#also sun far too strong for winter

[bibiana112]

Haven't really posted about this but long-time headcanon of mine that what happened to the Kurashikis for them to end up at the hospital was that Akane got sick but pushed through it still going to school and not telling anyone about it because she would see Aoi pushing himself during flu season to keep going to work and learned to do the same through observation, not wanting to bother him or anyone else with something so minor until one too many days without getting treated later she collapses at school and gives everyone a big scare that the teacher needs to send her to the hospital for and realistically in my mind at least there's no way Aoi would be able to get her in or out of there without someone flagging cps unless someone saw this kid come pick up his little sister at odd hours with a story that wasn't matching up and realized that's a prime target for unethical science shit

[misswynters]

A Stark’s Fury

Cregan Stark x targ!wife! reader

[warning: blood, you getting cut in the arm

[synopsis: You are the wife of Cregan and younger sister of rhaenyra. You get cut in the arm and your son, Eddard, also gets hurt. Which makes cregan furious.

[note | here’s a lil something while i write the final chapter for winters embrace, just a short drabble :) also instead of rhae getting cut it’s you.

[requested: by anon

The sun dipped low over the horizon, casting an amber glow across Driftmark. Laena Velaryon’s funeral was a somber affair, filled with the mournful silence of the assembled nobles and the soft lapping of waves against the shore. Among the gathered were you, the younger sister of Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen, your husband Cregan Stark, and your son Eddard, who clung to your skirts, his wide eyes taking in the solemnity of the occasion.

Your silver hair flowed down your back, and your violet eyes glistened with unshed tears as you stood beside Cregan. His strong arm encircled your waist, offering silent support. Despite the warmth of the setting sun, a chill hung in the air, a reflection of the grief that weighed heavily on your hearts.

As the ceremony proceeded, you noticed the tension simmering among the children. Your son, Eddard, stood with Jace, Luke, Baela, and Rhaena, trying to comfort them in their shared sorrow. Your heart ached for them, especially for Rhaena, who had just lost her mother.

When the time came for the family to pay their final respects, you and Cregan approached the bier. You whispered a prayer for Laena’s soul, your voice barely audible over the sound of the crashing waves. Cregan squeezed your hand gently, his presence a solid rock amidst the turbulent sea of emotions.

After the funeral, you found yourself in the grand hall, where the tension between the Blacks and the Greens was palpable. You kept a watchful eye on Eddard, who was playing with the other children. However, the peace was shattered when a scuffle broke out between Aemond and Jace. The sight of Aemond taunting Jace, and the resulting fight, sent a shockwave through the hall.

Eddard tried to intervene, but in the chaos, he was struck and fell to the ground, crying out in pain. You rushed to his side, your heart pounding with fear and anger. Cregan was by your side in an instant, his protective instincts flaring as he assessed the situation.

“What happened?” he demanded, his voice a low growl.

“Aemond taunted Jace, and then the fight started,” you explained, your voice trembling with emotion as you cradled Eddard.

Cregan’s eyes darkened with anger. “This has gone too far.”

The confrontation escalated when Alicent Hightower, her face twisted with rage, advanced on Rhaenyra, who was defending her sons. You stepped between them, trying to defuse the situation, but Alicent’s fury was uncontrollable. She drew a knife, lunging at Rhaenyra, but you intercepted the blow.

The blade sliced across your arm, and you cried out in pain, clutching the wound. Cregan’s roar of fury echoed through the hall as he moved to shield you. He grabbed the knife from Alicent’s hand, his face a mask of rage.

“Enough!” he bellowed. “This madness ends now!”

King Viserys, looking frail and distressed, tried to intervene. “Peace! There must be peace!”

Cregan turned on the king, his eyes blazing. “Peace? Look at what your family has done! My wife is injured, my son is hurt, and for what? Petty squabbles and insults?”

Rhaenyra, tears streaming down her face, reached for you. “Sister, I’m so sorry.”

You managed a weak smile, despite the pain. “It’s not your fault, Rhaenyra. But something must change.”

As the maesters attended to your wound, Cregan kept a protective arm around you. He glared at the Greens, making it clear that any further aggression would not be tolerated. The hall was filled with a tense silence, the air thick with unspoken threats and unresolved grievances.

In the aftermath, Cregan insisted on returning to Winterfell with you and Eddard. “We’ll be safer there,” he said, his voice gentle but firm. “I won’t risk your lives any longer.”

You nodded, grateful for his unwavering support. “Thank you, Cregan.”

He kissed your forehead, his lips warm against your cool skin. “I love you. I will always protect you.”

As you prepared to leave Driftmark, you couldn’t help but feel a pang of sadness for the family you were leaving behind. You took a moment to say your farewells to Rhaenyra and her children.

“Please, take care of yourselves,” you whispered to Rhaenyra, holding her hands tightly. “We’ll be in touch, I promise.”

Rhaenyra nodded, her eyes filled with worry. “Be safe, sister.”

With a final embrace, you and Cregan gathered Eddard and boarded your ship, setting sail for Winterfell. The journey was long, but Cregan’s presence and Eddard’s innocent chatter kept your spirits high.

Winterfell welcomed you with open arms. The cold, crisp air and the familiar sights brought a sense of comfort. As you settled back into your home, the events at Driftmark seemed like a distant nightmare.

Cregan, ever the doting husband, ensured you had everything you needed to recover from your injury. He personally oversaw the maesters’ treatments, and his protective nature brought you solace.

A few hours later, as you sat by the fire, Cregan wrapped a warm blanket around your shoulders and handed you a cup of hot tea. “How are you feeling?” he asked, concern etched on his face.

“Better,” you replied, taking a sip. “Thanks to you.”

He smiled, sitting beside you. “I’ll always be here for you. No matter what.”

You leaned against him, finding comfort in his strength. “I know. And I’m grateful.”

Life in Winterfell slowly returned to normal. Eddard resumed his lessons and playtime with the other children, while you and Cregan focused on the responsibilities of ruling the North. Despite the distance from Driftmark, the shadow of that day lingered.

Later that night, as you lay in bed, you turned to Cregan. “Do you think things will ever be right again between the Blacks and the Greens?”

Cregan sighed, his brow furrowing in thought. “It’s hard to say. The wounds run deep. But we must try, for the sake of our family.”

You nodded, understanding the gravity of his words. “I want Eddard to grow up in a world where he doesn’t have to choose sides.”

Cregan’s grip on your hand tightened. “We’ll do everything in our power to make that happen.”

Many moons have passed, and your wound healed, leaving only a faint scar as a reminder of the confrontation. The bond between you and Cregan grew stronger, forged in the fires of adversity. Winterfell thrived under your joint leadership, a beacon of stability and strength. In the morning, as the first snow of the season blanketed the ground, you stood on the battlements with Cregan, watching Eddard play with the other children.

“He’s so happy here,” you remarked, smiling at the sight of your son’s laughter.

Cregan wrapped an arm around your shoulders, pulling you close. “Of course he is, this is our home. He’s meant to be here.”

You nodded silently, feeling a deep sense of peace. Your eyes went to the scar on your arm, being reminded of what happened. You looked at your husband, with sadness in your eyes.

“I hope my family will stop this infighting, i wish for all of this today end” Your thoughts began to wonder of all the possible outcomes this conflict can end with. This could very well mean that death will linger in your family. Something no one will ever be prepared for, war costs everything.

The quietness of Winterfell enveloped you as you drifted into a fitful sleep beside Cregan. The room was cold, and the memory of the somber events—the funeral of Lady Laena Velaryon, the sharp sting of your wound—still weighed heavily on you.

In your dream, the landscape was bleak and foreboding. A storm raged over a desolate battlefield, its fury tearing at the very fabric of the sky. You wandered through the chaos, a spectral figure in the storm’s heart. Amidst the destruction, you saw a vision of a great dragon, its scales a dim and faded silver, bound by chains of ice that slowly constricted around its body. The dragon’s eyes were filled with a profound sorrow, as if it sensed the end drawing near.

A shadowy figure emerged from the storm—a man cloaked in shadows, his face obscured but his presence undeniably menacing. His voice cut through the tempest, speaking directly to your mind, “The chains of fate are not easily broken. A great loss is coming to your house.”

As you reached out to free the dragon, a dark prophecy formed in your mind, clear as day. “Cregan will face a treacherous choice,” you heard yourself say in the dream. “A betrayal will come from within. Death will follow.”

You awoke with a start, the remnants of the dream lingering like a cold shiver down your spine. Your breathing was rapid and uneven, and a profound fear gripped you. You turned to Cregan, who was lying beside you, his face furrowed in concern.

The sudden movement and your distressed state had startled him. “What’s wrong?” he asked, his voice rough with sleep as he reached out to steady you. His hand found yours, his grip warm and reassuring against your icy fingers.

“My dream,” you managed to stammer, your voice trembling. “I saw... I saw something terrible. A dragon in chains, and a warning about you—”

Cregan’s eyes narrowed with concern, but he quickly sat up, his arm wrapping protectively around you. “What did you see? Tell me everything,” he urged, his voice steady despite the worry etched on his face.

You took a deep breath, trying to steady your racing heart. “I don’t know all the details, but it felt so real. I fear that something dark is coming, and it will bring pain to us and our house.”

Cregan nodded, his expression resolute despite the alarm in his eyes. “It’s okay,” he said softly, pulling you closer to his body. “For now, try to rest. You need it” He cradled your body as you leaned towards him, the warmth of his body bringing you comfort.

As you lay back down, you could feel the storm of fear inside you slowly ebbing, but the weight of the dream’s prophecy remained heavy in your heart.

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[bowieandqueen11]

Exchanging Pleasantries / Cooper Howard Imagine

Request: Could you please do hurt/comfort with The Ghoul? Like, maybe you got hurt during a fight with Raiders and he's being mean while stitching you up. Thanks pookie bookie ily

Omg bb @itsyellow ily too I couldn't wait to write this!! Hit me with that hurt/comfort that's my jam son

Also did I make this full of unresolved sexual tension? Frick yeah I did

As always, if you enjoyed please drop a comment to help me out and let me know!

Warning: slightly NSFW/ making out, mentions of injury and violence, slight mention of a choking kink? and some strong language!

(I do not own Fallout or its characters, all rights go to creators. Gif credit goes to @goodsirs.)

☆.。.:・°☆.。.:・°

'Y'know, you may be one of the stupidest goddamn people left on this planet. And I've seen a hell of a lotta stupid people.'

You know better to think that the one and only Ghoul: the slinking shadow that steadily tails and entraps every inch of the starkly barren world he can reach, the infamous bounty feared in every town, from Philly to Rivet City, would be one for pleasantries. Yet, even during your brief period travelling with the man across the wake of the formerly 'glorious' West-coast America, his callousness often left you wishing for the sweet silence of a Nuclear Winter.

Even Cooper Howard himself recognises the fact that he doesn't exactly, well, radiate off anything that could be called close to a succouring nature. Hell, he would be happy to radiate off anything that wouldn't have you spending his valuable time making detours to wandering doctors holed up in blood-splattered tents to use his hard-earned money in bartering for caps off your next bottle of Rad-X. He supposes, as you had shaken the bottle in front of his frowning face and wandered back off into the crowning desert sun, that if he could work himself back up to being unenthused, he would be able to count it as his first win in over two hundred years.

'Well, if you tried to stop fighting every single person still left out here I wouldn't have to risk my ass stupidly running in to save you', you retort, gnashing your teeth and trying your best not to squirm against his chest as he rips a fragment of broken plate from the back of your shoulder.

It wasn't often that you were allowed to light a fire in the wilds of the Wasteland: far too many radroach nibble bites littered your legs, far too many gash-covered tentacles slashes from the repulsive Centaurs marked your outer arms. However, as the two of you had spent your seemingly so lovely afternoon out on the highway being ambushed by a group of bloodthirsty Raiders, you had browbeaten the Ghoul into allowing the two of you such a special treat. An empty bottle of Nuka Cola lies by your faded makeshift floor covering that acts as your mattress, and you sigh in relief as the warmth of the flames licks across your tired arms.

Your soon drawn out of your repose by the feel of The Ghoul's cowboy boots thumping against either side of your legs; he awkwardly tries to leave enough room that he's not straddling your back, but his legs won't quite dip down enough to be more than halfway off the floor.

It leaves him having to scrape himself forward until his groin is nearly pressed against your tailbone, and you can feel the hem of his hat brush up your neck as he idly surveys the extent of your injuries. As he fidgets the strap of your vest down past the joint of your shoulder, you have to breathe in sharply to stop yourself grunting at the sharp scratch of his glove's rough seams as he drags his hand down.

'You're right', he runs his tongue along the inside of his cheek, dragging a strip of musty cloth out of his satchel bag and pressing it against your oozing wound. 'Your ass really is fucking stupid if you think that you were helpin'.' You grimace as a flash of stimulation and mortification flashes through your body; whether the pain in your gut is from the flesh wounds or from the clutch of thick leather as the Ghoul tantalisingly rakes his fingers up the tender skin of your shoulder and grips, you're too distracted to try and find out.

Sweeping your eyes over the fire-brushed ground that cracked and and crumbled underneath your heel, you can understand his frustration at you. At the world. Scorch marks litter the dusty ground around your make-shift campsite, the plasma rifles and energy weapons the Fiends had managed to barter, steal, and smuggle out from the Van Graffs stock lying in blasted pieces around the fragments of rusted metal once shielding the long gone diesel pumps. The violence - the anger, it always seemed never ending. Gosh, what you wouldn't give for a canopy right now: to stop the sun burns from blistering your face, to hide the sudden hush of shame and embarrassment that rose flush up your face like a mushroom cloud.

'Yeah, well, I did come running- you're welcome, by the way-', you start, but the Ghoul, as venomous a man as he is, cuts short your reply by prodding the point of one of the needles holding the tail edge of his coat together into the hanging flaps of your skin. Your hand balls into a fist as you feel the sharp tip scrape over muscle; you try your best not to whimper as his poison slits through your veins and slithers down to corrode your very soul, but the relief. Oh, god, corruption has never felt so good as the Ghoul's free hand sliding down to cup your ribcage. His middle and ring finger took turns tapping against your waist, a slight huff coming from his mouth and tingling against the shell of your ear.

At first, you think the Ghoul is mad at you: pissed off that if any of the Raiders had survived and scampered off back to their chem-den to frenziedly retell their confrontation with a certain duster-clad gunslinger, a certain ruthless reputation - a certain long upheld persona, would be tarnished. That he was aggravated in having to waste his dwindling supply of bullets in wasting the spiky-hair fiend that had sprung out from the door of the thought abandoned Red Rocket Truck Stop just as you were busy body slamming his friend to the ground. That he was embittered at the fact that you had the incredibly anserine idea to stop off in the middle of goddamn nowhere: somewhere straight off your Pip-Boy map to nestle down for the night on your route to the New Vegas strip.

Enraged, indeed, by the fact that he may have to admit that he wanted to save your life.

'You call that running?', he puffs out a chuckle, unceremoniously wiping the blood of the needle by using the back of your vest. 'I call that leaping up yonder head over ass across that Nuka-Cola machine.' He lets go of your side, much to your disappoint, and looks at you disapprovingly as you turn around to face him. He's waving the syringe edge of a stimpak in your general direction, and you make sure to slap his hand extra hard as you grab it off him.

'You know, cowboy, you were the one that asked me to tag along. Not the other way round', you groan in exhilaration as you stab the needle into the knife wound on your thigh, and that first hit of the Stimpak courses through your muscle. Cooper has to clench his fingers into the leather of his fist to stop himself from going feral right there and then. He sniffs loudly, scrunching up his nose and casting his gaze to the fireside to try and hide his displeasure.

'Well', he manages to choke out between clenched teeth, gripping onto his own leg so harshly he wonders if he's drawn blood between his claws, 'you are such delightful company.'

For the first time in his life, Cooper Howard wants to just... ride away from his problems. That's all you were supposed to be: a solution. A resource. Another object to exploit, to foist upon his own callous needs so that he may survive another day in this merciless hell pit. A life for a hundred and fifty vials felt like a mighty fair trade in the disintegrating shit-show of post-apocalyptic commerce.

It had been easier that way, luring you away from the only small shack left among the rubble of the underground Subway Station that the Fiends hadn't left splattered with blotted rivers of crimson and half-mangled body parts. It had been so much simpler, as he had shoved the still fresh bodies of the murderers and cannibals off the side of the Metro escalator, that he was here to save you. That he had no knowledge of the bounty held over your head by the Enclave, or of the reasons that you had become so... acquainted with the New California Republic during your month long travels for the Crimson Caravan Company. As the door had groaned open, he was left pointing his pistol in your face: a towering penumbra, larger than life, that seemed to swallow every inch of swinging lamplight around your doorway in a veiled sinfulness. He had found it so much easier, as he peered down at your gloomy face and smirked as the unmistakable sound of a Ripper reared closer to his head, that he was here to be your saviour.

That's right. As he had offered you protection: a safe route away, a constant presence, your second shadow on your journey back to the Strip for only a measly few caps, he had found it so much easier to pretend that this wasn't personal. That the way you shook his hand hadn't made his skin prickle, hadn't been the first thing his nerves had alighted at since the last fading memory he had of caressing his wife. That the way you had strapped your leather armour pauldron around your left shoulder, and pulled up the hem of your trouser leg to strap a hidden knife to your calf didn't have him unconsciously dragging his tongue along the cracks of his bottom lip, and left him staring in bemusement. The incredulousness that had his eyes glazing over and the bottom of his stomach clenching as the two of you pried open the doors back up to the surface, and he had nonchalantly inquired as to who had... disposed of the Fiends before his arrival here. You had just shrugged, throwing a smirk at him from behind your shoulder, and he couldn't help but feel his own mouth twitch up to mirror your reaction.

It had been so, so much easier to pretend that you were just another bounty. That you were the first person, since he had lost Janey in another life, that had made him feel something other than contempt. Or worse, nihility. Nothingness. Just a hodgepodge script of fabricated and fictional lines that he reeled off as if it were more than just second-nature; an amalgamation of everything hollow and horrid that he had spent so much of his long-lost life trying desperately to bury.

But Cooper knew better than anyone, that nothing, and no one, could stay buried forever.

And with every returned smile: every lingering brush of some Caravan Trader's fingers on your arm as they tried to sell you some over-priced snake oil, every repulsive simper of a NCR trooper as they tried to buy you a bottle of vodka during your rare stops at some remote barrack, had the rot he had constructed within his soul become that little bit more mutilating.

The silence between you is deafening. And so you do something really stupid: you decide to ask him about his dirt-stained outfit.

'So', you drawl, turning yourself around so your legs are crossed out by your side, doing your best to stay firmly seated between the tensing muscles of the Ghoul's thick thighs. He draws his spurs in a line across the sand, but to your astonishment, and wild delight, he doesn't pull his legs open any further. 'Did you rob a real cowboy or something? I didn't think they were real. The only ones we ever saw were those rugged, way too contrived looking ones on those old movies.'

Your fingers curl over the edges of his collar, tentatively letting your fingers drop to rest against the sharp gap against his breastbone.

A muscle in Cooper's jaw jumps.

Oh. Oh. You'd never seen him actually angry before, behind all that cowboy western shooter charade.

For a moment, you're worried you've offended him somehow; a faraway look seems to draw him into the pale billows that smoke up from the orange flames, and a look that you've never seen before- never could even contemplate drooping the face of the suddenly so haggard looking man sitting by your side flitted across his scrunching face.

Forlorn. He looked so forlorn.

Neither of you are sure if he's even conscious of his arm moving, snaking itself across the small of your back to clutch almost painfully against the meat of your hip. His thumb strokes against the outline of your bone: probing, testing, clawing and pinching as if he had repeated the action over and over and over again in his mind.

'This? This is as old as the dirt and the worms.'

He doesn't react, doesn't move the frozen stone of his stoic face when you hesitantly grip onto his fingers, and slowly... god, so slowly, pull his glove off and drop it on the ground. Suddenly feeling so exhausted, your droop your head down against the dried sweat on your neck and watch yourself place your hand gingerly over his own, holding him in a wary vice against your side.

'What... what's a worm', you tentatively ask, your eyes wide open in worry that your question might break the provisionary affinity of this moment.

Cooper actually... snorts, a smirk threatening to break across his face as he looks out of the corner of his eye at you. 'An 'ol creature that used to live under the soil.' His eyes burn a hole into your irises, and he finally cracks out in a sallow grin as he contemplates the fact that he has your whole, enraptured attention. 'In fact, almost a whole lot like you.'

You smack his shoulder, but he only tilts his head back with an inquisitive gloat on his lips. He tips his head down, moving his other free hand to grab and squeeze the other side of your waist, making you woefully buck back against the bottom button of his shirt as the pit of your bottom begins to thrum with a devastating heat.

'Now', you can hear the teasing in his voice as he dips his spine down to hover over the shell of your ear. 'The real question is, where in the sweet hell would you have seen such heinous films such as those?'

His hand crawls like sweet spiderwebs across to your bellybutton, taking your breath away as he cups his palm against your skin and carts you back till your resting against the side of his chin, entangling you against the last vestige of the man he's entombed within the Stygian shadows.

'My ma used to show them to me and my brother if we had been extra good. She spent a whole three months saving up whatever metal scraps she could scavenge to go trade over at the General Store in Goodsprings and buy ourselves a real life television. The picture was blurry as shit, and we only had one holotape that I swear I ended up being able to quote back to front by the time I was sick of watching it. But hell, if we didn't crowd around the floor in wonder and dream about being a mysterious, rifle swinging stranger that roamed around the wastes saving people.'

Cooper purses his lips, swallowing thickly as he lassos your words in a whirlwind around his mind. After what seems like an eternity of listening to the soft whistle blow through the cartilage of his nose, of noting the quiet scurry of Bark Scorpions barbing through the pale tufts of faraway brushes, and the sound of your own heart hammering against your ribcage, each hit cracking your ribcage open with a sledgehammer, Cooper grumbles a reply.

'Y'know, there's an old saying back where I'm from - one that those folks in those movies you... respected use' to say. Feo, fuerte y formal. It means you're ugly, strong, and dignified. And shit, I can say for sure that you've got ugly ticked off that list.'

'You cheeky shit-', you start, but you can't help but shove your hand against your mouth to stop yourself from laughing. With a jolt forward over your stomach, you wince at the pain that flashes through your body at your only recently closed wounds. The Ghoul snarkily utters a tut tut, making you actually fucking whimper aloud this time when his hands grab your love handles, lifts you up, and slaps you down atop his lap. A faint slip from the curve of your buttocks sliding down to settle against his inner thigh has him hissing against the back of your head.

Even though there was no chance of it ever occurring, the Ghoul loosely clenched his fingers around your throat and tilted your head back until your throat went dry, as if daring you to move away from him again.

'Ain't your fault darlin'', he twangs out in that hoarse voice of his, his tongue flicking as smooth as molasses against the shell of your ear: his pointed edge darting a sticky trail up to your inner ear. 'It ain't your fault that you look like a molerat.'

You snort, and Cooper finds himself smiling at the sound of a noise he hasn't heard since his daughter was... since his daughter was...

'You remind me of someone I used to know, you know that? She was... she was far too sweet. Far too good for all this shit too.'

'Aha, there he is.' You wrestle out of his grasp and turn your head disbelievingly. The Ghoul looks almost taken aback, before he draws back into himself and fixes himself to stare you down. 'Finally making an appearance after all this time, are we? Good to see I'm finally getting through to you.'

'Now what the hell is that supposed to mean?', he bares his teeth, gnashing them together almost instinctively.

'I mean, I think that was as close to an honest exchange with the man inside you I'm ever going to have.'

That makes him start.

Pensively, he watches you, assessing and appraising the quirks and emotions that wander across your face as he waits for you to finish your accusation.

'And unless you stop sticking your blaster in the face of every creature that walks and talks, probably your last as well.'

The Ghoul swallows thickly, doing his best to seem as straight laced as usual, but growing more and more discourteous in his manner by the almost sinful way he's darting your eyes down to your lips and allowing them to hover there. 'Now darlin', I'm only exchanging pleasantries.'

'Is that really what you'd call yourself? And here I thought it was cantankerous.'

'Considering the literal crap-hole you grew up in I'm surprised you even know that word, now.'

'The sewers are empty, Cowboy - I'd say there's more piss on you from Dogmeat than down there. Besides, I lived in a Subway Station... asshole', you spit out at your feet, hitting the fragmented remains of one of your assailants helmet spikes.

A jab pokes at your inner thigh; the clenched thumb of the Ghoul branding into your skin as he finally looks you dead in the eyes with a cold stare. 'And there you are.'

And yet there's something. There's something lingering there, in the dark. In the swirl of his irises. In the only part of his body that still remains fully intact. Fully him. Something valorous. A convolution of steadfastness and pride. An imploringness.

'Suppose...', you inhale sharply, not realising that the two of you have managed to claw and scrape and crawl inch by inch closer to each other during your... showdown. 'Suppose', you buck your knees forward until you have enough leverage to haunch yourself up and turn, using the exertion to swivel yourself round and straddle the Ghoul's legs. Your gaze dips down to watch the purse of his strangled lips, his head slowly raising itself to unmask itself from the murk. 'That we aren't so different after all.'

Before you have time to regret your words, the stout pressure of clashing thumbs and fingers have jerked against your chin and pulled you down to smash against Cooper's mouth. Gnashing teeth pull at your bottom lip without a moment's warning, slicing down to draw blood. Cooper pulls back to snarl, before diving back in and licking away the thin trail of blood driplets that dribble down your chin dimple with the flat edge of his impoverished tongue.

Your chest rises and falls in quick succession as the man leaning his weight eagerly against your stomach ravishes you, growling as he reaches down to pull at the bottom of your thighs, and raise your knees up so he can cup your ass and knead the sweet flesh.

Part of you wants to rip his clothes off him right there and then, part of the recesses of your mind worries about the impending danger of the Wastelands: a roaming gang of looters, the unlucky shimmer that forewarns the arrival of a Nightstalker, but all of you wants to slam your hands around the side of this man's face and knock him straight to the ground with the ferocity of your kiss.

Before you can even make it past the squishing his cheeks phase, you’re distracted from your plan by the pressure point of his fingers teasingly prodding against the outline of your inseam. You can't enact your plan - you can't, not when you can feel the tip of his finger run slowly... slowly... god! So agonisingly slowly up your inner thigh. Can feel the warm, almost ruinating nibble of his top teeth against the pulse point of your neck, before he leaves an apologetic slide of his inner lip against it: something bright and burning and beautiful making the nerves of his body scream as it gnaws away at their rot.

Perhaps, perhaps there was still time for the Ghoul to exhume the mouldering remains of Cooper Howard after all.

[all-things-fic]

Sugar // HS

AN: This is old, but given how ol’ Harry has popped up outta nowhere, I couldn’t resist. Really sorry if the read more doesn’t work properly, I’m on mobile.

Sending love x

***

Anguilla was a special place for you both.

It had its way of drawing you back to it time and time again. Whenever you wanted that little bit of winter sun, to ease the blues that may have been drawn from you with the grey skies of England.

Anguilla had been the first real place that you and Harry had chosen to holiday. It felt like your first real couple holiday. Where you shed all worry and apprehension about being seen with him in a setting that was absolutely nothing but romantic.

Anguilla had been the place where you’d had one of your nastiest fights too. The kind that had you sat in the backseat of a taxi ride home, close together in presence but the furthest apart in mind. The threat of packing your luggage and getting the next flight home fizzling through the silent energy.

And it was because of that - the highs and lows - it was only right to also christen this place with the crown of being your first born’s babymoon.

Thinking back on fond memories as you lay along the four poster daybed, was how you’d come to find yourself most days on this holiday. Looking out on your private beach and watching your husband of just shy of two years fight his way around a paddleboard or a surfboard, whichever has taken his fancy that morning.

The Caribbean seas were known to be calm, but not this part of the island. Harry knew about that one better than you, and seeing him so active sometimes made you feel like you were being far too lazy, using the pregnancy as an excuse.

Truth was, you had been struggling. Heartburn was crazy and you’d started to swell in your hands and ankles from water retention. While Harry swore to you it was just the heat. You hadn’t forgotten how he’d said that it was probably just the flight that had caused it.

You loved that about him though. That he tried to always make you feel better. Regardless of how neglectful you felt toward him, he wouldn’t hear you utter such words. You were carrying his baby, you were nothing but beautiful to him. You knew he thought that from the way he marvelled in you every single day. Both with and without the spoken word.

It was like he was mesmerised. You were a bit of a forbidden fruit to him, especially when it came to intimacy. Being touched in your current shape made you cringe. You’d spent a lot of the past week covered up, under the four poster daybed you currently found yourself upon and felt like some lewd voyeur as you stared out into the ocean, under the guise of reading, and watched your husband leave the ocean.

Harry was every inch golden, regardless of the length of time he spent covered up by a wetsuit. His face, which had been slightly sunburnt, now turning that mixture of bronze and dirty tan where his melanocytes cells had increased unevenly in the sun, resulting in darker and lighter patches of skin.

He was every inch handsome and strong and he was aging far better than you (much to your delight and your resentment). He still smiled like he was the same twenty-six year old you had first set your eyes on, in that dingy London bar while on a night out with friends that you were so adamant you didn’t want to attend.

But boy, you were glad you had.

Both back then and so vehemently still to this day.

You looked on, watching as he stood his surfboard in the sand. Abruptly pushing it down and working on untying the board from around his ankle. A force that you knew would be heavy. Had he always been this manly or were you just having a moment?

He was drenched. Wet through. You could tell regardless of how far away he was and you found yourself wondering how salty his skin would taste against your lips. Left leg wrapping tightly over your right at the ankle to quell the feeling of emptiness between your thighs.

Eyes squinting slightly behind your sunglasses, you fought the urge you so badly felt behind your twitching hands, to lift them from your eyes and push them back into your hair. For some strange reason you didn’t want him to know you were affected by him like this.

Harry knew however. Of course he knew. He was in the same position. It was why he was taking his time. Jutting his chin up towards the cloudless blue skies and pulling slowly at the zip of his wetsuit, feeling the too tight fabric become less taut against his damp skin.

Pruney fingers pulled at the Neoprene material, hands peeling it away and ears enjoying the sound it made while doing so. You noticed he’d dropped his head with a smile now, wet tendrils falling down and obscuring your view of the way his face dipped and concaved so majestically when he was pleased with himself.

That annoyed you. You wanted to see that face.

Sinking lower into the bed, you pulled your book higher to hide your pout and felt dirtier now that nothing but your eyes were visible over the top of the book.

He seemed totally unphased but you were sure he knew you were watching him as he finished removing the top half from his body and revealing himself to you. Golden and smattered with more ink than ever. Ink now upon his skin just for you, mixed nicely in between the memories and the mistakes from before.

Seeing his feet digging into the sand, you felt a jolt of excitement course through you. Hand lifting to rest gently against your stomach, you attributed the flutter to your child. “Is that Daddy making his way back to us?”

Harry’s feet burned under the white sand as he found himself walking from the water's edge and closer to the daybed. He squinted, bringing his hand up to his forehead to try and get a better look at you as he approached.

You took great delight in the way his ring caught the sun from his action. Lips pulling into a triumphant grin at the thought and knowledge of how he was yours.

Smug didn’t even begin to cover it.

As he got closer, his eyes surveyed the scene that was in front of him. His wife laid out, relaxed, on a four poster bed. Chilled drinks and fruits off to the side ready for both of you to leisurely enjoy.

You hiding behind the book humoured him to no end. He loved it when you thought you were being clever. Just not clever enough, eh? He’d probably say it to you as well before the day was out.

His presence at the bottom of the bed was felt long before he physically arrived. You refused to look up at him, however he noticed the rounded apples of your cheeks as the pages of your book hid your smiling mouth from him.

Hands tying the loose sleeves of his wetsuit around his waist, your peripheral vision allowed you to take in the way his hands moved efficiently to tie a secure knot into the sleeves.

“Took your time,” you started. “Thought I was gonna have to start playing the Baywatch theme tune just to get you to move a little bit quicker.”

His lips quirked at that, him taking a deep breath through his nose as he felt the corners of his eyes wrinkle with joy. Laughter lines they called them, right? He knew they had only deepened from all the years he had spent laughing with you so far.

“Books tha’ interesting ‘s it,” he sarcastically acknowledged, enjoying the confirmation that you weren’t reading at all. “What chapter you on now?”

Your non-verbal response was to turn the book around for him to catch a glimpse of the pages. He cackled when the text came into focus. You hadn't moved from the page you’d opened up to that morning as he slipped off the bed, and let the ocean before his lover for a few hours.

“Stellar effort, darling. I admire your sell,” he clenched his fist and shook it once to emphasise his words. Your sell being the way you’d made it look as if you had moved further along with your novel of choice for holiday reading. “Gonna take you in the boardroom wi’me next time wi’a poker face like tha’.”

“Take me in the boardroom,” you repeated his words back to him, much slower than his delivery.

From your tone, he tilted his head up, using both of his hands to brush back his wet hair from falling around his face. He blew out a puff of air, his lips looking so much bigger and more inviting when his mouth made that shape.

“Jesus woman, give a man chance to breathe.”

His deep tone forced you to push your face into the book, trying to fight the urge to squeal like a silly little school girl. The chuckle that filled your ears was bliss. It was one of his dirty sniggers, the kind that he would do by keeping his mouth closed so that the sound left more of his nose in a breathy sound but the vibration of his throat was prominent.

You couldn’t bring yourself to respond, instead letting your hands fall away from the book as it remained in place from your horizontal state.

The dip to the bed was the next thing you felt, Harry placing his knees close to bottom left of the bed and pausing. It was calming silent apart from the sound of the crashing waves, and you found yourself peeking out from underneath the pages.

The sight you saw was far too soft, if a little bit intriguing. Harry was frowning lightly as he untied the knots of the tassels that held the netted white curtains framing the wooden posts of the bed.

“Unless,” he started, his voice concentrated. “You’re letting me taste you, then I’m gladly suffocating.”

Peeking out of the side of the book, you noticed how he hadn’t taken his eyes away from the way his nimble fingers were unloosening the fabric. You saw the way his facial expression changed when he triumphantly and gently tugged on the curtain to pull it across one side of the daybed.

“Don’t come near me, you’re wet-”

“‘S usually nice that way. The wetter the better, so to say.”

Usually you would’ve whacked him with the book by now, or threw a pillow at his head but all you found yourself doing was laying there and listening. Feeling a heat fill your face as your imagination was moving two steps ahead of Harry’s each time. Or so you thought, anyway.

Walking on his knees along the mattress, Harry made his way across the bed to the opposite set of net curtains.

“Why’re you shutting the curtains, I don’t want no funny business-“

Harry paused his movement, looking up at you under his drying hair thanks to the thick heat enveloping you both.

“Sure about that, darling,” he asked, fingers still against the knot. When you didn’t respond he continued to untie and pull the curtain across the opposite side of the best. “Thought so,” he mumbled.

Staying silent sometimes worked to your advantage, part of you slightly intrigued as to how he was going to play it. The book that covered your face, was gently lifted away by Harry. A soft whine leaving your lips.

“You’re gonna make me lose my place,” you made your high-pitched complaint known, only to be greeted by an amused chuckle.

“‘S the book more interesting than me is it,” he said slowly closing the item and pushing it away. “Nah. Now the fruit I can understand,” he started, feeling the way you looked up at him as he peered at the tray of healthy goodness and rubbed his hands together. “What have we got ‘ere? Cherries, strawberries, watermelon- your favourite.”

Before you could stop yourself, you reached for his hand that hung above you.

He was your favourite.

Your soft tug to his fingers had him dropping his gaze, his fingers curling around yours. His hands had changed to you lately, looking thicker and veiner. You could never bring yourself to say it out loud though, not to him directly anyway. You were sure he’d just laugh, if he didn’t already know that is.

You were positive he probably did. The amount of times you’d taken to playing with his fingers, or gently running the tips of your fingers across the dips of his knuckles and the veins on the backs of his hands. Those hands helped to make your baby, they’d help to take care of said baby in a number of months time too.

“Want summat?” He asked, eyes peering down at you behind his slowly drying tendrils. “Wha’ can I do fo’yer?”

Looking down at you, he took in the way you eyes blinked up at him.

“‘M already on m’knees for yer, wha’ more could you want? Want me closer?” He smirked, lowering himself down to lie on his side next to you thanks to your wordless nod. Head resting on his hand as he leant on his elbow, he reached up to scoop your hair out of your face and lift your lips to his. Voice lowering as his lips puckered against yours, he added, “Could do one better I s’pose? Put m’head between your legs.”

Shaky breath left your lips as he hummed. “Gonna let me do that fo’you.”

“‘S been ages since you last did,” he continued, hands smoothing down your back in circle motions, pulling you closer to his body so that you were almost flush against him.

“It’s not pretty down there,” you grimaced thinking of how your last shaving job had been harder to achieve thanks to your growing bump.

“‘S that not up to me to decide,” he asked, deeply. “Left a bit f’me to play with, yeah? ‘Ope so.”

“God Harry, stop being such a little boy,” you tried to hide your embarrassment, skin flamed for how open he was regardless of his boyish tendencies.

His snigger into the skin of your shoulder warmed you further, “‘m definitely not a little boy when I’m wanking m’self off, all over your hair.”

His comment lingered in the sexually charged air. Lips sucking gently and soft breathing barely heard over the crashing waves. Being close to him was what you craved. The sound of him coaxing you to be a little daring.

“Messy like one.”

“Messy like one,” he repeated, face amused as he looked down at you. “‘S better messy. When you can hear it, eh. All down my chin and rubbed into your thighs. Means we’ve enjoyed ourselves, don’t it.”

You found yourself opening your legs slightly at the sound of his voice and Harry took the opportunity to press his damp, wetsuit covered, thigh into the gap.

“Can feel ‘ow warm yer are for me-“ he groaned. “Let me in. Gi‘me a kiss.”

The deep inhale through his nose as he took your lips with his caused you to clench at his defined chest. He pulled off, a slight frown to his brow, “Christ nearly took a chunk of me wi’ya then.”

“Not close enough-“

“Let me in then, let me have a feast,” he hummed. “‘On your back f’me.”

Rolling to your back was easy when you had a man that weighed almost thirteen stone to guide you. Was easier when he caressed you with kisses that made you melt into him.

“You look bloody wonderful, d’ya know tha’,” he mumbled against your lips. His hand wandered as he spoke, fingers stilling at your rounded hips and dipping into your skin.

“You’re just trying to butter me up so you can get your end away,” you spoke in monotone, with your eyes closed.

“‘S it working?”

You giggled at his muffled question, his head pressed into the fabric of your beach coverup as your stomach shook lightly from your delight and laughter.

“Shift this out the way,” he gruffly spoke, pushing at the sheer item that covered your stomach. “Wan’ your belly.”

Your belly has become his kryptonite. The way it had grown and began to round out nicely. Popping into the bump that you had found yourself longing for the minute you found out that you were pregnant.

But it was also the part that you were self-conscious of. The dusting of stretch marks starting to appear, even if only light and small, among the ones that you’d experienced from when you were filling out as a teenager.

For Harry though, this was life. You were growing his son or daughter - the gender you didn’t know and weren’t going to find out either. Much to your dismay and his delight.

“One of the only surprises left in life,” he said, over a conversation around messy kisses and even messier tears from your panic of how your usual planning self wasn’t going to get a look in. “We’ve got this covered, Mommy. We don’t need to know. We’re sorted. Let us have that moment, that excitement for the entire nine months. The guessing and the little arguments over your cravings meaning that we’re definitely having a boy, or the way your shape is changing meaning we’re definitely having a girl.”

And that was a moment that you thought back on fondly now, cause he’d been right on his thinking. Those moments had been some of your best and most intimate conversations when he liked to purposely go against your guess and say the complete opposite. He loved seeing the fire in your eyes flare up as you both got friendly and competitive with each other. It was healthy to be this way and ultimately exciting and fun for you both.

You were in your thoughts so much that you almost jumped when you felt Harry’s hand get close to your belly button.

“Sensitive,” you softly whined, hearing his hushed apology against your lower body.

“‘M sorry, forgot,” he softly apologised, nose nudging gently at the underside of your bump. You felt him going lower with no desire to stop him, you intimate area letting you know that you wanted this far more than you were willing to admit.

“Had some watermelon for brunch? He mumbled into the sensitive skin of your thigh. “Saved me some?”

You whimpered in response, feeling the way the backs of his fingers rubbed gently up your clothed intimate area. His eyes were mesmerised by the turquoise blue of your bikini bottoms in contrast to your hair and softly tanned skin.

“Colour really pops, doll,” he mumbled more so to himself, watching the way your hands covered your face, elbows pointing to the sky at his words. “Love it when you show me how pink you are. Show me.”

“Stop,” you choked, lifting for him as you felt his face drop into your lower stomach and nosy along the hem of your bikini bottoms. His teeth drew up the material, pulling it away from your skin with a soft tension.

You wanted anything but him to stop.

“Can smell you from ‘ere, gagging for me,” his voice regardless of how it was muffled around fabric was the clearest thing in your mind. “Gonna give me some sugar.”

“You know I will,” you softly mewled, hands finding his at the waistband of your bikini bottoms.

“Do I?” He felt his lips tilt upward, eyes flicking upwards to see the charged expression on your face. “Help me get ‘em off you then.”

It didn’t take much from him before you started pushing the fabric down as he pulled. Hips rose of their own accord off the bed beneath you, as you let him shift and guide the bottoms down your legs, before placing them neatly to the other side of the bed.

He was close to you within a flash, his head back against your thigh this time and enjoying the way your plush skin felt pressed to his face.

“Put me where you want me,” he mumbled, hand blindly reaching for yours and placing it into his chestnut strands of hair that were beginning to form a waxy film from the sea salt.

You were shocked at how you didn’t hesitate in guiding him to your center. His groan of satisfaction caused you to scratch at his scalp as he turned his head slightly to the side against the crevice of your inner thigh, “My girl knows what she wants and what kind of man would I be ‘f I didn’t give it to her.”

Any kind of response you had fell flat into a hum, as you rolled your lips into your mouth and tried to keep as quiet as possible given the fact that you were in public.

You knew it wouldn’t last long, but you’d give it a good go.

[queen-of-reptiles]

𝚁𝙾𝚄𝙶𝙷

description: in which jenna clark realises she may be a little rough with her girlfriend

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jenna clark x female reader

disclaimer: this is all fiction! Do not take any of this seriously.

warnings: this is a short one! just fluff

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y/n slowly blinked her eyes open, the sun streaming through the thin curtains pushing her to wake up earlier than she would have preferred for her day off.

The girl sighed and pushed her arm out to touch her girlfriend only to feel an empty side of the bed. y/n sat up, a pout on her lips when she realised her girlfriend was not in the room.

Just as y/n went to move, the door to the bedroom opened and Jenna walked in with a tray in her hands and the small patter of feet echoed. y/n's and Jenna's miniature border collie Mollie jumping at the bed.

"Molls!" Jenna warns, the dog huffing as she moved back down the bed, her head flopping onto y/n's lap as she sat up, rubbing sleep from her eyes.

"Hi fluff." y/n chuckled, running her hand over her head.

Jenna sild onto the bed carefully, bringing the tray down between them where their coffees sat and breakfasts, y/n smiled softly, leaning over to kiss her lover's cheek.

"Thank you baby." y/n sighed, Jenna sending her a bright smile.

"Of course, you've been working too hard, I always say it." Jenna hums.

y/n was in her final year of her solicitor exams and also worked part time in a law firm and in a cafe to help pay for it all. Once she completed her exams, she had a role lined up with a soliciting firm for estate and would be able to stop the cafe job.

However, as they got into the final term, y/n found herself studying late, running off caffeine and tears, frantic writing into early hours of the morning, a few hours of stressed sleep and then straight to work.

Jenna could see her lover burning herself out and didn't know how to stop it, so when they finally had a day off together the footballer made it her personal mission to cheer her lover up.

"I thought we would take Mollie for a W A L K, grab some shopping and bake and watch movies for the day?" Jenna asks her lover as they begin to eat and y/n smiles.

"That sounds lovely." y/n smiles, letting Mollie have a slither of bacon from her plate which the dog whined thankfully at.

The two ate in small talk and giggles before showering together in a similar way, ghosting touches and soft kisses as they washed and changed before moving to get their shoes on.

"Mollie!" y/n called out, the small dog arriving obediently at y/n's feet. "Do you want to go for a..." y/n begins but Mollie saw the lead in her hand and barked excitedly jumping at her playfully.

"I think she's figured it out babe." Jenna chuckled and y/n nodded, clipping her dog onto the lead before the two headed out into the crisp winter air.

y/n shivered slightly, bringing her scarf closer to her neck as she looked back at Jenna, rolling her eyes at the fact her lover just had a beanie and thin coat on.

Jenna always said she never got cold, maybe the fact she was used to playing in cold temperatures helped her, whatever it was, Jenna didn't often feel the cold.

The trio made their way into the park and y/n unclipped Mollie, Jenna throwing the tennis ball which made the dog race after it excitedly, y/n giggling at the dog who sprinted back and let the ball drop at her feet.

y/n smiled and leant down, stroking at the dog and cooing proudly at her, before she picked up the ball and threw it, pouting when it didn't go as far as Jenna's.

"What's that pout for?" Jenna cooed, wrapping her arms around her girlfriend.

"My throw didn't go as far as yours." y/n huffed and Jenna chuckled.

"Baby, I'm a professional athlete?" Jenna reminds and y/n shrugs, still relaxing in Jenna's arms.

"With your feet." y/n jokingly whined.

"I still need to be strong though baby. So I can fight off those other players." Jenna grins. "And so I can cheer up my pouting girlfriend." Jenna adds.

"How does being strong..." y/n begins but Jenna stops her by picking her up bridal style and spinning her. y/n laughs loudly arms clinging to Jenna's shoulders as the woman comes to a stop.

"What do you think Molls? Cheered up?" Jenna asks the dog who was watching her owners with a tilted head.

Mollie barks at them, before panting and y/n laughs as Jenna puts her down, picking up the ball only to throw it again, Mollie racing off excitedly.

"Cheered up?" Jenna asks, y/n wrapping her arms around the woman's shoulders as Jenna's arms snake around her waist and pull the girl closer to her.

"Mmm. Definitely." y/n grins, leaning up to peck at Jenna's lips twice.

Jenna grins at the affection, her hands squeezing y/n's waist tighter for a moment, the two enjoying their moment of peace as the cold breeze washed over them.

"You're it!" y/n suddenly yells, tapping Jenna and running from her, Mollie jumping around y/n excitedly as the girl grabs the tennis ball and sprints away, Mollie following.

"Get back here!" Jenna yells, y/n screeching as she sees the woman running toward her.

"Mollie come on." y/n giggles madly, her and the dog trying to make it away, however the dog had far more speed.

Two hands grab y/n's waist and she squeals, throwing the ball once again for the dog who bounces after it happily. Jenna grips her lover, exclaiming in victory as she spins her and holds her tightly.

"Jen! Jen!" y/n tries, as the woman stops, still holding y/n above the ground. "Jen, too hard!" y/n warns, tapping Jenna's arms and she gasps, releasing the girl who takes a deep breath in, wincing at her aching waist.

"Shit, sorry baby." Jenna sighs, cupping y/n's face.

"It's okay love, you just sometimes forget the strength you have." y/n wheezes out, smiling when Jenna peppers kisses around her face.

"You're shivering baby, lets head back now, yeah?" She asks, Mollie barking in agreement as the dog had started to shake slightly from the bite of winter.

"Okay." y/n smiles, pressing a kiss against Jenna's cheek as she clips Mollie back, the dog panting as she padded with her owners back home.

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y/n was changing her shirt into one of Jenna's jumpers which Jenna had happily taken off as she changed into a fresh one, y/n happily sniffing the clothing before Jenna gasped.

"Oh baby, I'm so sorry." Jenna says, moving forward, her hand shakily spreading across y/n's waist, where her handprint was already beginning to bruise into the skin.

y/n looked down, not even realising Jenna had her so tightly in the park and expected the bruise. Jenna had yet to touch the skin and y/n smiled softly.

"Jen, it's okay." y/n promises, Jenna looking at her with wide guilty eyes. "Hey, it's okay." y/n promises, pulling Jenna's hand to press against her bruise softly.

"I feel so bad." Jenna sighs stroking the skin slightly. "I shouldn't be so rough with you." She adds.

y/n sighs, pulling the jumper on as Jenna pulls her hand away from the bruise, letting y/n wrap her hands around y/n's shoulders as y/n wrapped hers around Jenna's waist.

"It's not the first mark you've left on me Clark and it won't be the last." y/n says to her, an eyebrow raising suggestively.

Jenna chuckles, knowing well what her lover was talking about and rolled her eyes, pressing a kiss to her forehead lovingly, a warmth spreading through her at the way y/n didn't care.

"Besides..." y/n begins, leaning up to whisper her next sentence in Jenna's ear. "I usually like it when you get rough, don't I?" She asks, before pressing a kiss underneath the lobe.

Jenna groans, as y/n leans back down and the player leans down, connecting their lips in a deep kiss, her tongue quickly twisting into y/n's mouth.

"Come on." y/n hums as she pulls from Jenna. "Let's go make some dinner." She adds innocently. She begins to walk to the door but Jenna grabs her arm and drags her back toward the bed.

"Dinner can wait - I want dessert first." Jenna hums as she drags y/n onto the bed.

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jennaclarkkk just posted on her close friends story

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END

[ventique18]

Edit: this post was made months before Diasomnia release.

- Delusional OC sketches and headcanons: Malleus' mama and papa -

*seduce, not saduce lmao sorry I'm tired

Malleus Draconia never met his parents, but Lilia could vividly remember them as if he only last saw them yesterday. Malleus' father (whose name also happened to be Malleus) was a student of his and had a consistent air of superiority about him-- he walked and talked with such confidence befitting that of the majestic horns that adorned his head like a crown. In dragon anatomy, you see, large, beautifully sculpted horns are a clear indicator of how fertile and desirable its genes were. So there was never a doubt that this man was a natural attractor for many a woman.

... Except nobody ever stuck with him. The prince had a terrible personality. He went on and on, on and on with prattling about anything and everything under the sun (actually mostly about weapons and griffons and philosophy and geography) to the point that ladies thought he was self-centered and was looking for a mirror to marry, rather than a wife. That was not true however. He was simply an excitable boy.

He had reached a record age of three centuries (still wifeless) when he decided that being stuck in Briar Valley was limiting his viewpoint of the world. He had enrolled at an academia overseas, and that was when he met his future bride: Matilda. Upon meeting eyes with her, he had known that it was love at first sight. (It was not. He merely thought having another dragon fae as queen would benefit his country.) And so, relentlessly, day in and day out, he pursued her in order to win her affection.

The lady simply treated him like furniture, however.

Still, everyday he would sit at her table in the library. He would first attempt to flirt with her, but as he noticed how focused she was in drafting her blueprints, he would give up and eventually become engrossed in whatever he was studying. He would scribble down notes and make commentaries to himself about this and that, and to be honest... She found that quite endearing. He had a frivolous mouth, but he was earnest in his pursuit of developing his country.

She had been secretly watching him, and one fateful day, she accidentally let out a giggle. A secretive acknowledgment of his presence. And of course, sharp as his draconic ears were, he returned her gaze and happened upon her beautiful smile.

That was when he realized that the words he sang to her-- the "you're lovely as blooming flowers in the spring", "your voice is as melodious as a crystal bell in winter"-- were all very, very true. The next words he had uttered were finally taken straight from his heart, and then for the very first time since they met, she had replied to him with lips upturned in an elegant crescent.

The following year, when he returned to Briar Valley for the holidays, his mother Maleficia almost squealed in pleasant surprise that her son had brought home a lovely bride. It was a blur after that. Lilia could recall how the castle seemed to have turned upside down with how lively it had suddenly gotten; secretive dates, a wedding, a coronation, pregnancy woes, and... a sudden despair.

The couple had created life, but paid for it with their lives.

Whenever Lilia was recalling this story to the toddler he was tucking under the covers, he would come to a sudden halt. Little Malleus would ask why, but he would just shake his head and ruffle the boy's hair.

"I was just thinking how great a king and queen your father and mother had been. They were strong, and brave, and kind..."

"Will I grow great like them, too?"

Lilia paused and gazed into the boy's eyes. Then, with a smile, he stroked his tuft of hair and patted him to sleep.

"Of course, dear. Now sleep. A future king needs to be strong and healthy to be great. You won't grow up without sleep!"

They were gone too early. Far too early; they never even saw what their child looked like beneath the shells.

For now, he would burn every moment of this boy's tiny smiles in his memory, so that he could recall in detail every moment of this child's beautiful life when he finally reunites with his old friends.

[justcallmecj]

Ice Dragons DON'T Belong In The Desert

"I would like to suggest a story with Jamil and the reader. Where Jamil finds our dragon passed out at the Scarabia dorm from overheating and takes care of her/them (i will leave the gender decision up to you). I could see this being romantic (like Jamil and our dragon are already dating). But i am open to platonic friendship too." Courtesy of- Foxtrot_Heart77 (On AO3)

Potential Trigger Warning: Passing out, extreme exposure to heat

Y/N's POV

        Damn this sun. Why is Scarabia so freaking hot?! Why couldn't it have been some winter wonderland instead!!

        Now, I've never been to Scarbia. Sure, Kalim has invited me over for parties and all that fun stuff all the time, but I've never gone through with it. If there is any lesson in life that I hope I never forget, it is that heat and Ice Dragons DON'T mix. Not whatsoever. Not even with hundreds of years of evolution.

        However, here I am. If it felt like I had much of a choice, I wouldn't be here. But there were problems and I needed to find my boyfriend quickly. It's not like Jamil to not answer his phone. And even in the times where he's too busy to answer a call or text, he's sure to get back to me eventually, which is why I left the texts as was for a couple hours. But even three hours later there was no response.

        I asked some classmates if they had seen him, but no one has. It's the weekend so no classes, meaning no reason for anyone to have seen him recently unless they went to Scarabia. The problem was that I'm not friends with many Scarabia kids due to the fact I've never been there.

        Why is there such a walk between the dorm building and where the Mirror Hall sends you!? Wouldn't it make more sense to put them right next to each other, or even inside the damn building???

        My wings flared out in an attempt to let whatever wind there potentially was brush against my skin and scales, however the desert air was stagnant and burning hot. Since that plan failed, I tried wrapping my wings around myself and producing whatever cold air I could, even letting out a small puff of Freeze Breath. Unfortunately, even that proved to be rather unfruitful.

        The sweltering heat of the sun beat down in me, my wings getting droopy and my tail dragging through the scorching sand. Thankfully my tail is covered in protective scales so it didn't hurt much. I could feel myself sweat, my clothes sticking to my skin and making me feel uncomfortable.

        A dull, throbbing pain settled in my head, making my stomach curl and knot. I could feel the beginning stages of light headed-ness set in and the desert sands started waving in the non-existent wind.

        I knew this was a bad idea. My only saving grace was the fact that I could see the Scarabia building getting closer and I know Jamil told me the building was purposely built to be much cooler on the inside.

        Is Scarbia moving? Why are the walls waving around? I swear this better not be some heat-induced hallucination! I don't think I can take that!

        The entire desert started spinning and right as I was at the doors of this potential hallucination, the world went black. The last thing I heard before blacking out was the yells of people.

        Ugh, what the hell?

        It is not fun to wake up with a headache, especially not a throbbing one. I attempted the smallest opening of my eyes but the light was far to strong. Opting to keep my eyes closed for the sake of my own head, I instead tried stretching out my limbs to make a quick assessment of my current state.

        Starting with my fingers, which moved without a hitch or soreness, I slowly worked my way up. Arms: working. Legs: sore but also working. Wings: extremely sore in the muscles but otherwise functioning. With a quick feel I can confirm my horns are still attached and my ears are still pointy.

        Well, at least I didn't lose anything important.

        "Y/N.." I heard a voice whisper. My mind may still be slow right now but that is a voice I could never forget. Jamil. My boyfriend. The man I came out here to Scarabia's blazing hot and annoying desert to see.

        "Mh." It was all a could manage. I still couldn't open my eyes, not with how heavy they felt. I quickly realize that my throat was sore, dry as the sands outside.

        Wait. Outside? I'm inside! How?!

        "How much do you remember?" Jamil asked. I felt his hand rest on my forehead and swipe something cold against my skin, a bit of fabric getting caught on a few scales. A cold washcloth. He's trying to cool me down.

        "U-um-" My voice cut out due to soreness and lack of use. It scratched and scrapped against my vocal cords and burned with the effort of responding. A weird object met my lips and it took me a moment to realize that it was a metal straw. I took an experimental sip, trusting my boyfriend not to try and poison me.

        I immediately gulped down as much as I could upon recognizing the refreshing taste of water. I only slightly registered the sound of Jamil's shocked yelp as he scrambled to hold the cup more firmly so there wouldn't be a mess to clean. The cup was soon empty. (I would later realize that it was a rather large cup that I had voraciously swallowed down.)

        "Well, I'm glad a grabbed multiple water bottles while I was getting that cup. You're gonna need them from the looks of it." he said, a slightly strained laugh in his voice.

        I finally worked up the courage to open my eyes again. The sun was bright as all hell but it did feel better to be more aware of my surroundings. My eyes opened one after the other, first the right one and when that one was adjusted to the light, the left followed suit. After a moment of forcing my eyes to stay open, I blinked a couple dozen times to orientate myself.

        Eventually Jamil came into focus. It didn't take long for me to see the worried crease of his brows and the slightly panicked look in his eyes. There was also a distinct tightness to his face that showed his strained facade of calm. There's the Jamil I know, always such a worry wart, but always keeping a clam face.

        Jamil lifted up another water bottle and opened the lid, holding it up for me to grab. My limps felt like they were filled with sand and my muscles strained to move, but I managed to lift my arm enough to take the bottle from him and hold it up to my mouth, gulping all of the water down in only a few swallows. I took a few moments after that to let my head stop spinning, feeling Jamil take the bottle from me.

        "Feeling a little better? You must have been really dehydrated." Silence followed while Jamil placed his hand on my back, rubbing small circles into the skin and scales and putting pressure to make sure I don't topple over if dizziness decided to poke its head. It was a couple of minutes before I could manage a response.

        "Better. No longer burning in the sun, so that's a plus." My voice was still rough and coarse, but it no longer scratched when I tried to speak. The water had helped.

        "Good to hear. However..." he trailed off for a split second before pulling me closer to his chest and maneuvering around my horns, trying not to poke out his eye. "What were you doing out in the sands? You know you can't handle the heat, so why risk it?" Jamil's voice was gentle, but also firm and scolding. Silence followed again.

        "I was worried about you.." I managed. The scratchiness in my throat was all but gone, little bits of Ice Breath cooling my throat now that it had water to create mist, but there was a tight feeling, like emotions squeezing my vocal cords.

        "I tried to text you, call you even, but I got nothing. And I know you're a busy man, with your duties and all that, so I let it be for a couple hours! You usually get back to me when you get the chance. But it had been hours and I still didn't get anything, so I started to worry. I tried a few more times and after that, I made a dumb ass decision to come and track you down.." I was rambling, and I knew that, but I needed to speak and Jamil made no effort to stop me, so why should I? Plus, I know it's best to be honest with my boyfriend, he appreciates it.

        "Shit..." he whispered under his breath. His arms hugged me tighter and I got the feeling it was less to comfort me than it was to comfort himself. One wing unfolded and wrapped around Jamil in a type of pseudo hug and the other splayed itself across my body in an effort to use whatever cold my body produced to keep me cool. I may be in the building now, but there is still a reason the Scarabia uniforms are sleeveless.

        "Sorry about that, babe. My phone died sometime around noon so I put it on the charger in my room, but with duties and all that, I haven't been back to my room since. I was actually beginning to prepare dinner when one of the Scarabia students found me, yelling about a student having passed out in the front courtyard. That's when I ran out to find you there, so I brought you back here, to my room, and did what I could to cool you down." he explained. Now, in Jamil's own weird way, he was rambling. It's a habit he may or may not have picked up from either me or Kalim. But he let me ramble, so I won't stop him.

        I hummed, acknowledging him while still giving him a moment to decide if he wanted to keep talking. He didn't speak again, so I took that as a 'no'. I moved just enough to be further up, so our faces were more level and I was less in his chest. I looked at him and he looked back.

        "You did great at that, by the way. You must have known what you were doing, because I feel better already. I bit hotter than I would normally like, but I no longer feel like I'm about to pass out and if you ask me, that's an improvement." I laughed, feeling the moment needed a bit of humor. Despite the fact he was still clearly worried, he laughed as well. It was a sweet moment.

        Jamil leaned closer and pecked me on the lips with a kiss. Sweet, gentle and meant to express every word that he couldn't properly speak right now. In turn, I kissed him back, this time longer and more passionate, and he returned the sentiment. And for an hour, that's all we were. Two lovers caught in each others embrace, sweetly kissing each other when the time felt right. Sometimes we spoke about our day, about the events that occurred when we were not at each others sides. Other times we sat in comfortable silence, speaking nothing because there was nothing that needed to be said.

        That was all we were until all the water bottles were empty and the sun had lowered some, cooling the air if only a little. We stayed like that until Kalim tracked us down and started to fuss over me. Jamil was a little frazzled, but let it be for the sake of peace. Realizing Kalim found Jamil for dinner, all three of us left Jamil's room and headed towards the kitchen, Kalim talking on an on in a quieter voice than normal and Jamil walking with my hand in his in silence, enjoying the peacefulness of the walk.

        My legs were still shaky, this being the first time I've walked since collapsing, but I managed with minimal help and was back to my normal self by the time we three reached the kitchen. But dread washed over me when the kitchen got infinitely hotter when Jamil turned on the stove, adding to the already hot air of Scarabia. But this time, I had my boyfriend at my side, and I knew I would be fine.

I feel really happy about this because there is something about this man that gets me so he is a delight to have content for

[talonabraxas]

Tree of Life by Talon Abraxas

Symbolic Meanings Behind The Tree Of Life

1.Everything In Life Is Connected

Everyrthing is connected tree of life symbolic meaning Tree of Life Symbol: Meaning & Origin

The tree of life is a symbolic representation that personifies how the world is a unified field. Everything in life is intertwined, nature, biology, your life, other lives, the past, the present, the future, all connected in ways we’d never think to realize.

The tree of life firmly anchors itself to the earth. It recognizes the earth as its source for nourishment, anchoring its roots into the earth’s soul. Its branches spread out for sustenance while leaves reach out to heavens to receive energy and strength from the sun.

After all the years of hard work the tree has put into growing, both internally into the soil and externally into the air, the tree is finally ready to give fruit back to those who need it.

This is a reminder of the importance of community in life. If you stop and think about it, everything you do connects around you.

2.Family And Ancestry

Notice how tree branches are increasingly complex and ever-extending? The same fractal pattern is expressed in how our families grow and expand through generations.

A tree sprouts from a seed and grows little by little while sprouting out branches and spreading them as far as possible towards the sunlight. At some point, the tree produces new fruits and new seeds that usher in the next generations of saplings. Just like trees, we connect to our ancestors in the generations both before and after us.

3.A Symbol Of Immortality And Rebirth

During the Winter months trees go through a metamorphosis, lose their leaves, and dive into a deep slumber; an almost death-like state.

Once Spring hits, forests full of trees across the globe are symbolically “reborn” and suddenly become full of life again. This “”new awakening”” is represented both physically and symbolically with the natural beauty of fresh new growth.

The tree of life is also represented as an emblem of immortality. Even as trees naturally age, they continue to bear seeds carrying life’s essence. The seeds survival ensure the tree species lives from one generation to the next.

4.A Symbol Of Personal Growth and Beauty

When you study a tree’s growth throughout its lifecycle, you’ll notice distinctive periods of growth over time. From a seedling, to sapling, to fruit bearing, and into old age, and eventually the tree stands firmly above all else.

Tree of life meaning symbolic representation the conscious vibe Tree of Life Symbol: Meaning & Origin

During severe storms and bad weather the tree weathers. Some branches may break off, and leaves may fall off, but still, trees find ways to ‘take the hit’, rejuvenate, and grow new branches.

Similarly, life experiences mold you into a better and more unique person. As humans, we too can rise from hard hits and deep corners of life. Over time we can also grow to stand out, be stronger, and into the best version of ourselves.

5.A Symbol Of Fertility

As a barrier of life, a tree always finds a way to keep thriving. The survival of its species depends on every tree doing its part to produce offspring.

6.A Symbol Of Strength

The tree of life is a prominent representation of strength, stability, and “groundedness”. The deeper a tree’s roots anchor, the more stable it is. Trees are also strong enough to endure brutal conditions.

Similarly, you can cultivate a sense of stability within yourself and build a robust support system if you desire to withstand the hardships of life.

7.A Symbol Of Individuality

There are no two trees that mirror each other. The unique challenges, different growth patterns, and environmental conditions they experience in their evolution turn them into individual beings.

Tree of life Symbolic Meaning Tree of Life Symbol: Meaning & Origin

Similarly, humans are unique. You, your life, bloodline, upbringing, experiences, challenges, home environment, and your past and future are all singularly unique.

[imbiowaresbitch]

A is for Assbutt, ch. 1

Summary:

Dean has been a teacher for five years, and a dad for three. Well, he'd been a dad for six years, but Lydia failed to share that information. When she died in a car accident, he got custody of Emma, who became his entire life in an instant.

Charlie and Stevie tell Dean he needs to date, but as a single dad, he can't just pick up anyone. Emma comes first.

A chance meeting with another single dad at pickup, the father of Emma's friend Jack, has possibilities suddenly occurring to Dean. Cas has sole custody of Jack, and is also the legal guardian of his neice, Claire.

Can Dean and Cas make it work?

~~

The mid-winter sun shone down on the schoolyard. Kids were running every which way as shouts and laughter echoed off the red brick of Crestview Public School, where Dean had been teaching for five years. He, along with two other teachers, was on yard duty, and he blew on his chilled fingers, his gloves forgotten at home yet again.

“Mister Dean!”  

The shrill cry, urgent and angry, but not injured, pulled his attention to the boy running full tilt toward him, a smaller figure trailing behind. The bigger kid, Ryan, stopped in front of him, the smile curving his lips wide with an unholy glee that he remembered far too well from the previous year when the little shit of a bully – sorry, energetic and strong-willed child – was in his second-grade class. 

“He called me the B-word!” Ryan declared, pointing at the younger boy, who tilted his head in confusion at Ryan before turning big blue eyes on Dean and shaking his head.

“Did not,” he said solemnly, and Ryan turned on him, looking like he was about to turn the argument physical. Dean stepped between them quickly, holding a hand out, and Ryan stopped his charge, a mulish expression on his face.

“He did! He’s lying! He called me the B-word!” Ryan shouted, his face red with the cold and with anger, and Dean sighed internally. 

“I'll deal with this, Ryan.” He crouched down to be at eye-level with the other boy, who met his gaze earnestly, bright blue eyes open and honest. “What's your name, buddy?”

“I'm Jack Novak, and I'm six years old,” Jack told him promptly, and Dean couldn't help but smile a little. Still, they really tried to discourage name-calling, so he smoothed his expression, going for serious but not threatening.

“Jack, did you call Ryan the B-word?” he asked, and again, Jack tilted his head to one side, a little like a kitten inspecting a bug for the first time.

Jack shook his head. 

“I promise I didn't, Mister Dean. My daddy told me I shouldn't lie to teachers.” Dean took a breath, sensing that Ryan was about to explode behind him, but Jack continued. “I called him an assbutt. That doesn't start with a B.”

~~

This is very much a WIP, with 8 chapters already, roughly 30K written so far. I've got a crap-ton of bangs to write, so this is the one that'll be going up as I work on those but can't share.

Read chapter 1 on AO3.

Part of my Embarrassing Things Kids Say series.

~~

Thanks to @nickelkeep and Ariadne for the beta!

[marzipanandminutiae]

You probably meant artificial tans, but tanning is not the opposite of leaving your natural skin tone be

I don't particularly sunbathe, but I do live in a Mediterranean country. Even with SPF 50+ I start tanning in late april and lose my tan in approximately october. Unless I should not go out or near a window for half of the year, I cannot just leave my "natural" skintone be

Your winter skin tone is your only natural skin tone, IMO. And people should take steps to prevent it from changing- sunscreen with 2-hour reapplications (the intended use), parasols, hats, sun-protective clothing, etc. Even though they often went too far and did it for the wrong reasons- racism, colorism, classism, etc -our ancestors were unfortunately right about needing to take sun protection more seriously. Sometimes it's not just leaving it be, no- sometimes you have to proactively work to protect it. like brushing your teeth is not just leaving them be, but it's still your teeth's natural, healthy state

Like I said, tanning is literally skin damage. It's your skin producing more melanin to try and protect itself from the sun- which means the sun is causing DNA injury. (source) If it happens every year that doesn't make it any less harmful. I have very light-skinned friends in Australia who are able to avoid tanning, so it's clearly not impossible.

also dark-skinned people still need sun protection- melanoma is less likely to be caught early on dark skin, partially due to racist teaching practices among dermatologists, so PoC often have worse outcomes and higher mortality rates from it

My mother just had to have basal cell carcinoma removed from her upper lip. There was a huge hole in her face- the surgery to remove it, Mohs, involves cutting off pieces of tissue, testing them, and repeating until the test comes out clean. It takes hours and you're only under local anesthesia. You're awake the whole time and sometimes the doctor shows you what it looks like before they close the wound. Luckily she was able to get reconstructive surgery, but she's now insecure because her lip looks different- not bad, and she realizes that, but it's not the version of herself she was used to for 70 years. She now hates looking in mirrors. And this is the best-case scenario because she's. You know. Not Dead.

She hasn't tanned on purpose since she was in her early 20s (occasionally laid out by her parents' pool). She used sunscreen when I was growing up. But she didn't reapply after putting it on once, or employ any other form of sun protection. This isn't even her first brush with skin cancer; just the first on her face that required reconstruction.

No method is foolproof; I have freckles on parts of my body that never see the sun, and though they look benign, things can still happen. And of course you should go outside and enjoy the outdoors as much as you like, with appropriate precautions; I'm not trying to stress anyone out. you don't have to wear those full-face UV masks or anything

But. I don't know. I take this very seriously because I do NOT want to go through what my mother- and her mother before her, actually -went through. It seems like all the evidence shows that any amount of skin darkening from your winter shade, caused by UV light, is dangerous. The precautions seem so easy and minor to me compared to the risk that I just don't understand why anyone wouldn't take them- besides maybe sensory issues, and there are ways around even that

(personally I wear SPF 50 on all exposed skin and reapply every two hours or when I'm about to go back outside for longer than like 10 minutes, if I've been indoors all day. I also use a parasol when the sunlight is strong, plus sunglasses, a long skirt, and long sleeves in a natural-fiber fabric up to like 85 degrees Fahrenheit. then again, I also just don't LIKE being outside in the sun very much- I love going for long walks and being outdoors if it's overcast and/or cold, but warm sunny days are not my thing. and my clothing style is Victorian GothicTM, so it's easy to adapt for sun protection. YMMV)

(and no, I am not Vitamin D deficient that I'm aware of)

[hmshermitcraft]

Pearl and Grian have travelled together for years. One day, they get a little too confident and Grian gets cursed by a witch.

Every night, once the sun sets, he will become a horrific monster, with giant claws and teeth, and he will obey only his base instincts with no higher mind.

Naturally, they're both scared. They never want to split apart, especially not at night, but Grian refuses to put Pearl in danger.

She has to chain him on the back of their wagon, with all the leather straps and iron chains she can find. She doesn't even notice the sun set, let alone that Grian's moving until he picks her up like a doll.

She fully expects to be eaten, and then she just... isn't. He doesn't hurt her at all, actually. He sniffs and licks her, but once he's done with that, he curls up in front of their horses and sleeps, snuggling her. Kept her warm, with those feathers and soft limbs.

The witch (and themselves) didn't consider that Grian's most base instincts would devolve into: protect Pearl, snuggle Pearl, love Pearl.

Neither mind that much, Grian felt extremely bad come morning until he saw Pearl perfectly intact. Pearl likes not having to worry about anyone robbing them at night, with her huge beast, and he kept her warm enough that she won't need to worry about coats and cloaks for all but the harshest winters.

No, their biggest issue is the fact that Grian keeps tearing his clothes. They also can't go to inns anymore, but having to get naked just before nightfall is a bigger problem. For Grian. Pearl seems to be enjoying herself.

Pearl has started keeping a list of Grian's 'base instincts' (much to Grian's dismay.) So far her highlights are:

Having belly rubs

Screaming pathetically if he gets wet

Playing fetch (it's a good job Pearl is strong)

Naptime

Overall, she thinks she got a pretty good deal out of it! And Grian is less scared of it too. Now he can be all corny and say his love for Pearl tamed the beast inside him!

[satureja13]

Ji Ho built a little patio with a fireplace for Jack who still is in pain from leaving his Alpha. The warmth does him so good.

Vlad can see them from his room. He's glad that Ji Ho cares for Jack, his best friend. How long will he have to endure this pain? It's been months already and it doesn't go away... Vlad is sitting here for a while already and still only has written three words. But watching Ji Ho is warming his cold, black heart... and he's so beautiful...

And while Saiwa and Kiyoshi are sleeping in Saiwas room and in Saiwa's bed, Jeb is working all night long. He's researching Otherworld's flora to distract him from the fact that Saiwa and Kiyoshi are sleeping in Saiwas room and in Saiwa's bed...

Ji Ho is determined to help Jack to keep track of his meditation practice to ease his pain. So he moved the furniture aside and set up a place to practice and woke up Jack. It's 6 am...

Arturo also suggested to start with Yoga. And Ji Ho even placed a pizza yoga mat for Jack ^^' The Boys had yoga lessons at the 'Tandoori Palace' and with Francine.

Vlad is still awake. After Ji Ho and Jack went to bed yesterday, he finally had the mindset to write without distraction. And now Ji Ho is back again.

Poor Vlad...

After their practice, Jack showed Ji Ho their shared bathroom. It's in Vlad's building.

Vlad heard Jack's voice and went over to ask him how the practice went and if it eased his pain.

Ji Ho: "Did you forget something, Jack?"

Vlad: "Forgive me." (Did you notice that Ji Ho's tail only has blue dots in the next pic and not before? After he noticed it is Vlad and not Jack? ö.Ö' I never noticed before that they are sometimes there and sometimes not(?) strange...)

Will it ever be not awkward between them?

'When the night has been too lonely and the road has been too long And you think that love is only for the lucky and the strong Just remember in the winter, far beneath the bitter snows Lies the seed that with the sun's love In the spring becomes the rose'

The Rose - Bette Midler

Outtakes

From the Beginning  ~  Underwater Love ~  Latest 🛺 'Home happy Home' from the beginning ▶️ here 📚 Previous Chapters: 🛺 'Home crappy Home' from the beginning ▶️ here 🌴 'The Expedition' from the beginning ▶️ here 🎤 'Putting the Boys Back together' from the beginning ▶️ here 🥀 'Disbandment of the Group' from the beginning ▶️ here

[adaptacy]

A Found Flame {Pt.2}

Pairing: Mentor!Gale Dekarios x Apprentice!GN!Reader

(Previous Chapter) – (Next Chapter) ➔ (AO3)

A/N: Gonna cross-post this to AO3 eventually once I have more of an idea of how the plots gonna go cause you all have convinced me to full-send it and make it a longform thing. just adding it to the list of wip.... a sincere apology to my tcm fics.... anyways! i love my little depressed magic-cancer nerd and im glad im not the only one. here's more of him :) [it wont all be angst, but i gotta set the scene and the stakes, yanno...?] ALSO 'a found flame' is just the working title, idk what the official one is gonna be but i'll let yall know when i figure that out

Word Count: 3.1k

Stepping outside grants you an opportunity to taste the last flavors of the fading winter, only feeling the quick spikes of a chill every few minutes, and even then, it’s only thanks to the setting sun. You still wear a purple velvet shawl, as per the request – well, demand – of Gale. He insisted many moons ago that you shouldn’t ever risk getting sick when you can take measures to avoid such a fate, and you’d decided it was much simpler to go along with it than to argue your safety. That plan was cemented when he purchased you a finely tailored purple shawl, the edges of the hood and cloak lined with lynx fur, dyed a dark pink to complement the thick purple velvet that made up the majority of the shawl. A gift that nothing short of surprised you, even had you fooled into believing you’d been dreaming when he presented it to you. Why he was so particularly fearful of the cold, you weren’t sure, but you deeply appreciated the gift, and even if you did enjoy winter’s nip, the shawl was both gorgeous and comfortable, and you’d be insane to leave it behind.

Gale was also particularly sensitive to cold weather, from what you could tell, which likely had a role in his passionate bias against the chilliness of post-snow air. Frankly, you were fine with the occasional runny nose in exchange for a chance to wander down a snow-dusted forest trail, and you didn’t mind a shiver here and there while you caught free-falling flakes that Waterdeep was ever so rarely granted. 

The garden, however, was much like Gale – hardly a fan of the cold. Gale did not have a green thumb, but he still shared similarities with the plants you tended. Those plants that, currently, were dead and buried. While you’d managed to convince him to try his hand at herbalism and gardening, he had more of Bhaal’s touch with the sprouts than the ‘magic’ touch he so often joked about. It was amusing, and a little pitiful; the exasperated sigh and the troubled frown that followed your breaking of the news, that his poorly packed and overwatered plants had passed. He was dramatic, and managed to find the humor in the situation, though vowed to let you handle anything to do with seedlings and crops from that point onwards.

It was unfortunate, as you appreciated his entertaining company (even if it came mostly in the form of griping, displeased that he had to get so up close and personal with dirt and worms) around the garden beds, but it allowed for moments like these. Truth be told, you had no intention of gardening. You would have to wait another twelve dawns until any useful plants would be back in season, so planting anything this late in winter would be a waste of both time and resources. 

Instead, you aimed to explore a small forest trail that you’d just recently discovered, not far from the tower you stayed at. To say you lived there felt like too strong, too certain, of a term. It was the only place you slept, and nearly all of your time was spent there, but you knew it wasn’t home. It was Gale’s home, and you were a mere guest. A sixteen-month-and-counting guest, but a guest nonetheless. You worked, your apprenticeship laboursome and sometimes really quite demanding, and Gale repaid your loyalty and assistance by giving you a place to stay. You’d just never planned to stay so long. 

In all honesty, you expected it to be a very temporary arrangement. You suspected Gale felt the same way. But circumstances changed, and so did minds, and you didn’t see yourself leaving anytime soon. It helped that you got along quite well with your boss-slash-roommate, despite the differences in personality and age. You were comfortable with the way things were, and Gale had just recently begun to sprout ideas of passing his own spell-casting knowledge on to you, with today’s lesson being a prime example. When you weren’t helping out around his home, or running errands for him, or tending to the garden, you were most usually subjected to reading long passages from books that were once very far above your understanding. 

If Gale was a master of anything, it was surely knowledge. You’d found it odd, at first. Spending all of his days wasting away in his tower, just reading, rotting into a hermit, you’d assumed. But you’d soon gained an appreciation for his boundless mind, and felt almost honored that he’d decided you worthy of learning from him. Being a wizard’s apprentice had never been in the plans, not even as a fleeting hypothetical, and yet you found yourself in that exact scenario – and enjoying it nonetheless! 

Glancing down at the small woven basket hanging from your arm, you frowned, lost in thought. Gale taught you a lot, and he still had plenty left to teach, but by no means did that translate over to you really knowing the man you shared a house with. He taught from books and scrolls, and on a few spare good days from his own vast experience. Even with all of the lectures he gave, you found that any details about him that weren’t related to magic, or your lessons, were all quite lacking. What you did know about his personal life was almost purely from observation. 

Well, a few times when Tara had made a passing comment about some personal detail and surely was later scolded for it, but those were few and far between. If anyone were to blame for your curiosity, it was most certainly the man himself. He loved preaching the importance of curiosity, exploration (despite rarely leaving the confines of his study), and seeking knowledge, and you’d be a rather poor apprentice to disregard such lessons. Or, arguably worse, cherry pick when you applied those lessons to real world scenarios. 

Most recently, your nose for curiosity had picked up on the notably pungent scent of Gale’s behavior. It was unusual, slightly withdrawn, perhaps a little panicked if you truly squinted between the lines. Gale was predictable, for the most part – it was one of his traits that had earned him your trust in the first place. Though as of recent, he’d been rather strange. And not the typical Gale kind of strange – an unsettling, uncharacteristic strange. One that you knew better than to ask questions about, but one that certainly sprouted confusion. 

You neared the edge of the forest, giving the pale trees a smile as if to promise your peace. Pausing just before the tree line, you peered into the woods, interested as to what you might discover. You proceeded, following a very faint trail into the woods. You had a pretty solid confidence in your navigational skills – otherwise you most definitely would’ve gotten completely trapped in the maze of a city that was Waterdeep every time you ran any sort of errand – so you weren’t particularly concerned with getting lost. 

Allowing your thoughts to return to Gale, you reminded yourself that you weren’t really lying to him. You definitely weren’t going to the garden, but you still planned on harvesting plants. You’d known him for almost a year and a half, and you knew the gist of what he’d been through, what with his mentorship from Mystra herself – which was so cool, and he was way too casual about it – and his strange appetite thanks to the Netherese orb that had become one with him. All that aside, however, you didn’t know many details about his past. For as chatty and sarcastic as he was, you couldn’t shake the feeling he had a good number of secrets he withheld from you, and big ones at that. 

Of course, Gale was entitled to his privacy, and you didn’t want to intrude or push his boundaries, but it was impossible to ignore the signs of unease. His constantly drifted mind, his long breaks between lessons, his increasingly frequent requests. Or the way that he’d direct you to read a passage from some folktale or other, only to remain silent for several moments after you finish, gazing longingly past his balcony. He’d been consuming more artifacts than usual recently, and gained a sudden eagerness to push real world practice into your schedules. Not that you minded the inflow of new information, but it didn’t seem to come from a place of excitement. Instead, you figured anxiety; judging based off of the common rapid bouncing of his leg, the messy-and-messier spread of his books and trinkets – especially when compared to how well-kept the place always was whenever you’d started working under him – or his new tendency to forget what he had and hadn’t asked of you, or which lessons he’d already covered, or hell, where he had last placed his staff. 

Well, what better way to get someone to open up and relax than with a hand-picked bouquet and some herbal tea? 

Even if he didn’t spill his guts to you, he certainly needed a pick-me-up. Sure, you already did a lot for him, but he did a lot for you, too. Maybe even more than he realized. He deserved a treat. 

–   –   –

“Though it may be bold of me to say, I estimate they’ll be a fine caster someday.”

“Bold indeed, Mr. Dekarios. Awfully bold. They quite nearly began trembling at the idea of a mere fire bolt!” The small beast chirped back, seated firmly atop his desk, pawing at a small fuzzy ball that swung from a thin string, easily entertained by the simple contraption. 

“Even I stumbled; all beginners do. Time is all they need. ‘Time heals all wounds’, is that not how the scriptures read?” He asked, sticking his tongue out and running the tip of a long harpy feather over it. 

As he dipped that same tip in a vial half-filled with a thick, clear liquid, Tara quickly outstretched a wing, the end of it not-so-accidentally hitting her companion in the face. The startle nearly caused him to knock over the bottle of magic ink, his torso leaning forward as he just barely managed to steady it with both hands, and he glared at his familiar out of the corner of his eye. She merely stretched out her other wing, feigning obliviousness before eventually looking back at him. “You are still the same fool who summoned me all those years ago. You are a prodigy, Mr. Dekarios! You were half their age then; to compare your ‘stumbles’ to the incompetence of a commoner such as them is exhaustively inconceivable.” 

“Tara, I implore you to exercise patience. They are a fine apprentice, and they certainly have the potential for brilliance. Am I not a competent mentor?” He asked, raising an eyebrow, intending the question to be at least somewhat thought-provoking, but the only reaction he received was Tara turning her head away and murmuring something too quiet for Gale to hear. Fortunately, or perhaps unfortunately, he knew her well enough to predict it was something snarky, and he didn’t bother investigating. He dipped the large quill again, unable to recall if he’d already wet the tool, and the liquid dripped off of the tip, shimmering in the glint of the fading sun as it rejoined the rest contained in the bottle. “Why is it that you repudiate all of their attempts to bond with you? Surely you don’t think them ill-mannered?”

“‘Ill-mannered’, he says,” she mocks, her tail flicking in irritation. “It is not their civilities that I have quarrels with. It is the expectations I deplore.”

“Expectations?” Gale repeats, his palm flattening against his desk, pressing out the sides of a contorted scroll, the tip of the feather hovering over the yellowed paper. 

After solving her own deliberation, the tressym turns around, her wings folding against her sides, her tail curling around her paws. “Have you no fear that your confidence is misplaced? Mr. Dekarios, do you not worry that they may fall short in your plans for them? That they are not up to the task you have decided to burden them with?”

Gale’s irritated gaze softens, his hand relaxing, coming to join his other hand in resting on the desk. The clear liquid on the quill drips onto the parchment, becoming a black dot in an instant, the weave-infused iridescent ink soaking seamlessly into the paper. “I fear nobody could ever truly be capable. But my options are limited, and my few select choices are each disheartening in their own cruel ways.”

“Evidently, you have already made up your mind. Why is it that you allow them to remain oblivious? You know better than anyone how dire the circumstances are.” Tara’s paws slide forward, her belly laying flat on the desk, and she plants her head atop of her mitts. 

Gale moves his hand, letting the paper curl up without the weight, to gently scratch Tara’s head, her pitying purr drawing a sigh from his own chest. “I am but a ticking time bomb. Hardly much of a man these days,” he chuckles dryly, looking around the dust-riddled mess that he still called a study. It would be nothing short of anarchy if it weren’t for his apprentice, and he’s seen it in far worse shape, but it doesn’t quite shake the quiet guilt that rocks in his stomach at just how far he’s fallen. Gale is usually quick to excuse his carelessness as an incurable consequence of his age, but he’s well-aware that his energy is not merely being lost alongside his youth. 

The artifacts he consumes have only ever satiated a part of the orb’s appetite. Never quite satisfied – a commonly reoccurring trait of those Gale finds himself engaging with – the sortilege feeds off of him as well. The incantations he recites and the thaumaturgy he practices only grows stronger – more powerful than Gale could have ever predicted or wished for – while his body withers away as though his very anatomy is actively being shredded, and relentlessly so, to make room for spells that he now dreads casting. 

It doesn’t help that his learned reliance was only ripped away from him when he truly needed assistance. When the man who once considered himself the smartest in all of Faerun was clueless about his own condition, the only person who could possibly have the answers disappeared. 

Now, Gale was left to clean up the pieces. He understands this is his own doing – that he was, and still is, a fool. Once blinded by greed, a greed that led him to being blinded by love, a love that led him to being blinded by desperation, a desperation that led to him being trapped by fear. A fear that now has settled, more or less. Present as ever, but no longer unfamiliar, no longer a new addition to Gale’s emotions.

His hand returns to the paper, and Tara steadies her sights on the bottom of the quill, watching as it twirls, imprinting promises and bittersweet apologies onto the scroll. Words he couldn’t possibly utter aloud, but words that couldn’t be more genuine. The recipient deserves more than a written explanation and cursive laments, and he’s aware of the injustice he’s manufacturing, but he is a terribly faded man who is cursed by a deficiency in time and yet finds himself with so much left to do. He decides it is better a raven on her doorstep than his ghost, lacking any explanation. 

Each day, he wakes to find his chest a little warmer, his hands a little shakier, his hair a little thinner. And each day feels like his last. He is entirely helpless to the foe that resides inside of him, of all places. Incapable of defending against something that has already breached his castle walls, and even more useless as it has latched under his skin, reducing him to nothing more than a habitat. He hosts an aberration that has grown far, far too large for its enclosure, and who threatens to rupture its cage with every breath that he dares to draw. 

He’s held out for long enough. He’s lived longer than he ever imagined possible, but he knows his limits. The truth stings in places untouched by the Netherese’s reaches; his forced composure starts an ache in his face, but he knows better. With a sharp inhale, Gale rolls up the paper, setting down the large brown feather as he retrieves a thin, fraying string, tightly wrapping the letter up. He even finishes it off with a neat bow, a force of habit, and he sets it aside, leaning back in his chair. 

The moon is just barely visible now, approaching the stars and creeping over the mild coverage of the stone railings on his balcony, and the wizard watches the white giant rise. Some unburied, deep sense of longing reflects in his eyes, where the moon also resides, though she is much smaller and much dimmer. There’s movement on the desk, but Gale’s eyes aren’t yet drawn away from the beauty of the night. Then there’s a weight in his lap, and a purring against his stomach, and he lowers his hand to rest on Tara’s back, gently stroking, enjoying the silent tranquility. 

‘Mystra’s moon’ he used to call it. He’d tell her he could see her in the shadowed curves, but he isn’t sure if he ever really did. Maybe in a dream, long lost to him now. The moon that watched over him tonight was certainly not Mystra’s. It was bright, encasing the room in a beautiful blue, and the gaze it returned was a soft one. Free of judgment, free of stress, free of difficulty. 

“I reckon I’ll be up there soon,” he exhales, feeling his familiar curl up in his lap. “Ruling my own section of sky. Perhaps I’ll even have purpose. I can’t help but wonder what it’s like.”

“Peaceful, I suspect. An eternity of peace, at that. What a prospect.”

“You’ll join me some day?” 

The feline purrs out a quiet chuckle, her tail curling around her body so the tip rests on her nose, bundled perfectly atop his thighs. “Of course. I can only go so long without a self-warming bed.”

Gale smiles, his hand falling still on her back, though his thumb continues to run up and down her fur. “Give them a chance, will you? They can’t do it without guidance.”

“I’ll take care of them,” Tara reassures, her tone much softer now than when she spoke of his apprentice earlier. “Do wait for me up there. I’ll be by your side before long, Mr. Dekarios.” 

“I set out tomorrow night. I’ll inform them of what they need to know.”

[knifedancer]

Falling in Autumn

The miraculous causes side effects. Marinette picks up the hibernation instincts of a bug: seasonal exhaustion, seeking warm and dark spots to burrow into… I think you know where this is going.

Hibernation trope, Felinette style. Gratuitous Fluff.

Originally posted on AO3.

Silly Thoughts

~~~~~~~

It was a rare frigid autumn where even the daylight hours felt cold regardless of the amount of sun peeking through the clouds. It was so chilly that Paris had already gotten an unseasonable snowfall that week! Not enough for snowball fights, but just enough to leave everything sporting a thin layer of white. Parisians were already bundling up in coats, scarves, and mittens to stay warm. One resident took this bundling to the extreme…

Marinette had known the miraculous, when worn for long periods of time, would rub off certain intrinsic effects on their holders. Tikki had first told her about it when Chat Noir started being able to purr and seek out pets on her balcony during his night-time visits to the bakery. The Ladybug kwami told her that the effects varied from holder to holder but one thing was always common among those that wielded bug-themed miraculous: winter dormancy.

At first the idea of going into a hibernation-like state seemed silly to the teenage bug-heroine. Then the first fall since attaining the magical earrings drew nigh. Marinette noticed that no amount of sleep seemed to leave her feeling rested, she was more affected by the cold, and she tended to try burrowing into dark but warm places unconsciously. Her superhero outfit changed to be slightly thicker and lined with a mysterious, unknown furry material to trap in body heat. Marinette likened it to fleece or velour, it acted like super strong thermals under her suit. Even then, Ladybug would find herself occasionally curling up against Chat’s side during particularly chilly night patrols out of desperation.

Fortunately for the Parisian heroes, it seemed Hawkmoth was also impacted by the insect miraculous effects. The period from Fall to Spring had proven to be a much quieter time for akumas. Tikki had explained that not only would the butterfly holder be impacted, but his living butterfly counterparts as well. The fluttering wings of a magic-powered butterfly were no more impervious to cold and turbulent weather than your common garden variety. If Hawkmoth was attempting to send out an akuma, they could be blown entirely off course by strong storm winds or slow to a mere crawl when the temperature dropped too low. This was a boon for the heroes and all of Paris. It meant an attack happened less frequently but the akumas were usually stronger than the rest of the year. The two heroes joked that it was probably because old Hawky was frustrated with the miraculous effects!

During the school days, Marinette would double or even triple up warm layers. There was even a box of handmade scarves and mittens packed away solely for this purpose. Then she would sleepily cuddle up next to Alya and partake of her warmth on their shared classroom bench. The two friends were always affectionate with each other, so it didn’t seem too odd to the casual observer. Doctors had excused the syndrome as some sort of odd thyroid or seasonal narcolepsy condition. However all tests came back normal and it did not appear to be harming her overall health nor development. Ultimately, she was advised to take extra vitamins and the Dupain-Chengs were to keep an eye on her condition in case things worsened.

Unfortunately, this year, Marinette had been moved to the back of the classroom and the friendship with Alya strained to the very limit due to Lila’s interference. There would be no friendly cuddles or shared warmth this year. The sleepy girl had made do so far by adding a ludicrous fourth layer – a second non-bulky removable jacket liner – and using disposable heating packs to keep her core temperature up. It had worked well since the end of September but, now that it was mid-November, it was getting harder to stay warm and awake in class. Even Tikki, who snoozed more like a real ladybug rather than the omnipotent personification of creation that she was, shivered in Marinette’s interior breast pocket.

‘If only Alya was still my seat mate, then I wouldn’t have to worry!’ Marinette thought sadly. She looked at her current seat mate from the corner of her eye and sighed. ‘He’d probably push me to the floor.’

Along with the seat reassignment, another drastic change had entered her school life in the form of Adrien’s cousin: Felix Graham de Vanily. The same uptight, monochrome fashioned, and grouchy boy that tried to kiss Ladybug and caused three akumas was now in her class. Marinette was suspicious of him at first, afraid he was working for Hawkmoth or looking to cause trouble. In a way, Felix was. He had joined back in August and immediately took the open seat next to her with that mocking smile of his. Within the first day, he had pushed her buttons until she snapped. Marinette won the battle that day but Felix left with a smile that seemed entirely too pleased. He had tried to needle her every day after that and, while she did not lose her temper as explosively as she had then, they wound up trading quips almost daily. Their constant bickering had eventually formed into an odd companionship and understanding. Not quite friends, not really enemies.

Unfortunately for Marinette, her stock of hand warmers had finally run out and they were on backorder. She had tried her mother’s favorite reusable heating pad but it cooled too quickly and the lavender scent enticed her to doze. As the day went on, the pigtailed girl noticeably drooped in her seat as she slowly succumbed to her hibernation instincts.

~~~

It was a typical Tuesday for Felix. He arrived at school early, spent an agreeable amount of time reading his newest novel, and avoided the idiots in class. All but one anyway, although she hardly counted. After their first argument and the subsequent trouncing he received, he had come to realize there was more to Dupain-Cheng than met the eye. He had tried to provoke her again but was pleasantly surprised that she was stronger than he expected and possessed a lightning quick wit. Felix came to the decision that she was an adequate enough individual to associate with while he was stuck in this hovel. He had learned she did not like liars; in turn she respected his personal aversion to being touched. Their developing camaraderie was cordial. They had paired up for almost every project and, although she was often tardy, the dark-haired girl had always completed her work in a timely manner.

He chanced a glance at his seat mate and noticed she seemed to be doing her best impression of a melting snowman in summer. Felix clicked his tongue softly as he returned his attention to the board, ‘Dupain-Cheng has been more lethargic these last few weeks. She’s hardly cognizant of any of our classes, yet somehow still manages to receive satisfactory scores. She must be the embodiment of luck itself to pull that off!’

He picked at a piece of lint off his black cashmere peacoat and straightened the lapel. It was warm but did not do enough to stop the icy gusts from traveling down his neck. Sadly, most of his winter wear was still stuck in London as this change in the weather was unanticipated and his mother was still shopping for an acceptable abode for them to live in. Felix spared his table mate another quick glance – today she was wearing a bright red coat and a knitted scarf the color of his favorite caramel hard candies. She always seemed to have a different colored set of scarves and mittens that complemented her outfit. They did not look to be from any fashion brand he had heard of and he knew she fancied herself a designer. If the items were handmade, they were of excellent quality. Perhaps he could commission a piece from her…

Felix was lost in thought, contemplating how he could broach the topic with the girl, when he felt a weight land against his shoulder. He jerked at the disturbance and turned to find Dupain-Cheng slouched against him. He frowned down at the slumbering girl before attempting to jostle her awake. When she did not move, he managed to lift his arm out from beneath her and grabbed both her shoulders in an effort to re-orientate her towards her side of the bench. Felix soon realized his mistake when Dupain-Cheng unconsciously dove into his side and slipped her arms around his midsection with a muffled hum.

He stiffened at the action and hissed quietly between his teeth, trying not to draw attention to his plight. Felix had always detested physical contact, so much so that he could barely withstand hugs from members of his own family. To have Dupain-Cheng, a mere acquaintance, touching him in such a way was disconcerting and confounding. However, being this close allowed him to more closely observe her unimpeded. She smelled faintly of lavender and honeysuckle. Her black hair seemed to shimmer blue when the light hit it just right, like a raven’s wing. Her lashes were long and fluttered like butterfly wings as she slept. Across her small nose and cheeks were a charming array of freckles that could only be seen at this close proximity. With his arms still slightly raised, he twisted a bit to examine how to disentangle her from his person. Unfortunately, due to this action, one of her hands accidentally slipped beneath his coat and found purchase on his knit sweater.

He froze as the sleeping girl seemed to temporarily come to life, wiggling herself under his coat and latching onto his waist. Within mere seconds, Felix had half of Dupain-Cheng draped across his lap and the other half tucked securely into his side. Dumbfounded, he looked down at the girl in disbelief. Was she seriously snuggled against him right now? Did she inherently trust him not to molest or pester her? He tried to unlatch her arms and hands from his person to no avail; her grip was tighter than leather pants in August. As he looked on, a small smile formed on her lips and she nuzzled closer with a contented sigh. ‘Well, at least one of us is comfortable,’ he huffed in resignation before settling his left arm over her slumbering form, having nowhere else to put it.

Felix looked around, noting that no one had noticed the sudden disappearance of his seat mate nor the struggle he had just gone through. As the class period wore on, the boy unconsciously began to relax into the warm embrace of the teen asleep in his lap. It was not until an hour had passed that Felix realized he had become accustomed to her presence and the intimate closeness of their bodies. He glanced down and watched the peaceful look on her face as she slept. With his free hand he tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear with a silent chuckle. ‘Seems I can handle being touched by you, not that you gave me much choice in the matter…,’ Felix mused to himself. He lifted the double-breasted lapel of his coat and settled the material over her with a fond smirk. ‘It’s a good thing I have a packed lunch today. I don’t think I’ll be moving any time soon.’

~~~ Time Skip to the End of School ~~~

Marinette was disturbed from her nap by a loud ringing noise, scrunching her face until it passed. She smiled and burrowed deeper into the warm, sandalwood scented pillow she had wrapped herself around. It was the softest, most comfortable pillow she had ever laid on. The pillow shook as it chuckled. ‘Wait…pillows don’t chuckle!’ Her eyes flew open and she jerked back slightly, her eyes slowly rising up a sweater covered chest until she met Felix’s amused face. “I see you’ve finally awoken, Miss Dupain-Cheng. I was starting to think I was going to have to bring you home with me.”

“Eep!” Marinette cried out as she jumped away. With the force of the movement, she overshot the bench entirely and was launched towards the aisle. She braced for a painful impact...that never came. Instead, she felt herself held up by a strong arm that was wrapped around her waist. She opened her eyes to find a set of shocked green mere centimeters away. Felix had lunged to grab her, planting one hand on the desk to steady them, giving the appearance that he had executed some sort of elaborate dip. They stared at each other in stunned silence for a moment before he finally pulled them both to their feet, clearing his throat as he let her go and looked away.

“I-I-I’m so, so sorry, Felix! I wasn’t aware of w-w-what I was d-doing!” Marinette stuttered, turning a rosy shade of pink as she attempted to hide in her fluffy scarf.

The boy in question was suppressing a blush with all his willpower. They had been in such a suggestive position mere moments ago when he caught her, luckily there were no students left in their classroom to witness it! Coupled with the unexpected feeling of loss he was experiencing when she abruptly retreated, he was entirely too flustered for his own comfort. He cleared his throat, “It’s quite alright, Miss Dupain-Cheng. You were unable to be woken and seemed quite comfortable. However, if you feel obligated to make amends to me…”

Felix allowed a pregnant pause to form as a devious smirk spread across his face. Marinette felt her stomach twist with trepidation – she knew that look meant trouble. ‘What could he possibly ask for?’ She thought wearily, her mind beginning to whirl with increasingly ridiculous predictions.

“…I find myself lacking in essential warm winter accessories,” he finally finished nonchalantly. The girl stared at him dumbfounded as her spiraling thoughts ground to a halt. It dawned on her that Felix was attempting to make a joke to break the awkward atmosphere between them, relying on their usual banter to do so. She choked on air and then burst into giggles. Felix felt a new warmth bloom in his chest at the sound. He had never made her laugh like that before!

“I think that can be arranged, monsieur,” she replied slyly. “I know an up-and-coming designer in high demand. But, for the great Felix Graham de Vanily, I’m sure she could make an exception.” They exited the classroom with smiles on their faces and a warmth in their hearts, no longer feeling the brisk breeze that whipped at their cheeks.

~~~

In the coming weeks, Felix began sporting new scarves, mittens, and even coats in charcoal grey, caramel brown, pine green, indigo blue, and garnet red – which was oddly his favorite. Their classmates seemed curious by his sudden change of color preference, mistaking it for an opportunity to befriend the derisive boy. Some questioned him, attempting to find out where he had bought such luxurious garments. He brushed them all off in his usual dismissive manner, deciding not to divulge any information.

Felix’s lip quirked upwards as he silently stroked the silver monogram on the tail of the scarf on his way to the classroom. The monogram itself was an ornate shield containing his initials but, integrated within the vines that clung to the edges of shape, were the letters ‘MDC’. His small smile reached his eyes as they met the friendly bluebell ones at the back of the room. A hidden message, a reminder of that one cold day that brought two souls closer together.

Perhaps, together, they might stave off more than just the cold weather.

[moonshynecybin]

wanna have thoughts about Sepang pre-season testing 2015 and how that photo of the two of them wearing swim trunks happened and what else might have taken place that day/week

prompt 4! because it is my brand i must say that cal crutchlow was also there in real life for the rosquez beach date and we must never forget this. he isnt in this story but please hold that in your mind okay thank you. anyways this story is about considering what it would be like to interrogate your very sexy coworker's control issues while you are slightly sauced and neither one of you are wearing shirts. so it goes.

Vale takes a sip of his drink and looks over at Marc, sprawled out on the lounger next to him, limbs loose and easy in the glow of the sun. His swim trunks are riding up, exposing the pale, tender skin on the inside of his thighs. He's already looking at Vale.

Of course he is.

"So, you don’t like the beach?" Vale asks, to try and get his mind of something else. Marc is— Marc is competition. He shouldn't.

Marc hums. "I don’t like being in the water, it’s different."

Interesting. That's not what Vale expected.

"Why? You can swim." He's seen him in the pool earlier, hollering with his brother and dunking him under the water. Shiny and wet under the Malaysian sun.

Marc shrugs, unbothered, and Vale spends some time with the movement of his shoulders, the cut of his muscles. It's fine. Marc wont be able to see his where his eyes are lingering, anyways. Vale is wearing sunglasses. It's harmless.

"I don’t know what’s in there— I always think there’s a shark or something that's going to eat me." Marc's nose scrunches as he talks, and he looks like he's about to laugh.

"You drive motorcycles for a living," Vale replies, voice light. It seems ludicrous that Marc would be scared of something like a shark attack, with what they both do for a living. With what Marc does in particular.

Marc flicks up his sunglasses to squint at Vale, smile still huge on his face. "So do you, are you saying you aren’t scared of anything?"

"I’m not." Vale answers with a straight face.

Marc laughs. It's easy to make him laugh. "I see!"

Vale nods. "No, I’m very brave."

Marc's still laughing, strong forearm thrown over his stomach now.

Vale really shouldn't.

"But you," Vale sits up, faces towards Marc. He’s a little drunk, Vale thinks. A little pink from the sun, still pale from the winter. “You are very brave.”

"Thank you," Marc takes a long sip from his drink, lips wrapped around his straw. Jesus.

Vale shakes his head. It’s not quite a compliment. “No no no no— you take risks. Not like a normal one of us.” He flips his shades down and slumps back. Looking at Marc is maybe too much right now. “And you are scared of the ocean.”

"I don’t like flying either."

Vale blinks. "What?"

Marc shrugs, the corners of his mouth digging impishly into his cheeks. He blinks lazily, and stretches a bit. Keeps his eyes steadfastly on Vale.

"It’s all… out of my control. On the bike I can ride. I know my lines, I know when to brake, how far to lean. It’s up to me. In the sky? The ocean? It’s up to other people. It’s up to God." He shakes his head. "There's too much chance.”

Vale chews on the the inside of his cheek, turns the idea of that over in his head. "Isn’t the chance fun?" He asks. It is to him.

"No." Marc answers.

"Hm." They stay there for a second, listening to the distant crash of waves. To the unknown quantity that is the sea. Vale thinks about it. Thinks about what it means to be surprised. To lose control. To feel like he doesn't know what's going to happen next. About how Marc makes him feel like that all the time.

He really shouldn't.

"Marc?"

"Yeah?"

"Do you want to get out of here?"

[boytouya]

「SAINT」 ; takami keigo | hawks x male reader

wc: 1.5k

warning: suggestive themes & language, religious themes, one (1) crude joke about nuns, abrupt ending (scrapped fic)

additional tags: priest reader (kinda), incubus hawks, probably some religious trauma, agnostic writer who doesn’t know how to write things relating to demons + religion

a/n: this is loooong overdue and also months old, i’m so rusty so i’m so sorry if this isn’t good. anyway there’s about 3-4 versions of this fic so if you see it somewhere else dw abt it (unless stated otherwise)

Your fingertips trace the thin, pale paper of your annotated Bible, cold pages crinkling under the weight of your palms. Covering for your father, a well-liked priest, was not an easy job— especially when you strayed further and further from the Holy eye with every passing moment. The pews of the church remain dimly lit, moonlit and almost sparkling under the glass stained windows. The rich, brown and polished wood glows, light dancing between warm yellow lights aligned by the aisles, and despite the unwavering wholeness you should feel, you stare back at the empty seats with nothing but loneliness.

It was only a matter of time before you begged someone, anyone, for even a sliver of company.

You exhale slowly, reaching up to readjust your hair, even if it doesn’t actually move. Your wrist in your peripherals momentarily consumes your vision, but you make no effort to quicken your movements. The last time you’d felt this way he encountered something darker than light, something tempting. Something that, still, reminded you of your own loneliness, and the exhaustion that comes with it. The memory remains fresh, as though you were hit with a hammer amalgamated from the darkest parts of your mind, unbeknownst to the consequences.

In a Church, you suppose, love is always in the air, a thickening aroma that’s much too sweet for your liking. It sticks to the murals within the room, it clings to your goosebump ridden skin, it’s plastered to every page you turn to. It’s excruciating. It’s exhausting.

And yet, with the smell of his skin lingering on your body, your mind empties, and your thoughts simultaneously erode whilst coalescing into a serene hum stuck in the far back of your mind. The bittersweet tranquility floats above you for just a moment, descending as soon as moonlight peeks through the windows and into your darkening, tired eyes. It stares back into your irises, taunting you despite your expensive effort to avoid it.

It and it's dark children who hide behind the muse of a wickedly comforting smile. But, you decide, it’s because that’s what you seek.

It, who sleeps beneath darkening shadows, moonlight dancing across its shiny eyelids and painting its face with a silver hue. The way it bounced off its skin, you’ve ong since decided night was made for it. An Incubus. With warm skin and a glowing, crimeon tattoo below his belly button, a thin tail with a pointer end, strong dark wings, and a scantily clad choice of clothing. With angelically golden locks of hair, that fall in his face from time to time, and just as golden eyes.

A strong jaw, furrowed eyebrows, calloused and veiny hands that look rather large— or so they’d seem when they glide across your skin, sharp claw-like nails that drag against the wood pulpit.

It— or, he, who’s hands curl into fists as he grasps at the decorative cloth on the pews’ arms like a lifeline (or in most cases, your hair), as if holding them tight would somehow keep you there with him, limbs tangled and lips locked. Sinful in a place supposedly free of sin.

He, who stirs under the sun’s gaze, uncomfortable warmth blooming from his body. But you… You want nothing more than to hold it in his hands, cherish the comfortable silence and bathe in his inviting body heat, hidden away from the chilling air that signifies winter’s welcome.

He— Keigo, you’d come to learn, who wakes at the feeling of your trivial eye, with long eyelashes that bat against his cheek with grace. A smile places itself upon his lips, but before he can speak, a yawn ripples out his mouth. You watch as his sharp teeth nestle into his gums, completely relaxed under your critical gaze.

The rosary beads wrapped around your fingers slip, smacking against the ground where you two stand, and gasps leave both your lips. You, somewhat mortified as you quickly kneel, tucking your feet beneath your body as your shaking hands reach for the blessed beads. Keigo quirks an eyebrow, much more awake as he steps out to place his heavy boot just beside your fingertips.

There’s a sickening sound of friction against the polished wood beneath his shoe.

“You look better this way,” He exclaims, an uncanny smile splitting his lips as he crosses his arms. It’s almost impossible to notice the bulge of his biceps, your eyes trailing the way his fingertip taps against his flawless skin. Ignoring how obscene this must look— kneeling beneath an incubus in the middle of a church, with no one but the moon as your witness— a scoff leaves your mouth, and you decide the tainted prayer beads will do fine resting on the floor. “No, really! You should stay like this.”

As you begin to stand, his warm palm presses into the swell of your shoulder, keeping you hunched over, your face basically pressed into his hip. It slithers upward, resting at your cheek. His large hands obstruct your vision, nimble fingers pressing into the meat of your cheek as if it’ll leave a mark. Under different circumstances you’d have keened into the— almost — intimate touch. Under different circumstances you’d have kissed his palm.

“Keigo—”

“It’s almost natural at this point. You and the nuns must go crazy in here,” His eyes shift, much darker than before, and something tells you he doesn’t find that joke funny. From what you can see, his body stiffens awkwardly. His jaw clenches, then his Adam's apple bobs, and suddenly the air feels much thicker. “Don’t you.”

His question falls flat on deaf ears, as you’re too lost in thought to even think about what he may be insinuating. His thick eyebrows twitch at your hesitation, the hand resting on your cheek suddenly tightening around your jaw. Your lips pucker, forming a small ring as he forces your eyes to meet his.

And, finally, like you’ve fallen out of a twelve story building, the weight of his words hit you like concrete. Against his strong hand you mutter, “Don’t even say things like that.”

“Hm.” He hums, releasing your jaw with faux disregard, releasing the prayer beads beneath his feet. He watches your frantic gaze flicker back and forth, your lips pursed as you chew on the insides of your cheek. You’re as cute as he is touchy.

He could just eat you alive.

Why’re you here, demon.” Your tone falls flat, missing whatever malice you were supposedly injecting into your tone—and even if it had come out as a hiss, it wouldn’t have phased the being.

“Ooh, ouch,” The blond knocks a large fist to his chest, knocking himself down and stumbling dramatically as he feigns offense. Your stare is heavy on his form, despite the constant insults you just can’t seem to look away. “You wound me, Father!”

“Keigo.” His tail jumps, straightening at the sound of his name passing by your lips. He grins, cheeks blessed with dimples and freshly shaven facial hair. His demeanor remains relaxed, tufts of hair swaying ever-so-slightly as he steps around you in circles, taking in the sights as if he hasn’t seen them a billion times before.

“Always so angry!” Takami chirps, long nails brushing against your cheek as he pinches at whatever remnants of baby-fat you had on your face. Suddenly, the goofy, love-struck expression on his face faulters, and his golden eyes harden. “Whether you want to believe it or not, I felt you calling for me.”

There’s a glowing, magenta ring around his irises that you aren’t sure were there before, burning bright in comparison to the dwindling candles adorning the walls and hallways. You’d hate to admit it out loud, but there’s something inviting about it. As unfamiliar as neon lights accompanied by city streets and the smell of recreational drugs, but simultaneously as familiar as the warm buzz of the sun through glass-stained windows.

“Liar,” You bite your tongue, the bitter taste of nickels and dimes drowning your senses. Blasphemy. “I’d have to be a whole different type of desperate to even—“

“Aren’t you?”

Ignoring the prickles of heat that dig into your skin, you let out a frustrated sigh. You almost want to yell at him, loneliness and desperation are different levels of isolation, and you don’t want to think about where that puts you. His silly, ill-attempt at rendering you speechless wasn’t in vain: he’d won. For now. Proud of himself, Keigo hums in assurance and places his hands on your shoulders. He runs much warmer than the average human, and if he’d been any warmer, his palms would burn right through your clothing and scorch your skin.

”I know,” He pulls you forward, placing a hand behind your head as he cradles your face into his neck. You can hear him take a deep breath, probably trying to engrave your scent into his brain. To bottle it, keep it there, and have it whenever he needed. His warmth makes your eyelids heavy with sleep, and you find yourself sinking into his embrace. Reluctantly, your hands rest at his waist, the pads of your fingertips digging into his toned back, equally wary of his tailbone. “You’re not. Maybe I’m the desperate one.”

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