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leadpoisioning · 1 year

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After Class Antics

Xavier Thorpe x Reader

SMUT (18+) ((oral, hair pulling, fingering, mattress rutting))

Word Count: 1,046

Xavier invites you to his dorm under the guise of studying, only to insist on something else when the time comes.

“Sarracenia purpurea, also known as the purple pitcher plant, northern pitcher plant, turtle socks, or side-saddle flower, is a carnivorous plant in the family Sarraceniaceae.” You answer Ms. Thornhill’s question regarding the plant she currently held. She praises you for your quick and accurate answer and then begins explaining the origins of the species. You hear a scoff sound out from your left. Bianca and Yoko snicker something amongst themselves. Quietly sighing, you ignore them and continue taking your notes. Xavier glares at the two girls sat in front of him and rolls his eyes.

Ever since he and Bianca broke up, she’d been trying to get under his skin intentionally. She did this by acting out whenever he was around, it wasn’t targeted at you but it seemed to piss him off a little bit more if it was. Soon after the breakup Xavier found the girl he was meant to be with, you. The two of you decided to keep it on the down low and just pretend to be friends in public, but behind closed dorm doors you two were closer than ever.

“Xavier, do you want to come to my dorm after class and study?” Bianca turns to ask during the discussion time. He doesn’t spare a glance her way, and gives her a less than desired answer.

“Not a chance.” He continues sketching the sarracenia purpurea in his notes. She hums and turns back to Yoko.

After class you collect your books and stride out of the classroom. Xavier rushes to catch up. Bianca and Yoko share a look.

“Hey (Y/N)!” He huffs. You turn to face him. “Do you want to come to my dorm and study? You really know your botany and I could use the extra help.” He sheepishly admits. You offer a soft smile and agree.

“Of course! Let me go get my other botany things and I’ll be right over.” You watch as he quickly nods his head, his longer hair tossing a bit with the wind.

You gently knock on his door and squeal as he hastily pulls you in.

“Calm down, I’m here.” You chuckle. He’s quick to embrace you, pulling you in for a long kiss. You lightly push him back until his legs hit the bed, making him sit while you take over on his lap. You unbutton his pants and pull his cock out, aiming to let him relax a little. He excitedly leans up into your lips before pulling away.

“Let me taste you, please baby.” He exhales heavily, looking at you with adoration in his eyes. You weren’t going to complain if he’d rather please you at the moment.

“Go ahead.” You approve, waiting to be handled by him.

He lays you down on his bed, bringing your knees up as he leans over you to kiss you once more. His hands deftly make work of your pants and loosen them, giving him the ability to slide them off with ease. You lift your hips to help him out and melt at the thankful smile he sends your way before beginning to kiss your inner thighs. His hands keep your knees apart in the mean time.

“Been thinking about this all day.” He murmurs, gently blowing onto your cunt, watching it react as you gasp. He smirks at the reaction and dives in, eager to please you.

Your thighs immediately close around his head, feeling his tongue work through your cunt in dedicated moves. You try not to buck up into his face, but you can’t help it. He flattens his tongue against your clit and then swirls around it before he moves back down to your hole. He teases it, edging you a bit before he feels the one thing he truly wants at the moment. You slide a hand down to his head, gently scratching his scalp from his hairline back, until your fingers thread into the strands. You grip his brown hair tightly, making him moan promptly before easing his tongue into you and pulling it back out- only for him to dart it back in and out quickly.

He gets louder the harder your tug on his hair, groaning loudly against your wet cunt. After a few more pulls, he’s painfully hard, cock heavily brushing against the bed, precum just barely staining the sheets. He can’t contain himself anymore, your hand feels too good buried in his hair. He starts out with small thrusts, dragging his cock up and down the sheets on the mattress. They get hastier the deeper and faster he fucks you with his tongue. You gasp, feeling his tongue disappear, only to be replaced with two of his slender digits quickly thrusting in and out of your pussy. He takes the time to focus sucking on your clit, toying the bud with his teeth and tongue. You squeeze around his fingers and hold his head down, letting out breathy moans as you rut into his face. He rocks the bed more vigorously, trying to catch up to your pleasure.

“I’m so close Xavi, please let me cum.” You whine, he shakes his head, prolonging your release as he stills his fingers, scissoring them inside of your cunt. You grip his hair harder, seemingly jumpstarting him once more. Now, he obeys your pleads and works you closer to cumming again. He groans into your pussy as his cock thrusts against the mattress, hard. You moan loudly and cum around his digits. He quickly removes them to get a taste of you.

When he does, he’s done for, absent minded as he moves his hips faster until they still, his cock spurting ropes of his cum onto the sheets.

He finishes cleaning you up before rolling over on the bed, breathing heavily.

“Fuck that was so good.” He sighs, running a hand through his hair, remembering when you did the same. You roll onto your left side, facing him. He gazes up to meet your eyes and pulls you into another sweet embrace. You chuckle lightly and run your own hands through his hair, knowing he thoroughly enjoyed the action. He hums in approval and squeezes you lightly, mumbling a small “I love you.”

“I love you too.” You assure.

#xavier thorpe x reader #xavier thorpe x reader smut #xavier thorpe smut #xavier thorpe #wednesday netflix #wednesday #smut

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charmandabear · 12 days

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11. Astarion x Reader 👀

We're not going to worry about how long it'll take me to answer these. We're not going to talk about it. Listen, I'm trying so hard to not make these into whole things, I just want to treat them like writing exercises, but I physically can't not finish smut once it's started.

From @astarionfreak's smut ask game ~ other entries

11. "I touched myself last night thinking about you." "I know."

Tags/Warnings: reader isn't gendered but has a vulva, blood/blood drinking, p in v sex, somewhat rough sex (reader gets a little feral in this one)

You're not subtle about it at all.

Every time he catches you staring, you quickly turn your head. At one point you even just shift your eyes, trying to pretend you're looking at something behind him. But there's no way he isn't at least a little suspicious.

Since the night you let Astarion bite you, the tension between the two of you has been palpable. Something about having him pressed down on top of you, his lips on your neck and his hand cradling your neck in a way that was disproportionately gentle set something on fire inside you. You really thought that you could just get over your little crush if you got it out of your system. Sate the need and you could go back to just being friends... Or whatever you are with him.

But it had the opposite effect. Now, his very presence turns you on. The wind catches his scent and you instinctively press your thighs together. He grins after making some sassy remark to Gale, and the glint of his fangs in the light makes your mouth go dry. You even need to suppress a moan when he gets a particularly impressive kill. You really hope no one heard that one.

So now, sitting around the campfire with the rest of your companions, you're just trying desperately to appear normal. You laugh absentmindedly at whatever joke Karlach just made while in your mind, Astarion's railing you up against a tree. It's only when you realize that Wyll has been trying to ask you a question for the past 90 seconds that you know you're too far gone to be in polite company.

"Sorry, I'm just a little out of it, long day," you make the excuse lamely. "I'm going to turn in a little early, I've got a bit of a headache."

"Do you want something for it?" Shadowheart asks with a frown. "I've got some herbal remedies that might help."

"I'm fine, I think I just need some rest." You force a smile onto your face. "'Night, all." You walk back to your tent stiffly, speeding up to cover the last few meters quickly. Your breath wracks through your body and your blood pounds in your ears. You've never - never - gotten this worked up over another person, never mind a man. Honestly, he's not even really your usual type, you'd normally be much more likely to pursue someone like Shadowheart. But she so clearly has a thing for Karlach, and that's not something you'd want to get in the way of.

But this pale, devastatingly handsome vampire elf has your desire in a chokehold.

You light a lantern inside your tent and take out your journal to sketch. You try to conjure some of the imagery you saw today to keep your brain off Astarion. Scratch and the owlbear cub playing. The terrifying harpies that almost lured one of the tiefling children. Astarion's blade dripping with harpy blood while his bright red eyes sparkle with mischief and the thrill of he kill.

Fucking hells.

You eventually put your journal away and lay down on your bedroll, staring at the ceiling of your tent while the others continue to chat and laugh outside. You listen to their conversation die down, their goodnights, and finally the distant sound of crickets and other nighttime fauna. Your eyes start to grow heavy, or at the very least bored of looking at the support rods in your tent.

You only realize that you've drifted to sleep when you're startled awake by a soft tapping on the canvas flap that separates you from the rest of camp.

"Y-yes?" Your voice is shakier than you'd like, although it's not like a vicious creature would politely knock on your makeshift door. The flap lifts up to reveal the literal last person you'd like to see right now.

"Hello, darling," Astarion grins in that irresistible way that he does. "I wanted to check in on our fearless leader. You've seemed dreadfully jumpy all day."

"Oh! Um." You can feel the heat rising in your cheeks. "I'm.. fine. Thank you, Astarion." You nod your head in a gesture of dismissal, but he doesn't move.

"Are you sure? You're positively flushed." His smile suggests he knows more than he's letting on. You chew on your lower lip to distract you from the growing ache between your legs.

"I'm perfectly fine, Astarion, thank you. Good night." You reach to close the tent flap but he holds onto it. Your fingers brush against his and it's like a jolt of lightning passes between your hands.

"I'm not buying it," he hums, dropping his voice. He pushes his way into your tent and you scramble backwards. The last thing you need is for him to touch you - you might not be able to control yourself if he does. "Now tell me, what's had you so hot and bothered all day?"

"N-nothing," you stammer, wishing you could just disappear on the spot. He raises an eyebrow and you backpedal. "Well, fine, I think something Gale cooked isn't sitting quite right with me. I was... embarrassed." The lie rings hollow even to you.

"Come now, love, we both know you're a terrible liar." He crawls towards you on his knees, a predator stalking his prey. Your breath catches in your throat. "Do you have something you need to confess?"

You're trapped. You've run out of room in the tent to back away, and Astarion has all but crawled on top of you. His scent is intoxicating and his eyes gleam in the low light. The words tumble out of your mouth before you can stop them.

"I touched myself last night thinking about you."

"I know." The grin that curls across his face is fiendish. Your heart threatens to beat out of your chest.

"You know?" Then you gasp suddenly. "The tadpole..."

Astarion lets out a bark of a laugh, loud enough that you're worried it might wake your other companions. "Darling, I didn't need a tadpole to figure that one out. Like I said, you're a terrible liar." He nudges his knee closer to the apex of your legs and you can feel your arousal making your underclothes wet. "What I want to know is, how did you picture me? My head between your legs? Did I have you on all fours in the forest? Or..." His lips ghost against yours now and your head feels dizzy with lust. "Or perhaps I had you pinned down in this very tent, taking my time as I had my way with you?"

Your instincts take over and you close the minimal distance between you, pulling him down on top of you as you ravage his lips. You claw at his clothing, no longer interested in maintaining decorum. He tears at the laces of your breeches, pulling them down below your hips and exposing your dripping cunt to the open air. A cry rips through your throat as he licks a thick stripe up your slit, and his chuckle rumbles deep in his chest. He pulls up on his knees and grins down at you, open and wanton, as he slips out of his pants.

"So very eager," he hums as he frees his cock, engorged and already dripping. A shudder runs through you as you see it, and you yank on his shirt and pull him down to meet you. You kiss him roughly, catching his lower lip in your teeth as you hook your leg around his waist.

"Shut the fuck up and fuck me, Astarion," you hiss through gritted teeth, and you groan loudly when he easily sinks in up to his base.

"Someone wants the whole of camp to hear," he growls in your ear as he begins to slowly thrust into you.

"Then you better make it quick so we don't wake them," you snarl in response, all pretenses having vanished. You tangle your fingers into his hair and press his face to your neck. You feel his lips stretch into a smile just before he sinks his fangs into you, the icy shard of pain melting into the heat of his mouth warming with your blood.

You jut your hips up into him, desperately chasing your release as he drinks his fill. He fucks into you, hard and messy, and before long you're feeling the pressure building in your core.

"Gods, Astarion, don't stop," you gasp hungrily in his ear, and he increases his pace to a punishing rhythm. You're starting to grow faint from blood loss just as your orgasm comes crashing down on you. Your walls clench and shudder around his length and he tears his mouth away from your neck, his expression wild and bloody. A few more broken ruts and you can feel him spilling inside you, the feeling his pulsing cock prolonging your own climax.

The two of you eventually still, covered in a sheen of sweat and panting heavily. Your ears strain to hear if there has been any disturbance in camp to indicate that your other companions heard anything. Outside your tent remains, thankfully, silent.

"Well then," Astarion exhales quickly as he slides out of you. "Darling, if it's going to be like that, then you just need to invite me next time."

#smut ask game #astarion x reader #astarion smut #bg3 smut #smutty fanfiction #smutty one shot #bg3 astarion x reader #bg3 astarion fanfic

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somekindofpoet · 1 year

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La Petite Mort

Summary: Reader finds out Lorraine has just been bearing through intimacy with RJ, and takes it upon herself to educate her on how it should be done

Word Count: 5K

Warnings: +18 NSFW, smut, language

A/N: Anon who requested this, whoever you are, forehead kiss you little horny angel. This was a real pleasure to write. If you don't read this in Lorraine's adorable accent, I will come for you.

LPM - La Drague (Part II) LPM - C'est Comme Ça (Part III)

LPM -T'en Va Pas (Part IV) LPM - Vouloir, C'est Pouvoir(Part V)

LPM - La Fin (Part VI)

Texas summers were nearly unbearable. The humidity rolled off the gulf coast and simmered in the blazing sun, soaking through your clothes and ensuring your sweat never evaporated. The problem with the weather in East Texas was that it forced you to suffer the ocean air, even with the warm dark waters hours away. You did your damnedest not to think about it while throwing bales of hay into the back of the ranch truck.

You had big dreams of moving out of state and going to a University in a place that was green and cool, but your reality was much more difficult to bear. The first strike against you was that you came from humble roots, your family mostly working for wealthy ranchers in the countryside. Your second and most egregious strike was being a woman. Sure, it was 1980, and girls went to college, but only the exceptional were accepted in the major universities on the East and West coasts. You were painfully average in IQ, and while you were lean and strong from a lifetime of working at ranches, women’s sports weren’t exactly the top priority of the country.

You’d settled for now, saving up your money and sweating away as a ranch hand until you had enough in your pocket to make your escape. Your palms were beginning to burn, the bale ropes cutting into your callouses as you had foregone gloves for the sake of trying to keep cool. With the truck bed piled high, you slam the tailgate shut and walk around to the driver's side, wiping your forehead with your wrist. You climb in and start the old Chevy, ready to get it rolling back to the cool shade of the barn. You put the truck in drive, imagining it was your luggage in the back and the open road in front of you. You glance at the passenger seat and smile, the image of a girl sitting there painting itself in your head.

The girl always started out as something innocent, but the image of her inevitably warped in your mind from a shadowy stranger into one you knew well. Tanned caramel skin, dark chestnut hair blowing in the wind, and a spattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose. You sigh and shake your head, trying to etch-a-sketch the vivid picture from behind your eyes. As the truck rolls around the dirt road, the very figure of your imagination pulls into view.

Lorraine Day, the rancher's daughter and your friend, was sitting leaning up against the shady side of the barn, her nose in a book. You grip the steering wheel a little harder, trying to cool yourself. Lorraine was all sweet southern charm, innocent doe eyes, and small half smiles. She also happened to be the most beautiful girl you had ever seen, and your friendship with her was a daily challenge. You’d thought it would get easier after she started dating RJ, but in reality, it got worse. She was so far out of his league it was laughable, but she had fallen for his goofy charm and enthusiasm for film. You thought he was far too pretentious and self-righteous, a point you’d made to her often.

You back the truck up to the barn door and park it, sliding out into the sun. Lorraine closes her book and looks up at you, a smile pulling at her lips. You were such a sucker for that smile. You drop the tailgate open and slide the closest bale to the end, turning your head over your shoulder to return the smile.

“Mornin, Lorraine.” You say, dipping your head at her in greeting.

“Good mornin y/n, you’re gettin started awfully early today.”

You pull the bale down, holding it by the two ropes that bound it, and nod your head, “Can’t be workin in this weather in a few hours. Figured I’d get the heavy liftin done early.”

She hums in agreement and leans back against the barn, watching you haul the bales down off the truck and walk them inside. When you come out for the next bale, she gets up and strolls over to you. She hops up and sits on the side of the tailgate, swinging her legs.

“Hey, when you’re done, you wanna go grab some ice cream in town? Daddy took the truck to the livestock auction today, so I’m stuck here.” She drawls, plucking strands of hay from the bale beside her.

You smirk and pull another bale off the truck, grunting with the effort. “You gonna help me haul these bales, or just sit there lookin all pretty like, asking me for favors?”

Her eyebrows go up, and she laughs, the sound like music to your ears. “You know full well I can’t help you move these things. And it’s not a favor, it’s an invitation.”

You walk back from the barn to the truck bed, shaking your head, chuckling. Only three bales left to move and you’re done for the morning.

“An invitation to take my truck and spend my money on ice cream for you?” You jab playfully at her, enjoying yourself.

You walk the next bale into the shade of the barn and throw it down next to the stall, turning back for the last two. The sun is beaming down on Lorraine, her hair shining in the light and her dark eyes glittering. You puff your cheeks up with air and let it out all at once, shaking your head.

She’s working you, widening her eyes and blinking slowly, “Come on y/n, it’ll be quick. Promise.”

You pull the last two bales off the truck and laugh. You’re such a sucker.

“Yeah alright, get in the truck.”

The drive to town is a quick fifteen minutes, all back country roads and open fields in between. The windows are rolled down, the wind softly licking at your sweaty neck and whipping your hair into your eyes. You glance over to the passenger seat, your fantasy from earlier coming true in a small way. Lorraine has one arm on the window, her head slightly tilted out, letting the rushing air pull her hair out of her face.

The ice cream shop is nearly empty, most folks deeming 10 AM too early for something so sweet. You buy a strawberry cone for Lorraine and a lemon for yourself. You take them to your truck to eat on the drive back to the ranch. You can’t help but notice the pink liquid dripping down the cone onto her fingers as it melts, and you question if you should have asked for strawberry instead of lemon. It would probably taste better on her skin, though.

You toss what’s left of your cone out the window, the lemon seeming bitter now that you had imagined the syrupy, pink sweetness of Lorraine. Her ice cream. Only the ice cream of course. You could never. She would never.

You grit your teeth, white knuckle gripping the steering wheel, trying to undo the sudden knots twisting in your stomach. Lorraine isn’t helping the case, savoring the ice cream with a slow tongue, sucking the melted runoff from her fingers. It’s simultaneously innocent and pornographic. It makes you dislike RJ even more.

She pops the last bit of the cone into her mouth as you pull down the dirt driveway along the side of her house, finally granting you a reprieve. You park next to the barn and jump out of the truck, eager to put some space between yourself and Lorraine. To your great disappointment, she follows you into the barn and sits on a short stack of hay bales as you ready yourself to finish the barn chores.

You pick up a pitch fork and press the teeth into the dirt, leaning on the wooden handle. “You don’t got anything better to do today than watch me sweat, or what?”

She shrugs, picking at the hay, “Nothing interesting.”

“Where’s your boyfriend?” You ask, the question weighted in your gut.

She sighs and purses her lips, “He went with some crew out past Houston to film somethin.”

Your brow furrows, “You don’t sound too pleased about that.”

“Well he says it’s gonna be tasteful, but it’s smut.”

You snort a laugh through your nose, stumbling forward as you press too much weight into the pitchfork. You right yourself and look back to her, her expression unamused.

“He’s shootin a porno?”

She rolls her eyes at you, “I guess if that’s what you want to call it, then yeah.”

You raise your eyebrow at her, grinning, “Well if there’s naked people bumpin up against each other, usually you call that a porno.”

She huffs, “A tasteful one though.”

You laugh in over-exaggerated disbelief, “Tasteful or no, he’s filmin people fuckin. You’re okay with that?”

She gestures vacantly with her hand, shaking her head. “I don’t know. I don’t even know why people want to do stuff like that. Sex ain’t all that exciting anyway.”

You bark out a laugh, then stop when you realize she wasn’t joking.

“What do you mean, it ‘ain’t all that exciting’?” You air quote, waiting for her to clarify.

She shrugs, “It just ain’t. Everyone acts like it’s some grand ole time, but mostly I find myself just waitin for it to be over.”

Your jaw drops, and you let go of the pitchfork, dropping that too. “You mean to tell me RJ ain’t shakin your tree every other hour?”

The blush that rises up her neck tells you everything you need to know. She has no idea what it’s supposed to be like. Obviously, her boyfriend is doing something terribly wrong. The heat rises to her cheeks and she starts chewing the inside of her lip.

“I mean he does, but I won’t let him much. It’s more fun for him than it is for me.”

You scoff and bend over to pick up the pitchfork. You’re shaking your head, opening the empty horse stall, quietly exiting the conversation before you say something she won’t like.

She pipes up before you can enter the stall, the frown on her face clear even from the other side of the barn. “What? You been doin better? I don’t see you running around town with any boys.”

You purse your lips and turn back to her, “Well that’s your first problem right there, Lorraine. I don’t go runnin around with boys.”

You turn back to the stall to let her absorb the information. It takes her a few minutes, enough time for you to start mucking the hay. You hear her get up and figure she would leave, but her head pops up over the side of the stall, her arms resting on the top beam.

“So you been runnin around with girls then?”

You scoop a pile of soiled hay, nodding once, “Now and again.”

She hums, her brow furrowed in curiosity, “What’s that like?”

“Better’n whatever RJs been doin to you.”

She lifts her head from her hands, irritation spreading across her face, “You tellin me you could do better?”

This is a line you hadn’t ever walked. Sure, you flirted with her subtly but never outright propositioned her. Maybe it’s the heat that has your brain a little foggy, or maybe the realization that the most beautiful girl you’d ever seen had never been given a proper orgasm pushed you to the line.

“Without a doubt.” You say, not looking up from your work.

She’s quiet, and you worry you’ve gouged an indelible mark into your friendship. You glance up at her and are surprised to find hesitant but curious eyes on you. You stop working and watch her eyes trail down your neck and over your shoulders. You cock your head, was she checking you out?

She glances back up and realizes you’ve caught her, and the blush returns to her cheeks. She drops off the side of the stall and out of your sight, so you stake the pitchfork into the ground and slowly exit back into the open barn. You’re nervous, so you stick your hand in your pocket for the candies you stash there, hoping to keep yourself busy while you mend whatever damage you’d just done.

She’s sitting on the hay bales again, biting her nails. You approach her and open your palm, a watermelon Jolly Rancher rolling there.

“Quit chewin your nails. Have a candy.”

She takes it quickly, unwrapping it and popping it into her mouth. She’s gazing up at you, her face thoughtful.

She pushes the candy into her cheek, “How does it work?”

You roll the blue sweet around in your mouth, wondering how in-depth to go, “Depends. We have mouths and hands just like any boy.”

She gulps and sputters, “Your mouth?”

You raise your eyebrows at her, this is worse than you’d thought. “Well yeah, don’t RJ do that to you?”

She shakes her head no, eyes wide. You lick your lips, unconsciously taking a step toward her. Her lips part just slightly, her eyes growing dark with her pupils expanding. You catch her stealing the fastest glance at your lips and consider your losses if you do cross this line. If she rejects you, you can laugh it off and go back to mucking the horse stall. But if she doesn’t, oh, the consequences of that are enough to make your mouth water around the hard candy on your tongue.

You take another step toward her, gauging her reaction. Her fingers twitch at her side, and she inhales sharply, but she doesn’t move away. The candy in your mouth has dissolved completely, the extra saliva under your tongue mixing sweet and syrupy. Hers is gone too, either swallowed whole or meeting the same fate as yours. You throw caution to the wind and reach down, cupping her jaw in your hand. Her breathing speeds up, her chest rising and falling quickly beneath her shirt.

You lean in, inches from her lips, emboldened by her body language, and whisper, “I could show you, if you want.”

She gulps again, “You-you could?”

“Would you like me to show you?” You say, your voice low and soft, just a hair away from her lips.

She nods slowly, inhaling deeply. It’s all the consent you need, and you close the gap, pressing your lips into hers. You intended to take it slow, ease her into the idea of kissing a girl. But she surges forward the moment your lips meet, wrapping her arms around your neck and pulling you close. Your tongue glides across her lip, and she gasps, opening her mouth to greet your tongue with hers. Her hands are in your hair, gripping, and her knees are spreading apart, allowing you more space to move in on her.

She whimpers when you bite softly on her bottom lip, and a fire ignites in your lower belly. Your hands begin to wander, down her neck, over her shoulders and breasts, sliding down her ribs to her hips. You trail kisses down her jaw and lick at her pulse, eliciting more small mewls from the back of her throat. You take your time on her neck, testing how far she’s willing to let you go. She leans her head back, her hands grasping at your shoulder blades over your shirt.

She’s touch starved, hungry for an intimacy that is clearly missing from her current relationship. You pull back and drop to your knees between her legs, looking up at her while tracing your fingers along the hem of her shirt. You can feel her stomach twitch under your fingers, excited and ticklish. She looks down at you with a mixed expression. She’s nervous, but she wants this. More than you had expected. She takes her shirt from under your fingers and pulls it over her head, her jaw clenched but her head nodding yes.

You slow your approach, if she’s nervous, you know she won’t enjoy it as much. You take the time to soothe her, ease her into it, make her comfortable with wanting you. Her denim shorts are bunched up, revealing miles of skin, hot to the touch. You run your palms from her knees up to her hips, inching your body in between her legs until your chest is pressing into her stomach. You plant a soft kiss on her ribs, just under her bra, your hands making their way to her waist to steady her.

She reaches down to you, her hand sliding around the side of your neck, and pushes you back some so she can lean down and kiss you again. You savor the sugary taste on her tongue, the two flavors of jolly ranchers mixing in your mouth. She seems more sure now, her hands wandering across your shoulders and back, taking in your form. You break away from her lips and shuffle back to press hot, open mouthed kisses below her belly button, running your tongue along the top of her shorts. She leans back on her hands, opening her body to you.

You take the button of her shorts between your fingers and look up at her, waiting for permission. She nods hurriedly, reaching down to help you push them off of her. You brush her rushing hands away and undo the button, pulling her forward to the edge of the hay bale. The shorts and her underwear hit the ground behind you as you toss them over your shoulder, your hands returning to the tops of her thighs. You spread her legs, and your jaw drops at the sight.

You didn’t think she could get more attractive, and yet, here she was, soaking wet and wanting and absolutely beautiful.

“Oh fuck,” you whisper, your eyes glued to her center.

She gasps and tries to close her legs but ends up squeezing your shoulders as you lean in.

“Oh god, is it bad, it’s never been like this, I-“ she’s breathless and panicky, but you cut her rambling off with a kiss to her swollen clit.

You drag your tongue from her opening back up to her clit, circling it once, twice, then sucking it in between your lips. She’s lost all composure, forgetting her insecurities and letting out surprised sighs and soft moans. You detach and turn your head, nip at her thigh, and soothe it with your tongue. You look up at her and grin.

“Don’t apologize. You’re incredible.” You say, your voice raspy.

She whimpers as you dive back in, licking up all the nectar she has to give you. She is decidedly better than the ice cream you’d had earlier, the salt of her sweat mingling in the sweetness between her legs. You dip your tongue inside her entrance, and one of her hands winds its way into your hair. You pull your tongue out and drag it up to her clit again, lapping at it slowly, learning what she likes through touch and sound alone. She’s shaking under your mouth, her legs squeezing your head as you wrap your hands around them. You give her one long suck, rolling your tongue over her and she cums, hard. Her hips tilt up into your face and her hand in your hair presses you into her, her head thrown back and mouth open. You keep at it, letting her ride it out as long as she can until she’s pushing your head back, twitching and panting.

You kiss the inside of her thighs on both legs and look up at her, a wide smile on your shining lips. She’s still gasping for air, but she looks down at you, and it’s clear she’s in awe.

“That’s…that was…I’ve never…” she stutters, still breathless.

You rest your arms on her legs, smirking up at her in self-satisfaction, “Come down here with me, and we can do it again.”

“Again?”

“Yes, again. And again, if you want.”

The next thing you know, you’re on your back, fresh hay clinging to your hair and the sweet smell of alfalfa working its way into your clothes. Lorraine leans down and kisses you, groaning into your lips, looking for the “again” that was promised. You don’t tell her you could do this all day with her, you don’t even need food. Just her.

She’s reaching down and pulling your shirt up, so you sit up, letting her pull it over your head before crashing back down into you. Moaning at the feeling of your skin on hers. You reach around her back, still kissing her, and unclasp her bra, letting it fall from her shoulders. She sits up and slings it aside, quick to return to your lips. She’s hurried now, her skin burning hot on yours. Her kisses are growing sloppy in her rush, but you find you enjoy it even more that way.

You lift your hips and roll her over, settling your leg between hers and taking in the view. Her dark hair is mixed with the hay, the contrast making it even more beautiful. You lean into her and realize you’re criminally overdressed, so you unbutton your jeans and push them to your ankles before kicking them off behind you. Now when you lean in, you can feel how wet she is on your thigh, and the sensation alone nearly takes you out.

You drop your face into her neck again, kissing and nipping her skin, leaving faint pink marks in your wake. While your lips begin their descent to her chest, your hand runs down her ribs. You slide your leg back, and your fingers find her clit, rubbing small circles over the overly sensitive area. A soft “oh” falls from her lips when you run your tongue over her nipple, then suck on it softly. Her hands are restless, her nails running down your spine, up the back of your neck, softly gripping your hair only to release and begin again.

She’s not twitching away from your fingers anymore, her body recovered and ready for round two. You run your fingers through her, groaning around her nipple as you feel how warm and wet she is. You slide two fingers into her, and she sighs in relief. Like she’d been waiting for you all day. Like nothing was more desirable than your fingers filling her up. You release her nipple with a pop and breathe slowly through your nose, fending off your own orgasm feeling how tight she was around you. Once you’ve recovered, you begin to pump your arm, curling your fingers softly before you pull out. You graze her G spot and she shouts, clenching down on you and sitting up on her elbows. You stop moving, looking up at her in alarm.

“Did I hurt you?”

She swallows, her eyes wide, “No, no, it’s just. What was that?”

Of course, RJ hadn’t ever hit that spot. You internally roll your eyes at his ineptness. It was criminal, she hadn’t even known the spot was there.

You curl your fingers again, pressing into it, “You mean this?”

Her eyes roll and her lashes flutter, her arms shaking under her, “Yeah, yes. How?”

You pull out slightly, then push back in and do it again, pulling another whimper from her throat, “Do you like that?”

She nods, dropping back to the ground.

You lean over her, your mouth close to her ear, “Tell me.”

“I like it,” she sighs, her hands moving into your hair, “Oh god I like it.”

You smile and press a kiss to the side of her jaw, “Good.” You say and begin moving your fingers again.

You use your thumb to circle her clit gently, and her breathing speeds up. One hand in your hair, and one squeezing your shoulder. She pulls you down, kisses you feverishly, groaning through her nose as your tongues slide across each others. Your pace is steady as you fuck her into the ground, alternating between kissing her lips and down her neck. Her nails drag across your back, digging deep into your skin, the sting giving you goosebumps.

Her neck is straining and she’s panting, arching her back up into your body. Her moans grow closer together and louder.

“Oh, fuck y/n, right there,” she groans, “I’m gonna, I’m gonna-“

The rest of her statement is cut off by a low pitched moan, her body seizing up and her legs squeezing your body. The sound of her orgasm sends you hurtling into your own, stiffening your back and clenching your legs. She drops into the hay and dirt just before you drop onto her, bodies spent and hearts racing. You slide your weight off to her side, pulling your hand out from between her legs, your head resting on her shoulder. You lay your arm across her, careful not to let your fingers fall into the dirt.

Once the post orgasmic high wears off, you sit up, looking down at her. Her eyes are far away, distant in thought. You caress her cheek with the back of your hand, smiling warmly.

“You okay?”

She blinks quickly, her eyes shifting over to you. She nods, “More than okay.”

“You wanna do it again?” You ask her, smiling coyly at her.

She looks dumbfounded, her mouth opening and closing without speaking. You smirk at her, feeling smug about the state you’ve put her in.

She finally comes around and nods, “I just need a minute.”

You shrug, “That’s okay. Take all the time you need. My day is yours now.”

She sits up, her eyes wide and a half smile tugging at her lips. She pulls you over, kissing you slowly and softly. As the pace begins to pick up, the sound of car tires on the gravel outside rip the two of you apart.

Lorraine gasps, her eyes wide with terror, “Daddy.”

You frown, “Well, no one’s ever called me that before, but I’m not against the nickname.”

She shoves your shoulder and scrambles to her feet, looking for her clothes, “No idiot. My dad, he’s home.”

“Oh shit!” You yelp, joining her in the search for clothing.

It’s a mad dash, pulling on underwear and pants and shoes, shuffling around in the barn, both of you trying not to giggle. You hear his footsteps approaching and run into the horse stall, frantically grabbing the abandoned pitch fork. Lorraine scrambles up the side of the stall and sits perched on the edge, pretending to watch you muck out the hay.

Her eyes are wild, and she whispers to you, “I couldn’t find my panties.”

You blanch, knowing full well if Mr. Day saw the Sunday panties in the hay, he’d know exactly what had gone on. You pop your head over the stall, your eyes scanning the barn floor for them. You finally catch sight of them, half hidden under the rusty old tractor in the corner. Too far for you to run over to hide them. You cross your fingers, hoping he doesn’t catch sight of them. Lorraine is doing a horrendous job of appearing nonchalant, twisting her fingers and swinging her legs. You glance up at her as he walks in and give her your hardest ‘be chill’ look before you start shoveling horse shit.

“There’s my beautiful daughter,” Mr. Day’s low, scratchy voice rumbles out as he saunters over to the stall, patting her back and looking over the wall at you.

“And my favorite ranch hand. Hard at work, as always.”

You stop shoveling to stand and smile at him. You shoot him a wink, “You know me sir, always workin on somethin.”

He barks out a laugh, his mustache getting caught between his lips. He sighs, patting Lorraine’s leg, “You’re a good kid, y/n. A damn good kid.” He looks up at his daughter, “Good company for my baby girl, keep her around, Lorraine.”

He pats her leg once more and turns to shuffle out of the barn, making his way up to the house. Lorraine lets out a breath you hadn’t realized she was holding and slouches over. You grin up at her conspiratorially. She grimaces at you, making you frown.

“Whats’a matter? He didn’t suspect a thing.”

She starts wringing her hands again, looking down at her fingers, “What if RJ finds out?”

You snort and shake your head “Baby, he’s got his head so far up his own ass I’m pretty sure I could make you cum in front of him, and he wouldn’t notice.”

She shoots you an exasperated look, picking up a loose screw off the post next to her and throwing it at you.

“He would too notice, and he’s gonna notice these.” She says, softly running her fingertip over the bite marks and hickeys on the inside of her thighs.

She shivers, closing her eyes and licking her lips. You dip your head down, pretending not to see but grinning like mad at the hay in your pitchfork. Hopefully, he did notice the marks. Hopefully, she figured you were better for her than he was. Hopefully, the first petite mort you had given her opened her eyes to the possibilities of satisfaction. When you lift your head to look at her again, she’s smiling at you.

“Your apartment got room for two?”

“You gonna buy me dinner first?” You ask, smirking.

“If you do that to me again, I’ll buy you whatever you want.”

“I want a great big ranch house and a new truck.” You tell her, dropping the pitchfork and strutting over to her.

You put your hands on her knees and open her legs, stepping between them again, her hips at face height. You rest your head on her thigh and look up at her. Her eyes are soft and warm, and she reaches out to run her fingers through your hair.

“I think I can find a way to make that happen.”

“Put it on your tab.” You say, kissing the bite mark on her thigh.

“It’s gonna run up pretty high.”

“You can afford it.”

#lorraine day #jenna ortega #lorraine day x reader #X #jenna ortega x y/n #jenna ortega x reader #vada cavell #tara carpenter #wednesday

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abyssruler · 2 years

Text

breaking up, breaking down

pairing/s: albedo, childe, diluc, kazuha, scaramouche, xiao, venti, zhongli x gn!reader

summary: if there’s anything you can expect to be consistent in life, it’s that everything has an end. or — genshin men and how they are after you break up with them.

note: angsty in everyone’s part, but it got too lighthearted in childe’s bc i simply cannot take that ginger seriously (affectionate)

ALBEDO

There aren’t any notable changes to his routine. He’d still go about his day, working on his experiments and scribbling down notes, occasionally taking a break to sketch a pretty flower he saw or the wing pattern of a passing butterfly.

And then he finds himself drawing the outline of an eye, then a nose, then lips. Until he suddenly stops in the middle of drawing a strand of your hair blowing in the wind, your face frozen in a smile staring back at him through the canvas of his sketchbook.

It hits him then, the realization, the heart-wrenching clarity of what happened that leaves him sitting in his chair, staring at your face in paper and wondering where he went wrong.

He tries to distract himself by continuing his research, but his mind has a hard time focusing on what needs to be done. It’s agonizing, he doesn’t think he’s felt this way before, never even thought he’d ever feel such pain. In a way, he’s glad his master isn’t here to make a study of what emotional pain means to an artificial human like him.

He sees you two weeks after you broke up with him, laughing as you tried to haggle with a merchant for their wares, unaware of the charm you exude that draws people in like moths to a flame. But then your gaze moves, searching through the crowd—and Albedo should really leave now, avoid barging into your life because there simply isn’t a place for him there anymore—but he does none of that.

Your eyes meet. He doesn’t think he was imagining it when he saw yours dim for the briefest moment. (His heart hurts. Why are you looking at him like that?)

You make your way through the busy street to reach him. He tells himself he should leave, but for the first time in his life, he does what contradicts his logic and stays.

“You look good,” you tell him, something melancholic in the tone of your voice. Oh, if only you knew.

“You as well.” He wants to say more, wants to say how radiant you looked under the sun, the light hitting you in just the right way that has him itching to grab a pencil and immortalize the image in paper—but he holds his tongue. “I need to go.”

Your face falls. He wishes he wasn’t the cause of it. “Ah, right. You must be busy, as usual.” There isn’t a hint of bitterness to your voice, just resignation.

He leaves after bidding you goodbye, feeling the heat of your gaze at his back as he walked away.

CHILDE

He wants you and he will do everything in his power to have you back.

In the early days after you broke up, you won’t hear a word from him. Not a peep. You only hear passing news that dead monsters and hilichurl camps near the vicinity of your home have been utterly eradicated. Passing travelers claim how the areas were ‘strangely flooded’ even though it hasn’t rained in weeks.

Then come the gifts. From flowers to clothes to accessories to different delicacies that are all worth more than your entire life’s paycheck. And when that doesn’t work, Childe sets to work on his recruits.

You suddenly find yourself constantly being approached by a startling amount of Fatui recruits ranging from normal lackies to gunners to cicin mages, and even that one memorable time when a mirror maiden approached you in the middle of buying groceries and proceeded to buy everything in the store, saying all of it was for you.

The Fatui recruits had one thing in common: they all had nothing but praises to say for the Eleventh Fatui Harbinger.

“Master Childe defeated all the recruits in under ten seconds!” “Have you heard how Lord Harbinger killed twenty geovishaps and came out without a single scratch?” “I saw him buying that exact same shirt yesterday, it cost one million mora! He’s so rich!” “Lord Tartaglia has been so down lately. He keeps saying how much he misses his beloved.”

“Did you know? Even Lady Signora wept after she heard that you and Master Childe broke up.” That one, you’re certain never actually happened, and you made sure to tell that with an unimpressed look to the pyro agent who told you. As if Signora would ever cry, she’d probably throw a party for you for finally leaving Childe.

In the end, after cycling through so many recruits, he had no choice but to come to you directly.

…Which is how you woke up at six in the morning to the ground shaking and the sound of an eerily familiar laugh right outside your house.

You open your window to find Childe fighting a lawachurl right in front of your house, a ring of Fatuus surrounding and cheering him on. His smile brightens to an almost comical degree once he sees you and your bedhead squinting out from a window.

“You look so stunning today, beloved!” He steps back from an earth-shattering punch by the lawachurl. “I’ve brought you the biggest lawachurl I could find so I can show you how worthy I am of you!”

He then proceeds to—and you have to blink a few times to see if you’re not hallucinating—fist fight the lawachurl. And he’s actually winning. No vision, no weapon. Just his bare fists.

When the commotion wakes up your entire neighborhood, you have to go down there and yell at him to stop or take this fight somewhere that isn’t right in front of your house! He complies with a grin and a promise saying he’ll meet you later.

There’s something fond curling in your chest that you try and fail to smother. With an exasperated tone, you tell him that yes, you’ll find time in your busy schedule to meet him. He lights up like you just agreed to marry him and yells out rapid orders in Snezhnayan to his recruits.

“I’ll see you later!” He blows a kiss in your direction that you ignore. You turn away and walk back into your house, trying (and failing) to fight the growing smile on your face.

DILUC

It’s not evident to anyone who doesn’t know him well, but Diluc takes it close to heart and buries it among countless other regrets that have accumulated in his life. The turbulent feelings that threaten to overcome his mind at any hour of the day manifests itself in him becoming more withdrawn.

He’s gloomy, more brooding than usual, and the reason becomes apparent once the other patrons notice the lack of a certain person who usually sits by the bar during his shifts. Your usual laugh accompanied by teasing grins and playful swats at his long hair when you think no one is looking are nowhere to be seen.

One particularly drunk person had come up to him as he was wiping down the counters and asked why you weren’t there. Anyone who had been there to see the sight would tell you that he didn’t say anything, hadn’t been able to say anything. He just… stood there, hands frozen mid-motion and eyes drawn somewhere, lost in thought.

He slips up sometimes. Asks the maids to prepare a dinner for two only to stop in the middle of talking as he realizes what he just said. At breakfast, he pauses in the middle of reading his daily papers to turn his head to the right, a question on the tip of his tongue that dies when he sees the empty spot you usually occupied. It’s the pitying gazes that follow when he slips up that he hates the most.

He makes your favorite drink sometimes, on the days when he’s on shift and feeling particularly self-destructive. It stays hidden under the bar counter, hoping against hope that you’ll walk through the door and greet him with an upbeat ‘good evening!’ that makes his day all the more better. You never do.

It’s on a bright, sunny morning when he’s out overseeing the delivery of wine to the tavern that he sees you again. His heart soars for all but a second before it comes crashing down, because Diluc Ragnvindr does not deserve nice things.

You’re holding the hand of some nondescript man, grinning and laughing and emitting such a great sense of contentment that he can almost feel it from where he’s standing meters away from you.

You’re happy. It’s been months and he’s still wallowing in old hurts. You’re happy.

Did you ever smile like that when you were with him? He likes to think so, but the realistic, pessimistic thought is that you’re probably better off not being with him. You’re happy. Happier now than you were when you were with him.

Everything he’s ever loved has been hurt directly and indirectly by his hands. He turns away from the sight of you and pretends to be preoccupied with his task. Maybe it’s for the best that you left before it could happen.

KAZUHA

He tries not to take it to heart. He understands why you left, knows it before you even made the decision to leave. And in the aftermath, much like a leaf adrift in the wind, he roams about aimlessly, lost in thought.

Grief is not an emotion he’s unfamiliar with. As he sits by the cliffs overlooking the endless ocean, grief burrows its way to his chest like an old, unwelcome friend. He doesn’t fight it. He’s learned the hard way that fighting it is a losing battle, like picking at a scab, hoping that doing so will make it heal faster, yet only succeeding in worsening the wound.

Kazuha isn’t a stranger to loneliness, of letting the wind kiss his tears away as they dried on his cheeks. He is, however, unfamiliar with this new kind of ache in his chest. And only after much rumination does he conclude what it might be.

The loss of his family, the loss of his heritage, the loss of his friend, and now, the loss of his lover. A master of loss, he could almost call himself. His old friend would certainly find such a title amusing.

He finds himself writing letters to you, even with the knowledge that he’ll never be able to send them to you. It’s the thought that comforts him, the pretense that he still has someone to tell of his travels, someone to simply come home to, even when he knows he isn’t welcome anymore.

In his weakest moment, when he had too much to drink and too little self-restraint, he sends one of the letters to you. He’s forgotten whether it’s the one where he laments the loss of your presence, the one where he begs you to have him back, or the one where only three words are written, a small blot in the ink where a stray tear had fallen.

He waits, and waits, and waits a little more, staying for a whole month in the small village he’d addressed the letter from for the small, improbable event that you may have written back. He learns later on that the letter never made it to your hands. The ship it had been on had lost all its cargo to the sea, including his letter. When he heard the news, he hadn’t known whether to be relieved or lament on what could have been.

It isn’t unpleasant to see you again. Kazuha has had time to let go of his hurt, but still, the image of your nostalgia-inducing eyes leave in him a sense of loss he thought he had already settled. Your mirage smiles, “Kazuha.” Had he been a weaker man, he would have folded and swept you up in his arms.

Nobody asks why his eyes have a slight sheen to it after he forces himself to walk away from you. He stands atop the beach and lets the waves wash over his bare feet, closing his eyes and imagining what could have been had he let himself succumb to the desire of holding you one last time, even if you were merely a mirage from the past.

Truly, the golden apple archipelago is a place where dreams are made into reality.

SCARAMOUCHE

He tries to act above it all, feigning indifference as if the entire thing is just a mild inconvenience to him.

Oh, you’re leaving him? That’s fine, he doesn’t care. Do you know how many people would kill to share his bed? You were tolerable, a way to pass time. Don’t think you were anything special. You, a normal person? Don’t make him laugh. You were nothing more than a pet he kept because you entertained him. It’s good that you’re leaving, actually. It saves him the trouble of having to get rid of you.

He’s… not very kind about it all. Defensive and on guard, hackles raising with every word that comes out of his mouth. He hates every second of it, but he can’t stop because stopping is to admit defeat, it means having to acknowledge that you meant something to him after hundreds of years of loneliness. He let you in his carefully guarded walls, and now—now you’re leaving him? Abandoning him after he bared himself open to you?

You are just like her.

Scaramouche stops before he can say those last words. The red that had been threatening to overcome his vision slowly recedes, leaving a numbing sort of clarity that washes over him like the rising tides of Inazuma’s beaches. His mouth feels dry, throat closing up.

There are tears streaming down your face.

He wishes you’d do something. Hit him, yell at him, curse his name. Anything. Just… anything but this silence that hangs heavy in the air, cloying in it’s thickness and threatening to drown him with words that can never be taken back.

He doesn’t apologize, won’t ever apologize. He is a god, and not even you would make him say those damnable words. He sees the way your eyes dim in understanding as you realize the same thing, and that, perhaps, is why you turn your back to him and walk away.

He wishes he could say that he called out for you, that he grabbed your arm and made you stay, that he just… held you. Instead, he watches you leave him, face blank and a phantom ache resonating in his hollow chest. The silence after you leave feels like the night before his creator abandoned him.

He tells himself it’s fine, that you’ll come back. You always do. This is just one of many arguments that always get resolved after a day or so—except. Except, he doesn’t let himself think of any other possibility. You’ll come back. (You have to.)

The months following your absence is a blur, spikes of irritation mixed with hateful words and barbed insults directed towards anyone who so much as breathed the wrong way. His subordinates are half-contemplating desertion just to escape his wrath. They all wonder where you’ve gone. You’re usually the one who soothes the Balladeer when he’s in one of his moods, like the godsend that you are. Though none of them are brave enough to mention your name after what he did to the foolish recruit who asked of your whereabouts.

Years pass. You never did come back.

He still gets the occasional reports about you and your general wellbeing, still sends out his best soldiers to clear out any monsters who’ve settled near your home. You never find anyone else after him. It brings a strange sense of relief in him when his monthly reports on you end up without a hint of a new lover.

He tries to forget you, but even with a new heart and the ascendance to godhood, there is still a lingering sense of loss and past regrets.

XIAO

He lets you go without argument. He’s used to people leaving him, but this is… different.

The thought of you there, physically within reach yet unable to to cross the distance that separates you from him. It’s a different kind of agony from the ones that have afflicted him for millennia.

He sometimes finds himself standing by the balcony of Wangshu Inn, eyes roaming over the vast landscape of Dihua Marsh, looking for the slightest hint of your silhouette. The sound of footsteps coming up the stairs always attracts his attention, anticipating your signature greeting and the smell of whatever mortal sustenance you’ve deigned to make for him to, as you once put it, let him experience the delicacies that this world has to offer.

You can’t call yourself ‘having lived a long life’ if you haven’t tried all the tasty food, Xiao!

…He misses you, though he will never admit it, perhaps not even to Rex Lapis himself.

His time—which once consisted of you, killing monsters, you again, roaming the lands for the remains of old gods, tasting whatever you cooked for him, and accompanying you so you can get home safely—is now comprised of nothing but endless slaughter. He tells himself it’s not a distraction, but it’s a thinly veiled excuse, weak even to his own ears. How low he has fallen to create such feeble excuses to justify the hurt that spreads from his chest to the tips of his fingers.

He used to pick up small things and trinkets in his time scouring the land for evil. A shiny pebble that reminded him of your eyes, a particularly large sweetflower that you would gape comically at once he showed you, qingxin flowers he plucked from the highest mountains just so he can see the way your face lights up in a smile. He still does all these things, only now, the objects are stored in a realm made in the likeness of your home, placing each one in a shelf or table that he thinks you would have arranged them in.

One time, he panics when he sees the flowers start to wilt, and in the heat of the moment, he placed adeptal power in them to ensure they will never die. To this day, he isn’t sure why he did so, only that he imagined at the time how upset you would be that they died in his care, even though he knows how unlikely it is that you will ever discover his hobby of collecting flowers and storing them in his realm.

Perhaps he hopes you’ll come back to him, so that when you do, he can see the way your eyes brighten up once he shows you everything he got for you while you were away.

It’s unlikely, he knows, but it’s nice to dream of it. He thinks his siblings would be proud to see him finally have a little hope for something.

VENTI

He spends the rest of the week in the tavern drinking as much as he can. For once, Diluc doesn’t try to reproach him for drinking what he can’t pay for.

He doesn’t exactly get drunk—can’t get drunk, more like. To a god like him, drinking a hundred barrels of Mondstadt’s finest wines won’t even be enough to get him tipsy. He is the god of freedom (and wine, he’d like to add), he can outdrink every single one of the archons and still have enough semblance to go to war. And yet…

You appear on the seventh day like a salvation, face contorted in worry when you see him slumped on the counter and one inch away from falling off the stool. It isn’t difficult to act the part of a drunken bard, pretending to sway on his feet and donning a fake intoxicated grin as he asked Charles for another glass.

The wind tells him of your arrival, but he ignores it just as he ignores the way his heart soars when the wind brings him the barest hint of your scent. He wishes you didn’t come here. He wishes he didn’t act so drunkenly. He wishes you were more heartless and ignored whoever must have tattled on him drinking Angel’s Share into bankruptcy.

You call his name. He pretends he’s asleep just so he doesn’t have to face his problems. Ha. How ironic. Will he wake up to Mondstadt destroyed by the remains of Khaenri’ah this time? He nearly did once.

He hears you sigh before he feels you bring his arm across your shoulders. You help him get off the stool, an arm around his waist to help keep him steady. The weight of Diluc’s disapproving gaze for deceiving you about his drunkenness is heavy, but he tells himself it’s alright. He just… wants to be selfish for once. If he has to act drunk to feel your arms around him again, he’ll suffer this humiliation as many times as he can.

“Venti,” you start as you walk him in the direction of your home. “I was worried, you know. Aether told me how much you’d been drinking since…” You trail off. He feels you shaking your head before continuing, “Just… don’t be so reckless with your health.” You laugh, mildly sardonic that’s directed more towards yourself than him. “Ah, what am I saying… you won’t even have any recollection of this tomorrow anyway.”

He wants to say something, but saying something means breaking this moment between you, it means revealing that he doesn’t actually need your help because once he starts speaking, the dam will break and everything will come spilling out. I’m sorry, I miss you, I love you.

The front door to your house opens. He’s gently placed down your couch, a blanket thrown over him as you thoughtfully take his shoes off for him. He feels you linger by his side, can practically hear the conflict in you.

He’s unprepared for the feeling of your warm breath on his skin, your lips hovering over his face before placing a chaste kiss on his forehead. “Goodnight, Venti.”

He leaves before the sun rises.

ZHONGLI

He only smiles, small and understanding with a hint of sorrow at the corner of his eyes.

He tells you he’ll respect your decision, but should you change your mind, he will always be here. You say it’s doubtful, he would’ve probably found someone else by then. Zhongli doesn’t correct you, only leans in and places his lips on the top of your head, as gentle as he’s always been with you, somehow managing to convey with a single gesture how high he holds you in regard.

And for the barest, infinitesimal moment, you half-contemplate the idea of staying. It’s a wishful thought. You end up leaving before you can change your mind.

He’s still as grounded as ever, but there’s a fragility to it, a certain brittleness that threatens to crumble from within him. He is the Lord of Geo, and yet he is so easily undone by you. The pain is temporary, he knows from past losses, but it doesn’t lessen the ache that resonates in his chest.

For the first time in his long life, he curses his golden memory that makes him incapable of forgetting, though that which he curses is also something he is grateful for. He can’t bear having to suffer losing the memories of your time together.

Your relationship is amiable, like that of old, awkward friends you had fallen out of touch with rather than that of old lovers. It’s what you wanted after all, this sense of normalcy. He has become such a vital part of your daily life that you simply couldn’t cut him off of your life entirely.

He doesn’t know which is worse; having to act as a mere friend when he wants nothing more than to wrap you in his arms and never let go, or to have no contact with you at all.

Morax is not one to ask for things, not one to plead his case to anyone. He was a selfish and proud god, a necessity that was shaped from him by the war. To love a mortal enough to leave his throne and fake his death would have been unthinkable. But that is why he is no longer Morax. He is Zhongli.

And Zhongli? He wants you. Desperately. Enough that he is willing to beg should you ask it of him.

His deceased enemies would laugh in mockery at what has become of the fearsome Morax. How low he has fallen—but it is a burden he is willing to bear. He will suffer as many humiliations as it takes to have you back.

The only issue is that you don’t want him anymore. But he is a man who finds gold where others would see stone. If he has to build his way up from friendship all over again, then it is a task he will do so gladly. As many times as it takes for you to want him back.

#genshin x reader #genshin impact x reader #albedo x reader #albedo kreideprinz x reader #childe x reader #tartaglia x reader #ajax x reader #diluc x reader #diluc ragnvindr x reader #kazuha x reader #kaedehara kazuha x reader #scaramouche x reader #kunikuzushi x reader #xiao x reader #venti x reader #zhongli x reader #gn reader

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kooktrash · 9 months

Text

the art of obsession | kim taehyung [teaser]

NOW POSTED

summary: in a world of painters and poets, there were two college students looking for the right sort of inspiration. through devotion in your craft, you find yourself drawn to kim taehyung—a grad student painter who’s everything you’ve ever looked for in a character. his walk, his form of speech, his art, it all captivated you to the point where you wanted to recreate him in words and you begin to realize how similar the two of you really are. you share a sort of obsession in your work that seems like only each other could understand and he invites you into his world of oil paints and charcoals in hopes of drawing you on paper.

✎ genre/au: dark academia. college au. painter!taehyung x writer!y/n [afab. she/her]

✎ TBD

“There is no beauty… without some strangeness in the proportion.” — Edgar Allan Poe

warnings: smut. slight obsession. prestigious college. dark characters. tae literally takes oc to a graveyard. MORE WARNINGS TO COME

“I told you, it might be scary,” Taehyung said as he walked parallel to the graveyard toward a tree that stood tall along the sloping hill, “But this is the best view of twilight, if you want, I could walk you back to campus.”

“No, it’s fine,” you cleared your throat deciding to walk ahead of him so you could be the one sitting upright against the tree. Taehyung dropped his backpack a few feet away from you and began getting his things out.

You didn’t question him, only observed the way he carried on like you weren’t even there. It’s not like you minded, you didn’t have any real agenda to get him to spend time with you and frankly, you felt a bit relieved to see that he wasn’t trying to figure out what you wanted. It was unspoken the way the two of you seemed to think similarly and brought out your tools.

Taehyung didn’t say anything when he flipped his sketchbook open and found a charcoal he could use as he began to sketch without much thought into it. He even made himself comfortable by lying back, using the angle of the hill to help him not lay horizontally and he bent a knee up as a sort of flat surface he could rest his book on. There was a small breeze that carried through his linen shirt and brown trousers but he wasn’t much worried about himself.

He was more worried about you, who had asked to spend time with him but had no real plan to do so. He’ll admit, when he said no it was just on reflex from all the other times he’s out right rejected others before but he only thought it over because he’s been curious of you two. When you told him you would join him for a moment he debated saying no again because this was his favorite place to be to watch the sunset but it wasn’t all that normal. He even tried to warn you and offer to take you back when you saw the graveyard but you didn’t even seem to care when you sat down. Now that he’s looking at you up close, he can see the way your brows furrowed in concentration as you scribbled in your journal, already feeling inspiration.

It’s now that Taehyung is realizing why he’s been so curious. He finds you beautiful, he’s sure he’s mentioned that before, but he finds you beautiful in an unsettling way. Just looking at you seemed to send him into a wave of emotion like you’re exactly what he’s wished to create on canvas. Before he even knew what he was doing, his hands were working away to make another sketch, eyes on you as he worked.

“What are you writing in that little journal of yours?” He found himself asking after some time. The sketch was rough and yet it was so refined that there was no mistaking what it could be. It was a monochromatic sketch of you with your back against the tree, legs straight before you and your hair covering your face with the howl of the wind. Your hands looked delicate when you wrote and you looked so lost in your own work that managed to capture that same essence in his drawing.

Your eyes met his and he didn’t back down from the stare even as it intensified with each passing second until finally you said, “I’ll tell you if you show me what you’ve been doing in that little sketchbook of yours.”

For some reason a small smile came to his face as he laid on his side using his elbow for support and reached over to hand you the sketchbook. You took it with a sense of excitement that quickly turned into disbelief as you looked at it. The back of your index finger hovered over it but never touched for fear that you would smudge it and when you finally handed it back to him, wordlessly, you gave him your journal.

At this exchange, Taehyung moved to sit up, not bothering to brush off any loose grass blades off his linen shirt and read over a short passage.

A certain coolness in his gaze that made him appear cruel.

A charming aura that seemed timeless, not modern but ancient like he was created from every classic literature known to man.

His gaze, his smile, his voice—all deep like red velvet.

The list went on, each short sentence followed by another in what one could assume was meant to describe him. He didn’t say anything either as he handed it back to you the same way you had done with his sketchbook. Neither of you were looking for critique or praise, more so acknowledgement of what the other had been doing and once you had it, it was enough.

Taehyung stared forward as the line of bright Orange finally vanished from the sky and a cool blue clouded it. Nothing was said as you both stood up with your things and even less was brought up on your walk back to campus.

It wasn’t until you stood at the bus stop that Taehyung decided to ask, “Are you busy tomorrow?”

“No.”

He pulled out a piece of paper from the pocket in his trousers followed by a pen as he scribbled something down before handing it to you, “Meet me here

at 8:00pm.”

You didn’t have to say anything for Taehyung to know you would show and he left without much of a goodbye.

::.

here’s just a little snippet of what I’ve been working on bc I miss fall and need it to hurry up

permanent taglist: @notmyfaultbutours @rerefundslocals @fandems @sugaluvmyg @guvgguk @kimyishin @libra04 @kooromiwrld @classycreationcupcake-blog @alwaysdreamingnotsleeping @cherrymonlightt @nikkiordonez12 @asking4-sanity @thvlover @saweetspoiled @uwu2rawr @shaybts-blog @babycandy111 @tearyjjeon @joons-uparupa @jeonninja @yellowcupid08 @02010802faves @knudsenheggedel @skzthinker @unnatae @aurorthi @beautywine @95ene @taekookstata @lilliankoo @shescharlie @annenakamura @lesoleile @burnahtsw @babybella337 @kooloveys @ku-ku @chaelvrx @minnie-mouser22 @Imeneghd @whoa-jo @evajeonsworld @marvelbun @sunnikthv @kochycooky @heyhowyoudoin3 @acielelyseen @giselleswifeee @jeonjk25 @ilikeitlikethatt @bangmechanpls @lvr2seok @badbyeyoongi @jaerisdiction @watermelonjuice15 @artmsmaid @xyahrinx @angeleen777 @jooniesxbby

#kim taehyung #taehyung #taehyung fanfic #taehyung imagine #taehyung au #Taehyung smut #bts taehyung #taehyung fiction #taehyung fluff #taehyung oneshot #taehyung drabble

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moodymisty · 10 days

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hi misty!! first of all, love your blog. your writing makes long shifts at work a bit more bearable (those guilliman fics had me giggling and kicking my feet fr)

second of all, if you're taking requests i'd love to see anything with dorn getting all confused after catching feelings. he's SO repressed and i can't imagine he'd even know what to do with all those fuzzy feelings, especially with a darling who's soft and sweet. gah i love that awkward stoic man

have a lovely day 💕💕

[ 𝕸𝖔𝖔𝖉𝖞𝕸𝖎𝖘𝖙𝖞'𝖘 𝕸𝖆𝖘𝖙𝖊𝖗𝖑𝖎𝖘𝖙| 𝕬𝖔3 ]

Author's note: This sounds super cute, and I'm a MASSIVE whore for Dorn so here's a snippet. I hope you enjoy :3

Relationships: Pre-relationship Rogal Dorn/Fem!Reader

Warnings: Not really any of note other than primarch emotional constipation

Dorn looks over the ornate golden railing, hands gripping it softly. Out of his opulent armor, his warm Inwit made clothing contrasts against his pale skin, as a chill Terran wind blows through the open halls. It's no where near as cold as what he's used to, and he pays it no mind as it whips through his short blonde hair.

"You're staring."

Dorn turns his upper body to see Guilliman along with two of his lieutenants; He'd heard the men coming, watching as his Ultramarines stand beside him at a respectable distance. Guilliman casts his gaze downward to follow where Dorn has had his own for a significant while now, and watches. His lieutenants step away respectfully, and allow the primarchs a degree of privacy.

A slew of Salamanders use the massive open area to train, many of them in armor not powered to use as dead weight. Dorn has no interest in them and Guilliman knows this well; He turns his gaze to the sidelines, where a remembrancer sits parchment in lap. You're smiling, he can see from here, watching as the Salamanders prove their strength and a few entertain you with elaborate swordmanship.

Guilliman looks away for a moment and back to Dorn, who still has his eyes firmly locked on you. Of course you remain none the wiser to the fact that not one but two primarchs are watching you, filling your parchment with words and sketches.

Guilliman sighs.

"I know she is not indebted to the Salamanders. I am sure she would join the Phalanx, if you asked."

Dorn finally turns away and looks to him, his brow furrowed.

"And why do you assume I need her services?" Guilliman can't contain a second sigh.

"My friend, it's because you look lovesick. I'm trying to give you an opportunity to actually speak to her without another chapter surrounding her." Before Dorn has a chance to scowl at Guilliman for his upfront and honest speech he turns to his lieutenant, and points downward to you.

"Go get her and bring her to us."

Dorn noticeably furrows his brow at the Ultramarines, but doesn’t say anything until the men leave. Once they do, he looks to Guilliman.

“Why did you do that.”

Dorn sounds blunt and unintelligent for a moment, but Guilliman knows that’s not the case; It's that Dorn is pissed at him.

“I am giving you a push. Now do something so none of us have to suffer any longer." Guilliman leaves, and Dorn casts his gaze back down to the massive arena. He notices Guilliman's Ultramarines walk up to you and presumably demand you follow them, and the confusion it quickly brings you.

A Salamander comes up and presumably inquires as to why you're needed elsewhere, but relents when you agree to leave. You follow the two Ultramarines until you're no longer in view, and it changes the feeling in Dorn's chest.

Why does he feel that way? Like there's a knot in his throat?

He clears it and moves along, ignoring it and wearing the same stalwart expression he always has as you and the two Ultramarines approach.

Your expression changes in surprise at the sight of him; He supposes because you were expecting Guilliman. The Ultramarines, somewhat confused as well by the entirety of this situation, consider their duty done and leave to return to their genefather's side.

"Lord Dorn, hello." You smile lightly, holding your parchments in your hands. "Do you have need of me?"

He does, but he has absolutely no idea how to say it. Guilliman cornered him by doing this, and Dorn hates it.

He decides to inquire about what Guilliman had said earlier; He wants to hear it come from you rather than Guilliman's.

"Am I correct in hearing that you are not indebted to the Salamanders?" You nod, smile still on your face. Dorn finds it warm, a far cry from the stalwart attitude that is part of him and resides in all of his gene-sons.

“The Salamanders were the first to request I join them to document their battles when I showed interest, but I never pledged loyalty to only them."

Dorn looks away for a moment, and leaves you cast in a form of nervousness as he looks down at the Salamanders still below. You hesitently speak up, voice questioning and soft. He's used to shouting and deep bellowing voices; Yours is so gentle and sweet.

"Is, is there there anything I can do?"

You awkwardly adjust in your shoes, wondering what else the stalwart primarch of the Imperial Fists could possibly want from you. When your eyes suddenly leave his and look behind him, he already knows why.

"He was going to ask if you would serve the Imperial Fists as their remembrancer, provided you are available."

Guilliman returns, and the look Dorn gives him is made of hellfire. Dorn hopes Guilliman knows he will pay no shortage for this later.

Thankfully however you perk up noticeably, and Dorn successfully manages to hide any and all of his feeling relieved by it. Your smile is wide enough to round your cheek, and he's surprised by how warm and inviting it feels.

"Oh, I would be honored to serve your legion! If you would have me, Lord Dorn?"

Dorn catches Guilliman flinch slightly at your words, though he fails to understand why. He's too furious at the other primarch to bother even looking at him for too long anyways.

Instead of thanking you, welcoming you, or any other things Dorn was thinking of saying, instead the first thing that falls from his mouth is an order.

"Follow me, I will bring you to my men."

Your face morphs into surprise as Dorn suddenly turns away from you, and you struggle to keep up- as his singular stride is many of your own. Your papers rustle in your arms, as you race down the gilded hall.

Guilliman however simply watches you and him both depart, before sighing and rubbing his temple.

#rogal dorn x reader #primarch x reader #warhammer 40k x reader #reader insert #reader #mywriting

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ghostlykeyes · 6 months

Note

Hi, love your writing! Could I perhaps get some headcanons of Hearsteel with a (GN) tattoo artist partner? I'm a tattoo artist (apprentice) myself, and very curious. Thanks! 💕

♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡

HEARTSTEEL /TATTOO ARTIST READER ♡ Gender Neutral ♡ SFW ♡ No TW's ♡ I did Sett, Yone, and Kayn since they are the only HS members I'm writing for right now. ♡ Anon!! I would love to see some of your work sometime if you're comfortable sharing !! <3

♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡

KAYN

Inspired by your art, Kayn buys a shitty tattoo gun off Amazon and messes around with it. He's not serious about tattooing, not really, but he thinks it's super cool that you do it. And, like anything he thinks is cool, he wants to try his own hand at it. (Plus, he wants to impress you. Oh, he may act like the picture of Rhaast he inked into the top-right edge of some practice skin is no big deal, but he actually spent like four hours on it and inside he's just screaming for you to compliment it.)

Protect your practice skin fiercely, because Kayn will absolutely nab some if he's bored. It's not uncommon to pull out a rubber sheet of practice skin and find scratchy sketches of demon masks and glowing eyes.

Kayn lets you tattoo him, as long as he gets to pick the design. He assures you he'll sit well, but it's a lie. He's a squirmy subject. Not because of the pain, mind you—he doesn't care about that. No, he's fidgety at the best of times, and with you so close to him, with you breath and your hands sending tingly heat across his skin? How is he supposed to keep still? Threatening you'll never kiss him again if he doesn't chill the fuck out might do the trick, though. Contemplating a life without good-morning kisses has him doing his damndest to sit still and let you do your work.

While Kayn likes all of your work, he's especially fond of the dark, the creepy, and the ultra-stylized. The more morbid drawings fit his bad-boy image, and the stylized ones? He respects innovation in all its forms, and he loves to see your artistic boldness so plainly expressed.

Kayn often sends you pictures of graffiti that he's proud of. In truth, he does it more for the property damage than artistic expression—but that's besides the point. He's picked up some skills along the way and of course he's going to use them to impress you.

If you ever, ever have a problem client, Kayn will explode in their face. Expect loud words, shoving, maybe a punch or two getting thrown. And if you don't want him exhibiting that kind of behavior in your shop? Well, fine, he can play nice. Just don't be surprised if you find out your little problem client finds themselves with "DUMB FUCKING CUNT" keyed into their car door. Kayn denies any and all knowledge of doing this. "Must've been Rhaast," he claims, but you're not so sure. Either way, it's a warning signal for your future clients to behave.

SETT

After you're sore from a long day shrimp-hunched over someone's leg, you don't even have to ask Sett for a massage. He already knows you're cramping up and he knows just how to make his fingers work. "Lay down," he tells you, and waits for you to get comfy before straddling your back. "Hold still, 'kay? I'm gonna take care of you, don't even worry 'bout it." His strong fingers gently rub at the knots winding up and down your spine, and he smooths the pain from your muscles. And this isn't some five-minutes-and-done back rub, either— he's committed to getting you right. Chat about your day, ask about his. He'll be up there for as long as you need.

Even if he's not interested in getting tattoos yet, Sett still loves your art, and he's willing to commit to something a little less permanent. Any time he's about to leave on tour and won't see you for a few weeks, he asks you to Sharpie a design on him. Whatever you want, wherever you want (just try not to abuse the privilege—he will never forgive you if you draw something embarrassing on his pecs the night before a huge show). He thinks it's sweet to have that little reminder of you etched on his skin. Sett will send you periodic updates of your sketch. If it's holding up well, expect to witness Sett twisting around awkwardly to show you in his daily post-gym selfie. When it's gone? He sends you a photo of blank skin, with a solemn text: "he's dead :(" . Don't worry about the untimely demise of this picture, though—you can draw him another as soon as he gets home!

Sett keeps some of his favorite flash designs of yours framed in his room.

It doesn't matter that he doesn't have any tattoos—if you or your shop sells t-shirts, Sett will wear them, and he'll do it proudly. He loves to represent you. All someone has to do is ask about it and it'll send him on a ten-minute (minimum) rant about his kickass tattoo artist partner, how talented and awesome they are. If you don't have a sleeveless option, though, don't be surprised if the sleeves "mysteriously" disappear.

YONE

Yone is interested in getting some traditional Japanese work done, but not for some time yet. Just know that whenever he's ready to ink up, if you're willing to tattoo in that style, you've got a client for at least a full sleeve, if not two. And when the day comes? Oh, Yone sits like a dream. He's the client from heaven, barely flinching and only taking breaks when you need a second to stretch. It's a bit difficult to convince him to put down his work, though, so be prepared to listen to Yone building some song beats with his free hand while you're buzzing along his other arm.

You both have rather demanding jobs and schedules, but Yone enjoys your quiet moments working together. He plugs away at his music while nearby, you finalize designs for clients and work on new flash pieces. Whenever he needs a break, he comes over and tenderly rubs your shoulders. Yone watches you work, occasionally breaking the silence to ask about certain design choices or what kind of client this tattoo is for. Watching you draw gives him a sense of peace.

Since he knows you work long hours, Yone always gets you a drink on his morning iced coffee run. He gets you lunch sometimes, too, if he knows you'll be spending the day in one long session and might not want to leave the shop. Yone knows what it's like to get lost in your work better than anyone, but he wants to make sure that even if you're in the zone, you've got something to drink and a bite to eat nearby. Now, if only you could get him to take care of himself the same way...

Dating Yone brings you a lot of new clients. Even though he left the mainstream music industry some time ago, he's still got friends within it. If anyone asks him for advice on where to go, of course he recommends you, which means you get your fair share of music artists coming to your chair. Of course, they always tip fabulously (they risk Yone's wrath if they don't).

Yone comes to you for advice on a lot of Heartsteel's artistic visuals. Their loud, messy, brash style meshes well with tattoo aesthetics, so he likes to run creative choices by you before implementing them. He also asks you to design some merchandise, if you're okay with doing that. Whatever you come up with, the guys absolutely love. Consider yourself the creative lead for all future merch endeavors.

#heartsteel headcanons #heartsteel x reader #heartsteel kayn #kayn x reader #kayn/reader #sheida kayn #heartsteel #heartsteel sett #sett x reader #sett/reader #sett #yone x reader #heartsteel yone #yone/reader

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arsonistmoth · 1 month

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'Oh, I'm a world ender, baby, and I'm back from the grave They can run for their lives, but they cannot be saved I'm a world ender, baby, and I'm comin' for them Oh, they put my in the ground, but I'm back from the dead'

xxx .....So funny story. This started as a sketch to wind down after commission work. Then uhhhhh i looked at the clock and it was 1am and this thing existed. Prolly my laziest bg but MFP. the vibes. IMMACULATE. In this house we love Lord Huron. (yall best pray this is the only song i draw to. otherwise theres ANGST comin-)

#cult of the lamb #cotl #cotl lamb #cw blood #goat draws #the godly ax was a GODLY PAIN IN MY ASS #but its mY FAV #and the one i killed kallamar within 30 seconds with #so #it stays

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breelandwalker · 5 months

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Cold Moon - December 26, 2023

Bundle up, witches! It's time for the Cold Moon!

Cold Moon

The Cold Moon is the name given to the full moon which occurs in the month of December, particularly appropriate this year as the full moon will occur late in the month, smack in the middle of the bleak midwinter.

This will be another month when the moon appears full for two nights in a row, so we'll have a full moon for Christmastime, with peak illumination on Dec 26th at 7:33pm EST. (A perfect aesthetic for those who are fans of the classic poem "A Visit From St Nicholas" aka "Twas the Night Before Christmas." Personally, I'm holding out hope that we'll have the snowy conditions to match, though it's a long shot.)

Like most full moon names, the Cold Moon takes its' moniker from an English translation of a traditional name used by one or more North American indigenous groups. There are a number of indigenous names that reference the wintry conditions when this moon occurs, including Snow Moon (Haida, Cherokee), Winter Moon (Tunica-Biloxi), Hoar Frost Moon (Cree), and Long Night Moon (Mohican). More evocative names include Frost Exploding Trees Moon (Cree) and Moon of the Popping Trees (Oglala), both of which refer to a phenomenon which occurs during extreme cold, when the sap inside a tree freezes and the expanding pressure causes portions of the bark or even entire limbs to "pop" with loud cracking sounds that can be heard for miles.

Other names for the December moon include Yule Moon (Norse origins), Oak Moon (Celtic origins), and Bitter Moon (Chinese origins).

What Does It Mean For Witches?

The year is winding down. It's time to wrap up our projects and put aside what we haven't finished or no longer need. Rather than berating ourselves for the things we didn't finish or didn't accomplish, this is a time to give ourselves some grace and celebrate our successes and triumphs and the things we DID accomplish.

With only one page left on the calendar, many of us are already looking ahead to the new year, making plans and setting goals. This is a good time to brainstorm and engage in a bit of broad-view planning. Sketch out the things you'd like to see or do or try in the new year. Give voice to your dreams and start thinking of ways to make them happen.

The Cold Moon also falls soon after the winter solstice this year (Dec 21), which could be a boon for anyone looking to time their seasonal rituals in optimal fashion. A working could be begun on the solstice and built up to culminate on the night of the Cold Moon, just before the start of a new calendar year.

What Witchy Things Can We Do?

Have a small supper gathering with friends or family (holiday themed or not, it's up to you) to share joys and fellowship and enjoy good food and drink. Make wishes together for the new year. (Wish jars can be done individually or as an informal group ritual. Sharing wishes anonymously can be a fun party game.) A "White Elephant" gift exchange with inexpensive or homemade witchy goods for your circle could be fun too!

Make a wish jar for the new year on the winter solstice and put it out to charge under the Cold Moon. Cleanse any of your tools or crystals or accoutrements that you use moonlight for one more time this year.

This is the perfect time for divinations and goalsetting for the coming year. Pull out your favorite divination tools and your 2024 planner and sketch out the coming year. You can also try candle wax divination with holiday candles, if that's something that interests you.

Also, save those seasonal bayberry candles for future use! They're great for debt repayment and money-drawing spells.

If you need some ideas for a fun family activity, you can feed the birds for good luck, either with scattered birdseed or pinecone birdfeeders. String dried fruit slices, cinnamon sticks, pinecones, holly leaves and berries, and other seasonal faves to make garlands. Stick apples or oranges or clementines full of cloves in pretty patterns to make pomanders.

Use those fibre arts skills to create a special piece to keep your home warm and safe and well-supplied until spring. It doesn't have to be anything big - a simple weaving or single square will do. Crochet or cut out snowflakes for your home decor. If you want to get fancy, pick up a ball of cotton warp thread and look for old doily patterns - they look great as hoop weavings hung on the wall (or make a witch web in winter colors).

Make one more batch of moonwater to carry you through to the new year. If it happens to snow or freeze where you live, you can save clean snow or icicles for special (non-drinkable) elemental water, which can be a fun base for moonwater as well.

And speaking of elements, make sure to remember in all your seasonal decorating that fire safety is paramount. Be careful with your candles, warmers, light strings, plugs, extension cords, and cables. DO NOT "daisy chain" your extension cords or power strips. Never leave candles or wax warmers or simmer pots unattended, and turn off your holiday lights before bedtime. Safety first, witches!

Thanks for joining me for this exploration of full moon magic. See you next year!

Happy Cold Moon, witches! 🌕🧊

Further Reading:

Additional Lunar Calendar posts

Moon Rise Calculator - The Old Farmer's Almanac.

Cold Moon: Full Moon in December 2023, The Old Farmer's Almanac.

Full Moon December 2023: Illuminating the Cold Moon's Spiritual Meaning, The Peculiar Brunette.

How Do Trees Survive The Winter?, National Forest Foundation.

How to Make Pomander Balls, The Old Farmer's Almanac.

Fun Kid's Activity: Winter Pinecone Bird Feeder, Audubon Southwest.

Everyday Moon Magic: Spells & Rituals for Abundant Living, Dorothy Morrison, Llewellyn Publications, 2004.

(If you’re enjoying my content, please feel free to drop a little something in the tip jar or check out my published works on Amazon or in the Willow Wings Witch Shop. 😊)

#witchcraft #witchblr #full moon #cold moon #lunar magic #pagan #winter solstice #lunar calendar

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echo-bleu · 8 months

Text

your veins are empty of dust

Nerdanel stays behind and sculpts. Also on AO3. Title from The Amazing Devil's King.

There is no need for statues to remember, in a world that doesn’t forget.

Nerdanel likes to carve birds and rabbits and flowers and leaves. Transitory wonders. When she is commissioned to sculpt people, she shapes new features, never before seen, or she captures the ever-changing fánas of barely-there Maiar.

She has hanged painted portraits and sketches of her children at various stages of growing all over the house, but no marble likeness.

They are right here to look at, after all.

After Alqualondë, Nerdanel retreats from the world.

The darkness and the absence permeate everything. Elves discover the grief of impermanence. In Tirion, there is no court left to appear at, no councils to lead, no strolls to take at the end of the day to admire the Mingling. No news from the ones who have left.

Anairë finds her late one day in her workshop, surrounded by slabs of stone larger than her. She is hammering forcefully at one of them, the barest hints of an elven shape already taking form in the marble. Bitter, stinging tears run down her cheeks and into her collar, and her arms ache with exhaustion.

The body is only barely sketched, but the face is already chiselled, smooth curves and angular cheekbones.

Fëanáro emerges out of the marble, looking like he’s about to take life.

(Across the sea, her sons lead a funeral.)

It’s Anairë again who comes to her, when Arien first sails across the sky. Nerdanel is rearranging her workshop to take advantage of the new light. The windows were designed for the glowing of the Trees.

Anairë nearly collapses as soon as she passes the door.

“Who?” Nerdanel asks her, supporting her to a chair. It’s covered in white stone dust, but neither of them cares.

Fëanáro’s finished statue looms in a corner of the workshop, just out of the light. He looks like he did when she first met him, young and passionate and determined, before the world shrunk around them and suffocated him.

“Arakáno,” her friend weeps.

“Oh, Anairë,” Nerdanel murmurs. “Your youngest.”

“Would you—”

Nerdanel had no intention of ever doing it again. “Of course,” she says.

It was overly optimistic of her, she supposes.

Arakáno looks painfully young and hopeful under her chisel’s tip.

For centuries, there are no news. Nerdanel’s art escapes toward the abstract, great shapes of wind and water and fire coming out of the stone in ways they never had before. Arafinwë crowns himself king, and Anairë busies herself with the day-to-day workings of the court and the administration.

Nerdanel doesn’t think about her sons across the water. She doesn’t wonder how Maitimo looks with a crown on his head. She doesn’t wonder which new instrument Makalaurë has taken up. She doesn’t wonder what new animal languages Tyelkormo has learned. She doesn’t wonder if Carnistir still wants to write his book, or if Atarinke is coming close to the skill of his father, or what little Tyelpë has grown into. She doesn’t imagine Ambarussa running into danger with every new day, so far away from her.

(Except on the days when she can’t think about anything else.)

Somehow, against all of her instincts, life goes on.

There is no twinge from the bonds in her fëa, no sign of any change. She’s almost ready to think them safe, over there, maybe even thriving.

And then Anairë comes back.

Little Irissë used to follow Tyelkormo around everywhere. Fëanáro would watch her childish infatuation with much more indulgence than he ever afforded Findekáno and his friendship with Maitimo, perhaps because neither of them were their fathers’ heirs.

Where is Tyelkormo now, with his little shadow gone? Is Maitimo free to live his love for all to see? Have any of her sons married? Atarinke’s wife didn’t go into exile either, though she wants nothing to do with Nerdanel. The others left unpledged to anyone but that oath they all took.

To the everlasting darkness.

What if they fail?

Nerdanel has never truly wondered what will happen then, too busy missing them and cursing Fëanáro for it all.

Irissë’s marble figure looks back at her accusingly. All the arrows in her quiver are fletched with Tyelkormo’s special technique.

It’s fifty more years before she carves another face, but the question haunts her.

(Ñolofinwë looks grander and colder in stone than he ever did in life.)

Eärwen didn’t come to her when she lost Angaráto and Aikanáro. Nerdanel heard it through Anairë and mourned, but she can’t blame her. Eärwen never forgave the murder of her brothers – how could she – and she avoids Nerdanel if she can help it. She has only recently moved back to Tirion and rejoined her husband.

Arafinwë doesn’t publicize the death of his sons. He could call for city-wide mourning, but he keeps their grief private and personal. Few can see the bags under his eyes as he holds court as normal in the wake of his loss.

But a few weeks after Findaráto’s death, Nerdanel finds Eärwen at the door of her workshop.

The news come with rumours of a great battle, of spouses and parents and children all over Tirion feeling the loss. Anairë’s shoulders are hunched over with the weight of grief.

The white marble makes Findekáno’s skin seem almost transparent, compared to the warm brown of her memories.

She grieves for Maitimo as much as she grieves for Anairë. Her son could never hide from her his devotion for Findekáno, the depth of his feelings. Did Findekáno ever forgive him for the burning of the ships? Did they find some happiness together?

She will never know.

She tried, long ago, at Fëanáro’s bequest, to sculpt Míriel’s likeness from the body resting in the Garden of Lórien. She could never make her look alive.

Arafinwë waited years to commission a statue of Finwë. He put it in his throne room. Nerdanel hasn’t stepped foot in it since.

10.

She feels the bounds snap, snap, snap, only minutes apart. She collapses in the street, and the paint buckets in her hands spill around her, yellow and blue flowing into her red hair like a painting.

She comes back to herself on a couch in Anairë’s bower. For days, she only has the strength to weep until she makes herself sick.

Tyelkormo. Carnistir. Atarinke.

She locks herself inside her workshop. It is no refuge, only pain aggrandized, only grief carved into her soul. She can’t stand it. She keeps going.

When she finally emerges, after her father, worried, has come himself to find her, there are three new statues at the back of her atelier.

It doesn’t feel like it’s enough. It never has.

She doesn’t step inside the workshop again for several years.

11.

When she does, it’s for Anairë, who has now lost everything.

12.

She sculpts her twins together, in each other’s arms, inseparable even in eternal stillness.

(She can barely stand to look at them.)

13.

She knows now what her sons did over the sea. From the young Sinda girl and her strange husband, she has heard how they died. She has wept for their deeds as she wept for their deaths, and she weeps still for the two who live now on borrowed time, hunted and haunted by their own hand and the terrible Oath her husband had them swear.

Arafinwë has gone to war. Nerdanel wonders if Eärwen will come to her, when he doesn’t come back.

14.

Maitimo is beautiful, towering over her, his half-braided hair cascading down his shoulder. She can almost see the colours in the white marble veins, her own bright red reflected in his, the delicate tones of his skin.

Like her husband, he burned bright until the fire engulfed him entirely.

She falls to her knees at his feet. She has no tears left to weep.

15.

“He didn’t look like this, any more.”

Nerdanel turns sharply, to find Findaráto leaning against the door of the workshop.

He doesn’t look like he did under the light of the Trees, either. His face is a study of scars and new lines that didn’t fade in Mandos, and his gaze is heavy with pain. Nerdanel wonders what Eärwen did with his statue.

“He lost his right hand during his rescue from Angband,” Findaráto says, nodding at Maitimo’s likeness. “And he was heavily scarred.”

Nerdanel swallows around the lump in her throat, and runs a dusty hand through her hair. Does she want to keep her son unmarred in memory, as he no longer is?

She takes a breath and hold out her chisel. “Show me.”

16.

There are six statues at the back of her atelier. It is now clear of anything else, clean and aired and unused, her chisels and hammers put away in their racks.

Between the second and the third statue, there is an empty space. And in the middle of the workshop, a single slab of stone, waiting.

17.

It stays untouched.

18.

“Ammë,” her son murmurs as he collapses into her arms, fresh off the ship that brings him over the sea, after two ages of wandering.

He looks nothing like she remembers. He’s so thin that he hardly weighs in her embrace, half-faded, his face marked with age as no elf’s should be. He barely has a grip on where he is on a good day, and he is lost in time more often than not.

She doesn’t care.

And if she finds him in her workshop sometimes, talking to the statues of his father and his brothers as if they are alive, well. People have said that her likenesses look more real than real people.

(Makalaurë, standing still in the empty space that long awaited him, makes a better marble than live body.)

19.

One day, maybe, they will come back to her from Mandos, alive and safe. One day, maybe, Makalaurë will live again in the present more than he is in the past. One day, maybe, she will no longer be surrounded by faces of stones, and she will be able to stop grieving.

For now, she will bask in the presence of her last son and her grandsons – Tyelpë, all grown and only just re-embodied, and Elrond, who brought her Makalaurë back.

And she will wait.

#nerdanel #silmarillion #tolkien #silm fic #anaire #finrod #maglor #maedhros #feanor #celegorm #curufin #caranthir #ambarussa #echo's fanfiction

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dragonsbluee · 2 months

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It's Usopp day!! So here are some quick headcannons I've had bouncing around for a while:

Usopp is, hands down the best gift giver of the crew. One of his main love languages is acts of service, you know he's always ready for the crew's birthdays! If he can't find it, more often than not, he'll make it, so when his birthday rolls around, it's all hands on deck.

Contrary to popular belief, Usopp doesn't drink coffee that often. His anxiety plus caffeine isn't a great mix. He doesn't really have a preference between coffee or tea, he's more of a sweet drinks person.

At least twice a week, he and Robin spend some time caring for their plants together. He's working with Robin and Chopper to see if he can cross-breed pop greens with other plants.

Usopp journals pretty consistently. It's a habit he picked up from his mom when she was bedridden and trying to keep occupied and awake. He likes to write down his to-do list, ideas, and first sketches as they pop into his head. It's always somewhere on him or nearby, but no one is allowed to look through it.

(Its definetly not because he loves making little sketches of the crew as they go about their day)

Usopp's sketchbook is where he drafts out his blueprints and works on complex drawings. That's usually in his workshop, and he and Franky communicate on projects through little notes left on pages.

He and Nami are the most consistent writers of the log book. At first, Nami kept it up to date, but Usopp got involved to add more flare, and now it's their little ritual.

Usopp is a little touch starved, and especially after the whole water 7 debacle, starts seeking out comfort and physical affection from his crew mates. Evening cuddles with Luffy and Chopper quickly becomes a regular thing.

Brook and Usopp have a religiously scheduled time one day a week, dedicated to hair care. Neither usually care too much about the shower schedule, but Wash Day is sacred. They pull out all their products and shamelessly hog the bathroom. Sanji brings them snacks and drinks as needed. Sometimes, Chopper joins them when his fur needs a good clean. Brook and Usopp experiment with different styles on Ussop's hair if they have the time and energy. Both of them will never admit just how important it is to them, but they know.

It's not a grudge, per say, but Usopp definitely has some repressed anger towards Yasopp. He loves his dad, respects him, and looks up to him. He also socks him across the face before hugging him when they finally reunite.

It takes Usopp a few hours to wind down if he pushes his observation haki too far. His haki is strong, and it backfires a little, leading to a painful case of sensory overload. He has to lie down in the dark and built himself a wieghted blanket just for occasions like this.

Once, when he got a little too tipsy, and had spent a little too long staring at Kabuto upgrades, Usopp may have considered - very passionatly, out loud - how well Luffy's skin would work as a last ditch replacement for the rubber straps of his slingshot. It took them an hour to convince Luffy to come down from the rigging.

Usopp is not allowed to experiment with explosives on the Sunny unless he is manning the cannons. This is absolutely because of an incident when Ussop was on watch, sleep deprived, and experimenting with new ammunition. Luffy, Nami and Zoro have a pact to ensure Usopp and Buggy never interact with each other.

Speaking of sleep deprivation, when Usopp gets like that, he scares the crew and never even ends up remembering it. All of his intrusive and unhinged thoughts take over, and he loses any filter he has. He's tried to collect Chopper's fur to make a coat, made Jimbei sit still so he could colour match the exact shade of his skin, watered Zoro's head in the middle of his nap, started debating the worst ways to die and why with Robin and made a detailed plan to kidnap and train a news coo to get Nami free newspapers.

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ghostbeam · 9 months

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More charcoal artist!dabi x reader, smoking, mentions of nude drawings

Dabi waits for you by that tree, the one he saw you sitting under all those months ago. A cigarette hangs from his fingers, his loose anatomy sketches from class underneath his arm. He takes another drag before he spots you.

He exhales out the side of his mouth, dropping the cig to the ground and stomping it out with the toe of his boot. You haven’t noticed him, too busy looking around you, observing the bodies that pass, the clouds in the sky overhead. It’s easy for you to get distracted like that.

When you see him, a wide smile stretches across your face, and he notices how you start to walk faster. When you’re close enough, he wraps his fingers around your wrist, pulling you into him, chests colliding as he presses his lips to yours. When you swipe your tongue against his bottom lip, he pulls away.

“Sorry.” He speaks, forehead resting against yours. “I taste like smoke.”

“I like it.” You move your hands up his arms, resting on his shoulders.

“Okay.” He grins. “Kiss me again.”

You do. “Again.”

He lets his sketches fall to the ground so that he can wrap both arms around your waist. You moan against his lips, so quiet he could have missed it, but it’s enough to drive him crazy. He licks into your mouth. He wants another moan. He pulls away to place kisses against your jaw.

The wind picks up around the two of you and Dabi’s sketches go flying. You pull away with a gasp, moving to pick up the scattered pieces of paper.

“Shit.” He curses, moving to help you.

“I wanted to see these.” You tell him, gathering a small stack in your hands, examining the figures on the page.

“They were just for class. Nothing special.” He tells you as he chases the rest of the sketches down. You shake your head at his words, and also at how silly he looks going after the papers.

“It’s all special.” You tell him, taking the stack that he’s gathered from his hands. You sit down, and Dabi looks at you fondly, recalling that first day he saw you. “To me.”

You can feel the charcoal against your thumbs as you flip through the pages, the smudges of shadows over each nude figure coming off on your skin. Dabi slowly sinks down next to you as you look through his sketches.

He finds himself nervous every time you look at his work. You see everything, every piece of his soul in every line, stroke, and smudge. Even in something as simple as a sketch, you still see him. You look up at him, eyes scanning his face, his furrowed brow, how his teeth tear at the skin of his lips. You reach up to pull it from his teeth, leaving a streak of gray against it.

“Will you draw me?” You ask him. “Like this?”

#dabi x reader #bnha x reader #if there’s typos in this no there literally isn’t #except pls tell me if u catch one so I can change it and not be embarrassed forever and ever #dabi has no folders or binders or anything to keep his stuff in #carrying around loose paper #rawdogging college #anyways #uhhhhhhhhh yeah #ghost.writes #ghost.drabble

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who-knew-a-sheep-can-write · 1 month

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Sketches: Arthur Morgan x Plus-Sized!Reader (Semi-NSFW)

Nothing sexual, just drawings of a naked reader

From the moment you first met him, you would have never guessed that he could be this soft and gentle as a person. You had seen his hands bruised and bloodied, knuckles split and fingertips rubbed raw to the point they split open from the many fist fights and bar brawls he had been in. His hands, large and powerful like that of a bear, calloused from years of a hard life on the run, were not meant to be rest other than the little bit of peace he got when he would pass out after a horribly long day. His body, riddled with many scars, divots and healed over gashes, he had convinced himself that he would never let another see it in any way domestic after Mary.

He had convinced himself that he would never be able to live a domestic life.

Whenever he would ride into town or past the many farmhouses that dotted the southern countryside, he couldn’t help but feel envious at the sight of the many families that built up farms and towns. He yearned to have a life other than crime, but it was all he knew.

He almost didn’t believe he was alive when you both had started to fancy each other. Really, for Arthur, it was the moment you had joined in on the gang as it had really been your only hope at this point. He thought his brain had finally started to take a hike to nowhere when he caught you multiple times glancing at him - especially when he would stand up from picking something heavy up. You always looked away quickly, finding something immediately to occupy yourself and especially your hands, turning away to hide your heating face.

It wasn’t until you both found yourselves drunk in a dirty saloon, clinging onto each other while laughing at nothing like fools in love, barely managing to dance with each other as the pianist chimed away at the ivory keys that you both fell in love.

You had horribly misjudged Arthur upon first meeting him. Even as you laid next to him in his tent, your soft and plush body pushed up right against his rock-hard one, you still found yourself feeling so remorseful for thinking he was just some brute.

Arthur loved how warm you were. Some nights in his tent were brutal when horrible weather set in over the camp, especially when it rain and the winds howled outside, threatening to blow his tent right over. He loved how soft you were even more.

He felt like it was oh so wrong for his hands to grace your soft skin, but he loved it with every fiber of his being. He loved tracing shapes into your plush thighs without a thought in his mind. He loved digging his large hands into your wide hips to bring you closer to him. He loves coming into the tent after a long day of dealing with Dutch’s bullshit to bury his head in your stomach and hold you tightly as you combed your fingers through his hair.

It only made his heart ache something awful when he would be away from camp for days on end, whether it was somehow scraping together supplies for camp or chasing down jobs. Arthur always made sure to bring his journal wherever he went, but even more so now. Between the pages where he logged his thoughts in messy scripture and small doodles of whatever he came across, he would find himself writing about you. Sometimes it was little poems he would come up with on the spot so quickly he swore a child could write better. Sometimes it was him logging what you had said to him that clouded his mind, rooting in and flourishing like a field of flowers.

But what Arthur had been scribbling in his journal lately was something he even found himself flushing at: Your body. He didn’t mean to at first, but his hands had worked faster than his brain could process. But after the first sketch of you, he just had to do another, and then another in a different pose, and the one of you in a pose only he could see in the comforts of his tent.

That’s where Arthur found himself now, in his tent in the dead of night. The rest of the gang had finally gone to bed except for you the two of you. Arthur was lounged on his cot, his journal tucked up on his propped leg as the other hung off, his heel tapping against the hard ground. His eyes were trained on his journal, forest green hues dazed with lust, fingers were shaking ever so slightly, his fingertips were dusty with the ground up graphite from how much he had been sketching.

He poured his heart into the details of your body he loved so much. He swore he could never do justice, his drawings were nothing more than chicken scratch compared to the real thing.

Little did he know the real thing hadn’t actually gone to sleep in their own bed in their own tent, just waiting for everyone to finally fuck off to bed before they slipped out into the night as stepped lively to his own.

He chewed at the inside of his cheek in concentration. He had to get it all right: The way your body could move, the way you saunter around with those delish wide hips that tempt him every day, the way your soft belly curves, your thighs that could make him cry, your soft and round cheeks he loved to press kisses to. He loved how your naked body looked, he wished he could hold it forever until time would stop. He sketched your stretchmarks that would find himself tracing, your nipples pebbled when he would kiss at your chest, your hands grabbing at your ample body. He drew your legs apart this time, normally sketching them closed, as he tried to pay attention to the detail of your sex when he heard something that made him snap his journal closed in an instant.

His eyes shot up to his tent where he heard you clear your throat softly.

“Arthur?” you cooed softly at him. Just your voice alone sent warm vibrations down to his core. “You mind a lil’ company tonight?”

You parted the opening of his tent and stepped through, a perfect sight to really ignite the fire in him. A devious smile spread across your face at just the sight of Arthur’s pupils blown wide with a feral need.

“Darlin’, the day I say no to that is the day ya put me in the ground.”

#red dead redemption 2 #rdr #arthur morgan #arthur morgan x reader #arthur x reader

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