#rowan @solclaw | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

gingerbreadmonsters · 3 years ago

Text

ALL MINE

or: it’s easy to have a good time, if you don’t mind getting a little messy - all it takes is meringue, cream, and strawberries.

the long-awaited finale of LOVE HEART! gn!reader, domestic fluff to smut, absolutely and without exception minors dni. this is… a lot more explicit than i thought it was going to be - i really didn’t think i had this in me, but what @ejunkiet wants, @ejunkiet gets! i hope this does the hot boi summer aesthetic justice :) sweetheart’s a brit because i say so - it’s not necessary for the plot, but quite frankly i think it’s a crime that eton mess and trifle don’t exist in america, and this is my only way of promoting them, so there you go. @solclaw is the source of all knowledge, and i am making trifle in their honour - rowan darling there is always an extra bowl for you!

sweetheart is gender neutral, and their anatomy is not described. milo’s skin is stated to be of an appropriate colour to show love bites, but no specific colour is mentioned and the reader’s skin is not described at all. milo being an excellent sous chef for just over 3600 words.

this fic contains explicit content, and is 18+ only. minors please do not interact with this one i am BEGGING you. thank you.

“sweetheart, you’ve, uh… you’ve got a little somethin’ just there…”

“here?”

“a little higher, to the left - no, no, your left - let me just-”

he licks his thumb and strokes it over your cheek, wiping away the stickiness as your lips pull into a very familiar smirk. christ, he knows that look, knows what it means when you run your tongue over your teeth, eyebrow cocked and head tilted to the right - it usually means that whatever you’re about to say probably isn’t fit for polite company.

“it’s not fair - how come i always get it all over my face?”

damn that mouth of yours - even when he knows it’s coming, you still get him blushing up a storm. “not my fault you’re such a messy eater, sweetheart. maybe i oughta have you wearin’ an apron next time.”

you smack lightly him in the arm with the wooden spoon, laughing at his mock-outraged expression as you go back to your cake batter. “go and get me one then, lover boy. it’s weird to hear you telling me to put on clothes, though.”

he… yeah, he doesn’t really have a comeback to that.

the two of you have been in the kitchen all morning, putting together the desserts for david’s birthday party this afternoon. it’s pretty fucking warm today, early summer and all, so you’ve got all the windows open and the fan going full blast to try and balance out the heat from the oven. both of you are sweating from the humidity, so he’s can’t really be surprised you’d forgone the apron for a little while.

david always insists that he doesn’t want anything for his birthday, but the rest of the pack - as happens every year, and’ll probably happen until the end of time - has other ideas. about a month ago, his mate had sent him off on some errand or other and got straight on a video call with you, sam, and ash’s mate to get something together.

(he still can’t figure out how the four of you seem to read each other’s minds, ‘cause the lot of you can be fucking terrifying when you’re on a mission. if he’s honest, he’s still not recovered from that goddamn prank with the door, and he knows that ash has lived in permanent fear of sam’s overhand serve ever since his mate had made the dubiously-successful suggestion of late-night tennis. it’s got to be something to do with this secretive “mates’ group chat” he’s heard legends of…)

(it gets a little more complicated when you’ve got to get the actual wolves involved, but david’s mate is a force to be reckoned with when it comes to organising shit. jesus, it’s like they’re the alpha, sometimes, and you’ve told him that you’ve met superiors at DUMP that are less intimidating. it’s no bad thing - that’s what you need when you’re dealing with a crack team like the one right here.)

(well, maybe less of a crack team, and more of a team on crack, but that’s what you get for trying to get him and ash to actually stop bickering and decide on a playlist or whatever.)

in any case, the pair of you have been put in charge of desserts for today - well, nobody was going to have ash go anywhere near anything that needed to be edible, and sam had declined politely, saying something about how “unless david’s developed a taste for O negative, i might not be too much help in the caterin’ department”. fair enough.

it doesn’t help that basically the whole pack is coming, and wolves aren’t exactly known for their, uh, delicate eating habits. you’re going to need a lot of food, and as if that wasn’t enough, you’re going to have to impress david fucking shaw. looks like the fridge is going to be working overtime in this weather, huh?

you’d taken it as a challenge, which meant that yesterday evening had been dedicated to all of the shit that needed to set overnight: tiramisu, cheesecake, chocolate tart, caramel shortbread… he doesn’t know how the hell you managed to balance it all in the fridge, but he’s not touching it, not a chance.

(it’s got to the point where he had to ask you to grab him another can of soda off the shelf because he wasn’t looking to accidentally knock something over - you’d thought it was funny, but he’d been dead serious! that new flavour you bought - the ones in the pink cans? - is really good, especially in this heat, but it’s not worth a dessert catastrophe, alright?)

(he’s especially not going near the trifle on the middle shelf - it looks pretty freaking impressive, what with all the layers and shit, but he doesn’t need you mad at him for swiping one of the raspberries off the top.)

(he remembers you making it last time, when his ma’d come over for lunch at the weekend, and you’d damn near kicked his shit in for accidentally trying to put the custard in before the cream. let’s just say he’d got the message loud and clear - he doesn’t get in the way when you make trifle any more.)

this morning’s endeavours have got you two dashing about trying to get the last few desserts finished, in a flurry of buttercream and baking powder. neither of you could remember whether david likes chocolate or vanilla more, and his mate’s not picking up, so you’d just made both - the victoria sponge is cooling on the rack over by the microwave, and the chocolate cake’s just come out of the oven.

fuck, it’s hot in here today.

the morning is almost unbearably humid, sun beating down outside between a few, sparse clouds. looks like you’re both going to need a shower before you go, as if there wasn’t enough to do. his shirt’s unbuttoned, sleeves pushed up to the elbows and collar hanging open, and he’d be tempted to take it off entirely if he didn’t know that when he does that, you almost always end up late.

you’ve got all of the ingredients for cream puffs (at least, he thinks that’s what they’ll be? you’d rattled off some fancy name, and he’d just kind of nodded and gone back to his strawberry mousse) laid out on the counter, while he slices up some kiwi for the fruit salad.

he’s not bad at cooking, by any means, but you’re the pro when it comes to desserts - he’s really just your sous chef today, and the system seems to be working pretty well.

(hey, it’s not like he minds you bossing him around a bit. he certainly hasn’t been complaining about the view today, seeing as the warm weather’s got you wearing a little less than normal.. and christ, when you do that thing where you grab him by the hips to move him out of the way? you know exactly what that does to him, you little minx.)

speaking of b- wait, what the hell are you- “sweetheart, what on earth…?”

you appear to be bashing the ever-loving shit out of the meringues he’d bought from the store yesterday with a rolling pin, and a plume of powdered sugar drifts up out of the bowl to get blown apart by the fan as you look up at him.

“eton mess,” you say, as if that explains everything. “can you pass me the strawberries?”

you’ve eaten what? he takes a big gulp of soda and watches as you tip the strawberries into the massive bowl, followed by an equally-enormous helping of whipped cream, and start mixing it all together. is that all you’re going to do? oh, wait, you’re adding a few handfuls of blueberries and… yeah, you’re just carrying it over to the fridge.

“it’s really nice, actually. sweetened cream, fruit, and smashed-up meringue. plus, it’s meant to look like a trainwreck because it literally has mess in the name, so david can’t complain.”

actually, that’s a pretty good idea. he drops the empty can into the trash, already missing the coolness of the metal on his warm skin, and reaches for another kiwi. “well then, i’ll guess have to try some when we get there, won’t i?”

you stop just in front of him on your path to the fridge, holding the bowl in one arm, and catch his wrist with the other.

“...sweetheart?”

“we have to be there at 1, right?”

what’s that look on your face? yeah, that’s what the text from ash’s mate had said. “well, the party actually starts at 2, but we gotta give the others a hand setting up, first. why?”

“did you want to try some now?”

he’s not quite sure what you mean, and your fond little huff tells him that he’s probably making that dumb expression that you keep telling him is cute, but he thinks is plain embarrassing.

“the eton mess, genius. want some?”

well, it can’t hurt, can it? not if you’re offering, surely. plus, you’d just said it was supposed to look all jumbled up, so nobody’ll miss a little bit of cream off the top. he reaches behind him to grab a teaspoon when-

“mmmm, it’s really sweet.”

his jaw drops. he swallows heavily, very glad that he hadn’t had a mouthful of soda, watching as you finish licking the cream off your fingers and hum contentedly. there’s a tiny smudge of powdered sugar just by the corner of your lip.

“baby, you gotta…”

the thought tapers off into nothing as you dip your finger back into the bowl and swipe it through the cream, looking up from your hand to meet his gaze. “don’t worry, honey. i already washed my hands.”

your other hand deposits the dessert on the kitchen table behind you, and comes to slide around his waist, under his shirt, as you move closer. idly, he feels your fingers playing with the back of his waistband. his own hands, still sticky with kiwi juice, hover just over your hips.

“go on. try some.”

no need to tell him twice. he leans down and licks your finger into his mouth.

mmmm, you were right, it is good. the sweet cream tastes like vanilla and strawberries, and the crunchy pieces of meringue melt slowly in his mouth. he swirls his tongue around the tip of your finger, eyes closed, lapping up the drops of strawberry juice in the creases and spirals of your fingerprint.

your other hand is digging insistently into his back now, fingernails pressing into the muscle there as his teeth graze across your skin, biting gently at the pad of your fingertip before releasing it from his mouth with an exaggerated pop.

“...how was it?” you’re both breathless, not an inch of space between you as he slowly licks his lips.

“i’m not too sure, sweetheart,” as he spins you both around so you’re leaning up against the counter, “i might need another taste to make sure.”

your answering grin only lasts a split second before he’s kissing you, all tongue and teeth and powdered sugar. sticky hands come up to cup your jaw as you greedily reciprocate, hastily untying the knot of your apron behind you.

everything is hot, the fiery heat of your lips against his as he growls softly into your mouth, and he briefly thinks that he probably ought to put the bowl behind you in the fridge before you get too distracted.

the thought is quickly forgotten when he feels you start to play with the tab of his zipper - he tips his head back and gasps as you press burning kisses down his throat, nipping at his adam’s apple.

“baby, baby - aghhh…”

you smile against his skin, cheek resting on his shoulder. “too much?”

“no, nonono, it’s good, ‘s really, really, oh, sweethea- fuckfuckfuckplease-!”

his brain goes delightfully blank as your fingers dip inside the elastic of his boxers and close around his cock. the pressure is just enough to have him groaning, hips twitching forwards into your hand, slow strokes just the way you know he likes.

head spinning, he pulls hazily at the hem of your shirt, too drunk on your touch to hear your laughter (he can’t quite tell if you’re calling him “needy” or “pretty”, and it really could be either), too desperate to worry about the careless way he’s practically tearing your clothes off you.

whatever it was, he’ll buy you a new one.

now that he thinks about it, with what little brainpower he can summon, this is probably why you asked him what time the party started.

“let - hahhh - sweetheart, let me touch you too,” he’s burying himself in your neck frantically, pushing his face against the sweet spot under your jaw, “wanna touch, want you feelin’ good, let m- shit, right there- sweetheart!”

you nod, regretfully withdrawing your hand as he hoists you up to sit on an empty part of the counter, between a stack of cookbooks and the side of the fridge. as soon as you’re settled, he wastes no time in pulling your face back down for another kiss while you shimmy out of the rest of your clothes.

you dangle your shirt just at the edge of his vision, showing off the unfortunate rip in the side seam that couldn’t possibly have been his fault, but you’re quickly placated by his teeth skimming over your now-bare collarbone.

he’s fairly sure you forget about it entirely when he makes good on his promises - one arm hooks around your shoulder and up to the far side of your head to nestle your face down into his neck, and the other runs over your chest and down your stomach until he finds what he’s looking for.

“nnnng, milo- ah!” your stifled keening goes straight to his head as you rock into his hand, voice breaking as he works you harder. he always knows how to make you sloppy, slick snaps of his wrist just where you’re most sensitive. “more, more, need it, yesyesyes-”

he shushes you softly, kissing the top of your head while he makes you see stars. “that’s it, sweetheart, mate, my mate, so good, so so good, that’s my baby…”

your hands scrabble to push his shirt off his shoulders, but it doesn’t quite work with his arm up by your head as he keeps you upright, cheek now against his chest. instead, you settle for reaching back down to stroke him faster this time, feeling more than hearing the growl that shudders through him as you tease the tip.

he feels the pleased thrumming of your mate bond, right in his chest where you’re pressed against him, and curses lowly as you kiss just over where the magic settles. goddamn, does it feel good when you’re both all blissed out like this - heady pleasure ricochets across the bond, building and building inside, misting in his mind until he’s not sure where he ends and you begin.

both of you are shaking now, sticky with sweat and eyes screwed shut as you prop each other up. he knows he’s getting close, faster than usual, but he doesn’t want to stop so soon, especially not when you - fucking hell, when you twist your hand like tha- haaah…

“sweetheart - sweetheart, please, can i…?”

he doesn’t even get the whole question out, although that’s probably for the best seeing as he’s not sure his love-drunk brain can manage full sentences right now. you’re already wrapping your legs around his waist and urging him closer to you, one hand on his shoulder and the other spreading yourself open for him.

“yeah, yeah, please, milo i need you, love you, love you so much…” he can tell that you’re having as much trouble as he is with words, but even so your voice is equal parts lust and love as you lean in to sweetly kiss his nose. fuck, you’re hot, and he can’t help but smile softly at the adoration on your face when he presses his forehead to yours, reaching up to gently smooth his thumb over your cheek.

the world goes blurry for a second as he pushes into you - you’re so warm, so slick and tight, aching for him to fill you, hold you, please you. the mate bond in his chest is white-hot and happy, sparking with joy as you tug him closer. he sets a decent pace, a little faster than normal, savouring the way you stutter and whine with pleasure into his skin.

“feels - mmf! - you, you, i-” the stack of cookbooks by your hip totters as you hastily push it aside, limbs clumsy and breath hitching.

“i, yeah, i know, ‘s good, so fucking perfect, sweetheart-!”

he grinds his cock deeper and deeper, laying you back on the counter and pressing his weight down over your body. the change in angle lets him nudge up against that sweet spot that has you gasping for air, back arching up into him and hot, needy tears threatening to spill over.

he feels the sudden burst of ecstasy as it rushes through you and overflows into your bond, and he moans, long and broken, into your neck. your hand slips between your bodies, lower and lower, so he tilts his hips just a little to give you the room you need to - shit, he loves watching you make yourself feel good, and the way you tighten and tense around him is almost, almost too much.

every instinct tells him to mark you, his mate, and he feels his teeth start to ache as you rock up into him.

he licks over your pulse, feels it pounding under his tongue, and wordlessly urges you to do the same. your free arm loops around him and your fingers tangle into his hair as you seek out the fading hickeys on his neck, a satisfied hum swelling in your chest as new ones blossom in the wake of your mouth.

his teeth dig into your shoulder when you leave a particularly dark love bite just above his collarbone, and he can tell that neither of you are going to last much longer.

“milo, milo- nnnng, so much, can’t… please!”

giddy with pleasure, he threads his arm under your waist to press right back into that sweet spot inside you, the heat of you too much to bear. “yeah, s’okay, sweetheart, s’okay, let go - baby, fuck, mine, my mate, all m- haahh-!”

his core sings with yours, desire and love and bliss washing over the bond and sloshing around in his chest. somehow, his lips find yours, and for a second - no, an hour - no, forever, he and you are paradise.

slowly, the world begins to filter back in, and he watches fondly as you grab the side of the fridge to pull yourself upright.

“how- how long do we have?” your voice is soft and a little hoarser than before.

he blinks up at the clock over by the doorway. “it’s… nearly half past eleven?”

your eyes meet, and you sigh once before pushing him back a step and letting him help you down off the counter. he’s sure that he probably looks totally fucked out right now, hair a mess and eyes still a little dreamy, but he helps you into the bathroom and leaves you to shower.

(he’d much prefer to shower with you, but he knows exactly how that’s going to end, and neither of you need david’s mate yelling at you for turning up late. he’ll be damned if ash and his mate beat you there again.)

walking back into the kitchen, he picks up the remains of both of your clothes and heads towards the bedroom to put them in the laundry hamper, remembering halfway through that he needs to put your bowl of meringue-cream-whatever in the fridge. and finish cutting the fruit. and melt the chocolate, and turn the cake out of the pan, and-

the sound of running water in the bathroom stops. he’ll do it in a minute.

surprisingly, you do actually make it to david’s house mostly on time, although unfortunately not before ash catches you two running in from the car. he smiles wickedly as he opens his mouth, presumably to say something about the very obvious hickeys all over milo’s throat, but you cut him off before he can even manage a wolf whistle.

“milo, baby, did you bring the tennis rackets, or is sam going to?”

ash immediately flinches, life apparently flashing before his eyes, and ducks back into the house - presumably to beg his mate not to make him play against sam again. you snicker, leaning into his side, and god, does he love you.

(he did not bring the rackets, thank goodness. david would probably commit a murder if he thought they were going to try and fuck up his yard with tennis.)

(again.)

“you’re somethin’ else, you know that, sweetheart?”

“yeah,” you reply, “and you like it.”

well, he can’t say no to that. the pair of you wave david’s mate over to help you carry the desserts inside, and he’s suddenly overcome with a rush of affection as you heft the stack of cake tins in your arms.

just before you cross the doorway, he stops you.

“hold on a second, baby. i think you’ve, got a little somethin’ just there…”

“hmmm? where?”

he kisses the side of your cheek sweetly, “all gone now, sweetheart. just a little leftover cake mixture, is all.”

your face splits into a devilish grin as you realise what he’s doing, and in the early afternoon sun it makes you look like a goddamn angel.

“not my fault i’m such a messy eater.”

PART 4 - always read the label

masterlist

this is an original work by @gingerbreadmonsters - please do not repost or misattribute

#redacted asmr #milo x sweetheart #redacted milo #redacted sweetheart #redacted smut #redacted fluff #milo x reader #redacted asmr smut #redacted asmr fluff #ginger after dark #ginger writes #gingerbreadmonsters

327 notes · View notes

softredrobin · 3 years ago

Text

cinnamon

An evening at home with Avior & his starlight. t, 3286 words; if i have to make them happy with my own two hands, so be it. presenting postcanon domestic avior. cw for some discussion of food issues / forgetting to eat.

“Senses are so different on this plane, clearly delineated, sharp and weighty and meaningful, and to those senses this room is full of grounding traces of his starlight, the evidence of their presence; a candle burned recently enough that the wax hasn’t settled, the faint smell of cinnamon, a jacket left on the sofa instead of the coat rack. It settles something at his core to see a home that they can change, a place that they can leave a mark on.”

on ao3, or full fic under the cut. 💜

Keep reading

#holy SHIT rowan #beautiful beautiful beautiful #they're in love your honor #<333 #the domesticity!!!!!#the forgetting to eat thing!! i never even thought of that but they definitely would after not needing to for so long #gods....your brain.......#avior is one of my less frequented characters but i still love him and this was beautiful!!!!#the whole thing w the ability to change as proof that theyre really there?#kind of heartbreaking #but somehow written to be heartwarming #like... just taking comfort in the lil things left behind as a result of starlight living somewhere :-) theyre so smitten w each other #literally i live for the pointing out that proof of someones existence can be found in the little details about their home #and u did that!!!!!! and its perfect #anyway all that is to say i love this and i love you for posting it 💜💜💜#ren recs #avior my beloved #solclaw 💜

111 notes · View notes

sollucets · 3 years ago

Text

I posted 1,083 times in 2022

That's 1,083 more posts than 2021!

213 posts created (20%)

870 posts reblogged (80%)

Blogs I reblogged the most:

@/ejunkiet

@/solclaw

@/pearl-kite

@/fooltofancy

@/softredrobin

I tagged 1,046 of my posts in 2022

Only 3% of my posts had no tags

#rasmr - 238 posts

#rowan chatter - 136 posts

#rasmr fic - 94 posts

#art - 57 posts

#self reblog - 52 posts

#wip reblogs - 51 posts

#my fic tag - 40 posts

#redacted asmr - 39 posts

#tag games - 35 posts

#rowan lore - 34 posts

Longest Tag: 133 characters

#i can see their dressup day so vividly i almost wanna write it myself… gavin in a victorian gown…. gender….. ends with a ring……. ahhh

My Top Posts in 2022:

8 and/or 22 for the micro prompts!!

from this list, sunbathing + nap. it's been a while since i've written something about characters waking up /s /s /s /s so thank u very much for the prompt!! i am returning to my roots here. please note that this implies Activities but would still be t rated

💜

"Sam," they murmur, lips brushing the skin of his collarbone as they speak. "Sam."

He's a light sleeper; most Vamps are, since they don't need it the way others do. It's barely a second before he's moving under them, his breath catching as he comes back to awareness and his arm tightening reflexively where it's secured around their waist. "Darlin'?"

"It's okay," they tell him, quiet voice rasping after the workout they'd given it before their nap. "Nothing's wrong. We just gotta move."

They watch him carefully as he wakes. This isn't so familiar yet that they can miss it, that they can look away from these moments they've been allowed into. In the near-dark, they can just barely see what a human wouldn't. He checks his surroundings, gaze passing over their bare back and the couch and finally up to the reason they'd disturbed him: the light through the window, threatening to brighten.

"And what if I wanted to sunbathe, huh?" he asks, voice wry.

At his house, the windows are few and all fitted with blackout curtains, but this is their shitty little apartment and their ratty, bloodstained couch (again, he'd come back, somehow), and it's going to be sunrise soon. Their head had been too fuzzy and content and warm to think of it just after, senses full of his hands steady on their waist and his voice low and rumbling, and they'd drifted off. For once, they're grateful for their inability to sleep a full night.

"You're welcome to get crispy if that's what you really want," they say, shifting off him with a groan and watching with quiet delight as his eyes snap to follow their movements.

Sam hums, sitting up after them and letting them take both his hands to tug him to a standing position. They both know he doesn't need it, but they like his hands, and he follows after them like that towards the bedroom, where they intend to hang a comforter over the single window and shut out the impending morning. Just before they enter the room, he adds, simply, "I know what I really want."

There's nothing for it after that but to pull him onto the bed in a tangled pile of sleep-warm skin and kiss him until they can't breathe, until the very last second before the sun rises and they have to scramble, laughing, to hide from the light again.

75 notes - Posted May 26, 2022

it is again wednesday

@/ejunkiet tag! <3 thank you

this is the same fic from last wip i posted; sorry, i know that wasn’t that long ago, but it’s got more words in it now. i won’t post from this again before it’s done, we will all just have to wait (yes we... i am waiting too, you understand how it is)

i would like to gently tag @/bicyclepainting (if u want to!! fully none pressure. its just that it worked last time eheheheh) and anyone who sees it and would like to!

💜

“Ash?” they ask, in the barest of whispers. “You awake?”

He makes a little rasping noise that’s halfway to being a groan, his arm tightening around their waist. They don’t fight the fondness that wells up in their chest, and they don’t push him, either. It’s another long few moments before he speaks, murmuring, “G’mornin’, babe,” into the tiny space between them.

It sends an involuntary shudder down their spine to hear him, his voice so husky right on waking up that it’s barely anything but gravel, vowels drawn-out and lazy. He notices (of course he does) and the visible corner of his mouth tips up into a smug little smile. “Good morning,” they answer.

Asher cracks one eye open, the blue one, to look at them. “Nice view,” he says, still in that low rasp.

They match his grin with one of their own, shifting just a bit so it’s easier to see his face. “Keep talking.”

He snickers, both eyes open now, and gives them an obvious, exaggerated once-over, gaze half-lidded as it wanders down their body. “...You’re the sexiest alarm clock I’ve ever seen.”

Taken aback, they let out an inelegant snort. “I will take even your weirdest compliment if you say it in that voice.”

“I literally just woke up,” Asher retorts, although his eyes are crinkling at the corners. “And... mmh. It’s hard to think when you’re not wearing a shirt, I’ll have you know.”

I could say the same for you, they almost say.

80 notes - Posted May 4, 2022

33 with Gavin/Freelancer? (I am so predictable requesting them but. listen) or any other pairing tht strikes ur fancy!!

33: saccharine

hi calico! thank u for sending me a prompt 💜 i think this might be an instance of taking it a little too literally

💜

"Gav," they call out into the house, not looking up from the contents of the saucepan. "Darling, light of my life, apple of my eye, treasure--"

The rush of wind that accompanies a rift cuts them off, and they laugh a little as familiar arms loop around them from behind. "What do you need me to do?"

They snort. "Can't I say extremely saccharine things to my beloved boyfriend without an ulterior motive?"

"I suppose you can," he concedes, "but you definitely aren't. What is it?"

Casting a brief glance back at his knowing little grin, they return their eyes to their project, one hand at the ready with a whisk. "Can you make a bowl of cold water? I'd meant to just let it sit, but the timing's wrong."

And maybe, just maybe, they could chill it themself, but this is time-sensitive, and it's water, so it's better if he does it. Gavin pulls away, and after a moment they hear the sink running. Another moment later, they feel the familiar flare of Gavin's magic, just the slightest touch. If he didn't want them to, they'd never feel it at all; this is part of something they'd asked him to do to get a handle on different people's auras, to get used to feeling magic around them.

Gavin's is like the brush of fabric against newly-shaved skin, silky and smooth and often fleeting. (Not for them, though, they think, with a deserved trace of smugness.)

"Will this do?" he asks, returning to them with a glass bowl of water that steams a little when it comes near the stove.

"Wonderfully, thank you," they say, leaning up to kiss his cheek distractedly. The second he puts the bowl down they transfer the pan into it, the hissing drowning out every other sound for the ten seconds the sauce needs to quench.

When they pull it out, the caramel sauce in the pan has settled to a perfect warm brown, and they grin triumphantly, turning the stove off. "All set. If you want this on your ice cream, get it out before it's too cold to pour."

He doesn't comply right away, and they glance over their shoulder again at him to find him doing that birdlike little head-tilt he does at particularly human things. "I wouldn't have thought that was how you made it," he says aloud.

"It's just really hot sugar," they say, realizing a second too late they've left a massive innuendo window open. It really pays to be more careful about your wording, living with this man.

Sure enough, the "suits you well, then," comes right on cue, and they scrunch their nose up and go back to stirring. They don't even try to fight back the fondness. He'd said once, quiet against their ear in the sleepy moments before full blackness, that their happiness felt like bubbles to him, shimmering and beautiful and popping soft against his skin when it's directed at him, and denying him that isn't worth even the pretense of exasperation.

Gavin returns from the freezer with the open ice cream container, and when they turn to face him, he grins, that slow, spreading one they've come to love. "You have a little something," he says softly, reaching out. "Just... there."

91 notes - Posted May 27, 2022

cinnamon

Senses are so different on this plane, clearly delineated, sharp and weighty and meaningful, and to those senses this room is full of grounding traces of his starlight, the evidence of their presence; a candle burned recently enough that the wax hasn’t settled, the faint smell of cinnamon, a jacket left on the sofa instead of the coat rack. It settles something at his core to see a home that they can change, a place that they can leave a mark on.

on ao3, or full fic under the cut. 💜

It’s a long few seconds of standing in his love’s apartment before he feels sure the rift has worked. Avior observes the details, the coffee table with its many concentric rings from drinks left unattended in favor of half-formed hypotheses, the scattered mess of letters across the counter, the dull light of the living room’s sole lamp casting long shadows across the floor.

Rifting is a matter of knowing your destination, of imagining it in close detail, of feeling how it feels to be there and then being there. Avior hates how, even coming to the one place on Elegy he has come to know better than any other, he still sometimes expects to open his eyes to fire. He still fights the urge to brush at his shoulders to rid himself of the feeling of trailing tendrils of blackness, of the feeling that each time he does this the Meridian looms closer.

Avior shakes his head, just to fight off the fuzziness that always comes alongside returning from Aria. Senses are so different on this plane, clearly delineated, sharp and weighty and meaningful, and to those senses this room is full of grounding traces of his starlight, the evidence of their presence; a candle burned recently enough that the wax hasn’t settled, the faint smell of cinnamon, a jacket left on the sofa instead of the coat rack. It settles something at his core to see a home that they can change, a place that they can leave a mark on.

There are traces of him here, too. Avior doesn’t have many possessions, as he’s rarely spent enough time on Elegy to warrant a permanent record of his presence. That’s begun to change, among so many other things, since their escape. One corner of the sofa is indisputably his, a soft red blanket they’d bought for him still indented oddly from the last time he’d sat there. He has a designated coffee mug in their cupboard. What few possessions he had called his own, his meager book collection, have merged with his starlight’s next to their piles and piles of research texts and shelves full of poetry collections and time-worn fantasy novels.

For all he sees them in each part of the room, they are not actually home. Time can be difficult between planes, but they’d said there was an evening meeting today, so they should be back soon. They will be back soon.

Avior goes over to the bookshelf and casts his eyes along the titles for something to read as he waits, but despite his best efforts, his attention is scattered enough that all he’s doing is rereading the same spine over and over, that odd blurriness still plaguing the edges of his awareness. He tries, for a long fruitless moment, to convince himself he isn’t straining his senses beyond the apartment, searching for them. It’s barely been two days, and they’re coming home. There’s no need to be pathetic.

He still jerks his head up like he’s been trained when he feels them at the edge of his magic, though. That range is further than his corporeal senses, and his range with them is further than it is with anyone he’s ever known, enough that he can tell immediately they’re angry about something. Their emotions are intense, white-hot, and most of all contained, a controlled burn. Feeling his back tense up in sympathetic concern, Avior sighs and goes to the kitchen. He takes two mugs out, his (deep blue with the dots of Carina across its front) and theirs (black with ‘Don’t Talk to Me At All For Any Reason’ in bold white letters) and sets to making tea. Avior has relatively little experience with human food; they’d taught him how in this very kitchen, explaining the kettle and the infuser and the entire cabinet dedicated to all their different little bags. He suspects that someone less particular about it might have instructed him with fewer steps.

He’s done this enough times now that he can split his attention to examine their feelings a little closer as they near the apartment. They’re stewing over whatever it is, letting the cause sit burning at the back of their throat. That isn’t the kind of thing he’d be able to tell, usually; all he can feel is that anger, its direction, but he knows them. If it’s this bad, they haven’t been able to address it yet.

When their footsteps are finally audible in the hallway, things are almost ready. Avior could have made tea with magic and been waiting with two fresh cups, sure, but every time he does it that way they complain that something tastes wrong about it, then pepper him with questions about what specific part of the process he's accomplished with magic. This way, they’ll know that it’s because of his own deficient tea-making skills if it isn’t up to standard.

The kitchen smells good, at least. That should help.

They tumble in through the door in a flurry of emotion and sound. He can hear them grumbling something under their breath at the same time as he hears the telltale flop of yet another jacket thrown onto the couch. It’s another few seconds of them stomping around before they stop still, and a shining ray of surprised delight breaks through the storm cloud in their aura.

“Avi?” they call.

“In here,” he answers, checking on the tea.

In no time at all, their face appears in the kitchen entryway. They look like they’re trying to smile at him, but the frown they no doubt came in with hasn’t left yet, and the effect is quite silly looking. “Welcome home, my love,” he tells them, and the last traces of visible irritation melt away.

He can still feel it bubbling under the surface, but the relief and care that accompany their smile are real. They cross the kitchen to where he’s standing near the kettle and snake their arms around his waist from behind, hooking their chin over his shoulder with some difficulty. “Hi,” they say, the single syllable curling delighted and familiar. “I didn’t expect you back so soon. Weren’t you with Circinus?”

“I was,” he answers, leaning into their hold without his conscious input. Their heart is beating strong and steady against his back, and their aura settles against his, and things have clicked into place again. He’s home. “We weren’t sure how long I’d be required at the Chorus this time; as it turns out, it was less than they anticipated.” The timer he’d set beeps, and he goes about taking the kettle over to the counter, hindered slightly by their complete refusal to let go of him. “Do you intend to hang off of me the entire time?”

They hum contentedly, tightening their hold on his waist in a quick squeeze. “Yes, and don’t pretend you don’t like it. How were they? Circinus, I mean. I like them.” Pointedly, Avior takes his steps across the kitchen, forcing them to walk after him or be dragged. They laugh right in his ear and let him drag them.

“They like you too,” he concedes, pouring both cups. Of course they would. Circinus loves answering questions, a fortunate trait in a shepherd, and the one time the two had met, his starlight had absolutely pelted them with every question under the sun. Avior had sat back and watched them like a tennis match, glad that at least one of them couldn’t feel how hopelessly, impossibly fond seeing his mentor and his beloved getting along had made him. “They’re well. They’ve taken a new charge recently, as I think you might recall, and that’s been something of a fulfilling challenge for them.”

“Right, right, yeah, they told me.” The moment their mug is full, they immediately and without a hint of regret detach themself from his back to make grabby hands at it, leaning back against the counter. When he passes it to them, they wrap both hands around the mug immediately with a long, drawn-out sigh. Avior takes a drink from his own cup and deems it acceptable; his isn’t the opinion he’s looking for, though.

They don’t immediately follow suit, instead blowing gently across the top of the liquid, and he takes the moment to observe them closer. That flickering anger he’d felt before is banked now, under layers of fondness and tiredness and warmth, but it’s still there, nudging at the edges of his senses with a surprising amount of immediacy.

“I take it your meeting didn’t go as you might have hoped?”

They blink at him over the rim of their mug once, twice. “Do you want me to get into it? Because I’ll have to get into it.”

Avior hisses out a sympathetic noise through his teeth. “That well?”

“Yeah.”

“Would you like to get into it?”

Furrowing their brow, they stare at the tea in their mug like it holds all the answers in the universe for a long moment, and for someone like them, that is a significant expression. “Yes. No. Maybe.” They take a sip, then tilt their head at him consideringly, distracted. “This is good.”

See the full post

101 notes - Posted May 18, 2022

My #1 post of 2022

wip wthursday

@/calicostorms says post wip; wip i shall post

i’m actually kinda. stalled on both of the ones i have right now, but there is more vincent than i have yet posted so have some of that

💜

Having them both taking classes has been a bit of an adjustment. Vincent can only go at night, so their schedules have become even more diametrically opposed than usual, and they’ve both been so busy they’ve been talking a lot less than usual. Just yesterday all they’d done on getting home was sit together at the kitchen counter, heads bent over their respective assignments.

(It’s new to them, just occupying the same space as someone else, quiet and comfortable. No touching, barely any talking, no end game, just content to exist near each other. They take some comfort in knowing it’s new to Vincent, too.)

Their boyfriend opens his eyes again to look up at them, said eyes creasing slightly at the edges as his expression softens. “How was your day?” he asks, and the true miracle is that he sounds genuinely interested.

“Long,” they tell him, “but good. I got that essay back from the Illusory teacher. One of my classmates saw that it said ‘good work’ and fully lost her mind.”

Vincent chuckles, his shoulders moving up and down against the rug under him. “You deserve it, lovely. Your work is more than good, and I know you spent a lot of time on that.”

They laugh, a little higher-pitched than usual, and lean over him to press a kiss to his forehead. They’re more comfortable with his praise than their notoriously-difficult-to-impress instructor’s, at least, worn down after months of his constant deluge of compliments, but they can still feel the urge to curl in on themself and deny it. “Thank you,” they tell him instead, no matter how much it grates, and they’re rewarded with a smile.

292 notes - Posted May 26, 2022

Get your Tumblr 2022 Year in Review →

#heehee this is fun #ive ionly Very Very recently begun to reblog things without tags but it still gives me hives #that longest tag is for sure me commenting on ginger’s incubus standing in the road #which is an absolute banger of a fic #that top post is like that because it was Infested with bots for months by the way so thats a little sad but its ok #i revived my tumblr this year so this is kinda nice and nostalgic #and um… two of these are for fics i STILL havent finished #lmao i ….. well. someday perhaps #i make no promises tbh im just doing my best now

6 notes · View notes

gingerbreadmonsters · 3 years ago

Text

I posted 2,211 times in 2022

That's 1,862 more posts than 2021!

559 posts created (25%)

1,652 posts reblogged (75%)

Blogs I reblogged the most:

@gingerbreadmonsters

@sri-rachaa

@ejunkiet

@sealriously-sealrious

@slushrottweiler

I tagged 1,972 of my posts in 2022

Only 11% of my posts had no tags

#ginger reblogs art - 213 posts

#redacted asmr - 165 posts

#icymi <3 - 148 posts

#a cheeky timezone rb - 97 posts

#rae beloved <3 - 76 posts

#ginger speaks to anons - 69 posts

#ginger speaks to lovely blogs - 66 posts

#gingerbreadmonsters - 59 posts

#ginger writes - 42 posts

#ooh a game! - 29 posts

Longest Tag: 135 characters

#i will most likely end up posting the same version here and on ao3 bc can you imagine reformatting the whole thing like that 😵‍💫😵‍💫

My Top Posts in 2022:

ALL MINE

or: it’s easy to have a good time, if you don’t mind getting a little messy - all it takes is meringue, cream, and strawberries.

this fic contains explicit content, and is 18+ only. minors please do not interact with this one i am BEGGING you. thank you.

“sweetheart, you’ve, uh… you’ve got a little somethin’ just there…”

“here?”

“a little higher, to the left - no, no, your left - let me just-”

“it’s not fair - how come i always get it all over my face?”

he… yeah, he doesn’t really have a comeback to that.

(well, maybe less of a crack team, and more of a team on crack, but that’s what you get for trying to get him and ash to actually stop bickering and decide on a playlist or whatever.)

fuck, it’s hot in here today.

he’s not bad at cooking, by any means, but you’re the pro when it comes to desserts - he’s really just your sous chef today, and the system seems to be working pretty well.

See the full post

174 notes - Posted May 13, 2022

in the style of @yetdevout

214 notes - Posted August 14, 2022

fizzing hot day!

or: he feels like seawater, drying on soft skin.

gn!reader, no content warnings, unless you count shirtless simeon (which, let's face it, we probably should). oh simeon, my sweet and tragic beloved. is this an established relationship? you’re looking at me like i have any idea. inspired by MIKA’s ‘sanremo’ and ‘tiny love’ - strongly suggest listening to those as you read! i am convinced that late afternoon on the beach in the sun is a different world altogether. simeon discovering what beach days are for in just over 1100 words.

it’s a beautiful summer’s day today, and you’ve decided to go to the beach.

you’ve been here before, so you know roughly which parts of the waterfront to head for and which to avoid. luckily, there’s only a handful of other people here today - no families with noisy children, or big get-togethers with loud music, or holidaymakers dragging huge umbrellas across the sand only to inevitably sit right in front of you.

just the occasional few people, scattered across the beach, peacefully soaking up the sun and the breeze and the quiet.

“so, how exactly does this work again?”

you get the feeling that simeon still doesn’t quite understand the purpose of sunscreen.

“but humans need sunlight to live, surely. when we’re in the devildom, you and solomon have to eat those… the little yellow marble things in the jar? why do you have to protect yourself from the sun when you eat your sunlight pills every day anyway?”

or, apparently, what your vitamin d supplements are.

(you explain it to him every time - you know by now that it doesn't work, but his concentrating-face is so adorable that you do it anyway. his big blue eyes go all wide and earnest, his lips part just slightly, and your heart goes all fluttery, every time.)

it doesn't matter. you take the bottle from his hand and squeeze a good amount into your palm. time to get to work.

"but d-aaah…"

his body is smooth and pliant under your hands, muscles relaxing into your firm touch as you rub the sunscreen into his back. you work over the crest of his shoulder blades and down to the small of his back, watching the soft, rich shimmer of his skin under the summer sun. the breeze is cool and gentle as it washes over you.

he stretches out on the sand underneath you like a cat, lithe and lean, and all of a sudden you suspect that he won't protest the next time you offer to put sunscreen on him.

"well, if you - mmm - put it that way, i can see why humans - hahhh - why humans bother with all of this."

exactly.

it takes a little while to get yourselves sorted, considering how distracting simeon's general state of undress is, but before long you're both settled under the umbrella. it's too heavy for you to normally bother bringing it, but it turns out that simeon's angelic strength is good for more than just opening jars and manhandling solomon away from the oven - who knew? it's a good thing too, what with the way the sunlight beats down over the sand, shattering over the waves.

for a little while, the world is quiet.

just you and him. the smell of salt, the crunch of sand, the rush of water. the sky is a rich and endless blue.

you open your eyes. you're not sure when you closed them, but when you turn your head, the distant shapes of seagulls twist and scatter in the sky. from here, the water looks cool and inviting - perhaps it'll be nice to go and dip your toes in.

“mmm, that sounds good. here, let me help you up, love.”

the sand scrapes pleasantly between your toes as you walk towards the water, fingers entwined with simeon's. as you get closer, an idea pops into your head - does simeon know how cold the water is the first time? you start to run, laughing, pulling him by the hand as he stumbles along, damp sprays of sand kicking up behind you both as the balls of your feet leave clumsy divots behind you.

simeon’s laughing too now, eyes scrunched up into happy half-moons as the water comes rushing up to meet you, still running full-tilt into the surf as you brace yourself for the inevitable-

“mc, d-hahhhh!”

yep, after an hour or two spent lying under the warm sun, the water is just as coldcoldcold as you’d predicted - and, if the way that he’s clinging to your waist and shaking his head frantically in protest is any indication, much colder than simeon had been expecting.

“you’re - hahh - mc, you’re so mean to me!”

he smiles playfully into your hair as he says it, and as you chase away the goosebumps across his back with your palms, it sounds like“i love you”.

you don’t let go of each other, but somehow you drift a little further into the water until you’re up to your waist - the temperature gradually gets a little more bearable, but you still shiver into him every time a cold current sweeps past. he doesn’t seem to mind.

you don’t say anything. your mouth is too full of clouds, soft and airy and light. the seagulls cartwheel across the endless blue above you, and you think that simeon’s is too.

See the full post

218 notes - Posted April 23, 2022

SWEET TALK

or: you’ll always be his favourite flavour.

an apology - this is written in american english, which i do not speak, for a character with a very strong regional accent, which i do not know very well! readers are encouraged to please raise cringe shields to maximum as a precaution. gn!reader, all fluff all day, no content warnings. thank you to the lovely @virtualizated for science support - have a tube of smarties on me! did you know that M&M’s are from new jersey? inspired by ‘my baby just cares for me’ by nina simone, which you should definitely listen to while reading this. milo finding out what love means in 1800 words or less.

(for context - "sweethearts" are a type of small, brightly-coloured confection sold in america that are made of chewy wafer stuff and have short, lovey-dovey phrases printed on them. we have an equivalent in the uk, called "love hearts", which (unlike the american version) are made of sherbert.)

“hey, sweetheart. you got a minute to talk?”

it shouldn’t be as hard as it is to get the sentence out.

it’s not like he doesn’t want to talk to you, and he never gets tired of talking to you - hell, he’d listen to your voice all day and all night if you let him - or anything like that. it’s just that this is about something kind of important, and he really doesn’t want to screw this up.

he fishes another candy out of the box and pops it clumsily in his mouth. this one is purple, and it says BE MINE.

he’s always had something of a sweet tooth. can you really blame him? david used to get on his case about always having some kind of candy in his schoolbag when they were kids, but by now the rest of the pack knows it’s just the way he is.

it works out pretty well - he’s always got something for when the kids (and ash) get restless at long pack meetings, and he knows it makes david smile just a bit whenever he sees the half-open packet of M&M’s on the counter.

(he still remembers the look on ash’s face when he’d first overheard him calling you ‘sweetheart’ - he’d had to tackle him over the side of the couch to stop him from telling you exactly what his favourite candy was.)

(you’d thought it was just their usual antics and gone into the kitchen to get some water, while he’d been busy telling ash to shut his goddamn mouth before he could embarrass him any more in front of you. yeah, so you make him all soft and gooey when he looks at you, but that doesn’t mean he needs the whole freaking pack to know why he calls you that!)

your work phone rings just as you’re walking over - both of you know that that ringtone means it’s important. you smile sheepishly at him as you rummage through your bag, but he doesn’t mind. it’s just an occupational hazard of dating the best, most gorgeous, intelligent, hardworking investigator in all of dahlia.

you kiss his cheek on your way out to the living room, and he blows you a kiss of his own as you disappear down the hall. you’re cute.

he slumps backwards onto the bed, legs hanging off the side, and takes a deep breath. the light above his head makes him squint up at the ceiling as he reaches for another candy. your voice, echoing from the living room, the lingering heat of your lips on his skin - god, how did he get so lucky? he thinks about you (as he always does), as he chews on FOR EVER.

it must have been, what, the thousandth date? millionth? he’s never been one to leave his sweetheart lonely. he likes to say that your little encounter with that shade was your first date, but you always argue that it was actually a few days later, when he showed up on your doorstep with a bunch of flowers, cotton candy pink, and his ma’s yelling still ringing in his ears. what a couple of romantics, huh?

(god, she’d been beside herself with worry when he’d turned up at her place. he’d staggered back from your apartment in a daze - mostly from your kisses but a little bit from blood loss - and realised that he’d have to bite the bullet and let her finish up the healing you’d started. he’d managed to play it off as a souvenir from work, but since when had that ever stopped his ma from telling him exactly what she thought about it?)

(she loves you though - always inviting you over, telling you stories about what a handful he’d been as a kid, sending you home with enough leftovers to feed the whole damn pack twice over.)

(he’s half convinced she thinks you’re far too good for him, and she’s probably right, but it never stops her from giving him that look when she catches him staring at your lips like a goddamn fool, or pulling your chair out for you at dinner all fancy-like. it’s not his fault you deserve the world on a silver fucking platter, and if he wants to treat you like royalty, then he damn well ought to do it right!)

he’d made sure to take you on all of those classic dates you like - the park, the movies, the arcade, the theatre, the ice rink (god, that one had really been embarrassing), all that sort of rom-com type shit that makes him look like the most lovesick idiot on the planet. this one had been in the summer, august-time or something, a saturday in the middle of the heatwave.

you’d called and said you’d take him out for ice cream at that sundae place downtown, and he remembers the way, after you’d hung up, that he’d screamed into his pillow over how goddamn sweet you’d sounded on the phone, calling him up out of the blue like that.

(of course - he forgets sometimes that you ever used to live somewhere else. he’d asked you to move in with him about two months before and you’d said yes, but you’d had until october left on your lease, so you were waiting until then to properly move out.)

you’d turned up at his door an hour later, looking like a million dollars even in the blazing california heat, and oh, the way your whole face had brightened up when you saw him? he could have died a happy man right then and there.

the ice cream parlour had been busy, but you’d grabbed a booth by the window and told him to go up and order for you - you’d reeled off a list of toppings as long as your arm and beamed up at him, and he’d blinked, nodded, and wandered off towards the counter in some sort of love-drunk haze, still replaying the way your eyes had softened and sparkled when he’d held the door open for you a minute ago.

(he’s not sure how, but he’d actually got all the toppings you’d wanted correct - even the extra wafer in the top and the two different flavours of ice cream. the girl at the register had looked at him like he was crazy, but it had been worth it to see the look on your face when it had arrived in front of you. it’s his favourite photo in the world.)

(he’d only asked for one extra kind of candy on his. he remembers you laughing when you noticed, when the waitress who brought them had recited the order back to him, you want me in your mouth that badly, milo greer? and god, he had, but he wasn’t about to admit that to the whole damn room - he’d just stuck his tongue out at you playfully and jammed a spoonful of ice cream in his mouth to stop him saying something stupid.)

spoon in hand, you’d been in the middle of a story about the department handler guy two cubicles down from you - something about glitter gel pens and a restraining order? - when he’d felt it.

there’s a word on his tongue. he rolls it around his mouth, feels it clinking off his teeth and melting all sweet and sticky. KISS ME is written backwards on the inside of his cheek, but that’s not the word he’s thinking of.

his mouth is full of words - ALWAYS, ME & YOU, ONLY YOU - and that’s nothing new, not when it comes to you, but this one tastes different. he knows why.

the rest of the date had been good, despite the crushing heat outside. he’d walked you home and kissed you senseless on your doorstep - you won’t admit it, but his shifter hearing isn’t just for decoration, so he knows he heard your cursing as your legs gave out once you shut the door. he’d gone home with a word in his mouth, tucked behind his teeth, and he’d wondered if you’d been able to taste it on his lips.

See the full post

236 notes - Posted April 25, 2022

My #1 post of 2022

no thoughts only vincent, lovely, and darlin' INSISTING that "sam" is short for "sandwich" - vincent started it and now the three of them all have him saved as "sandwich collins 🤠" in their contacts

lovely, shouting up the stairs: we're going to be late! sam, come on!

darlin', trying not to laugh: sandwich collins, you get down here this instant!

sam, head in hands: for the last GODDAMN TIME-

will, across the room, thoroughly bemused: now now, sandwich, i won't have such language under my roof.

411 notes - Posted June 9, 2022

Get your Tumblr 2022 Year in Review →

#tumblr2022 #year in review #my 2022 tumblr year in review #your tumblr year in review #HAHAHAHAHAHA #i cannot BELIEVE that my top post is the fucking sandwich post that's BRILLIANT #also hello fizzing hot day! wasn't expecting you to be here but i am very glad to see you!#also I TOLD YOU I WASN'T KIDDING THIS IS A RAE SRIRACHAA STAN ACC BEFORE ANYTHING ELSE #also yes i know i mostly reblog my own posts YES I GET IT #that's all my self rbs when i write something lmao #ykw i'd say its been a pretty good year in gingerbreadmonsters land #we have fun on gingerbreadmonsters dot com 🥳🥳

4 notes · View notes