#harnessing the hoard

[ghostcrows]

the logner i put off knowing simon carnally the longer i suffer.

[florencemtrash]

The Shadowsinger & The Inkbird: Chapter Eleven

Azriel x Day Court Librarian Reader

Summary: Y/n's clairvoyance is a gift from the Mother, but it feels more like a curse. With the power to gain knowledge through touch alone, Y/n holes herself up in The Alcove and hopes her powers and parentage will remain a secret. But things will change after the Summer Solstice ball and a chance encounter with a certain Shadowsinger.

Warnings: None. Gwyn and Y/n bond over books. Azriel and Y/n get even closer — this had me kicking my feet and screaming internally and externally

The Shadowsinger & The Inkbird: Masterlist

Masterlist of Masterlists

Rhysand’s training sessions always started with him sliding over ten objects: a book, a piece of jewelry, an article of clothing — anything he could find with meaning for you to discern.

“This one is Mor’s.” You held the red satin box in your hands. Two months ago you would have only been able to tell him who it belonged to. Maybe nothing at all. The meaning held by the object was weak. The jewelry too new. Unworn. But now you could harness your power with more precision, like you’d finally been handed an image of the puzzle you were trying to complete so you knew what to look for. “You bought it two months ago at Cizero’s as a Winter Solstice gift.” 

“And what is it exactly?” 

The box was still closed. 

You pushed your power forward, imagining light slipping in through the seam of the box. An image flashed in your mind. It was blurry, but held onto its form long enough for you to make it out. 

“Drop earrings. Rubies,” you said with a straight back before dropping the box into Rhysand’s open palm.

He smirked and clicked it open. Gold banded rubies hung from the backing like bloody tears, each drop separated by a diamond that flashed brighter than the stars in the ever darkening sky. 

You dared to smile, staring at the jewelry with a level of satisfaction you hadn’t felt since being handed top marks as an apprentice. 

“Very nicely done.” 

The box disappeared back into his desk beside a glimmering gemstone the size of your fist wrapped in tissue paper. 

It’s probably for Amren. You thought to yourself. Azriel told you she loved shiny things and hoarded her treasures like a crow. Hence why she’d yet to return from Summer with Varian. 

You moved on to the next portion of your exercises. With a feather light touch, Rhysand laid his hands on your palms, your wrists, your forearm, your shoulders. He moved up and down your body, waiting a minute for you to control yourself before touching the next flash of exposed skin. It was still difficult to completely contain your power, but you were getting better at moving it around your body. When he reached for your hands, you slid the magic up to your chest. When he reached for your knees, it moved down to your ankles. It was a delicate dance, like the curling of ocean water away from the shore or the splitting of a river around a stone. 

You did what you could to experience the touches with a clinical detachment and Rhysand did as well. He was careful. He stopped the moment you let out a gasp of surprise at the feeling of warm skin pressed against your own and there wasn’t an ounce of judgement written in his beautiful features when you trembled beneath his touch. 

“Take your time,” he said encouragingly.

For him, touch was a necessary part of life. He always had an arm slung over Cassian’s shoulders or wrapped around Feyre’s waist. He fell asleep with his mate pressed against him and he walked around the River House with Nyx on his shoulders and Velaria curled up in his arms. But there were also mornings when he’d wake up in a cold sweat, the feeling of Amarantha’s red-tipped nails dragging down his chest like she wanted to take more from him than just his body. Those were the days Feyre knew to give him his space. 

“Take all the time that you need.”

Rhys stepped away. You steadied your breath and took time to record your progress in the journal you kept close by. Although there was no true way to quantify your learning, your Day Court training never left you and you wrote down what little could be put into words — for posterity’s sake. Then maybe the next Clairvoyant the Mother willed into existence would have an easier time navigating this than you. 

Gwyn found you squirreled away in your usual reading room, back bowed over a flurry of books and note pages like a reed in the wind. You reached for the mug on the desk only to find it disappointingly empty. Unlike the River House, the Library did not fuel your caffeine addiction with reckless abandon. 

She floated over, abandoning the cart of books she’d been tasked with returning that night. Her legs were throbbing from the split squats Cassian had coached her through that evening, and she was desperate for a break. 

“Some light reading, I see?” she teased, sinking into the seat across from you. 

You looked up, eyes red-rimmed and swollen. It took a few moments for Gwyn’s shape to come into focus. 

“What?” The word slurred coming out of your mouth.

She tapped the ever growing pile of papers beside you. Your manuscript: 120 hand-written pages and counting. When the book became too frustrating to handle, you abandoned it in exchange for another productive task. Even if the 120 pages you’d reproduced were utter garbage.

You groaned, forehead slamming against the wood with a clatter. Thoughts of white blood cells, lymphatic vessels, and innate and acquired immunity knotted in your brain like the world’s worst game of cat’s cradle.

Gwyn would have found it amusing if she didn’t know just how much time you spent within the mountain. You’d effectively been adopted by the priestesses. Lurking here and there like a cat coming in from the cold. And you were just as disapproving as a stray. Gwyn would often catch you among the stacks, mumbling about the disorganization and how you couldn’t work in such paltry conditions. 

“Cauldron boil me, I’m sorry for asking.” Gwyn raised her hands in surrender. 

You let out a great, heaving sigh. “It’s not you.” 

“Oh I know it’s not me. You look like you’ve been dragged through a gutter.” 

You blinked wearily at the lovely priestess.

“A very clean, well-managed gutter.” She grinned. Her skin shone, reflecting the pale, fuzzy moonlight that filtered through the window above and doused the library in a silver sheen. 

“Thank you, Gwyn.” 

“Anytime.” She drummed her nails against the table, the beat of it almost sending you to sleep. “How long have you been here today?” she asked with concern.

“I don’t know. What time is it?”

“After midnight.” 

“Oh.” 

“How long?” Gwyn repeated and you dragged a hand down your face. 

“Seven hours? Give or take?” Your stomach growled. 

“Oh for fuck’s sake.” 

Gwyn grabbed you by the end of your robes, tugging you up several floors and down an unfamiliar hallway until you stopped in front of a teal-blue tapestry. Selkies, sirens, and water nymphs dove in and out of rippling waters highlighted by iridescent beads. She flung it to the side and pressed her hand against the bare stone. The slab sank into the wall and then slid open to reveal a cream-colored room adorned with bundles of babies' breath. 

“Sit,” she commanded, pointing to the neatly made bed. You swayed dangerously on your feet. 

“I’m really fine. I didn’t mean to bother you.” 

“Sit. Down.” She cut you with a lethal gaze Nesta would be proud of. 

You snapped your mouth shut, shuffled across the carpeted floor, and sank into the queen-sized bed. You played with the ties of your robe wrapping them around your finger, then unwrapping them, then wrapping them again.

King Tiberion, third of the Nachmanian line, born Aschieron Cambria Nostrus Tiberion Dalgna to Effel Taul and foreign-born…

Found dead at a young three-hundred-and-ninety-two years of age at the hands of her brother. Spell cleaver or not, Ingrid…

Something like a lock and a key. Magic that’s perfectly complementary might be afforded the unique ability to seal… and break… gods I’m tired… 

There have only been seven recorded Shadowsingers in history: Lovania Vallant born 895 in the age of Alders (see ref. 18992HBG Carstairs), Gherald Dashiv born 1459 in the age of — 

Gwyn snapped her fingers in front of you, pulling your mind out of the hurricane of thoughts. You were a strange creature. You spoke little, moved about the Library as quiet as a mouse, and you had an interesting habit of running your fingers along every book on the shelf. Back and forth, back and forth you’d run along before jerking to a stop like one of the books had caught you at the end of a fishing lure. 

“Are you ok?”

“I’m fine,” you repeated. 

“You’re a terrible liar.”

“Some would say that’s a good thing. It would make me incredibly trustworthy, at least when it comes to responding to things. I’d be terrible at keeping secrets, unless I was very careful about how I went about things. You know how it is. With the things.” 

Gwyn huffed with silent laughter and opened one of the cabinets in her small, makeshift kitchen. “Eat.” She commanded again and you were too slow to catch the sleeve of biscuits she tossed in your direction. It bounced off your forehead and landed in your lap. “I’ll be right back with something more substantial.” 

The door shut with a puff of air and you were left to chew on the chocolate and orange biscuits in silence. 

Gwyn’s room faced the city and you saw the lamplights burning through the windows that had been cut into the mountain rock, mimicking the stars that twinkled overhead like salt poured onto black glass. 

Cream satin sheets caught the moonlight until it glowed and you had the sudden urge to tip back and fall into oblivion. You could work for a long while, so long as you didn’t sit still long enough for the exhaustion to catch up to you — which you were doing now. 

You shoved another biscuit in your mouth, now almost halfway through the sleeve. It helped settle the hollowness in your stomach so you could pick yourself up and move over to the bookshelf. 

Bodice ripper, bodice ripper, murder mystery, bodice ripper, romantic comedy, found family adventure, spy thriller, bod—

Your face went red. Damn.

The priestess chose that moment to return to her room carrying a tray laden with bread, orange slices, and a thick mushroom stew leftover from dinner. She froze, pale cheeks turning a dusty rose as you silently pushed the book back onto the shelf. 

“Dragon-born? Really?” You shoved a burning spoonful of stew in your mouth and drowned the stale crust of bread, waiting for it to get sufficiently soggy enough you could chew it.

Gwyn groaned and buried her face in her pillows. “It was a phase.”

“Must have been a very long phase. You have the whole series and I know it took her thirty years to write them all.” 

Her head shot up. “How do you know?” 

“I read the first book.”

You sat up straighter, back pressed up against the closet that housed her daily robes, ceremonial garb, training gear, and Valkyrie armour. 

“So how can you judge me?!” 

“It makes no anatomical sense, Gwyn!” You threw your hands up in the air. “She’s four feet shorter than him. He’d sooner tear her in half before giving her any pleasure, and I’m not talking about his claws.”

The priestess scoffed. “Have some imagination, Y/n.” 

You huffed and pulled out a notebook from your ample pockets. You both spent the next thirty minutes going through hastily drawn sketches that would have disappointed Feyre to no end testing out your imaginative capabilities. Gwyn couldn’t stop smiling at you as you moved your hands through the air with animated fervor. Half of what you said didn’t make sense, but she would blame it on your sleep deprivation. 

You had Gwyn in stitches. The female hung off the bed, red-brown hair brushing the ground as she gasped for breath. You looked like you were sitting on the ceiling, black robes pooled around your knees like shadows. 

That sobered Gwyn up a bit. It was a real shame she liked you as much as she did. It made it harder for her to stay mad at Azriel.

And as if you read her mind, you asked, “Why don’t you come around to the River House?”

“What?” She wasn’t laughing anymore. 

“Why don’t you come to the River House?” You asked again. “You’re close friends with Nesta. You’re part of the Inner Circle. You have a guest room there, but I haven’t seen you at the house.” 

“Do you even spend enough time at the River House to know?”

“Yes.” 

Gwyn sighed and straightened up, folding her legs neatly beneath her on the bed. “Some… Some things happened a couple years ago. I won’t bore you with the details and I don’t know if I even have the right to tell you everything, but it’s colored the way the Inner Circle works now.”

“The details are the most important part,” you murmured, “I wish I had more details. Then maybe I wouldn’t feel like such a stranger in that house.”

“You’re not a stranger,” Gwyn reassured you. “Is that why you spend so much time here?” she asked with genuine curiosity. 

“Yes and no. It feels closer to home here. Even if your lack of organization has made my job ten times more difficult. I don’t see why you haven’t adopted any kind of classification system. It’s a small library. It would be very easy to implement.” You sighed and rubbed your eyes. Gods, you were tired. The feeling came and went in waves. “I shouldn’t complain though, everyone has been incredibly kind and welcoming. Especially Azriel.” 

You wrapped your arms around yourself, fingers fluttering against your shoulders. You tucked your chin into your elbows and tried not to think about that glorious night of sleep with only Azriel and his shadows. Waking up with his chest rising and falling on the floor beside you.

You were falling for him and you knew it. Gods did you know it. Or maybe you could convince yourself you weren’t falling yet, but it was a steady march to the cliff’s edge and you weren’t stopping anytime soon.

Gwyn felt her heart stutter. “Oh? He’s usually so… quiet and… reserved.”

You thought about it for a long while. 

“I don’t think he’s nearly as quiet as everyone believes him to be,” you said thoughtfully, “I think he just speaks in his own way.” 

 You were right about Godswood and The Gallows. 

The letter arrived on your desk early in the morning. 

The Bookkeeper, Taunum Hyst, was found trying to burn books in the western greenwoods along with some texts from Argot’s. He fought back against the guards sent to retrieve him, but he didn’t know what he was doing. Even now he’s confused and adamant that the last three weeks have been a blur. There’s a daemati at work here. Someone other than Henna. Rhysand knows, if he hasn’t already told you.

I’ve sent a translated folktale in old Bauldish and Common, and another in Demnyon along with the others you asked for. They might be worth looking into to help with the book. I hope you’re enjoying your stay at the Night Court. Happy hunting and stay safe. 

~ Helion 

You were right. 

You dropped the letter, hands coming up to your mouth as you took in a deep, shaky breath. You knew Taunum Hyst. You could picture his salt-grey braids and coal-black skin. He’d helped perform the funeral rites for your mother. Hell he’d managed to make you laugh that terrible day. 

 Your stomach turned. If there truly was another daemati left in the Day Court that could help explain the killings. Either the Librarians could have died trying to keep the knowledge in their minds safe, or the daemati had made them kill themselves before moving onto their next victim. You didn’t know which was more tragic. 

The clock rang eleven bells and you hastily folded up the paper, dropping it into the box along with the rest of your father’s letters.  

“I think this might be the first time you’ve ever been late,” Rhysand said with an amused smirk. He leaned against the doorway to his office, ankles crossed over one another. Did that male ever stand normally? 

“It is the first time.”

“Of course you would know that.” 

You smirked, pushing open the door to find—

“Azriel?” 

The Shadowsinger stood with his hands neatly folded behind his back. “Y/n?”

“Cassian!” The Lord of Bloodshed leapt in front of his brother, arms spread wide. “I’m also here. Nesta couldn’t make it with Valkyrie training.” 

Feyre rolled her eyes with affection. She reached for Rhysand’s hand without thinking and he accepted with barely a glance. They were two magnets, always pulled towards one another in space.

“What’s going on?” You glanced back and forth between them all. It had always been just you and Rhysand during these lessons. 

“I thought it would be good to start practicing with other people when it comes to physical touch,” Rhysand explained. Azriel’s nostrils flared. “You’re getting comfortable with me, which I’m happy about. But I want you to get comfortable with everyone else too.” 

You told me you wanted another debrief about the Mortal Lands. Azriel was loath to admit that just the thought of touching your hand was making his heart race like a schoolboy. 

And I do. Rhysand said rather smugly, as if he already knew Azriel was freaking out inside. But I also know you wouldn’t have agreed to this if I asked you ahead of time. It’s amusing to see you like this, brother. Have you forgotten how to touch a female? His violet eyes glittered with mischief.

Azriel swallowed, eyes trained on you as you mulled over Rhysand’s comment and nodded. You wanted to be comfortable too. Comfortable in your body. Comfortable with other people touching you.   

You thought of what it might feel like to have Azriel’s hand tucked beneath your chin, not just his shadows, and shivered. 

Azriel nearly choked when you started undoing the ties of your robes. The gold embroidered fabric slipped off your shoulders in a soft hush that had Azriel going rigid. You wore traditional Night Court fashion beneath your Librarian robes — a tight black shirt revealed the gentle curves of your arms, the cut of your collarbones against your chest, the thin band of flesh around your stomach; a breezy skirt with slits cut into the sides that revealed flashes of your thighs with every movement you made. 

Feyre, Rhysand, and Cassian all shared looks, nearly bursting out laughing at the way Azriel’s shadows were in flight around him. A swarm of bees buzzing and murmuring about how beautiful you looked. 

Azriel had seen many fae in his time in various states of undress. He’d seen males and females in the Court of Nightmares parade about in scraps of silk and lace. He’d taken countless lovers to bed. Bodies were something he knew well. Something he knew intimately. But he had never felt so flustered as he did looking at you like this. He thought his heart might just burst in his chest.

Cassian elbowed Azriel in the ribs when you weren’t looking and one of Azriel’s shadows looped around his ponytail and pulled. 

“Ow.” Cassian rubbed the back of his head with a grin. “Rude.”

You felt rather ridiculous standing in the center of the room with your arms and legs stretched out to the side. 

“Right arm,” Rhysand called out. 

Cassian bounced back and forth on the balls of his feet, fists held loose by his sides with the lightness of a male a quarter of his size.

You squinted. Is he… is he about to punch me? 

Cassian read the alarm on your face and grinned, hitting you with a tap gentler than rainfall. 

You snorted, but felt nothing. Perfect.

You had to be grateful for Cassian’s light-heartedness. He had the worry melting off your shoulders. With every limb that Rhys called out, Cassian would do a little dance before punching you or kicking you. At one point he even faked a blow to your face, spinning up to you before leaping into the air and shooting out his right leg. You didn’t flinch as his boot swung an inch away from your face. You could smell the rubber soles of his boots. 

“You missed,” you teased. 

Cassian pouted, turning around to walk back to the wall now that he was finished with his piece. Azriel looked ready to tear his head off his body. 

You’re lucky you missed. Azriel’s eyes screamed across the room. You’d be a dead man if you hurt her.

Cassian winked and blew him a kiss.

Feyre was next. You practiced brushing against her like you would do in a crowded street complete with the obligatory fumbling of apologies. 

“Oh good heavens.” Feyre fanned her face like the old, upper-class women in her village used to do and laid on that sickly sweet accent they all had. “I’m so dreadfully sorry.” — They never were. 

She shook your hand and touched your shoulders and looped her arm around your waist. That was the part that had you worried. You slid your power away from every inch of your skin, wrapped it up like a secret, and held it deepin your chest. 

“Good.” Rhysand smiled and Cassian punched the air. 

You breathed deeply and gave a small bow like you’d just finished a performance. But there was still one person you were meant to touch today, and they made you the most nervous of all.

Azriel stepped forward, a picture of calm. Inside, he was raging like a storm. He kept his hands firmly grasped behind his back, wings pressed so tightly he felt his shoulders start to ache. 

You took a step forward as well, tilting your head back to look at him. You felt the grip on your power falter when he held out his hand palm up like he was asking you for a dance. Months ago at the Summer Solstice ball you’d been approached by a number of males hoping for a song with their hands at your waist and at your shoulder. The prospect of that kind of touch had terrified you then, and it still terrified you now but for different reasons. Because this time, you wanted it. 

You wanted him.

You gently slid your hand into his, feeling the scars roll beneath your soft skin like the mountains that surrounded Velaris. Your breath caught in your throat, but before Azriel could rip his hand away you held on and squeezed reassuringly. 

You’d read hundreds, if not thousands, of romance novels in your time. You’d consumed them with a ravenous hunger, surviving on them when real touch felt like a hopeless dream and the loneliness became too much to bear. And in nearly every single one of them, the first touch between lovers was described as an explosion of color. A dangerous shaking of the world down to its foundations. A cataclysmic event. 

But you were surprised to find that they were wrong. They were all wrong. Azriel wasn’t destroying anything. He was mending. 

It felt like a re-centering. The shifting of a leaning tower so it stood upright again. 

A blissful silence. 

Azriel cradled your hand in his, thumbs smoothing over your knuckles. He couldn’t help what he did next, couldn’t have stopped himself even if Helion stood at his back with murder in his eyes. 

He leaned down and pressed a kiss to the top of your hand with such reverence, such tenderness, that you swore your heart was glowing in your chest.

“Why don’t you try a hug, Y/n?” Rhysand suggested when Azriel had straightened. “If you want.” 

You looked down at your feet where shadows swarmed, and then up at Azriel.

“What do you say, Y/n?” Azriel murmured softly. His words were for you and you only. “Where would you have me touch you?” His hazel eyes caught the light before scattering into a thousand brilliant colors. 

Wordlessly you ran your fingers down his arms, tracing the shape of the muscle beneath the leather. You held his hands and gently led them up to your waist, gasping when he made contact. His warm fingers brushed the exposed skin of your waist before sliding around to your back. 

You balanced on the tips of your toes, looping your arms around his neck before resting your face in the hollow between his neck and shoulder. He smelled like leather and the mountains. Wind and rain and nightfall coalescing into something so uniquely him you could pick him out in a room of thousands with your eyes closed.

It started out as a loose, misshapen thing, your hands and his arms searching for the right grip to hold your bodies together. But once you found it, you were lost.

Azriel wrapped his arms around your back and waist, hands splayed out like he was absorbing you into him. And you were no better. You buried your face in his neck, lips pressed up against the curve of his throat so you could feel the rhythmic rush of blood through his veins. 

He refused to be the first to let go. The roof could cave in. The floor could drop out from beneath your feet. He would not let you go. 

Your tears started out slow, coupled by ragged, shallow breaths. 

“I’ve got you, Y/n,” Azriel whispered. “I’ve got you.”

How long had it been since you’d been held like this? A hundred years? Two hundred? You thought you’d learned to live without it, but now that it was yours you didn’t think you’d ever, ever be able to give it up. You were at the cliff’s edge now and without an ounce of hesitation you flung yourself over and into the abyss.

With Azriel, controlling your powers didn’t seem like such a difficult thing. Later that evening when you lay in bed staring up at the ceiling, you realized you hadn’t been thinking of control at all.

<- Previous Chapter Next Chapter ->

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Author's Note:

Y'all... THEY FINALLY TOUCHED EACH OTHER! And not only that, BUT HE KISSED HER HAND!!! And! They fucking HUGGED!!!!

[brucewaynehater101]

Something I have seen in a few fics and is very near to my heart. Tim Drake Has Birds. Not just any birds, but a gaggle of Crows and Ravens and others. That's what everyone says. But what if he had *more*.

Sure it starts with him befriending 4 or 5 ravens/crows but both are smart kinds of birds and very social as well. They seek out others to play with after all. So if Tim was kind to them and fed them and even helped one of them heal after it got a broken wing (the others led Tim to their injured friend while screaming) then they would certainly spread news to other birds that Tim is safe and a friend. Plus, when any of those birds he befriended has kids? They will teach their babies that Tim is Kind and Trustworthy.

Eventually Tim's flock spreads from just being Crows and Ravens to adding pigeons and grackles and Sparrows and even a few blue Jay's and a couple owls! After all, if Tim starts befriending them about the time (or even before) he starts stalking the family by the Time he's Robin he's gunna have So Many Birds. Tim does his best to hide this from the other Bats because he thinks they will try to make him get rid of them like the one time his parents found him petting a Raven in the backyard.

Tim hides his birds from everyone the best he can and has taught some of them helpful tricks in the field that he can only use when alone. Only a handful can do them, but a handful is more than enough. Such commands are Follow That Person, Bring Me That, Poop On That Person, and other such things. Only three of them understand his favorite trick. Take This Match, Strike It, And Drop It On What I Point At. Sometimes he lights goons on fire, sometimes he lights dumpsters on fire. Either way, a perfect distraction for hoards of goons.

Many of them also have tiny harnesses that can't be seen through their feathers that have cameras on them. Sometimes Tim will have a bird follow a Rouge around for a while because really, who would notice of a specific bird is following them?

The three that are best trained and are totally not Tim's favorites, are the three he has in his civilian identity as well. He only debuted his "pets" are he took over as CEO of WE. On his right shoulder rides a *well* above average size Raven named Huggin and on his left is an equally massive Raven named Munnin. Yes, he did name them after Odin's two ravens from mythology. The last one does not come to work with him like Huggin and Munnin, but stays at home and is in fact part of Tim's Home Security. Guinevere the Agressive Swan. She will attack anyone and everyone that isn't Tim and the moment she spots a person who Shouldn't Be There, she is out for *blood*. The only people she tolerates are Brenard, Kon, Cassie, and Bart. Even Damian with his mastery of animals will get attacked by her.

That's such a cute AU! I want to add an that, because Tim is taking care of pigeons, their lifespan increases as well (idk much about other birds so maybe them too). Pigeons were originally domesticated animals. They live 1-2 years in the wild and up to 15 as a pet.

I would also love to see the ravens intimidate the hell out of other people at Tim's work. The birds are just staring intensely at someone Tim doesn't like as they try to get through a meeting. It's an effective tool for the CEO to get what he wants or needs from opponents (ravens are adorable, but huge. I'd be terrified if one just kept staring at me visibly prepared to attack).

[pianokantzart]

I am very hyped for BrotherShip, and you seem like someone who is also hyped. Please vent about everything we know so far, so I can live vicariously through your rant.

Uuuh jeeze where do I begin.

Love how hard they're going with the "brotherly bonds" angle. I don't think I've seen a game synopsis that focused this hard on the bond they have. Then there's fact that their physical touch seems to literally generate some sort of interdimensional power!?

How? Why? What's going on? I want to know. I want to know so bad. The world they get teleported to is called "Concordia," which means harmony/agreement. There's also the fact that the aesthetic theme of the game is centered around electricity, so maybe all powers revolve around flow/connection, which would be in line with introducing a mystical power generated by the brothers' emotional bond.

Speaking of electricity! I've seen these goons for five seconds and I am intrigued:

It looks like they're going to be reoccurring foes. And while the allies are plug/socket themed, these three enemies are wire/plug themed. The purple guy at the front has a stereo plug for his hair piece and a jack for his hand, and their hands are designed based off of fork spade wire connector.

So I'm going with a theory that the friendly residents are generators/guardians of a strong source of magical energy, while the Extension Corps and their affiliates are out to harness/steal that energy.

Then there's who I'm presuming to be the big bad in this game:

He was in the trailer for half a second, so I assume Nintendo is trying to keep him mysterious for now, but from the little I saw of his design two things stuck out to me: He's equipped with what looks to be a stylized pair of electrician pliers, and his hat has a green and red wire sticking out of the top.

So THAT doesn't bode well

Bowser's going to be there too, but I'm not yet sure if he's going to be a hesitant ally, a small-scale villain, or a final boss who takes advantage of the new villain's failures like in Mario & Luigi Dream Team. At this point it could be anything.

I DO like that Princess Peach is having more of an active role! In the past few Mario & Luigi games she's either been captured to move the plot forward (as is tradition), or has been quietly pulling strings from the sidelines to help out, but it'll be fun seeing her running around and exploring with her own group of misfits.

Also!!! The Luigi "L!"!

My main theory is that, every so often, Luigi is going to come up with a new mechanic depending on what we've encountered over the course of the story, and these new mechanics will be used to overcome obstacles and get into secret areas.

Then there's the central hub world!!! Of all the Mario RPGs I've played (two of them) that's usually my favorite aspect: having a main area where you can hoard all the random nonsense you've stumbled across and get a few extra perks. Looks like we're going to have that same thing here, and they aren't going slouch on the "exploration" angle of this game

I'll stop now, but I've got one last quick theory I'm gonna scream about: Apparently "electrical bonding" is the process of connecting multiple conductive components that are not intended to carry a current to a grounding system, so that if something goes wrong (like an electrical surge or a lightning strike) there's a lower risk of someone getting electrocuted.

So maybe Mario and Luigi are NOT meant to be conduits of this sort of bond-power, but they're unwittingly connected to it in order to prevent tragedy and create stability? (I may be looking into it too closely. I am not an electrician, but that's my theory until I see evidence suggesting otherwise.)

[xx0acidicorchid0xx]

some notes on wolverines (mustelidae) and Logan

cause new hyperfixation (its been goin on since a few weeks ago). gonna preface this by saying i have only seen the first x-men movie, and whatever else i found on tiktok n tumblr through my hyperfixation hoarding, so if anything is wrong or actually canon (or not canon) I'm sorry

notes under cut:

wolverines, while technically weasels, theyre the largest terrestrial weasel, and can weigh 26-50lbs.

Logan, is 5'3, but weighs at least 300lbs due to the admantium skeleton (195lbs without, meaning this small furry smelly man is just pure bulk)

wolverines are muscular n stocky and have thick fur (also waterproof n oily to prevent frost n such in them harsh canadian forests), are native to canada but can be found in similar environments, and are described as lil balls of violence and are extremely territorial around their food, family, and themselves (only out of necessity in order to survive the winter wastelands they live in). they also lack social skills and pack behavior like wolves

Logan, hairy beefy man, born in canada, described as an asshole, is violent n aggressive, but also severely traumatized. now with the fur, wolverines are nicknamed skunkcats because of how much they reek (they also mark whatever carcass they stole or found so nothing else can take it from em or where they buried it). if Logan (who canonically reeks) has waterproof n oily fur, it must be real difficult getting him to shower (not to mention he doesnt like getting wet) and also the water will not be able to get to his fucking skin because hes built to survive canadian woods.

wolverines are also commonly found in trees, as they use the height to locate prey and eventually pounce onto said prey

from some of the panel screenshots ive seen, Logan isnt unfamiliar with climbing onto trees

wolverines have been known to take on animals 3x their size, such as fuckin Moose, polar bears, elk n caribou, etc etc (only difference here between the mustelid and Logan is that there is no known attack on a human by a wolverine).

while wolverines have semi-retractable claws, Logan's claws are fully retractable. they (both the animal and Logan) have huge paws/hands, for the animal, its to prevent sinking into the snow

along with the thick waterproof fur and stocky build, theyre latin name gulo basically means glutton, so they have to eat a fuck load in order to maintain their body temp (usually they just eat their weight or very frequent small meals, but larger stuff is common), also theyre carnivorous but will eat anything they can find or kill, usually carcasses from avalanches n such, aka opportunity eaters

i have heard that Logan eats a shit ton, especially meat, but only large meals when alone, and small meals more frequently at the mansion. with the body heat thing, it must be super hard for him post-adamantium to keep his body temp at a normal range without literally sitting in the sun all day.

despite the aggressiveness they develop in the wild, when domesticated (which ive heard/read is super easy than you would think), they become very attached to one person, who usually is the trusted handler. they exhibit very cat-like behaviors, except wolverines actually like being picked up and wearing harnesses, they also like pets (but again, the trusted handler thing). they can become calm when hearing a high pitched obnoxious voice, and can go into a kind of trance when their gums are rubbed.

not sure about the cat behaviors n harnesses n other shit for Logan, but with the voice thing: Wade. thats all i really need to say about that

wolverines are naturally polygamous, but do come back to the female every so often to help raise the kits. theres a video of a wolverine male leaving out a moose leg near a female's den so she can have something for the kits to eat

this man gets passed around the x-men mansion like coleslaw at a southern get together dinner, aint no way hes monogamous. he does worry about the women he basically adopted and raised (rogue, laura, jubilee i think, yukio?,, i cant name any others but theres several)

wolverines also have the ability to smell a frozen carcass from over a mile away (and lemme tell ya, unless you have an excellent sense of smell, frozen anything doesnt have a smell except sharp)

this man can canonically smell emotions, and be able to tell the difference between Mystique and Storm just from smell Alone.

wolverines are very vocal, usually this kinda snarl/snort/growl/mumbling/chuff sound

not sure about comic Wolvie, but Hugh Jackman (and Logan, obviously) does snort n growl n roar n other shit like that

wolverines' mating rituals often include fighting multiple times, and mate Only after the female is confident in the male's fighting (males who return several times are more likely to mate than males who only fight once or twice) and that the female doesnt submit too easily. this is so the female and male can ensure the produced kits are strong enough to survive

self explanatory, minus the producing kits (that i know of)

also fun lil fact, wolverines' back molars are rotated at a 90 degree angle, so they can gnaw through bone easier (supposedly this is a common trait for mustelids)

not sure about sideways molars, but Logan does canonically have longer, more animalistic canines

most of my notes and how i worded some stuff is taken from wolverine expert Steve Kroschel, and tumblr user @/icarusredwings, as they have Amazing notes and headcanons on wolverines and Logan

[vxiphoid]

✦ HOME SWEET HOME(MATES)

❨ leona as your roommate ❩ basically roommates to lovers, i am dying for this trope holy shit. kinda ooc leona (im not sure but ill put this here anyways.), some cursing, mention of marriage like once, other than that really fluffy.

2k+ words

MOVING IN, WELCOME HOME, LEONA !!

MONTH I

when he first moved in, you were expecting some imperious, egotistical, loud-mouthed prince and well, the imperious part wasn’t exactly wrong. you barely even see the dude and when you do, he’s on the couch, slumped. half of the time you forget you even have a roommate. hell, the dude barely even talks to you. the first time you actually talk to him, after a month of living with each other, is when he placed an assload of dishes in the sink after you had respectfully washed them on his week.

that’s how you found yourself practically hip to hip with a prince, elbows deep in soapy water, hands brushing occasionally. he refused to wash the dishes he had purposely dropped in the sink while you were finishing the last dish. how long was he hoarding these in his room? you didn’t know but you made a deal with him. you help him wash the dishes but he has to finish the rest of his week, simple enough since it is his responsibility. hell, when you saw the tower he placed in the kitchen you damn near tore his ear off dragging him back to his mess. what were you, his mother? maybe he just needed some house training, assuming he lived in some mansion with an unimaginable amount of maids.

leona’s chest rumbled and his ear flicked with discomfort, his lip twitching upward into a grimace. sparing him a glance, you bumped his hip with yours. “lighten up, its not that bad.”

“i think i just touched peanut butter. wet peanut butter.”

your stomach tightened and you instinctively pursed your lips to prevent the laughter bubbling in your throat. okay, maybe it was that bad. his tail flicked your leg in annoyance. he has to give you some credit, some. washing dishes wasn’t the most pleasing thing however he had to admit, you weren’t that bad of company. now he was the one stealing glances at you, emerald eyes roving across the expanse of your figure before finally settling on your face. easy on the eyes. he returned his gaze to his hands that were violently scrubbing a dish.

he even returned your gentle hip bump.

ITS LATE, TALK TO ME

MONTH II

he’s actually been in your room a few times, mostly when you’re out, so he can steal that comfy ass bed of yours. though tonight, its clearly different when the lion comes stumbling into your room and plops down on your bed. its weird, at first, but you slowly slid beside him and stared at the ceiling together. it wasn’t until you made some comment that started the late night, half-asleep talking.

“oh! that one dude,” you snap your fingers for remembrance, “ruggie, was it? does he actually eat dandelions?”

the vibes that radiated through your room is therapeutic. mood lighting, a person to talk to, and a dedicated playlist for this occasion. leona’s voice is rather calming with the slight hint of drowsiness, someone you would definitely pay to have a story read to you. he’s told you more about night raven; his acquaintances, not friends, what he’s studied. the college sounded like a lively place, unlike the boring shared apartment route. though, it is a little less boring now.

leona hums, your question quickly answered with acknowledgment. “yeah. he’s weird like that but he’s alive, thats really all i care about.” he says. his voice is soft and slightly deeper than what you’re used to hearing. it makes something in your chest constrict and tighten at the same time.

“he eats pumpkin seeds, don’t he?” you deadpan.

leona lets out a noise that sounded extremely similar to a laugh to which he, badly, attempted to cover up with a cough. you practically spring up, “are you.. laughing? did i just make you laugh? the leona kingscholar?” “nuh-uh.” the more you continued to shower him with this teasing, the harder it got to actually compose his grin, he’s already turned away from you. the look of pure mirth on his face is enough for you to forget what stress you ever had. in a weird way, you feel kind of privileged knowing that you were able to make him smile. you’d take this over any other day, perhaps you liked your new roommate.

OH LOOK, A CAFE !!

MONTH III

leona was actually contempt to take a small detour from your walk together, he really didn’t care where went. all he knows is that he needs a nap. you were actually looking for somewhere nice to sit down to help leona with his studies, the cafe down the street sounded like a decent date. study date. no one told him there were cats in there!

“how is it?” you ask smugly.

leona looks up from the table, a half glare shot at you as he sucks cupcake frosting from the pad of his thumb. he releases his thumb with a wet pop and a once over at his lips, “i like it as much as much as you like stealing my clothes.” then he pushed the cupcake into his mouth, his eyes flicking to his button up around your body.

you intertwine your fingers, resting your chin upon your hands. “it was in my dirty clothes basket, i washed it, therefore it is mine.” you quip back playfully, taking a sip out of your latte.

“it literally has my name sewn onto the back.” he counters.

“yeah, with the smoothest fucking silk i’ve ever felt!” he shrugged as to say no big deal but you knew he secretly liked it from the way he kept eyeing it, just not enough to admit vocally. you’re the only person he could tolerate wearing his clothes, so sue him for not being able to wear anything else in your house for some days until they got clean. “think about it; if you marry me, we’d share the same last name, eh? eeeh?” you wiggle your eyebrows at him.

he huffs, a playful smile gracing his features. “oh, you would just love that, wouldn’t you? have a little field day?” he raises an eyebrow as he takes another bite of cake, his voice full of mock amusement.

a brown cat hopped onto the table, your little corner now surrounded by the cute animals. almost all of them taking complete interest in your dear prince. rubbing their warm bodies against him as if they had been waiting their whole life for him to show up. one by one, they hop onto him, sniffing at his neck as if he were their food and he sat stiffly. you on the other hand indulged your one kitten with satisfying scratches under its chin, staring in pure adoration as a cat rubbed its face against leona’s cheek. you had to take a few pictures, it was a must have in your camera roll.

“papa cat with his litter of kittens.” you cooed softly as you snap another picture.

leona’s ear flicked in irritation, “cheka is enough.”

ITS SPA DAY !

MONTH IV

leona was already suspicious when you willingly lead him to your room, even more when you pat your lap. what is he, some cat? still laid down though, a win is a win. its crazy how comfortable he’s gotten with you. so comfortable, he’s letting you card your heavenly hands through his thick mane to pin it back for whatever substance you’re going to rub onto his face.

leona’s right eye spontaneously closed as you neared his face with a dropper, the glass tube smeared its cool continents on his cheek. “what’s this one? part ninety-nine of glass skin treatment?”

lord knows he doesn’t need it, he already has glass skin, it was just an excuse to poke n prod his squishy cheeks. you didn’t bother do answer, instead rolling your eyes and rubbing the serum onto his skin. its been what, twenty minutes? leona hasn’t fallen asleep, mostly because he’s staring at you. the dim lighting made your skin glow, made you glow. in the dark, you were a star that would have burned down by now if not for a miracle or magic spell, was he that spell? like an angel or an extraterrestrial. your stare was hypnotic. your stare made him forget everything around him, your gaze made him lose his footing. he felt himself moving forward and backward at the same time, the air between you became charged.

“you have a weird taste in roommates, herbivore.”

your hands pause at the curve of his neck, then move up to run through his thick hair. your touch made his skin flush, his breath hitch at a low frequency. you grin, “mm, yeah? is that right?”

his eyelids flutter at the feel of your thumbs rubbing over his temples, “you’re doing the thing again.” he breathes out. you chuckle, “the thing? the temple rubbing thing?” “your little thing, the smile and that voice thing.”

“ohh…” you roll your tongue against the roof of your mouth before smiling wider, “should i stop?”

he doesn’t respond right away, the moment stretches into minutes. he’s fading in and out of dreamland and wanting to stay awake for more of your touch. “jus’ a bit longer.”

RAINY DAY IN, MOVIE NIGHT ?

MONTH V

you two actually had plans to go to out but when opened the door for you just for it to be absolutely pouring outside, he settled for a movie. you got all the blankets while leona got all the snacks. what movie you both were watching? he doesn’t know, you make a phenomenal pillow though.

the tv was basically just murmuring, your vision unfocused as your hand absently played with leona’s hair. you knew that once he lied down, he was going to fall asleep. his whole weight flush against your body and cheek smooched into your chest, his tail swishing slowly showing he was awake in some way. you shift your head to look at him, catching a whiff of sweetness from his hair. some sadness settled in the pit of your gut. leona wasn’t always going to be here, he had to return to his studies and his royalty business. you couldn’t keep him even if you tried.

“did you fall asleep or are you upset, herbivore?”

his voice startled you out of your revere, you hummed in response, his words not quite processing correctly.

“your heartbeat slowed and you stopped playing with my hair.” he said as if it was the most obvious thing ever. you hadn’t even noticed you stopped stroking his head. you turn his head to hold his face in your hands, his eyes droopy from sleep. those eyes doing the unimaginable to your heartstrings. “you gotta to go back, don’t you?”

leona gives you a slow blink, his hand resting over yours. “‘course i do.” he yawns.

it was a really selfish thought, wanting to keep him forever. if you had the chance you would carry him in your pocket at all times.

“here,” leona removes his hand from yours, taking something from his pocket and holding it up for you to see. its a ring, its silver color catching the light from the tv. on his ring finger was a slightly bigger one, matching pairs. “its a promise ring.” he takes your hand from his face to slide it onto you but you pull your hand away. he’s confused at your reaction, looking at you like you’ve grown an extra head. your eyes are glossed over, tears forming. something was screaming that it was too early, that he was moving too fast. then your lips lifted into a grin, you laugh but they come out shaky. “its a promise ring, you gotta make a promise, leo.”

“you’re so sappy.” he frowns albeit the blanket of relief blanketing over his heart. he takes your hand once more, securely this time. “i promise to come back.” he places a kiss to the pad of your ring finger before sliding the silver band onto it, returning your hand to his cheek and pressing a firmer kiss to your palm. you watch the silver bleed into a rose color, a soft vibration in your finger when leona’s changed as well. you smile widely, tears streaming down your face. emotions flew and popped like fireworks throughout your body, uncontainable, freed. you laugh as he leans his forehead onto yours, wiping your tears with his thumb and letting out a few purrs of content.

“you’re really happy, huh? so happy you’re shedding tears for me?” “mmhmm, shut up. lemme enjoy this, enjoy you. please?” “as you wish.”

LAST, BUT NOT FINAL, GOODBYES

MONTH IV

welp, its time to say goodbye. you had your ups and— well, mostly ups, you never fought with leona. by the time you had helped leona pack his stuff and belongings, it was past noon. he looked the least bit of interested and you were doing most of the moving. in his own way of saying he doesn’t want to leave, he lazes on the couch and sometimes tugs you down with him.

“you’re sure you have your toothbrush, your expensive hair products, everything?”

leona let out a pained groan from the couch, his ring finger buzzing. “herbivore, you’re stressing.” your eyes flicked to the band on his finger, the color fading to a wine red.

he held his arm out to you, to which you inhaled, held it, then let it out through your mouth when you were under the warmth of his arm. “i know… i just want to make sure you don’t forget anything, leo.” your voice was muffled as you breathed into his chest.

“if i forget anything important, id buy a new whatever it is. you’d want it more though, for when you’re missing your better other half.” leona nudged his chin into your head and you visibly relaxed against him. he let himself sink into the softness of your body, wrapping his arms around you, his fingers trailing up and down your back in a soothing pattern. a thrum shooting through both of your fingers signaling a color change in the rings.

…then the sound of buzzing from the coffee table.

leona curses, apologizing as he reached to get it. taking a glance at the screen he sighs, patting your hip. “that’s my ride.”

he had already shipped off his heavy luggage to night raven so the only thing left to do was wish him off. its not the last goodbye, you’d see him again. only through a screen and through texts before he has his next break and can see you again. you stood on your front porch, shifting your weight from leg to leg while you worried your lip. he eyes you, slowly opening his arms just for you to pounce on him. enclosing your limbs around his body as tightly as you could, your face pressed into his neck, your hands gripping the fabric of his jacket. he chuckles, giving you a reassuring squeeze. “you better come back.” you mutter.

leona sets you down, wiping any incoming tears from your eyes. “i promised, didn’t i?”

your lips curl up in a watery smile. he pulls away from you, making his way to the car waiting in the parking lot. you had this stupid little grin on your face when you noticed the happy whip in his tail from the interaction. halfway to his ride, leona stops, turning on his heel and sprinting back to you, yelling that he had forgotten something. you were already beginning to scold him but was quickly silenced by his lips. he kisses you sweetly and with enough passion to rival that of the sun, his hand gently cupping your cheek, thumb running across the skin there. you lean forward, melting into the kiss, and the two of you finally separate after what felt like an eternity. his eyes are glistening, a slight sheen over them betraying his emotional state, but you had no qualms about kissing him, even after the short months. it still makes you dizzy when you see the love radiating from his eyes.

“you got a partner in six months? are you fucking kidding me?!”

you peek over leona’s shoulder, a boy with short fluffy hair and blue eyes, big hyena ears from his messy hair yelling from the car window. just like leona described him, ruggie. your prince kisses under your eye, his demeanor quickly changing as he faced ruggie. “you have no game, that’s all. don’t blame me for being simply better.” leona states calmly.

only when the car pulled off did you notice your ring beaming gold, magic swirling beneath the thick material.

back to twst masterlist

[rayshippouuchiha]

Pupdate?

Bisuke is growing like a horse tbh. Like, I took in a sweet babe and then woke up one morning to realize I'd been tricked into adopting a small truck. She's on the verge of outgrowing her second harness already (this one a large where the first one was a medium) and she lost bed privileges because she ripped holes in all four corners of the super soft bed I bought her and I woke up to her rolling around in a pile of cotton.

I've switched from attempting to find a bed for her she can't destroy to starting her a dog blanket hoard instead since she really likes the soft little blankets I bought for her when I first got her and she's yet to destroy those.

Her favorite toys are her two stuffed angry birds which low-key made me emotional because they were my Mom's and she gave them to my last dog Kuma and he carried them around for years before he died and never messed them up. I dug them out, cleaned them up, and gave them to Bisuke and now she's doing the same thing. She'll toss them around and chase them but hasn't otherwise done any damage to them.

Potty training is going pretty well, she still has accidents here and there (thank god for washable puppy pads) but overall she likes keeping her space clean so she's been eager and happy to take her walks which has been fantastic.

She's opinionated but sweet, has learned that she's being too rough if I look at her and go "pain" and then she immediately calms down and gets all gentle.

She's an overall sweet girl and I love her desperately.

If anyone would like to contribute to her slow take over of my house I, as always, have a ko-fi and she has her own wishlist of things I'd like to get her.

[thesilicontribesman]

Three Bronze Phalarae from the Melksham Hoard, Wiltshire Museum, Devizes

The three bronze discs were likely imported and potentially served as decorative parts of a horse harness. As a votive item, they were intentionally stabbed before being buried.

[delopsia]

Sleigh Ride | Rhett Abbott x Reader

My cozy little submission for @lewmagoo's Christmas Celebration 🤍 Word Count: 7,500 Cross Posted on AO3 Warnings & Notes: 18+, AFAB!Reader, brief food mention, vague mention of somnophilia, Christmas celebrations mentioned but no religious activity tied to it, snowball fights, riding, unprotected sex. A little slice of winter fluff. Brief Summary: Rhett's fixing up the family sleigh to take you on the ride he never got to give you, but not everything goes according to plan when it's finished...

It's the crash that gets your attention. 

A harsh clatter of metal and a heaviness that booms when it hits the ground, thundering through the air like last night's storm. But despite its alarming appearance, you haven't the slightest clue where it came from, the noise bouncing from wall to wall and down to the cellar, never seeming to lose her vicious intensity.

But your feet must have grown ears of their own because they're carrying you out the door within a few seconds. Shoes thumping across hardwood older than you are and down the dirt driveway. On a one-way track to the barn where you last saw Rhett. He's the only person who could have caused such a—

...ruckus.

"Did the ghost of Christmas Past get ahold of you?" It's impossible to stifle the giggle that escapes you; not quite the sight you expected to find when you rounded the corner.

Rhett's eyes roll, hardly visible through the pile of Christmas lights that have fallen on top of him, "help me."

As much as you'd like to do that, you're not entirely sure where to begin. Stepping past clips and oddly shaped tools you don't know the name of, you bend down, grabbing a handful of the cables and pulling them away. Untangling them may take an entire day's worth of work, but at least the mass makes it easy to get them off of him, heavy as they are. 

"I thought you weren't decorating the house this year?" Your hands daringly stroking through his hair as you work, tangled from the Wyoming wind and the slightest bit damp with sweat. Should be something you find gross by now, but that grimy cowboy charm has dug its roots in deep.

"'m not," despite being the one tangled up, he's not that much help. Moving a little too slowly, as you nimbly work to free him of his decorative confines. 

His pause makes you wonder if that's your cue to speak."No?" 

And it must have been what he was waiting for because his head shakes, "Was tryin' t' find that damn drivin' harness." 

The last of the lights fall from his shoulders, laying in a heap around his ankles. A trap that he must deal with alone, lest you bend down and wind up on your knees for longer than planned. Instead, you savor the veins that bulge in his forearms as he reaches down to free himself, "Finally, see the wicked ways of big oil and convert back to old-fashioned horse and buggy?"

"Naw," he's peeking at you through the corner of his eye, seems to have caught on to the way your gaze lingers a moment too long, "d' you remember that ol' sleigh? The one my folks used for their weddin'?"

"The same one Perry cracked the frame of?" You still consider yourself fortunate that you weren't familiar with the Abbotts back then, far away from that first newlywed argument. Its hard telling if Rebecca will ever forgive Perry for making her walk through freezing snow that soaked her wedding dress on their special day. 

"'ts the one," those spurs on his boots chime like Christmas bells as he steps out from the hoard. Closer to you. "'m tryin' to fix it before Christmas."

Your head tilts to the side. "...you're not planning on a second wedding, are you?" Because as far as you remember, that sleigh has been a wedding-exclusive tradition, carrying every Abbott newlywed through a winter wonderland with their partner. And despite the newness of the rings adorning your ring fingers, you don't count as newlyweds anymore. 

Rhett just shakes his head. "Nah," leaning in to press his warm lips to your forehead before returning to the mess he's created, "but it ain't fair that I never got to give you a ride in it."

"I can think of other rides you've given me," and for once in your life, you're thankful he's not looking directly at you, or else he would have caught sight of the way your face dropped. How many more times will your inner thoughts dart off the tip of your tongue? 

He sputters, lights falling out of his hands, "I'm tryin' t' be serious here!" But those cheeks of his are red as can be, rosy with something torn between surprise and fondness. 

"But I'm fully serious," doubling down; there's no sense in going back now.

His index finger shakes at you, defiant, "I'm takin' you on a sleigh ride even if it's the last thing I do."

Your eyes trail over to Isabella, her fuzzy head poking out of her stall. There isn't a way in hell that she knows what is being said, but her gaze suggests she understands every word. Isn't pleased in the slightest about being downgraded from loyal ranch horse to novelty sleigh puller. But it can't be as bad as that parade sleigh she begrudgingly pulled back in January.

The voice in the back of your head openly wonders if he'll give up on it within a couple of days. You've never seen him quit that easily, but what are the chances that the sleigh is even fixable? The old red paint has long since chipped away to reveal decades' worth of rust and weathering and has long since lost parts of the metal underside. No longer capable of sliding across the snow, no, now its sharp ends dig into the frozen soil like a stubborn mule. 

But you wake up the next morning to find Rhett jotting down a plan on the back of some junk mail, and the next, he's out working on it before lunch. When Cecelia approached you two with the idea of staying in the house while she and Royal visited Rebecca and Perry for a month, you'd never imagined this was how Rhett would spend his time. 

"And here I'd thought you got lost in the barn," you chirp, only lifting your head to meet him for a kiss, frozen lips melting against your warmer ones like snowflakes. 

"'m sorry," and for your troubles of waiting an extra hour, he quiets you with a second kiss. Longer. Lingering with the same fire that got you bent over the counter earlier. "I can't seem t' find them damn sleigh bell straps."

On its own, your head tilts to the side. "You're done with the sleigh?" 

"Nah," he makes a face as he peels that hat off his head, seems to have glued itself there after a long day of sweating, his forehead still shimmering with it, "jus' realized there ain't no point in a sleigh ride if there are no sleigh bells." 

But the bells...simply do not exist. 

They're not in the shed, far out in one of the pastures. Nor are they in the cellar or the measly attic full of all the junk in the world. No matter where you two search, there isn't the slightest hint of a sleigh bell. Coincidentally, every person in Wyoming must be having the same problem because there are none when you venture into town. The bells, once sitting in the front of the tack shop, are now nothing but a memory, not to be restocked until next year.

"Hey, Rhett," you find yourself saying in the middle of the general store, "will this work?"

The corner of Rhett's lip wavers up and down, torn between amusement and mock annoyance at the tiny bell necklace in your hand. Red, green, and silver bells of various sizes, all crammed together to create a gaudy masterpiece with a built-in obnoxious soundtrack. 

If his eyes could roll the way into the back of his head, they would have by now. "Yeah, if you're plannin' t' be the horse."

But he's still reaching out to give it an experimental shake as if he's considering it for the briefest of moments. 

"I don't mind the idea of that," giggling, you move to set it back on the rack, returning to its equally festive companions. 

You blink, and all of a sudden, it's sitting in the cart. Not a word is spoken as Rhett winks at you before disappearing into the next aisle over, boot spurs chiming their taunting chant. 

It's only fair that you get him something obnoxious to wear, too—a reindeer antler headband with cheap golden bells on them. Enough to get you a funny look when they cross the scanner in the checkout, but not for him to mention anything about it. 

The bells sit on the counter like a taunting reminder of what seems to have disappeared from the ranch entirely. Vibrantly colored metal catching in the morning sunlight when Rhett leans in to catch you with a goodbye kiss as if he's embarking on some lifelong journey and not walking a couple of yards to the barn. 

One afternoon you catch him swearing to the high heavens over how much he can't stand that motherfucker, Perry, as he welds two pieces of metal together. Vaguely shaped, seems to match the missing piece beneath the rusty old sleigh. On another, he walks into the house, reeking of paint stripper.

"Did you take a bath in this stuff?" You ask, lathering your hands for a second time, working your way back through those freshly washed locks of hair. Silky soft to the touch, the peppermint of his shampoo nearly enough to drown out the overwhelming scent of chemicals. 

"I even used gloves," his nose wrinkles, eyes scrunching shut at the stray bit of soap running down his forehead. Your finger swipes it away just in the nick of time before it can cross his eye and begin to sting. 

You're fortunate that washing his hair has become a favorite winding down activity because it seems you spend half of your evening helping him scrub every crevice twice. Washing away the grime from under his nails and not resting until he smells like peppermint and the brisk winter breeze...at least that's what the bottle says. It's more of a dull mintiness that kisses your nose when you get close enough. 

But it only marks the start of something else. 

Red flecks of paint cling to his clothes and skin like a toddler who has gotten carried away with an unsupervised art project. Unlike the paint stripper, it doesn't carry a scent that makes you lightheaded, but you roll your eyes every time you see him. Red on the edges of his nails splattered up his forearms and reaching up to his cheeks. Ratty old jacket growing to look like it's been involved in a crime.

It reaches its worst on Christmas Eve. Days of paint piling up to join the remnants that stubbornly cling to his skin, making him to look like a Halloween decoration that was accidentally left out when the others were rounded up. But there he is hair decorated with flecks of white as he stomps his boots on the entry mat, shaking free of the clinging snow. 

He looks ridiculous.

"Quit laughin' at me every time I come in the door," he chuckles, not an ounce of seriousness to his tone as he meanders up to you, rubbing his painted nose against your forehead whilst he draws you in. Some big hug that greedily steals away the heat your body has collected over your cozy day in the house, all for the sake of melting your favorite frosty cowboy. 

"You would be laughing too if you saw yourself," your thumb squishes his cheek, feeling the soft prickle of his facial hair as you wipe away a few red flecks. Only to spot more above his brow, and in his hair, and clinging to the side of his neck. 

No, no, no, you have to look away, or else you'll catch yourself scrubbing him down with the sink sponge. Already in your free hand and drenched in dishwater that you've just run, hadn't quite been expecting him to come in so soon. 

You suppose there's the reason why he's here an hour earlier than usual, because he's hooking his thumb into your belt loop and pleading for you to step away from the sink for just a moment. And who are you to deny him when he's grinning at you with paint-freckled cheeks? Soft blue eyes glittering with an excitement that only appears when he's proud of himself. 

So off you go. Stumbling down the dirt driveway in your pajama pants and the winter coat you'd snatched off the hook when you were halfway out the door. Not dressed warm enough to escape the wind nipping at your exposed cheeks, squeezing between the fabrics of your clothes and wrapping you up in a full-body chill. Snowflakes drift past like tiny fairies, melting on your skin and clinging to Rhett's hair. 

Then you see it.

A bright red sleigh pokes out from around the barn door, paint so pristine that it shimmers. Not a hint of how it once rusted to the brink no return doesn't bear its scars of Perry's fateful wedding joy ride. No, it's wrapped up in a big silver bow, like it's brand new. Brought home from the shop, fresh out of the factory, and certainly not a fifty-year-old family heirloom.

You can see exactly where he painted it earlier; the color a little darker where it's still wet, but it's...perfect. 

"Are you sure this is the same sleigh?" Blinking once. Twice. 

It's still there. Real as you are.

"Y' can't tell where I welded it?" His shivering hand points to a space in the underside of it, but quite frankly, it all looks the same to you. He could have tricked you into believing that this is a different sleigh entirely. 

Your head shakes, a movement that dissolves into a full-bodied shiver, "Not a bit." 

It's perfect. The color. The repair. The timing. Only Rhett Abbott can pull together a monumental task at the last moment, all for the sake of a special day. The necklace of bells catches your eye when you meander back inside, dashing for the blankets that have been warming by the space heater. The necklace won't fit Isabella, but they'll certainly fit you.

Who cares where the jingle is coming from? As long as it's there, then you can't bring yourself to utter a single complaint. 

Rhett's heated glare at the reindeer antlers resting menacingly on the couch suggests that he could definitely complain, though.

 The Christmas tree twinkles in Cecelia's office, just a couple of feet away from the living room, a pleasant golden hue that warms the room with its presence. A tiny addition to the movie playing on the television, only serving to make you nuzzle into Rhett a little closer. His heart beating gently against your ear, scruffy cheek resting against your forehead. 

You're snuggled up in bed when you realize you forgot to finish washing the dishes and now soaking in frigid water with nothing but a memory of soap left. But you can't bring yourself to slip out of Rhett's arms to clean up a few measly dishes. It can be left for the morning. Before Rhett gets up to fetch Isabella and works away with all of the mechanics that go into pulling a sleigh. 

They're the first thing on your mind when you slip out of bed in the morning.

Well...that and bringing Rhett a piece of butter toast that he so politely held you hostage for, refusing to let you free of his arms until you paid his tax of kisses and treats. The downside of marrying a cowboy too strong for his own good.

But you don't make it to the sink before you see it.

White.

A winter wonderland so bright that it hurts your eyes to look at it. Reaching as far as the eye can see, toppling high in the trees, and coating everything with a thick winter blanket until you can no longer recognize the Abbott property. But that's not the problem. No, the problem is how much of it there is.

At least a foot and a half deep, not enough to block you in but definitely enough to warrant breaking out the plow. Piled up outside the barn doors, packed tight by the squealing wind, and stacked high on the roof of Rhett's truck. 

"Rhett!" You call out, voice echoing all across the house. Distantly, you think you catch a grumble that sounds like a response. "Can you take a look outside for me?" 

Feet thunk across the floor overhead. 

And then you hear it. 

A muttered, "Shit."  Clear as day, traveling through the paper-thin walls, down the stairs, and straight to your ears.

He's out the door before the toast pops out, swearing under his breath as he yanks his coat over his shoulders; you're surprised he even remembers to lean in and kiss your cheek before he heads out into the world of white. 

There's no way that the sleigh can go through that much snow, but one way or another, you find yourself fiddling with the edges of your gloves, walking towards the barn, bell necklace jingling every step of the way. Despite the added protection of all these layers, the wind still works its way in. Biting at every centimeter of exposed skin that can be found, heckling you even when you step into the safety of the barn. 

"Rhett?" Calling out into the empty room. He isn't here, and the sleigh still sits where you last saw it, completely untouched. In fact, the only other living creatures in this barn are the horses. Isabella's head pokes out of her stall as if she's confused about this whole thing herself. 

Her ears prick forward. Suddenly interested.

Something cold splatters against your back.

"Rhett!" You're squealing. Spinning on your heels. Just in time for a second ball of white to explode against your chest.

Snowballs.

A third whizzes past your head. Smashing into something that goes crashing to the floor. Spooks a noise out of the horses. You'd check. But you're already diving behind the safety of a barn door. Scrambling to scoop up some snow into a crudely formed ball.

...where did he go?

One moment he was darting toward you. The next, he's virtually vanished.

But he's left footprints. Little tracks that cross yours and venture toward the corner of the barn. You see him now. The tip of his hat poking around the corner. Wavering. Like he's about to burst out and pelt you with another ball.

Except you're quicker. Bursting out from your hiding spot. Nailing him in the shoulder with a ball that splatters up into his face. 

"Shit!" He's pawing at his icy cheek. Snowflakes sparkling, clinging to his stubble. 

"A snowball fight, really?" You giggle, reaching for more snow. Packing it together as quickly as you can. Racing to beat Rhett's quicker hands. 

The sound of your necklace jingling washes over his laugh, "scared yer fixin' t' lose?" 

This isn't a fight you started, but it is certainly one that you will finish. 

Except your shot misses Rhett by a mile. His retaliation narrowly brushes past your leg. He's reaching for another, and so are you. Futilely gathering up bits of ammunition. Scrambling to step away from each other. Fearing the other will charge at any moment. Snow crunching heavily beneath your feet. Powdery and kicking up to cling to your pants. 

Again, you're taking an aim at him. And this time, you don't miss. White scattering about Rhett's messy curls. A perfect headshot.

"You little—" He's making a break toward you like a bull out of a chute. So suddenly that your foot slips out from under you in your efforts to escape. Fighting against your pounding heart and the wicked brace of the wind. Snow still clutched in your gloved hand as he yells. "Come here!"

Shit. Shit. Shit. You've nowhere to go.

You're darting into the barn. Boots scuffing against the old pavement floor as you veer left into the tack room. Spurs jingle behind you. Overjoyed laughter like a haunting squeal that adds a little more fire to your step. Bee lining straight for the hay, past the saddle racks, and out the half-open side door.

Turning. Throwing the snowball right into Rhett's chest. But it's only adding fuel to the already open blaze. 

"That ain't fair!" He hollers. In the corner of your eye you can see him bending down, scooping up snow. Not even bothering to ball it up before he throws it at you. Tiny snowflakes stabbing at your eyes and cheeks. 

You yelp, pawing at your face with the back of your hand. "You don't play fair!" 

Where are you going? You have no idea because you're back in front of the barn again. Racing for the house. As if the safety of the mud room will thwart this evil attack from your husband. Feet falling into your old footprints, vying for a quicker escape.

Weight hits your back.

"Rhett!"

The world spins.

"Quit yellin' at me!"

 Your bodies are twisting in the snow. Tumbling like two children. The fall cushioned by the frosty ground but melting, seeping through your clothes with an icy vengeance. All of a sudden, you're flat on your back. Chest heaving. Gasping for frozen air as you peek up at the broad frame above.

Rhett's hair hangs in front of his face, puffs of foggy breath falling from his open mouth. Forearms shivering where they rest on either side of your head. Not quite as strong and indomitable as he was just a moment ago.

"Fine," you pant, blinking back up at him, "you win."

The corner of his lip rises. Pearly white teeth glint in the light reflecting off the snow, growing brighter as he leans down. You can see it even as your eyes fall shut; this bright presence that rivals the blinding sun, warming you with the way his lips melt against your own. 

Perfection is what it is. 

His soft inhale never grows old, has been making you dizzy from day one. Delicate at first, a gentle pressure that deepens the moment your gloved hand curls around the back of his neck. Hardly expect him to be the one who gasps into your mouth with this barely-there grunt that the wind carries to your ears.

His body is lowering atop yours with this wonderfully comforting weight that feels the equivalent of a blanket sent straight from the heavens. Your hands gliding down his chest, pressing against rippling muscle, on their way to wrapping around his waist. Pulling him closer, urging him to settle between your parted legs until there isn't a centimeter of space between you. 

For a moment, you're somewhere else. Cozied up in bed or nestled in front of a roaring fireplace. 

But then the wind is squealing in your ears, and a violent shiver is raking down your back. Suddenly aware of the melting snow, seeping through protective layers and stinging at your skin. One of your hands drops, gathering a loose handful of the powder that has seemingly swallowed up Wabang in its entirety. 

"So much for that sleigh ride," Rhett murmurs against your lips, his voice a soft vibration that warms you like sunshine. 

Your noses bump together as you lean up, so close you can almost hear the thoughts filtering through his head, "I can think of something else that may suffice." 

This close, it's easy to catch the way his eyes flicker, meeting with yours, a hint darker than they were beforehand. He's not on the same page as you, but he's certainly on the right chapter. 

Almost makes you feel bad for smacking that palm-full of snow into the side of his head. 

He yelps, pawing at his frozen cheek. Opening up space for you to roll and scramble to your feet. Darting for the ice-covered porch and through the front door. Uncaring of where your shoes land as you kick them off. 

The door squeals open. But it's not loud enough to wash over the outright giggle that bubbles out of your cowboy. 

"That!" Rhett's kicking at the heel of his boot, shoving them off his feet as quickly as he can manage. "Was mean!" 

Your feet have glued themselves to the floor. Unable to move or cover up the grin etching its way across your wind-bitten face as he steps up behind you. "But you're laughing." 

From over your shoulder, his gaze meets yours. Darker than the first time.

"Yeah," he mutters, in that deep, grumbly fashion that makes your knees weak, "'Cause 'm 'bout to do this." And before he can so much as finish his sentence, his frozen hands dart beneath your shirt. Palms pressing against your warm belly. Firm, even as you yelp. Trapped between his arms, unable to jump anywhere but back into his chest. 

"Rhett!" But you can't get away. Squirming, stumbling in his grasp. Strong enough to force your bodies to stumble forward. Not enough to break free of the frigid fingers danging up your sides. 

"Jesus, why're y' so fuckin' strong?" The only disadvantage Rhett has is the socks clinging to his feet. Unable to gain a hint of traction on this hardwood floor. Slipping, sliding around. "Y' little bull."

Speaking is beyond you. Breathless as your feet dig into the scratched wood. Pushing yourself backward, Rhett's back thunking into the wall. 

He's laughing. 

You're at the end of your rope, and he's laughing.

Scowling, you push back a little further. The soft curve of your ass pressing into his jeans, drawing those chuckles into a guttural groan that tickles down your spine. Weakening the slightest bit at the way you wriggle against him, feeling the way he twitches, hardening until he's straining against the material.

Your name falls off his lips. Hardened arms, now soft, hugging you against him, powerless to do anything else. The brim of his hat bumps against your head as he leans into you, putty in your hands.

He doesn't say a word, but the hot breath on your neck tells everything you need to hear. 

Slow, you spin, twisting in his arms until you're nose to nose. Your hand free to reach down and slip between his legs, cupping him through his jeans. Drinking in that shaky breath, the way he pushes into it, and how his eyes flutter. A pretty show, all for you. 

You know that you shouldn't be tugging on his zipper; Cecelia's van is bound to roll up the snowy driveway at any moment, with food ready to head into the oven and gifts to be opened by the tree, fresh home from their California ventures. There is no time for this, and yet your thumb is popping open his button, too-cold fingers venturing inside. 

That pretty mouth falls open. Jolting as your hand wraps around him, remaining still in that helpless sort of way while you draw him out. Until his cock is fully out, in the middle of this hallway, right by the front door. Growing harder in your grasp, only takes two slow pumps of your fist to get him all the way there. Aching. Yearning.

"Why're you so quiet all of a sudden, cowboy?" You whisper a taunt uttered so quietly that it ought to be poetry. 

His Adam's apple bobs, tongue darting out to wet his lips. But he doesn't say anything. 

No, he's quiet.

Even as you take a fistful of his jacket, haul him off the wall, and back him into the living room. A wordless dance that bumps your noses together but never lets your needy mouths meet. His hands on your hips and yours on his chest, the only sound in the room that of your necklace jingling, an echo of the sleigh ride you were supposed to have. 

Fortunately, you can think of a much, much better ride. 

The backs of his knees bump into the couch, falling backward with an unceremonious thump. Springs squealing, something nameless popping in a fashion that can't mean anything good. 

You don't care.

Neither does he. Too busy leaning forward and hooking his fingers in your waistband, gently tugging your pants down your thighs. All the while, you're unzipping your jacket, dropping it to the floor just as your legs escape the confines of all those layers. Suddenly, all too exposed in this not-so-warm house.

"C'mere," he breathes. 

And oh, you do. Knees settling on either side of his hips, his lap the perfect cushion that you settle into, his hard cock squishing between your bodies, the fabric of your sweatshirt rubbing against it. Soft mouths collide. Hungry. All taking. Rough stubble brushing against your chin, with a kind of tingling burn that you've become all too familiar with. A dizzying clash intensified by the jingling of the cheap bells around your neck.

Blindly, your hand reaches off to the side, feeling about the cushion until the texture changes, suddenly running over smooth fabric and cold bells. Light in your gasp, so nonchalant that Rhett doesn't notice what you're doing until you've slid the headband behind his ears.

"Did you just stick them damn antlers on me?" His eyes remain defiantly shut as if it will help him avoid the festive decor now perched on his head.

"I told you I had something else in mind," your reminder doesn't go without one of his grunts, bordering amusement. 

That pretty mouth opens, tongue lifting with the beginnings of a word that never makes it out of his throat. Silenced into a gasp, all at the way your hand wraps around him again. Thumb massaging directly under his flushed tip, exactly how he likes it. 

"Shouldn't the one wearin' the bells be the deer?" His complaint so weak that it hardly sounds like one at all. Head tilting back to rest against the cushion, teeth sinking into his bottom lip. His hands running between your bare thighs, not stopping until his palm cups your sex through your underwear. 

For a moment, your resolve wavers, "Do you want to wear the bells, too?" Taunt shaky. Struggling to keep that same tone. 

The glint in his eye suggests a strong, absolutely not.

You're rapidly losing ground here. For every stroke of your hand on his cock, his fingers stroke the meet of your folds, separated by that tiny bit of fabric. So close to pushing inside, fucking you nice and slow on them until you whimper for him to stop. 

The rational part of your brain expected him to pull the fabric down your legs, much like he had with your sweatpants. But that's not what he does. No, he's dipping a finger into the band and pulling it off to the side, bearing your wetness to the not-so-warm house. 

"Fuckin' drippin'," he muses, all to himself, thick fingertips stroking up to your clit, swirling gently, "'n I ain't even done nothin' to ya."

It's hard to think. Thoughts coming to a screeching halt. Only able to focus on the hammer of your heart and the delicious drag of his fingers as they nudge into your entrance. Two sliding in with surprising ease, still open and stretched from how he woke you in the middle of the night. Cock sliding between your thighs until you had reached down to ease him in, drifting in and out of sleep as he fucked you nice and soft. 

The memory is as fuzzy as a dream, the soreness your only indicator of it ever happening. Did you ever hit your peak? Did he? You don't remember. 

"Fuck," he grumbles, fingers bottoming out so easily that your vision sparkles at the edges, "did I stretch ya out that much, baby?" 

"Don't get too full of yourself, cowboy," but your threat is empty, not a shred of seriousness to be found. Even your hand can't muster the strength to squeeze him tighter than necessary, a little warning that would make him jolt.

Instead, you're stuck lazily stroking him, some repetitive movement that hardly keeps your mind off the devilish fingertips running along the inside of your dripping cunt, searching for where you're more sensitive. His thumb lazily pushing between your folds, nonchalantly nudging against your clit. 

Your breath catches. 

"There it is," Rhett's grinning, rubbing against that soft bundle of nerves in loose circles that damn near make your eyes cross, "'s that feel nice?" 

The wriggling of your hips is enough of an answer. Grinding down into him, chasing more of those deliciously thick fingers, can't think about anything else. Just him and the sickly, wet sound he's drawing out of you with every thrust. Thumb working your clit in loose tandem, so good that you can't even move your hand over his cock anymore. 

"Wanna," gulping, you try again, "wanna ride you."

His smile widens, already beginning to draw his hand away, "All y' had t' do was ask, darlin'." 

Your knees ache as you move to sit up, digging into the broken-down cushion of the couch, a poor cushioning that's remedied by the nudge of Rhett's cock against your cunt. Blunt, dripping tip dragging through your wet folds, kissing your weeping entrance. 

His palms settle on your hips, fingers tracing loose circles into your chilly skin, a soft guide that leads you down onto him. An ache blossoming as you stretch to take him. Can never seem to grow used to how thick he is. Engorged veins and dripping like a goddamn faucet, so good that you don't mind the waddle this will surely put in your step.

"Fuck," his breathing growing heavy, squeezing on your sides. Sweat already beads at his forehead, loose strands of hair sticking, a beautiful sight that ought to make you faint. 

That fat tip finally slips inside, dragging against your walls as you sink down onto his lap. Has you pulsing and fluttering around him from the fullness alone. Filling you until your chest feels too tight, panting for breath that you can't hold onto for more than a second. Your arms wrap around his shoulders, head dropping down until it knocks against his. 

Eye to eye, panting into each other's mouths in the golden light of the Christmas tree. Sinking lower and lower until your ass meets his thighs, pussy so full of him that it's almost too much to handle. 

"God," he grunts, "y' take me so goddamn good." 

The bells on his antlers jingle as he shifts his weight, leaning back to get a better look at where he disappears into you. Two thick fingers dip between your shivering thighs, feeling the space he's spread you the widest. Absolutely enthused. 

Your first movement is marked by the sharp jingle of bells. Chiming their song as you lift your body about halfway, only to sink back down. Eager to feel the caress of his cock against those spasming nerves, so good that you have to remember to shut your mouth before you begin to drool. 

It's not quite as rhythmic, but it sounds like the bells Isabella was meant to wear. Punctuating the motion of your body as you work up a comfortable pace. Leaning forward into Rhett's warm chest, your arms still looped around his neck, mouths clashing in a too-messy kiss that leaves your lips shiny. 

"My cock feel that good in you?" He's speaking into your mouth in between wet kisses. Already a thin trail of saliva connecting your tongues before they can even meet, tangling with a lewdness that ought to make a sinner blush. "Talk to me, doll."

You're not even thinking about what he's saying. Already have an answer resting at the forefront of your mind. "Always."

The cushions are digging painfully into your knees. Hasn't been meant for this kind of activity since the early 2000's. But you're powering through, desperately chasing the fullness of every meet of your hips. Sucking in your own sounds in favor of drinking in Rhett's sharp inhales, faint little noises that send a wave of heat between your legs. 

So good, so good, so good. You want more, but your thighs can't keep up. Aching worse than your overstretched sex, protesting the rise and fall that you can't get enough of. 

"Look at you," he marvels, nose bumping into yours, nudging impossibly closer to your bouncing frame. "Already outta breath 'n ya just started." 

You don't know if it's his voice or the twitch of his cock that sends a shiver up your spine, spasming involuntarily around him. Rips any shred of annoyance from your words as you pant, "Riding you isn't a walk in the park, cowboy."

His hips jerk up. Snapping into your pussy with a wet smack, downright smug as he drinks in your cry. Too sinful of a noise to echo through the halls of his childhood home. 

"'s that better?" God, you could wipe that wicked smirk right off his face. But he's doing it again. And you're helpless but to shudder and take it. Sucking in a breath just before he punches it out of your lungs. Bells jingling like a proper fucking sleigh ride.

Your head feels too heavy for your shoulders to carry, falling into the space between his neck and collar, weakly hanging on as he fucks up into you. Running your burning tongue across the protruding vein there, drinking in his breathy moan. 

But just the slight shift in your position has him striking something new. The kind of thing that makes your vision sparkle and your body spasm.

"Right there," whimpering into his ear, barely audible over your necklace, "please—Rhett!"

"Yeah?" He's trying it again, but he barely misses. Feet slipping across the wooden floor, struggling for the leverage he needs to buck up into you. Falling into weakened rolls that grind his cock in your pussy. Gentle rolling of hips that leave your nails biting into his shoulder.

All of a sudden, the room is spinning. Rhett's weight surging up to swing you to the left, your back bouncing against the ratty old couch. Impossibly remaining deep inside of you, his hips never once slipping from between your warm thighs. Necklace singing its shrill tune in your ears as he refinds his rhythm.

Now, he can hit those frazzled nerves. Drilling into it with a fervor that makes you worry about how you'll get up the stairs later. A price you're so, so willing to pay. Back arching off the cushion, legs squeezing those muscular hips as he fucks you deep. Long strokes that squelch with every inward thrust. 

"Oughta ruin this lil pussy," he's growling into your ear, a threat he's certain to follow through on if the squealing springs are anything to go by, "fuckin' droolin' 'round my dick."

Drooling is an understatement. You're drenched. A slick mess that has run down your shivering thighs, staining the front of his jeans and glistening on his cock. An obscene sight for every withdrawal of his hips, and that alone is enough to have your skin prickling. Crying high in your throat as your head thumps back against the couch, nails biting into his shoulders until you're certain the material may rip. 

You're close. Fuck, fuck, fuck, you're close, but it's not enough. No, it's not, it's not—

Rhett's rough thump presses against your throbbing clit. It's hardly even moving, and yet your mouth is falling open with a stuttered moan. You're right there. So close to the edge that your heart stutters in your chest, and your head is beginning to spin.

"This what you need, hm?" Rhett's egging you on, no doubt, can feel the way your pussy pulses around him, fluttering like a butterfly as he works you closer and closer. "Come on, sweetheart, cum 'round my cock for me." 

You don't need any further coaxing. Orgasm hitting you so hard that you've barely got time to register it. Spine arching off the couch, heels digging into Rhett's ass, squeezing him so close that he can hardly draw out of you. 

"That's it, baby, that's it," he's talking you through it, lips brushing against your cheek, but you can hardly feel it. Too wrapped up in a spiral of bliss. "Just like that, shit." 

Weak, your legs loosen, freeing him to start moving again. Jerkily thrusting into your pulsing heat, moaning low in your ear as he works himself closer and closer, and all you can do is hang on. Biting down overstimulated squeals in favor of gasping into his ear. 

"Cum in me, Rhett," you coax, shaking fingers clutching the sweaty hair at the nape of his neck. "Please."

Those deep noises spur up an octave, pitchy as he whimpers, eyes squeezing shut. He's almost there, so close that he's begun to shiver from head to toe, erratic breath fanning out against your skin. Weak, you clamp down around him. 

And that's all it takes.

Hips snapping into you one last time, cumming in you with a fractured nose, torn between a grunt and a desperate cry. Twitching deeper inside, punctuated by short little groans that nearly make your eyes roll into the back of your head. His spasming cock filling your pussy until you become vaguely aware of the new wetness. Marked from the inside out, sure to run down your thighs like a symbol of what belongs to him.

For a moment, the room is quiet—nothing but heaving breaths and indescribably faint noises, your cheeks squished against each other. Until you find the strength to tilt your head and press a kiss to his jaw. 

Even this close, it's hard to miss Rhett's smile as he leans over to reciprocate the peck, "I love you."

"I love you more," you giggle, squeezing him a little closer now as if the centimeters of space between your chests is too much. 

He could argue with you. Hell, you're certainly expecting for him to, and it seems that he gives it a moment of thought, before surrendering to the after-glow and letting you get away with it. He'll surely get you back for it soon. Start a contest you're rarely able to win.

But for right now, all you can do is snuggle into each other, his comforting weight settled on top of you. With wordless kisses and nuzzles of cold noses, his big hands roaming beneath your shirt to stroke the soft skin there, stubble scratching your cheek in the softest fashion he can manage. There's an ache blooming in your legs from being wrapped around his hips for so long, but the idea of him pulling out feels even worse. 

"'m still takin' you on a proper sleigh ride," he grumbles into your ear, some soft-spoken promise that fills your belly with frosty butterflies. 

But you don't get to formulate a response because all of a sudden, his phone is ringing. Cecelia, ten minutes out from the house, her careful voice backdropped by Royal's snoring from the passenger seat. She's wrangled a friend into plowing the quiet strip of road leading to the house, making room for the old car to crawl past. 

You're cleaned up and on the porch, before the drive is even plowed. Snug under Rhett's arm, feigning clinginess to disguise the wobble in your knees, sore between the legs, and waddling like a festive penguin. 

Nobody notices, too thrilled with the idea of presents and warm dinner to look into the finer details. Except for Rhett, that is. A smug, irritating grin plastered upon his pale face for the entire afternoon. Proud of his handiwork.

The sleigh bells were in Cecelia's trunk. Had accidentally landed there when she had taken the harness to the tack repair shop back in October, and in her rush to get everything packed for the trip, she forgot to take them out. 

As the sun begins to set and you're helping Cecelia put away the dishes, Rhett's head pops around the corner. Snowflakes clinging to his hair, nose red as can be, asking to steal you away for the rest of the afternoon. 

And outside the house stands his beloved mare. Her mane was braided, and her bells chiming proudly in that festive fashion exclusive to Christmas. She's rusty at first, taking a moment to remember what Rhett's asking of her, but she's perfect. Content to make her way down the snow-white driveway, jet black tail swishing from side to side. 

"Is this the sleigh ride you've been dying to take me on?" You giggle. Your chin propped on his shoulder, peering over at his grinning, wind-bitten face. 

"Mhm," his head tilts to rest against yours, "but I think I liked your idea a little better." 

It takes an hour longer than usual for you two to return from the barn that night.

[antiquewhim]

I want to make information on Lithuanian folklore in English more public so I am uploading the threads that until now were only on my Twitter. I present to you a comprehensive thread on aitvarai, the ancient Lithuanian deities of the skies

(art credits: Neringa Meškauskaitė, Agroshka )

Aitvarai (etymologically "ones to appease" or "irrepressible force") are domestic creatures associated with all 4 elements: a comet of fire which harnesses wind for chaos, helping Earth and its people while being chased and punished by Perkūnas for stealing water.

Most commonly a black rooster, they can appear as a variety of creatures: different kinds of black birds, grass snakes, whirlwinds, comets and even men if they fall in love with a woman that they want to marry.

Though very powerful ancient beings, Aitvarai choose to associate themselves with people, with villagers being able to either hatch them from an egg of a 7 year old rooster or attract them by leaving out hot, untouched meals like porridge and scrambled eggs.

When part of a household, the duties of an aitvaras were to bring riches to his caretakers, either as money (money carrying aitvarai were golden, deep red or silver in coloration) or as wheat (grey and black colors). Note that aitvarai only served the poor, tricking the wealthy people who tried to use them.

Aitvarai were both a blessing and a curse: while they did bring wealth, they did it by stealing from the neighbors of their master, making them most hated in the local village. They were also clingy and dangerous to keep, burning down the houses of those who mishandled them by feeding them manure, tampering with their meals or disobeying the rules they set for the person.

It is said however that their thieving, evil nature was a characteristic given to them by the Catholic church, which wanted to demonize every pagan creature in Baltic mythology.

In fact, aitvarai were considered genuine problems by those who believed that they would steal from them: from warding off statuettes in granaries to court cases from 1700's accusing people of harboring an aitvaras (I found only one source claiming this, so take it with a grain of salt).

However, the desire to have an aitvaras was apparent as well, shown by modifications peasants would make to their homes: holes in the doors of granaries would be made so an aitvaras could enter the home easily.

Some rituals for stealing back from a flying aitvaras exist as well, ranging from simply showing it your bottom, to cutting oneself with a rusty knife, pinning the corner of your jacket to the ground, ripping or otherwise ruining clothing.

Even if the reaction of people to them was mixed, aitvarai were considered pests by the gods due to their tendency to drink/hoard water, for which they were struck dead by Perkūnas, exploding into sparks that caused forest fires, the thunder god's lightning forming ponds, holes and swamps, terraforming the earth.

[bunnyreaper]

okay but imagine a Bring your kid to work day. Johnny comes to work with all of his gremlins(and they have those backpack harnesses with the leashes on) and like all the others have one or two kids and then In pops Johnny with his HOARD and his heavily pregnant wife who is expecting twins just sitting with all the other army wives.

One of Johnny's kids gets loose and runs around with one of Simon's kids,both of them yelling.

Johnny's kid: "ANARCHYYY ANARCHYYYY!!!!"

Ghosts kid,who is a bit younger running after johnnys kid: "ANARCHY! I don't even know what that means but i love it!"

🥺🥺🥺 his HOARD hahaha

this man is such a breeder though wtf, and one gremlin totally turns the other kids into gremlins too!!

[gradientdescent-does-it-all]

Finally, FINALLY, I’ve completed the first set of handcuffs. I love them, but for once I won’t have any trouble convincing myself to relinquish these to someone else, because I’ve got… 23 more pairs in the workshop. And honestly, fetish gear is one class of handmade goods that I am more enthusiastic about making for other people than hoarding for myself.

I can rarely bring myself to give away a quilt or an embroidery or a hand-knit hat; these are MINE, made for me and my enjoyment primarily. But when it comes to handcuffs, harnesses, latex dresses, etc, knowing that my work is bringing somebody else a bit of fun and joy is a big part of why I like making them. Not in like a voyeuristic kind of way or anything, just in a “I have increased the net happiness in the world” way.

This set of cuffs specifically will go to the friend who reached out to me originally for a commission. In lieu of payment to me, these cuffs were “purchased” in exchange for a $500 donation to a local homeless services organization (my typical fee structure for commissions to people who know me in meatspace is “pay what you want, but to someone who needs it more than me”).

[radioactivewisdom]

Idk if this is silly of me to ask this question, but, what's your take on the relation women have with wealth/money? How come we have such narrow range of women millionaires/billionaires? For one self-made rich woman, there's always more than 3 women who got to the same level through divorce or inheritance.

I read a study that found that 91% males are more likely to invest in stocks than females. Amongst my friends too, it's all the guys getting into trading & investing. Trying to get my (girls)friends interested was futile.

I've found similar ratio of women to men within spiritual spaces too. The guys discuss all sorts of ontological breakdowns possible within the religious-teachings(mostly Buddhist & Vedic), while my friends have got no interest in it.

I don't mean to stereotype/downplay my friends or put the guys on a pedestal, they're both doing what satisfies them, it's just something I've observed.

Thankyou!

Not silly, thank you for asking :) When it comes to millionaires and beyond, men are going to be over presented because of their ability to better manipulate physical reality. Motivated by lust, acquiring more resources equals more sex for men. Womens lust, while just as strong, has a different aim. Knowing most men will abandon them as soon as an orgasm is obtained, their focus becomes more singular. Making a bunch of money doesn’t benefit women’s worldly aims, because they’re looking for “love.”

When it comes to investing and being strategic with finances, women are less likely because of wanting to maintain an image. Women who buy into femininity will restrict themselves, and the activities they participate in. Since the slow population believes “woman is opposite of man,” women won’t show as much interest in “masculine” pursuits. Also, the heterosexually inspired mating system is sex in exchange for resources. Being partnered up is as far as many women think in terms of financial planning.

Women overall dumb themselves down because it’s considered more attractive. There are studies on this, they purposely act stupid in the hopes of being deemed desirable by men. This leads to women wasting their lives, harnessing most of their brain power into trying to find effective strategies to make a man stay, and (barely) raising their children.

I don’t agree with the hoarding of resources and think an obsession with material wealth is bad, but self sufficiency is important. Men tend to take this too far, since their aim isn’t just to support themselves. Women veer in the opposite direction, downplaying their need to take care of themselves because they expect someone else to do it. Whether that’s a man, their children, or feminism. Intellectual and spiritual pursuits are important, but can also be motivated by greed and envy.

[mist-the-wannabe-linguist]

Man, the more I think about future alternate history of Temeraire the more it looks like the 20th century would see a massive decline if not outright near-extinction of heavyweights dragons, at least those in Europe and maybe Russia

It's 1914, dragons in Europe have had rights for a while now, still not 1:1 to humans (not sure where women's rights would be at in Temeraire universe so maybe dragons are on par with human women) but we're getting there. They aren't seen as beasts or intelligent warships anymore. But then World War I begins and the propaganda machine is everpresent and merciless. It is every man's duty to defend his country or else he is a coward and a weakling and deserving of shame, and for dragons, whose size and strength is incomparable to humans, this applies tenfold. Not to mention the fact that dragons require lots of food from the already dwindling wartime resources. The pressure on dragons to "pull their weight" would be massive. And so most of them join the war effort, working as messengers, reconnaissance, moving cargo, or serving as soldiers in their own right, old but still capable dragons once again taking on harnesses and crews like they have 100 years ago and teaching the younger ones the tactics they still vividly remember. But this is not the 1800s anymore, technology has progressed and just like the traditional cavalry, dragons and their crews fall prey to modern artillery and machine guns. Smaller, lighter breeds manage to keep ahead of the relatively primitive technology, but the large and slow heavyweights become little more than gigantic moving targets. In this world, the term The Lost Generation rings even more true.

Meanwhile in Russia the period of chaos after the dissolution of Russian breeding grounds during the Napoleonic wars has long since passed, with sky-high costs in both human and dragon lives. By the 1830s, some of the few remaining dragons were lured back to human society with promises of steady food and treasures, and it did not take long for things to return to what they used to be. Dragons were indeed treated better now, but still far from equal, their situation more reminiscent to pre-Temeraire Britain, and there was still a strongly baked-in hierarchy of preferential treatment based on dragon size. Come 1917. The war drags on, living conditions plummet and unrest rapidly rises in the Russian Empire. Still not seeing any of the societal changes that dragons of Western Europe enjoyed, Russian dragons find much common ground with peasants, especially the small lightweight dragons, and calls for a change became louder. Humans and dragons alike united by the vision of peace, freedom, prosperity and equality for all, the Socialist Revolution sweeps through the country with the speed of a grey courier's flight. A republic is established, the tsar and his family are executed, same as thousands of other members of nobility, the wealthy, and others seen as enemies of the state. This includes many dragons who did not side with the revolution, particularly those who refused to part with their hoards. Many heavyweights saw themselves as targets, viewed as symbols of the imperial power by the people and as tyrants in their own right by smaller dragons. Then the middleweights, and even lightweights do not avoid suspicion. Talks of the inherent greed and savagery of dragons find more and more voices, people remind themselves of the brutality unleashed by freed dragons a hundred years ago. With the increasing industrialization and technological development, there are opinions that dragons have no place in a modern world, claims that "why need dragons when we can achieve just as much with machines and pure human ingenuity". Many dragons find themselves out of work and out of food, and retreat to the wilderness. Those who remain are mostly the small ones, just large enough to live similar to humans, eat as much as humans and work according to human standards.

[xamaxenta]

back on the gigantic messy bottom agenda rogue getting roger on her strap while roger is in raleigh and ray isnt even doing anything hes just looking incredibly smug with his legs wrapped halfway around rogers hips (and does roger even fit in a normal person??? or is he just rutting desperately between rays sweaty thighs??? or can he only fit the tip and begs and cries about it the whole time???????? so many choices .) and teasing him with rogue while the demon king just babbles nonsense and whines and cries about how amazing it feels and how great they are and how much he wants them to be His . he Waaaaaaaannttss theeemmmmm 🥺🥺🥺 dragon hoard style and hes so happy. also most dedicated pussy eater on the sea until the day sabo is born

Roger is the most pathetic sloppy little bottom ever seen in demon history, but nobody would ever know of it bc theyre not Miss Rouge first light fallen from grace, Ace has no clue that it was actually Roger who got pregnant and ended up carrying him to term

Hes under the assumption it was Rouge which fair they dont correct him, but Roger wishes he hadnt grown so quickly he misses his baby boy!!!

Anyway youre right, Roger cannot fit inside a normal human like Rayleigh but they damn well try with just the tip

Rayleighs tryna encourage him to fit more but Rouge knowing that could kill him is hauling Roger back onto her fat dripping strap by the leather harness hes been squeezed into and by the length of his tail 🥰 its so cute hes so wet and drooly and wanton about it like please please rayleigh i need you and rays petting him adoringly like ive got you lovely dont cry but rogers weeping aaawaw

And yes,,,, eventually Roger will be dethroned by the coming of Sabo, average human male, pussy eating champion this side of the veil, Ace can attest to that his demon cunt has been so empty 💔 lucky for him his human roommate has the guts and the girth to fill him right up :3c

[pe0ple3ater]

@qsmutslut posted something that made me so hard to I had to write it immediately. It's currently 9:03 am. I feel like I'm going insane. This was so hot to write. Anyway! I hope you enjoy :)) I hope it's what you wanted

It's been a while since they've done this.

Pac would call it "clearing dungeons," but he's really not doing much on his end, Etoiles is ripping through the hoards of mobs and stepping back to let Pac get the loot. It's adorable how Etoiles is just here for the fight. Pac finds it sweet that Etoiles chooses him to spoil.

They're nearing the end, but Pac can tell that the adrenaline is unbearably buzzing under Etoiles' skin. Pac knows because he feels it often enough himself. Etoiles finishes off the boss in the final room and turns to Pac with a proud grin, nodding towards the chest.

"You take?" he asks, putting his sword away as Pac approaches him. Pac nods and giggles, opening the chest and digging through it. The loot is excellent; since the server reset, it's been a bitch to get materials. Pac is honestly really thankful that Etoiles is doing this with- for -him.

"Thank you so much, Etoiles, really, you're too generous," Pac says, looking up at the man from under his lashes. Etoiles smiles at him, pulling his hood off to clear his vision entirely.

Pac won't lie and say that his crush on Etoiles ever disappeared. He can't be blamed. Etoiles is a beautiful man. He's powerful, he's generous, he's funny. Watching him tear through the mobs, hearing his wild laugh bouncing off the walls, Pac is reminded why he fell for him in the first place. Etoiles is a shaken soda bottle, full of too much energy and pressure and ready to explode at any moment. Pac adores his power and the way he throws himself into everything full-heartedly.

Someone so kind, so wonderful, shouldn't go unthanked.

"Will you come to my house? Let me thank you?" Pac asks softly, reaching out to rest his hand on Etoiles' waist, making the man under him jolt. Pac watches the way his eyes widen and his lips part. It's not the first time they've slept together. Stories of how Etoiles acts in bed are enticing, and Pac is as greedy as Etoiles is giving.

"My bro, it's not necessary. Only if-" his voice trails off as Pac's hand slips under the edge of his armor, pressing against the thin shirt underneath "-only if you want," he finishes, voice dropping an octave and sending a shiver through Pac's spine.

"I do. You have been so helpful. I can't just let you leave after doing all this for me," Pac mumbles, smiling at Etoiles and pulling away. "Warp to my house, okay?" Pac says, and before Etoiles can argue, he pulls out his stone and warps away.

Pac goes inside, his house is shitty, but Etoiles isn't here to judge his decorating abilities. He's here to get fucked. Pac digs through his things until he finds his strap and harness. He hears the door open and smiles.

"Take your armor off, sit on the bed," Pac commands; he doesn't have to look to know that Etoiles is doing precisely what he said. Pac can hear the sound of removing armor, shuffling, and shifting clothes. Etoiles is so good; he's going to make him feel amazing. Pac steps into the next room to put the harness on and then grabs a length of rope. He returns to Etoiles and is pleased to see him sitting in just his undershirt and boxers, hands in his lap. He's so good.

Pac coos softly and walks over, straddling Etoiles' lap and pulling him in for a kiss. Etoiles' hands go to Pac's waist and run up and down his sides, affectionate even with Pac's tongue halfway down his throat. Pac likes that he doesn't try to fight for dominance; he follows Pac's lead. He tastes sweet, like healing potions and golden apples. Pac groans softly and rests his hands on Etoiles' chest. He pulls away from the kiss, and Etoiles is panting under him. Pac can feel the hardness of his dick pressed against his ass, and Pac thinks it's so fucking cute how worked up he gets just from kissing.

"Take your shirt off and lay back; I'm going to tie your hands," Pac mumbles, nipping at Etoiles' jaw. Etoiles nods and does as he's told. When Pac has him how he wants him, laid out on his knees, chest pressed against the bed, hands tied in front of him, naked, he takes a few minutes to admire. After all, Etoiles works so hard on his body. Pac's hands drag up his thighs, digging his nails in and scratching down the sensitive skin. Etoiles whines softly, dick twitching between his legs. Pac coos and leans forward, dragging his tongue against his hole in a broad swipe before pulling away and standing to get lube. The choked sound Etoiles makes his music to Pac's ears. He giggles and digs through his chest until he finds the well-used bottle of lube. He slicks up his fingers and returns to Etoiles.

Pac takes his time stretching Etoiles and listens to his little whimpers and groans, the way he moans Pac's name. Pac feels so powerful to have someone seen as the most powerful man on the server, squirming and whimpering with his hands. The idea makes heat curl in his stomach and dampen the space between his legs. He feels Mike's presence fill his head and laughs a little; of course, Mike is here. Etoiles is his favorite toy. He can take so much and still beg for more. Neither of them speaks as Pac pulls away and attaches the dildo to the harness, pressing it inside of himself and gasping softly.

Pac pushes inside of Etoiles in one mean thrust, and Etoiles chokes on his moan. He pulls at the binds around his wrists, and Pac feels a little hot at the way his muscles flex.

"You're so pretty, Etoiles, so good. You're so good to everyone. You need to be rewarded. Maybe I should call everyone here and let them say thank you," Pac purrs, fucking him hard and fast. Etoiles is already a mess under him, Pac's words making his moans kick up in pitch.

Pac manages to wring three orgasms out of Etoiles. The final one has him yelping Pac's name and pressing his face into the bed. He's got tears streaming down his cheeks, and when Pac looks, he sees there's nothing coming from his dick. A dry, painful orgasm. Etoiles is still gasping and shivering when Pac cums, nails digging into Etoiles hips and shivers wracking his spine. Etoiles is perfect through the whole thing, whining and crying but still and pliant.

Pac pulls out, unties Etoiles' hands, and pulls him against his chest.

"Thank you," Etoiles rasps out, pressing his face against Pac's chest and breathing through the pleasure rolling through his body.