Mutuals Who I Don't Know Very Personally Yet I Am Holding A Sugarcube Out In My Hand In The Hopes That

Reblog this to place a small flower in the hair of prev, and that you're very proud of them

Guys, I made it better

Beach day!

Bank of Sapphire Cold?

reblog to tell your mutual you’re proud of them and it’ll all work out

I don't know much but I know I want to give Jaheira more kids

Old lady yuri... It's been 27 years 🕺🕺

A lil Minthara doodle

Pipe Smoke

It was the pipe smoke that roused her from a deep slumber. After the rush of soft hands and velvet lips, gentle gasps and shaking hips. After words said at least five years overdue, perhaps even longer. It was after the simple rustling of leaves had turned into a tempest of sweat and flame and arching release. It was the pipe smoke that roused her.

The night had been slow and sweet; reverent even. Holy. Both of them taking turns being cleric and goddess, intent on heavenly worship of the other. It was the type of delicate lovemaking she had gotten used to once upon a time, and not something she thought she’d ever feel again. Warmth and life crept back into her tired bones, stirring them to shiver and hum, stirring her chest to rise and fall, breaths coming in rapid successive gasps twice, no, thrice, in one night.

It had felt like home.

And maybe that’s why she said it, mumbled it under her still ragged breath whilst halfway dreaming. “Smoke in the study, Khalid.”

The smell of an old long leaf, a tobacco antique even to her, lingered, then lazily mellowed into nothingness. Her breathing settled back into an even rhythm when no new smoke flooded her dreams. Suddenly, she was being gently pulled by a strong, yet wiry arm. She twisted her body against warm, pink flesh, her cheek finding a new place to rest atop a soft, broad shoulder. The smell and feel was so similar and so, so safe. She curled into it, smiling. A soft sigh escaped her lips in response to a whispered comment she couldn’t quite hear.

— —

That experience was… different. Not at all what she was used to. Her line of work didn’t leave room for softness, kindness, gentle touches, or fluttering kisses in the aftermath of a storm. She was used to the feeling of her dark-haired kingpin’s sharp dagger trailing down her spine after a victorious coup, or a quick nightcap with a golden-haired lady after a stressful day of negotiations - her court wasn’t there just for fucking protection, after all.

And she was used to being in control.

Every order obeyed, every enemy quaking in fear of her vicious wrath, every kingpin and guild member falling neatly in line lest they meet an undesirable fate either at her own hand or upon her command. She wasn’t used to subservience. Or giving into temptation. Or whispering sweet lover’s words in the heat of passion - she wasn’t sure she was used to passion. But she was used to being the one calling the shots.

So when her - lover? Ally? Frenemy? Mumbled about smoking in the study, she scoffed. An eyebrow raised slowly at being called the name of a dead husband. Either she’d done a good job, or the old crone was finally losing her fucking mind. She scoffed, yet she found herself sitting down her tinderbox, letting the tobacco she had just lit die out, then working her fingers to empty out the bowl even though she was in her own fucking office.

She thought about a quip. A wry comment lay on the tip of her tongue and she opened her mouth to say it. Then she shut it. Instead of flinging a well crafted and very witty insult, she rose from her chair, shed the oversized tunic she had thrown on, and slid back into her bed. Her strong arm pulled the other woman on top of her, waking her just enough so she could twist to rest her head upon her new pillow’s broad shoulder.

“You’re lucky you’re only half a Harper, grandmother,” she whispered into a mess of gray hair.

The only response she received was in the form of a soft sigh.

The girl you’re flirting with is going home early to write 70k+ words about having sex with a video game character who’s pushing 60

Neither enemies to lovers nor slow burn but a secret third thing called Schrödinger's intimacy. We are in love and we are not in love do NOT open that lid I swear to God.