#like you’re just sitting out there keeping warm in the cold mountain air and you get up for a drink

[pearlparty]

POOKIE BEAR

Austin Butler (being a hazard to my health) in his hoodie

[misswynters]

Snowy logs

short drabble

featuring. leon s kennedy x pregnant!reader

just fluffy protective leon and that’s all

Leon had always been protective of you, but lately, since finding out you were pregnant, he’d taken it to a new level. Every time you even hinted at stepping outside, he’d insist on doing it for you. And now, with the safe haven up in the snowy mountains of Canada, surrounded by blankets of snow and icy air, he was even more adamant.

Bundled in a thick coat, Leon stood outside, splitting logs in the crisp air. His breath puffed out in soft clouds, and each swing of the axe echoed through the snowy landscape. From the warmth of the cabin, you could see the determined expression on his face. It was a mixture of focus and knowing how he was, genuine worry for you.

After watching him for a few minutes, you couldn’t help but feel the need to be with him. It was freezing outside, but the cabin felt too quiet, and besides, a little fresh air never hurt anyone. With some effort, you wrapped yourself up in your warmest coat, tugging your hat down over your ears and your scarf around your neck. Stepping outside, the cold air bit into your cheeks, but it felt refreshing.

As soon as Leon caught sight of you, he paused mid-swing. “Whoa, whoa, whoa,” he called, dropping the axe immediately. “What are you doing out here? You’re supposed to be inside, staying warm!”

You grinned at his exaggerated concern. “I just came to keep you company,” you said, walking carefully across the snowy ground towards him. “You look like you could use a little break.”

He put his hands on his hips, shaking his head. “Babe, it’s freezing out here, and you’re five months pregnant. You’re not exactly built for chopping wood right now.”

“Maybe I’m not here to chop wood,” you replied, trying to stifle a laugh. “Maybe I just wanted to help a little, hold the logs for you or something.”

Leon’s eyes widened in horror. “Hold the logs? Absolutely not! I don’t need you holding anything out here in this cold.” He came over, gently guiding you back towards the porch. “Your only job right now is staying warm and taking care of yourself. And our baby,” he added with a soft smile, his hand resting protectively on your belly.

You placed your hand over his and looked up at him, your eyes sparkling with affection. “You worry way too much. I’m fine, really. It’s just some snow and fresh air.”

Leon sighed, tucking a loose strand of your hair back under your hat. “Fresh air can be enjoyed from the comfort of the porch,” he replied, but you could see the smile tugging at his lips. “Come on, I’m serious. Let me finish up here, and I’ll be right inside with you. I don’t want you getting sick or slipping out here. You know how clumsy you can get.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Excuse me, did you just call me clumsy?”

He let out a soft chuckle, rubbing his hands together to warm them. “I’m not saying it’s your fault,” he teased. “But you did manage to trip over that log just last week. And that was indoors.”

Rolling your eyes, you playfully nudged him. “Maybe you should be more careful where you leave things, then, Mr. Kennedy.”

Leon smiled, catching your hand in his as he pulled you closer. “See, this is why you should be inside right now. You’re too adorable out here, and it’s distracting me from my very important log-splitting duties.”

You shook your head but couldn’t hide your smile. “You’re ridiculous. It’s just wood, Leon. It’s not like you’re saving the world this time.”

He tilted his head, giving you a look. “I don’t know…feels like I’m keeping two of my favorite people safe right now. That’s pretty close.”

Your heart melted at that, and you hugged him, feeling the warmth of his arms around you even through your thick coats. He leaned down, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead, then another to your cheek, lingering for a moment before speaking softly. “Why don’t you go back inside, sit by the fire, and I’ll be there soon, okay?”

“Only if you promise to take a break,” you replied, giving him a stern look. “You’ve been at this all morning.”

Leon laughed, his breath warm against your skin. “Alright, deal. I’ll take a break as soon as I finish this stack. You have my word.”

As you walked back up the porch steps, Leon’s voice stopped you. “Wait, hold on,” he called, rushing over to catch you before you went inside. “Here,” he said, wrapping his scarf around your neck on top of your own. “I’ll grab another one for myself, but you keep this.”

You chuckled, adjusting the extra scarf. “Thank you, but now I look like I have three chins.”

He shrugged, grinning. “You look cute, that’s all I care about.”

With that, you went back inside, feeling warm not just from the extra scarf but from Leon’s attentiveness. Settling by the fire, you watched through the window as he got back to work, occasionally glancing at the cabin to make sure you were okay.

When he finally came inside, red-cheeked and breathless from the cold, he brushed the snow off his coat and plopped down next to you, taking his gloves off and warming his hands by the fire. “Alright, happy now?” he asked with a smirk.

“Yes,” you replied, leaning against him. “Though I still think you’re going a little overboard with all this protectiveness.”

Leon wrapped his arm around your shoulders, pulling you close. “You know, I never thought I’d get to do this,” he said, his voice softening. “Be out here with you, building a life together. I didn’t even think it was possible.”

You placed a hand over his heart, feeling the steady beat beneath your palm. “I know. It still feels surreal sometimes, doesn’t it?”

He nodded, his eyes looking distant for a moment before he looked back at you with that soft, warm gaze you’d come to adore. “Yeah, but I don’t think I’ve ever been happier. And I’m going to do whatever it takes to keep it that way.”

He paused, looking down at your belly, then back up at you. “I’m going to be the best husband and dad I can be. So, that means I might be a little…overprotective.”

You laughed, brushing your hand along his cheek. “I wouldn’t have it any other way. Just promise me one thing.”

“Anything,” he replied, meeting your gaze intently.

“Let me come outside sometimes. I can’t be cooped up forever,” you said with a mischievous smile.

Leon chuckled, nodding. “Alright, but only if you wear two scarves, five coats, and let me carry you everywhere.”

“Oh, come on,” you groaned, laughing as he pulled you close and kissed your forehead. “I’d look like a snowman!”

“Then I’ll just have to love my adorable snowman,” he murmured, holding you tight, the warmth of the fire and his arms wrapping you up in a blanket of love and safety.

As the snow continued to fall outside and the fire crackled warmly in the hearth, you felt like you were exactly where you belonged. Being wrapped in Leon’s arms, safe, warm, and ready to face life as parents of a baby in the cold outskirts of Canada. Away from off the the ruckus that is the umbrella corp.

taglist: @writingwisterias

banners. @anitalenia

[vienssunshine]

Obviously It's Cold in the Wintertime

pairing: Josh Washington x gn reader sfw word count: 2.3k alternate universe: no Josh prank author’s comment: Until Dawn is the ideal choice for one of my favorite tropes: needing to be close for warmth/body heat.

The lodge is freezing.

You hold the quilt tight to your shivering body, trying to pull it closer than it already is, but the winter air is uncaring. It slips under your quilt and settles over you like an additional blanket, not one of comfort, but ice.

The only clothes you packed to face the harsh winter up on the mountain were ones you’d wear outside, like your puffer jacket or beanie. You didn’t think you’d need to prepare for the weather inside as well, and your choice of sleepwear—athletic shorts and a baggy t-shirt—reflects that.

You wish Josh had reminded you that despite his family’s profuse wealth, their lodge has no central heating. But, you can’t blame him for your mistake, and he's had a lot going on anyway. Regardless, you’ll still have to bother him about your situation because, despite your best efforts, it's impossible to fall asleep like this.  

Sitting up in your bed, you pull the quilt off your legs, removing the little warmth it provided. There’s a relief, though fleeting, from the pervasive cold when a tingle of excitement shoots down your spine from knowing you’re about to go see Josh, alone, and at night.  

Your hand reaches out into the dark to search the top of the nightstand for your phone, finding and turning it on after a few seconds of fumbling around. You click on the phone's flashlight—there’s no electricity in this place, either—and use it to find your slippers and the guest room door. 

The glow from your phone does little to demystify the dark, empty void staring back at you when you pull the door open. It’s an intimidating task, to navigate the endless twists, turns, and, according to Josh, secret passages of the lodge. Thankfully, the dusty glass of the windows allows the deep blue of the night sky to seep into the cabin and illuminate the general silhouette of things like the main staircase and the circular chandelier hanging above you. 

You make your way through the living room, using your phone to avoid obstacles like couches and tables, and head up the tall staircase. Your footsteps echo through the open air as you climb, but aren’t loud enough to wake anybody up. 

Keeping close to the handrail lining the hallway, you walk down to the last door, Josh’s door, and place a few soft knocks on it.

You hear his voice through the wood. “Yeah?” 

He's awake, perfect. You creak the door open and slip into the room. “Hey, it’s me.” 

“Oh, what a nice surprise,” Josh says, grinning. You return the smile.

You turn off your phone flashlight and walk into his room, having to squint to see where you’re going in the dim light. Josh is sitting on his bed, his back relaxed on a large pillow pressed against the headboard. He’s in pajamas too, a black sweatshirt and flannel pants. The only source of light in the room is a movie projected onto the wall by an old-timey camera set up by his side of the bed. He flicks a button on the top of the camera, pausing the movie, and turns to you. 

“So, what can I do for you?” he asks. 

“Hmm?”

Josh tilts his head, “There must be some reason you’re in my room at,” he glances at his phone, “two in the morning.” 

“Oh, right. I came to see if you had any extra blankets or something? It’s, uh, really cold in my room.”

A mischievous smile. “Y’know, I bet I could help warm you up. No blankets necessary.” 

“I’m serious, Josh,” you respond, rolling your eyes. Though you don’t betray it, his comment, cliché as it may be, sends a tingle similar to earlier up your back. 

“Okay, okay,” he surrenders, throwing his hands up, “I’ll be serious.” 

“Thank you,” you respond. It’s not that you would mind if he kept flirting with you, it’s just that you need to warm up, you're barely able to feel your fingers.

Josh runs his eyes over you. “Well, no matter what I do, you’re still gonna be cold in that,” he says, giving your PJs a disapproving look. 

You shift your weight under his gaze. “Yeah, well, I forgot there’s no heat up here,” you say.

“Rookie mistake,” Josh laughs, standing up from his bed and walking around it to reach the dresser made of dark wood on the other side. He pulls the middle drawer open by its antique handles and takes one of his sweatshirts out, bringing it over to you. “This should help.”

As he hands it to you, your fingers brush his. “Wow, you do feel cold,” he remarks. 

“What, did you think I was lying?” you tease, giving him a light push. “Thanks for the sweatshirt.” 

“Yeah, of course,” he says, watching you pull it over your head.

The extra layer was a good call, you aren’t shaking anymore. You note another benefit of the sweatshirt: it smells just like him.

“That’s so much better,” you say, and a pleased smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “And the extra blankets? Are there any?” you ask. 

He rubs his neck, “Right, about that…”

“Oh, are there none in the lodge?” you say, holding the edges of the hoodie to your face, trying to warm your ears. 

“Well, no…see…” Josh says, “I already gave the extra blankets to Mike.”

You frown. Mike. Your friend group isn’t full of angels, but you have a particular dislike for Mr. Class President.

With a huff, you say, “I don’t see why you did that, I’m sure he and Jess can keep plenty warm together.”

“Mike said he needed all the blankets to make his room a cozy, romantic love den. His words, not mine. My hands were tied, I had to help a bro out.”

Your brows furrow, still baffled by how Mike managed to convince Josh to give him every single blanket there was to spare. That conniving, silver-tongued little-

“But hey,” Josh says, “You can just take some of mine.” He steps back and gestures to the bed with his hand. 

“I’m not taking your blankets, Josh,” you answer, despite how persuasive the chilled air is being.

“C’mon, you’re freezing,” he insists, picking your hand up from your side, “Your fingers are as cold as ice.” 

Unlike yours, his hand is warm. You press your lips together, your heart in your throat from a simple touch that feels nicer than it should.

“I’ll be fine,” you lie, pulling your hand away. “Really. I don’t want to take your blankets from you.” 

He looks at the bed, then you, the bed, and then back at you. “Okay, we can share instead,” he says with a shrug, as if his suggestion were no big deal.

Your eyes widen. “Um…are you serious?” you ask. 

“Didn’t I promise I was going to be serious from now on?” he says. When you don’t move, he continues, “Really, I don’t mind. I’d actually love to have someone to watch this movie with.” He smirks before finishing with, “If it’s not too scary for you.”

You scoff, self-consciousness forgotten. “I’m not scared of some movie.” 

“I don’t believe you,” he teases, sitting down on the bed and moving over to make space.

“Really,” you insist, “I’m not.” 

“Then come join me,” he says, patting the spot next to him.

Your eyes run over the soft bedding with the same caution you’d have for a battlefield. Then, a step forward takes you to the edge of the bed, and you lower yourself down onto the mattress. Josh waits until you kick off your slippers and slide under his comforter before unpausing the movie, a small, victorious smile on his lips. You’d usually be more annoyed, hating to lose, but gratitude takes over as the gentle warmth of the blankets begins to ease the edge of the cold off you.

Josh’s bed is huge, so you’re able to sit a reasonable distance away from him. You doubt a similar thought crosses his mind because, unlike you, he doesn’t seem to think sharing a bed is anything to be worked up about: he’s spread out on his side of the mattress, back against the pillows, hands behind his head.

You steal glances at him, noticing how his broad chest rises and falls with his gentle breaths. He looks so comfortable; it makes you want to close the distance, to have your body pressed to his side and your head resting on his warm chest. Sudden heat singes your ears and you look away from him. As far as you know, this is platonic, just a friend helping a friend keep warm. 

A gargled roar emits from the speaker. Though the volume is down, it’s still enough to draw your eyes to the blob monster displayed on the flickering projection. It’s closing in, bubbling and gurgling towards a damsel whose dress is caught on a tree branch. Even with all that action, the movie does little to distract you from the fact that the guy you have a thing for is tucked under the same sheets as you, only an arm’s reach away. 

“I’m surprised you’re up this late,” you comment, launching yourself out of your thoughts. “And watching a movie that’s not scary at all.”

“Just wait, the worst part hasn’t even happened yet,” he says, leaning over to give you a playful nudge. His eyes remain fixed on the flickering screen as he finishes responding. “And yeah, I couldn’t really fall asleep, so I put something on.” 

“Too cold for you, too?” you ask.

“Nah, temperature’s fine. It’s just, y’know, being up here again…”

Of course. You should have known. 

You look down to your hands in your lap. “It’s probably a lot. I’m sorry, Josh. Really.” 

“I appreciate it,” he says, letting out a deep breath as if he’s trying to exhale the weight on his chest. “I’m glad you’re all with me, it’s easier dealing with what happened.”

“We’re here for you.” You move a hand from your lap to his shoulder, giving it a comforting squeeze. “I’m here for you. Anything, Josh.” 

“Thank you,” he says, his hand covering yours. “It means a lot to me that you’re saying that. I hope you know I’d do the same for you.” You nod, his kind words making your heart melt like candle wax. “Speaking of, are you feeling any warmer? Your hand, it still feels-” 

You drop your hand back down to the blanket, noticing that, though you haven’t shivered since you put on the sweatshirt, your fingertips still feel dull, unable to fully sense the softness of the cloth. “It’s a little better, but I’m still pretty cold,” you admit.

“Well, I can’t have you freezing to death,” he tells you. 

“That might ruin the trip,” you say with a small laugh.

“You’re right. I would get in so much trouble.” 

“Well, I wouldn’t want you getting in trouble because of me.” You tilt your head, a bashful smile spreading across your face. 

He takes a second to drink in everything the faint light of the movie reveals of your expression. “Good thing I have a solution to our problem.”

“Yeah?”

His response is one that diverges from his typical flirty comments as it comes out softer, a little hesitant, even. “You could come closer.”

You eye him, waiting for him to reveal his bluff. But his gaze remains steady, so you repeat his words back to him slowly as if you were trying to figure out which part he isn’t sincere about. “You want me to come closer?”

He chuckles. “Somebody’s nervous.” Josh lets his arms spread atop the row of pillows behind him, opening himself up to you. “C’mon, I don’t bite,” he grins, “hard.” 

“Alright, pack it up, cornball,” you say, lifting up the comforter and scooting closer to him, stopping just an inch or two before your thigh touches his.

“You know you love it,” he says.

“Shut it, I’m trying to watch the movie,” you shoot back, reclining until your back meets his arm and the pillows it lies atop of. The hard muscle of his bicep contrasts with the plushness of the pillows, but it doesn’t make you any less comfortable, in fact, you like this position more than how you were earlier.

Being close to him, nearly in his arms, feels better than you expected. The warmth of his body and the steadiness of his breath conjure up a calm haze that settles over you like a spell. You work hard to stay focused and upright, wanting to finish the movie and talk to him some more. But you're exhausted, so as he's explaining the foreshadowing from the first act of the movie, you end up leaning into him, your head falling onto his shoulder and your hand onto his chest. He doesn’t say anything, but his arm shifts behind your back, and then his hand is on your head, petting your hair. Your eyes flutter shut, everything around you fading out aside from the soothing feeling of his touch. 

“Sleepy?” he whispers down to you.

“Mhmm,” you mumble back. 

“Do you want to sleep in here tonight? It’s much warmer.”

“Can I?” you ask, nuzzling your cheek into his shoulder. He’s just so comfortable, it would be so terrible if you couldn’t stay. 

“Of course you can,” he responds. You can hear the smile in his voice and it sends a small wave of warmth through your body.

You move your head so it rests on his chest, your fingers sprawled out just a bit lower, mindlessly playing with the strings of his hoodie. Staying awake is getting harder and harder as the gentle strokes on your head coax you to sleep, and eventually, you give in.

When you wake up in the morning, you’re still curled up next to Josh, and he is still asleep. He has been going through a lot this past year, but as the light of dawn trickles through the window and onto his face, he looks the most peaceful you’ve ever seen him.

[prokaryotics]

warmth of doorways | joel miller x reader

pairing: no outbreak!contractor!joel miller x f!reader

summary: joel spends another late night at work. you pay him a visit.

warnings: MDNI. plot and porn. allusions to joel's unsavory youth. oral (fem receiving). mentions of violence, past arguments, and money insecurity. joel smokes one (1) cigarette. alcohol. fingering. unprotected p in v. no mention of reader characteristics other than wardrobe. overuse of commas and hyphens. proofread once. 5.8k

mildly inspired by it will come back / i'm on fire

The office clock ticks rhythmically with every second that passes, broken up by the muted whirling of the ceiling fans as they turn almost imperceptibly counterclockwise on the ceiling.  

Austin is quiet. Outside, orange streetlights glow in narrow cones on the sidewalks, humming, straining with electricity as the bulbs fight to keep the pavement lit. If he really listens, he can hear the faint footsteps of heels against the concrete, the soft sounds of giggling and the low baritone of the voice that follows. Somewhere further down the block, someone is closing their car door, almost swallowed by a dog barking. A breeze pushes against the building and flows through a draft near the window's ledge, pushes through the double-paned glass, and brings with it the smell of damp earth and wet asphalt, leftovers of an afternoon storm. The air is cool and calm as if waiting to be born again tomorrow morning into something more alive, more chaotic, as it simmers in the heat of the Texas sun. 

The other contractors have gone home, back to their wives or families or one bedroom apartments, leaving the office silent save for these sounds of a city reminding him that the hour is late, that the night will not wait for him. 

His chair creaks beneath his weight as he shifts, the leather uncomfortably warm from his body heat. 

Joel stares down at his work. Its contents blur together into a massive, nondescript monstrosity of a shape, small lines of scribbled pencil spilling over one another and morphing into a clump of meaningless letters. He tries to spread them out again into something he can read until a film gathers over his eyes. He’s forced to rub them with the heels of his hands, but even then they are still irritated, his tired gaze struggling to focus on anything other than the sting that radiates through his corneas from the strain of keeping them open and concentrated for so long. The paperwork never ends. It just seems to grow and grow in a pile of meeting briefings and documents requiring his signature, clipboards, a backlog of voicemails from clients to listen to, and notes to take. His palm and the space between his fingers are beginning to cramp with the pressure of the pen he’s holding, having gone through almost everything in one sitting, desperate to put even a tiny dent into the mountain that rests before him. 

The fluorescent lighting isn’t helping, blanketing his work space in a coat of sterile white, making everything around him feel sharp and cold and like he’d hurt himself on it, even the half-filled plastic water bottle sitting at the edge of the desk. 

He sighs, leans back, drags his carton of cigarettes against the wood then taps the bottom against its surface a few times, forcibly packing the tobacco tighter. You’ve been trying to get him to relax on his smoking, or at least cut back, but with shit storm after shit storm constantly coasting towards him with no remorse, the nicotine is the only thing keeping him from going entirely AWOL. He does his best not to feel guilty about it. It would be sad, and ironic, that if he managed to make something successful out of the fucking mess of building a business, his downfall would be lung cancer, and he knows you know that, too, but you never push. You’re never like that and he’s grateful for it. 

He lets his mind drift to you and what you must be doing as he lifts his lighter, a small, stainless steel zippo engraved with his initials, a gift from his parents when he graduated high school, and lights his cigarette before bringing his wristwatch to his face, squinting to read the time. 

Almost midnight. 

Hours spent studying schematic designs, imagining rooms, and the lives that might be led within them, has made him lose track of his own. The days blend together, hours passing as easily and fluidly as water does lapping up against sand, every one of his thoughts curtailed by installation fees and HVAC subcontractors, schedule conflicts and site plans.

You’ve been good about that, too. Gentle. Guiding him back into his own existence. Making it easier for him to remember that although overseeing is his job, he doesn’t have to be invariably vigilant, that not every waking second has to be dedicated to worrying, that he’s going to burn himself out if he keeps going on like this. 

So he isn’t surprised when he spots your shadow first, cast long against the polished tiled floors, followed by your appearance in the doorway. 

He instantly relaxes. 

“What are you doin’ here? You should be sleepin,’” Joel chastises, although he’s smiling just a little, flicking his cigarette against the clay ash-tray sitting at the center of his desk, surrounded by notepads and coffee mugs and drafting pencils.

“You should be at home,” you counter, smiling back. 

He pauses, brings the bud back to his lips and takes a drag. The air goes thick and heavy. 

“There’s a lot of things I should be doing," he answers, stress and worry coupled in his voice as he sits forward and exhales, one elbow on the desk, pushing his fingers through his hair, the other dangling with his cigarette, billowing with gray smoke.  

You look at him for what feels like a long time, following the tense line of muscle in his shoulders as they stretch and roll beneath the cotton of his dress shirt, see his eyes close as he rubs a hand over his face, his breath leaving his body in a reticent, exhausted exhale. 

Then he’s watching as you push off the door frame and walk over to him, plucking the bud from between his middle and pointer fingers and quietly extinguishing it, your lips pursed. You lean against the wood of his desk, between his legs. 

Neither of you have forgotten about the plate you’d dropped. It was only some cheap ceramic thing you had picked up while out shopping when you first moved into your house, one of the ones with the grooves on the bottom to keep it from being knocked over as easily, dipped in bright yellow pottery glaze and dotted around its edges by bright blue flowers, the texture of the sponge used to make the design adding a sort of authentic, homey feel. A pretty thing that came in a set of six, the other five still sitting in your cabinets. It wasn’t difficult to clean up, broken into three solid pieces with only some of the powdery dust from its impact really needing to be swept up, but it wasn’t so much about the plate breaking itself than what it meant. What it symbolized. 

Your shattering frustrations. 

His fracturing exhaustion. 

“They can’t wait?” 

Joel leans back. 

“Not most of ‘em, no.” 

“So you’re killing yourself here? Instead of lying in bed with your wife?” You eye the half empty amber bottle of scotch and the glass filled with melting ice next to it, glance at his accolades hung on the wall, certifications he worked tirelessly to achieve. 

He sighs, hollow, empty sounding. “It’s ain’t that simple. I told you they can’t wait.” 

You go to sit in his lap, bringing your palm up to cup his cheek. “It could be. Divide the work. You’re just one man.” 

He grabs your hand. It’s not your fault you don’t know he can’t bring himself to when so much hinges on the success of this enterprise. Your future. Sarah's future.

“I’m just one man in charge of everythin’ else. It isn’t.” 

There’s another pause, filled by your heavy gazes as you look at one another, waiting for the other to yield. It’s been like this before, instances where you’re stuck within pregnant hesitations, expecting the other to give in, too stubborn to realize it shouldn’t be about who breaks first.

You’re learning that, though, no matter how frustrating it is. 

“I miss my husband,” you confess, although it’s not really a confession more than an admittance to what you both already knew, what you’ve both already felt, everything about this feeling delicate and intimate in a way that makes your lungs constrict.  

Joel frowns, turns his head and kisses the inside of your wrist. His gaze is soft upon you, as gentle as the quiet moon. 

“I know. ‘M sorry,” he murmurs against the delicate skin. 

“You could have called,” you whisper, breathy and painfully soft, not sure you’d be able to say it any louder and still maintain the fragile, stunned atmosphere existing in the space between your bodies. 

“I didn’t want to wake you.” 

You almost roll your eyes. No, better to be up and left worrying.

“I wouldn’t have minded.” 

Joel glides his hand up your forearm, his calloused palm warm and heavy, the pad of his thumb brushing soothingly across the bend of your elbow. 

“I would have.” 

Your chest swells up and suddenly you’re choking on bittersweet nostalgia, on memories of when your husband wasn’t being stripped away from you bit by bit by a business he’s trying hard to keep afloat. And you’re choking on sadness, too, on the overwhelming feeling of active loss, so you’re tempted to let yourself lean into it, to just drop the conversation even though you know that you need to have it because sometimes it's easier to let your problems fall asleep quietly rather than wake them by pushing too hard. It’s easier to let yourself rest.

Still, you persist. 

“You can’t keep going on like this. It isn’t just that I miss you, Joel.” 

He knows you won’t repeat yourself. He knows what you mean, anyway. It isn’t about clarity. He’s been doing what he can, suffering what he must. 

“Please, I don’t want to have this argument, honey.” 

The beginnings of a headache are settling somewhere just behind temples, spreading quickly across his forehead, behind his eyes. There’s nothing more he wants than to be able to do what you’re asking, but he chose this profession, and you chose him. He doesn’t have the energy or the will to fight with you right now. 

You reach up and trace the curve of his brow with your thumb, hoping to ease away the wrinkle that lives between them, and maybe mute the thought that has manifested it, the friction and stress of the situation rising until it’s nearly palpable. 

“I’m not trying to argue with you. I’m trying to talk to you, something I seem to be able to do less and less," you explain, palm dropping to mold against the curve of his jaw. 

Joel looks away, at the folders and blue and white floor plans in front of him, at the doorway, half-expecting to see someone standing in it, ready to give him another piece of information that will set construction back weeks and cost him more money than he has.

“You think I enjoy this any more than you do?” The sharpness in his tone is immediately countered by the look of frustrated remorse that softens his expression, a sort of tug on his eyebrows until that damn furrow is finally gone.

“No, I don’t,” you say gently. “And I know that you’ve got a job to do, but I’d like it if it didn’t tear you away from me completely.” 

You twist the hair at the nape of his neck between your fingers as you lean forward, resting your forehead against his own and closing your eyes. 

“I love you, Joel. I miss you. I don’t like sleeping alone in our bed.” 

He won’t apologize again, and he’s sure you wouldn’t want to hear it anyway, but not for any spiteful reason. You’ve both got your hands tied, but he’s sorry for a lot of things - for keeping you awake, for worrying you, for stressing you out, but mostly he’s sorry he’s given you a marriage like this. A marriage filled with nights spent alone in a house he had picked out because it was the safest, because that’s what he needs to think about instead of whether you like the view, or what the outside looks like. He’s got to think about whether the locks will hold, whether the windows won’t shatter completely, whether - god forbid - you can have neighbors to rely on if something were to happen because he’s away all the time now, gone, trying to build a life. 

He’s got to think of these things and you’ve got to make the sacrifices. 

“I don’t like it either.” There’s an unspoken end of his sentence, an ellipse, a part that he leaves out that neither of you wants to say. I don’t like it either, but... 

But this is my job. 

But this is our life. 

But you’ll have to get used to it. 

So he masks it with an exhale, an empty and low sound, as if he’s been waiting for too long with too much, not relieved but resigned. 

“It’s been a long time since we’ve been alone.” He changes the subject, sitting back in his seat as you open your eyes. 

“Yeah,” you agree, trying not to feel bad about it. “Too long. It feels like we’re dating again.” 

Joel chuckles, low and warm and light, like smelling laundry through an open window when the wind carries it through the house, cool and placid. He still looks at you that way, the same way he had when your relationship was just starting, with honey-dewed eyes and a sort of crooked, half-smile, like he wasn’t doing it on purpose, just couldn’t help himself. The same way he’s looking at you now. 

“Except this time your father isn’t here watchin’ us, lookin’ like he wants to kill me.”

Your groan is superseded by your laughter as you shake your head, glad for it but also feeling like time is moving too quickly, too fast for you to really keep up with it. Where had that time gone? Where is it now? 

“Thank God that he isn’t. And he likes you now, it just took him a while.” 

Joel rolls his eyes, scoffing. He’s sat through too many tense dinners and awkward conversations to believe that, even coming from you. 

“Uh-huh. You keep tellin’ yourself that, honey.” Your father is a hardass, but he’s well-intentioned, their every interaction peppered with warnings about providing for you like Joel doesn’t feel guilty enough about dragging you down with him. 

He looks at you, still grinning. 

“Yeah, I know,” you sigh, the remnants of laughter still in your voice. “But I still married you.” 

“For reasons I’ve still yet to understand.” 

“For reasons I’ll remind you of until the day I die.” 

Joel quiets and shifts his gaze to some point of interest on his desk, where one of the edges is chipping, maybe, or maybe he’s looking at a stained ring discoloring the wood because a drink had been left to sweat without a coaster. Nothing important, nothing that warrants catching his attention, the movement secondary to the thoughts in his head to retreat. You both are aware of the alternative to that sentence. 

You guide him back to you. 

“I mean it, Joel. I don’t regret marrying you.” 

“I know you don’t.” Joel rubs his mouth with his hand. He finally meets your gaze as he continues. “But sometimes I wonder what your life could have been like, if it could’ve been better.” 

“It would have been nothing,” you correct fiercely. 

“You would have been comfortable, provided for-.” 

“You don’t know that.” 

“I know that I put you through hell every day that you’re with me.” 

“Stop it.” 

You don’t even know half of it, he thinks, through no fault of your own. He’s shielded you from what he can, has kept things to himself, given you half-answers when you’d ask why he’s adding overtime dates to the calendar on the fridge, checking to see if Sarah’s lunch is packed before making his own, tossing change into an old paint can on a shelf in his closet. 

‘Things with work,’ he says.

‘Issues with the client,’ he says.

‘I need to stay a little later,’ he says. 

‘This company might fail,’ he doesn’t. ‘And it scares the shit out of me.’ 

“I’m sorry, honey. How can I make it up to you?” 

It isn’t about making anything up to anybody. This is far too complex for that, but he can at least give a little. You sacrifice so much for him, for a life you didn’t really ask to be living, so whatever he can give he knows it won’t even begin to replace what you’ve lost. Your sleep and sanity and security. And it probably won’t ever, but he can try to return the comfort that you give him, the peace of mind, the love. 

The kind that has to be fought for, torn from your chests in hissing, passive aggressive outbursts in the middle of your kitchen that burn like acid with each word that crawls up your throats, or falling easily after being pulled gently from your hands in moments like this, when you’re trying to convince one another that your biggest concerns shouldn’t be each other because you both can’t stand the feeling of being a burden, unable to handle the lurches of guilt and the helplessness that accompanies it. 

“Coming home at a normal hour would be nice.” You aren’t looking to make this conversation any more serious, to be stuck spending a night convincing him that he hadn’t damned you to some sort of anxiety-ridden, fearful existence by proposing to you because for all the bad, all the heartache and stress and worry, there are the good moments too. The early mornings, subdued afternoons spent sitting in the sunshine reading, evenings spent dancing on your patio bathed in warm light from paper lanterns he had hung up the summer before. Moments that are perfect, beautiful, and real and everything you hang on to when the bad ones come. 

Joel senses this and wants to protest, and while he gives you a searching look he refrains from saying anything that might carry the conversation backward. 

“It won’t always be like this,” he says instead, moving one hand to rest at your lower back, his thumb rubbing the soft skin beneath your shirt. “But I like these visits.”

“I’m sure you do. None of this looks at all exciting.” You turn to the desk, at the documents scattered everywhere, at unfinished contract drafts, at illustrations of building models that are far from perfect, with stairs and doors leading nowhere like they lead to some ghost elevator, at the crumbled-up balls of paper. 

“Unfortunately even the borin’ parts are still my job.” 

“Good thing I’m here then, huh?” You shift in his lap, draping your arms around his neck. 

“Yes,” he agrees, both palms now molded against your waist, digging slightly into your hips. “It’s a very good thing you’re here.” 

It feels nice to have these instances, tediums between bigger periods in time like the one you just had, insignificant and maybe not that meaningful but sweet nonetheless, where you can be happy, flirt with your husband while trying your best to speak in hushed, shy voices so the nighttime janitor doesn’t come skirting down the hallway, wondering why he’s hearing a woman’s voice so late at night coming from the contractor’s office.

So you take his face in your hands feeling like a lovesick teenager, his cheeks flushed warm with affection, a little scratchy from a day’s worth of stubble, his eyes soft, and for the first time since you got here, free from the burdens that normally cloud them, and you kiss him, saccharine and slow and easy. 

He tastes faintly like the scotch, and his lips are little bit chapped but they’re amiable in their movements, as if he’d be content to just go on like this kissing you, not worried about where it will lead, or if it’ll lead to anything at all, making you feel slow yet hyper aware from his gentle caresses, and his hands when they climb higher, having moved beneath your shirt, are rough and hot and careful - always so careful with you - and you don’t like to think about why even though you’ve got a pretty good guess. Careful hands that have a history you know only in bits and pieces. Careful hands that have curled into fists, become bloodied and bruised and scabbed. Careful hands that sweat around the grip of a saw, or a hammer, nowadays, the scabs of his youth long gone, but hinted at in the fading white scars that litter his knuckles.

Careful hands that don’t want to risk letting that seep into you, as if you’re something he’d be able to taint, convolute. 

You lean away, then move even further back when he follows, quickly speaking before he’s on you again. “Touch me like you mean it, Joel. Please.” 

“Anythin’ you want, honey.” 

You card your fingers through Joel’s hair, tug slightly at the roots and try not to get too lost in his answering rumble as his kisses slowly grow in intensity until it becomes nearly desperate, finally indulging in the need for closeness he’s stifled to keep himself from cracking beneath the pressure of work completely. 

Joel pulls you closer with a shallow groan, shifts his seat so that you’re right up against the desk, the lip of it digging into your back, but his warmth is seeping into you and through your clothes, so you really don’t care how the wood bites a little into your muscles, coupled with the way his cock is already straining through his jeans, hard and thick and it makes you feel like this entire thing is sort of scandalous. It is dangerous, and even though you know he wouldn’t be doing this if he wasn’t sure the building was empty, the possibility of being caught does thrill you; makes you grin against his lips, lets him pull you apart piece by piece, his kisses loving and devoted and his hands roaming across your rib-cage and breasts like he isn’t sure where he wants to keep them, wanting to touch all of you at once. 

He rises to his feet, takes a step forward and places you onto the desk, his focus so far away from the papers and other shit that decorates it he doesn’t notice or even really care how they’re being pushed or crumpled or ripped by your movements, desire curling and slivering throughout his body, pooling in his belly, settling itself in his lower abdomen and pressing itself against you, his hips between your legs, the thin fabric of your work skirt doing little to fight the hard outline of his cock against your thigh. 

Joel keeps kissing you, fingers pressed against the space between your shoulder blades, the other flat against the surface of his desk, pausing only once to check the doorway again as he kisses your cheeks, then your jaw, before descending down the gentle curve of your neck, trailing his mouth down and across your collarbone before sucking a bruise into the skin at the base of your throat, right next to your fluttering heartbeat. 

You say his name, syrupy thick and mellow, inhaling sharply when he rolls his hips in response and hums a pleased, vibrating sound that makes you pull him closer and wrap your arm around the broad expanse of his shoulder while the other goes to his belt, untucking his shirt with a shaking, hurried hand, feeling like it's unfair that you’ve got two layers to go through while he only has one, his lips slanting against yours again making it even more difficult to focus on getting him undressed especially now that the palm that isn’t on you is suddenly sliding across your thigh and he’s - God - he’s -

He’s making you feel worshiped. Murmurs of his supplication whispered against your mouth, swallowed by your answering, pitiful moans.  

He has to help you with his belt, lightly pushing your hands away to do it himself, tugging the leather through the buckle and then out of the loops, tossing it haphazardly onto the chair behind him, turning back to you without saying a word, looking so in love with you that it makes your chest ache. 

“Joel-” His name gets caught in your throat, but it doesn’t matter because he’s talking and he knows. He knows exactly how you’re feeling because it’s the same for him too - this longing, this incredible, suffocating, twinge of remorse and grief all jumbled up and twisted somewhere beneath your breastplates for things left unsaid yet still acknowledged, the terrifying things, the things that bring you here when it's midnight and you should be asleep but you aren’t because they’re the same things that keep him away and keep you awake. 

“I’m right here,” he murmurs and it’s like you’re drowning in how much he wants you, his eyes raking over you in a way that makes your entire body feel warm, taking in every inch of you with a reverence that makes your thighs tense up and your cunt squeeze around nothing. 

He urges you to lay back, heavy-lidded and following as you do what he says, your skirt bunched around your waist, waiting for him to do something, anything at all that’ll relieve the restless thrumming that’s settled just below your belly button, spreading like an opening fan throughout your abdomen, converting with every second that passes into a dull pounding that makes everything you’re wearing feel insufferably uncomfortable, hyper aware of the way your panties stick to your cunt, and you’re about to say something again, plead with him to move faster, but he’s leaning down and kissing you - placating you - earnest and cloying and you’re just relaxing into it when he leans away, traveling down and down and down your body until his shoulders are between your legs and he’s - 

You open your mouth to say something but you don’t know what. You can hardly think with the way he inches lower and lower, hooking your already spread legs over his shoulders with so much ease it makes you blush. His arms are positioned on either side of your legs and his breath is hot and swirling over the insides of your thighs and the realization of what he intends to do and the seriousness of where and why and the fact that you’re on his fucking desk of all things makes you tremble and your chest bloom in flustered warmth and your fingers curl into the pliable material of your skirt, waiting for him - always waiting - to do something. 

He starts at your knee, with kisses gentle and sweet, works his way up to the inside of your thigh, humming against the delicate tissue nonsensical praise and muses before giving your other leg the same treatment, the same pattern, sucking bruises and nipping at them pinprick sharp before soothing it with his tongue, making you squirm and gasp with every press of his lips, unsure what to do with the overwhelming affection you hold for him growing exponentially in your chest. 

This continues for a long time, hazy and drunkard slow, calloused palms sliding up and down until it feels like you might explode from the tension and you whisper his name, deferential and restive and it nearly makes him grimace in anguish at all the things he can’t do for you, his heart feeling as if it’s been filled with cement and splintered, then shattered completely - the fragile, desperate whine in your voice splitting it in incomplete halves and you think, unsurely, that if he keeps going on like this you’re going to burn up - catch fire and asphyxiate on the smoke. 

But then his thumbs are hooking beneath the lines of fabric that curves across your hips, and he begins to pull them down, tells you to bend your knees and you listen without a second thought, allowing him to strip you of the garment and then they, too, join his belt on the chair and you’re left with nothing really at all protecting you aside from your skirt but its bunched up around your waist like it has been since he laid you down and not doing a damn thing to stop the shiver that makes you shudder against the desk, your heated skin erupting into goosebumps. 

Joel settles himself and brings his hands to your cunt, reaching out to spread you open. There isn’t time to formulate any sort of thoughts about it or what he’s doing because you can hardly breathe let alone think, Joel’s mouth hot against your pussy, his tongue dragging over your clit and you’ve been so worked up that it hurts, almost, and you’re left trying to push him away and pull him closer in equal measures. 

Your lungs stutter, muscles tensing, all the while panting and keening and rocking your hips with no real sense of direction as he brushes a spot that makes you moan and when you twist your fingers in his hair he makes a sound that’s nearly a growl, then he has one finger inside you then another, fucking you slowly with his fingers, taking his time, curling them up and flexing his wrist, his watch digging uncomfortably into the juncture of your leg where it meets your thigh but its okay because all of its mingling together and he’s suddenly yanking you closer as if he wants to fucking devour you, looking up at you with hungry eyes and the next few seconds seem to last for entire years, everything so intense already that you flutter around him, helplessly keening. 

He sucks gently, looks up again in time to see your eyes screw shut, your eyelashes fluttering as he puts his whole mouth on you, rumbling rich and low at the taste of it, your brows creased tightly in coiled pleasure. Joel groans at the sight from somewhere deep within his chest, his cock twitching, his belly feeling like it's been filled with magma as you dig your nails into his hair, fracturing into little pieces. 

The words he drags from you are babbling, halfway to a cry or sob, something equally as frenzied in its neediness, syllables of his name and something that might be please catching against the rounding of your teeth. 

“I’ll give you what you need, baby. Relax,” Joel appeases against your already oversensitive cunt, the pleasure too much and so much that it makes your toes curl until they hurt, like he’s injected gasoline into your bloodstream and made you swallow a match, ready to snap and burst into a fucking supernova, so close to cumming it feels as if every nerve has been stripped to its bear components. 

The pressure against your clit intensifies, becomes sharp and fierce, his tongue circling over and over again, so acute that your hips twitch and he keeps you pinned - holds you down, keeps going and going and going until the world turns white-hot and bright and you’re choking, every breath drawn in fighting against some invisible leaded anchor and fuck - it’s too much all at once, too much after what feels like so long, too much that life can’t always be like this. 

He eases away from you, presses his lips to your shuddering thighs wet and shiny with your cum, deliberate in his motions as he crawls back up your body, soft and pliant and slightly sore, guiding your legs carefully - tenderly - around his waist. 

“I love you.” 

God you love him too. So much that it physically hurts. 

But arousal, harsh and blinding, eclipses your every sense, keeps you from saying anything at all other than his name, moaned pitifully when you glance down and see him undoing his pants and taking his cock in his hand, hard and thick in his fist and you clutch at his back, feeling spun out and delirious as he pushes in gradually, gently, turning your body into a liquid quiver. 

Joel gasps as if the sound was wrenched from him against his will, and your eyes flicker over him, at the muscles tensing beneath his shirt, the sweat darkening his collar, at his lips, red and raw and plump from kissing you beneath his beard glistening with you, his shoulders broad and his arms are sturdy, and his eyes, when you finally meet his gaze, are blown with affection and desire and love. 

And then it’s broken. 

His hips snap forward and you shift a little up the desk, one of his hands moving to cup the back of your head while the other finds your own, lacing your fingers together and you let out a shaky, short, involuntary whimper as he starts to move, getting pleasantly lost in the feeling of being so stretched and full. 

He trails open-mouthed kisses along your neck, curled over you, and the picture of it in your head, of him so big and broad and draped over you like a second skin, makes your cunt clench and rips a groan from his throat that sounds just as wrecked as you feel, his lips dragging along the underside of your jaw, his fingers squeezing your palm. 

Neither of you are going to last much longer. You’ve already been made too taut, too tight and stretched out and resting on the precipice of something, like fingertips pulling back a bowstring, fiery bright pleasure cementing you to his ministrations when his thumb catches your clit, swiping once, your body singing, then over and over again until your shoulder blades are folding against one another as you rock off the desk and into him, his arm encircling your waist, never stopping, working you through every roiling wave and every filthy noise you make until you collapse - falling away from him whimpering. 

“You’re perfect. So good for me, sweetness. So fuckin’ good.”

His rhythm falters, his breathing hard and burning and shuddering as he holds you against his chest, leaving you to wail against his shoulder, puffing against his neck, clinging onto him like he’s the only thing keeping your grounded and then he shatters too, fingers suddenly in your hair, whispering sentences that you can’t quite make out, adoring among a slew of curses. 

His office comes back in pieces, blurry splinters and slightly out of focus. 

His head tips against your shoulder and you both stay like that for a long while, resting against each other, breathing. You sigh, shuddering and low and content, and he leans back to look at you, his expression open and sincere and it’s the most vulnerable you’ve seen him in awhile. 

“I’ll try to come home earlier.” 

You know that he’ll try. You also know that it doesn’t matter. 

You’re not going to dwell on it. 

“I don’t know if you should. This visit was fun.” You grin, exhausted but happy and glad to be near him, glad that’s happy, and if anything at least he’s here - in this building where he’s less likely to get hurt, less likely to do anything other than listen to conversations and go through paperwork. 

‘Yeah, until we get caught,” he agrees before pressing a kiss to your forehead. 

You hum in agreement, then start to giggle. You’ll go home with him tonight in one piece. That’s all you can ask. 

“Then it’ll really be like when we were dating.” 

[rodolfoparras]

its all fun and games thinking about price until you start thinking about Dragon!Price. What id let that dragon man do to me is horrifying. He'd be so warm and cozy! But also so so so possessive of you! Someone flirts, say goodbye to your ability to walk and say hello to a bunch of marks 👍

Thinking about Price being known as the mean old dragon living in the mountains and all the villagers fear him, have tried to defeat him only to end up dead and those who’ve managed to survive haven’t been able to tell the tale from the sheer shock of surviving the event. One day someone as adventurous or rather someone as foolish as you sets out to meet this dragon only to discover him tucked away in some corner of his cave while baring his claws at you, in an attempt to defend himself.

However you don’t take out your sword to hurt him, matter of fact you sit down on the cold concrete floor, pushing a small offering his way without coming any closer.

You read in one of the ancient books hidden away in the library that if you want to build a connection with a dragon you should try handing it an offer.

Although he’s in his dragon form you can see the confused look on his face, the slight tilt to his head and how his whiskers sway in the air before he approaches closer.

The smell of smoke becomes much prominent, dust raising from the ground as he moves his large body before he swiftly takes the offering in his mouth and quickly returns to his original spot .

He turns to meet your gaze only to see the soft smile on your face as you continue to sit in place.

This goes on for days, weeks, months, you’ll walk all the way to the mountain where the mean old dragon resides bring him offering before leaving for the night.

Despite taking up a dragon form he’s more human than you thought. You see the way his eyes light up when you bring him the fruit he likes, you see the curl of his lip, the smoke coming out his nostrils as if huffing when you reprimand him for eating so quick (you’re just trying to make sure he doesn’t get sick from the way he’s basically inhaling his offerings)

You even see the way he’s grown accustomed to you, sure he won’t try to approach but at least he no longer bares his claws at you.

It’s safe to say that you’ve formed some type of bond with the mean old dragon.

You don’t mention this routine to anyone, keeping it all under wraps while continuously visiting the him so it comes as a surprise when you arrive one day with offerings in your hand only to be met with the sight of the dragon bleeding out.

You drop the basket in hand, red apples falling to the floor and the loud thudding sound catches the dragons attention.

Before you know of it the dragon is lunging at you, only to narrowly miss when you roll away in the last second.

“Hey hey it’s me it’s me” you try to explain but the dragon doesn’t seem to care as it launches another attack your way. This time he manages to get in a scratch but even then you keep your sword tucked away, still trying to talk some sense into the dragon.

“Hey hey look,” you say as you take the sword out of its holder and slide it over to where he stands.

At first you can’t see his reaction, face obscured by the cloud of smoke coming from his nose but when you do you see his head tilted just the same as when you first met him in this cave.

“See? I won’t hurt you” you say with a soft smile on your face even going as far as raising your hands in the air.

The dragon's gaze drops from your face down to the ground and when you follow his eyes you see your own blood dripping down.

“Oh” you say gaze glued back to the dragon again “just a minor scratch dont worry about it” minor was an understatement but despite your blury eyes and the nasoua bubbling up in your gut you make your way over to him.

“You’re hurt too” you say as if the dragon could understand you “let me check on it?”

The dragon doesn’t respond but doesn’t move away either as you steadily approach.

You continue to keep your hands up in the air, soft smile still glued to your face doing your best to be as reassuring as possible as you approach him on shaky legs.

When you go to take a closer look, you see the many scales on his underbelly ripped away and a foreign object jammed into it.

“What happened?” You say to yourself before looking up at the dragon again. “I’m going to try to take it out alright? You say pointing to the wound in hopes of making yourself understood.

Once again the dragon doesn’t respond but doesn’t move away either when you approach.

“Good boy” you whisper to yourself and for the first time since you’ve been visiting this dragon you get a proper look at the many scale that decorate his skin. Although most of them are soaked in blood you can see the gold color that coats them and hues of orange and red scattered about on them. You careful reach a hand out ,neck uncomfortably cranking up to meet the dragons gaze, so far he hasn’t moved away yet and you take it as a positive sign as you grab ahold of the sword and slowly but surely start pulling it out of his underbelly.

The dragon roars not out of fear but out of pain as you continue to pull the sword out of him.

“I know I know just give me a second” you say under a shaky breath using all your strength to finally pull it out of him

Immediately he slumps down, wings protectively covering his lower half as he lets out a sound that is something like a mix of pain and relief. Behind him you see the skeletal remains of what must’ve been a person tempting fate and with the dragons blood on your hands, it’s hard to feel bad for the dead man.

You carefully sit down too and make quick work of ripping a piece of your shirt to use as gauze all while the dragon continues to watch you.

Once you’re all cleaned and wrapped up you smile up at him, and once again he just stares at you without giving much of a response.

“We’re okay”

The two of you continue to be okay days weeks and months after that event.

You even seem to grow closer, and at some point the dragon allows you to touch him. Sure it may be to only attended to minor injuries but progress is still progress.

However it all takes a turn when you go to visit him like you usually do, with a basket of apples in hand and a soft smile on your face that quickly drops along with the basket as you take in the sight of the dragon charging towards you. 

You don’t even have time to react before the dragon is just a hair away from your face and you close your eyes out of instinct , as a frightful sound tumbles past your lips.

However the frightened look quickly turns into one of confusion when you notice that the dragon hasn’t attacked you yet and when you open your eyes you don’t see the mean old dragon standing in front of you but instead it’s a man, completely nude and staring at you with the most beautiful pair of cerulean eyes you’ve ever seen in your life.

“Why do you smell like someone else?”

Spitball w/ me?

[rs-hawk]

Gender irrelevant, an enthused archaeologist encounters a creature which would change the known history of the entire area, and sets out to track it to its lair for further (actual) research.

Instead, what awaits them is an education in why this thing was worshipped, and why they should start worshipping it too.

This just broke me out of my slump/writer’s block 😍 TW: the Raven Mocker. Light horror smut

You have been studying the development of civilization and population growth in the Appalachian Mountains. It was always your “special interest” as a kid, and now in your early 30s, you’re finally able to devote yourself to it properly. After years of studying everything in books, charts, even occasionally going to Indigenous Cultural Centers to discuss what they knew about their ancestors who lived there, you finally get to get into the field. Yet, there’s one creature that keeps popping up that you can’t get out of your head for some reason is the Raven Mocker. It makes you hesitant, but you push through.

Of course, even as a child your mother told you about them. You always sort of brushed it off because you always thought that it was just stories that your mom picked up from her mom. It’s not like you really grew up in the culture anyway. However, in the mountains, setting up your camp as night falls around you, a shiver creeps down your spine. There’s something watching you. You know it. The primal part of your brain is on sending out high alert signals to every part of your body.

You tell yourself you’re being silly. At worst there’s some predators, but you have a gun, and a fire going. You just want to make your way to a spot where your colleague said he saw some fragmented pottery and what he thought might be evidence of a small band who used to worship something they thought lived in these woods. From what he could gather from the shards, it seemed to be some kind of deity of death. This thrilled you. Against hope, you hoped that you might be able to discover a small, lost village or band that had vanished with time.

With that hope warming your heart and pushing away the anxiety creeping up your spine, you crawled into your tent, finally able to get some sleep. Although it was against the regulations of the park you where in, you left the fire going to ward off animals. You just set an alarm for every 90 minutes to check in and tend to it. That night, you are lucky. Nothing happened. But your recklessness has caught the eye of the very creature who lives in the back of your head.

Every branch you stumble over. Every time a twig scratches your face. Every time you cross a stream or go off trail because of something blocking your path. It’s there. Watching you with a curiosity that it hasn’t felt since it had its own body. How long ago has it been now? It looks down at its rotting limbs, twisting them this way and that. Flexing its wings. Centuries. It’s been scavenging for new body parts for centuries.

The sound of your voice filling the air as you curse a rock you had stubbed your toe on brings its attention back to you. The creature decides to scavenge new parts before approaching you. Just in case you can see it, it doesn’t want to look a mess.

You make your way to another spot you think is safe to camp. That might, you decide not to leave the fire going. You feel safer. More secure. And you’re worried about what might happen if you sleep through an alarm. The thought of being why a giant forest fire sweeps through the mountains makes your mouth run dry. No. It’s not worth it. You shouldn’t have even risked it last night.

Tonight, you curl up in your sleeping bag again, dozing off quickly despite your skittishness about your surroundings. However, you’re woken up by the sound of what at first you thought was a wild hog. Your blood runs cold as you sit frozen, knowing that you’ll be killed. You have no way to properly protect yourself from one, but you were in an area not known for them. After a few minutes of listening, you see a shadow cast onto your tent walls by the moonlight. It’s a bear.

You’re not sure what happens next, but before you know it, you’re laying on the shredded floor of your tent as the bear wanders away after not being able to find the food you’d tied high above the ground. The attack leaves you weak, but you manage to call 9-1-1 and tell them in a gurgled voice where you are. They promise to send park rangers as soon as possible. The woman asks you to keep talking, but your reception is spotty at best. After mere moments, the connection is lost. All you can do now is hope that they get here in time.

The Raven Mocker finds you easily. Even more so than it would have thanks to the delicious scent of your death. It flies over to you, inhaling the sweet scent of your life force. Through blurred vision, and a trembling voice, you ask it for help.

“Please. Just, make it quick,” you ask, knowing what it is as its wings fold behind its back. Those beady eyes peering down at you. “It’s not like they’re going to find me in time.”

It looks at you curiously. Do you really want to die? It can’t decide. Instead, it walks around you before straddling your weak body. It leans close to you, slowly drinking in your life and it leaves your body. You wince, but it doesn’t hurt. Not really. In fact, how gentle its being, the way its holding you as it slowly steals your life, is almost kind. Maybe its the blood loss. Maybe its because you’ve always been scared, and its not that scary. Not really. But you lean up to meet its deformed lips.

The Raven Mocker is caught off guard, even pausing its drinking of you. However, it soon returns the kiss. Its foul tasting tongue invades your mouth, making you let out a tiny sound of approval. The creature hasn’t felt like this in a long time. So long. It had been a long time even when it was a human. Its hands wander, exploring your slowly dying body, but you respond to every touch. Your cunt starts to get wet as it slips a hand between the two of you, palming and teasing it over what little cloth still covers it.

It tears the rest of it off with ease, quickly sinking two of its decaying fingers inside of you. A soft moan escapes your lips as it pumps in and out of you, spreading its fingers to stretch you out. You’re arching as much as you can in this weak state. You’re starting to feel cold, but this distraction is helping.

Before you know it, the creature pulls out its fingers and replaces it with something so large that you can’t help but cry out as it’s crammed inside of you. You can’t even look to see if the cock now jackhammering inside of your wet cunt is human or not. Not that you suppose it really matters. The creature’s wings shield you from the drops of rain that have started to trickle down onto the two of you. It was making you even colder until it shields you.

Its withered hands hold your upper body closer to it as it hunches over you, slamming its cock in and out of you. It bullies your poor cervix and stretches you more than you ever have been stretched. You can feel your life starting to slip more and more away as its talons scratch down your back, though not unkindly.

Precum coats your womb as it crams itself inside of you. To your surprise, you feel something else pushing into you. You try to shift slightly, the pleasure now becoming more of a pain, but it doesn’t let you. Instead, it pushes you to the ground and uses its full weight to pin you there. Before you realize what’s happening, there’s a popping noise, and you’re fuller than you’ve ever been. You grimace and try to move, but the decaying creature on top of you holds you still, decaying and cracked lips finding every soft spot of exposed skin as its wings shield you from the now onslaught of rain.

The cum feels hot. Too hot. Inside of you as it pumps rope after rope into you. All you can do is lay there, slowly slipping into unconscious as your blood pools under you. Just as it pulls out, you hear park rangers. The creature caws as it straights and bursts into a run before taking flight. From a distance, it really does just look like a raven.

The rangers manage to save your life, and the Raven Mocker leaves you alone. Even when you try to call it back, worshipping it for its power. All you can do now is wait for Death.

[suniix]

Lol rain again while thinking of link taking care of u while you’re sick… bc this raindrop over here is super sick [sob]

But it’s okay cuz it means I can sleep

sick | (BOTW) link x reader

word count | 1k+

note | this is so late but HI RAIN HOPE YOU'RE FEELING BETTER!! wrote you a little something 🫶 ALSO SORRY I TOOK FOREVER TO WRITE THIS 😭😭

Your body ached and you were beginning to feel a headache coming on but you willed your legs to keep going. You knew how important this journey was to Link and you refused to be the one to hold him back. The weather was nice and despite being far away from Hebra Mountains you couldn’t help but feel a chill in the air, maybe fall was approaching? That would explain your runny nose. The thought alone made you want to sniffle but you resisted the urge to, already feeling Link’s eyes on your back.

Almost as if he knew you were trying to avoid his gaze he walked right up next to you and placed a hand on your shoulder, forcing you to slow your pace. He shot you a concerned look and you already knew what he was going to say. “I’m fine.” You winced hearing your own raspy voice knowing well enough you weren’t going to fool Link like this. “I’m just a little cold.”

He furrowed his eyes, gently placing the back of his hand against your head. It was comforting, normally his hands were always warm but right now they were oddly cool.

“You’re warm.” He mumbled.

You ignored the worried look he gave you, closing your eyes and continuing to rest your forehead against his hand. “That’s ‘cause I’m alive.” You joked, but you knew what he was implying.

He pulled his hand away and brought out his sheikah slate, zoning in on what you assumed was the map. “There’s a town nearby, we can stop and rest there for a couple of days.”

“Link, I’m—”

“Sick, you’re sick.”

You don’t deny it because you know it’s true, but it still sucks hearing it out loud. Link unclasps his hood, removing it from his shoulders and placing it over yours. “Are you tired? I can carry you if you are.”

The thought is tempting but you shake your head knowing he’s just as exhausted as you are. “I can walk.”

A hint of a smile graces his lips and he wraps his hand in yours. “Tell me if you get tired ok? I don’t mind stopping.”

The headache you were beginning to feel earlier had finally formed into a pounding feeling in your skull the moment your head hit the pillow.

Link was right about the town being close by. At some point the road split into the forest which quickly revealed a small town. It was a small detour, you’d be back on the road in no time. You allowed Link to do all the talking awhile at the inn, not trusting your own voice.

You felt a dip in the mattress along with a cold hand on your forehead. “I think your fevers gotten worse.” He mumbled. You simply hummed in response, not able to focus on anything else beside your headache.

You feel him pull his hand away and hear the soft robotic sound of the sheikah slate as Link looks through the contents. You’re tempted to ask him what he’s looking for, but you’re now oddly aware of how soft the bed is and how heavy your eyelids feel.

It isn’t until Link gently shakes you awake that you realize you had fallen asleep. The first thing you notice is how your forehead feels cold and wet. You raise your hand and feel a damp towel. The next thing you notice is how your headache is almost gone. It’s still there, but it’s now only a dull ache.

“How’re you feeling?” Link sits on the edge of the bed and removes the towel before placing his hand on your forehead.

You lean into his hand and realize it’s not as cold as before. “I feel a bit better, my headache is almost gone.”

Link smiles and lets his hand linger for a few more seconds before pulling away and handing you a drink. “Drink this, it should keep your fever down and hopefully get rid of your headache.”

You sit up with Link’s help and hesitantly sniff the drink. “..Do I even wanna know what’s in this?”

He rolls his eyes dramatically. “I promise there’s no monster parts in there.”

You only hum in response and take a sip. Despite the drink being warm it leaves you feeling refreshed, almost like waking up in the middle of the night and chugging down water you didn’t know you needed. “Mmm, it tastes good. Thank you Link.”

Link watches as you continue to take sips of the drink before leaning his head on your shoulder. “I hate seeing you like this.” He mumbled and you could already imagine his kicked puppy expression.

“I hate feeling like this.” You laugh, feeling the drowsiness begin to return. You place the empty cup on the table beside your bed and yawn. “I think I’m gonna sleep some more.”

Link sits up and nods. “Good idea, you need rest.” He gets up and begins pulling the covers over your form. You take a quick look around the room and notice you’re occupying the only bed. “Where are you gonna sleep?”

He’s quick to drag a chair and place it right next to your bed. “Right here next to you.”

You’re silent for a minute, wondering when he’s going to say he’s just joking, only to realize he’s not. “..Yeah no, get in here.” You say and lift the covers, gesturing for him to lay down next to you.

“I don’t want to make you uncomfortable—”

“Seeing your posture in that chair makes me uncomfortable, now hurry up and get in here it’s cold.”

Link complies and lays in bed with you. You’re quick to snuggle up to him, savoring the warmth he radiates. “Aren’t you worried that I’ll get sick?” Link whispers, but despite his words he’s quick to pull you closer.

“With everything you eat I’m sure your immune system can withstand anything.” You mumble, already drifting off to sleep when you feel Link squeeze you in retaliation for your comment. After a moment of silence Link whispers your name and you hum in response.

“Please promise me you won’t push yourself like that again. We can take breaks, I don't mind. I want you to be healthy.” His voice is gentle, just like his words.

“..Okay, I promise.” You manage to respond before feeling his lips press against your temple as he wishes you a goodnight.

thank you for reading till the end! reblogs are greatly appreciated :D

masterlist

[kyushiblast]

⤷ 〝 don’t fret. 〞

➞ pairing : grusha x gn! reader

➞ summary : you’re a pro electric guitar player and grusha just so happens to catch you playing one of your songs to his cetoddle.

➞ genre : fluff

➞ cw / other : nothing

➞ a/n : small idea

you’d beat your last gym with flying colors, the snow in the air flurrying around as if makeshift confetti for your win.

grusha was a little cold with his words. but that didn’t stop you from befriending him and inviting him to hangouts even before you’d decided to battle him.

“feel free to stop by again …if you don’t mind the cold, that is.” grusha had offered before walking away, his cetoddle in tow. or so you both thought.

once you’d finished waving goodbye and had calmed down a bit, you went over to the pokemon center close by. the warm aura of the lights and healing presence felt enveloping in the frigid air of the glaseado mountain.

you set down your guitar case, the weight making you stretch as it was lifted off.

a noise caught you off guard from behind you. when you turned around, you came to realize that a stray cetoddle had followed you, reminding you of the one that grusha owned as his companion.

actually, it was his. but neither you nor him knew that yet.

you collected your pokeballs from the attendant, tucking them into the inside pockets of your jacket. you’d noticed the pokemon in front of you hopping around, seemingly interested in your instrument case being hefted back onto your back.

“curious, are we?” you chuckled. “eh, guess i’ll let you come with us, at least for a bit …” the cetoddle chirped back in reply, trodding behind you.

you got an idea as you headed down the small downhill back near the gym battle grounds. “you know, i’ve got an amp, wanna hear me play something?” you asked the pokemon, even if it did seem a little silly. it seemed to say yes, so you went to go look for a place to sit and set up a picnic.

you found a perfect spot, a plain of white and the gym still in sight, but far enough so that you wouldn’t disturb anyone.

sending out your pokemon, you attached the amp and started checking the tuning as they rolled and rampaged on the snow with the cetoddle as a visiting playmate.

strumming a short tune, the wild pokemon around started turning towards your starting performance. the cetoddle sat down with your other pokemon who were busy making sure the other outsiders didn’t threaten to be a possible attacker.

playing the first few lengthened out notes, you gave into the performance and started delivering some sweet music. your audience started dancing along to it, just like how people would bob their heads to a good rhythm.

and when you picked your final chord, you looked up and saw amongst the crowd of pokemon the one and only gym leader you’d just beat. grusha.

“hey, long time no see.” he stated. you smiled a bit at his words.

the cetoddle ran up to him, happily cheering. “there you are! i should really start putting a tracking device on you or something …” grusha looked over at you. “ …it followed you here, eh? figured. it seemed interested in you when you arrived.”

“yeah. thought it was a wild pokemon.” you started to put away your guitar, the pokemon around you cheering once more before playing with your own.

grusha lifted up his scarf. “nice performance, by the way.”

“oh, thanks! when did you arrive?”

“about halfway through. you know …if you keep your dream up, you’ll probably be able to play abroad …not just here in paldea.” grusha turned around. “anyways, it’s a bit of a long journey back down. my home’s pretty close, you can stop by if you’d like.”

“ … oh, really? sure, i’ll take the offer,” you smiled. grusha could feel his face heat up a bit. “as long as you have a heater in there. it is freezing out here.”

“of course i do, now come on, before it starts snowing.”

you collected your pokemon and followed behind, thinking that it was sweet that he cared.

work of kyushiblast , please do not translate , copy , or repost here or on any other platform !!

[vennilavee]

vii. fallen rose

blood&pearls mlist

wc: 2.6k

summary: you are a curious creature, trying to explore the depths below and the lands above. your curiosity may get you in trouble with a world that you do not understand.

warnings: none really

a/n: we're so back babeyyyy

The first winter of your time above sea is frigid and empty. The barren treeline looks the way that you feel. 

You’d only heard stories of the pearly snow that descended from bright skies. Your sisters had told you of the warmth that snow could bring. That winter could bring.

Instead, you feel a deep rooted chill with the change of the seasons.

You stay in the lake to keep warm while the self-proclaimed god-like man does not leave the shrine in the mountains. Can he feel your stare towards him, with all four of his eyes? Does he miss your warmth in his sheets, or does he prefer the iciness of his own stubbornness?

You are patiently waiting for a reason to enjoy the winter. You have yet to find one. 

All of your favorite fruits are rotten during the winter and nobody comes to visit you anymore, as it is difficult to trek through the mountains to get to the lake. You lay by your everlasting lemon tree in an attempt to soak up the pale moon, but now it has become too frigid to do so.

The smoke puffing out from the shrine just beyond your lake tempts you. But just like the man who inhabits it, you are stubborn.

And so you shiver.

The thought of returning back to the depths of the ocean does strike you on more than one occasion. Something holds you back from leaving into the abyss that has not called out your name in what feels like years. 

You have not come up from the floor of the lake in several days. Instead, you have been sulking, even the fish know to keep away from you because of your sullen attitude. The fairies have called for you from the trees, but you have ignored them in favor of solitude. 

You feel like a banished princess again, this time being told to leave by your lover instead of your father. Pretending like you’re not breaking into pieces at the revelation, you wonder how the great lord Sukuna’s heart would beat in your hands.

The shrine is always kept warm in the winters, with the wood fires prickling inside to stave away the cold. This winter is especially frigid, due to the unexpected high number of snowstorms and blizzards that have passed on this side of the mountain in recent weeks.

Even for Sukuna, it has proven to be somewhat difficult to travel through the snowy peaks and valleys that he resides in. It has been even more difficult to travel while making it a point to avoid the lake right behind the shrine altogether. Why should he care about the lake and any creature that inhabits it, anyway?

Despite the near painful iciness that coats the air in unwelcome shards, Sukuna still finds his way down the mountains and into the nearby villages. He has fees to collect, after all. 

The village in the far east of the valley has welcomed him with open albeit anxious arms. He is showered in precious gemstones, in gold, in paintings, in the finest silks and thin, freshly cut slices of cartilage and hearts, only for his thoughts to stray to you. He hopes violently that you fall ill from the cold and die there, in the center of his lake. Then he’ll finally get a taste of your delicate little mermaid heart from your still warm corpse.

Sukuna ignores the ire that stirs at the thought of your bloated corpse floating in the abyss near the shrine. Instead, he imagines your bright eyes, seemingly glowing in the dark. Blinking at him annoyingly, curiously- asking him why, why have you wronged me so?

He scoffs at sheer absurdity, that your visage could evoke such reluctance in him.

Even as he sits upon his throne to bask in the flames of the latest virginal sacrifice that the village has promised to him, he absently rubs his jaw with a calloused hand. Sukuna wonders idly where he should go next. After all, he’s grown quite comfortable in his shrine in the mountains.

He wonders if you would look at him in wonder or in disgust as he forced you to watch him eat the warm hearts of his subjects. Perhaps you would join him, instead.

You are told by the fairies that this winter has lasted longer than previous winters. The everlasting, enchanting, winter, they call it.

It doesn’t feel very enchanting to you. You rarely come out of the lake these days, burdened by misery and the perception that despite all of your freedom, you are unwanted. Undesired. Perhaps even unworthy of the freedom that you desperately chased. You have condemned yourself to this prison of your own making.

You wail in the frozen lake as the sounds echo harshly. The fairies look at you with sympathy. Or with pity, you are uncertain.

What is stopping you, anyway? What have you become- a shell of the nymph that you were when you first found this meadow.

Your sisters always said that you were destined for the land. It doesn’t feel that way as you lose track of the sun rising and setting in the distance. You have not come up for air in days, weeks, nearly months. Staring at the unwavering solitude in front of you feels hauntingly comforting.

The fairies have informed you that the nearby civilians in the valley are reporting an increase in the number of deaths. They suspect that the water supply has been poisoned. 

Your mother was right. You were venomous to the sea, and now you are venomous to the land.

The taste of flesh is rotten on his tongue and he cannot savor the richness of blood when knows that you have sunken to the bottom of the lake. In such a pitiful state, wrapped around yourself as if you were some frail human.

The fairies whisper. Mostly to Uraume, but Sukuna still knows.

No matter, it’s not his problem, he thinks idly. He sits on his throne, barely listening to the unlucky soul thrown in front of him. It’s no fault of his that you are weak-minded to your affections of him. You should not seek his approval or reciprocity, and he would tell you that if you had the gall to show your face in his throne room.

Everything tastes utterly decayed, like the soft, fleshy pulp of a peach that has sat in the sun for too long. These people bore him maddeningly, incessant droning fills his ears and echoes across the ruby red pillars of the throne room.

He doesn’t think about you, not once. Not how you most likely are freezing at the bottom of the lake, since you’re accustomed to warmer waters. Not how you haven’t  come up for air in weeks.

You haven’t enjoyed the snow, despite how enthused you were to see it before the turn of the season.

Sukuna sighs and twirls his fingers, cutting off the poor man mid sentence as his blood and guts explode all over the pristinely cleared floor. Uraume doesn’t even bat an eye.

“What was he referring to in his drivel, Uraume?” 

“Well, my lord, it seems that the water supply in the village has become… tainted. People are falling ill and dying within days.”

If the foolish, brutish man who lives in his balmy shrine with his devotees wants to see you, then he shall come fetch you himself rather than sending the message along with the fairies. How dare he use your friends so that he could continue to avoid you?

You would shake with fury, if you had the means to. Instead, you remain at the bottom of the lake, curled in on yourself.

Rays from the pale moonlight pierce the surface of the water. Usually, you would bask in its light, enjoying the way it feels on your tail. But not tonight. You turn your head the other way with closed eyes, refusing to look up and remaining in your pitiful bout of self-wallowing.

The water shifts around you in billowing waves, swirling against your tail but you pay it no mind. It pushes at you, as if to coax you to get up and come out of your bout of gloom. You woefully peel an eye open to stop the water from tickling your tail, only for the moonlight to be completely blocked out by a looming figure with menacing eyes.

Well. He tries to be menacing.

You look pathetic, laying in the darkness with sorrow rolling off of you in waves. No wonder the fairies have avoided you and the lake. It does not suit you. All of your favorite fruits that Uraume meticulously prepared and left at the corner of the lake have either rotted or been eaten by animals.

Ungrateful. Sukuna shakes his head and wraps his arms around you. Your grip is strong enough that you could fight him if you wanted to. If you had the energy to. Instead, he feels the warmth of your tail loosely around his legs as he swims up to the surface of the lake.

Your eyes are barely open, with no fight left in them. It’s hardly recognizable on you- how could you let yourself devolve into this state?

He ignores your shivering in his arms as he marches back into the shrine with heavy steps.

A warm glow caresses your face as your eyes flutter open, adjusting to the lack of darkness that you have become accustomed to over the course of many moons.

Two pairs of ruby red eyes stare back at you when you sit up in a comfortable, familiar bed. Your body feels stiff as you try to get up from Sukuna’s bed, and you nearly fall once your feet land on the floor. But he catches you before you can, chiding you for being foolish.

“You have been asleep for about seven hours and you have not used your legs in weeks,” he scoffs, “Your body is weak.”

You expect to see the same ire that shone clearly in his eyes like obsidian pools the last time you had spoken to him in this very room, but none of it is there. 

“Why have you brought me here?” you ask hoarsely. You try again to rise from the bed on shaky legs, but your entire body aches terribly. So you don’t fight him as he nestles you tightly under the covers. He shields you from the gaze of the moon with his broad back and his touch is gentle, fleeting as he heals your sore muscles.

“I believe you have a death wish and I cannot determine why. You are a danger to yourself-”

“Why do you care?” you interrupt petulantly. He raises an eyebrow but you glare at him regardless. You are behaving like an infant, pouting and raising your voice and he will not stand for it.

“I will not have you drown yourself to death on my land.”

“Oh, my apologies, my lord, perhaps it would be acceptable for me to go to the ocean to die instead.”

He would have beheaded anyone else if they spoke to him with the same sardonic acidity dripping from your tongue.

He pinches your thigh lightly, but enough for it to sting. You swat his hand away but he captures your wrist in his.

“You vex me,” Sukuna hisses his face only inches away from yours, “Your cavalier attitude, your self-pity, it disgusts me. Why have you chosen to live and die here? You are a nuisance, one that should cease to exist if you would allow me a taste of your bleeding heart!”

And still, none of the former vexation burns in his eyes.

“Then you should be the one to kill me! I would rather die by your hand than live in a cage that all the foolish men of this world, land and sea, have created!”

He drops your wrist from his grip, snaking his hand to your neck and pressing lightly. Your chest heaves, rising and falling, rising and falling in harmony with his breaths.

“I have only one weakness in this entire universe,” he says, ignoring the racing of your feathery heart against his touch, “I wish death upon you for this.”

Your eyebrows furrow, intent on arguing with him but Sukuna closes the space between easily, hastily capturing your tongue with his. There is no room to question him, or his place unless you will yourself to pull away and ignore the heat unfurling in your belly.

“You demanded that I go,” you mumble into his lips, “You said there was no place for me here…”

“And yet, here you still are,” he replies, coaxing you into another searing kiss. But, to his chagrin, you do not allow him to.

“I can protect myself,” you say with your heart lurching in your throat, “I am not some weak human who requires their beloved deity for protection.”

“Am I your deity?” His tone is serious but his eyes soften.

“Am I yours?” you murmur, giving him not a breath to reply before surging your lips to his. You missed the feel of his body on yours, the heat of his hands and the sharpness of his muscles. The place where his heart should beat. The tenderness that lines the padding of his fingertips as his touch sears your skin, a punishment fit for damning yourself in the depths of the water.

“Gods have no deities,” he replies.

“Kings do.”

You have not left Sukuna’s bedchambers in several days, alternating between basking in the warmth of his bed and the warmth contained in his arms. You have also taken to perching on his windowsill to watch the snowfall in the early morning, dressed in his robes.

It seems he has returned to your good graces.

You remain silent, eyes drifting across the barren treeline, landing on his unlocked treasure chest and back. The chest that contains the still heart of the white haired man who threatened you in your lake in the previous season.

“I want to go outside.”

You do not wait for him to join you as you slip out of his robes and through the window of his bedroom to step into the frigid air. He does not make an attempt to stop you, knowing that it would be futile.

Your laugh is infectious, ringing in his ears as it lights up the shrine from the outside in. Despite the snow falling on your bare skin for some time, you continue to be in awe of it. You ignore the goosebumps rising on your arm in favor of twirling around in the snow.

The fairies were right. It is enchanting, and warm, next to the well-lit lamps that surround the outside of the shrine where you stand. The cold, bright sunshine does not feel bitter on your face, not the way the fairies told you it would be. Instead, you feel hope bloom in your chest.

The way a flower blooms in a field of decay.

Naivete rolls off of you in waves. Sukuna shakes his head at your mirth as he leans against the window. It would be so easy for him, for even one of those white-haired bastards, to take advantage of you. Cut you, bleed you dry, desecrate your soul until nothing is left but a bawling onyro haunting the forest, mistaking revenge for love.

He does not tell you how the water was poisoned for the last several weeks, when you were decaying at the bottom of the lake. He keeps that information tucked away, so as to not see your face fall and your shoulders slump. Perhaps your onryo form would be better than your crestfallen form.

Sukuna places a wool robe around your shoulders to keep your body heated in the icy air, quickly dispeling thoughts of your demonic eyes. 

Blood pools on the horizon, a promise of the days to come.

tags: @kentobean @misslovingpearl @aeanya @threadbaresweater @aboveasphodel

[rascal-xo]

Tactical Cuddling during a a blizzard with ghost to keep warm and alive that turns into romantic cuddling and words of affection? If that's too soft maybe add some reader being half frozen to death?

Stone Cold | Simon Riley x Reader |

Chapter summary: After being split up during a mission, the hopes of finding each other again begin to fade with each passing hour…

Warnings: fluff, kinda angst, just pure :((

Tags: @glitteryeggalmondherring @fiveshelmet @madamemelancholysstuff @myguiltypleasure @pukbadger

A/N: I hope you enjoy!! Lmk what you think :)

You huddle in the desolate corners of a long abandoned cabin, the bitter cold seeping through the cracks in the wooden walls. The howling wind outside whips the snow into a frenzy, blurring your vision as it dances in the air.

Shivering uncontrollably, you cling to the flickering hope that the Lieutenant will find you soon.

The mission had taken an unexpected turn, separating you and Ghost amidst the treacherous snowy mountains. The communication devices had failed, leaving you stranded without any means of contact. With each passing hour, your body grows weaker, and frostbite threatens to claim your extremities.

The makeshift fire in the hearth casts feeble shadows on the walls, providing minimal warmth. Your breath forms icy puffs in the frigid air, a constant reminder of the unknown dangers lurking outside. You wrap your arms around yourself, desperately trying to conserve what little heat remains.

You clutch your chest, feeling the steady thump of your heartbeat against your weak and frozen fingertips. The sound is a lifeline, a reminder that you're still alive, but it's growing fainter, weaker.

You suddenly hear shot outside. Your ears stand up at the piercing sound. With sheer willpower, you rise from the floor, limbs heavy and uncooperative. Every step is a battle against the biting cold, but you press on. You stumble towards the door, feeling the gust of wind slice through your clothes. The icy touch pierces your skin, but you trudge forward, leaving the shelter behind.

Through the swirling snowflakes, you catch a glimpse of movement. A figure emerges from the blizzard, their silhouette becoming clearer with each step. “Gho- GHOST!” Your voice is like corse sandpaper against the walls of your throat, as you finally make out the skull mask in the distance.

“Y/N!” He quickly catches up to you. You collapse into his arms, and he holds you up easily as ever. “Thought I’d lost ya for good, Sergeant.” Ghost holds you up, his deep voice filled with relief and concern.

You cling to Simon, feeling his sturdy presence enveloping you, grounding you amidst the chaos. The sound of his voice resonates keeps you from slipping into the dark, a lifeline that pulls you back from the brink. “We need to get you inside now, you’ll freeze to death.”

He moves you back into the small cabin, throwing his gear down. Ghost makes sure you’re steady before sitting you onto the tattered cushion you had been collapsed on moments before.

He kneels beside you, his gaze fixed on your pale face. Ghost's hands cup your chilled cheeks, his touch sending shivers of both cold and comfort through your body. "Y/N, keep your eyes open," he says, his voice firm yet laced with concern. "Stay with me."

You fight against the heaviness threatening to pull you into unconsciousness. He looks around, his eyes finally landing on his pack. He rushes over pulling the sleeping bag off of it.

Before you’re able to comprehend he’s already lifting you into the insulated pad. Every movement feels rigid on your fragile muscles and sore bones. You almost wished you were unconscious, atleast you wouldn’t have to feel the cold.

Without a second thought, he carefully maneuvers himself into the sleeping bag beside you, his body heat radiating through the thin barrier between you.

The sudden presence of Ghost beside you sends a jolt of warmth coursing through your veins. His strong, solid frame acts as a shield against the frigid air, his body heat seeping into your chilled skin.

His arm slides gently beneath your head, cradling you close as he presses his body against yours. The sleeping bag becomes a shared refuge, a sanctuary from the biting cold that threatens to consume you.

After a few beats of silence, you rasp, your voice barely audible above the wind outside. "You have to go on without me.”

Your body is beginning to shut down on you. Even the smallest of breaths feel like mountains on your lungs.

“Don’t be stupid. I’m not leaving you up here.”

“You’re losing time. We both know i’m not gonna make it” You wince at the straining in your throat with every word.

His jaw clenches, the muscles in his face taut with conflicting emotions. Ghost's gaze never wavers from yours, his eyes filled with a fierce resolve. "Fucks sake, No mission is worth losing you," he declares, his voice steady and unwavering. "I’m not leaving."

You reach up, your trembling hand brushing against the frosted fabric of his balaclava. Maybe it’s the impending doom or maybe it’s the proximity to him, but your lips form into a weak smile.

You take a shuddering breath, “This isn’t exactly what I had in mind when the Captain said our careers would only go up from here.” A small chuckle follows but you immediately double down with pain in your ribs.

He watches you intently, unbeknownst to you a smile of his own forms under his mask. You take a steadying breath, mustering your strength despite the agony that courses through your body.

“Thank you.” You whisper, unwelcome tears now seeping into your eyes. Your hands now cupping the sides of his face. You feel yourself slipping away but still holding on barely to him. He moves his hand up to yours, pulling the balaclava over his head.

His skin is touched by the cold, but his eyes burn with intensity. You manage a weak smile, your fingertips tracing the contours of his cheek. The tears that well in your eyes mirror the pain and acceptance that reside within your heart.

“Stay with me, Love. Please” He says, just above a whisper. The tears that well in your eyes mirror the pain and acceptance that reside within your heart.

As you slip further into the grasp of unconsciousness, your grip on Ghost weakens. The slow beats of your heart thump against his other hand, so slow that it’s agonizing for him to bare.

And soon the world fades away from you, consumed by the relentless cold.

[r0-boat]

Heyy, may I request just a grusha x female (or gender neutral if you’d like) reader smut fic? You can do whatever you want with it, creative freedom’s all yours!

🥺🥺 bestie

Creative freedom?! For me??

Don't mind if do!

Warm me please

Cw: cock warming, temperature play ish, Yandere behavior, toxic behavior, stalking, horror

Yuki-onna!Grusha x Gn!reader

Blankets of snow cover the ground, trees covered in frost, twinkling spears of ice dangle from its delicate branches. Beautiful yet harsh; a silent killer for those who do not know the dangers among the seeming pure white.

The wind carries the snowflakes pelting you in the face. You raise your arm in hopes it would stop the onslaught to no avail. Your body screams for warmth but you will yourself to keep going. With each breath you take, the snowfall laced with deadly cold air chokes you. But you had to keep going.

For the thing that lurks in the snow and the blizzard is coming.

Having just escaped your icy prison, you’re on the run. And your captor is chasing you.

And this winterland is his hunting ground. He knows the snowy mountains like the back of his hand.

Your heart stops as the snow fall begins to pick up into a blizzard. The wind whips the snow so hard it’s very difficult to keep moving.

In the howling wind, you hear a crunch, the sound of snow falling onto the ground.

Don't look behind you.

Don't look behind you.

Don't look behind you!

Your curiosity gets the better of you as you slowly turn your head, taking just a glance behind you.

A figure, a silhouette coming for you.

Your heart jumps in your stomach turning fast. The snow is thick and you’re freezing but you force your legs to move hoping that the adrenaline of being caught is enough strength.

However the silhouette is far faster. At first glance it appears so far away but in no time you feel a hand grabbing the back of your throat. Enough strength stopping you dead in your tracks. His voice, his breath, his hand snakes around the front of your throat, you feel as hot breath against your neck. Well it's called fingers dig into your flesh.

"You didn't think I'd catch you did you?"

You try to stifle your crying but it only makes the hand around you tighten.

"Answer me." He whispers in a threatening tone. All you could do is shake your head.

Your answer satisfies him.

"Do you know how dangerous it is out here? You aren't wearing anything you would have froze to death if I hadn't found you." His grip tightens once again. It’s getting harder to breathe. But he doesn't care, lifting you up in his arms. You see his warm smile, his icy blue eyes and his blue hair.

"Let's go home," with no more oxygen you black out.

Only to wake up wrapped in a black blanket on a rug warm fire in the same cabin you tried to escape from. Your head is killing you and your body feels numb as you try to sit up, gazing ideally into the fire. Your body shakes, not because you are cold, but because you notice the metal chain attached to your leg, bolted against a metal plate screwed into the floor. A pair of arms wrap around you.

"I had to. You disobeyed me and escaped, I did this for your own safety."

His fingertips, ice cold, move underneath the yard blanket, caressing your naked skin. You haven't even realize you were naked.

"Stealing my coat and scarf too? I have to admit it looked cute on you, but not when you are 10 ft away from me. You won't be needing them anymore or any clothes for that matter…" The ice demon purrs before grabbing your blanket and ripping it off you. Grusha lifts you with ease, placing you in his lap. It's cold body against your warm one.

"Mmh. Your warm body feels so good. You gave me quite a scare. You felt so cold, as though you were going to die." His breath quickens.

"Don't. Ever do that to me again."

"I'm sorry.” You could only murmur. His eyes widen until he busts out into laughter, a crazed laugh.

"Your pathetic apology isn't enough, my dear. As priceless as it was, I have to punish you." Grusha pulls you closer to him; your back pressing against his bare chest

You feel his cock press against you, naked, it’s the only realization that you aren’t the only one without clothes.

His fingers play with your heated core, cold clashing with warmth, making you squirm, but he holds you in place firmly. He won't let you escape not this time. Not ever.

Besides his inflamed hot cock, his entire body chilling you.

"So warm" Grusha mumbles. Your warm body is intoxicating but it wasn't enough; Grusha needed more. Obsessed with how warm and soft humans are. He craves the heat between your legs. To be inside you and envelop himself in your hot body. To burn himself up in your wet warm walls and fill you with his own warmth.

The ice spirit rocks himself against you, his fingers digging into your thighs. He wraps an arm around your legs, lifting you up, his other hand stroking is cock, maneuvering it underneath you, his tip now prodding you open.

"Fuck…" He mutters, his breath tickling your ear, as his cock finally pushes inside you.

Grusha's breath hitches, his cock is twitching inside you, feeling you squirm in his lap.

"Stop, don’t move…this is supposed to be a punishment. Sit here and keep me warm."

You obey, staying still, his rigid cold body against your soft skin, aching cock deep inside you. Pressing so tightly against you. You could feel every ripple of his muscles.

Your eyes try not to focus on his dick stretching you out and instead focus on the huge scar on his pale skin. Trying not to focus on how close he is to you, his chin resting on your shoulder, his hands all over your chest rubbing your sides, cold fingers tracing over your nipples. His teeth and tongue occasionally nipping and tasting the shell of your ear.

"Your heartbeat… I can feel it; I can hear it.

So alive, so warm. Been so long since I've had one so comforting. Never leave me again."

"Never leave me cold again."

[skyloftian-nutcase]

IT'S FLUFFVEMBER TIME LOVELIES

Day 1 - Snow

Ganondorf shivered a little, huddled over by the fire with an extra shawl over his shoulders, a mug of hot tea keeping his hands warm. The cold of the desert night was far more agreeable than this abysmal, moist frigid air that clung to the skin and sank into one’s bones. Winters in Hyrule were not his favorite, especially in drafty stone castles. He recalled, many years ago, when he’d first visited Hyrule, and it had been the tail end of winter. Everything had seemed so lifeless that he’d wondered why anyone would live in such a place. But he’d stayed a few weeks, investigating the land, and when spring had blossomed into life, he’d known then and there.

Hyrule held fruitfulness and resources and beauty and power he had never seen in his eighteen years of life at the time. And he’d wanted it.

Things had changed greatly in the twenty-five years that had passed since then. Hyrule still held power that he desired, but it wasn’t the land so much as its divine relic – the Gerudo had resources and cities of their own, though the landscape was far less varied. He supposed he still did love the greens and blues of Hyrule. He found he’d actually missed it once he’d come here with his children.

Smiling, he imagined that when he took over this land, he’d perhaps make this castle a vacation home of sorts. And he’d only come here in the spring and summer. Winter was far too blasted cold.

A strange breeze blew through the room, alongside near silent footfalls sprinting across the way, coinciding with doors opening and closing. Ganondorf blinked, stiffening, wondering what had just happened, when he realized what it likely was.

What in the name of—did he actually just—

Merovar stretched and yawned as he entered, layered in three blankets and barely visible in them. “Why is it so freaking cold here? Also, did you see that?”

Ganondorf sighed heavily, placing his mug forcefully on the table and walking towards Hemisi’s room. The door was already open, but he knew for a fact that she wasn’t up yet – his girl liked to sleep in.

As predicted, once he entered he saw Orik in the room, though the boy was far less quiet than usual, excitedly shoving Hemisi back and forth in the bed. “Get up, get up, it’s snowing!!”

Hemisi growled from under the mountain of covers, fist popping out to bap her boyfriend on the nose, but Orik dodged it easily. “The hell is snow and why are you bothering me?”

“It’s—I wanted you to see it for the first time with me—come on!” Orik insisted, still filled with eager energy but seeming a little more hesitant.

The boy was clearly far too excited to notice he was being glared at, and so Ganondorf marched towards him and picked him off the ground by the back of his tunic like some stray cat he’d found in an alley. Orik went three shades paler, startled and immediately realizing what had just happened.

“G-good morning, Lord Ganondorf,” Orik said quietly in a shaky voice.

“I don’t recall ever giving you permission to come into my daughter’s room,” Ganondorf ground out.

Honestly, by now the Gerudo king knew the boy was essentially harmless. But he was still a teenager, and there were protocols that had to remain in place. The young warrior had been invited to the Gerudo quarters so many times Ganondorf was half convinced he lived here by now, but that didn’t mean he could go anywhere he pleased. He wasn’t Ganondorf’s own child. Yet.

“No, sir,” Orik agreed quietly. “I’m sorry, sir.”

Hemisi growled even louder, finally sitting up, looking like a disheveled, cranky mess. “What’s so important that you’re risking my father murdering you, anyway? Dad, can you put him down?”

Ganondorf was tempted to say no, but he plopped the boy on the ground instead. He had sufficiently scared him, he supposed.

Orik was silent a moment, taking a shaky breath, before saying in a calmer voice, “I wanted you to see the snow with me. If that’s agreeable to your father.”

The fact that the boy had risked infuriating Ganondorf out of sheer excitement over something as abysmal as snow was irritating, but… well. Perhaps exasperating was the better word.

“Okay, but what’s snow?” Hemisi asked, getting up.

Orik smiled brightly. “It’s—”

“Too cold,” Ganondorf interrupted, crossing his arms.

Hemisi rolled her eyes. “I’m not five years old anymore, Dad. I’ll be fine. What is snow?”

Orik glanced at Ganondorf, waiting for permission to actually speak now, and the Gerudo king almost sighed. This child. Honestly. He waved a hand, and Orik eagerly blurted out, “It’s kind of like frozen rain, except it’s tiny, tiny crystals all falling slowly from the sky and you can make shapes with it and throw it and—”

“I can throw it?” Hemisi interrupted, eyebrow raised and a smile on her lips. “Okay, let’s check this stuff out.”

“And it makes the world so quiet too, it’s great,” Orik continued, taking her by the wrist and nearly dragging her out of the room.

“Not so fast,” Ganondorf said firmly as he put his hands on either teenager’s shoulder. Orik felt stiff under his grip, shoulders rising and eyes widening before trying to take an apologetic stance, while Hemisi just glared in mild annoyance at her father. “You two are underdressed for this weather. Put something warmer on.”

He wasn’t having his daughter getting sick, and Orik had already gotten ill once. Ganondorf was not playing nurse to anyone. They had a mission to accomplish.

“Why does this snow sound even colder than it already is?” Merovar grumbled, pulling one of his three blankets over his head as he huddled by the fire.

Hemisi grumbled under her breath about being babied while throwing on a heavier shirt and a cloak while Orik departed to bundle up some more. The boy returned far faster than what should have been physically possible, pausing in front of Ganondorf as if waiting to be inspected. The Gerudo king did indeed look him over before nodding in approval, and Orik’s smile lit up the room as he led Hemisi outside. The way the boy’s red eyes sparkled when he looked at Ganondorf was…

Ganondorf sighed. Fine. The kid was sweet. He could admit that much. Just not out loud.

Although the Gerudo king would not join the children outside, he did watch them from the window as Hemisi carefully stepped into the snow. She was clearly shivering a little, caught off guard, but also looking absolutely fascinated by the snow. Whatever the two were saying was lost to him, but the way they smiled did manage to warm the man far more than the fire he’d abandoned. Perhaps… he could appreciate Hyrule’s winters, after all.

[coltermorning]

Of Love and Loss Ch. 8 (RDR2 Fanfic, Arthur Morgan x F!Reader, 18+)

Summary: After further revealed details about your past, Arthur realizes you’re not quite as knowledgeable as he thought.

Author’s Notes: Chapter eight of this one.

Tags: Arthur Morgan x reader, high honor Arthur Morgan, minor character death, loss of parents, blood and injury, grief/mourning, survivor guilt, strangers to lovers, slow burn, eventual smut, graphic depictions of violence

AO3 Link

~

Of Love and Loss

Eight: A Lack of Expertise

Word count: 3268

The land is finally flattening, the trees thinning, taking us east into land I hardly know. Every step away from the mountains seems to make my traveling companion quieter still, if that is even possible, but we are making progress at least. A few weeks yet and we will hit Nebraska. I just hope all this promise of safe haven and wide open turns out to be true. For both our sakes.

~

The snow had turned back to rain, the sting of it like ice on your exposed skin despite the fact that it was too warm to freeze. That plus enough travel warranted the return of the grayed landscape of approaching winter, dull in color and twice as lifeless. You already missed the mountains.

“Well, forgive me, but that don’t make much sense.”

You were simultaneously arguing with Arthur and trying to speak as little as possible. You gave up thinking he would get the hint to stop badgering you miles ago. The way he riled you kept out the worst of the cold at least.

“To you it doesn’t,” you shot back at him, rubbing your hands together to get the warmth back in them. Riding in the rain was always misery, but at least it wasn’t falling hard enough to stop your progress yet again.

Arthur laughed. “True enough.”

After a second’s peace, you thought he would finally give it up until he said, “But we both know alone wouldn’t have cut it. Hell, it’s why you got me riding with you now.”

You sighed, not granting him a response. You had told him a little about your past in Montana, working alongside your parents ever since you were old enough to ride. You sincerely wished you hadn’t now that he was picking apart every piece of it.

He pushed again, his relentless words making you grit your teeth. “I mean, you could have easily found someone to marry up there, someone to help you with the ranch. It ain’t like a man would have turned you down-”

“There was no one, Arthur,” you interrupted, shooting him a look. This was all hypothetical anyway. A life long behind you. You faced forward again when he finally fell quiet. Then, because it left bitterness sitting heavy on your tongue, “We were the only people for miles around. The closest men were all twice my age, older than my father. I was the only child. My parents were the only ones foolish enough to have one in such harsh country.”

“You seemed to like it well enough.”

True. Your love of your home had been how this argument began—the explanation of your parents wanting a better life for you, why you had wanted to stay behind. Arthur was siding with them, the aggravating bastard.

“Who says you can’t have the same life in Nebraska anyhow?” he went on. “Hell, you may prefer it a year from now, and all your qualms about your old life will be long behind you.”

“It isn’t that. It’s…”

It wasn’t the loss of Montana. It was the life that would be forced upon you in Nebraska. The threat was still there, worrying you every step you took toward your new home. But you didn’t have anywhere else to go.

“What?” he pushed.

You could feel his eyes on you. You stared straight ahead, keeping your horse pointed down the path as you said, “I know why they wanted me on this trip. And it wasn’t for any reason I was interested in.”

“Which was?”

You almost couldn’t admit it. You never had. And it tarnished their memory somehow, like they didn’t know their daughter well enough to know it was wrong for her. But you bit it out anyway, needing to clear the air. Needing the sharp cold of the rain to stave off the resentment you held so close.

“They wanted me married off.”

Arthur was silent a moment. Then, like he couldn’t believe it, “They told you that?”

No. They had tiptoed around it, never quite admitting it. But all their talk of how happy they had been together was enough to clue you in. You weren’t them though. You were raised wild, meant for the mountains and the land and no man on earth. Couldn’t they see that?

“No,” you finally managed, your voice small and wavering.

“Maybe they didn’t-”

“Arthur,” you warned. You were dangerously close to letting tears spill. “Enough.”

He seemed to finally sense the conversation had crossed into forbidden territory. He sighed long and loud. “Fine. But don’t go moping over something you don’t know to be true.”

He had a point, yet it only served to make you feel guiltier. Why were you assuming the worst of them? Maybe because you had wanted a reason to hate Nebraska. Maybe you had wanted a reason to hate them. But now they were gone. You wished more than anything you had been kinder during their last days.

You were thankful for the rain when tears finally spilled over, warming your face at the memory of your bitterness, your stubbornness. At least you wouldn’t have to explain yourself, as it seemed everything but the rain had gone quiet. For once, that included Arthur.

The rain grew harder and harder until Arthur finally called it. The pair of you stopped for what had to be the fifth time due to weather, building a camp once more.

Arthur had asked you to drive the tent stakes in while he gathered firewood in case the rain turned to snow. Sitting there utterly confused, you wished you had asked him to switch jobs. For he had handed you his revolver without explanation, and you sat there staring at the thing like it would turn and shoot you of its own volition. You’d only ever used rifles, repeaters, shotguns, bows. Longarms. You never had need for something so close-range and deadly—a man-killing gun. You could do that just fine with the others if the need arose. But Arthur was an outlaw, as you were so begrudgingly reminded when he handed it over. You thought about using its grip like a hammer, banging the stakes in, but you hadn’t a clue if it was loaded and didn’t know how to unload it if it was. So you sat there, half-drenched in the rain, waiting for his return. Knowing what his reaction would be when he did. The thought spurred you to action.

You approached your horse and got your gun out instead, knowing how to unload it. You did so before bringing it back over to the tent, working the first stake into the ground with your boot. Then you reared back with the gun, just high enough to aim true, and brought it down butt-first. The stake sunk a satisfying few inches into the soggy ground. You made a few more hits and got it deep enough before moving on to the next one. You had the second nearly done when Arthur returned.

“What the hell are you doing?”

You stopped and looked at him. “What you asked.”

“What, my gun ain’t good enough for you?”

You felt your face heat and returned to your work, sparing yourself the embarrassment of knowing next to nothing about sidearms.

He stormed over, forcing the gun from your hands. “Stop before you break it. Here.” He picked his gun up off the ground, holding it out to you. You wouldn’t take it. Too prideful to admit your shortcoming.

He scoffed, a bitter sound. “Figures.”

You didn’t understand. You didn’t know him well enough to know what riled him.

Before you could rush to fix whatever had gone wrong, he handed you back your gun, spinning his in his grip. “Move then.”

You did as he asked but said, “I can help,” thinking maybe that was why he was annoyed.

“I’m sure you can.” The sarcasm in those words made your anger rear its head in turn.

“What’s your problem?” you asked, watching him start on the stake much gentler than you had.

“I thought we were past this,” he said, not stopping, not even looking at you.

“Past what?”

He shook his head, moving to the next stake. You followed him and grabbed his shoulder, forcing him to look at you. “Past what?”

“Past you, shying away from my gun. Past who I am and what I’ve done. You didn’t want an outlaw leading you, you should have asked me to get lost the minute you found out.”

Oh. A complete misunderstanding. “Arthur, I-”

“Save it. I don’t wanna hear it.”

“No, you don’t understand. I don’t…” The reason behind not using his gun suddenly seemed a bit juvenile.

Your hesitation made him speak, bitterness lining his words. “I don’t want to hear whatever bullshit excuse you have for keeping me around,” he spat.

“I want you around.”

He stopped nailing the stake in. Just froze.

“I do. I just…didn’t know how to use the gun. And I was embarrassed. But I do want you here.”

He looked at you. Didn’t say a word before turning back to his work. You were a second away from getting onto him for jumping on your case when he spun back around. “You don’t know how to shoot this?” He held his gun up, the way he had twirled it in his grip unnaturally fast slightly unnerving.

“No. But-”

“Well we’re about to change that right now.” He stood, making for his horse in the still-pounding rain. “I ain’t letting you die for ignorance neither.”

“Arthur,” you chided, grabbing his shoulder again. He finally stopped and looked at you, all anger gone. “You can’t keep doing that,” you said quietly.

“Doing what?” Either he was a damn good liar, or he really was clueless.

“Wanting me to be upset with you over your…lifestyle.” His eyes clouded with thought, but he didn’t respond. You continued. “Whatever qualms you have with yourself don’t extend to me. I’ve only ever known you to be helpful. Kind.”

He forced a grin, a non-genuine one. “Yeah, well, you don’t know me very well.”

Maybe not. But you were tired of him wielding his insecurity like a weapon. “So be it. But stop getting upset with me over it. I’ve moved past it. So should you.”

He wouldn’t meet your eye then, his hat hiding his expression. Then he sidestepped you with a low, “Sure,” like you had asked the simplest of favors. “Come on then,” he said, his boyish ways returning. “This gun ain’t gonna shoot itself.” You swore you caught him grinning. Like a damn child, he was.

You and Arthur worked on your shooting for the better part of an hour. Truth be told, you weren’t very good at it. At least, you had expected better considering you were a dead shot with a rifle. This was close range. It should have been easier. But using one hand was harder, especially since that hand was a bit shaky and slicked with rain. Shooting a rifle required your entire upper body—a very steadying frame. But this was pure, blind faith that your eyesight saw true. Usually, it was close, but no dice. Other times it had Arthur damn near laughing at you.

“One more crack out of you and I’m quitting,” you told him, missing wide left of the tree trunk you were aiming at.

“I’m sorry,” he said on a laugh, most certainly not sorry. “I just didn’t expect this after seeing you hunt.”

You hadn’t really either. And it was beyond frustrating.

You took one more shot that hit the trunk at least, not nearly dead center, and called it good enough. “Here,” you said, holding out the gun to him like it was poisonous.

“Awe, come on, nameless. It ain’t that bad.”

You shoved it at his chest at the nickname with a sharp look before spinning on your heel and leaving him standing there.

“Relax, would you?” he called out after you. “Ain’t like it matters much, what with you and that rifle of yours.” At least he was right about that.

Darkness fell when the rain finally ceased, though the pair of you were content in staying camped for the night anyway. Arthur lit a fire, and you both sat around it like you had for the past month, the feeling becoming oddly familiar. This was usually the most peace you got, as he normally preferred to talk on the trail. When he sat by the fire, he ate, and it granted you a few moments of respite.

Tonight, you sat there watching the fire, thinking of Nebraska. Of the life that awaited you there. Could it really be just as good as your old life? Like Arthur had said? That was a fool’s hope and you knew it. It was out of reach the moment you lost the two people you wanted to spend it with most. But maybe it would be different enough, distracting enough, to give you a chance. That was all you had left anyway—a chance to live again. A very different life, almost like part of you had died back on that rocky hill. You knew you had, and yet here you were. You were torn between feeling guilty and proud over it.

“So you’re telling me,” Arthur said, mouth full of food and mannerless as ever. “There weren’t nobody even close to your age around. You didn’t even have any friends?”

Gee, what a lovely interruption. “No,” you spat, not in the mood to have this conversation again.

“No lovers?”

If the discontent in the look you leveled him with didn’t make him shut up, nothing would. And unfortunately, he opened his mouth to say something else. You couldn’t bear to hear it.

“Shut up. Just please, shut up.”

He smiled. “Touchy subject?”

“No,” you said with too much venom. It only widened his smile.

You rolled your eyes, thoughts of the very subject you didn’t care to ever think on pushing through. The only reason you even knew what sex was was because of a life spent hunting and watching animals. That, and the romance book of your mothers you had gotten your hands on in your younger teenage years. You read that thing cover to cover, read until your eyes felt like they would fall out of your skull, too stubborn to put it down because you wanted to know more. Now you cringed at the memory, attributing it to puberty and the impulsiveness that came with it.

“I can’t imagine that life,” Arthur said, drawing you away from those embarrassing thoughts. “I didn’t have many friends around neither growing up, but there was always people around. Always someone to…get to know.” The suggestion in those last words made you look at him, and the smile under his eyes confirmed their meaning.

“Congratulations,” you said flatly, standing. “I’m going to bed.” You would most certainly not be having this conversation with him.

He laughed. “You’re no fun, you know that?”

“And you could talk the bark off a tree.”

“I bet you could too, get you talking about the right thing,” he teased.

“And you think sex is what’ll get me talking?” You crossed your arms, needing him to see how stupid that was.

He shrugged. “Maybe. How was I supposed to know unless I asked?”

“Common sense,” you answered. “I told you I was alone up there. It isn’t that difficult to put two and two together.”

“I guess not.”

The gleam in his eye was boyish again, like when he discovered you didn’t know how to shoot his gun. Proving he was an idiot was futile, that much was obvious. You threw your hands up in defeat. “Forget it. Good night.” You stormed over to the tent, bundled up his bedroll, and threw it outside. “Enjoy the weather!” you shouted at him, not even looking to see if he would protest before you were back in the tent, yanking the flaps closed to block him out.

~

Arthur was starting to realize two things about you—the woman who existed before that nasty fall was mean. Not in a bad way but in an amusing one, almost like a rabbit baring its teeth. The second thing was that you had been raised by two adults, never around any siblings or friends, and the result was someone who didn’t know how to have any fun. He was going to have to break you of that. He would start later though when you weren’t so fired up. Maybe when you came across a town somewhere. No, in the meantime he would let you wallow in your self-righteousness, even if it landed him on the cold, soggy ground without a tent for cover for the remainder of the night.

He did draw his gun, cleaning it from your sorry attempts at firing it straight earlier. He’d have to find more ammunition to buy somewhere along the way. Definitely would if your skill didn’t improve, because he wasn’t letting you get away with being such a terrible shot. Not when he knew how good you were with that longarm. In fact, that gave him an idea. He waited long enough to know you were asleep before silently stepping into the tent and laying his revolver down, switching it with the rifle that stayed at your side while you slept. You’d have to practice somehow. He liked to think that was why he was doing this, not because of your earlier conversation. Certainly not because he still felt guilty and undeserving somehow, and that seeing you hold his gun eased that feeling.

Arthur shook that thought off as idiocy, walking to your horse. He stowed your gun for you, not wanting to give you an easier chance at protesting using his. Because if one thing was for certain, you liked to protest. Nearly anything he said. He thought you were just doing it out of spite at this point—your new state of existing. He didn’t care. He could take that, and he much preferred it over the sadness that used to haunt your eyes when you first met. As he said, mean. But in a way he almost enjoyed. It reminded him of Hosea.

Arthur laid out on his bedroll, glad for his coat since the wind couldn’t be kept away in the open air. He thought of his gang miles and miles behind, what trouble they were likely getting into without him. He usually kept the stragglers in line. Always the degenerates. He wondered who was doing it for him, since he knew hell would freeze over before Hosea did it. Or John. Maybe Dutch was finally falling into his old role of reluctant caretaker. Arthur smiled at the thought. The man had certainly done a number on him and John.

Arthur drifted off to thoughts of that past life, when the hardest decisions had lain in where they would go next. Not where to run, how to keep their heads down, how to survive. Things were simpler then. And in a way, you reminded him of those times. This whole trip had.

Arthur began to dream of Dutch and Hosea, you and him. The strangest mix of lives he could ever imagine. And when he awoke suddenly, he found himself in a nightmare. Eyes. There were eyes everywhere, low and stalking. Wolves. And like a fool, he had clean forgotten to get another gun from his horse. He was a sitting duck.

_________

Chapter nine is here.

tag list: @tommys0not0beloved @ultraporcelainpig @photo1030 @spiritcatcherxo

[kidcanines]

Eastern White Pine - agere drabble

x - x - x

—DNI NSFW—

The beginning of fall marked the start of you and your papa’s nature walks. From early morning to midday it was promised time for just you, your dad, and nature. Really it was for you to get out of the house and keep your legs moving- not that you had much trouble with staying active anyways, you used everything as if it was your own personal jungle gym. But it was the thought that counted.

But now it was the early morning, papa moved around the house with the intention of keeping you comfortably tucked in until he was ready to get you up and dressed. Packing your and his things in hopefully lightweight bags. The settling fog was evidence enough that it’d be a silent gloomy day- probably colder than the forecast had predicted. Briefly, he considers the idea of just staying inside, watching movies, and drinking hot things with you. But then he scraps it, knowing you’d be devastated at the unexpected change in plans. He’d just have to dress you in warmer clothes. 

When it came time to wake you up, he found it difficult to extract you from the multitudes of blankets and clothes (his. You regularly stole from him and raided his closet.) that you’d managed to cocoon yourself in. It was one of those nights where you were content to sleep in your own bed if not solely for the sake of bathing in your papa’s scent- so a pseudo him and not the actual one that you could sleep beside literally anytime you wanted. Okay, so maybe your papa was a little bit jealous. 

Either way, he finds you curled up around a weighted orca plush which you only snuggle closer to when he pulls you into his arms. You shiver, being exposed to the coldness of your room–you like to keep the window open so you have a reason to cower under your blankets. Plus when you got cold you slept better, and sometimes the wind would blow and rustle the leaves just right so that you’d sleep deeper. 

He huffs a quiet laugh, watching you stir silently, eyes roving underneath their lids. Still, he humors you. Gently pulling you up by your arm and settling you gently into his shoulder. 

“Hey, stinky.” He whispers into your ear. You fight a smile that gently creeps up on your face, his hand gently tucked into your side to support your weight. 

“It’s time to wake up if you wanna be at the top of that mountain to see the sunset.” You're up with a sudden jolt that has him cackling fondly- puttering around the room to find clothes to put on. He stops you and directs you into the bathroom so you can wash your face and brush your teeth. 

“It’s cold out bud, so I picked out some warm clothes.” You hum in half-minded affirmation as you rush to brush your teeth and wash your face- not soon after you’ve awoken is the smell of breakfast that rushes through the house and up to your nose. Like pancakes and sausages ready to be scarfed down your throat. When you’re done in the bathroom you run into the kitchen- only to be given a stern look by your dad that makes you cool it to a walk. He turns off the stove before snatching you up and twirling you around, a firm grip on your lower back as you giggle into the sweet warmed air. 

“Ready for breakfast?” He asks, placing you on the ground so you can find your place at the table. 

“Mhm!” You’re excited, on your tippy toes when you run to your seat. There’s a well-loved stuffie there, floppy and leaning on one side. You hurriedly pick it up and place it on your lap before Dad comes in to serve you and himself. You sit in quiet companionship as you messily pick at your food, primarily using your fingers to serve yourself. You miss how he looks at you in fond adoration. 

When all is done and the plates are drip drying on their designated rack, you’re holding your leg out so that Dad can pull your pants over your feet and hike it up onto your waist. He playfully wrestles your shirt over your head and when you pop out, cheeks puffed like a dandelion, you both laugh. He pulls your coat and well used boots out for you to put them on while he makes sure all of you guys’ stuff is packed and ready to go. When the door finally opens its to the sun on the horizon shining through the tall eastern white pines of the forest you know so well. 

The cold licks up into your jacket and you shiver before papa comes to place a hat on your head and pull your hood up over it. He takes your hands and meticulously fingers your own digits into them before putting on his own. When he huffs out a breath, the air before his mouth turns into fog and you giggle at his determined look. His eyes cut to you and he scoops you up into his arms again, a teasing look in his eyes as you smile wide into the frigid air- watching your own breath fog up the atmosphere in front of you. 

“Ready?” He asks again, this time more breathless. You simply nod and he nods with you, an excited note in his voice. He places you down on the packed dirt and pulls your backpack onto your shoulders, it's not as heavy as you’d expected it to be. Your stuffed animal from earlier is clipped onto your left strap, dangling happily off of your shoulder. 

“Let’s get a move on love.” He hikes his own backpack onto his shoulders before offering a hand to you. Giddily, you take it, ready to take over the world- even if it was just you and your dada.

[isaut]

𝒊𝒏𝒅𝒊𝒈𝒐 𝒏𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕, 𝒊𝒊𝒊.— dehya x fem!reader. 2.3k. drabble.

dragonspine is cold. don’t ask why they have to climb it. you’ve heard of only one bed. now get ready for only one tent. minors and blank blogs dni. fantasy au tag.

Dragonspine chills to the bone. Each step is more painful than the last, with your muscles straining against the snow, with your fingertips losing blood in your snowboar fur-lined gloves.

Your compatriot seems to be doing better than you, not that she’s any more used to the weather than you. Instead of her normal attire, Dehya is dressed in warm pants and shirt. You regret having chosen your traditional dress, as your stiff fingers hold it as you climb another stair.

“Dehya,” You call, taking a deep breath of the chilled air.

The woman stops and turns, one foot on the next stair. “What’s the matter?”

“We need to stop for a second,” You say, each word punched out by a breath of fog.

“We’re close to the top of the mountain,” Dehya responds. Her lips are chapped from the cold. “We can rest when we get there.”

You shake your head. “I don’t think I can keep going.”

“If you stop here, you’ll freeze to death,” Dehya says, “C’mon, we’ll get a fire started as soon as we get up there.”

Nodding, you wipe your hand under your nose, displeased with your body’s natural reactions to the cold. You sniffle.

Dehya sighs, and comes down a stair towards you. She places a hand on your shoulder, forcing you to meet her gaze. Warmth emanates from her hand, from her eyes.

“Are you going to let a human best you?” She asks, the challenge laced with teasing.

“Fuck you,” You reply, shaking her hand off your shoulder and gathering your dress again. With a huff, you start up the stairs again, passing her.

Dehya laughs from behind you. “You’re the most prideful woman I know, y’know?”

You ignore her as you carry on. Prideful people aren’t often fond of the truth.

—

From your perch on the ground, you watch as Dehya lights a fire using nothing but her fingers. It roars to life, illuminating the darkness of the ruins. With that settled, Dehya unloads her claymore from her back and props it up against one of the stone walls.

“Elves not built for the cold?”

“I’ve spent the past three hundred years in the desert,” You retort, reaching your hands out to feel the warmth of the fire. The warmth aches.

“That’s fair,” Dehya says, sitting down beside you. She lands with all her weight, resting her arm on a raised knee. “How are you feeling?”

You shrug. “I miss my tower.”

Dehya grins, just for a moment, at that. “What’s it like up there?”

“Up where? In my tower?”

Dehya nods.

“I don’t know… It’s nice. Got everything I’ve ever wanted,” You say.

“Really?” Dehya asks, standing up to make some food. The cooking pot clangs and creates as it sits above the fire.

You watch with interest. “Yeah. View of the kingdom, tomes galore.”

“Are they all for work or do you have some for pleasure?” Dehya asks.

“Books?”

“Yeah, books.”

“I like a healthy mix,” You say. After a pause, “What are your quarter’s like?”

“Nothing fancy. Just me and a few other guards. Really we just need a place to lay our head down and clean the grime off.” She glances up at you, the flames casting dancing shadows across her face. “How are your fingers feeling?”

You look down at your gloved hands and flex your fingers. “They hurt a bit, but I think I’m just gaining sensation in them again.”

Dehya leaves her cooking post, coming over to kneel before you. “Let me see.”

You offer her a gloved hand. As she begins to undo the buttons on the glove, you quickly snatch your hand back. “What are you doing? I’m going to freeze!”

“I need to make sure you don’t have frostbite,” Dehya says, taking your hand back and continuing to take off your glove. “A mage with no fingers isn't very useful to us right now.”

“I can always conjure more,” You reply, but let your remove the warm glove from your hand.

The wind whips against your exposed skin, the fire strong enough to cook but not strong enough to dissuade the chill. Dehya examines your hand with careful fingers, manually opening and closing your hand, pushing your fingers back and forth. Satisfied, she puts your glove back on.

“Looks good, my lady,” Dehya says, patting the top of your hand after doing up the buttons. “Dinner will be ready in a few moments.”

At the title you sigh, shaking your head. “I’m no lady.”

“No? You act plenty like one,” Dehya notes, placing her hands on her knees as she stands.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” You ask.

“My father told me to not say anything if I had nothing nice to say,” Dehya replies, procuring cutlery from her sack and removing the dish from the fire. She sits back down beside you, offering you one of the wooden utensils. “Didn’t bring plates.”

You choose the spoon. “Beggars can’t be choosers, isn’t that a saying too?”

“Considering yourself a beggar?” Dehya asks.

“Currently? Yes.”

Dehya sighs and takes a bite of the curry in the pot. “You know, I used to be a beggar.”

You pause, spoon hovering against the edge of the pot. “Really?”

“To a degree. Swords for hire are beggars in some way, don’t you think? Always waiting for the next person to hate someone enough.”

“Or love someone enough,” you counter, helping yourself to a spoonful of curry.

Dehya slowly slides her fork out of her mouth. “Not normally the first thing people say.”

You shrug, “I’ve been around for a minute. The curry’s good.”

Dehya smiles softly. “Thanks. Glad it’s up to your standards.”

You fall silent, happy for the rest and the warmth in your stomach. You try not to eat too much, wanting to make sure that the human beside you ate enough. You’d be fine.

With only a few bites left at the bottom, Dehya tips the pot in your direction. “Do you want to rest?”

“No, no, you eat,” You insist. “I’ll be fine.”

Dehya’s gaze is skeptical, but she coneeds and finishes the meal. With a grunt, she stands up and stomps the snow off her boots.

“I’m going to go rinse this out. Can you set up the tent?” Dehya asks, offering her hand out to you.

Although a bit perplexed by her hand, you take it after a moment to pull yourself up. You wave your hand over the dirty dish, watching as it magically cleans itself.

You take a deep breath to steady yourself, not expecting such a menial task to feel so exhausting. Must be the chill. The lack of life in the middle of a snow mountain and decapitated ruins.

Dehya’s hand quickly rests on your shoulder, steadying you.

“It’s clean,” You whisper.

“Not worth passing out for,” Dehya says, shaking her head. “Have a seat, I’ll get the tent set up. You need to rest.”

“I can help set up the tent,” You say.

“You should have eaten the rest of the curry,” Dehya murmurs, leading you back to where you had taken dinner.

Despite your protests, you sit back down, resting your head against your knees. You can hear as Dehya sets up the tent, the rustling and clanking of it all. Without realizing it, you lean back against the crumbling stone, head lightly knocking against it.

“Hey,” Dehya says, quickly coming to your side. She crouches back down, blue eyes massed by worry. Her hand cradles the back of your head. “Hey, what’s going on?” Her hand slides down to cup your cheek instead.

“‘M just tired,” You reply, leaning into the warmth of her hand. “I’ll be fine after I’ve had a night’s sleep.”

Albeit being unconvinced, Dehya doesn’t know what else to do but take you for your word. She carefully helps you up and into the tend, where you happily (and ungracefully) lower yourself down upon the furs that have been laid out.

“Can’t wait to get off this mountain,” You murmur to yourself, resting your head on your arm. A few dancing lights erupt in the closed space, illuminating the tent with a warm, otherworldly glow.

“You’re tellin’ me,” Dehya says, crouching down outside the tent with the flap open. “I’m gonna keep watch, do–”

“Come keep me warm,” You state, your dignity at the base of the mountain when you last felt your toes.

“Someone has to–”

“I’ll listen. Just need to trance,” You interrupt her.

Dehya glances over her shoulder at the unforgiving wilderness surrounding you. You hadn’t seen many monsters or wild beasts on your way up. The fire was extinguished, along with its smoke.

Sighing, she climbs into the tent with you.

There’s no space. She lowers herself on the furs, laying on her back and staring up at the red trap above you both. Glancing over, she can see you, the tips of your ears twitching slightly with the cold. You huddle closer to her, not quite touching.

“Don’t be weird about it,” You whisper to her.

With a sigh, Dehya rolls to face you. Her breath is warm against your nose.

“Be weird about what?”

You crack open an eye. Survey her expression. Her eyes are bright, her brows raised and pinched in worry. Her head rests on her arm, just like yours. Her other hand clutches her cloak around her tightly.

Taking it as a sign of chill, you press yourself into her. She smells like oud and honey doused in campfire, the opposite of the snow and pine that cloud your senses.

You can hear Dehya’s gasp, despite how small it is. It takes a moment for her body to cooperate with her mind. You settle against her, her arm comes to wrap around you.

“I just need to trance for four hours,” You murmur, words slightly slurring from exhaustion. She can feel the warmth of your breath against your chest. “Then I’ll take watch.”

Your breathing evens out. The faerie lights tick out one by one as you succumb to human sleep.

Dehya takes a deep breath and settles into her position. She resigns herself to her fate of taking watch all night, listening to the deathly silent woods. But nature is quickly drowned out by your breathing, by the faint hint of perfume still clinging to your skin.

Dehya can’t help but fall asleep.

There’s something wet at the corner of your mouth. There’s footsteps crunching on the snow.

Bringing a hand to your lips, you quickly wipe away the saliva that had slipped out during your slumber. Your ears twitch, listening to the sounds around you.

Footsteps, both heavy and light. Guttural speech.

You wish to curse, but keep it to yourself, placing a hand over Dehya’s mouth and shaking her awake. Dehya’s eyes fly open, confused and startled.

You bring your finger to your lips, the universal sign to keep quiet. Then, you motion to your ears, then to outside the tent.

Dehya’s eyes widen in understanding.

She wraps her hand around your wrist, moving your hand away from her mouth. Both of you rise to your knees. Your ears twitch slightly, trying to listen the best you can to the world around you.

You hold up three fingers to Dehya, signaling how many of them were around.

Dehya nods. Air fills the space above your palms as you shuffle towards the tent flap. It flutters from your magic made air.

Coming up behind you, you can feel Dehya’s breath on your neck. You take a deep one of your own.

The Hilichurls are speaking to each other now. One more deep breath. You will yourself to leave the tent, pushing yourself out into the blistering cold.

Another round of blistering cold leaves your palms, shoving a hilichurls out of your face from where it had been keeping guard. There’s a magician, an archer, and one who hastens to pick up their great axe from the ground.

Dehya’s warmth radiates off her, intervening in your space. She makes a break for the disoriented greataxe wielder, her own claymore erupting in fire in her hands.

The chill is already starting to seep through your bones. You divert another gust of wind, sending it against the archer to collide with its magic wielding brethren. How such a species learned the arcane arts, you’ll never know.

The two collide in the snow, and lay there for a moment. You send another blast of wind at them, this time disrupting the snow beneath to send them flying up into the air.

The archer dissipates upon impact. The mage, however, your churlish equal, roses upon its stubby legs once more. It looks fine, much to your dismay.

You send it back again, blasting it into the ruin wall with another gust of wind. Then another. Your heart thuds in your chest, knowing that if it was to unleash any of its ice magic upon you, you’d be done for. You’d give into the elements.

Behind you, you can hear Dehya. Can hear the sound of metal on metal, of metal hacking into flesh.

She’s still talking, so you imagine her to be alright.

It only takes another blow against the wall for the mage to disappear, just like its archer. With that handled, you turn to assist the knight.

Dehya seems to have things under control, as the grand hilichurl falls to its knees the moment you turn around. You watch as Dehya places her hands on her knees to catch her breath.

“I shouldn’t have slept all night,” You say.

Dehya lets out a breathless laugh. “You drooled on me.”

You roll your eyes, but come closer to her. As a by product of her battle, she’s relit the cooking area. You crouch down next to it, warming yourself back up.

“Not that I mind,” Dehya says, her fingers, still warm, sliding your hair to reveal your ear. She traces the shell and you don’t pull away. Because she’s warm. Only because she’s warm.

“We should get to the top as quickly as possible,” You say. “I’m ready to be off this mountain.” I miss the normality of my palace.

[trickstarbrave]

i havent proofread this. i just wrote whatever my little heart wanted

heres some childhood friends voryn and nerevar with trans nerevar

slight romance but theyre like. 10-14/15 in this (in human years???? elves are weird) so. its nothing more than little kisses.

also used she/her pronouns until voryn would know differently. bc its mostly from his perspective

The first time Voryn saw Nerevar, he knew Nerevar was someone special. Short, fluffy white hair, bright blue eyes, and a devilish grin had Voryn wanting to be closer and closer to the strange elf. 

In all honesty, he thought Nerevar was a boy when they first met. She had that sort of boyish charm, that mischievous look. The name didn’t help either--it wasn’t distinctly feminine or masculine. Not to mention the way she carried herself, the dirt under her nails, and the wooden sword on her belt all screamed “boy”. 

The day they first played together it was warmer than usual. Typically in Kogoruhn the wind carried the cold air from the sea of ghosts inward and gave it a pleasant, cool breeze even in summer. But instead the wind carried the heat from Red Mountain down, making it hot under the blazing sun. Annoyed, Voryn eventually discarded his shirt before picking up the large branch to continue play-sword fighting with Nerevar, and soon after Nerevar did the same. They were about to head back into town when they were both thirsty and their shoulders were just turning red, when a familiar man came out into the ash, a glare on his face. He recognized the man by his pale hair--Nerevar’s uncle. 

“Young lady--” Nelvon Mora snapped, partially covering Nerevar’s body with his ash cloak. “Where is your shirt?!” He was clearly furious, only confusing Voryn more. Nerevar wasn’t a girl--or if she was, Voryn didn’t see what the problem was. It was hot outside, way too warm to be playing around with a shirt on. When his mother took him to Mournhold lots of children played shirtless in the city, running around carefree. 

“It’s in my bag.” Nerevar replied, before her uncle dug it out and started wrestling her back in it. “It’s hot--!” Nerevar began fussing, only to get a firm tug on the ear making her yelp. 

“You’re a young lady now, you can’t be running around without a shirt on no matter how warm it gets.” Nelvon looked annoyed and disgruntled. 

“I said she could.” Voryn spoke up, trying to defend his friend. “I did it first.” 

Nerevar’s uncle looked his way, before sighing, still keeping a tight grip on Nerevar’s arm. “I understand, young lord,” Nelvon began, “But you’re a young man. What might be appropriate to you isn’t appropriate for a young lady.” 

Voryn didn’t understand what that even meant. If Nerevar was a girl, what did it matter? Why was Voryn allowed to not wear a shirt because he was a boy, but Nerevar wasn’t? 

He’d asked his mother afterwards why Nerevar was in trouble for it. His mother only sighed, sitting him on her lap. 

“You and Nerevar are nearly at the age your bodies start changing and you begin to grow into adults.” Voryn cocked an eyebrow, confused. “The two of you will grow in different ways, and her uncle just doesn’t want her in the habit by the time the changes start.” 

Voryn was still a bit too young to understand, but he nodded his head and didn’t question any further for the time being. From that day on though, Nerevar was given linen and cotton shirts that breathed easier or wrap tops that left her arms exposed. Yet, she seemed more self conscious about them as they were distinctly more feminine. 

--

As they got older, Voryn became interested in romance. He slunk around the library when he had time to himself, pulling the few romance novels off the shelves, reading in the corner. He liked the way they described fluttery feelings, held hands, and professed their love. He liked it more so when it was two men who fell in love, usually in times of war or battle, exchanging blows to measure their hearts. 

Voryn really only saw himself kissing and holding hands with another boy, when he fantasized about it. Heirs were supposed to get married and have kids, but the idea of a wife never really appealed to him. He didn’t find himself attracted to the poetic descriptions of princesses in long, flowing dresses and snake-like smiles. He much preferred the raw strength of the warrior-heroes and their rugged looks. Besides, he found it easier to get along with boys, why wouldn’t he want to kiss them too? 

Well, there was one exception. His heart always fluttered when he thought about kissing Nerevar, but… Nerevar was different. She wasn’t delicate and feminine, but just as boyish as Voryn. Hell, Nerevar was more boyish than Voryn in many ways, preferring the sword and physical activity, enjoying nothing more than wrestling in the ash and mud with the boys. 

“What are you doing?” Nerevar was suddenly at his shoulder while he was deep in thought, causing him to jump and drop his book. Nerevar snickered as he rolled his eyes. 

“You’re going to make me lose my place…” He groaned, picking the book back up and trying to get to the previous spot he was at. Nerevar wrapped her arms around his shoulders, practically hanging off him as he flipped through the pages. 

“What are you reading?” She asked. Nerevar had learned to read shockingly fast. Her eyes flicked across the words as he skimmed as well, looking for the page he was on. 

“It’s a novel about a war between two clans.” Voryn explained. “The main characters are two men who were friends before the fighting broke out and decide to work together to stop it.” Voryn finally found the spot he was at, where the two characters finally confessed, kissing one another in the rain. 

“... Two boys can kiss?” Nerevar asked quietly, her eyes wife as though marveling with the revelation. 

“... Yeah.” Voryn answered back, his cheeks feeling warm. “Araynys has a boyfriend. And there’s lots of stories like this.”

“Can I read with you?” She asked, and when Voryn nodded his head she got comfortable leaning against him, now just resting her head on his shoulder as they read in silence. 

--

Nerevar’s uncle left her at Kogoruhn. When he asked Nerevar about it, she just shrugged, looking indifferent. It was supposed to be a good opportunity for Nerevar; here she could get a good education and find a good job or husband. At that comment though Nerevar would glare and roll her eyes, proudly declaring she’d never get married. 

With her uncle now gone she could cut her hair shorter, at least, something she seemed to really enjoy. With short, choppy hair she looked a lot happier, smiling as bright as the sun. 

They’d just finished playing with some of the other children in town and the stronghold. They said they wanted to play a game of capture the princess, but Nerevar, despite being the only girl, refused the role of “princess”. Instead she volunteered Voryn, who was now grumpily sitting in her lap after she spent most of the game running around with him in her arms. 

“You always make me the princess…” Voryn grumbled, annoyed. They were just about to be teenagers and here Nerevar was still bossing him around.

“But you’re cute like a princess.” She teased, still with that wolfish grin that made Voryn’s heart race. “Besides, how are you going to pick me up and carry me? It’s way easier for me to carry you.” Voryn rolled his eyes, messing up her hair with his hand, making her laugh more. 

“You’re even cuter when your face is red--” She continued, and Voryn glared.

“Shut up.” Voryn could feel his face and ears turning an even brighter shade of red. 

“Cute~” Nerevar teased, poking his cheek, and Voryn huffed. 

“You’re cute too.” Voryn looked away, still flustered. At that, Nerevar got offended. 

“I am not!” 

“How am I cute but you aren’t?” Voryn replied, indignant. 

“Because I’m not!” Nerevar glared, and Voryn could tell it wasn’t a playful glare. She was actually mad. “I don’t want to be cute!” 

Voryn didn’t know why she was mad. Why was it okay to call him cute, but not the other way around? 

“Well you’re not ugly,” Voryn scoffed, “What else am I supposed to call you?”

“... I don’t know…” Nerevar’s voice went quiet, her ears drooping slightly. 

“... Handsome?” Voryn offered, and Nerevar’s ears perked up again, her cheeks turning red slightly as she looked away. After a moment, she nodded slowly, as if unsure, her hands playing with the hem of Voryn’s shirt. 

There was tension in the air again, as was so often the case with the two of them lately. A fluttering feeling came in Voryn’s stomach as he leaned closer. “Doesn’t the princess usually kiss the warrior who rescued her…?” Voryn offered, and Nerevar’s face turned even redder. She nodded again, closing her eyes. 

Voryn leaned in, pressing a soft, gentle kiss to Nerevar’s cheek. Nerevar’s arms tightened around him, as Nerevar then turned and returned the favor, kissing Voryn on the cheek in return. 

--

Voryn hadn’t seen Nerevar in three days. Whenever he came by her room, she either pretended to be asleep and refused to answer, or she told him to go away because she didn’t feel well. After long enough of being ignored and feeling helpless, he grabbed the healer who had attended to her and demanded an answer. The healer, seeing his concern, merely laughed, patting Voryn on the shoulder. 

“Young lord, please don’t worry too much.” The healer reassured him. 

“She hasn’t come out of her room. What’s wrong with her?” 

“It’s nothing serious.” The healer answered. “She just got her first period is all.” Voryn blinked, confused. He’d been taught what menstruation was; while some noble families preferred to keep their sons in the dark about such matters, Morvani Dagoth was not that kind of woman. She said it was embarrassing for a man to not know about such matters or find a normal bodily function taboo. It would be humiliating if one of her sons actually managed to marry a woman clueless about what menstruation even was. “A lot of girls are sensitive about it, but I assured her it’s perfectly normal. It just means she’s a young woman now, becoming an adult, but I think she’s still coming to terms with it.” The healer attempted to reassure Voryn. “Don’t worry too much about it.” 

Voryn grit his teeth. He knew there had to be more to it. Nerevar wouldn’t get upset about that for no reason. Not to the point she’d refuse to see Voryn. He turned and marched his way back, more furious than ever that the healer wasn’t taking this seriously. 

He knocked again, and Nerevar groaned. 

“Go away!” She shouted. 

“Let me in please.” Voryn asked, now desperate to see her. Normally he’d respect her wishes, but he needed to make sure she was alright. 

“I don’t want you to see me…” Nerevar answered, her voice cracking to show she’d been crying. Voryn felt his heart break a little more. 

“Wrap up in your blanket?” Voryn offered. “I’m just worried about you… Please?”

There was nothing but silence for a few minutes. Voryn was about to ask again, when he heard Nerevar finally answer him. “Okay…” 

Voryn cracked the door open to reveal Nerevar sitting in the dark in bed, wrapped up in a blanket to the point only her face was showing. Her eyes were red and irritated, still sniffling. Nerevar never cried, not even when injured, so Voryn was really worried now. 

“You don’t want to come out?” Voryn closed the door behind him, moving to sit beside Nerevar. Nerevar shook her head. 

“I hate this…” Nerevar’s shoulders began to shake, another sob coming from her throat. Voryn wrapped his arms around her without thinking, pulling her in close and keeping the blanket wrapped around her. “My stomach hurts… My chest hurts…” 

“That’s all normal.” Voryn tried to reassure her. “Do you want some medicine for the pain?”

“I don’t want it to be normal!” Nerevar snapped. “I don’t…” Tears ran down faster as she buried her face in Voryn’s robes. “I don’t want them to call me a woman. I don’t wanna be a girl! I don’t like that my body is doing this when I don’t even want it to and I can’t do anything about it!” Voryn stiffened. It was the first he’d heard of it, though the rest of Nerevar’s behavior over the years seemed to click for Voryn. The boyish charm, short hair, insisting on not playing pretend as a girl, not to mention the fact Voryn liked boys and liked Nerevar for all the same reasons he liked boys usually… “I just want to be like Boethia… He can be a man whenever he wants to even if people call him a girl. I wanna be like that…” 

“You can be.” Voryn reassured him now, holding him closer. “Nerevar you can be, I promise.” 

“I want a deeper voice like yours…” Nerevar’s tears were stopping now at the reassurance at least, now nuzzling against him. “And a flat chest…”

“I’ve read a few books like that.” Voryn stroked the white, fluffy hair now peaking out from the blanket. 

“R…Really?” Nerevar asked, still too nervous to look up at him. 

“Yes,” Voryn answered. “One was a Boethia cultist who was born a man. She went to Boethia and prayed to be a girl, so Boethia transformed her in a rainstorm of blood.” He explained. “Another was a man who asked Mephala how to change his body and she taught him the alteration magic needed.” Now Nerevar was looking up at him, eyes wide with wonder. “I can call a mage here if you want.”

“Really?” Nerevar sat up more, the blanket now falling down his shoulders. Seeing how excited he was, Voryn couldn’t help but smile. 

“Of course,” Voryn ruffled his hair, before wrapping the blanket back around him for comfort. “I’ll tell Mother right away, and ask them to come quickly.” 

Nerevar wrapped his arms tightly around Voryn, holding him close. 

“Thank you,” He mumbled into Voryn’s shoulder. “I… I mean it…” Ah, Nerevar was crying again, this time in what seemed to be relief. Voryn stroked his head, holding him back. “Thank you so much…” 

“It’s no problem, Nerevar.” Voryn closed his eyes, nuzzling against him, “I just want you to be happy.”