very amusing #the way jeans sit on a person is semi important to me because I draw them sooo much #y'all just don't see all the jeans I draw #This is in reference to entry 74 of Marble Hornets btw #so #marble hornets #just so y'all know #also looking at the ass respectively #because I don't know how to draw them/what they look like #The ass just becomes a blank void in my mimd for drawing #like a lot of things

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uwmspeccoll · 4 months

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Marbled Monday

This week's marbling was found on the binding of a book we've posted about before: Root and Sky: Poetry from the Plays of Christopher Fry. The text was compiled and arranged by Charles E. and Jean G. Wadsworth with collagraph-intaglios designed and printed by Charles E. Wadsworth (1917-2002). Charles E. Wadsworth was a painter, printmaker, and poet who lived in Cranberry Isles, Maine with his wife, author Jean G. Howard-Wadsworth. You can learn more about the book in our previous post here.

The marbling is most closely resembles a traditional stone pattern, but does have some swirling or dragging done using a stylus. The main background is a creamy color, which looks darker in person than in the photos shown here. On top of that is green and black and grey, which are sort of swirled around a bit in an asymmetrical way. Finally there is a mushroom-y purple-y brown sprinkled on top and sometimes swirled into the other colors. It's a very earthy color palette, which compliments the muted mossy green cloth of the spine and slipcase.

View more Marbled Monday posts.

-- Alice, Special Collections Department Manager

#Marbled Monday #Root and Sky #Christopher Fry #Jean G. Wadsworth #Jean G. Howard-Wadsworth #Charles E. Wadsworth #marbling #marbled paper #paper marbling #stone pattern

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dangerphd · 11 months

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decided to dive deep into stash to find matching fiber and scored big! half a braid of polwarth in "electric blue" colorway by blue moon fiber arts.

it's been compressed, and is a tiny bit matted, but no real pilling, so one time through the drum carder to reintroduce some air between the fibers was plenty.

the view from the porch on a lovely Day Four of this Tour de Fleece 2023.

the giantest floofiest rolags to ever roll. color truest in sunshine here.

once I saw the color spun up, I threw out all of yesterday's maybes and in keeping with my year of landscape art I am going to chain-ply a single fat skein that runs from this day four (and five) deep night sky through the day one and two rainbow gradient and into the day three mossy green...and then knit a center-out pi shawl as either a green marble surrounded by a halo of rainbow aurora and the blurple heavens...or as a thermal pool of thermophilus rainbow hot springs surrounded by an algae shore...

#wool #handspun #handspinning #tour de fleece #sometimes the inspo doesn't hit until the pieces are assembled and that's ok

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cerisesakurainspring · 3 months

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Aakashi Keiji x Reader

~~A warm place to come home to~~

The black-out curtain in the compact room did a splendid job hiding the early afternoon sun rays.

The dark room, lit only by a lamp, seemed to suggest that the day had passed, and the time on the digital clock sitting atop the desk was the only indication that night had yet to come.

Akaashi rested his head and arms at his work table, eyes closed, and his right hand still grasped a pen. He must have racked his brains for an idea and closed his eyes briefly to think clearly, but the exhaustion may have been far too overwhelming that he eventually drifted to sleep.

His days off this week were not much like one, for he ended up doing work at home anyway. The recent days have been a whirlwind of deadlines for your husband, and the chaotic state of his home office is a testament to that.

Three coffee mugs rested on the desk, two empty and one half-drunk, lying cold and unfinished. The work surface that would have typically been organized was adorned with stacks of manuscripts. Piles of books lay lazily on the floor. Sticky notes in bright shades of pink, blue, and green decorated the wall and computer, appearing to be the works of a child sticking out random scribbled papers for fun.

These busy times made him quite a paradoxical man. Akaashi is efficient in all aspects of his life and is a disciplined person by nature. However, since he became an editor for a shonen manga, his methodical way of doing things was often challenged, leaving him disorganized but still surprisingly orderly and systematic in his own way.

Your husband must be deep in slumber because your presence did not awaken his usual light-sleeping self. The indigo blanket behind his chair hung low, and you grabbed it to wrap around his slumped shoulders.

He must have felt the weight and comfort of the quilt as you saw him stir a little in his sleep, tipping the glasses on his closed eyes into an awkward position. You gently removed the frames from his alluring face and kissed his temple softly before turning off the lamp on the desk.

He had skipped his lunch today, but you did not want to interrupt his much-needed rest, so you carefully left the room to cook an early dinner meal. Once the door was closed, you walked across the familiar hallway adorned with photos of you and your husband, smiling along the way until you reached the kitchen.

The mossy green paint on the cabinets, the wooden floor, and the white-marbled granite countertops gave the kitchen a homely vibe. It was the one place that you and Akaashi spent the most time in as meaningful chatters filled the air during your late-night dinners and early breakfasts.

You loved cooking and always ensured there was a warm, fulfilling meal to welcome him home from work, hoping it would ease the stress of his high-pressure working environment.

Despite being busy at work, he always stayed connected with you. Even in your dating years, he remembered to send you messages of affection despite the time constraints at his workplace.

In the midst of the turbulent hurricane of deadline madness, you were Akaashi's anchor, keeping him at ease. He thinks you would probably never understand the depth of his love for you, but he still showers you with affection and care every day.

It's probably not healthy for the heart to always melt in ecstasy, but neither of you cared and continued to bask in it. The turmoil you went through before marriage was well worth the effort and sacrifices.

By the time you finished cooking for dinner, it was only a quarter to 6 p.m., and the sun was beginning to descend on the horizon.

While preparing the cutleries, you felt a strong pair of arms envelope your waist.

"Dinner smells nice," the man said in a muffled voice. His warm breath tickled as he snuggled his nose around your collarbone, and the sudden flurry of stimulation made you giggle in delight.

"How was your nap?" You untangled your husband's arms briefly so you could face him. As he encased you in a hug once more, you could not help but notice the faint lines of tiredness etching below his sapphire eyes.

Your hands reach up towards his temple to start massaging them, and a relieved hum escapes his supple lips. He fluttered his eyes closed, and you felt his body relax its weight unto yours. You almost toppled backwards, but his hands guided the small of your back to lean against the countertop.

"Nap was good. Now I am hungry." You hear him grumble with a slight rasp in his voice. His forehead leaned unto yours as you continued to rub your thumbs on his temple.

"I made your favourite."

A throaty chuckle reverberated in his throat, and he opened his eyes to look at your happy ones. "I really am fortunate to have you by my side, my shiawase."

"And you, my darling Keiji, is also my happiness." You kiss both his cheeks, indulging your craving lips with pecks on his very own.

"I don't think my heart can take this." You feel him whisper between kisses, and a small giggle escapes your lips.

"We should probably eat before the food gets cold." Your hands found their way behind the nape of his neck and continued to caress the skin underneath his curls.

His eyes closed once more. It looks like the exhaustion is taking a toll on him, but the slight smile on his face tells you he feels content.

"I'd like to stay like this for a few more moments, my love." He whispers before kissing you.

You were both enveloped with warmth and in your homey embrace, he found solace from the pressures of his career.

"Aishiteru wa."

"Aishiteru yo."

You and Aakashi expressed this at the same time. The short pause gave both of you a moment to admire the specks in each of your eyes. You both sighed in wonder at the love and bliss that danced in his and your irises.

Somehow, that moment made you both laugh in unison. Your soft giggles intertwined with his deep titters, and they reverberated so sweetly in your cozy home.

The same thought echoed in your and Akaashi's thoughts.

It's all worth it. Well worth it.

#haikyuu #haikyū!!#haikyuu fic #hq fic #akaashi keiji #akaashi x reader #haikyuu akaashi #shiratorizawa

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