#this was a little hard to pin down but the scarf is representative of the Egyptian god Min (to the best of my ability)

[pregmothy]

I can't help but think about a corrupt doctor playing aloof.

He was amicable, if not a bit standoffish; he even helped you and your husband with "fertility treatments" so you could get pregnant in the first place; how could you not trust him? He's one of your neighbors and has been a bit of a character since you first moved into this space backwoods neighborhood, only catching glimpses of him in your periphery before finally catching him tending to herbs in his garden and starting a conversation. One thing led to another, and you got close enough to accept his help for your pregnancy. He's affordable, courteous, and, despite being a little... off, he even makes house calls. So, you keep going back while your stomach swells and when your chest grows too big and sensitive for any binders or sports bras.

He's been a big help during your rather difficult pregnancy. You kept falling ill for one reason or another. A weakened immune system causes you to get sick easily, and morning sickness makes your stomach weak. Your body was admittedly frail, and here you were, putting it through the wringer. Still, the doctor always reassured you, even encouraged you, saying your body was a "prime candidate to produce offspring," that's a way to word a compliment. He reliably comes to the rescue with quick remedies and strong medicine to soothe your stomach and mind. More so than your husband was doing, providing almost no help until the doctor arrived and waiting for the doctor to give the ok before immediately leaving you to your lonesome. The doctor had become your biggest comfort at this time, promptly responding to your calls and providing plenty of assurances.

The doctor was rather peculiar, he’s actually pretty shy and despite being experienced, his demeanor was reserved outside of his work. It explains how you haven't been able to get a good look at him before you met, at least. He often stumbled during casual conversation, and his eyes didn't really meet yours. He takes measured gazes when working, but when he’s not, his eyes flicker here and there as if he is trying to avoid looking at something obscene. You would be slightly offended if it wasn’t for the quality of care he gave you, memorizing details to an almost scary degree, practically predicting what ailments you would have before you had them, and swiftly treating you. You had offhandedly muttered about your medication to deal with nausea once, not even talking to him really, and he stopped by the next day with some fresh-grown ginger. He really can be sweet deep down, despite the strange behavior.

With one thing or another, you kept calling and grew accustomed to this somewhat awkward doctor and his equally awkward methods. The medicine he provided worked, and he was the closest help you would get out here, so you weren't going to complain much, but you had to admit, some of his procedures were a bit odd; boy, did you have stories.

He was thorough in his work and examinations, checking you head to toe, in every crevasse, and you mean EVERY CREVASSE. You remember the first time he gave you an in-depth exam, and, surprise, surprise, his hands were cold, causing you to jump slightly. It was strange feeling those cold hands on your oversensitive hole the first time, but you stomached it and allowed him to continue. He had actually stopped when you flinched... how considerate. he even had you alter your wardrobe and check your clothes. No more jeans and stiff fabrics, only loose, thin clothing, even when your bump was relatively small, for better movement and thermoregulation, he said. He followed up on the clothes matter as well, asking how you felt, if you liked them, and if they were accommodating your pregnancy properly. You said yes, they were fine, that was truthful, but it was somewhat difficult to switch to thinner underwear, with your cunt producing more fluid and essentially soaking through them, that was truthful. From then on, the doctor made the, in your opinion, crazy request for a pair of soaked underwear. Increased discharge production is normal, and he wanted to test it to make sure it was healthy. You were incredibly apprehensive at first, the idea of giving a random man your underwear was horrifying, and you made your thoughts known. He then explained that he wasn't some random man but your doctor and provided a long list of all the risks to your pregnancy if he left anything to chance. All of what he said was truthful; he wasn't some random man, and your body was too feeble to risk it, so you relented, giving him a pair of your underwear and watching as he put it in a biohazard bag and tucked it into his work briefcase. At least he was professional about it, but you never got that pair back.

One time, the baby was just too active and made your body sore, so he came over and gave you some light painkillers and even offered a back massage, which you enthusiastically accepted. It was a rare occurrence that the doctor offered to touch you for something outside of medical obligations. He even briefly lifted your stomach to help take the weight off your back. You found yourself back to his chest, so lost in the relief that you almost missed the sound of sniffing behind you. Was he sick? You hoped what he smelled wasn't you; it would be so embarrassing if, after getting so physically close, you smelled bad. He didn't bring it up afterward, and you didn't either. During his next visit, he brought this strange salve with him, saying that since the baby was growing and already so active, the skin on your stomach would become more taut and sensitive, so it was meant to moisturize the skin. He offered to help with the first application, and you accepted, you didnt see why not. You raised your shirt over your bump, just under your new breasts, and that focused gaze instantly turned to your stomach. It sort of startled you how quickly he honed in on you, but you supposed it was his job; what is a doctor if not studious. The salve smelt strange, nothing too strong, subtle, and actually kind of familiar, but you couldn't quite pin it down. He continued, putting a small dollop on your stomach and rubbing it in. he took his time, being thorough and making sure it covered your whole stomach, gaze not straying from it. You felt kind of shy at that. You know he's your doctor, but did he have to look so close? He was usually rather reserved about touching you so closely. You sat as he worked, rubbing the salve into your skin and even massaging your stomach for a bit. Only after a while did you shift in your seat, and this seemed to gain his attention. Promptly' standing up and clearing his throat, avoiding your eyes again, he declared himself done, telling you the proper dosage, and he was on his way. That was... strange. It's not too out of character for the awkward doctor, but you didn't expect him to get so... intimate.

Another time, you found your chest terribly sore. The doctor came over and told you it was fine, just some compacted milk in your newly swelled breasts, which were unused to being so full. Unsatisfied with that answer, you groaned at the strain. It didn’t matter if it was fine, it still hurt. So, you asked if the good doctor could do something. He explained that the milk just needs to be released, either by pump or by hand compression. You didn’t own a pump, and you didn’t know how to get the milk yourself, so you asked for his help. At this, he almost lost it, stuttering out verbal instructions and growing redder in the face by the second. Ultimately, you interrupted and told him you trusted him, he was your doctor, after all. Why get so flustered now of all times?

Flashing some sad puppy dog eyes, you managed to pull him to sit next to you. Pulling off your top, he wraps an arm around you, cupping your breasts and rolling them in his palms. You flinched at his doctor-like frigid hands, the feeling on such a sensitive area surprised you. After they warmed up, he got a gentle grasp on one of your nipples before looking at you for confirmation. You give the affirmative, and he rubs and massages the bud between his fingers, eliciting a soft groan from you, this time not from discomfort but from the strangeness of the feeling. It felt good. Were your nipples always this sensitive? It must have been the pregnancy. He was so warm and so close to you at this moment that you could feel yourself relaxing by the second. He continued his caresses for a bit before pinching at the nipple, drawing out beads of milk. You let out a gasped moan at that, and he stops, letting go of your nipple. Snapping out of your stupor from the sudden lack of sensation, you, a little bit too enthusiastically, ask him to continue, reassuring him that the touch felt good. He continued on like this, massaging, pinching, and milking one breast after the other until the soreness was alleviated. It was warm and comfortable with your back against his chest, it lulled you into a kind of trance. You felt a bit floaty afterward, tingles of pleasure still flowing down your spine, and he offered to make this a regular occurrence since it seemed to alleviate more than just bodily soreness. You accepted, but you had to admit the scenario was a bit weird. The doctor would be coming over weekly to milk you, maybe it's more regular in the practice than you think, he's the medical professional not you.

You grew fond of the touches despite yourself, and you supposed, despite the initial rejection, he was OK with the closeness too, if not a little fond as well. Your husband hadn’t touched you much since your bump really started showing, so you’ve been, admittedly, a little deprived. Despite his cold hands always making you jump for examinations - really, he examined your entire body so frequently you would have thought to have been used to it by now - they were a comfort on your sensitive skin. When they finally warmed up, if he kept his hands on you that long, they were incredibly soothing. You might even say you’ve come to look forward to the touch… maybe… not out loud, though.

Your relationship grew over time, and his checkups became regular enough that he would even stop by on his own occasionally to check in and then promptly leave. He’s rather skittish as well, frequently at your house but never staying for too long, he sometimes leaves before you can make the two of you tea. You can’t say you don’t miss the company, your husband hasn’t been showing you much attention, and you find yourself somewhat starved for interaction. You did whatever you could to keep the doctor a second longer, asking for an additional check, asking him to reach something you couldn’t “with this big belly in the way, after all.” You even invited him to feel the baby kick after a routine checkup once. It's kind of cute how shy he is, his ears turning red when inspecting your belly.

And after a while, it seems like he caught on. Despite still being a bit awkward, he indulged your whims. Stuttering facts about botany, anatomy (yours included), and how his day was when you asked for any conversation. Helping clean up around the house, which you thanked him with a cup of tea. With those intense eyes, he even rubbed your stomach when you invited him and acquiesced to apply the salve for you on occasion, sometimes the baby bucked at his touch. However, he still made sure to keep boundaries on the rare occasion your husband was around. The doctor brought by gifts and trinkets he happened upon in town for you since you were, by his advice, homebound.

He gave you a lovely red scarf and said he thought it complimented your style and that you would like it. While the doctor was handling matters in the kitchen, you were sat in an armchair in the living room, off your swollen ankles, deciding what to do with the scarf and what outfits you could make. Absent-mindedly toying with it, you ended up tying it around your stomach, a nice bow situated on top. While you’re messing with the loops, the doctor steps away from the kitchen, "T-the dishes are all clean and put away. Is there anyth-" he pauses once his eyes land on you, gaze shifting to your stomach and the big red bow on top. You looked down at the bow. “Oh, thank you so much for your help again, doctor. I was just playing around a bit, trying to figure out styles I liked.” You giggled to yourself and looked back up at him, but what you saw startled you a bit. He was still looking at your stomach, unmoving, but his gaze had grown dark. You couldn’t read the emotion behind his stare, but it was a little unnerving. Did you do something wrong?

You cleared your throat. “U-um, doctor? Is something wrong? D-do you not like it?” You meekly question, and it snaps him out of his stupor. He averts his gaze and clears his throat, hiding a blush behind his fist. “Apologies, I’ve got a bit on my mind today, and I just remembered something.” Oh. “Oh, ok.” And that was that. He soon dismissed himself, and you were left alone again. That was so strange, it was almost like he was glaring… You pushed it out of your mind, justifying it as one of the doctor's quirks with eye contact, and never brought it up again. You didn’t want to risk scaring him off or, worse, scaring yourself over what is probably nothing. You liked your dynamic already as it was and didn’t want to lose the company.

One day, when you were about 7 months along, you were lying in bed with a mean stomachache and a light fever. Panting heavily, you're wearing nothing but a thin oversized shirt, overheating and sweating through everything else. Your husband is nowhere in sight, having left for a trip with his friends over the weekend, leaving the doctor to tend to you in your bedroom. Lying on your side, the doctor’s back was facing towards you, writing something you couldn’t see on a clipboard. Your stomach churned again, causing you to flinch and groan. You lift up your shirt, hoping the cool air will do something to soothe the ache, but to no avail. It was so uncomfortable, and your body was so sore. At moments like these, you felt so alone, so vulnerable, so weak. You hated how your body seemed to be capable of almost anything but this, unable to support this one desire. Had the doctor’s assurances been false, could you really go on like this? You open your eyes again and find that the doctor is crouched in front of you, looking at you with that measured gaze.

This time, you meet his eyes again, and it’s once again unreadable and just as dark as before, but they look different somehow as if communicating something to you. The good doctor who has cured your ailments and soothed your stomach again and again. The one who spent time with you, touched you, and cared for you, understanding all of your needs before you even made them known. He’s close, right in front of you, and you’re in need. So fragile in that moment, you whimper and reach out for his hand. He doesn’t stop you, even meeting you halfway, putting his hand in yours, and cooperating when you lead it to your uneasy belly. His cold hands were a comfort to your overheating skin. Understanding your needs like always, he gently rubbed your stomach back and forth, easing it across the sensitive skin. You whimpered again from the soft, calming assurance the reliable doctor always gave. He reached another cool hand up and placed the back of it against your forehead, probably to measure your temperature, but you didn’t care at this moment, leaning into the soothing touch you missed so much at that moment. "There you go," his voice croaked from lack of use. "You’ll be fine. You’ll both be ok with me." you relaxed further into his touch. "Just rest... you’re in my hands now."

[fuckit-hero-of-trains]

i'm curious, do you have any headcanons of the animal forms of the chain?

oh man, yeah, but im a wishy-washy bastard so I constantly go back and forth between head canons

ill put this all below a cut because,,,, there will probably be,,,,,, a lot

Sky:

I have a really hard time settling on one for Sky. On the one hand, I think it would be pretty fitting if he were a Loftwing, an animal quite literally supposed to symbolize Hylia's care for Hylians and a companion to protect them in the sky. On the other hand, that also seems a little bit like a cop out? for some reason? Then I think it would be really funny if his animal was nocturnal or hibernated, sort of playing into his "sleepy head" reputation. And then finally, I want it to represent his very caring and sweet yet fiercely protective personality so??? he's really hard for me to pin down. so I usually bounce between him being a Loftwing and a Brown Bear

Four:

one of the ones who's animal form is pretty cemented in my mind! (to probably no one's surprise lol) I absolutely adore the idea of Fennec Fox Four. I mean,,,,, the alliteration, the smol yet clever, and the fact that they are one of the few kinds of foxes that live in and work in groups just,,,,, yeah I adore this head canon ((also also,,,,,,, just,,,,,,, spirit forms can have traits not found in their natural counterparts, such as Legend being a pink rabbit so,,,,,, Four-Tailed Fennec Fox Four anyone????))

Time:

I love Time mirroring the Hero's Shade and having his Dark World form be the Golden Wolf, but if I could suggest a tiny little tweak,,, I think it would be really cool if Time was specifically a Dire Wolf. Not because that would make him any bigger than Twi (fossil records show that Dire Wolves were about the same size as modern Timber Wolves! Just with slightly shorter snouts for crushing bone yikes) but because I think it would be funny thematically appropriate if Time was specifically an extinct kind of wolf.

Wind:

Another one I go back and forth on a lot. I love the kinda scrappy seagull vibes he has, but then sometimes im like,,,,, maybe he should be something bigger and more suited to long distance, over ocean flight, like an albatross? but then I think, my god, those little dried off, blonde looking sea otters are perfect but then I consider that maybe he should be even more aquatic, like a sea lion or a seal??? idk man. I usually go for the otter or albatross depending on the day.

Hyrule:

Oh lord, another one I can never seem to decide on. Whenever I write Hyrule, I focus on the fact that hes a nice, if somewhat self-deprecating kid, who is just,,,, so freaking tough and hardy but humble to the point that, like, he doesn't really acknowledge just how much shit hes gone through. for that, I usually think of him as a desert animal? usually a type of mongoose (able to withstand bites from venomous snakes) or pangolin (cute and armored as all hell!)

Warriors:

Warriors has always given me big feline vibes (probably due to like,,,, his pride and perceived grace) so for me, it was always just deciding which kind of feline. I've ultimately landed on Snow Leopard because a) their long, fluffy tails give me scarf vibes and b) they are really rare and valuable, playing into the way that Cia seems to commodify him :( on a brighter note, despite their grace, Snow Leopards are also massive little losers who chase their own tails and play with pumpkins, which just,,,,, yeah. thats warriors.

Wild:

ive seen a ton of people go with coyote for wild which is just,,,,, very cute, I like how it fits in with the whole Twi mentoring him thing as well as his wandering nature. it also makes me think of the Quiznos coyote which,,,,, yeah but I also really like him as a Raccoon! can get around human technology, sleep for up to a month, and eat trash? sounds like Wild to me!

[kinsurou]

Congratulations on your milestone Prism!! Can I please request for prompt #45 + choking kink with Aizawa? Thanks lovely!! -myheromusings

45. I could just pull your bikini bottoms to the side, no one will notice

@myheromusings here you go bby! 💕

You never thought there would come a day where you’d manage to convince Shouta to go on a small trip to relax, much less to a place that was a clear contrast from everything that represents a hero as...brooding as Eraserhead

And yet, here you are relaxing at the beach with Hizashi and Nemuri. Both of them relaxing in their own way; the blond is having the time of his life riding the waves on a surfboard, the purple-haired woman lays face down on a towel, relaxing under the sun with her bikini top resting beside her head.

As for you…

Both you and Shouta are sitting together under an umbrella, you’re sitting comfortably on his lap with your back leaning against his hard, bare chest. His arms pull you closer to him with a careful hold that raises no suspicion from anyone.

However, If anyone could see through your smile and the bored look on his face, that’s casually buried against your shoulder, they would know the apparently cute position hold a scandalous secret. 

Nobody’s aware in the slightest of the raging boner in the hero’s swim trunks, which is firmly pressed against your ass while Shouta slowly grinds his body against yours in a slow, subtle pace that could be easily taken by anyone as getting comfortable.

“I-I  never took you for the type of guy...that enjoys this type of stuff…!” You gasp quietly when his erection prods slightly at your entrance, which is subtly caressed by the man’s calloused fingers through the fabric of your own swimsuit. “Oh god, that feels so nice.”

His only response is a low chuckle as he keeps kissing softly at your neck, biting softly on the skin just enough to arouse your already trembling body that is at his total mercy.

“Do you like that, Kitten? Can’t say I’m not enjoying having you at my mercy like this.” His cock pressed against your back for the second time and the mere friction is enough to leave you speechless and dizzy, unable to comprehend how’s it possible that he’s just rubbing himself against you and yet, that is already enough to send your body into a frenzy? desperate to feel him deep inside your heated core? “You know what’s the best part? We’re not even started yet and you’re already soaked.” 

Shouta plants a small kiss to your cheek before moving to whisper into your ear with that low, deep voice of his.

“I could just pull your bikini bottoms to the side, no one will notice.”

“Are you...ah!...Are you okay with the idea, though?” As much as you’d love to jump on that cock right on the spot, the best part about teasing Shouta like this, is that you know exactly what his reaction will be “Are you really okay with that? allowing another man to potentially watch something meant only for your eyes. Do you really want that, Hot stuff?”

The silence you get is all that’s needed to know just in how much trouble you’re in, but it’s the kind of trouble you could never get tired of. Especially when Shouta’s nails start digging into your flesh from the thigh grip that makes you mewl, satisfied to know that he’s not going to let you off the hook so easily after this.

“...You know what? You’re right.” He releases the hold on your waist to crawl back slightly and stand up. His swimming wear is loose enough to hide the bulge between those nicely sculpted legs. 

The dark orbs looking down at you in feigned boredom give you a silent command to get up, which is quickly obeyed. And as soon as you stand up, Shouta quickly grabs your shared bag to swing it over his shoulder at the same time he holds your hand in a slightly possessive hold as he begins dragging you away "However, I know you've been tempting me all day, you and Nemuri are less subtle than you think.”

There’s no need to let your friends know you’re already “leaving”, the simple fact they managed to drag Aizawa out of the house for a couple of hours is more than enough for the two of them to feel accomplished. Had any of them paid more attention, they would have noticed him dragging you inside one of the changing booths…

------

“I can’t believe you brought this with you.” You can’t help giving the man in front an unamused stare followed by a gasp as his characteristic scarf ties your wrists together behind your back, the material rubbing hard against your skin brings a little more thrill into the current circumstance. 

You couldn’t tell what was the best part about this; Being pinned against the door with your hands tied behind your back, having Shouta’s mouth latched onto one of your nipples, or having your legs wrapped around his waist as he’s sheathed deep inside, grinding his cock deep inside your spongy walls with a quick pace that clouds your thoughts in nothing but bure euphoria.

But if you’re being completely honest, the best thing is not any of those three, but the fact that his scarf is also wrapped around your neck. With each thrust against your heated core, Shouta gives a careful tug to the fabric, momentarily cutting off the flow of oxygen for less than a few seconds before he releases his hold again.

“That’s for riling me up all day,” He switches to the other unattended nipple, pulling out a whimper from you as he tugs at the scarf, once again denying you of the much-needed oxygen as he pulls back, only his tip is left inside you before he gives another deep thrust, burying himself all the way in “Think I didn’t notice the way you kept teasing me all day, Kitten?” 

He looks down at the bikini top, pulled down under your bouncing breasts covered in small, red bruises, and the discarded bottoms laying at the side of his feet. 

“It’s n-not my fault...that you’re so easy t-to tease…!” You want to laugh so badly, but it’s nearly impossible to do so when the only thing occupying your thoughts is how good his throbbing cock feels as it hit that one spot that makes you moan louder, so loud that Shouta has to release your tit to capture your lips in order to swallow those moans meant for him and only him.

“You really think it’s funny?” He hisses through clenched teeth when he feels your walls clenching around him once he pulls at the fabric again. “Then you better brace yourself, because there’s no way I’m going ���easy’ on you after seeing you wearing this.”

[ghost-at-the-masquerade]

Recklessly Polite

Rating: G

Count: 1581

Summary: Link is invited to a spring celebration on Death Mountain

It's traditional, Yunobo says. A celebration of the coming of spring. A joyous occasion he can't imagine not having Link participate in. What spring means on a volcano, they haven't yet worked out, but they also haven't worked out how to say 'no' to an invitation.

The gorons around them are cheering something in their own language, each and every one fired up and eager to get started. The racers are all done up in regalia Link's never seen before; smooth golden shoulder guards connected with a sash as red as the depths of the mountain, the goron ruby embroidered on it in gold thread. Much like Yunobo with Daruk's scarf, they all had a unique piece representing their families.

From his spot upon the lip of the volcano, the elder manages to shout over the crowd, quieting even the rowdiest of them to at least a dull roar.

"Brothers!" he cries, his arms raised high, "We have a special guest with us here this year, and one to whom we have a lot to prove!" The elder looks down at Link, all mischief and good humor as he declares, "So give them everything you've got!"

Despite their uncertainty Link nods, and can't help but smile at the uproar of playful teasing that follows. They can only laugh at being jostled by so many large hands.

Yunobo shoots them a warm smile and a pair of thumbs-up before getting into the starting position. Link returns the gesture and braces themself, heart pumping, waiting for the explosion that would signal the start of the race. They adjust the helmet over their head one last time, staring down the long and craggy track. It's more than just the heat that has them sweating.

The force of it so close behind them almost knocks them off their feet, causing them to start a second behind the others. With no time to practice and no intention of participating in the first place, they didn't actually have a plan. Following their first instinct had them throwing themself head over heels into a roll, picking up dangerous and wild momentum almost instantly.

It was impossible to see where they were going; they only caught brief glimpses of gorons around them, both audience and racer - and brief, terrifying flashes of lava as they sailed over it. Though Daruk's blessing and the hardy cloth of their fire-proof suit kept them safe from any real harm, a choked gasp for air was punched out of them with every landing.

After the first slope had thrown them clean over a small plateau, they came to a bruised and bumbling stop with their heels grating against the stone. The crowd gasps and murmurs while Link waits for the pitching and spinning of their vision to slow, at least enough for them to get to their feet. The pack was quickly passing them by. Concerned healers were heading their way, squawking a confounded, "Little brother, what on earth are you doing?"

Link only shrugged and smiled at them, jogging towards the next slope and getting out a rusty shield. Just ahead, they catch a flash of a bright blue scarf, and their target is set.

Sparks fly out behind them on the harsh stone, the grating drowned out by a fresh cheer; they'll take that as approval of their non-traditional methods. Here the ground was beginning to even out, the cracks full of molten lava far less frequent. They wove around the larger stones, gaining speed, gaining ground on the first of their opponents. To their shock, once they were in range, the goron swerved hard in their direction, sharp defensive spikes sprouting from their back and ripping new grooves into the track. The crowd gasped at the aggressive gesture but Link, once they had recovered from the initial shock, only laughed, full and deep in their chest.

Drawing a rock crusher from the infinite depths of their pouch, Link skirted hard toward the stranger. They took a swing once he was in range, a miss that sent them scrambling to counter-balance the momentum of the heavy stone weapon. Countering, however, left them with a dramatic loss in speed that their opponent was eager to take advantage of; rather than just pass them and have it be over, he pulled his arms free and dug hard fingers into stone, leaving his spiny back directly in their path. Link took a sharp gasp of the burning hot air and whipped the crusher out in front of themself.

The spike that made first contact left a jagged gouge in the side of the crusher. The goron howled, though it was hard to say if from pain or just surprise, as the tip of the spike snapped off. This break let them twist away, sailing past their opponent, though he's quick to tear at the earth and start after them again.

Crossing and narrowly missing each other time and again, passing each other and being forced to fall back, the friendly rivalry kept on through most of the open plain. Onlookers held their breath, far more aware of the danger than Link themself. Finally, they felt like they had seen enough, knew enough about his patterns, and Link took one more decisive swing. The hooked end of the crusher caught him in the side, sending him spiraling far out of range, disappearing behind a fork in the track. With a victorious cheer, they tossed their weapon on their back and pressed their weight forward, determined to catch up to their friend before the end.

Soon the pack passed from rocky plain to a narrow pass filled with stone pillars. The other racers disappeared from view, but there was no time to worry about that; the ground was uneven, pitching them unpredictably to and fro, making pillars difficult to reliably dodge. Link crouched low, hoping to take a bit more control. Somewhere off to their left they heard a pained grunt as someone smacked into one of the pillars. Several more were heard as the path took a sharp turn and became ever narrower. Some of the pillars at the edge of their vision even rattled with the impact, sending pebbles scattering down the track like tiny racers.

When at last the pillar-filled pass opened up, it was into the final stretch; a long, steep slope that eased into a plateau at the finish line. Several racers had already finished, and there would be no catching Yunobo before the end, but they could hear the rumbling of numerous others they could still beat.

Glancing back, their eyes widened to see the other racers piling in behind them. More than a few had drawn their spikes and were swerving toward each other. Link's ears stood on end at the sound of metal scraping against itself - or, whatever those spikes were made of. Mentally they leafed through their options, trying to think of any way to go faster and coming up with nothing. Gravity was doing all the work here. They try anyway, almost down on their knees. When they adjust their weight they can feel several spots where the shield has worn dangerously thin.

All they can do now is call on Daruk and hope for the best. His protection dulls some of the noise and the burning wind whipping past them. Link can feel their heart beat with a familiar rhythm. Daruk's voice sounded in their head, growling as a crack formed in the back of the magical dome. They look back again, just in time to catch the goron who had glanced off the barrier. The pack had closed in much faster than they had anticipated, and now a few were pulling ahead, boxing them in.

Just as they hit the last curve leading onto the plateau, their shield finally gave up the ghost, cracking jaggedly down the center. With a sharp gasp they were thrown back into a wild roll. Now waiting on the sidelines, Yunobo watched in utter horror as Link disappeared into the crowd. The hero themself couldn't say much of what happened from there, shutting their eyes against the flashes of red stone and blue sky and terrifyingly close goron spikes.

The avalanche of gorons, Link just barely keeping from getting flattened between them, tumbled at last across the finish line. Some failed to stop and hit the far wall, others ground their hands into the stone and ended up piling on top of each other. Yunobo ran for all he was worth.

"Link!" Yunobo shouted, concern thick in his voice as he pushed through the crowd, literally tossing a few still-rolled gorons aside in his desperation to find them.

Laying on their back, the sky spinning slowly above them, Link raised a thumb for Yunobo to see they were alright.

"Oh, good, what a relief," He sighed, a hand to his chest. Perking up again, he said, "You did amazing, Link! I mean, I knew you would, but wow!"

Link stayed where they were while Yunobo gushed. Daruk's magic had been exhausted, but a few wisps still hovered around them, as if Daruk himself was still curled around them in a desperate attempt to keep them from getting crushed. With a soft, appreciative smile, they closed their eyes for a moment to tell him it was alright now.

Then Yunobo was pulling them to their feet, pushing them toward the final ceremony on legs full of pins and needles.

[thewildomega]

Always wondered how Katakuri would react to a painter S / O ? The strange way they look at life from an artistic view , Since it probably wouldn't be practical for a pirate to be an artist : ( Like them randomly stopping to admire a flower and talking about how the color makes them feel only to hear someone like Luffy say " it's just a flower , what's the big deal ? " ) You can make is angst if you want , but can it please have a happy ending ? ( I don't wanna cry!😫)

P.s. My angst idea is the Katakuri's S / O has some ability to do with water and her belief is that is the only reason Katakuri and the Charlotte fam like her (she might be right about some of them🤔) after all I imagine they would think being a painter is stupid . You don't have to do this it's just my idea . 🌸Please and thank you💖

A/N: Thank you for requesting! So I changed a few things up but I hope you liked it!

Through the eyes of an Artist 

Finding a secluded area away from everyone else you pulled out your sketch book and charcoals, your most cherished possessions. Glancing up to the spring that was surrounded by beautiful flowers of all colors you grinned a little and started drawing away, drifting away into your own mind. Times like these were your favorite, times when you could be yourself and not the woman you had been forced to play the part of. 

Your mother and father owned a large sugar cane plantation and had made many business investments over the years by marrying off your brothers and sister. now however it was your turn, your parents chosen suitor had been none other than a man from the Charlotte family, one of the notorious Big Mom's sons. For weeks now you parents had been doubling down on your 'princess' training along with your lessons on how to make be a proper wife. You hadn't known to just two days ago when your ship had arrived at Toto Land Island that your betrothed just happened to be the most feared of them all, Katakuri. Having only been in his presence once, he had said nothing to you, only looked down at you with a cold stare that told you everything you needed to know. He didn't want you. Your parents and brothers had seen it as well apparently and the moment all of you had been shown to your temporary rooms they had all started jumping you. 

"You couldn't smile a little?"

"Why did you not curtsy like we talked about?"

"Couldn't you have made yourself even the slightest bit attractive tonight?" 

"You are such a disappointment..."

"Why oh why did we have to be cursed with such a worthless daughter!"

"The only thing good she has going for her is her devil fruit powers..."

On and on they went, your eyes focused on the floor as tears brimmed and threatened to spill down your cheeks. That night when you had laid in bed all you could think about was how not even your husband would care about you. You were doomed to be forever unloved. What sucked even more was that you were being ripped away from the only friend that you had ever had, the only person that didn't see you as a failure and waste of space. Tika had been the only person to seem to like you for you not just because of your water manipulation devil fruit powers. 

Before you knew it splotches were messing up your art piece and you sniffled as you reached up to wipe away the tears falling from your eyes. Closing your eyes you took a deep breath and sighed. Opening your eyes a bit you looked towards the blueish purple hyacinth and blinked slowly, turning the page to capture that single flower, the one that represented how you felt. Adding in different shades and blending them together with your fingertip you tilted your head to the side in concentration, not even hearing the person walk up behind you. 

"You shouldn't be out here." a deep voice spoke. 

Completely caught off guard by the sudden voice you threw your sketch book and charcoal out of your hands and let out a little yelp. Snapping your eyes up you saw the two crimson eyes looking at you with the same coldness and disdain as they had two days ago. Opening and closing your mouth you quickly bowed your head. "I'm sorry. I... I didn't know it was off limits o..or anything I just... well I..." Stupid you had done it again, you had messed up again. Just like you always did. "I'm sorry." you said in a whisper. 

He just stood there watching as the woman, his bride to be stumbled over an apology. Seeing her bow her head low and then move to gather her things he moved his eyes to the ground and saw a pad of paper of sorts and what looked to be a set of colorful charcoals, many of which were very small. She had been drawing? Crouching down he began helping her gather all the little pieces for her. 

When his large hand started picking the pieces of charcoal out of the grass to hand them to you you glanced up to him and saw his face buried in his scarf. Taking them when he held them out for you, you quickly thanked him and went about placing them in the small bag you had. Being so focused on the task at hand you didn't even notice him lift your sketch pad up and flip it over to examine your flower piece until it was too late. "No! Don't look at tha...." you tried saying but it was too late.

Standing back to his full height he looked over the different drawings and art pieces. "You did all these?" he asked, his voice emotionless. 

Curling up some you mumbled out a small 'yes' and readied yourself for the cruel words you were so used to hearing. When he said nothing you bit your lip and looked down. "I know it's a useless pass time, stupid even but I..."

Looking to a painting of the sea he grinned a little behind his scarf. "You are an exceptional artist." Hearing her small gasp he looked down to see a small blush dusting her cheeks and her eyes looking up at him in pure shock. She wasn't used to such compliments apparently. 

You could honestly say your heart warmed a bit at his kind words and you swallowed thickly before replying. "Thank you." 

Humming he began leading her back to the palace. "Do you preferer to use Charcoals?" he asked. 

Shaking your head you reached up to brush your hair back behind your ear. "No, paints are my favorite." 

"Gouache, Watercolors, acrylics or oil?" he asked. 

You had never had anyone to talk about art with before and could feel yourself smiling a little at the conversation. "Well I've only ever been able to use Acrylics and oil based paints before. I have seen some watercolor pieces from other artist before though and hope to one day try them as well." 

Humming he continued walking with her all the way to the palace doors, the both of them quietly talking about this and that until he heard a man and woman yell his fiancé's name. 

Quickly looking up when you heard your parents yell your name you saw them both waiting at the front entrance, deep scowls on their faces. Instantly the smile that Katakuri had managed to bring to your lips disappeared. "Mother, fath..."

"Where have you been?! We have been searching for you for hours!" you mother screeched. "Just look at your dress, covered in those damn charcoals again." she snapped. 

"I.. I'm sorry.. I..." You started but were quickly cut off by your father. 

"No more of your excuses. I am sick and tired of this worthless hobby of yours." he growled, snatching your sketch pad and charcoals from you. 

"No, please father I..."

"Y/n that is enough." your mother hissed out between clenched teeth. 

"Now, you will apologize to Katakuri for no doubt wasting his time with your foolishness." your father demanded. 

He had stood there quietly, listening to Y/n's parents belittle her. Crossing his arms over his chest he continued to remain silent, even when his bride to be turned to him and whispered out a sorrowful apology. Not responding because he knew if he opened his mouth he would say too much he just stood there and watched as her mother grabbed her wrist, too hard judging by the small wince she made, and quickly pulled her back towards their rooms. 

Sighing your father pinched the bridge of his nose and turned towards the commander. "I assure you Katakuri she isn't as useless as she seems. While she may be stuck on this junk and her looks aren't very good, my daughter does have a powerful water power unlike any other. I have no doubt that she will prove to be a valuable asset to your family. Not to mention she will also be able to give you plenty of heirs. I only hope this little mishap hasn't made you change your mind about marrying her. I will be having a long talk with her and I promise that she will give this up." he said, holding up the art supplies in his hand . 

Gritting his teeth he glared down at the man. "I intend to keep my families side of the deal." Without another word he walked away from the man before he did something he would regret or rather something his mother would not be happy about. 

........................

Today was the day, your wedding day but you couldn't find a reason to be happy. All day you had been getting ready. People pinning you up in an attempt to make you look somewhat acceptable. Your mother's harsh comment about Katakuri not looking to your face too long making a knot form in your throat. Walking down the isle towards him you could only think back on the last few days where he had went back to ignoring you. To your knowledge the two of you had been hitting it off pretty good the other day, speaking of this and that. Perhaps though your family had been right and he was only being nice for the sake of your upcoming union. 

Standing beside him as the priest spoke you looked him over through your veil and noticed how handsome he looked. Before too long your mind had began making notes about how you could draw this moment later but then you remembered your father's words and frowned. Never again would you be allowed to practice your art skills, having brought enough shame to your family. 

When it came time to kiss and he lifted your veil you looked up into his crimson eyes and saw them not as cold as they were before and blinked. Feeling him kiss your head through his scarf you heard one of your brothers make a quiet comment about not blaming Katakuri for wanting to kiss you, the words making your heart clench painfully. 

During the reception you sat beside Katakuri and kept your head down. 

"Congratulations..."

Looking up you saw a thin, tall looking woman standing there and straightened up when you realized it was one of the other Charlotte children. "T..Thank you." you said politely. 

"My name is Brulee, we haven't met yet but Big Brother here tells me you are an artist." she said with a smile. 

"An Artist!?" Big Mom questioned around a mouthful of cake. 

Gasping a little you looked between her and your husband. Nodding a bit you opened your mouth to speak when you caught sight of your father staring daggers at you and dropped your shoulders. "I... I used to be."

Knitting his brows at her sudden change in emotion he looked across the hall to see her father looking at her with a very strict look and raised his chin as father went on talking to his mother. 

"It was a childhood hobby, nothing to brag about." you father laughed off with the rest of your family joining in. 

Seeing his wife's eyes look to her lap and noticing a droplet of water fall to her lap he let out a deep breath and stood. "Mama, Y/n and I are going to retire for the night." he spoke deeply.

"Yes, yes. Of course you both are ready for the honeymoon." she laughed. 

Blushing behind his scarf he said nothing as he held his hand out for Y/n to take, noticing her hand shaking a bit. "Brulee." he said and heard his little sister hum. Without a word they led her from the room and out to the hall. Seeing Brulee stand before a mirror he continued holding his wife's hand as his sister opened the mirror world. 

Going through one mirror and then being led to another you felt Katakuri stop and glanced up just the tiniest amount. 

"Thank you sister." he said. 

"Of course." She told her brother with a smile before looking down to the smaller woman. "I can't wait to get to know you Y/n. Congratulations again." 

With that you felt Katakuri pull you through another mirror and looked around when you saw you were now in a large house of sorts. 

Seeing her look around curiously he grinned, "Welcome home." 

Looking up to him you blinked and then scanned your eyes around the house. From where you were, which seemed to be a front foyer you could see a living area, kitchen and dining room. There was a massive stairway in front of you with many doors on the upper level that were closed. 

"I will give you the grand tour tomorrow but there is one room I have been wanting to show you." he said. Holding her hand he led her up the stairs and down the hall a bit to the third door down from his... their bedroom. Grabbing the knob he looked down to her and grinned behind his scarf. "I wanted you to have a room to call your own... I guess you could call it a wedding gift from me to you." he told her, noticing her confused look. Opening the door he turned on the light and instantly heard her gasp. 

Gasping you moved your hand to cover your mouth. Staring into the room you saw it filled with different art supplies. A large easel sat in the middle of the room with a chair in front of it. New paints of all different colors and types sat on the built in shelves and any other kinds of supplies you could ever dream of having. For the first time in your life you felt happy tears fill your eyes. You had to be dreaming, this had to be a dream. 

Watching her quietly he said nothing until a few minutes had passed and he started getting nervous, maybe he had went overboard and it was now creepy. "So is this acceptable... do you like..." He didn't get to finish his sentence before she was pulling him down by his scarf and smashing her lips to his. Freezing he felt his breath catch in his throat and his eyes go wide. Her soft lips stayed on his for a moment before she slowly pulled away and opened her eyes to look at him. Readying himself for the cruel comments he felt his body tense but to his surprise she only smiled and it made him even more uncomfortable. "Well go on say something." he grunted out. 

Cupping his scared cheek you felt his large teeth against your skin and smiled, "You're beautiful, a true masterpiece. Maybe one day you might let me paint you?" 

A deep blush tinted his cheeks and now it was him that thought he was dreaming. 

[currentfandomkick]

Marinette did not sign up for this part 6

this part was broken in two for my sanity.

first part here previous part here ao3 here

--

Bruce is many things, including Batman. He is currently trying to figure out how to launch a search party for his daughter’s missing magic jewelry and to find the thieves. (god, he hasn’t even met her yet and she has so many problems. She needs him there already and he isn’t). He is a father to many children who are currently searching for her, and who only just thought to inform him of this fact. On top of that, he is Batman—Justice League, cases, and keeping up his aliases on top of managing his possibly injured son.

What he is not expecting is a call from Hal when he is mid-way through a case while keeping Red Hood down. He is not expecting for Oracle to patch him through, nor is he expecting it to include Diana and Arthur—granted they all know each other’s identities at this point, but still. He would like to be uniform when his allies call him for work. Instead, he’s in civvies, in Jason’s room on his laptop keeping his son in place by sitting at the foot of his bed and shooting him looks on occasion. The only mercy was it being audio only.

“Batman we need to have a talk,” Hal stated.

Jason decided to make a break for it while Bruce was distracted. Bruce tackled his son and dragged him back to bed. “Little busy. Someone with Pegasus’ abilities dropped Hood into the harbor and he’s on bedrest.”

“I object to this treatment! I’m fine!”

“Not until Agent A clears you.”

“Fuck you B.”

“Hood.”

Jason stuck out his tongue and relented for the moment.

“So you’re aware he pulled a gun on a kid?”

Bruce choked at that.

Jason sat up. “First of all, dart gun with knock outs thank you very much, second of all, kid clearly stole Ladybug’s whatever that lets her transform, same with the girl using the cat that clearly has a lot of anxiety and definitely should not be in the field if she’s hyperventilating!”

Bruce could feel Diana being held back by someone. Possibly Hal’s ring, or Arthur.

“That was a teammate certified by the Ladybug and Chat Noir as allowed to use their miraculous given that Ladybug was needed on another mission at the time. Mr. Bug has appeared once before when Ladybug was unable to appear, and Chatte Noire is usually for solo stealth missions but was called to handle this particular akuma.” Arthur explained. “Your son attacked Ladybug’s team and has only made them all more unwilling to allow any contact after Sandboy.”

Bruce froze. His daughter needs help, and is denying the league the right to after Jason’s (well-intentioned) actions.

“Are they—”

“Ladybug has stated that the League may not approach her team during patrol, which was our main contact point. Miss Sting has become their representative for any and all contact, save one Amazonian historian,” Diana hissed. “She is convinced your whole family is trying to kill her now. You are to keep your house out of Paris until this is handled—if it wasn’t for the team being convinced that Red Hood was one of Sandboy’s creations, we would not be allowed to contact her at all!”

Bruce froze. His daughter is terrified of his family—of her family. She thinks they are out to kill her. He need to have a family meeting, now.

“I’ll check their locations and bring them back.”

“You better!”

“It is not wise to anger the Savior and Destroyer, so do so as quickly as possible,” Arthur stressed.

“Seriously Bats, get your house in order.”

“Hey, he’s not in charge of us anymore,” Jason tried to defend, only his voice wasn’t all there. “We’re our own people here. He just makes sure we don’t bleed out at this point.”

“Might want to work on that too.” Bruce wasn’t focusing enough to tell which of them said that.

Jason was shockingly quiet after that, typing absently on his phone.

Bruce needed to fix this. He turned on his kids trackers, only to find they were already in Paris, or… moving toward it. And comms were down.

“Oracle, report.”

“Sorry B, but I think they found her and we may have pinned down Hawkmoth.”

Bruce wanted to scream. He didn’t. “Report the identity to the League and leave Paris, now.”

“… Tim isn’t responding, Cass has plans with a family, and Steph is part of those, so you’re going to have to wait a day or so.”

Jason typed harder, but said nothing. Bruce could feel the self-recrimination and knew better than to intervene just yet. When he put down the phone (and when Bruce finished his own investigation on this matter) they would talk. For now, he had to wait.

             ---

Nino is a lot of things. Amazing director (albeit a tyrant as one), a top notch dj, and a superhero. He is also smart, charming, and very good at reading people and knowing when something is up. Perks of being Carapace and having Wayzz all the time—people’s weaknesses are a lot easier to spot now, and any fronts they try to put up, he already sees right through them. Especially when its someone he’s known forever.

Marinette has been on edge, around the same time as Ladybug started acting up. Granted, finding out she has a pen knife last year by her accidently using it to draw in class that one time did give him a wakeup call on Marinette having a paranoia streak on top of her anxiety, but usually the girl calmed down during school or when she was designing during breaks.

This time, that wasn’t happening. He’s… not sure how to get her to open up on this one. Looking over her shoulder and the constant twitching meant she was probably hit hard by Sandboy last night, and hadn’t recovered yet. He really wished he got a few hits in himself on the akuma—it always messed up everyone afterwards. And Marinette didn’t need the extra stress with her new designs for the Worst Father Ever’s company and tests that week.

And yet here they are, with her on edge. Most of the class was hit, and no one was at a hundred percent and all, he got that but…

“Sandboy?” Nino started, hoping it was casual enough that Marinette didn’t catch how frustrated he was with all of this. Ladybug was missing last night so Mr. Bug was there, Chatte was filling in for Chat and had an anxiety attack, the battle took way too long and it was so painfully clear that Chatte isn’t a hitter and that Mr. Bug is no strategist. Viperion stepped into that role with ease when he managed to get there, but still. The whole situation was messed up and he couldn’t fix it. Even when its hurting his friends.

Marinette let out a shaky breath. “Yeah.”

“Wanna talk about it or…”

“NO! I—I never wanted to, I…” Marinette was at a loss for words again, tugging at her hair.

“Its okay dudette.” He made sure to take her hands out of her hair before she knotted it like she did when they were kids. She hated getting them out after, always cried a bit from how much it hurt with how big her knots would get and how uncooperative they were. “That bad?”

Marinette nodded, curled in a bit. “I never want it to happen for real.”

Nino wasn’t sure what ‘it’ was, but it couldn’t be good. He know how bad some of Sandboy’s nightmares were—getting chased by his own fear of absolute failure being voiced by his idols still stung to this day.

“Hey, if it tries to, you got us—me, my bro, your bestie and let’s not forget Miss “I am the storm” will be there.”

“And Kagami!” Alya added with a grin as she came over with his bro. “She’s already claimed the right to destroy anyone that hurts you.”

Adrien’s grin may as well have split his face. “She has, hasn’t she.”

Marinette turned to fight with Adrien, as something was going on between those two, Adrien clearly had an idea what it was, but given the whole thing with Luka’s fans getting on her back about using him to get famous and the fall out…

Nino shook his head to banish that particular akuma—fans are the worst kind of akuma. Love akuma are really annoying in their abilities, but he can defend against all of their power-sets so far. Fan akumas are always wildcards and he’s usually not the most helpful against them.

He hopes he can keep Ladybug and Marinette safe. His job is to defend and shelter—in and out of the mask. That’s what he’s decided to do, at least.

“Aw, look at them. Now if only they were like this back when operations secret garden was a go.”

Nino raised an eyebrow.

“Nothing you need to worry about, before we got together.”

“Uh huh.” Nino could and would worry about it. Was that a ‘get them together’ operation or a ‘teach Adrien and Marinette how to be people and no run from the sight of each other’ operation?  First year ops outside of the mask were weird and he wasn’t in on them until a few months after he and Alya finally got together (at his best bro and favorite dudette’s brand of meddling).

--

Adrien is glad for many things since getting the ring. One of them is his partner and after finding out who she was (post-‘oh my god she hates me as a civilian’ episode), her brand of scheming. Which included (after he got her to conceded that his father may be bad but he is not Hawkmoth level bad) her managing to end up as his Father’s current ‘mentee’ of choice after she won the hat competition, and he showed off the scarf she made him last year. Gabriel had a rule of not working with designers that hadn’t made a name for themselves already—Marinette had by the time she was fourteen as MDC—Jagged Stone and Clara Nightengale’s joint-custody personal designers.

Father only found out MDC was Marinette from the scarf. He’d met Clara again at an event and she had the same style of embroidery and threading. Only it was after Adrien got his scarf.

Marinette plotted this--down to the fashion week event and Clara going to talk to Gabriel about his opinion on the work done to her scarf and how long he thought it would take MDC to make the same thing on a dress, roughly, since the designer does the embroidery by hand instead of letting Clara’s seamstress handle it given the intricate lace-like pattern.

Gabriel had called Marinette on the landline—the landline—that night and offered to mentor her on how to broaden her work for the masses, without taking away from her school and downtime, or interfering with MDC’s work.

So far, Marinette has gathered them a pool of seventy two people, name and contact information, that Markov, Max and Alya are co-investigating as Hawkmoth.

The trade off to all of that is “Marinette” brand consultation under the Gabriel brand, a studio with walk-in and appointed consultations, and being there on time.

Adrien managed to get them there a half hour early, and she still wasn’t relaxed. The unofficial appointment is in twenty minutes, and Marinette is shaken from Sandboy, but doesn’t want to talk about anything Miraculous, and he hasn’t had time for videogames lately, so. Distraction time.

“How did you get into fashion again?” Adrien toyed with his phone, knowing damn well how she ended up this far into fashion, but he did love watching her get worked up and go off.

“First of all, this industry doesn’t make anything for you if you’re short that  isn’t petite, and that’s a nightmare to look for as a kid. Then there was Maman having trouble finding things that fit her nicely and from there looking for women’s or girls clothes is just disappointment after disappointment.”

“How so?” Adrien hid his grin behind his phone.

“How—how so! Your father keeps wanting me to keep pockets out of designs because real pockets aren’t ‘in’ for women’s fashion. Lies! They are always in, women always want pockets and real pockets! Pockets are wonderful and the deeper the better.”

“Mh hm.” Adrien knew that from previous rant sessions.

“Then there’s the whole lack of body types and fits and don’t get me started on every white shirt being seem through, or a button up that doesn’t button right, or both. There is a reason why I make clothes for Mylene and her mom since I started doing commissions in the first place, and that is only one of them!”

Adrien leaned forward then. “So anything else?”

“Fix the sizing system already—using measurements that we already use when getting clothes online for conversion charts, only no ‘small, medium, large’ just the amount of fabric at each measurement and a rough of how it fits on different sizes where from there!”

Adrien checked the time. Ten minutes to, and this guy sounded like the early type.

“Alright, better now?”

Marinette blinked a few times, rage vanishing as she processed what happened. “… yes.”

“Good, feel ready to work out a rough?”

Marinette smirked. “They won’t know what hit them!”

--

Tim walked in and decided this candidate was high on his personal choice of who he’s like to be baby bat. The girl had cookies at the ready with coffee (real coffee, making her much better than Marie Ann) and didn’t bat an eyelash at the Wayne name. So either cool under pressure, or doesn’t care for celebrity status, either way a bonus in his books.

Then came how she just… had that same look Bruce gets when working out one of Riddler’s puzzles, only while she was working out a suit for him. She was just in charge of the design portion—Gabriel assured him he’d check over the whole thing and handle production and all. But this suit she worked out in minutes—even grumbling about making sure his pockets were at easy access level for him to grab his phone in case of emergencies and checking over his phone to shape the pocket and cut with that in mind—he likes it.

Given her features, she wouldn’t be out of place in the family—blue eyes and black hair for the win once again. And she clearly understood professionalism, even if she was being monitored by Gabriel’s son who seemed content to let her operate without asking any questions beyond asking him if he had any fabrics he didn’t want or any skin sensitivities.

Her measurement taking was faster than he was used to with tailors, and she admitted it was a double check and checking the fits he already uses to further incorporate it into the design.

No matter how this pans out, he’s decided he’s keeping her on as a designer at the very least. And that Janet’s DNA test comes back negative. This Marinette is his new favorite pick, and she wouldn’t stick out like a sore thumb. Plus, she already wears her hair like Ladybug and turned that into a casual nickname, so extra bonus on secret identity keeping cred if she is.

Now he just needs to find out if she really is and then drop the bomb on her while working out if she’s undercover working Gabriel/Hawkmoth, or not. If she is, damn. If not, he’s giving her ‘spot the bad guy’ lessons, price—one cup of coffee.

--

next part is in the works, its just a lot lore-wise and detective-wise with bats talking to Baby Bat with No Idea its Baby Bat until whoops, too late. Oops

anyone knows how to add the readmore, feel free to comment or message me

@heldtogetherbysafetypins @laurcad123 @raisuke06 @chaosace @jeminiikrystal @toodaloo-kangaroo @kris-pines04

[inkytealeaf]

Chapter 1

First chapter of an AU I wanted to write since long, and it took me months to write that first chapter :’D Anyway, it should be 2-3 chapters long, and pretty Emrys belongs to @shy-necromancer ♡

~~~~~~

He cursed when the snow crunched underneath his feet. Everything in front of him looked white. The roofs of the small houses, the night sky, the ground where there had been beautiful flowers once, the heavy smoke coming from the stacks, the cat perched on the wooden road sign. Everything.

“Your luggage, sir.” The cabman threw it in his arms. Fortunately, it didn’t contain anything breakable. “Are you sure this town is your destination?”

“A hundred percent sure,” Emrys flashed him a huge smile despite his chattering teeth. “Oh by the way, do you know if there is a good inn in this town? I’d like a warm meal and bed for tonight.”

“Walk to the fountain place. You won’t miss it.”

“Thank you, my good man!” He flipped him a golden coin, then walked to the town, cursing again as the wind froze his limbs.

“My boy,” the cabman called him. “Stay careful, and don’t go to the old manor.”

“I can’t promise!”

Emrys waved at the man as he crouched down, his other hand stretched towards the cat. It looked at Emrys with its big black eyes without blinking before jumping from the road sign, seeking a warmer place. Emrys sighed deeply, he had wanted to pet the cat so much.

“Next time, kitty.” He said, but the wind deafened his voice. Instead, he patted the road sign and walked to the fountain place.

He had heard so many stories about that town. Dreina, known for its everlasting winter, the warmth of its inhabitants as well as their gloomy side, its hard stuff flowing like water in every inn, and of course, its old manor. Some people said it was cursed, haunted by the spirits of the Count’s son. Other would say the devil had taken place in the manor as they had seen the Count’s son walk freely in the garden in the middle of the night, his face as pale as a ghost, long hair as white as the snow, but eyes as red as blood.

Many stories had been told about this town, but Emrys believed only one. The one he had heard in the stagecoach. The Count had murdered his wife and only son in their bedroom before killing himself. Nearly a hundred years ago.

The room he got in the inn wasn’t the most spacious he had had during his many travels, but it would do for the night. Tomorrow, he would go to the manor and see what was scaring the town so much. Something was there, he was sure of that. He only hoped he wouldn’t end like the last poor fool who tried to investigate the manor.

“A nice young lad,” The innkeeper had told him earlier. “Stayed a few nights here, played with the kids and helped the elders. He left one afternoon for the manor. I told him not to, oh yes I did. Never came back.”

That night, Emrys was haunted by nightmares. Nightmares of a faceless young man, running through the cold corridors of the manor trying to escape whatever was there. Nightmares of hands pinning him against a wall, hands around his throat, claws tearing his skin apart, rivers of blood flowing through the manor. And that wicked laugh.

 A very elaborated black portal stood in front of him. Vines clung to the portal, winding around two statues of headless cherubs holding a bow, arrows pointed towards him. Behind the portal, Emrys could see a single path marked with round stones. It curled around the many bushes, leading visitors to a small maze on their left, and to the manor way in the back. A lone and broad willow tree covered by snow stood on the right edge, its branches swaying gently in the winter wind.

Emrys wanted to see more. He wanted to satisfy his curiosity and reach those doors where many before him had dared to knock on. And as to answer his wish, the portal opened slowly with a grinding noise. An invitation to come inside.

He tightened his scarf a little more around his mouth and without thinking twice, stepped inside. Emrys walked past the maze, eyes focused on the manor even though he could have bet he’d just seen something from the corners of his eyes, walked past the few plant sculptures and statues. More cherubs, and angels.

His gaze lingered for a little moment on the gazebo and wondered if the Countess and her son used to spend time here, like he imagined a mother and child would do. Maybe she had been reading to him there, sheltered from the sun, the little boy sitting in front of her and watching with so much love and wonder in his eyes. Maybe they had both played here, a servant or two joining them at the boy’s wish. Or maybe that gazebo had only been one more thing to display their wealth, and no little boy would have played or listened to his mother’s story.

Emrys climbed the few stairs leading to the door, then knocked on it. It opened almost immediately, but no one was there to invite him inside.

“Hello? Anybody there?” He said closing the door behind him. Dozens of candles greeted him, startling him as flames flickered. “It is so kind of you to let me in, it’s cold as hell outside.”

No one answered. With a nervous chuckle, Emrys followed the small corridor on his right trying to ignore the way the people in each different painting were looking at him. As if they were following his every movements. As if they were alive, waiting for the perfect moment to jump out of the frame and tear his throat apart.

But one caught his eyes. Facing a grand staircase, a portrait representing the Count and Countess each with a firm grip on their son’s shoulder, made him feel so small and out of place. Rumours were true; the three of them looked ghostly, terrifying with their white hair and eyes – a first time for Emrys – and even the boy, who had to be eight or nine years old at the time of the painting, had the same look on his face as a beast watching its future prey.

A shiver ran down his spine when he met the boy’s eyes, and he could bet to see a smirk on that angelic face. Emrys had met many kids and knew just how horrible some might be at this age, but he had never met one that had the same effect on him than that painting. His gust told him to leave that place, to forget his curiosity and go back home. Far away from here. Far away from this creepy town and its hospitable people.

But as much as Emrys wanted to leave that place, he couldn’t move, enchanted by that painting or just too scared. He reached for the frame, fingertips barely touching it when the silvery voice of a man stopped him in his tracks.

“Did your mother never teach you to not touch what isn’t yours?”

“Who’s there?” He said looking at the staircase, but no one was standing there. “Show yourself, I mean no harm.”

He chuckled, the sound echoing throughout the room. “My, my, so confident, daring even. And yet,” two candles beside him went out, Emrys didn’t get the time to understand what was happening that he felt an arm slither around his waist, a hand on his throat. “you have no idea what you’ve gotten yourself into.”

Emrys managed to escape his forced embrace and faced him. Dark hair tied in a ribbon, fingers with black painted nails covering his smirk, piercing eyes getting a good look at him, and clothes not matching the atmosphere and period of the manor, Emrys didn’t know if he should feel fascinated by that strange man, or scared. Who was he anyway? A homeless man? The one who was supposed to take care of that old manor? If that was the case, he was doing a pretty bad job.

The man chuckled again. “How rude of you, little mouse. To think I would reduce myself to such a gross job.” He hid his face in his hand and burst into laughter. Then, in the blink of an eye, he pinned Emrys against the wall, at the other side of the room. “Here you are, in my grip, in my trap,” he sang, “Wanna have fun?”

Emrys’ mind went blank and before he could gather his thoughts, a second voice, deeper, enchanting, menacing, interrupted them.

“That is enough, darling. We do not treat our guests this way.”

His jaw dropped. Standing at the top of the staircase, a white-haired man looked at them, his aura almost suffocating him. Emrys couldn’t take his eyes off him as he walked down the stairs, and thought that he had succumbed to a fever when the man was close enough to him. Emrys couldn’t miss the red eyes.

“Welcome to my humble abode.”

Nor the resemblance with the Count.

[artificialqueens]

And so we run (ch.2) (jivy) (one sided shalaska) - traumathicc

A/N: In which Jinkx is a ray of sunshine and Alaska meets a fan. Also bread is apparently a sensitive subject.

Thank you all so much for the support! It means so much to write something and having it matter to someone else :,)

Enjoy!

Ivy’s arrow hits a tree fifteen feet away with a *drrr* noise that sends a few crows flying. She stands and judges her own work for a few seconds before going to retrieve it.

She was an idiot to waste so many of them in the bloodbath. She can’t afford to get arrogant like that again. She yanks the arrow out of the bark and pulls a small rock out of her bag. A dull weapon is a death sentence.

She walks over to a small stream of relatively clear water where her partner Jinkx is currently hunched over. She’s keeping herself busy, filling up glass bottles of the stuff and putting them in a wooden box.

”Do you think we’re going to have to boil that?”

Jinkx looks up at her. ”Tired yourself out already? I didn’t take you for a quitter!”

Ivy scoffs as Jinkx starts making weird chicken noises and waving her arms around. It’s an old inside joke between the two of them that has escalated to something which, if observed by an outsider, couldn’t possibly be described as a joke made by people with brains.

”If the judges had seen you doing that, you would’ve been executed before the game even started” Ivy snaps back playfully.

“Oh please Ivy, as if! They know I’m camera gold!” Jinkx continues and starts doing this showgirl-esque dance and humming a little tune to herself.

Ivy can’t hold back her smile for long. Even in a place like this, Jinkx still manages to light up everything around her.

Jinkx doesn’t stop dancing until she sees Ivy smiling. Then she takes her hands.

“Hey, It’s going to be dark soon. Do you want to set up camp here for now?”

Ivy nods.

“I’d like that.”

—————————————————————

“I fucking hate Darienne Lake.”

“A little harsh, Sharon?”

“Don’t care, I wanted that bread.”

“Well, can’t argue with that.”

Trixie has never been one for carrying long conversations. And judging by this one, neither has this girl. She would try to talk to Katya, but she is currently twenty feet ahead of them and getting spotted and potentially ambushed is not worth a probably very mediocre conversation about Darienne and her less than stellar bread politics right now.

Besides, apparently Sharon isn’t finished.

“I just- I don’t understand how she thinks eating all of it in a few days is better than storing it over a long period of time! ‘oH ThE gaMe uSuaLLy oNLY LastS fOr aBOUt a WeEk Or sO’

THAT DOESN’T MEAN WE SHOULD SPEND OUR LAST DAYS ON THIS BITCH OF AN EARTH SITTING IN A TREE SCARFING DOWN AS MUCH BREAD AS POSSIBLE LIKE A BUNCH OF DOMESTICATED SQUIRRELS!”

“I really don’t think you should’ve made that fat joke though.”

Suddenly, Katya is joining in.

“Yeah! And now we get no bread! Take that

Chip n’ Pale! Wait, no, I can do better, hold on-“

Sharon sighs and rolls her eyes as Katya desperately tries to think of a better pun that somehow involves both goths and squirrels.

“Why would you two think th-“ Sharon stops mid sentence as a twig behind them snaps.

Trixie doesn’t even have time to react to the sudden silence before she feels excruciating pain in the back of her neck.

The last thought that enters her mind is

“Wait, wh-“ Before she falls face first into the dirt road.

Then she doesn’t think anything anymore.

—————————————————————

Katya can only watch as Trixie’s puzzled expression drops forward and lands at Sharon’s feet.

Katya’s face runs pale and she brings a fist to her mouth. She starts biting her knuckles.

Fuck.

The bushes behind them start to rustle as a small girl holding a rifle makes her way out of them and over to the path. She quickly raises her weapon and points it at Sharon.

“Okay,” The girl starts speaking in a surprisingly low, kind of nonchalant voice. “I want both of you to drop everything you’re carrying, including weapons. If any of you try anything I won’t hesitate to open fire again.”

As to demonstrate her threat, she gives Trixie’s lifeless body a nudge with her foot.

Katya feels a bitter tinge in the back of her throat as she begins to unload her bags and weaponry. Neither her nor Sharon are skilled enough to take this girl down. She knows this, because she’s seen her in action before.

This girl is Pearl Liaison from district 7. Many people in the capital are betting on her to win and it’s not hard to understand why. During their training period Katya once saw her make a perfect headshot at a dummy from another room. And even though it was pretty funny seeing everyone (the coaches included) scared shitless back then, the implications should’ve been terrifying to Katya long ago.

And right now, her partner has been shot in the neck, and it looks like she’s going to be killed by Pearl as well. Couldn’t she at least have been done in by someone like the White Reaper? At least then she would’ve felt like this shitshow was sort of worth it.

She should’ve just stayed behind. Convinced Trixie that the fight was pointless.

It wasn’t like she cared about when they’d eat that stupid bread anyway.

They’ve both laid all of their stuff out in a neat little pile on the ground now, on Pearls orders. She comes over to inspect her new loot when suddenly, the bushes start moving again.

Katya looks over and there’s Alaska fucking Thunder. Katya curses herself under her breath. Talk about speaking of the devil.

She’s accompanied by two other girls. One of them is holding a spear and the other one has a gun in each hand. Katya remembers seeing them following Alaska around back at training but she doesn’t remember their names. Alaska herself isn’t carrying anything, but she’s wearing a silver belt with a bunch of different knives stuffed into it.

“Ooh, are we interrupting something?” Alaska speaks in a dreary tone laced with sarcasm.

“You guys seem to be having… fun” She looks over at the pile.

“Is that-“

She walks over to it and picks something up. Pearl doesn’t even move an inch.

Alaska weighs the object in her hand, presses a button and a blade pops out. Katya had no idea Sharon had a Swiss Army knife.

“That’s handy!” Alaska smiles and tucks the knife into her belt.

“Thanks, it… it belonged to my sister. She gave it to me before I left.”

It’s Sharon. Alaska’s lackeys raise their weapons, but Alaska puts a hand up and walks over to her.

“That so?”

Alaska picks up the knife again and studies it further.

“This is excellent craftsmanship. Your sister has good taste.”

“Really?”

“Weaponry is an art unto itself. Not everyone can put so many blades in one piece and still have it be so light…”

She unfolds another blade and presses it against her own fingertip. A small drop of blood forms against her pale skin.

“… Or make blades this sharp…”

She takes her bleeding finger and caresses it against Sharon’s face, leaving a red trail on her cheek.

She smiles again.

“Shall we test it out further?”

Suddenly the one with the guns is behind Sharon, holding her down. Katya is about to run to her aid but Sharon doesn’t even fight. She just gives her a quick glance.

“Go”

She hears rustling again and realizes Pearl is gone.

So Katya makes a run for it.

She manages to snatch her bow and a couple of arrows from the pile. She hears a gunshot but by dumb luck she dodges it.

She runs until she can’t hear the girls yell anymore.

She runs until she trips on a treebranch and falls on her face.

She doesn’t even have time to get up until she hears someone laughing.

—————————————————————

”Go”

She looks at Katya and Katya understands.

Detox does try to shoot her as she takes off, though. But Sharon knows that’s a risk Katya is willing to take.

She doesn’t know just how dangerous these girls are, even without their leader. But Sharon knows.

Detox Icunt and Roxxxy Andrews are both dangerous fighters trained from a young age. Children start to learn basic combat from professionals early on in the upper districts. It’s intense, but not nearly as intense as what Alaska has gone through. She was taken from her family at birth and placed in a special training facility. There she has done nothing but learn how to kill, and kill she has. One doesn’t earn the nickname ”The White Reaper” for no reason. She knew that she would have volunteer herself for the game eventually.

After all, representing district 1 in the games is her sole reason for existing.

And Sharon finds her beautiful.

She finds Alaska beautiful as she’s pinned down by Detox.

She finds Alaska beautiful as she tilts up her chin, smearing more of her blood onto Sharon’s face.

She finds Alaska beautiful as Roxxxy begs her to give her the honor, and Alaska obliges.

She finds Alaska beautiful as she hands over the knife.

It does sting a bit, not getting to be killed by her in person. But it’s Alaska who’s giving the order. And it’s Alaska’s blood on her face.

It feels so warm.

She doesn’t even feel pain as the cold steel opens her throat like a fresh fruit.

All she does is gaze at her Reaper as her life spills onto her chest and soaks into her shirt.

[theculturedyeti]

The Witch

My first experience of witchcraft? Sigil burning.

Don’t let me be alone. I drew out the symbols that represented that desperate plea, folded up that scrap of paper, then I carried it like it was a piece of treasure down to the kitchen. I’d had tuna for tea the night before, and the tin sat on the side, dry and empty but for abandoned flakes. I dropped the folded scalp into it and then walked out over to the window. It opened out like a door, just wide enough for me to wedge the tin in place. Then I took a match and burnt the paper.

It took fifteen minutes for my silent wish to burn away. I watched the faint glimmer of orange shiver through the lunar texture of the material, watched the crisp black snapping off and crumbling into a fine white powder. Then I watched the wind, which was already playing with the smoke like loving fingers in hair, scatter the ash across the sky and to the far corners of the Earth.

After that I said a quick prayer to no one in particular and then put Mr Blue Sky on full blast. I danced around the house like no one was watching, and as far as I was aware, no one was.

They say spells don’t work if you don’t believe. Like anything really. Placebos, revolutions, religious authority figures. Without human belief, they just wither away like an unbought rose on February 15th.

It’s been a long time since I burnt that scrap of paper, a long time since I made that spell, but I never stopped believing. Oh no. Not whilst I was at high school, nor sixth form, not even now at the academy. I’ve believed through green leaves and brown, through blue skies and grey, and I still believe now as I traipse from tutelage to dormitory, nothing but a lone, black speck on a field of white. Not enough snow to crunch, that’ll come later if the forecasts are anything to go off. No, currently the snow is a fine white powder. Beneath a heavy woollen scarf, I feel my lips part into a smile. I push my glasses up the slope of my nose and keep going. My mind wanders if it was a sign, but another part of me just sighs. Need to save my belief for what matters.

Out of the courtyard, and down the road. The paper bag in my arms rustled. Either side of the road, there’s orange brick walls and large square windows set in them. Light oozes through the thick fog, shines down in a prism on me on the street. Shapes and pictures seem to trace through that fog, and for a second I could swear they were sigils drawn by some cosmic ventriloquist. Then I saw the fingers clearing the window, so students on the other side could stare down at the street, judge whether they wanted to come down and play in the snow together. I sighed. My apartment didn’t have a view of the snow, but then, it didn’t have any view. Part of the cheap price had been the lack of windows.

An alleyway broke out to my side and I wandered down it. By the time I reached the door, sight of snow on the main road was long lost. The door had a buzzer, but there was no one to answer it, so instead I fumbled with the keys despite the large bag in my hands and, after a long while fumbling, I eventually managed to ease the door open.

On the other side, I dropped the bag, closed the door and breathed. Breathed hard. That scrap of paper, smouldering in the tuna tin, had crumbled away to ash, but look now how it had grown. Books piled up across every surface, rising in towers of disparate heights, thicknesses but all sharing one simple criteria: their subject matter. The depths of arcana.

I opened my bag, let the paper tear as I did, and took out the chalk. Took out the string. Took out the salt and the wax and the candles. I went over to my desk, took out a sacrificial knife I’d stolen from a museum, and my rosary. I whispered my apologies to the rosary and then put it away, closing the door.

It took me half an hour to prepare everything. Drawing the circle, scribing the incantation, pouring the salt and dampening it with melted wax. And then I stepped to the centre of the pentacle I’d drawn and took a little note from my pocket. I’d written it in a cafe that morning, watching the first thin layer of snow descend. It read just five words. Five words I’d whispered so many times. Don’t let me be alone.

I put the paper down in the centre of the pentacle and set it on fire, pinning the burning note down with the sacrificial knife. And then I stepped back and watched.

I watched the faint glimmer of orange shiver through the paper, watched the crisp black debris beginning to snap off, watching it crumbling into a fine white powder.

And then I watched a wind, beginning to play with the smoke like loving fingers through hair.

And slowly I looked around the room and I felt my heart thud a little faster. There were no windows for breeze to be coming through.

Embers spread through the paper quicker now, engulfing it. Fragments crumbled away, exploding into ash, but still those embers seemed to grow, stretching until they seemed almost to reach out through the air around them, until the very particles seemed to glow with burning embers.

After that, there was no stopping it. The embers contorted and twinkled, seeming to spread and crack, the room filled with a sound like a fire crinkling, bursts of ash seeping out until, before her, a new shape was born.

A body.

A glittering, beautiful, brilliant body.

For a moment, the flaming glow was too much to make out anything but the silhouette, but I blinked a couple of times and realised that she was a woman.

A woman composed of fire.

Her skin cooled a little and neck length hair hung around her neck. She blinked a few times and her eyes danced, from entirely black, to golden, to a glowing blue. For a moment, there was a glimmer behind her that could easily have been wings.

And then she looked at me.

I stared back, unable to do anything. I felt my entire body frozen to the spot, despite the being of fire before me.

She smiled. “Hey.”

I found myself unable to speak.

“Hey, you!” She cried, and then smiled a little more. Her smile filled my heart with joy. “With the pretty face.”

Sigil burning. My first experience of witchcraft. 

[redgillan]

Breaking the Rules - Epilogue

Bucky Barnes x Reader

Summary:  Modern!AU You hate James Barnes with a burning passion and the feeling is entirely mutual. Just when you think things can’t get any worse, you are tricked into attending his sister’s wedding as his girlfriend. Stuck with a bunch of strangers, you come up with a set of rules that are not going to last long.

Word Count:1,468

Warnings: none, but my god this is fluffy

A/N: Okay, it took me a while but here we go. I say this all the time, but my dudes, this is so cheesy... you’ll need wine. ↓ look at this angel *heart eyes* 

Breaking the Rules - Masterpage

7 months later

You and Bucky walked hand-in-hand along the perfectly arranged streets, peering into shop windows adorned with Christmas decorations. You walked aimlessly, not paying attention to where you were going, while you maundered on about a documentary you both watched the night before.

“Fish don’t drink water,” Bucky scoffed.

“Of course they do,” you replied, shaking your head. “What do you think they drink? Milk?”

He let out a surprised laugh, drawing strange looks from passers-by. “That’s not what I meant. They live in water, they don’t need to drink it. They probably just soak it up through their skin or something.”

“Maybe,” you shrugged.

“Why are we even talking about this?” he asked, a crease forming between his brows.

You turned your head to look at him. His thick scarf covered most of his mouth, but you could tell he was smiling by the way his eyes crinkled at the corners. He continued to look ahead and squeezed your hand when you took too long to answer.

You cleared your voice. “Because you said you wanted to eat sushi for dinner.”

“I still do.”

“Yeah, but it’s my turn to choose,” you reminded him. “But... if you let me pick the movie, then you can have whatever you want.”

“Whatever I want, uh?” he said with a wiggle of his eyebrows.

You recognized the suggestive tone of his voice, and even though you wanted to roll your eyes, you couldn’t keep the smile off your face. Bucky tugged on your hand to bring you closer. He cupped your face and lowered his mouth to yours, speaking against your lips.

“I want...,” he trailed off, brushing his lips against your own. You closed your eyes, your body humming with excitement. Instead of kissing you, he tugged your beanie down over your eyes and said, “-sushi!”

“Jerk!” you cried. “I hate you.”

“No, you don’t,” he laughed, taking your hand. “Come on, we need to find a gift for little Joey.”

Joey was Steve and Peggy’s child. He was born two weeks before Christmas and Bucky couldn’t stop talking about him. You loved the way his eyes lit up every time he received a new picture from Steve.

Of course, Steve had chosen him to be the Godfather. You were really happy for Bucky, you just wished he’d stop quoting the baptism scene from The Godfather.

You passed through the automatic doors of the shopping centre as you removed your hat and gloves and stuffed them into your pockets. Bucky disappeared between two aisles and you decided to browse around a little.

After a moment, you wandered down to the baby department and found Bucky. He ran his hand over the soft material of a pink dress and released a soft sigh.

Seeing Steve so happy with his wife and kid might have triggered his own desire to settle down and start a family. You knew you would have to talk about it soon.

“That dress is a little too small for you, Buck,” you said, startling him.

“Ah-ah!” He rolled his eyes affectionately.

He looked away, a momentary sadness clouding his eyes and face. You ran your fingers through his hair in an attempt to calm his raging thoughts. He gave you a small smile and kissed your cheek.

“You found something for Joey?” he asked, nodding his head toward the tiny pair of denim overalls in your hand.

You perked up instantly and held the hanger higher so he could take a better look. “Yes! Isn’t it the cutest thing in the world?”

Bucky chuckled. “You’re the cutest thing in the world, but this is a close second.”

When the sun started to set, you went to Bucky’s apartment, your arms loaded with gifts and food. His new apartment was small and cosy. He had tried his hand at decorating and while he was clueless about colour-matching, it still looked homey.

After dinner, you cuddled up on the sofa and watched a comedy show on TV. Because you were both busy, you only saw each other on weekends. You liked it that way, it allowed you to keep your independence.

“Bucky?”

“Mmh?”

“Can we talk?”

He sighed. “If this is because of the pink dress, don’t worry about it. I just thought it was cute.”

You moved a little away from him and sat on your haunches. Straightening his posture, he avoided your eyes. He looked so vulnerable, so childlike. You placed your hand on his knee, squeezed lightly, and hoped he'd meet your gaze.

“It’s not the dress, Bucky. It’s what it represents and we should talk about it,” you said. “It’s important.”

“I don’t want to lose you,” he said, his voice so soft you almost didn’t hear him. He met your eyes. “You don’t want children.”

“I never said that,” you replied, shaking your head. “I know that seeing Steve with his baby is a little tough for you-”

He gave you a casual shrug, but you could see right through his tough act. You took his hand and ran your thumb over his knuckles.

“It’s always been your dream,” you continued, “to have children, to raise and protect them. You said you were not sure you wanted a family because Dot’s lies hurt you, but your face lit up every time you look at a picture of Joey... You want children.”

“Yeah, maybe,” he conceded.

“See, I knew it,” you said, grinning. “I want kids, too, but there's a million things I want to do first. I’m not ready yet.”

“So,” he said, turning his head to look at you, “you see a future with me?” He had a big grin on his face, like he already knew the answer.

You had always known Bucky wanted a family and it had been one of the things you took into consideration before you admitted your feelings for him seven months ago.

“Yes.”

You squealed when he pounced on you and pinned you down on the sofa. Your legs were bent awkwardly under you, but you giggled when he started ticking you.

After a moment, his hands stayed at your waist and he gave you a long, passionate kiss. Your hand curved around his cheek, the bristles of his beard rubbing against your fingers.

“You’re my family,” he whispered into your ear before he pulled away.

His words rendered you speechless. He smiled warmly as he helped you to your feet and led you to the bedroom.

The cold weather and long walk had exhausted you. You changed into your night clothes while Bucky brushed his teeth. When you joined him in the bathroom, you took the toothbrush he had given you the night before after you realized you had forgotten yours at home.

He finished first and placed a cold kiss on your cheek, making you grumble around a mouthful of toothpaste foam. He snickered as he walked back into the bedroom.

“You know,” you heard him say. “You can leave that toothbrush here. I’d be easier.”

You rinsed your mouth and patted it dry before you replied, “sure. You can leave a toothbrush at my place, too.”

“I’d like that,” he said with a smile.

You left the bathroom and found him sitting on the edge of the bed, looking nervous and excited at the same time. You bit back a grin as you crossed the room and scrabbled around in your overnight bag.

“Maybe you could, uh, keep some clothes here so you wouldn't have to pack a bag every time,” Bucky said. His stammering made you smile to yourself. “I’ll make some space for you in the closet and there’s an empty drawer in my dresser.”

“That’s a good idea,” you told him. “I’ll make room in my wardrobe for your things.”

He let out a small relieved sigh and reached out to take your hand. You straddled his lap and locked your arms around his neck. He wrapped his arms around your waist and rested his forehead on your shoulder.

“So... is this what an adult relationship is like?” you asked, combing your fingers through his hair.

“We’re adulting so hard, I’m proud of us. Are you scared? Is this too much?” he asked, knowing it was still a touchy subject.

Your hands went to the sides of his face, feeling the softness of his beard on your skin, and you made him look at you. “No. I broke my rules for you. All 120 of them.”

He bit his bottom lip, his upper lip quirking into a grin. “Your rules were dumb.”

You gave an exaggerated gasp before he swiftly moved on top of you, the weight of his upper body pinning you to the mattress. It didn’t take long before your laughter turned into quiet moans.

Tags:

[theunnamedlizardrogue]

Books! - Chap 1

Backstory: So, I got really attached to a D&D character I made about a year ago, and the first day of January, the DM abandoned ship for disclosed reasons. To account for this. I decided to take up writing, to itch all that missing character development

Chapter 1: Corn starch A bouncer stands at his post, the cordial party held by the noble underway. The white brick accentuates the wealth here and the aristocrats walking about would make the colour brown stick out like a saw thumb. The door leading into the party is ornate and gigantic, approximately the size of 2 men and more gold than a bank. Money couldn’t be burnt in more useless ways than literally burning it. The lizard wanders up, looking his best to act casual; as much as one could be when a bipedal reptilian is in the middle of a group of humans and elves. He slyly slinks towards the bouncer and quietly whispers “Corn starch” The guard looks in confusion. The lizard realises this isn’t the contact, but an actual bouncer. He takes a step back to think to himself. Godsdamn it, Snakes fed him false info. Time to improvise. He distorts his voice and puts on a fake accent he’s never heard “My mistake. Friend tell me Corn starch secret access code to ball. I invited and thought ‘No, that not make sense.’ But he insist and I thought human custom.” The guard looks even more confused. While the guard’s processing the situation, the lizard notices the line behind him, the crowd are getting annoyed at the wait. This could work to his advantage. “I am Ackl-Snarr. Lizardfolk… ambassador? That is what human with brown hair say. Noble host give good negotiation and worldwide peace in exchange for warm rock and women” The poor sod finally speaks. “An ambassador? What ambassador wears a scarf and a hood?” “Scarf?! I have you know this efficient battle garb for enemies! Blood absorbed to not get on precious scales and sneaky like fox as enemy think normal clothing inappropriate for war. You offend me with human custom.” “Right… Sir. I’m sorry, but I require a letter of invitation”. “YOU DARE REFUSE ACKL-SNARR?”. Whilst the lizard might be drawing more and more attention to himself, it’s certainly for the right reasons. “No, I ne-“ “YOU WANT TELL NOBLE YOU RESPONSIBLE FOR DESTROYAL OF HUMANS BY SCALY HANDS? I SPIT ON YOUR HATCHLINGS WHEN THEY PILE OF ASH” With a resigned sigh, the door is opened to the lizard. Looks like most people aren’t willing to be responsible for severance of diplomatic relations, even more so when the upper class are waiting, though Lizardfolk aren’t even a nation in this country.

The place is filled with more guests than he expected, and much more wine. The decorum is… elegant. To be expected, of course. The lizard takes a second to stare at the marble staircase, the marble statues, the marble tables, marble… There’s a lot of marble. Whilst his eyes wander, he looks at the other guests at this party. Shit. Masks. So many masks. This is a masquerade. Yes. Masquerade. Masks. Everyone… has masks. Yep. Alright. Perfect. Okay, let’s calm down. The lizard considers exiting the mansion and running, but he just talked his way through the bouncer earlier so it’d look embarrassing if “Ackle-Snarr” decided that he’d be intimidated by simple masks. However, minor phobias aside, does the lizard really need a mask? The noble in question, Alexander Covingtree, is supposedly getting ready for an event in three hours. There’s plenty of time to go up to his room and talk to him abo- “Have you heard? Alexander is going to start greeting the guest members!” two nobles chirped behind him. One of them, a woman wearing a crow mask responds “Oh how wonderful. He truly is a spectacular host!” The lizard is quietly muttering every known swearword to man, elf and dwarf. This is a test, he guesses. Either that or a practical joke. Knowing Snakes, it was probably both. The last few jobs had been rather simple, so Snakes might have just been trying to sharpen the lizard’s resolve. It’s a little touching that his father had that much faith in him, but it’s a bloody pain trying to do this.

The lizard realises he needs to focus on the task at hand, a mask. It needs to be long enough to account for his muzzle. Though it’d be effective enough just to grab a half-mask, the whole ‘being a lizard’ thing would be noticeable.

A man nearby is drinking a rather lot of wine, his mask is perfect. Designed after a fox, but the snout itself is long enough for it to be used by The lizard. The lizard hopes the mask doesn’t stink of alcohol. … And from the noises the man’s making, let’s make sure it doesn’t stink of anything else as well. The lizard runs to the masked noble, feigning care for the poor soul who thought it best to drink six glasses of rosé. He lifts off the mask and pulls him away, to a Fern plant in one of the corridors. It lasts for a little too long. The guy passes out after he’s done releasing his stomach and the lizard tries to place him delicately on a chair. Mission completed, he dons the masks and shudders a little. He pulls up his hood, hiding the scaly back of his head. Leaving the corridor, a companion of the drunkard notices the mask and calls out to the lizard, “Hey! You there! That was my friend’s mask.” The lizard responds promptly. “Ah, I have forgotten my own this evening, and I thought it a personal challenge to acquire a mask at the party. After all, who doesn’t disagree to a little excitement every once in a while?” The man laughs, “Indeed, sometimes a little bit of debauchery can spice up our lives. Just give it back to him when you’re done, alright? You have no idea how much he paid for it, custom made, they say!” The lizard nods. “That sounds for a rousing tale! But I give my deepest apologies, I’m in a tinsy bit of a rush”. He’d have to satisfy his curiosity another time. He goes back to scanning the room, seeing if Covingtree has arrived yet.

Aha! The lizard spots Alexander walking down. Covingtree has straight brown hair, is clean shaven and looks rather young, approximately seven years older than the seventeen-year-old lizard. Best guess would be the Alex has inherited the money that he used for this mansion. It’s obvious that the place wasn’t designed in mind of someone in their forties, so what would be the reason that Alexander has his own mansion at such a young age? Parents are either extremely rich, or the Covingtree must have had a few deaths in their lineage. Someone bumps into the lizard and he’s brought back to reality yet again, he’s got to stop doing that. Alexander’s one for theatrics. He’s holding his mask as he’s walking down the stairs, just so he can put it on with a flourish. He takes a bow when he reaches the bottom, and the crowd let out a cheer in his health. The lizard is admittedly impressed.

Now how does one approach this? Alex wanders around, shaking hands. The lizard needs to get Alex alone by himself. An idea sparks, but it’s as risky as swallowing a dirty knife. Normally this would work with a Lord’s wife, not the Lord himself. He struts towards Alexander. The lizard seems confident, probably the mask, he guesses. Something about anonymity? He read it in a book once… Well, Twice. Alexander’s taken notice now. With a quick inhale, the lizard bows, similar to how Alex did earlier. He offers his hand out for a dance. Alex is taken aback, but he accepts.

Alex is obviously not used to being a follow, he instinctually looks down as soon as they start. As they dance together, there’s a small trip. It’s hard to tell who caused it, but the lizard’s footwork kept them upright and attempts to mask it through a spin. the crowd didn’t seem to notice. Perfect. A few minutes in, the lizard notices he’s trying to impress the audience with his dancing. It’s the mask. Probably.

The crowd let out another cheer, this is the lizard’s chance. He takes Alex by the hand and points up the stairs. Alex takes a second to look into the mask’s eyes and awkwardly nods. The lizard’s seen it before, Alex’s interested in the mystery of the man behind the mask. As they retreat upstairs, He swears he heard someone whistle.

In Alex’s master bedroom. The lizard, with a sigh of relief, takes off the mask. Alex seems a little surprised to find out the lizard’s identity, predictably. The lizard begins. “Okay, great. This was much more difficult than I thought it would be.” The lizard looks out the doorway “Were you on the guest list?” “No, I had faked my way in pretending to be an ambassador for Lizardfolk. Gave your bouncer outside a particularly tough time. More importantly, I’m here representing an individual named ‘Skirt of Snakes’, are you familiar with him?” There’s a quick pause. “Not particularly, sorry.” Alex takes the time to relax on his bed. “Ah, alright.” The lizard sighs to himself, Snakes misinformed him yet again. “We’re part of the rogues found here in this city. We’d like to request assistance with infiltrating the Slater residence.” “What would I gain from such a bargain? You seemed to do fine with entering the party.” “Yeees, but it’s going to be done in the dead of the night, looting everything that isn’t nailed down. We’d like to make this as easy as possible.” The lizard just realised he gave information to a man he hadn’t fully convinced. Fuck. “I could report you to the guards for what you’re telling me.” Fuuuuuuuck. “Come now, it’d be bad manners to imprison a dance partner.” The lizard lets out a smirk and continues. “If you help us out, we’d pin the blame on Samuel Hagan, stating that he bought off rogues to steal Mr Slater’s valuables. This would cause an uproar, discrediting his name. Meanwhile, you can snatch up his land.” Samuel had been known for being an… unsavoury sort. The lizard’s band of rogues have been trying to expose his corruption for months. “Tempting. I’ll consider this.” Alex seems deep in thought, it’s an opportunity few would refuse, after all. “Perfect, I’ll notify my crew and tell someone to meet you three days from now. We’ll leave a note outside your door for details.” As the lizard stands to leave the bedroom, donning his mask, Alex dons his earlier tone “Care to stay for wine?” “Maybe another time, you’ve got to be a good host after all.” The lizard winks and leaves.

He can’t believe any of that worked.

Chapter 2: https://theunnamedlizardrogue.tumblr.com/post/172107548441/chapter-2-feline-good

[ofwolvesandshatteredshields]

Halamshiral

3k words, rated T, Fenris/Male Hawke

This drabble takes place about 13 years after Inquisition, and fairly soon after this one. I wrote it because there have been posts in the Fenris tag saying that creators shouldn’t make trans Fenris content so I have decided that every time there is a post like that, I am going to make some trans Fenris content to counteract the negativity with positivity for my fellow trans DA fans. Fenris is indeed trans here although it doesn’t come up very much.

——

The rooftop garden is closed for the winter so they have to sneak in, Fenris ghosting through a tucked-away door at the far end of the eastern wing and unlocking it for Hawke to come through. The stairs are dusted with snow and a little slippery; Hawke’s cane suddenly loses traction once and Fenris has to catch him as he flails, straining to heave his great weight upright again. The two of them collapse into each other, giggling madly.

“Thank the Maker.” Hawke kisses Fenris’s hair. “I thought we’d never get out of there.”

Fenris groans. “If I had to deflect one more question about Dumat’s death…”

“Hm.” Hawke nods thoughtfully as they ascend. “I do feel a bit badly for Aveline. Now she’s covering for us as well as Varric.”

Varric, of course, recoiled in horror the moment the word “Halamshiral” was uttered in his office; only with much stricken clutching of the chest and earnest desperation was he able to convince Aveline to represent him here instead. He is not fond of nobles, Fenris knows, and certainly not fond of five hundred of them gathered in one place, every one of whom wants something from him. Fenris has witnessed Aveline stoically absorbing numberless queries of Orlesian-accented “but where is the dear Viscount?” already this evening. And now as well “have you seen the Champion of Kirkwall, or his dashing consort?”

He will apologize after this. For now he and Hawke ascend into the night and cross the stone patio, a thick layer of powder breaking over their boots. The garden is dead—dormant, he supposes, the dense white-capped shrubs shorn of leaves, the spindly rosebushes twisting their questioning limbs into the air. To receive snow as answer, fine ridges building on each dark stem as if lain by some meticulous architect’s careful hand.

Hawk finds a stone bench at the rooftop’s edge, dusts it off, and sits. Fenris sits as well and leans on him.

“How long did Vivienne say we could stay?” Hawke asks.

Fenris shrugs. “As long as we like, I suppose. She owes me a favor.”

All of Thedas does, really, as it was he who tore out Dumat’s heart in the Fade early last summer; but Fenris does not plan on demanding recompense. Still. “This place is amazing,” Hawke says. “The food is incredible.”

Fenris grins. “I expect the accommodations are as well. A pity we did not come when the flowers were in bloom.”

Hawke’s shoulder shrugs beneath Fenris’s cheek. “I don’t know. I thought the ice sculptures were quite nice.”

“If one is willing to weather the cold,” Fenris mutters. He is dressed in a sturdy, warm wool coat with a scarf and thick gloves. Meanwhile, Hawke has only a cloak with a white-grey foxfur ruff that almost matches Fenris’s hair. From beneath the cloak he draws a flask from which he has been sampling all night; indeed, when he shakes it, it sloshes nearly empty. He heaves a piteous sigh. “Damn it all.”

Still, he offers it first and Fenris takes a swig of the fiery Fereldan whiskey. That will warm him up. Then he hands it back for Hawke to finish off.

For a little while they sit quietly, breath misting in the air—in tandem, and then one after the other. Fenris leans into Hawke’s shoulder. The foxfur collar tickles his forehead. It’s begun to snow again—not terribly hard, but tiny snowflakes drift down all around them, glowing in the light of a moon that peeks, timid, from behind her curtain of clouds. Lain out below are the palace grounds, a glittering sea of white broken by crests of topiary or gilded statues that reach their hands undaunted towards the sky.

“Hey, Fenris.”

Fenris looks up. “Hm?”

“I don’t mean to impose.” Hawke lifts the empty flask. “But, er, would you mind…I mean, it’ll be a lot faster if you do it.”

Fenris chuckles and takes it. “I will return in a moment.”

He rises and retreats across the patio, turning once just to see Hawke sitting there in the moonlight with shoulders sloped, gazing up at the falling snow.

Then he sighs and makes for the party again.

It’s still going in full force—he had faintly hoped that in the ten minutes he was gone everyone would have finished things up and dispersed. Unfortunately it was not to be. He slips and elbows his way through the throng, carefully avoiding trailing skirts and unwanted greetings. Where are the blasted kitchens? Ducking and weaving, he searches, but these damned masks are too elaborate and he can’t see over anyone’s heads—

A firm grip on his arm. He knows that grip. “Aveline.” He turns, caught in the act.

She glares at him, dressed smartly in a black velvet suit with gold trim. “Where in Oblivion have you been?! And where is Hawke?”

“Ah. Well—we slipped out. For a bit of—fresh air.”

“Slipped out where? The courtyard? I didn’t see you.”

“Er…the rooftop garden.”

“I thought it was closed to—“ Aveline breaks off, staring at Fenris while he waits breathlessly; then she exhales, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Fine. But you two will owe me after this.”

“Yes. Anything you desire.”

“I want you both on reports for two weeks.”

“Of course.”

“A month.”

“You have my word.”

“Go.” She releases him, flapping her hand. “And I will hold you to that.”

“You have my gratitude. Ah—do you know where the kitchens are?”

She sighs and gives him directions.

In the entryway there are racks of bottles waiting to be uncorked. Fenris crouches over them, searching, and eventually finds a squat brown bottle of whiskey. He thinks of taking the whole thing but his clothes are too fitted to hide it in. Instead, after a brief struggle, he uncorks it, refills the flask, searches for where the cork landed among the racks in the next room over, plugs up the bottle again, and makes his escape.

Once more into the fray. Fenris squeezes and evades, not quite knowing the way back to the eastern wing but pointing himself in that general direction, and before long the dark corridor appears before him. Letting out a sigh of relief, he makes his way to the door, still unlocked, and out into the wintry air again. As he climbs the stairs a breeze gusts a spray of powdery snow into his face, and he wrinkles his nose and rubs his eyes, making the top stair.

At the far edge of the roof Hawke is flat on his back, struggling with a woman who sits on top of him with a knife in hand. He blocks as she swings it, then tries to lift his hips and throw her off, but with only one of his legs working she easily keeps him pinned.

Fenris’s heart stops in his chest.

He lunges forward and the Veil breaks over his face like a crashing wave. When he comes out the other side, Hawke and the woman are right next to him. There’s a light in the air—his markings, a brilliant white-blue making the snowflakes glow like frozen fireflies. He grabs the woman and throws her bodily, lyrium strength charging down his limbs. She lands hard on her back with a startled “uh” and Fenris is on top of her, pinning her wrists and legs. “Who sent you?!” he shouts.

She’s Tevinter. Her skin, her features. “Murderer!” she spits. “You stole the silence from this world! The Void is too good for you!”

She tries to heave him off but his grip is iron, the lyrium a fixed point in space which she cannot hope to move. “A name,” Fenris snarls. “The name of the one who sent you, or I swear I will—“

“Fenris!” Hawke is on his feet now, limping over through the disturbed snow. “It’s all right! I’m all right. Let the guards handle this.”

Fenris looks up and discovers his heart is pounding in his chest. Hawke does look…mostly all right, but for a bloodied lip and a shallow cut above his eye. “I…I just…”

Hawke gets down on one knee, teetering a little, and kisses his temple. “I’m not completely defenseless, you know. Here, I’ll go find the guard.”

He retrieves his cane and heads for the stairs. Fenris remains where he is and tries to get some answers. All he manages to glean is the woman is part of a cult worshipping Dumat and she is irked at Fenris for killing him. She decided to target Hawked avowedly because Fenris deserves suffering over a quick death, but Fenris suspects it’s because they know he would be more difficult to kill. Before long six guards in gilded regalia appear to escort her away, Aveline at the head. She grasps Hawke’s shoulder as Fenris approaches. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” Hawke tells her. “Most of me’s still good for fighting.”

“Good. We’ll get to the bottom of this, don’t you worry. I’ll have security doubled around your rooms while you’re here.”

“Thank you. Although…” Hawke swipes at his lip, coming up with a tiny spot of blood. “Perhaps I was rather more seriously injured in the attack than I first thought. Maybe it’s best if I retire for the evening.”

Aveline glares at him. “You told me three seconds ago you were fine.”

“Yes, but that was three seconds ago.”

“Mm.” Fenris nods sagely. “I should also retire that I might care for him in his wounded state.”

Aveline’s glare gives way suddenly to a nasty smile. “Well, that’s just too bad, because I need to sweep your rooms and make sure nobody’s left you any deadly gifts.”

Hawke groans. “Aveline, please don’t make me go back out there.”

She shrugs. “Sorry, it’s for your own safety. Oh—and if anyone asks after Varric, just let them know he’s indisposed, would you?”

She gives Hawke a handkerchief, at least, to wipe the blood from his forehead. Some of it is dried on so Fenris licks his thumb and rubs at it.

Somehow the entire party appears to already know that Hawke’s just been the victim of an assassination attempt. They are accosted at the entrance to the courtyard by a mob of terribly concerned nobles asking after his well-being. “I’m fine—“ Hawke struggles forward, making little headway. “Really, it’s just a scratch—“

Then there’s movement in the crowd and the nobles part as the Grand Enchanter appears, regal as ever in a gown of white trimmed in red and gold. “Hawke, my dear!” she calls, and the clamoring drops to little more than an excited whisper. “I’ve just heard what happened.”

“Yes. Why don’t we talk about it while we return to the hall?”

The main hall? Fenris can’t imagine why he wants to descend into the varghest’s den again but follows anyway. “You have my deepest apologies,” Vivienne says. “Let me reassure you that I will find out exactly what happened tonight. And you have my personal promise that you need not fear for your safety during your stay here.”

“Your personal promise?” Hawke grins. “Are you going to come kill the assassins yourself?”

Vivienne gives him a radiant smile. “I have fought by your side many times over the years, Ser Hawke. I do love the Game, but the direct approach can be…refreshing.”

They talk as the crowd makes way. Hawke had assumed the footsteps behind him were Fenris until he saw the woman’s shadow and noticed something odd about the silhouette. Fenris relays what the woman said, and Vivienne nods thoughtfully. In the main hall the music is still going, a lively air that sounds like a rearranged folk tune.

“I’ll begin investigating immediately,” Vivienne tells him. “If there’s anything you need, you have only to ask.”

Then she leaves them, and Hawke turns to Fenris and sticks out his hand. “Fenris, would you dance with me?”

Fenris stares. “Would I what with you?”

Hawke falters a little. “Please. If we’re dancing no one can bother us.”

That…is an excellent point. “Ah. Then yes, I will.”

“Thank the Maker.” Hawke lifts his cane and freezes, staring at it for a second. Fenris thinks of asking Aveline to hold it but of course she’s busy securing their quarters.

Hawke solves the problem by sliding it into his belt at the hip. “There. Shall we?”

Fenris snorts, following him. “You look ridiculous.”

“Everyone’s got those ceremonial bloody swords hanging off of them. Only difference with this is I could actually use it to hurt someone.”

There are couples gliding and whirling across the floor so they pick a corner that’s out of the way. Fenris uses one hand to clasp Hawke’s and rests the other at Hawke’s waist. Around them the Orlesians perform elaborate sequences of steps, bowing and twirling and curtsying to various musical cues Fenris doesn’t hear. Instead he leans into Hawke’s chest and they rock slowly, the last bars of the air giving way to a sumptuous waltz.

“I wish people would stop trying to kill you,” Fenris says.

Beneath his cheek Hawke’s chest rises and falls with a great sigh. “Yes, well, you know what they say. No good deed goes unpunished.”

“It wasn’t even your good deed. I’m the one who killed Dumat. You were busy sleeping and eating Sister Catherine’s food.”

Hawke guffaws. “Well, now you know how I felt dragging you with me around Thedas for four years while the Chantry was hunting me down.”

Fenris grunts. It’s a fair point.

“I wouldn’t worry. I trust Vivienne to keep us safe while we’re here. She seemed to take the whole thing rather personally. And anyway…” Fenris hears the grin in his voice. “I’ve got a dashing partner who can teleport across rooftops to save my sorry arse.”

Fenris looks up, cups Hawke’s face, and kisses him.

No longer rocking back and forth, simply standing all to themselves in a secluded corner of the dance floor. The kiss breaks briefly and by a hair’s breadth at best, their lips meeting again almost at once. They must have kissed thousands of times over the years, yet now the warm flush of safety swells so strongly it threatens to bear Fenris away. Not his own safety now—not anymore. He can kill an Old God and walk away none the worse for wear. Hawke, on the other hand, struggles to defend himself from aspiring assassins.

But Hawke is here and alive, his lips warm and dry on Fenris’s own. When Fenris breaks away and leans into Hawke’s chest, the rhythmic thudding under his ear is strong and steady as ever.

Some things have changed but the way their bodies meet hasn’t—maybe the pure sensation of it, Hawke a little softer and Fenris not quite so thin. Still Fenris knows exactly the way Hawke’s shoulderblade rotates under his palm, the way Hawke’s chest presses against his own and his stomach when he breathes in expands just there. Feels it as they make their winding way upstairs, excused at last from the party by Aveline’s return, stopping now and then at corners or stone landings to hold each other and lazily kiss a few more times. It takes a good ten minutes for them to reach the bedroom at last, containing themselves for the sake of the five guards posted at strategic points on the approach.

But Fenris toes the door shut behind him and kisses Hawke again, the two of them drifting toward the bed and colliding with it gently. Hawke flops down on his back and pulls Fenris on top of him, and Fenris kisses Hawke’s neck, legs splaying loosely over his hips, trails down to the base of his throat. Hawke’s enormous hands slide down his back, coming to rest on his ass and cupping it. Fenris lets out a satisfied “mm,” and squeezes the thick muscle at Hawke’s chest—

“Er. Fenris?”

“Yes?” Fenris murmurs, kneading the muscle under his fingers.

“It appears I’m—er—a bit tired.”

Fenris blinks, propping himself up on one elbow.

“And this bed is…really comfortable.” Hawke winces a little, apologetic.

Fenris can’t help but laugh. “Then this will have to wait for another time, I suppose.”

“Sorry. Shouldn’t have had all that whiskey. Makes me sleepy.”

As they undress Fenris gets a look at the room he hardly had a chance to notice earlier when they were jamming themselves into their formal outfits for the ball. Delicate, lacy sconces line the walls, illuminating overstuffed chairs in deep red crushed velvet and daubed paintings of ladies in enormous dresses giggling to themselves in sunny pastures. Not entirely to Fenris’s taste, but as he climbs into the bed he discovers it is indeed incredibly soft. “Ah.”

“See? I told you,” Hawke says as he crawls in as well.

Fenris flips on his side and Hawke curls up behind them, the two of them skin on skin beneath the vast duvet. After a moment Fenris picks up the hand that’s on his stomach and places it over his breast instead. If they’re not going to have sex he can at least have that.

“Thanks for protecting me,” Hawke murmurs.

Fenris lets out a sigh. “With luck I won’t have to do it again.”

“Mm. I suppose we’ll just…have to stay here while Vivienne figures out what’s going on.”

Fenris snorts. “Don’t you think you’re rather taking advantage of her generosity?”

“Are you saying you don’t want to?”

“By no means. This bed is extremely comfortable.”

“I knew it.” Hawke kisses the back of his neck. “Tomorrow we’ll break our fast with roasted pheasant and quails’ eggs.”

Fenris smiles to himself. “Go to sleep, Hawke. We’ve had a long day.”

“Mm. I love you, Fenris.”

“And I love you.”

[mirkwoodshewolf]

A Magical Christmas; Peter Parker x reader

Okay this was my first Peter Parker oneshot that I had thought back several months ago and yeah it’s another Christmas theme. Now this is Tom Holland’s spiderman and I’m sorry if you’d wanted this to be Garfield’s or Maguire’s spiderman. Anyways this is now a romantic oneshot so now child comforts for now except mentioned because well.............spoilers! I’ll just let you read on okay :) Again I do not OWN the Marvel characters, they belong to their respected owners and any other references belong to their respected owners/companies. Enjoy :)

________________________________________________________

“But I thought you said you’d be able to take a day off” I said through the phone.

‘I know but you know my new job’. I chuckled softly then continued solemnly.

“I just can’t believe I’ll be spending Christmas without you”.

‘I know sweetie, I hate it to, if I could I would reverse time and make Wong give me the day off’.

“I know you would, but he’d probably bust you even more and force you to work for all holidays”.

‘Probably. I’ve got to go now sweetheart. I love you, you know that right sweetheart?’

“I do god-papa. Bye”

‘Bye’. I hung up the phone and leaned up against my locker sighing sadly.  I can’t believe that my Godfather has to work on Christmas keeping the world safe. Christmas should be a time celebrating with family and friends, considering that God-papa Stephen is all I have of a family.

Wait I’m getting ahead of myself, my name is (y/n) Strange. Yeah you heard right, Stephen Strange the once known great neurosurgeon now self-titled hero Doctor Strange is my father, well god-father actually.  You see when he was still in medical school, he and my father met each other and were constantly being set up as partners for the professor’s display exams and with that the rest was history and they soon became the best of friends.

Even after graduating they still remained in touch and Stephen was even there for my dad’s wedding to my mom and my birth where he was named my Godfather.  But when I was only 7 years old, the hospital where my parents worked was soon taken hostage by some gunner and unfortunately my parents were caught in the crossfire and died instantly.

After that day, God-papa Stephen took full custody of me as it said in my parents’ will and I’ve been living with him for the last 9 years.  I was there for him when he had his accident and took on extra shifts at my café plus another job washing cars to help give him more money to invest in a cure and give him the flight to Nepal where he was trained with the Ancient One.

I flew with him to Nepal just to make sure he would be okay then just before I could schedule a flight back home, Mordor said that the Ancient one was actually wanting to speak to both of us so long story short I was involved in the fight with Kaecilius and trained minorly in the mystic arts but after God-papa Stephen won his battle with Kaecilius and Dormammu, I decided that I wanted to head back to the normal life of school but once I graduated I will help God-papa Stephen with protecting the universe from mystical threats.

So now here I am at Midtown High School as a junior living in an apartment of my own that’s not too far in fact from my—

“Guess who?” Hands covered my eyes and a voice whispered in my ear.  I giggled and removed his hands from my face and turned towards my best friend now boyfriend Peter Parker.

“Hey Pet”. His eyebrows furrowed in confusion as he said.

“What’s wrong babe? You look like Santa left you a lump of coal in your stocking”.

“Ha-ha very funny Spider-boy” I teased at him. He shushed me by placing his hand over my mouth and he said to me in a hushed “stern” voice.

“Why must you call me that?” He removed his hand from my mouth and I said.

“Because I can and I know how much it gets to you”. He wrapped his arms tightly around my waist and rocked me back and forth.

“But in all seriousness, what’s wrong?”

“My God-papa just called me and said he wouldn’t be able to make it for Christmas”.

“What? Aww man that’s too bad, I’m sorry babe”.

“It’s not your fault. But I wish his work wouldn’t interfere with Christmas. He’s all I got left and it’ll be awkward spending it with his girlfriend even though I love her to death”.

“Hey, I got an idea. Why don’t you celebrate Christmas with me and Aunt May?”

“What? No Peter I can’t do that, I—I couldn’t impose”.

“Nonsense, Aunt May loves you, and after it’s with family AND Friends that you spend Christmas with. I’m not gonna let my girl spend Christmas Home Alone”.

“Oh speaking of which, you wanna come over for a Home Alone marathon at my place?”

“Sure, I love that movie”.

“Who doesn’t?” I asked. I packed away my books into my backpack and the two of us left for my place.

One train ride and about 10 block walk later we reached my apartment and made it up to my room. Peter and I set my books down and Peter got the movie ready while I got the junk food and the hot chocolate.  Once everything was ready we sat on my loveseat cuddled close together and watched the first Home Alone.

When the part came on when Kevin put the tarantula on Marv’s face, I squirmed and cringed and said.

“God I always hated this part, even though it’s hilarious as hell it still is horrible”.

“Ehh, I used to be freaked out but now everytime I see a spider I say, ‘hey man, that’s my buddy’”.

“Yeah only you would say that Spiderman”. I shook out my shivers from my shoulders to my feet and cuddled into Peter when I suddenly felt something crawl along my neck.  I squirmed then lashed out my hand only to catch Peter’s hand in mine.  He laughed and I shoved him hard onto the arm of the loveseat exclaiming.

“That’s not funny!”

“It kinda was” he laughed out. I playfully pounded on him before now pinning his hands to his side and looking down at him.  “You forgive me?”

“Only because you’re the most adorable little puppy dog I’ve ever seen”. I leaned forward and kissed him before lying on top of him the two of us snuggling together as the movie finished up.

After finishing the second Home Alone movie it was starting to get dark and Peter had to get home before Aunt May freaked out on him.

“So I’ll pick you up tomorrow at 1?”

“Might as well, don’t have a choice do I?”

“No you don’t. I’d rather have you be with me than spend the holiday by yourself”.

“I know, and thanks Pete, you sure I won’t intrude on you and Aunt May?”

“Baby you’re practically family, in fact Aunt May sometimes has been pestering me that I better tell her that the girl I marry is you, if it’s someone else she’ll kill me”. I giggled and said.

“Yeah I am pretty cool”. Peter rolled his eyes then he leaned in and captured my lips with his.

“Don’t forget beautiful”.

“Okay Romeo, you better get home before Aunt May changes her opinion on me”. He kissed me one last time before firing a web to the next building and took off.  I shook my head smiling as I watched Peter disappear into the night.  I closed my window and locked it tight with bolts and magic and got ready for bed.

The next day, I prepared an overnight bag since Peter was going to make me stay until after Christmas which was still two days away.  Once I got packed, I heard a knock at my window and saw Peter but dressed in his Spiderman attire.  I unlocked my window and he said.

“Did someone order Handsome Hero airline?” I rolled my eyes and slowly moved Peter’s mask up to his nose and kissed him passionately.  I moaned softly and separated from him but kept my lips lingering on his and whispered seductively.

“Well handsome hero, mind removing the mask so I can see the man behind the Spider?” Peter then removed the mask and looked at me with those deep chocolate eyes of his.

“I swear you’re an enchantress. You’ve got me under your spell Elphaba” I chuckled at the nickname and said.

“Enchantress? Not quite, wicked? Sometimes”. I pecked his lips and he put the mask back on and said.

“You ready?” I nodded and we both now stood on my fire-escape with my bag and he said, “alright, hold on”.  He then fired his web shooters and we took off swinging towards his apartment.

When we reached his apartment and he got changed from his Spider-man suit into normal clothes then he came back out and we went inside his apartment the normal way through the door and Peter said as he unlocked his door.

“Aunt May, I brought (y/n)!”

“Hello (y/n)! Peter told me your godfather wasn’t able to come home for the holidays. I’m so sorry to hear that, but just know that you are welcome here anytime, especially on Christmas”.

“Thanks Aunt May”.

“Once you get settled in, how about helping me with the gingerbread house?”

“Oh yes!” I exclaimed as Peter took me to the guest room to get me set up and comfortable. “Oh Pet, guess what I just found out?”

“What?”

“The Public Library is having a Harry-Potter themed Yule Ball Christmas Eve at 9pm. You think we can go together?”

“Harry Potter? Uhh hell yeah! Do you know anything else about it?”

“I may have to double check but I think the attire was semi-formal and you have to make sure you have something representing what house you’re in on you like a scarf, necklace, bracelet, etc.”

“Awesome I can wear my Gryffindor patch”.

“Uhh hate to break it to you Peter but you’re a Hufflepuff”.

“What? No I’m Gryffindor 100%”

“You’re a Hufflepuff and you know it”. Peter then tackled me into the bed and began tickling me.

“Say it! Say that I’m a Gryffindor or the tickling continues!”

“Cahahahn’t say whahahaht isn’t truohohohohe!”

“Okay but you asked for it!” He then tickled me harder and more determined making me laugh louder which then made Aunt May cry out.

“Peter! (Y/n)! You two better not be rough-housing too much in there!” Peter stopped tickling me and he collapsed right next to me allowing me to catch my breath. He then held me close and kissed my forehead and said.

“Yeah let’s do it. I’ll ask Aunt May if it’s alright for us to go that night, you know how she is when it comes to Christmas”.

“That I do, oh I better go help her with the gingerbread house”. As I got up I was suddenly pulled back down and kissed. I giggled and said, “Thanks Peter, now really let go otherwise we’re gonna have cock-block May come in and think we were doing something naughty”.

“Yeah you’re right”. I pecked his cheek then left the room and headed into the kitchen to help Aunt May.

For the next couple of days, I was helping with final preparations for the Parker Christmas party with cooking the food, wrapping the presents, etc.  We had talked with Aunt May about the Yule ball on Christmas Even night and she said we could go but we had to be back by midnight (why is it always midnight?) then finally it was Christmas Eve.

The three of us had a small family sized Christmas dinner, we exchanged presents and sung a few Christmas carols (well mainly me while Aunt May played the piano and Peter just watched me with adoring eyes).  Once we were done, Peter and I got ready for the Yule Ball, I was wearing a (h/c) dress to symbolize my (HP/h) and after much, much, much, much, much, MUCH convincing, I got Peter to wear a Hufflepuff scarf just like Newt Scamander’s scarf and we managed to get a cab to drive us to the library.

Once we got there, we entered inside the library and were greeted by the same Christmas decorations they had in the movies when the Yule Ball was shown.

“Whoa” Peter and I stated in awe.  The beauty of the library all decorated and lit up just like an actual Yule Ball. Peter then got in front of me and held out his hand and said, “milady, would you allow me to take your coat and escort you to the dancefloor?”

“Why of course you may, such a gentleman Mr. Parker”. I take my coat off and Peter takes them to the closet and he comes back still with the Hufflepuff scarf around his neck and escorts me towards the dance floor.  He then comes in front of me and takes my left hand in his right hand, his other arm wrapped around my waist, my other hand wrapped around him and my head resting on his shoulder as the two of us began to slow dance.

“So glad you thought of this (y/n)”.

“Well thank you Peter, I thought we could use a fun time together just the two of us. And thanks again for allowing me to spend Christmas Eve with you and your Aunt”.

“Like I said (n/n) you’re practically family already, it was no problem or hassle what’s so ever”. We kissed each other before leaning against one another once again continuing our dance.

Suddenly I could swear from the second level of the library I saw the Cloak of Levitation. It waved at me like it wanted me to follow it before disappearing.

“(Y/n)?” Peter said as he stopped dancing.

“Pet I—I gotta go see something really quick”. I quickly ran out of the ballroom and headed to an empty portion of the library and used my magic to transport me up to the second level of the library.

I raced down the corridor to see the Cloak again waving and flying towards me.  It wrapped itself around me almost like it was hugging me and I smiled.

“Hey there Cloakie, what are you doing here?” It then unwrapped itself from me and gestured me to follow him. I chased after it until I reached an open part of the library and was greeted with a shocking surprise.

“If you think I’d let Wong keep me from spending Christmas with you, then you must not know me very well. I can’t tell whether you’re excited or shocked or—” I cried out as I embraced God-papa Stephen as tightly as I could.

“Oh my god….I can’t but how did—how did you convince Wong to let you go?”

“Let’s just say I promised him Beyoncé tickets to her next concert”. I chuckled and nuzzled into his chest and he wrapped his arms around me rocking me back and forth.

“I still can’t believe you’re here”.

“Sweetheart, it’s Christmas Eve, I couldn’t just leave you behind, the threats of the world can wait for one day, especially when that day is Christmas Eve”. He kissed my forehead and I leaned up against him smiling softly with tears of joy rolling down my face.

“Hey (y/n) you were gone for a while so I thought I would—” Peter soon came up and saw me and my god-papa together.  “Whoa, what? I—I-I—hey I’m—I’m—I’m Peter”.

“Ahh the young Spiderman am I right?” My god-papa said.

“Y-yeah. I—I gotta say it’s—it’s an honor to meet you Mr. Strange”.

“Doctor Strange Mr. Parker”.

“Oh boy” I muttered quietly as I face palmed softly.  After much awkwardness (mainly on Peter’s part) God-papa Stephen allowed Peter and I to head back to the party and then he would take us home after the party was over.

As Peter and I danced together, God-papa Stephen kept his eyes on me and now knowing that I was really growing up, he couldn’t help but allow a few tears fall from his eyes just to have the cloak of levitation wipe them away with the collar.  He thrashed his head trying to stop the cloak from Mothering him before finally snapping at it.

“Stop!”

[chameleonspell]

197: fire

Fire in the clouds, a flaming beast of a storm. Howling circles around the summit of Red Mountain, ready to descend in ravenous fury and devour the slopes. Iriel, on the slopes, almost wished it would. Anything to break this living mummification in a shroud of smog. Anything to know something other than the scab-red darkness, and the ash coming down. But here inside the Fence, it was always dark, and the ash always coming down. The moment we fall, the ash will cover us. We'll vanish in seconds, drowned in a senseless sea of wasted life. Wasted energy. Perhaps in another thousand years, someone will find our relics, and wonder who we were.

He adjusted his mouth-filter, but there was no stopping it. The ash was outside and inside, filling every space and coating every surface with a red that was bloody yet barren, dull with decay, a wound past all healing. Filling him up with rusty greyness, the null remainder of things long since burned and lost. Who are we? What am I? The ashes of all the possibilities I set fire to along the way. And whether we fall or rise, the ash takes us all back, eventually. Nothing endures. Nothing can burn forev-- Shut the fuck up, Ire! Stop thinking! Walk! All you have to do is walk! Three days. Two on the lower slopes, where camping was still barely possible. One in the blightstorm, where any shelter would have to be wrenched from the mountain itself, and so far, the mountain hadn't given an inch. All they could do was keep going. Wind in his ears, a ceaseless, hollow roar that blocked out everything but the old, brittle monologue, creeping out of the cellar on its spindly legs again. I can't remember the stones. How can I, when there are no paths, everything shifting, reburying me endlessly. Only the ash drinks our tears, and ash has no memory. Ash has my memory, ashes of memories. Ash is eaten fire. We have been eaten and burned... no, burned and eaten. I was burned, so I burned things. Many things, far too many. Sweat ran down his back, beneath his protective layers. The Armigers had shown them how to sew frost-charms into their cloaks, but the heat was still relentless. The air coming through his filter smelled of charred corpses and tasted of dread. Nothing behind me, and nothing ahead. Past ash, future ash, what exists between, what pins me placeless, hauls me helpless? An illusion. Nothing. No rudder, because no ship. There is no room for it. I am trapped between past and future in the no-space of the present which is absent, imaginary, noth-- Something caught his foot, and he stumbled into blind space, landing in ash that yielded so numbly, he thought himself still in mid-air. He floundered, lost. There was only the ash, he was adrift and alone. Panic crushed his chest in an airless fist. nothingthereisnothingnothingnothing--SHUT UP!!! He choked a word out into the red: "Where--?" A voice, closer than he'd expected. "Hold on, I see you." "Where are you?" "Here." "Are you still there?" "I'm here." "I thought you were gone." "No." A darker shape in the air. Fingers on his arm, a brush that slipped into a firm grip. "Can you see me?" "I've got you." "Look at me. Please, I'm..." "I see you." "Don't look away!" "I see you." A hand around his wrist, hauling him on through tear-muddied, gore-red fog. He followed, forcing his legs through knee-deep ash-drifts that clung, heavy as swampland, but dead, dead, dead. The red-veined clouds belched open, and burning stones began to fall, tiny glinting shards and sparking embers, the largest as big as his fist. Julan raised his shield and dragged him faster. "This way! I see something!" Harder uphill. Lungs burning, muscles burning, the air acrid with smoke. Missiles clattered on the shield above him in harsh, staccato bursts. Some struck his shoulders and arms, lighter than he feared. Charcoal, perhaps, or pumice. The ash evened out, and he saw pipes buried in it, felt firmer ground beneath him. "There's a tower!" Julan yelled, and Ire squinted upwards past the shield, rubbing his goggles clean with his sleeve. Great shapes loomed over him, colossal metal cylinders studded with rivets and augmented by massive geometric structures, ranging from the conceivably functional to the aesthetically perverse. Statues, even. A brass-bearded Dwemer king hung bent, skewed horizontal in midair, dead-eyed and creaking in the wind. It was awe-inspiring. So much so, that he didn't notice an ember had caught his scarf until Julan shouted, and by then, his cloak was on fire. He should have thrown himself down and rolled. Instead, blindsided by flaming panic, he clawed wildly at his face and neck, breaking the clasp of his cloak as he ripped it off, screaming as his blue silk scarf fell apart in his hands, and the wind snatched the last shreds into darkness. In that moment, he felt his soul disintegrating with it. He came a little undone. When Julan finally got Iriel into the shelter of the brass-panelled porch that cupped the tower's round entrance, Ire was shaking and coughing, hyperventilating ash. He was no longer burning, but his head and neck were bare, and he'd torn the front of his shirt down to the waist. "A short season of towers," he was reciting, eyes glassy. "A rundown absolution, and what is this, what is this, but fire under your eyelid?!" "What?" Julan tried to hold Ire's head still long enough to check it for injury. "Your eye? It looks fine, where d--?" "The fire is mine! Let it consume thee!" "Aagh! Stop that!" As Julan hissed and worried at him, Iriel looked down at his bared chest and began to laugh. "Look!" he gasped. "I've given my honour to the rav'nous flame! I've burned everything now, everything!" His voice was rising again, breaking into shrill, jagged ribbons of sound. Julan tried to quiet him, but Ire's laughter only grew more uneven, weighted with sobs. "My blood, my family, my beauty and wisdom! Who did I burn it for? What did I ever get for it? Was it all a false exchange, a trick? A test of devotion? To what? What?!" "It wasn't anything, you're just babbling. Shhh..." "Even... even my sorrow, the thing I though I'd never lose, the tears I thought would never stop... it all burns away, in the end! Everything, everything... I've burned all my bridges, burned all my ghosts..." "Shhh, Iya. You're safe, nothing's burning." "I cursed the stars! Of course I'm doomed to lose everything, of course I’d never win my true love! My pa'd tell me I had it coming!" Julan wrapped his arms around Ire's head. "Shhh. It wasn't your fault." He pulled him near, held him still. "Shhh..." Drained and red-eyed, Iriel watched the blightstorm rage through a crack in their small, metal shelter. Julan had found a fallen panel in the ash and propped its corrugated bulk across the porch entrance. Only swirling darkness showed through the narrow gap, but Ire stared at it anyway, transfixed. "It feels like there's nothing else left in the world," he whispered. "As if everything has already burned and crumbled away." At his back, he felt Julan's ribcage expand in a slow breath. "Not yet." "There'll be no going back, after we walk off this edge. Nothing will be the same." A shrug. "That's the whole point." Despite the hoarseness of his throat, Ire began to sing, weak and breathy: "The dawn broke hard upon the ash, my hands were barren and blistered..." "But," Julan interrupted gently, "the dawn broke." His hand was on Ire's arm, and he squeezed it. "You can't really burn things like that, you know. Weren't you the one who hated trite metaphors?" He gave Ire a soft but meaningful nudge. "Your pa wants to see you." Iriel sighed. "I just... can't picture... anything. How can you ever know what to keep and what to cast into the fire? What will warm you, and what burn you to the bone, if you let it get close to you ever again?" Julan said nothing, only held Ire tighter against him, and reached out to improve the seal on their makeshift door. "Even if we live... what will be left, after all this is over? When we sift through the ashes?" A still pause, before Julan said: "Love?" Ire couldn't quite laugh, but he got as far as a watery smile. "As if it were a gemstone, formed once, in times of great heat and intense pressure, then perfect forever after? They give crystals as wedding gifts, back home, you know. To represent permanence and purity. Such guarshit; love is nothing like that. It's a living thing. You have to care for it or it dies. And even then, nothing mortal lasts forever. Time eats love, desire, everything. But... the fact you would say that is part of why I love you." "You make it all so complicated." Julan stifled a yawn. "You sure it counts, saying you love me, now? Seems to me, brushes with flaming death should be like orgasm, under your rules. You need to be a certain distance away, before saying you love someone means anything." Ire settled back against Julan's chest. "I have a new rule. It's called shut the fuck up and let people love you." A little later, Julan felt movement, and glanced down. Iriel had turned away from the storm and was fumbling with the straps of his cuirass. Julan chuckled. "You getting that sexy imminent doom thing again?" "No. I don't think that works, when it's real. But I need to be closer to you. I need to feel your heartbeat, instead of that other one, out there." Julan co-operated with the straps, and shrugged out of his armour. It was glass, found on an unfortunate Armiger's body, their second day on the mountain. It had taken some argument, but Ire had eventually convinced him that the greatest respect they could pay the fallen warrior was to wear his armour on their journey. Iriel was trying to press himself against Julan with all his limbs at once, but had too many of them to really succeed. "I guess you're right about imminent doom not being all that sexy," Julan muttered, after a few minutes of this, "but you squirming around half naked between my legs certainly is." Ire sat bolt upright. "Wait!" he said. "Yes! Right! I've changed my mind! Fuck me!" "Uhh... You're sure that's really a good--" "Yes! I'm full of nothing but morbid nonsense, and I need to get it screwed out of me." Julan rubbed his eyes and stretched, bracing his back against the curving brass wall. "Iya... no offence, but... when has that ever worked, before?" "Previous failure is no reason to stop repeating an experiment," mumbled Iriel, but the energy had already left his voice, and he stopped interfering with Julan's belt. "I'm sorry," he sighed, head sinking forwards. "It's just... lately, every time I touch you, I start thinking... what if this is the last time? What if this is our last chance?" "Look, how about you stop trying to make sure our last time is the worst one ever, and focus on how we make sure it's not the last?" Julan was pulling blankets from his pack. "Like by keeping your strength up, and getting some rest." Iriel offered no resistance, cushioning the metal beneath him as best he could, and curling foetal. Settling himself alongside, Julan wrapped an arm around Ire's shoulders and pressed his mouth to his ear. "Harileth, ka harilethar zunni, Iyabibi." "Hmm? I love and... will love... something else?" Ire shifted in Julan's embrace to pout at him. "It's not fair to say sweet things, if I can't understand!" "How d'you know they're sweet? I could be insulting you." "You didn't mention guar, so..." "It's just a way to say goodnight," Julan said. "To children, usually," he added, a touch sheepishly. "I used to hear it in the camp. It means: I love you, and I'll love you tomorrow." Ire's mouth twitched. "Tomorrow..." "As many as we get. And I intend to fight for them. I know... it's not about us. That succeeding is more important than whether we survive it. But... this isn't a suicide mission. I'm going to fight with everything I've got. You have to, as well. Don't burn out on me yet, Iya. Think about what you want, afterwards. Hold onto it." Ire managed a laugh, this time. "There you go again with the storybook hero talk, it's adorable." Dodging Julan's nose, he nuzzled close. "Harileth," he whispered, between kisses. "Harilem. Either. Both. All the forms. All possible tenses. Yesterday and tomorrow, and now... and now... and now..." next: 198: sunder previous: 196: dawn beginning: 1: numb

[peckhampeculiar]

They thought it was all over...

WHEN JAMES COVENTRY SPOTTED AN OLD PHOTO OF A NUNHEAD FOOTBALL TEAM AT HIS LOCAL PUB, IT CAUGHT HIS INTEREST.

Now he’s on a mission to revive the name of the forgotten club, who played their last officially recorded game in October 1940

WORDS: HUGO GREENHALGH; PHOTO: OLLIE JARMAN

The emerging popularity of Dulwich Hamlet over the past 10 years has awoken many people to the delights of non-league football. What’s less well-known is that a little further east, on the other side of Peckham Rye, Nunhead had a club of its own, who were a notable name in amateur foot­ball in the first half of the 20th century.

Graphic designer and Nunhead resident James Coventry has been on a mission to revive the name of Nunhead FC, and through a new web­site, social media presence and merchandise range, he is helping to put the club back on the map and into the local consciousness – and raise money for charity at the same time.

I met up with him at the Waverley Arms, the closest pub to the old ground and the place where James’s fascination with Nunhead FC began, after an old black and white team photo hanging next to the toilets caught his attention.

“I’ve lived in Peckham for about 11 years, and I moved here [to Nunhead] in 2015,” he says. “This is my local pub and I must have walked past that photo about 30 times before I ever thought any­thing of it.”

After further research, James discovered that this was Nunhead FC, who alongside neighbours Dulwich Hamlet, were one of the dominant clubs in the golden, interwar period of amateur football. However, due to a fire at the clubhouse shortly before the club’s demise in 1949, very little material exists about them. Pitching the club to a new audience represented a challenge for James, both from a design and historical point of view.

“They used to be Dulwich Hamlet’s great rivals and I found that story to be quite compelling for people, because it gives them a reference of where they were as a team. People know where Dulwich are now, and they’re really on the up.

“Nunhead were around for 50 years and in that time they had the two Isthmian title wins, which were the big achievements. They played against Tottenham and against teams like Wimbledon, who were down at that level back then.”

Nunhead also hosted their 1935 FA Cup tie against Watford, which the Hertfordshire side won 4-2. “There’s some really amazing football history and very few people in this area know about it, so it was my challenge to see, as a graphic designer, what I could do to give it a new life, after 80 years of being inactive,” says James.

Initially founded in 1888 by a group of stockbro­kers in Blackfriars, who set up the team for local working boys to play football after leaving school, the club went through various incarnations be­fore settling in Nunhead in the early 1900s, where they took on the name of the local area.

Their stadium was known as Brown’s Ground and was part of the Haberdashers’ Aske’s estate, who still use the original site as part of their play­ing fields today.

To access the ground, spectators would exit Nunhead Station, then shuffle into an alleyway that ran down the back of Ivydale Road until they reached the stadium.

Such was the proximity to Ivydale Road, that a stray shot is once said to have broken a window of a nearby house. The homeowner refused to return the ball unless the club paid for it to be fixed – so Nunhead were left to decide whether it would be cheaper to do that, or replace the ball.

We wonder what the matchday experience might have been like for a Nunhead fan back in the early half of the 20th century. “I’ve got the sense from what I’ve read that it was no Cham­pion Hill [in terms of quality]. It was quite a poor playing surface. There’s a few match reports that I’ve read where [play was] rained off or had really bad visibility,” James says.

However, that did not deter fans from regularly coming in their thousands to support the side.

“Some of the attendances were really strong. They were getting well over 5,000 for derby days with Dulwich or when the likes of Watford played. It’s hard to believe that it was just happening up the road! That’s the beauty of it.”

Those “derby days” were part of local folklore at the time and the two clubs enjoyed a healthy rivalry. “It seems quite friendly. Something I really like was that they put on a Boxing Day match,” James says. “That looks like it went on annually for quite a few years and it all seems quite cor­dial.”

Of particular interest to James is Nunhead’s most successful spell in the late 1920s, when the club won back-to-back Isthmian titles in 1928-29 and 1929-30. As it is the 90th anniversary of the

second of these triumphs, James is using his graphic design skills and newly created Nunhead social media accounts to retrospectively docu­ment that season from the archive material he has available.

“I really wanted to launch it this September for the 90th anniversary,” he explains. “They did it in back-to-back seasons, which was the pinnacle of the club’s success. It was a little bit downhill from there. I wanted to run it in parallel to the start of that Isthmian season and just celebrate that mile­stone.”

Looking at the players at the club during those seasons, James came across an unusual name – Yuno Kalemba Dimmock, who is said to have been a speedy winger from Uganda, and the first East African to play first class English football. Sadly, very little else is known about Dimmock’s time at Nunhead.

“I wish I knew more,” James says wistfully. “He’s on the records here as playing through those ti­tle-winning seasons, while he was at university. No photos unfortunately!”

Far more of a household name is Denis Comp­ton, who represented his country at both football and cricket and went on to play for Arsenal, but started his career at Nunhead as a teenager.

“He came in as a 16 year old at a time when Nunhead weren’t at their best, flagging mid-table and in the bottom half of the league, and lit things up on the left wing,” James says. “He could score goals, he was doing it at an incredibly young age. He did two seasons and then moved straight on to Arsenal.

“He seemed like a slightly better cricketer; England, Middlesex. It’s really interesting that so many people were playing multiple sports – they were true ‘all-rounders’. It makes you think about what the standard might have been like, but there’s something really romantic about it.”

Despite the successes of the previous decade, Nunhead began to run into trouble in the 1930s as issues over rising rents and the lease on Brown’s Ground emerged. A fire in 1936 gutted the club­house and a stand, causing great expense to the club. Not long after, the timber business of one of the club’s major benefactors was destroyed dur­ing the Blitz and as a result, he could no longer afford to back Nunhead.

The club briefly played at Champion Hill in its twilight years and the last officially recorded game took place there on 5 October 1940, against Dulwich Hamlet. Nunhead eventually withdrew from the FA in May 1949.

Seventy years on and James is helping to re­store the identity of a forgotten football club. As well as creating the website and social media channels, he has also redesigned the club badge to include two stars that mark Nunhead’s Isthmi­an title-winning seasons.

He now sells a black and white scarf and a pin badge with the updated crest, donating the profits to Westminster House Youth Club, a lo­cal youth centre in Nunhead, who were fittingly founded in 1888 – the same year as the football club.

“Tying it back to helping young people in Nun­head for me is where the club started, and West­minster House is a really good fit for it,” he says. “They put on lots of activities for local kids and they go out on a lot of day trips. It’s just about trying to get kids out of the bubble, making sure they’re getting lots of opportunities, having expe­riences, developing as people and staying active.”

Beyond supporting a local charity, James hopes that reviving the Nunhead FC name will help uncover some more of the club’s history.

“I’d love to hear from anyone who can provide a first-hand account, or knows someone who was involved with the club. It would be great if some­thing like that came out of doing the project.”

He also has aspirations to hold one last derby day game against Dulwich. “I love the idea of try­ing to put on one last, final Nunhead team for a revisit of the derby, even if it’s just a Dulwich sup­porters team. I think that would be a nice way to cap this anniversary.”

Just don’t suggest playing it in period costume. “The shorts looked like potato sacks at that time,” James laughs. “Look how heavy the shirts are!”

Nunhead FC might not have officially kicked a ball in well over 70 years, but what James has done to revive the club’s name is a refreshing and welcome addition to south London’s rich foot­balling tapestry.

He’s given their legacy a new lease of life and, in a cyclical way, is using the club to help out the local Nunhead community – just as the original founders would have wanted.

[hauteculturefashion]

Oaxaca is bursting at the seams with traditional textiles. The city is a textile lover’s dream; a cornucopia of authentic ethnic fashion, rich with indigenous culture and artisanal wares. This is the best place in Mexico to shop for traditional costumes, blusa, huipils and don’t get me started on the jewellery.

However, shopping here can feel overwhelming due to the sheer volume of variety. It will take you a couple of solid days of shopping to get a feel for which shops have the best stock. Which is exactly what I did. Here is my top selection of best shops for buying traditional textiles and fashion in Oaxaca City, scroll down to the bottom of the post to get the free google map of all the places listed.

Number 1 Huizache

This is possibly my favourite shop in Oaxaca. I bought some beautiful garments from here that were great quality, fairly priced and which had the artisan’s name and village written on each price tag, which I thought was a lovely touch. The shop is spread over two floors, with a whole area dedicated to fashion. The staff were super helpful, friendly and knowledgable (some spoke in English). They also have a large selection of very cool contemporary litho cut t-shirt designs by local artisans. Plus hammocks, baskets, bags and rugs. This store has it all and you can spend hours fingering different fabrics and agonising over what can be squeezed into your suitcase. And to top it all, it’s fair trade.

Bags and rugs on sale in Huizache, a fair trade shop which offers everything from huipils to handbags.

Number 2 Mercado De Artesanias

This official artisan market is located at the south end of town. Walking downtown you can feel the atmosphere shift from postcard picture tourist haven to real-street life Oaxaca, as you mingle in with the locals. The experience is all about getting into the thick of it. The market itself is actually very quiet in comparison to the hectic Mercado Benito Juarez which also sells traditional dresses a few blocks away. Mercado de Artesanias has over 84 stalls predominately devoted to textiles from Mexico and other parts of the Americas. Expect to find plenty of costumes, huipils, cushions, trinkets, table clothes and bags. My favourite stall by far is number Y14; the owner Maria specialises in otomi embroideries and tapestries and sells the most beautiful bags made from Guatemalan fabrics and leather. Warning: I lost sleep deliberating over which was the best one to take home with me.

Otomi embroideries and tapestries on sale at stall Y14 in Mercado De Artesanias, Oaxaca City.

Hand-picked Mexican and Guatemalan textiles.

Textile market in downtown Oaxaca City: Mercado de Artesanias.

Number 3 Joyas de Oaxaca

On your way to the Mercado de Artesanias be sure to stop off at Joyas de Oaxaca on Calle de JP Garcia. A small but overflowing shop that at a glance looks like any of the others that line the street on the approach to the market. But the owner here is a passionate textiles connoisseur herself; and dresses like one too which is always a good sign you’re in the right place. Dig a little deeper into the racks and rails and you can find stunning textiles from Chiapas in Mexico and lovely pieces from Guatemala. Note that the name on the front of the shop does not match the name of the business.

Exquisite embroidery on a dress at XXXXX do you know where it’s from?

Floor length huipil-style dresses.

Colourful huipils and rebozos on sale at one of the many shops on the road leading to Mercado de Artesanias.

Number 4 Mujeres Artisians

The regional Association of Craftswomen of Oaxaca is a co-operative solely run by women. All the women represented in the shop are involved in every stage of production; from purchasing the raw materials, making the garments, to running the retail outlet. The purpose behind the co-operative is to ensure the authenticity of traditionally made textiles and to maintain artistic processes. The store sells a wide variety of cheap fun products like tin flaming heart earrings. It also stocks high-end goods such as $500 naturally dyed artisanal masterpieces, which you can find casually stacked near the cash desk.

Pom poms, clay pots and dia de Muertos skulls: Oaxaca has it all.

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Number 5 Tutü Handbags

An adorable and colourful little fashion boutique that customises clothes and accessories for people wanting a contemporary and more youthful twist on ‘traditional’ textiles and fashion. They have amazing shirts and skirts made from vintage scarfs and a fun collection of textile sneakers, as well as cute coffee cups and mobile phone cases featuring traditional designs.

Tutti Handbags brings a contemporary twist to traditional designs.

Number 6 Etno Diseno

Mariana Grapain’s studio-come shop is worth a visit for the photo opportunities alone. A stunning store, filled antiques, old photos and illustrations as well as Mariana’s personal collection of garments from the 1930s, 40s and 50s. Many of the items in the shop are not for sale, but Mariana, a young woman from Tehuantepec, can custom make designs for you using fabrics from all over the world. There is also an in-store embroidery, if you’d like designs added to any of your clothes or just want to see the process. I recommend booking ahead for an appointment.

Mariana Grapain the head designer at Etno Diseño Oaxaca city

Number 7 Casa de las Artesanias de Oaxaca

This well-established shop houses an impressive collection of all types of textiles, arts and crafts from around Mexico. It is worth checking out, although I personally didn’t find it to be as good as Huizache. It is easily recognisable due to the huge fiesta mujer effigy that welcomes you in from the entrance. I couldn’t find anyone working in the shop who spoke English, which I found surprising due to its central location and size.

The hard-to-miss shop front of Casa de las Artesanias de Oaxaca.

Number 8 Tapetes De Teotitlan

You can’t miss this carpet cover store on the corner of the street opposite Templo De Santo Domingo, as it attracts interior, colour and textile-holics like bees to honey. All the rugs are made by Reynaldo Rigoberto Martinez and his extended family from the weaving village of Toetitlan. A small hand woven place mat for your dining table will cost 250 peso, a medium sized rug like the purple and pink one in the photo is around 4000 peso and a huge one will set you back around 15,000-20,000 pesos. Many of the rugs are made with natural dyes found in Oaxaca.

Tapetes De Teotitlan: a renowned carpet cover store in Oaxaca. 

Number 9 Los Baules De Juana Cata

More sophisticated than most, the store is carefully managed and piles of fabrics and garments from each region in Mexico are meticulously folded onto towering shelves, creating stacks of rainbow colours that you’ll want to delve into. Here you can find pieces made from natural dyes from the coast of Oaxaca. Prices vary but this shop seems to be for the more serious collector. Note that the shop is located inside a courtyard and has no signage on the outside of the building on the main street. The entrance is through a jewellery shop.

The very well presented interior of Los Baules De Juana Cata.

Number 10 Museo Textil de Oaxaca 

The textile museum is a lovely space in which to wile away an afternoon and give yourself a break from shopping. The exhibitions are in Spanish, so unless you speak the lingo it’s not the most informative experience. But it still helps to put all you’re seeing (and buying) in perspective and gives a lovely sense of the heritage of Oaxaca; the building itself is beautiful. There is, of course, a well-stocked gift shop as well. Entrance to the museum is donation based.

Exhibition inside the museum

Outside the Museum

FREE TEXTILE SHOPPING MAP OF OAXACA CITY! Click the photo to open the map.

There are also many street markets and street sellers as well. Unless you see someone at that stall physically making the products they are selling them don’t assume you are buying from the artisan. 

Have you been textile shopping in Oaxaca? What were your favorite spots? If you have any good suggestions for Haute Culture readers then please share your advice in the comments below as we would love to hear from you!

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best textile shops in Oaxaca city Mexico

The Best Textile Shopping In Oaxaca City (with free map) Oaxaca is bursting at the seams with traditional textiles. The city is a textile lover's dream; a cornucopia of authentic ethnic fashion, rich with indigenous culture and artisanal wares.