[cloudwisp]

༊ ⊹ ˚. hazel · 25+ · she/her

˗ˏˋ writing for ᰔ genshinノhsrノl&ds · sfw + nsfw · selfships

꒰ here you’ll find a collection of ficlets about my faves. keepers of my heart are wriothesley, sylus, jing yuan & varka. not officially taking requests, but suggestions are always welcome 🤍 ꒱

𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤𝐬

varka · the wind carries him home

varka · a proper send off

dragon!sylus x princess!reader

sylus · do you want it, kitten?

꒰ 𝐡𝐨𝐧𝐤𝐚𝐢 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫 𝐫𝐚𝐢𝐥 ꒱

𝐣𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐲𝐮𝐚𝐧

cherish my love: he reschedules a date night you were looking forward to but promises to make it up to you

꒰ 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐝𝐞𝐞𝐩𝐬𝐩𝐚𝐜𝐞 ꒱

𝐬𝐲𝐥𝐮𝐬

dragon!sylus x princess!reader

girl dad sylus

sleepy kitten

pre-relationship hcs

castle

clingy

jealousy

arranged marriage hcs (2)

arranged marriage hcs

do you want it, kitten?: the perfect night in to switch things up in the bedroom falls short when you struggle to take his big dick

every piece of him: arranged marriage with sylus where you both haven't dived into the intimacies of your relationship until now

𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐞𝐛

in the pale moonlight: you accidentally walk in on him naked once and he’s all that occupies your mind

꒰ 𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐧 ꒱

𝐯𝐚𝐫𝐤𝐚

the wind carries him home: he returns home to you, but not without injuries and giving you something to worry over

a proper send off

𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐬𝐥𝐞𝐲

husband hcs

cockwarming

appreciating his hands

domestic life hcs

falling in love hcs

first look: under the gazebo and a pre-wedding conversation

your lips, on my lips: he finds your lips irresistible in the color red

on yearning hearts: his favorite coat has gone missing, and he bets you have something to do with it

home is in your arms: wrio cheering you up after a rough morning

kiss me soft, kiss me slow: sharing your first kiss together

꒰ 𝐣𝐮𝐣𝐮𝐭𝐬𝐮 𝐤𝐚𝐢𝐬𝐞𝐧 ꒱

𝐬𝐚𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐮 𝐠𝐨𝐣𝐨

football player!gojo

satosugu undressing you

falling in love hcs

(his) lady luck: gojo’s entire day shifts when you forget to wear your wedding ring

sweet pickings: megumi takes up baking and it takes you back to your teenage years when a certain white-haired someone pined for you

just the two of us: he makes sweet promises about the future with you

spills and stains: mentions of petty gojo because you refused to wear his clothes one (1) time

[cloudwisp]

back briefly to say that I am a c6 Varka haver !!!! 🤍🤍🤍

[cloudwisp]

hi hazel!! thank you so much for your tags on my recent sunday fic T^T as you may have been able to tell from my note, that fic means a lot to me, and your feedback made me so excited <33 i'm so so glad u enjoyed it. thank u for saying such kind things about it!!

Hi Os !! It was a really enjoyable read and I do love the character study aspect as well and I feel like I learned a new thing or two about Sunday after finishing the fic. Thank you for sharing your writing, especially one that holds so much meaning to you like this one 🤍

[cloudwisp]

ALSO!! miss hazel i apologize for invading ur inbox again but i wanted to ask if u had any aesthetics/colors/etc. associated with u and mister varka :> /genq

Hi Juniper !! A few things that I associate Varka with is the wind / anemo, summer and the sun, dandelion wine, wolf motifs and his color palette. I think he associates me with the colors of my dresses that I wear often ( pink and blue ), cecilias or pretty flowers, the spring season and a soft touch / hands !! ^^

[kazuinvocation-moved-deactivate]

SAW IT BY THE WATER | SUNDAY

nearly a year has passed since sunday lost you. now, though, as he shares an afternoon by the river with YOU, he can't help but wonder how much of this time he's allowed to savor. . .

SUNDAY X GN!MONSTER!READER | ~2.2K WORDS FOR GHOST TAPES & OTHER VIDEOS EVENT

INFO: THE SUMMER HIKARU DIED au ; angst ; character study ; AMBIGUOUS relationship

WARNINGS: reader is a monster who has taken on someone else's identity, so you (in italics) = the monster, and you (not in italics) = the original person you have replaced ; kissing and touching over clothes ; extensive horror themes and imagery (detailed warnings below) ; discussions and depictions of grief ; no resolution

DETAILED HORROR WARNINGS: body horror ( inc. monstrous transformations and blood ) ; themes of consumption ; discussions of death ; discussions of SH ; depiction of stabbing ; please proceed with caution.

NOTE . . . thank you so so much to briar ( @rafayelsheart ) + moonie ( @moonriselabyrinth ) for beta reading this disaster . . ! i am so appreciative of you two, for this and for everything else <3 (also, title is a reference to "at the beach, in every life" by gigi perez)

PLEASE READ MY BYF BEFORE INTERACTING. also, please don't use my work to train AI, recommend it outside of tumblr, or repost it (even with credit).

The first time Sunday ever came to the river with you, both of you were kids. So small, your tiny hand had folded around some silvery fish and whipped from the current to show him. When he tries, he can still remember how you sounded back then: Look, Sunday! It's so—Ah!

The fish had escaped back then, slipping back into the stream. You hadn't minded, though. You'd only laughed.

Now, as he stands behind you in line at the usual cafe by his house, your laugh sounds nearly the same. There is the same sweetness, the same free levity. But there is something else, too. Something silky and quivering. Unraveling.

He is sure it would be the same if it were really you.

Sunday does not know how it happened for certain. He has, so far, counted three things that he does know. The first is that you died beside the lake two months ago in the spring. Despite this, the second thing he knows is that your voice drove ice through him the following morning over the phone.

"Are we still on for dinner after work?" you had asked

The third thing is that he is the only one who knows.

Well, maybe he doesn't know that; after all, it's not like he's asked your housemates or called your parents. And, anyway, maybe he dreamed that he found your body. Maybe he dreamed that after sprinting through the trees, he had collapsed on the rocky shore and felt your chill-bitten palm.

Maybe.

Your voice—no, yours—floats him back to reality, the reality wherein he is meeting you for coffee and the summer sun is beating down.

"Do you know what you want?" you ask. You've already stepped aside, waiting for him to order his drink.

"Oh, yes." He apologizes to the barista and tells them what he'd like before stepping aside with you.

When the drinks come out, he doesn't recognize yours initially: a plain cold brew. You'd ordered them before, and while that had usually only been during course exams some years ago, you had taken to ordering them more and more since the summer came.

You catch his eye, smiling as you tuck the straw between your lips.

"What'd ya get?" you ask. He tries to ignore the way the sun catches so brilliantly in your eyes and clears his throat.

"Just tea," he says.

"Oh." You hold the door for him on the way outside. "I've never had tea."

Ducking into the subway station, he passes you his cup, a wordless invitation.

Loss lures people into seeking and finding: at first, it's comforting—there are scraps of you still lingering in Sunday's room, in his pocket, in the palm of his hand—but the lurching, the missing and the longing, come soon enough, too. It is impossible to avoid the truth that these ties to you are incomplete. Freshly severed.

Sunday also does not know exactly when he began considering killing you.

At least a month, no, maybe two months ago, he told you he knew the truth. He'd been sitting with you at the bus stop, waiting for the last bus of the evening, when he'd asked—though, it hadn't really been a question.

"You're not really them, are you?"

You had looked on the verge of tears, misty, but then the air had seemed to change, to come undone somehow. A bud of something wet and dark had bloomed first from your eye, then the blossom had consumed the side of your face, sending it melting like a candle.

"How did you…I…thought I copied them perfectly."

It hadn't been that day. No, because on that day, you had begged Sunday to keep that secret, to let you stay a little longer.

"It's so nice here, Sunday…" you had whispered. "I like going to work, and I like calling friends, and I like waiting for the bus with you." You let out a sob. "I have never lived like this before."

Sunday comes to learn, though, that it runs deeper. Rather, you had never "lived" at all, at least not in the way he thinks of it. You had never shared a home nor even occupied one; never felt sweetness spread on your tongue or exchanged momentary glances with another person. You had never felt the warmth of a guiding hand on your back nor the closeness of an embrace. Never yet felt warmth bloom in your cheeks under his careful fingertips.

The train is, remarkably, both on time and empty. You sit first, and Sunday follows your lead. He can't help but face you slightly: subconsciously, habitually, tilted toward you like a flower toward the sun.

No, he is not sure when he first considered it, but the longer the idea sat in his mind—the longer it had to sprout and fester and slough its spores off onto his other thoughts—the larger it grew. Even now, watching you fawn over the same sights you had so many times before, the longing is cut by that bitter, swollen question: would it work?

Would it "set things right," whatever that means? Would it send whatever monstrous thing had been released back where it had come from? Would it leave you at peace, wherever you were?

Would it set him free?

Today, as far as you know, he is taking you on a picnic in a park across town. You used to love going to this park in particular: you went out of your way to ride the green line past it on your commute, even though the route added at least ten minutes.

Your mouth quirks at the corner, and it is unfamiliar. Sunday swallows his mouthful of tea. It is bitter, too. The flavor lingers.

Almost no one gets off at the stop by the park. There aren't many offices in this part of the city, and it's about the time most work days begin. Ever since you got your current job, though, you've had Thursdays off.

"What a coincidence," Sunday had said. "We'll have to make use of them, then."

And every week, you did—make use of Thursdays, that is. Even now.

"Which way?" you ask. The straw from your cold brew is tucked between your teeth.

A cold breeze laves over the bare skin on the back of his neck.

"Just follow me," he says.

So, you do. Cafes and benches and would-be-full restaurants line the road, humming with life and turning off into alleyways like secrets. Birds sing above as they flit between the trees; their little bodies shake the branches and send them knocking into one another. Fresh leaves hang on with ease, only bending along with the movement: a sway to shower the walkway with light.

The two of you spend what feels like far too long among the walkways, and he tries not to watch as your gaze catches the ducklings as they come upon the shore. He keeps going, propelled onward as if by the wind, and you catch him, a firm tug on the sleeve, a silent question.

Then, a spoken one: "Can we stop for a second?"

He wants to tell you that, no, he has to keep going. This place will be busy with students come the ever-approaching afternoon. He wants to say that you should just come along with him to the top of the hill, to the cluster of trees by the bend of the creek, as he'd planned so carefully, and—

"Sunday?"

"You go ahead," he says quickly. "I'll toss our cups."

When he returns, your back is to him. A candied hum floats through the air (the theme to a show you loved). Those ducklings are out of reach now; they're already floating downstream together in a yellow clump.

Suddenly, the air is thick, blurry, dreamy and chromatic. That feeling of being pushed from behind comes again, and he stumbles. Before he can gather himself, you are there and pushing him to sit up against a rock in the shade.

You are saying something to him. His name? No, not quite.

Fuck, he thinks, None of this is going how it's meant to.

"…okay?"

That familiar figure comes into focus soon enough: your eyes (so full of care and curiosity), your glossy lip, your roaming fingers…

A hard reminder cuts into his thigh when he shifts against the rock.

What was he thinking? Guilt is cold as it washes over him, so cold under your touch, which still carries the lingering heat of the sun and the earth and something else undeniably alive yet inhuman. His golden eyes search for something in your face, and they do not find it, but he pulls you closer anyway.

You slip into his lap, and your waist is pliant under his hands.

Maybe he imagines that: after all, he has felt your waist a thousand times before. Maybe he imagines, too, how sweetly you gasp when he nudges your nose with his, lashes fluttering familiarly. There is a twisting in him.

"You're so bright and warm, Sunday," you say, and he can't hold onto the whine that tumbles from his mouth. "Oh! What a cute sound…"

He should stop. He knows he should—he should not relish in this dreamlike closeness. He should not shudder when you experimentally (messily, tactlessly, as if for the first time in all of your life) smack your parted lips against his. He should take you home.

He should not think about how you are swallowing him up. Taking him. Draining. He should not grip the hilt of the knife he's so carefully concealed in his pocket and draw it out into the buttery warm air.

The blade sinks into your gut easily. Blood—it really does seem like yours—sprays hot and scarlet onto his hands. You don't move. Your fingers only sink deeper into his shoulders, trembling. There is no harshness in the grip. No, rather, you cling the same way a squirrel might to a tree trunk upon first learning to climb: tenderly with an undercurrent of urgency and something weary.

You do not take in any breath, but Sunday does, and a metallic scent catches in his nose.

"Oh…" you say. "You were planning to kill me the whole time…"

"I wanted," he starts, then takes a breath. "I-I wanted your last day to be special."

"That's kind of you, Sunday."

Smooth and clear, if there is any hint of sarcasm or disingenuity in your voice, Sunday does not detect it.

Suddenly, he is very hot, and you are too close to him. He jerks his arm back, removing the knife from your midsection and sending it onto the ground, before shoving you off his lap and into the grass. He almost doesn't hear the yelping sound you make—almost the same one you'd made when you'd fallen and scraped your knee on the way to middle school.

"I'm okay, Sunny," you'd said back then, comforting him despite the tears in your own eyes.

The sound that tears from him is animalistic. He launches the blade across the ground, streaking red over the green, and cradles his head in his hands.

How could he have done this? Is he a killer? Is this what kind of person he is? If he's going to kill someone, maybe it should be—

"You're upset."

What?

"What?"

"You're upset, Sunday."

"It doesn't matter if I'm upset."

"Why not?"

"Because I just tried to—"

Around him, the world returns to focus. Through his fingers, he sees you, as curious as though he were just another of the ducklings. Heavy with recognition, his eyelids begin to sag.

"Tried to..?"

You, he realizes, have no idea what it means for a human to kill or to be killed. Death, to a being like you, is abstract, far-off—a means of merely moving between states of existence while continuing nonetheless.

In your eyes, Sunday speculates, he has done nothing more than cause pain to this impermanent vessel. The vessel with your eyes and hands and blood. In your eyes, there has not been any deep betrayal: to you, there has been a warm embrace, then a shocking cold, as if in a vacuum, as if the birds did not still sing so close. As if the river did not still flow.

The explanations swim from his mouth, fins tucking their forceful ways against his teeth as if heading upstream. He is crying. He should stop, but he can't, so he keeps going. He keeps telling you his plan for the day (the coffee, the train ride, the park) and that he didn't know what else to do and how he'd thought you looked so pretty when you had watched the city pass out the window and that he had thought if you were dead then—

"Dead…"

He takes in a sharp breath. "No!"

"No?"

His fingers twitch. The blade remains in the grass nearby, unaddressed.

"No," he says. The word is firm, but his voice wavers on its own. "I'm…We should go home."

Your eyes linger on him, then, as if deflating, your shoulders sink, and you agree.

"Home," you say. "Let's go there together."

EXTENDED AUTHOR'S NOTES. . .

be aware that these notes might have more spoilers (thematic / conceptual and specific details) for the au source material, THE SUMMER HIKARU DIED. this note is by no means necessary to understand anything in the above fic. . . they're just my thoughts <3

this is a character study, an investigation of grief, and, above all else, an exploration of what it means to "be" and "love" anyone. i knew sunday would be a good fit for this concept because he has, in many ways, been forced to reckon with what it means to be human, to have a sense of self, and to do the right thing. in losing someone he loves as much as he loves you in this story, there is an untangling that happens inside him. i could have written much more on that than i did here, but i do think that should really just be a separate essay or something. . .

i wondered for a while whether i would intend for you and you to both be read as the reader, as the same person, especially since the reader is literally the same person in practice. however, in the original story, the protagonist, likewise, pulls apart the minutiae of his feelings for the original hikaru: those feelings are put under a microscope, and they are necessarily separated from whatever he now feels for (what must be) a completely new entity. ( with that in mind, i hope you'll have read this however felt natural to you. )

this process, of course, is not without yearning. without pain or curiosity or violence.

also, because of who i am and the source material, there are significant queer themes in this. that is intentional, unavoidable, and, as i see it, necessary.

i spoke with a friend about this story, and we got to talking about the frequent entanglements of horror and queerness. in tshd, the monstrousness can be seen as coming from outside: what these characters do feels natural to them, but the world is set, it seems, on being out of balance now that they're together. that's only one way of looking at it, though.

anyway. . .for this fic in particular, i was focused on getting the core feelings across, which for me were mourning, yearning, and, eventually, renewal. i hope those translated well enough.

i've talked a little about how music is a pretty big part of my writing process. while writing this, i listened to the titular song a lot. i really encourage you to give it a listen.

thanks again for reading! this piece took a long time for me to write because. . . well, it just did. LOL

NOTICE: this work belongs to me, KAZUINVOCATION on tumblr. please do not use my work to train AI, claim my work as your own, repost anywhere (even with credit), or recommend my work on any platform outside of tumblr. thank you.

[fairycourts]

you aren't sure if you like this new candy. it's fine though, because tartaglia is more than willing to take your mind off how it tastes. —ajax tartaglia childe x reader ✧ fluff, sfw. gender neutral reader (no pronouns used). a little cheesy and self indulgent, kissing. ✧ 600 words

"What's got your face all scrunched up like that?" Tartaglia comes up from behind you, making you jolt in your chair. A grin easily rises to his face in response. You often become so engrossed in your work that he ends up startling you more than he means to.

His question finally registers. "It's this harra fruit drop!" you say, face tilting toward him like a sunflower chasing the light. Your mouth works, then you're presenting the hard candy between your teeth: a translucent orb of red and green.

He only notices the candy for a moment. His focus is drawn to the soft pink of your tongue, the way it curls behind the curve of the sweet. He stares as you suck the candy back into your mouth and tuck it into your cheek, tongue sweeping over your lips to lap up residual stickiness, leaving them glistening.

You don't notice his distracted state. "I saw them at the market and wanted to try it, since harra fruit is popular in Sumeru. I didn't ask the merchant about the fruit's flavor, so I wasn't expecting it to be spicy." The slight lump in your right cheek vanishes, and Tartaglia catches a glimpse of pink guiding red and green, only for the lump to reappear in your left cheek as your nose wrinkles again. Cute.

"It's spicy, sweet, and sour. I think it's the sourness that is throwing me off, but I'll get used to it soon, I'm sure. Yeah." Another grimace passes over your face, and the wave of fondness that swirls with the heat in his veins is too strong to ignore.

"Mind if I get a taste?"

You brighten. "Sure!" You look down and reach for your desk drawer, but Tartaglia's hand cups the back of your neck and his thumb catches under your jaw, tilting your face back up toward him.

"Not like that." His dark gaze flickers down to your lips before he looks into your eyes again, so his intention is unmistakable. "May I?"

Your throat bobs as you swallow, face warm. "Y-yeah."

He rests his arm on the back of your chair, leaning in close. His smile goes roguish before his mouth meets yours.

The kiss is light at first, teasing and making you needy—he wasn't promising small kisses with the look he gave you right before. You grab at his shirt and he laughs before giving in. His body is warm as he presses closer, lips parting and tongue sweeping to coax yours open. You give in, melting as you lose yourself to the feel of him consuming you, making you hot all over as the thoughts in your mind evaporate like morning dew. The taste of the candy does not matter anymore, not when he is all that you can focus on.

When you're breathless and start to pull back, Tartaglia does not let you go easily. He pulls away slowly, thumb swiping across your lower lip before he brings it to his mouth and sucks. "Mmm," he moans, the sound sending a shiver rolling down your spine. "Tastes good. Sweet." He winks. One of his cheeks puff out slightly, just as your dazed mind notices the distinct lack of hard candy in your mouth.

You sit up, surprise and amusement coloring your voice. "You stole my candy!"

"Didn't think you were going to miss it. Want it back?"

Your face scrunches reflexively and you shake your head. "I've had enough of it for now. However! You must kiss me again as payment."

Tartaglia grins and leans in again. "That, I can happily do."

[cloudwisp]

“Haven’t seen one of these little guys in a while. Now that I think about it, they only show themselves when you’re around.”

“I’ve always been told these crystal flies are drawn to the presence of a gentle heart or the love between two people. You think they know something we don’t?”

“You really believe that? Guess that explains why they show up unannounced at our picnic dates. Never thought these pretty things would be the ones to give me—or us—away.”

divider ノ @uzmacchiato

[yahinata]

finally give him this punch

our hasubando

[vxnusorbit]

@meimeimeirin @jasuntodds

[serduncns-deactivated20260225]

OH MY GOD

@haithyums @cloudwisp

[ariiadnes]

𑣲 ‧₊ character : sukuna 𑣲 ‧₊ fandom : jujutsu kaisen 𑣲 ‧₊ notes : modern!au. reader & sukuna are parents. repost!

"look at you," a low murmur and seemingly harsh gaze : furrowed brows, that sharp, scrutinizing stare ( but if you look closely, you'll only see a familiar and subtle fondness ), "so weak and powerless. too reliant on others. you won't survive if you don't learn."

a silence, heavy. deafening. suffocating.

-- and then a soft babble. and another. and... another. a grimace as a little hand bats at sukuna's face ( and yet he doesn't quite pull away ).

then there's you, watching the interaction with utter amusement as you gingerly prepare a bottle of milk for a certain munchkin.

"stop talking to her like that."

"life lessons." he responds. "she has to know."

"okay," you begin, voice flat, "but also, she is a baby."

he shoots you a half-hearted glare, though it's quick to falter when you sit next to him on the couch, giving him a kiss on the cheek before handing him the bottle. feeding the kid is almost like clockwork now ( well, actually, it pretty much is ), so it's not long at all before he's holding a content baby in his arms, one hand supporting the bottle for her ( 'she can't hold this by herself yet?' 'she can't even hold her head up half the time, sukuna.' ), his other one adjusting her the slightest bit to make sure she's comfortable.

there's just the faintest hint of curiosity and mirth in those eyes as he studies her intently -- she looks more like you, he thinks, and while he can pout all he wants about it openly, he's secretly glad that she's taken on more of your features.

you smile softly at the sight, the quiet such a peaceful one as you rest your chin on his shoulder. you don't think you've ever seen him like this before, so attentive and doting, and so incredibly worried over every little thing when it comes to the baby.

"as weird as you are with your lectures, you have to admit you're completely smitten with her." you murmur. "waking up every few hours to check on her, never letting her out of your sight, the list goes on..."

a feign scowl-- one you entirely expect and get rid of with yet another kiss on the cheek.

"it's necessary." a grumble. "she's too small, defenseless. utterly feeble and frail."

god. you think he could go on about this forever and ever.

"sukuna."

"what?"

"she is two months old."

he pauses for a long while, seemingly deep in thought as he looks down at the baby once more. you're not sure what he's thinking about, because there's no way in hell he forgot how old his own daughter was, but he's definitely... contemplating. and when he finally looks at you once more, you are very much curious to hear what he has to say next.

"-- and? what a futile point."

( the dead, blank look you give sukuna is perhaps one of the most haunting things he has ever seen. unfortunately, it does not deter him from his life lessons that he insists on teaching the baby, anyway. )

[zenkohoney]

Guess who’s been playing LADS🤭

[kino-art]

Wanted to draw the plush from the new LADS collab.

Feel free to use this as a banner! ☺️❤️

[recordplayerbabyyyy]

i see strangers and look for little pieces of u

[cloudwisp]

“Haven’t seen one of these little guys in a while. Now that I think about it, they only show themselves when you’re around.”

“I’ve always been told these crystal flies are drawn to the presence of a gentle heart or the love between two people. You think they know something we don’t?”

“You really believe that? Guess that explains why they show up unannounced at our picnic dates. Never thought these pretty things would be the ones to give me—or us—away.”

divider ノ @uzmacchiato

[linarae119]

FINALLY found time (and energy) to draw my babies 🥹

[ishvbro]

[cloudwisp]

vael dating rumor started before we even officially met because Varka was trying to return my bow that was loosened by the wind and drifted into his hand. Until he finds me again, he keeps it safe with him and ties it around the handle of his greatsword. The perfume scent that lingers on my ribbon follows him everywhere he goes, and it garners the attention of the knights and citizens he encounters throughout the day. They suspect there’s a secret lady in the Grand Master’s romantic life, but when asked about it he neither confirms or denies it.

[shisasan]

January 22, 1925 Journals of Anais Nin 1923-1927 [volume 3]