Fanfictions and Random Screamings

The author Sidrisa and the world of Power and Magic 

[dateagirlwhosweird]

date a selkie, but don’t hide her cloak. let her go home and visit her family now and then, knowing that she’ll come back and hang her seal cloak in the closet like she always does. trust is important.

[lustfulpasiphae]

The first time she lets the redhead take her home, she’s diligent about hiding her cloak. She folds it carefully against tears and rips and abrasions, and hides it in a sea cave whose entrance is concealed by the tide.

She does the same, the second and third and fourth times, careful, wary, mindful of her mother’s lessons. Remembers the way her mother’s hands had chafed on her soft cheeks, rough with cooking and cleaning for her fisherman husband, the way her mother’s peat-dark eyes had been tense and harsh with the lesson.

“Mind me, Niahm. Never let them find your cloak.”

The way her mother’s mouth had curved, a sickle of dissatisfaction and relief and envy, as she had escaped into the waves.

So she minds her mother’s lesson, and she takes care with her cloak.

Would that she had taken as much care with her heart.

The fifth time, she wears the cloak to the girl’s door, clutched about her throat, dripping along the darkened lanes.

She enters the home, welcomed with soft kisses and gentle touches and kindling passion. She drapes the cloak, artful in her carelessness, across an old wooden chair, the one that creaks and tilts slightly if you don’t sit just right.

When she wakes, in the wee hours of the morning, even before her lover, the cloak still rests, supple and dappled by the sea, on the back of the chair.

She frowns into the softening dawn, dons the cloak, and returns to the sea.

And again, the sixth time. And the seventh.

The eighth time, she finally breaks, prickling and hurt with longing, gripping a handful of russet hair in her hand, firm with emphasis.

“Surely you know what I am,” she says to her lover, the cool froth of sea foam and the call of gulls curling around her voice.

“Of course,” her lover responds, soft and tender in the dawnlight, throat arched willingly, pale as the inner whorls of a shell. “You taste of the sea,” the girl whispers, reverently.

She shakes her lover’s head gently, fingers tangled still in russet locks. “Why?” she demands. “Why won’t you keep me?”

A long silence that waits and fills, like a tidepool, stretches between them. Cool as a current. Deep as the Channel.

Her lover’s eyes are dark and tender. “Must I trap you to keep you, my heart? Is that the shape of love that you desire?”

She sinks into the thought, struck and stymied, remembering her mother’s harsh hands, her cold eyes. Her hand eases into russet waves, caresses where her grip had punished. Her lips press cool and damp as the sea against the arching curve of her lover’s shoulder. “What shape of love will you give to me?”

The answer is easy, quick, certain. “Myself. Only myself, whenever you should wish it. Your cloak by the door, your body in my bed, and the freedom to go, whenever you must. As long as you wish.”

It’s not an answer a fisherman could ever give, nor would think to.

The ninth time, she hangs her cloak by the door, draped in careful dappled folds next to a drying oilskin jacket.

[divide-by-triple-zero]

i say this every time it crosses my dash but i’m so freaking happy someone liked my submission and Wrote Stuff and it’s so good!!! i love these girls so so so so much

[lustfulpasiphae]

This post is like the only Worthy Thing i have ever done on this website and you made that possible, you rock <3

[dateagirlwhosweird]

❤️

[anna-lilies]

I love this story so much that I had to draw some art for it!

[lustfulpasiphae]

Y’all I’m crying ;_; ;_; MY HEART IS OVERFLOWING WITH A PURE JOY

THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR BRINGING THESE GIRLS TO LIFE @sketched-daydreams YOU ARE A PURE AND GOOD SOUL AND SO WONDERFULLY TALENTED 

[sidrisa-blog]

Arranged Marriage WIP

Is what it says on the tin

Pairing: Reader x Loki

Rating: here there will be porn

Summary: Arranged Marriage AU. Not quite enemies to lovers. Not quite friends to lovers either.

He doesn’t know what happened to the wineglass all he does know is that his hands, newly freed, are working at the ribbons around your neck, shoulders, and back.

He knows exactly what he’ll do when they’re loose. When you’re free.

Your hands are at his face, holding him where you want him his mouth open for you to taste. You find him more pliant than expected, tongue giving way to yours. But whatever ground he gives in his mouth he takes with his fingers, tearing at the bows that keep you clothed.

You are evenly matched.

When the top is undone he slides to your middle. When that is loosened, he’s at your bottom. But those ties he saves, choosing instead to roam, humming into your mouth.

“What do you hide princess. What gift have you for your husband?”

“That has long been given away,” you growl nipping at his lip.

“Even better that you need no instruction.”

“No I don’t.” You tip his back to the bed.

[sidrisa-blog]

Tired fic: bring loki back to life

Wired fic: Loki’s shenanigans in the realm of death

[lustfulpasiphae]

sorry. random acts of Dragon Age ficlet. set the morning after Demands of the Qun. Dorian helps The Iron Bull with his knee brace.

Bull flexed his wrist carefully, feeling the twinge of strained ligaments still, even after a good night’s rest and a good fuck to get his blood pumping and the bad air of burned off gaatlok out of his lungs. Wielding his battle-axe occasionally had costs, and he had battered this wrist before by over-extending himself. It had been a long time, though, since he’d been desperate enough to be that reckless.

People looked at The Iron Bull–not Hissrad, never again–and they looked at his body and his weapon and his style and they drew conclusions. Most of those conclusions were wrong–a disguise he crafted from the prejudice of others. He was not a careless fighter, nor a reckless one. He was powerful, and he was a force of his own, that was all.

But all that power had to go somewhere, and when you had made a miscalculation as big and as bad as the one he had made, well. Sometimes you tore yourself up inside trying to do something with the power and the force. His joints popped as he twisted his wrist again contemplatively.

It would heal with a little rest. It was about the only damned thing that would. But in the meantime, it was an inconvenience.

Dorian was rustling around with exaggerated care at the other end of the tent, buckling all of his fussy buckles and straps as though the task required the utmost attention. Bull knew he blamed himself a little, for what had happened. Knew he was stuck up in that crooked little Vint head of his, thinking and second guessing, despite the fact that he’d let Bull take him right out of it last night.

It was decent of him, but ultimately unhelpful. The only person who could have changed anything about the outcome was The Iron Bull, and he had known what cost he was willing to pay, even if Hissrad had never contemplated it when this mission began.

Bull had moved his pieces and progressed the boardstate. There really wasn’t any way back, so he’d have to go forward. But first…

“Hey Big Guy, I need your hands here for a second.”

He watched the thread of tension work through those golden brown shoulders like a shiver, before Dorian turned to him with a nonchalant, “Hm?”

Bull tapped his palm against his knee, indicating the loose cage of his brace and the hanging straps. “Pulled my wrist yesterday,” he explained, like there was no significance. “It’s still giving me a bit of trouble. You mind?”

Dorian blinked rapidly, doing that covert glance thing that people who’d never had to work for the upkeep and maintenance of their bodies always did around things like braces and prosthetics. Bull was patient with it–he’d been getting people used to the way his body worked, and lovers used to the way their bodies worked, for long enough that it didn’t phase him any. Most days.

The mage approached with uncharacteristic hesitance, reaching out and setting his hands on Bull’s knee with a quick glance for permission. The scars were faded into the grey of his skin, the knots and gnarls softened with age. Still hurt sometimes like it was fresh, though. But Bull was an old hand at managing pain.

“Just get them tight for me.”

“Of course. Sorry.” It was one of those complicated apologies: for his discomfort, for his hesitation, for any inadvertent pain he might cause. For the day before. A lot going on in one word.

Bull watched those smooth brown hands ease the buckles together, pull the leather tight–not tight enough. Always a little afraid to hurt, despite the lessons on knots and pressure and force. He meant well–there was a lot of gentleness under all that sparking bluster. Not weakness. Bull had misread that at first, but he was operating on better information now.

“You’re gonna have to do better than that, Big Guy. Really put your back into it.”

Dorian tensed a little, tugging more forcefully on the strap under his hands.

“I know you’ve got more for me. Don’t hold back–”

“Kaffas!” Dorian snarled, sitting back on his heels with a sharp gesture. He turned his face away, the line of his jaw and throat tight.

Bull waited it out, shifting his knee a bit to ease the uneven pressure of the brace. Dorian’s eyes were glinting a bit with temper and fear and something else when he finally glared at Bull. There we go.

“You gonna let this go?”

“Tell me it didn’t have anything to do with me and I’ll never mention it again.”

Bull wasn’t sure if he had his face under as much control as he wanted for that particular question. It was good, maybe, that Dorian could still surprise him. And there was old hurt in there–Dorian was no slouch at ultimatums.

“I made a call. Only person responsible for that is me.” Bull thought about the question as Dorian’s mouth twisted under his mustache at the evasion. He knew how to phrase a question, Bull would give him that. “The Chargers are mine. My choice was clear.”

That split the difference. No word a lie. Not enough words to get hung up on. Just how Bull liked it.

Dorian’s brow creased briefly. “Of course. The Chargers.” He turned his attention back to the brace, less tentative now.

Bull waited a moment, let the silence settle before disturbing it again. “You remember the word I gave you?”

Another frisson of tension. Dorian tapped his knee and sat back again. “Try that. And yes. If you–yes. I remember.”

Bull could already feel it wasn’t right. “Tighter. It’s gotta hold all of this up, you know.”

Dorian’s lips twitched and he obliged, almost comfortable in his exasperation. He was the sort of intellectual who performed admirably and brilliantly under pressure, but for other things, he needed to be eased into comfort.

Bull was patient. He was real patient.

“Good. You keep that word close. You ever need to use it, you know where it is.”

Dorian’s hands paused, then tugged decisively and set the last buckle right where it needed to be. “Understood.”

Bull sighed a little at the way the pressure eased the throb under his kneecap. There you go.

The temper and the fear were tight under lock when Dorian tilted his head back to watch him test the brace with a crouch, but the something else was still in there around the edges as the shadow of Bull’s horns fell across his upturned face. Bull felt the pressure of that something else in his chest like a brace around his heart and reached out to press his thumb to Dorian’s full lower lip, parting him just a little.

He didn’t blush. Vints almost never did. But his eyes got a little glassy, and he exhaled slowly.

Yeah. There we go.

Worth the cost.

[sidrisa-blog]

Untitled

Pairing: Loki x Reader Summary: Just a snippet from the shibari fic that’s been plaguing my steps. Warnings: None...yet

“Am I to remove my clothing or…?”

You keep tending to your rope, pulling it through the fold in your hand, picking free any sharp, frayed bits you find. It’s good rope, sturdy, woven by ancient machines and ancient hands.

Perfect for breaking strong willed horses or stronger willed princes.

Heat spreads in your gut like wax from a tipped over candle. Imagine. Him. Pale skin patterned with red welts you put there. Mouth hanging open in a sob begging. You. For more.

Please.

One of those sharp bits jams into the meat of your palm reminding you not to stray from your purpose. This is to bind, not break. Breaking will have to be negotiated later.

You’re good with rope. With ties and knots and how to make them work with flesh. The Asgaridans always thought that meant horseflesh but your prince is well read, and his libraries are vast. He came to you with a book detailing the Southlanders’ talents with rope and asked if you could do the same.

“Why?” You asked him.

He chuckles as if the question is absurd, and answers with his own. “Doesn’t this look like fun?”

He flips to an illustration of a woman, chest completely bound with a cage of rope from neck to ankle. Her expression is rapturous and tortured as an unseen hand tugs on her bindings and lifts her high enough to keep a few toes on the ground.

You search his face for sincerity or jest knowing enough of him to know his jest is his sincerity. He snaps the book shut, light smile never fading, and answers you again sincerely, true and unadorned.

“Because it is yours, and I would know it.”

“If you’re serious then, we’ll need to come to terms?”

“Terms? Like making up some codeword for stop?”

He’s not wrong, not fully, but he’s also put several carts before the horse. “No, I mean terms like what you want out of this.”

He gestures to the chap book. “Isn’t it clear what I want?”

“No.” You sigh. “You have to be open and explicit.”

“Oh I can be explicit.”

“Loki!”

“Princess?”

He laughs when you take in a sharp breath, ready to scream at him or simply disappear to another part of the castle. Ye stars why did they fate him to you? You tamp down on your exasperation, of course he wouldn’t understand such activities have special and serious significance, and that the book in his hands is probably some Asgardian colonizer’s gross misinterpretation.

“Rope,” you say slowly, hooking his gaze to yours, hoping it imparts some of your seriousness or if not, warns against any of his jokes. “Is a means, not an end. It can be, if you want it to. If all you want is for me to tie you up and fuck you rotten, that is easily done.”

His ice green eyes widen, unused to your profanity. Good. It means he’s truly listening now.

“The bound submits, makes a gift of his secrets and his desires, and his insecurities, of his fears and fantasies. And it is the responsibility of the binder to meet and respect all. To facilitate a healing or a catharsis.”

He tap a black nailed finger to his chin. “Hm. More to it than I thought.”

“Of course there is. There always is. How often does an Asgardian see beyond their own bias?”

He tosses the book over his shoulder. “If my lady has more thoughtful words on the subject, I’d read them.”

“Are my good books are at home.”

He hums, careful not to breach too deeply the subject of your stolen home. “One day you’ll read them with me.”

“One day.” You agree.

there’s more, i’m working on it.

[sidrisa-blog]

I’ve been working on this shibari fic for like a month and if i don’t finish it it will literally kill me

[sidrisa-blog]

1099-D

Pairings: Loki x Reader Modern AU Warnings: Explicit Sexual Content Summary: You have an arrangement, a contract. You entertain him, you fuck him, and in return he pays you well.

This is parcel to a larger story, but highly appropriate given there’s a special birthday today :D

Amorousness in public isn’t new for your arrangement. He follows the long arc of your gaze across the dining hall, around the dance floor, past the bar, finally landing somewhere between the coat check and the bathroom. He doesn’t hear you when ask for him to accompany you, paying closer attention to the shape of your lips rather than the sound they make.

They are black tonight. Inky, obsidian black. An odd color for tonight’s events, you wear black to a funeral, not a birthday. His birthday. Though to your ever increasing credit, to him today feels more appropriately like a funeral.

Keep reading

[sidrisa-blog]

Is why i do what i do y’all

representation matters 

[sidrisa-blog]

I just wanted to say that I LOVEEEE YOUR FICS AND YOUR WRITING. There's not a lot of Loki X black! Reader at least i think? ( If you know some blogs please tell me ) but I thank you so much for your beautiful talent boo💕

Thank you so much for your kind words! They mean so much and ensure that I keep it up! THANK YOUUU!

[sidrisa-blog]

1099-D

Pairings: Loki x Reader Modern AU Warnings: Explicit Sexual Content Summary: You have an arrangement, a contract. You entertain him, you fuck him, and in return he pays you well.

This is parcel to a larger story, but highly appropriate given there’s a special birthday today :D

Amorousness in public isn’t new for your arrangement. He follows the long arc of your gaze across the dining hall, around the dance floor, past the bar, finally landing somewhere between the coat check and the bathroom. He doesn’t hear you when ask for him to accompany you, paying closer attention to the shape of your lips rather than the sound they make.

They are black tonight. Inky, obsidian black. An odd color for tonight’s events, you wear black to a funeral, not a birthday. His birthday. Though to your ever increasing credit, to him today feels more appropriately like a funeral.

Keep reading

[sidrisa-blog]

Morning reblog

[benevolentloki]

Reblog if you want a Love letter from Loki on Valentines day.

Put your name in the tags if you want addressed specifically to you or I’ll use a nickname (like sweetheart or dearest)

[lokis-helmet]

Im gonna be lonely af this year so yea pls

[sidrisa-blog]

1099-D

Pairings: Loki x Reader Modern AU Warnings: Explicit Sexual Content Summary: You have an arrangement, a contract. You entertain him, you fuck him, and in return he pays you well.

This is parcel to a larger story, but highly appropriate given there’s a special birthday today :D

Amorousness in public isn’t new for your arrangement. He follows the long arc of your gaze across the dining hall, around the dance floor, past the bar, finally landing somewhere between the coat check and the bathroom. He doesn’t hear you when ask for him to accompany you, paying closer attention to the shape of your lips rather than the sound they make.

They are black tonight. Inky, obsidian black. An odd color for tonight’s events, you wear black to a funeral, not a birthday. His birthday. Though to your ever increasing credit, to him today feels more appropriately like a funeral.

You don’t know this of course as he begrudgingly follows you, keeping a step and half behind you as you lead him away. You’re only performing in accordance with your contract. Entertain him, fuck him, and be well paid for it.

He’s not in the mood for either, but since you’re keeping up your end of the contract, so too must he keep his. Maybe he’ll throw in a little extra for your effort.

An unwitting smile passes across his face as he remembers the first time he requested a liason somewhere other than his condo. You seemed shocked, but not scandalized. It only took a few moments before the surprised slack of your face curved and hardened into a grin.

“Ok,” you answered him simply.

You enjoyed yourself so much--he made sure you did, a little gift for yet again graciously accepting his demands--that now when you plan your encounters you like throw a public one in there, as a treat.

For you.

For him.

For both.

But today--as delightful as you look in your black lipstick and that necklace that has never before graced a more worthy neck--is a funeral. And he…

Gets distracted by the scent of vanilla pods and warm flesh and the sweet oily smell of your black lipstick.

Why black? He thinks as you slide a thigh between his. What is it about the black?

You make him groan though he shouldn’t have, exploiting his weakness, knocking something loose in him that settles in his groin and ignites like a wrecked car in one of those banal Hollywood action films.

He shouldn’t, but he does.

You nip at his lips--teeth and tongue doing extra work to gnaw on such delicate offerings. The fire in his gut pops and crackles and he forgets his commitment to hate today. You make him too present, too alive, and unable to remain in a state of predetermined dourness.

How dare you.

He resigns completely to you, your black as void lips swallowing him whole as he knots a fist in your hair.

You shake him loose with a snarl, your fingers in his belt loops, than at his zipper, then cupping the stiffening heat of him.

"You've been staring at my mouth all night." You remark, pulling away from him just far enough to see his eyes flutter open and collapse on the sable curves of your smirk. "Your choice in color is peculiar.” He admits. “You tend to favor jewel tones as they favor you.  So does the black..."

You lay kisses at the base of his throat, offerings or sacrifices, he doesn’t yet know. "Do you wanna know why I chose black?" You scrape your teeth against his neck and feel his answer more than hear it as it hums up his throat. "Yes."

They’re sacrifices he decides. "I wanted to know what the black would look like smeared on your cock."

You bite and he jerks in your hand.

Then he hises.

“Who...taught….” He shudders, shifts against you, rising from the wall to regain some leverage, some control. “Who taught you such filthy language?”

His teeth click shut as you stroke him in response, working him into what will be a tidy mouthful.

Then you descend. Down to your knees on the marble in carnal worship.

He swears softly and digs his fingers harder into your hair, careful not to snatch but sharp enough to impart clear instructions….

That you ignore in favor of dragging your tongue against his balls.

He’d hate you if he could think straight. If you hadn’t completely ruined his capacity for independent thought.

How dare you. It’s his only reachable, coherent thought.

You purposefully drag your lips against him, leaving streaks of black along his shaft and in the corners of your mouth giving you this desperate and debauched yet divine look.

You are contented, cheeks hollowing then bulging as you swallow him down. He tastes of salt and musk and smells like the faint hint of bergamot and leather. He’s just enough to fill, to satisfy, to please. Your body twitches as you hear him curse again. Foul words in that accent, any words… and your cunt clenches.

Your hands knead the swells of his ass and your eyes alternate between being screwed shut in concentration and locked on his face.

It’s his birthday, and today you’ve only seen him frown.

Oh you’ve fixed that now.

He calls your name softly and the claw in your hair loosens into a caress. He calls you again and you can hear the light thump of his head hitting the wall.

The distance between the cries of your name shortens, morphs into curses. You work your tongue and drag him down and down into your throat.

He stiffens, locks tight, only his cock moves, spurting liquid fire down your throat.

You have him tucked away and righted before he notices you’ve moved. When his eyes open again, you’re in his face, a tiny black smudge in the corner of your mouth and a satisfied grin on that same mouth the only evidence of this tryst.

He can’t help that he kisses you.

“I’m not paying you extra for that.” He growls against your mouth. “Your only task for tonight was to accompany me.”

“I’m not asking you to.” You answer, leaving his flavor on his lips. “On the house….no...a favor. Between friends.”

His hands settle on your hips and cage you, you’re done but...he wants to linger.

“I wasn’t aware such things were transactions between friends. Seems my other relationships are lacking.”

He’s still following the stretch of your black lips as you laugh. “We have a unique friendship.”

“Do we now?”

“Yeah, of course. Even my best friends don’t get blown that good.”

There’s more that comes before and after. Stars, I haven’t porn’d in a long time and I’m honestly not embarrassed. 

[buckynasty-blog]

Thor : [knocks on (y/n)‘ a door] y/n ?

(Y/n) : [peers out from behind door] Thor , not now. I’m busy.

Thor : Doing what?

Loki : [peers out from behind (y/n) ] Me.

Valkyrie : [behind Loki ] And me.

[sidrisa-blog]

MOOD

GOALS

ICONIC

I STAN

[sidrisa-blog]

I might be writing

Loki!shibari

just...stay tuned okay

[izzy-hands]

[quicksilvermad]

You know, I have a couple questions about Loki’s jotun form.

1) When are we going to see this again?

2) Why is it impossible to find official concept art of this? (I have the art book and it’s not in there)

3) ARE WE GOING TO SEE THIS AGAIN?!

[sidrisa-blog]

1000 Points of Light Character Study

Niti: Good Business

“Hello!” She walks like a servant better suited to be a singer, meant for some kind of stage and not the scullery.

“Niti,” you call her name softly, fondly. She loves you, but not like that. But with the way you call her name, she could be convinced.

Today’s a quiet day. The soldiers are with Edvard and Se’risa is with her studies. Today you wear your sadness like a cloak instead of a millstone, it makes you talkative.

“Yeah?” She answers.

“Where is your mother?”

Keep reading