#you can see me trying to remember how to draw shadow lol. and forgetting how celebi and grovyle look

[lucabyte]

various from-memory doodles featuring some creatures, hedgehogs, and also a couple ocs

[forwhump]

a/n; sorry I’m posting again :’) I’m losing track of what I’ve posted because I’m not posting in any sort of chronological order so if I’ve posted anything about the auction (technically it’s a fundraiser but I’ve always called it the auction) then this is a prequel !!! if I haven’t then >:) enjoy this totally innocuous thing, nothing horrible happens after this at all

also I’ve been losing track of the names I use for the background soldiers since the very beginning so if I ever use a name more than once it’s up to you whether it’s the same guy or two guys w the same name <3 LOL

tw/cw: dehumanization, captivity, mentions of dismemberment, implied rape/noncon, misgendering, transphobia, grievous bodily harm, stabbing

living weapon whumpee, military whump, creepy whumper

Any night that Silas spends with Wren is a good night.

It doesn’t matter how much he’s bleeding, or how much he hurts, if Wren is nearby and Silas is sure that he’s okay, that he’s safe, then it’s a good night. He’s died happy knowing that Wren is safe.

There’s something to be said about the nights, however, that Wren is safe and he’s okay and Silas isn’t bleeding. He isn’t in pain.

Silas is sitting on the floor, back against the side of Wren’s bed, head tipped back against the mattress. Wren is curled up nearby, his hand in Silas’ hair, and he’s reading quietly, something Silas isn’t really following, fixated as he is on the soft sound of his voice, on his strange, Wren accent. Silas has his face turned, cheek against grey sheets, watching Wren as he reads to him, holy, even more inhuman than Silas in his beauty. In the yellow glow of the lamplight, cast from Wren’s desk, his hair glows something golden and his eyelashes cast long shadows on his cheeks.

It’s a good night.

It starts that way, anyway.

“You’re beautiful,” Silas says, because he’s beautiful and Silas is nothing if an honest, maybe blunt person.

Wren looks up at him and he wishes, for a moment, that he could draw like Wren can, because it’s a picture he’d like to remember and he doesn’t think he will. He doesn’t get to remember very much. But Wren smiles at him, soft and sweet, and Silas forgets about anything that doesn’t make him so pleasantly warm it makes him a little uneasy. “You’re not listening to me at all,” he says, “are you?”

“I’m kinda listening to you,” Silas says, “mostly I’m looking at you,” and Wren laughs, pushing his face away with the hand in his hair.

Silas turns his face back to try and bite his fingers and Wren laughs again, a sound that makes Silas feel so warm all over he might flush with it. Wren is beautiful, arguably, all the time — some really ugly things have happened to him, have been done to him, but Wren, at his core, interwoven into his DNA, is so beautiful that Silas sometimes has a hard time looking at him. It’s like staring too hard into surgical lights, too bright, it makes him see the same sort of spots. Wren’s always most beautiful when he laughs.

He doesn’t laugh often — not often enough, anyway. But Silas has gotten good at bringing it out in him, and he’s best at it when he doesn’t try. At the end of his life, when his brain is removed from this thing they’d turned him into and what little is left of him is destroyed, if they bother to ask him what his proudest accomplishment was, this is what he would say. That he got to make Wren laugh.

“Sorry,” Silas says against his knuckles, and he tries to bite him again and Wren bats him away with a smile that makes him dizzy.

“I don’t believe you are,” he says, and Silas can’t help the smile that pulls at his own mouth on one side.

“I’m not,” he agrees, and the way Wren laughs reverberates through his chest.

“I picked this for you because I thought it would hold your attention,” he says, and the way he smiles at Silas would probably give Silas a headache if he let it.

“I want you to read the one that Hal wanted you to read,” he suggests, just because Wren keeps telling him no.

“No,” Wren says, predictable, and Silas smiles against his knuckles. “Hal wasn’t being nice. You won’t like it.”

“I’ll like anything if you read it to me,” Silas says.

Wren has a very peculiar way of looking at him sometimes, soft and sweet, eyebrows pulled together in the middle. He looks at him like that now, and it warms Silas in almost the same way his laughter does, even if he doesn’t quite know what it means. “Not Frankenstein,” he says, but he laughs again when Silas ducks his head and obligingly presses a kiss to his hairline. “You’re cute,” he says with a smile, “but still no. I’d read you anything else.”

“Just not what I want,” he says, and Wren laughs.

“You don’t even know what it is!” He protests, which makes Silas grin, despite his best, most valiant attempts not to. “You just like to argue with me.”

“I like to do everything with you,” Silas says, kissing his knuckles.

Wren snorts out a laugh as he pushes his face away again. “Shut up,” he says, and he says it with a sort of fondness that makes Silas’ chest constrict. He reaches towards him because he can’t help himself, grabbing Wren around the waist and hauling him off the edge of the mattress. Wren laughs again and Silas smiles properly. “What are you doing?”

Silas pulls him into his lap. “You’re not close enough.”

“No?” Wren says, and he puts on the voice he uses when Silas is in trouble but his smile is blinding and he leans his weight into Silas’ chest, arms around his shoulders. Silas’ hands span the entirety of Wren’s back and Wren is looking at him really closely, a little pink across the bridge of his nose. His hand on Silas’ cheek is almost painfully gentle.

He’s so close. “You’re beautiful,” Silas says again, because he is, and it bears repeating. “Even more beautiful up close.”

He’s so close Silas can see perfectly well the way he flushes, pink, beneath a splattering of freckles Silas only ever sees when they’re this close. It makes him grin, which makes Wren laugh again, pinching his cheek. “Shut up.”

But he’s so close. He’s so close that Silas can see freckles splattered across his face, clustered closest across the bridge of his nose and along his hairline. He’s so pale, and his hair is so light, but his eyes are so dark, and they’re huge, and he’s so beautiful but Silas has thought it’s given him a surreal sort of quality, that sometimes he looks even less human than Silas. “More than beautiful,” he says softly, because he doesn’t quite know how to put it into words. “Extraordinary.”

Wren angles his head and his smile takes on an odd sort of softness that never fails to make Silas’ face feel hot. “You’re too sweet to me,” he murmurs.

It’s kind of a dumb thing to say. “I’m in love with you,” he says softly, because he thought as much was obvious.

He can feel the way Wren’s breath hitches against his chest, and that’s all the time he gets before it all goes to hell.

The door is kicked open with a force that makes it sound like it’s been blown to pieces. Wren flinches with his entire body and Silas holds him protectively to his chest without even really thinking about it. A man called London, with an accent Silas doesn’t like, stands in the doorway and his lip curls back from his teeth as he looks down at them, his gun at the ready against his chest.

To Wren, he says, “I thought we told you no dogs in your room.”

“No dogs on the bed,” Silas says, and if his eyebrows lift, challenging, he can’t help it. “I’m not on the bed.”

London’s lip curls back a little further. “Common room,” he barks, accent grating. “Both of you. Let’s go.”

“Why?” Silas says.

“A talking dog,” London remarks, sharp. “One that talks back. How peculiar.”

Silas starts to lift both his middle fingers and Wren quickly pushes his hands back down. “We’re coming,” he says, and he says it in the weird, kind of saccharine voice he only ever uses with the soldiers.

Except London��s gun is still drawn. Except London isn’t wearing the usual black tactile uniform of the soldiers on patrol. He’s wearing a black uniform only Silas has ever seen, because it’s the black uniform the soldiers only ever wear in active combat. Whatever’s waiting for them out there, it isn’t good.

“Wren,” he says softly.

“Silas,” Wren pleads, even quieter. “Please.”

Silas grunts, but Wren had said please so Silas would’ve been obedient if he’d asked him to amputate his other leg. He heaves himself up, into his chair, and follows close at Wren’s back. London falls into step at Wren’s side, and tells him, “beastiality doesn’t suit you.”

Silas says, in his best imitation of London’s accent, “cunt.”

London pivots and hammers the barrel end of his assault rifle into Silas’ hollow eye socket in one, fluid motion. Something in his face, something that feels like his cheekbone cracks under his skin and he grunts in pain.

Wren starts to gasp, “Silas,” but London silences him with a snap of his gloved fingers and a crude point.

“Move,” he snaps.

Wren turns towards him anyway. “Silas —“

From the end of the corridor, from the common room, Hal’s voice says, “Silas?”

Silas stops trying to dry his bleeding eye socket with his sleeve. The throbbing headache of his broken cheekbone dulls to a beat drowned out by the roar of his heartbeat. Being summoned from his room in the middle of the night is one thing. Wren being summoned, too, by a soldier in full combat uniform is another. Hal also being called on —

Wren feels it, too, because his hand finds Silas’ arm and his fingers are shaking. “Hal?”

“Wren? What the fuck is going on?” Hal calls.

London growls, “move.”

Wren looks down at Silas, who turns his head to kiss his sleeve, as soothing as he can manage.

He should’ve grabbed his fuckin’ leg. He’s still new to needing it — to feeling this fuckin’ helpless without it. What’s going to happen to them? How is he going to get Wren out of it with one fuckin’ leg?

Hal isn’t alone in the common room. He’s standing with Robin and June, huddled close in a space crowded with soldiers. Every one of them is dressed in full combat uniform.

Point stands proudest among them, and he looks up with a grin.

Silas groans. He can’t help it.

Wren pinches him through his sleeve. “What is this?” He asks softly, not quite looking at Point, who looks at him intently and like a predator.

With another lecherous grin, he says, “field trip.”

Wren makes a sound that would probably be amused in any other situation. “What?”

“Field trip?” June repeats.

Point holds up a hand, quieting her without looking at her. “We’ve got a long ride ahead of us,” he says. “Let’s move, soldiers.”

And the whole thing is kind of surreal, clouded by Silas’ worsening concussion and broken orbital socket, pooling with blood. Hal, June, and Robin are led down a different corridor than Wren and Silas; Wren and Silas, flanked on all sides by soldiers and Point, are led to a service elevator.

Silas, in all his years in the district, has never been outside. This isn’t really any different.

The service elevator lifts them to a section of the district like any other — dimly lit, chipped grey concrete. Down a corridor, a huge metal grate had been lifted out of the way, opened to the back of an armoured van, doors closed and secured.

It’s Point, of course, that unlatches and opens these doors to the back of the van. It’s crowded with soldiers, with Point’s favourite men, crammed on the benches lined along the inside, standing along the back. Point jumps up into the van and whirls back around with a bizarre sort of flourish. “The girl will ride with me,” he announces. “Animal transport will be up next for the dog.”

Wren’s voice has gone flat, but his accent is probably the thickest Silas has ever heard it when he says, “you’ve gotta be fuckin’ kiddin’ me.”

Point grins with all his teeth and he looks even less human than Silas. “You know I don’t kid ‘bout you, cowgirl,” he says, mocking, and Wren takes a quick step back, knocking into Silas. “I ain’t playin’ with you, neither. Get on up here.” He pats his thighs, beckoning.

“Fuck you,” Wren says, but his voice sounds brittle and his accent sounds even thicker. Silas curls a protective hand around his hip.

“C’mere, girl,” Point says, and whistles, patting his thighs again. “C’mere.”

“Fuck you, I’m not getting in the rape van,” Wren snaps, and Point’s jovial mocking drops off his face. It’s like he’s been wiped clean, replaced by something totally and uncomfortably blank.

“You’ll do whatever I fucking tell you to do,” he deadpans, “or I’ll make your dog bite the bumper and you’ll be forced to watch as I crack his ugly head in half. And then I’ll fuck you anyway, mm?”

He takes a step back down from the van and Wren’s whole body tenses. Silas pulls him close, into his lap, away from Point, who pinches the bridge of his nose. “Don’t start with me, freak,” he says. “I don’t want to kill you while I’m hard. Give me the girl.”

“You’re a fuckin’ weirdo,” Silas tells him, and something twitches in Point’s jaw.

“You’re a failed fucking science experiment,” he snaps. “An crippled fucking dog. A waste of fucking skin, and I fuck your girl better than you do. Give her here.”

Silas raises his eyebrows. “I’ll tell you what, Darren,” he says, and Point’s eye twitches, this time. “Why don’t you go fuck yourself?”

“Silas,” Wren breathes.

Point’s lip curls back from his teeth. He angles his head at a soldier standing close, Haunt, who quickly lifts his gun and shoves the barrel hard against the nape of Silas’ neck.

Whatever, what’s another gun to the head? But Wren gasps, reacts, human, and he’s distracted just long enough that London’s able to grab him by the arms and haul him out of Silas’ lap.

Time warps. Slows down.

Wren screams.

Point grabs him around the waist, lifting him off his feet as he struggles.

Silas reaches for him and he’s stabbed quickly in the throat.

It happens so quickly that his crewneck is already sticking to his chest before it even starts to hurt. Then the pain starts to gurgle at the back of his mouth, sucked into his chest as he takes a wet, choking breath in. Point doesn’t look at him as he opens his jugular, but he looks up with a grin as Silas bleeds, wrenching the buck knife out of Adam’s apple. A rush of blood follows the blade, and Silas’ prison greys are already black, soaked with blood.

He thinks his ears are ringing, but when the blood stops rushing he realizes Wren is screaming and Point is laughing at a garbled, cackling pitch.

“I was waiting for you to try something,” he cackles. “You’re getting predictable, Silas.”

Silas raises a hand to the wound and his shaky fingers dip into the opened meat of his throat, gagging him.

With an ease that makes him gag in much the same way, Point pulls Wren’s hands behind his back and lifts him as he struggles. He throws him into the back of the van, onto the floor between the benches, and as soon as Wren hits the ground, face down, a soldier steps down hard on the back of his head, pinning him. Wren screams bloody murder and it sounds nothing like blood rushing in his ears.

A different soldier peels down Wren’s waistband with the toe of his boot and the way Wren screams echoes between Silas’ ears, bouncing off the inside of his skull. It makes him vomit, but he doesn’t know blood or bile, but most of it seeps from his opened throat and only a mouthful makes it to his tongue, long numb and useless.

Point pats his cheek twice, hard, and Silas vomits into his lap. His chin finds his chest and he doesn’t have the strength to lift it off again. “You’ll follow in the med van,” he says, and Silas hears him in odd bits and pieces. Somebody close is making horrible, wet gasping sounds and he has a really sick feeling it’s him. “And you’ll be good as new by the time we get where we’re going. We got a long ride ahead of us.” Silas can’t see anything except blurry red spots, but he doesn’t need to see Point to know he’s grinning when he says, “your girl’s gonna be in good hands the whole time. Don’t you worry.” He knocks Silas over the back of his head and his laugh is a cackle.

Silas doesn’t see it, but he can hear Point jump into the back of the van. There’s some kind of sound that follows it, skin on skin. Wren sobs loudly and Silas vomits down his chest. “Alright, girl,” he says, loud and theatrical, probably more for Silas than Wren, in a sour, mocking version of Wren’s accent. There’s a creak of the hinges as he grabs at the doors. “Time to get fuckin’.”

The doors close loudly and something in the sound feels like a bullet to the brain, a sudden, sharp explosion of pain that ricochets behind Silas’ eyes.

He doesn’t remember anything else for the next three days.

[choicesficwriterscreations]

December Creator of the Month: Oh-So-Youre-a-Nerd

Each month, CFWC highlights one of our talented fanfic writers or artists, and this month’s creator of the month is @oh-so-youre-a-nerd . We're very excited because Ascindio is our very first artist to be highlighted! We hope you will enjoy learning more about them and their work below! The writer is selected at random. More info can be found on the navigation page.

Quick Links:

Tumblr Blog Instagram

How do you want to be known on Tumblr? 

Ascindio 

More below...

1- When did you start playing Choices? What was the first book you played? 

I started playing in 2016, I can't remember if I read Endless Summer or Rules of Engagement first, but I ended up deleting the app after like 2 weeks cause I couldn't stop buying diamonds 😅🤦

I re-downloaded it about, ohh idk 2 years ago?

2- When and why did you join Choices fandom?

I joined the Fandom specifically on Tumblr and specifically for It Lives Within, which happened to come out right after I read the first two books 

3- How did you pick your blog name? 

I always try to seem cool and mysterious when I meet people irl, and then as soon as I open my mouth, I ruin it with some niche trivia or something, and they say,  “Oh, so you're a nerd.” 😂 Can't tell you how many times this exact phrase has been uttered to me. 

4- Pull up the first post in your archive, and tell us about it!  

This is the first Choices related post I made 😂 I was just thinking about the concept of what if characters make terrible decisions cause they're controlled by a player who is out of diamonds lol I was going to do a whole series of them (next was going to be lotr “fly on eagles to mordor?” *30 diamonds* or “simply walk”) but got lazy lol

5- Do you write fanfiction, create fan art, or are you one of those really gifted people who do both? 

Only art. God, I  WISH  I wrote too. I've thought about trying cause I have so many ideas floating around in my head, but at the end of the day, I'd rather spend my free time drawing. 

6- How long have you been creating for Choices and for any other fandoms?

For Choices, since early 2022

For other fandoms, since well, forever, but I only started posting around 2017/18

7- What is your favorite Choices book, and what is your favorite Choices book to create for?

Favorite Choices book is probably It Lives in the Woods. All of the characters were so interesting, I never got bored reading it, and it had an incredible twist that made sense but I still didn't see coming. 

Favorite to create for is probably Blades of Light and Shadow though because I am such a sucker for the fantasy aesthetic.

8- Share your first Choices fanfic or fan art that you posted with us. Do you still like it, or would you change it if you were creating it today?.

This isn't the first Choices art I made, but it IS the first I actually shared

And honestly, I DO still like it because I still remember the way I felt absolutely POSSESSED while drawing it (I hadn't drawn anything for *months*). I would definitely change the background, though. Those trees look like shit, and they're not even the correct type for the kind of forest they're in. 

9- What is your favorite piece of fiction or art that you created? 

My favorite Choices art I've done is probably this piece. 

10- Do you have a fic/art that you didn’t expect to be well received, but it was? What about one you expected to do well but found it could use a little more love?

I definitely didn't expect this one to do well at all as it was so hastily drawn

And I was sad this piece didn't get more love, it was such a dope scene and I was so excited about how the sword turned out

11- If you could only draw one style or type of art for the rest of your life, what would it be and why? 

I'm not sure if I'm interpreting the question right, but if I had to pick like a specific type of art, it would be digital, and I would want to do fan art. I have a hard time painting anything that I don't already have a deep connection with (so original art with no story behind it is usually a chore for me), and digital art is just so incredibly convenient and not messy and so so versatile. 

12 - Do you ever recognize yourself in any of your MCs or in your writing?

Because I use fiction as a way to safely process trauma/ grief/ other big emotions, each MC I make has a small part of me, whichever part I feel the need to explore at the time.

There's an amazing quote by Patrick Rothfuss that I feel explains it perfectly. 

It's from Wise Man's Fear

“These folk knew all about death. They killed their own livestock. They died from fevers, falls, or broken bones gone sour. Death was like an unpleasant neighbor. You didn’t talk about him for fear he might hear you and decide to pay a visit.

Except for stories, of course. Tales of poisoned kings and duels and old wars were fine. They dressed death in foreign clothes and sent him far from your door. A chimney fire or the croup cough were terrifying. But Gibea’s trial or the siege of Enfast, those were different. They were like prayers, like charms muttered late at night when you were walking alone in the dark. Stories were like ha’penny amulets you bought from a peddler, just in case.”

13 - What element of writing/art do you struggle with most?

I have a very difficult time making the poses seem natural and flowing. My all time favorite art is Baroque/Renaissance style and how fluid the poses are, how soft the skin looks, how delicately it's all done. Obviously, I will always have my own style, but those are things that I so want to incorporate but never seem to get quite right, and it drives me crazy 😂

14 - Do you have any neglected work you really want to finish?

Not really. I mean, I have a ton of unfinished work, but as soon as the window of inspiration passes, I just can't get myself to care enough about it to finish it (insert Jake the Dog, “now it's gone, and I don't care about it anymore!” )

15 - If someone you know in real life (who isn’t involved in fandoms) asked to see your work, would you let them? If yes, what would you show them first? 

I would, and have.  I typically show them whatever most rendered recent picture from my Instagram because I don't post any nsfw there and usually try to post only my prettier work for this specific reason haha. (As opposed to here, I post everything here, ain't NO ONE from real life invited to see my tumblr 😂)

16 - Are there any writers (published authors and/or fanfic writers) who influenced your writing or art? Are there any artists that influence you?

Writers: Brandon Sanderson, for sure. He's the reason I got back into art back in 2017 ish. His stories are just so emotional they push me to create. Same with @saibug1022, there is always at least one scene from every story he shares that I desperately want to draw to try to capture the emotions. 

Artists: God, sooo many, here are just like my top 3 favorites and their instagrams.

Audra Auclair

Obsessed with her unique style, and specifically the way she draws eyelids and noses

f3lc4t

The way they draw those dripping, glowing wisps. I stare at their pieces for hours (no lie) trying to dissect them stroke by stroke to figure out how they do it.

Miho Hirano

Their art has a delicate whimsy-ness I would SELL MY SOUL to achieve 

17- Which one of your creations would you like to see a fiction written about? 

JC, this is the shit I DREAM of.

Definitely this one. 

So this is love.

This little comic means a lot to me. 

18- Do you write original fiction or create non-fandom art? 

Very rarely, but I do, every so often. This is my favorite original piece.

20-  What other hobbies do you have?

Gaming, singing, walking through the Cemetary with my wee daughter, reading, that's about it 🤷

21 - What’s your favorite emoji? 

🙇

22: BONUS - tell us anything you’d like (if you want to).

I really wanted to say that I don't believe in “good” art and “bad” art (just ethical vs non-ethical). That being said, I know what it's like to hate your art, like soooo intimately. If you ever are feeling shit about your art, you can ABSOLUTELY message me (I don't care if we're mutuals or not, I don't care if we've never interacted before) and just say, “I am feeling shit about my art” and I will go through your art and tell you every specific thing I love about it and why it's wonderful. I am not joking; I am so so serious rn. 💗💗💗💗 

[the-sinful-voice-witch]

TIME TO LOVE A CHARACTER:

Vector the crocodile! 🐊💚

What's not love about this character? He is hilarious and was always meant to be funny! (He literally starts dancing in his first appearance in 2D games if you stop moving him for a while 😂) he is a great leader! With love for dramatics, music and money 🤑🤑💰💰 He works better for comedy relief than boom knuckles horrendous blatant retarded stupidity or Amy's crazy stalker side (those can be more annoying than funny) but Vector was wonderful! Even in his TV shows apparitions like sonic x and even his only one time in Sonic boom (i liked the jacket but why did they take away the headphones?🙁) Being a reality star detective with a Show... That fitted his personality too well 😂😂.

But comic relief or not Vector is a character that knows when to be serious and I want to spot on the parts of him i liked the most in the IDW comics, I'm glad they are doing justice to him!🥰

First, the design: IDW art kicks the olds art style ass!

Aww just look at them!!😍

This heartbreaking moments...🥺🥺🥺 Vector defending his zombottified Kid and sacrificing himself to buy some time for the survivors 😢😢 he is just the best leader. I remember when he made the hard choice of caging between cars an infected citizen who was scared and crying and then charmy got mad at him and went back to her only to get infected too yet Vector was unable to leave his kid behind... 😭😭😭 LOVE HIM.

OMG 😭😭 just look at them!! After the end of the apocalypse! Reunited and singing together with Charmy sitting in his hand 👌👌🥲🥲 (but I have to say that... It's weird that they draw Vectors tail that way... I think the tail should be behind like Spio's) Also I wish they put a happy tear on Spio's eyes after all the emotions he went through 🥲

Jajaja I love this one! Because Vector is dancing with Amy and he is so tall he is lifting her 😂 it was nice seeing them dancing because I remembered that unnameable game about riding extreme gears where those two teamed up and for some reason they made Amy a obnoxious bitch (which she isn't 😡🤬), it was pretty weird seeing that messed up mix of chaotix and Rose teams... Wtf, anyway let's forget forever about that game. But also remembered his only episode in Sonic boom and I loved that Amy was a fan of his Show and trusted him more than Sonic 🤣🤣

Ok 2 things: first his facial expressions...👌👌🤣🤣 I love it when they imitate manga funny faces

Second... One of the things i loved the most in Sonic X was Vector Crush on Cream's mom Vanilla and I'm so glad they made this reference like he still has the crush as long as she shows up (by the way is it me or Vanilla looks hotter and hotter in this comics than her other apparitions? I am. Not. Complaining.😗💘) I think Vector is the oldest main sonic character (not counting Shadow, he is mentally 15) but Vanilla must be older than him, he likes women older than him uh 😏😏😏 like Knuckles... Jejeje Also he is great dad material.

(hey, that rooster is copying Vector style in necklace lol)

And my last ones cause this is getting long, like I said he is dad material, he would be a great stepfather for cream, to me he already has another kid anyway because I see him as Charmy's caretaker and Charmy has Cream age. Look how he is cradling him is his big arm 🤗🤗🥰 and... Another heartbreaking moment with our poor babygirl Belle just look how gentle and caring he is trying to soothe Belle and caressing her head🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺😭😭😭😭😭😭 nobody will change my mind that he would be the best Dad.

And that's all my love for Vector on this post, see you at the next one! 😘💋💋

[miraculouscontent]

By Gloob's trailer... the "Kuro Neko" episode will be one of "Let's Marinette act OOC and forget her *own* thoughts, so she will make a decision to be blamed for and give Chat Noir a excuse for a sad party" episode...

It literally looks like a Marinette/Ladybug salt fic set to animation. Ladybug being salty at Chat (bonus if it’s for actual reasons that refuse to be addressed; “she might have a point but sHe’S sO mEaN”), Adrien quitting because he’s sAd and uNdErApPrEciAteD, and a “new cat” swooping in that will somehow prove that Chat is objectively the best partner ever.

Also, I’ll keep most thoughts until the actual episode comes out, but--

- Really? Paris who shipped LadyNoir so hard that they were reading the Oblivio article during an akuma battle is now putting Chat’s worth into question? I don’t buy it. Either this is just contrived writing (the most likely option; I mean, we saw “Prime Queen”), the resolution for Paris realizing that the kiss wasn’t what they thought happened off-screen (shocker), or Shadow Moth’s sentimonster trying to create a divide between Ladybug and Chat. Heck, that would honestly be more interesting: Shadow Moth having a Volpina sentimonster to make an illusion of Ladybug for this interview (the interviewer has to be a sentimonster to fool the rest of their crew) and Adrien was - yet again - incapable of telling a real Ladybug from a fake one.

- If Ladybug picks Adrien for the cat because “he’s not in love with me,” that’s so damn sad. (but they’ll of course make it look hypocritical because “well YOU picked someone you were in love with when the idea was to pick a cat who wasn’t in love with YOU,” while also ignoring that Ladybug is ten times as professional as Chat even with her mistakes)

- lol, what if this episode doesn’t even talk about how “””great””” Chat is and it’s Ladybug choosing Adrien so she can “learn just HOW HARD IT IS to stay professional when you have someone you lOvE as a partner”? (Hot take, maybe having romance involved in heroism is either a bad idea altogether, it’s these crushes specifically that are a problem, or the solution is to make sure there are two people who aren’t in love with each other/incompatible orientation-wise?)

- What’s even the time frame for this stuff happening? A day? A week? “It’s been built up over multiple episodes!!!” Ah, yes, I’m so glad that Chat literally doesn’t have all information on things that are none of his damn business and is choosing to draw his own conclusions because Ladybug’s bitter at him. I’ll try to remember that every time I think about the times where Chat didn’t apologize for being wrong or fell for a fake Ladybug.

- Us over here, watching Marinette be stressed out, forced to break up with her boyfriend because of her hero duties, overwhelmed by the kwami in her room (giving her literally no sense privacy), and constantly having to prove herself to Su-Han whenever he pops up, then seeing that it’s Chat who gets the, “Guess I’ll just quit. :(” episode. Really? (The fact that it’s Chat and not Ladybug proves how dedicated she is to job and how dedicated Chat is to his own personal comfort. Remember how Marinette didn’t want to be Ladybug in “Origins” and Tikki insisted that Marinette had been chosen and was the only one who could do the job? And then Alya was taken out of the equation so Marinette was forced to take up the ladybug again even if she still didn’t want to? Yeah, hm...).

- me watching Adrien quit from the top of what is seemingly a rooftop ala “Syren”: okay but how are you going to get down after this?

- Woooow, Chat Noir quitting being the cat? I’ve never seen that before! Especially not in a special that also threw blame onto Ladybug for it and essentially forced her to immediately forgive all of his wrongdoings so she could have a partner! (At this point, he must just have a card for this. If he tries to quits two more times then he gets a free sundae.)

[little-cereal-draws]

Hi feel free to respond to this privately but Hi, i love your animated videos, especially the shadows ones! What program(s) do you use if you don’t mind me asking and do u have any tips? I would love to start doing animatics but idk how/where to start. Thanks in advance! ^^

Hello! I'm so glad that you enjoyed my videos! My software is not fancy at all and might be a bit of a letdown tbh lol

For drawing I used to use Paint tool sai (which i think is what a lot of ppl use) but it wasn't working right on my computer, it wouldn't let me save my images. I got it off of some Japanese website and it was $19 (USD). Now I use the app that came with my computer. I have a Windows computer. It's called Sketchbook (oOoOh, so fancy lol) and it is limited in terms of brushes and pen pressure but I like it. Very easy to figure out. I also have Krita which I think I had to pay for. I don't remember how much tho, I want to say $15 (USD)?? Maybe? It is much more complex and lets you do things like animate but I don't use it bc I'm too lazy to figure it out lol I know there's a lot of great tutorials online tho. I also know a lot of ppl use Procreate which is much better especially in terms of brushes but it's not compatible w my computer :( Procreate costs $10 (USD) I think.

As for editing, I use Shotcut. It's a free software that I downloaded from somewhere, I don't remember. It is definitely limited in terms of filters, camera angles, and what you can put in it but hey, it's free! The one thing I hate the most abt it is you can't pan. It drives me insane. But it has zoom, text, filters, etc. I used to use Filmora which is also free but is even more limited and I think it puts a watermark on your videos.

Now for tips!

Uhh, I guess the most obvious is practice. I started doing animatics four years ago and I can't watch any of my old ones now, they're so bad lol

Another thing is vary your shot type. If you have a couple ppl doing smth together, do close ups, medium shots, and wide shots. Try different camera angles. It's ok to do the same type of shot a couple times in a row but after a while it can get boring.

An extension of the last point, if a character does smth like knock a thing over or move it or whatever, show the object moving and then their reaction. Reaction shots are very important for character's emotions. Wide shots to establish a setting.

As an extension of that point, watch your favorite show/movie and watch how they film it, when they zoom in, how they frame the characters etc. I've spent so much time doing that lol (WWDITS might not be the best example bc it's a documentary but it should still work pretty well)

In terms of moving characters/making it smooth, layers are going to be ur best friend lol I end up with so many layers when I make a video. It's partially because I'm scared to delete layers in case I need them later but it's also helpful to see a character's last position. If they're on the left and need to move to the right, draw them on the left, copy the layer, and move the new layer a little bit using the original one as a reference point. Continue until they've made it. Same thing if they're moving their hand up or whatever. Use old layers as reference points to avoid jumpiness.

Because animating/drawing in general is hard and time consuming and I'm lazy I try to reuse shots/poses as much as I can. Again if you have a character going from left to right and then later in the video going right to left, save the left to right layers. You can just flip them to make it look like they're going right to left and now you don't have to draw it again! This can be tricky tho bc you don't want your video to get repetitive like I said before. So do it but do it sparingly lol

THUMBNAIL FIRST! This is very helpful. Just make a bunch of little boxes with stick figures mapping out what's going to happen in ur video. It doesn't have to look good at all, it's just so you don't forget what's going to happen/get lost. This is mine for the video of Laszlo and Nadja dancing:

I put notes on this one so I remember what the actions and camera angles are. Since I was copying an already choregraphed dance here, I did that in black and then put in more interesting camera angles in blue on a different layer so it wasn't two minutes of the same full body shot

And uh yeah I think that's it! Hopefully this is helpful!

[cudan2]

We’re Only Human

Spring Break Shadowing Part 4

Carlisle Cullen x Reader

Word Count: 2,040

Summary: It’s the last day of shadowing with Dr. Cullen, but you’ve come to realize a little more about how you feel towards him. Cue crushes and a little bit of chaos along the way.

A/N: I finished the semester and can actually dedicate time to writing this again because instead of being on spring break, I’m now on winter break. I also chopped this part in half because it was probably going to be over 6,000 words otherwise and that’s just a lot compared to the previous ones. Bear with me, guys. Another note - I’m thinking about posting this on Ao3 but will rewrite it because I don’t know what I was thinking when I wrote this in present tense lol. 

Anyways, this is #8 on my headcanon list.

Masterlist

XXX

You don’t know how it happened, but time is on your side and you’re running early this morning. The sun has just risen and casts a warm glow across the hospital as you make you way to the Starbucks, determined to be the one to buy Doctor Cullen his drink for once.

Meeting him here every morning has become a tradition, a tradition that involves him getting you breakfast every day you’ve shadowed him this week. The two of you would chat about various topics while walking to where ever he had to be next. Sometimes you would prod his brain with more medical-related questions, occasionally he would tell stories from his past, but regardless, his every word had you captivated.

Alright, perhaps it wouldn’t hurt to finally admit that you may or may not have developed a tiny crush on Doctor Cullen. To be fair though, this is your last day shadowing him and it’s not like you’re ever going to see him again anyways. You feel a pang of disappointment at the thought, but it soon disappears when Emily greets you at the counter.  

“Hi, Y/N! Where’s the doctor today?”

“I was running early today, so I figured I’d grab both of our drinks.” You place your order and ask the barista what Doctor Cullen’s “usual” was.

“Oh that?” she laughs. “He gets boiling water. It’s a little weird, but I just assumed he makes tea with it.”

Boiling... water? You think back to the last several days and try to remember what Doctor Cullen even did with his drink. He definitely never made tea with it. In fact, you don’t think he’s ever taken a sip out of the cup before throwing it away.

“Then I’ll be adding a grande boiled water to my order,” you tell Emily and thank her before she moves on to the next person in line.

You wait to the side for your food and see Jaime standing there too. He’s wearing a backpack and a faded college sweatshirt thrown over his scrubs, and you’re reminded of how many years left of school you have before you can even call yourself a doctor. You wave to him, and he pulls an earbud out from his ear with a sleepy smile.

“Hey, what’s up?” he greets you.

“Nothing much, just grabbing something to eat before the day starts. I’m surprised to see you here though. What happened to morning rounds?”

Jaime lets out what you can only discern as a mix between a hollowed laugh and a groan and tells you about forgetting his coffee at home. “Don’t even get me started on this morning. My car died on me, so I had to get an Uber. Lo and behold, there weren’t any Ubers around either, so ya boy eventually took not just a taxi, but a taxi and the train. By the time I got here, I realized my coffee was still on the counter at home, and so now I’m here.”

Damn, and you thought mornings were rough for you.

“Sorry to hear that! Did you get in trouble for being late?”

“I called Doctor Cullen myself and told him what was happening. He was so understanding, god bless, so I’m in the clear for now.

At the mention of the doctor, your thoughts instantly go back to blond tresses and a brilliant smile you already know you’ll miss when you leave the hospital for the last time today.

“Yeah, he’s pretty great, isn’t he?” you say a little too dreamily. Jaime gives you a knowing look and you rein it back in, hoping you haven’t exposed yourself already.

“You know, I think he’s going to miss you the most when you leave.” You don’t even get the chance to react when Jaime continues on, “Don’t get me wrong, Lily and I will definitely miss having you around, but the man really took a liking to you a lot faster than he did with us.”

“What do you mean?”

“He always kept us at an arm’s length before you came around. All of that personal stuff you get out of him would have taken him weeks to tell us before, and that’s if we’re lucky. He just seems more comfortable around you,” Jaime shrugs. His coffee is then called out, cutting off anything he wanted to say next. “That’s my cue. I’ll see you later!”

You take a moment to mull over what Jaime said. From your perspective, Doctor Cullen has treated you exactly the same way he does with everyone else. You don’t dare to over think what Jaime could be saying – over thinking never leads to anything good. And yet, the damage is done. The seed has been planted and now you can’t help but wonder about what made you stand out to the doctor.

Your own order is called, and you’re pulled from your thoughts with the smell of warm food.

Now armed with two beverages and a pastry bag sandwiched between your fingers, you make your way to a nearby table to wait for Doctor Cullen. Your wait is soon cut short though, as you see him walking towards you out of your peripheral vision. The clouds shift and the sun shines through the windows again. Its golden rays pass over the doctor, and for a second, you swear you could see him shimmering in the sunlight.

You squint strangely and blink a few times. Get it together, you tell yourself. Over thinking is clearly playing some weird psychological tricks on your eyes, and you still needed to be on your A-game.

“Hey you,” he flashes that familiar smile once more when reaching the table you are settled at. “You’re early today.”

“I am. It even gave me the chance to get you your water.” You hand him the cup with a smirk, having made sure to put a sleeve on it earlier because unlike Doctor Cullen, you actually have hands that hold the risk of being burnt.

“Ah, I see Emily has divulged one of my secrets with you. Thank you, Y/N, you really didn’t have to.”

“It’s nothing,” you insist. Seriously, water is free at Starbucks. “Think of it as a small thank you present. It’s the least I could do for the amazing surgeon that let me follow him around for the week.”

“Hmm, I think you may have meant the amazing, extremely kind, highly skilled, and not to mention, quite dashing–”

“Okay! No need to flatter yourself,” you laugh, trying your best to refrain from rolling your eyes. In all honesty, you can’t describe him any better. Add in attractive, intelligent, compassionate, way too humble sometimes, and it would be the perfect recipe to recreate another Doctor Cullen.

From there on, your daily routine at the hospital continues without a hitch. It’s a morning filled with back to back surgeries and question after question thrown at you from the doctor. There is no doubt that he is keeping you on your toes – literally and figuratively. You have to admit though, you are pretty proud of yourself for being able to answer the majority of his questions.

Your feet swing aimlessly while you spin around in a padded chair in Doctor Cullen’s office. Your laptop is open on his desk, displaying a blank document that’s meant to be your personal statement. It has been a little over an hour since he left you here to attend a mandatory meeting and you are starting to get antsy.

Aside from several stacks of files and other various papers, the desk lacks the small trinkets you would expect to see. As a matter of fact, the office itself is surprisingly void of anything personal. There aren’t any pictures of family, friends, pets, not even of a possible wife. There are no decorations on the wall either, and if it weren’t for the leather briefcase leaning against the side of the desk, you’d never believe this office belonged to him. No wonder he spends as much time as possible outside of this dismal room.

As you continue spinning in the chair, you bring up a paper fortune teller made earlier from a sticky note. You choose a color, two subsequent numbers, and flip open the flap to reveal the fortune.

Brunch date with Dr. Cullen.

The things you do to kill time. Your friends would never let you live this down if they could see you now.

Just as you’re about to go another round with the fortune teller, the door opens and Doctor Cullen walks in. The fortune teller goes flying out of your hands and onto the floor next to you as you jump in surprise and halt the spinning.

“Sorry about the wait, Y/N. I’m afraid the meeting took longer than expected,” he says, his words laced with a hint of bitterness. Luckily, he didn’t seem to notice you nearly jumping out of your skin. Not wanting to draw attention to the fortune teller on the floor, you leave it there for now and start packing up your stuff.

“I presume you found a way to entertain yourself?”

“Kind of? I tried starting my personal statement again. It’s really not coming together,” you laugh dryly. Too preoccupied with turning off your laptop and putting it away, you don’t notice that Doctor Cullen walking around to the head of the desk where you are until it’s too late.

Oh crap, the fortune teller. Of course, he just has to notice it too and picks it up with a curious expression. You look up, and he’s standing there with it in his hand.

“Did you make this?”

You leap up from the chair and snatch it out of his hand before he can examine it any closer. There is no way in hell you’re letting him open it.

“Uh, yeah... It’s just something we used to make in elementary school – nothing special!” You try to play it off as cool as possible and slip the fortune teller into the small trash can underneath his desk. “So what’s next on the schedule?”

He takes a moment before answering you. You see his eyes study the way your fingers nervously fidgets with a loose thread on your shirt. He seemingly brushes off the interaction that occurred and responds, “Pre-op. I believe this one will be much different than the others you’ve observed this week.”

“What’s different about it?” you ask. Doctor Cullen starts to leave and holds the door open for you.

“You’ll see.” You don’t have to look at him to know he’s smirking.

He shuts the door and you start walking towards to the surgical department when a hand abruptly pulls you back just a little too hard. You trip over your own feet in the process and in some miraculous, but also really unlucky, sadistic, cruel-of-the-universe sort of way, land in Doctor Cullen’s arms. Goosebumps form up your arms where he’s holding you, and you can’t tell whether it’s from the temperature difference or the fact that your face is only an inch away from his chest.

You are absolutely mortified to say the least. Heat begins crawling up your cheeks and if there was a witness, they would have seen you quite literally jump out of the doctor’s arms.  

“I’m so sorry, Doctor Cullen! I didn’t mean to trip and fall and–”

“No, no, please, Y/N. It was of no fault of yours. I admit, I wholly underestimated the extent of my strength in that moment.” You stare at him, still dismayed at what happened, but it seems you aren’t the only one feeling like a deer in the headlights. “Can you find it in yourself to forgive me?” he asks, smiling meekly.

“It’s fine, these things happen. We’re only human after all, right?”

“...Right.” There’s a moment of silence that goes on for longer than you prefer, and you can’t help but feel like you’re the punchline of some inside joke. You don’t dwell on it though. There’s really only so much social embarrassment you can handle in one day. “Now, if there aren’t any more near-accidents,” he points in the opposite direction and says, “we’re headed to the children’s hospital.”

Oh.

[brahkest-fr]

Have you thought about ever doing a step by step video/tutorial on how you make skins? Or record your process? I'm trying to start doing skins but there's a lot of stuff I don't understand that the site's tutorial doesn't really explain and speed paints aren't exactly great to look for answers, so I was wondering if you would ever do something of the sort, it would be cool

I’m kinda dumb and terribad at video recording but I can totes make a process with some screenies :0 Hopefully the following helps a bit. There is gonna be an assumption of basic knowledge on layers and whatnot just fyi! Perhaps someday I’ll actually record myself making a skin if I don’t get distracted and/or forget lol.

1) This is pretty much how I start my layers. I don’t change much from the default skin file provided by FR other than adding a mask to the skin folder so I don’t draw outside of the lines and then a gray overlay on top of the base just so it’s easier for me to see my sketch. I use bright colors like blue and pink to help me differentiate details. I turn off the clip lines/shadow as I don’t wanna see those atm.

The layer that says “Accent” is where I start my sketch.

If I’m making a skin for a particular dragon, I’ll often have them added in the file (note the hidden layer above the gray box). To do so, I save out a transparent version of the dragon and blow it up to 700px in waifu2x or something. Then I bump it up to 750px so it fits in the skin file. It’ll be a lil blurry but it’s good enough.

2) Next is line art - I have 2 layers for this skin: one for the jacket and another for the knuckle dusters and chains. Personally I like to close off all gaps in my line art, including drawing on the edges as you can see on the top of the collar by the wings or the gap formed by the hair on the midsection. This is just something I prefer doing as I find it makes my coloring less messy and annoying later on. But you can do it however it’s most comfortable.

At this stage, I’ll also either zoom out to 50% or resize to 50%, whichever works because it’s important to remember that the file size is 750 while the actual size you’ll have to save out will be 350 - details will shrink so make sure what you’re drawing will show up appropriately.

3) Now onto colors. Since I closed the gaps in the line art, I just fill bucket everything. For this skin, I drew the jacket’s colors on one layer because I’m trash and have 1 braincell but you can use as many layers as you need. In this case, the overlay layer was for extra saturation and the layer above that was for the black stripes. Be sure to clip additional color layers onto your base color so you keep things tidy and avoid coloring beyond the lines.

Again don’t forget to resize or zoom out to make sure your skin is looking as it should!

4) Finally I do some recoloring of the line art - in this case mostly the arm of the jacket. I lock the line art layer and go over it with colors darker than the surrounding colors - up to preference here. I don’t usually change the very edges just because I prefer a darker color there personally and my default is black. It’s also totally ok to have darker line art - again up to you.

Then I turn on the clip lines/shadow since you have to make sure those show up in the final piece. Clip lines is usually set to normal but I change it to multiply because I feel it turns out better for recoloring. When I recolor, I try to match the colors of the skin while also making sure it’s dark enough to be seen. Same goes for shadows.

*If you ever get a skin rejected, it’ll usually be how visible you make the original shadows and line art. There’s not really a hard rule on what counts as “passing” since it’s up to staff but I try to make it obviously visible without ruining my skin. So here you can still see the belly scales for example, but it’s not so pronounced that it takes away from the jacket. It’s a lil uggo imo but it is what it is.

*Something to note when you color: be careful how dark you make your base colors! Too dark and you won’t be able to see the clip lines/shadow very well in the future. Note how the collar of the jacket is light enough that the shadows and lines beneath are still visible.

This is how my clip lines/shadow layers look on normal mode so you can see what colors I made them. Play around with the values to make sure you achieve some balance between your skin looking good while still showing off the base lines and shadows of the dragon. I used pink and blue here since it matched well with the skin. By default, the lines and shadows are gray and if you don’t recolor those, your skin will end up looking muddy.

*Other than recoloring, do not touch the clip lines/shadows at all. Do not edit them or erase them otherwise that’s a quick ticket to rejection.

5) Finally, turn off everything but your accent folder and save that sucker out and resize to 350px. At this point you can test it on your actual dragon by either pasting the skin onto a pic of the dragon or by using FR Tools. Reminder that you should not use/mention FR Tools on the official site cuz staff doesn’t like it. However on FR Tools you can also test the coverage of your skin when you select “upload skin.” Less than 30% and it’s an accent. Above that and it’s a skin. There’s other ways to test coverage but FR’s gimp tutorial sucks and is outdated and I don’t have photoshop so lol.

*I often go through several iterations of a skin just in case I see weird flaws or missing details. Testing is very important once you finish as major changes to your skin after submission is not a fun process so be sure to get it all squared away the first time.

^ Your final product should look like this: transparent png (32bit) at 350px.

*Now this was the technical side of making skins using the tools at hand. If you have further questions I didn’t cover here, pls do feel free to ask! I’m no expert by any means but I can impart what I’ve learned after making a few.

[tangledinmdzs]

blank canvas - junior quartet hcs

the juniors reacting to finding a drawing you made for them

⋆┈┈｡ﾟ❃ ❀ ❁ ❃ ❀ ﾟ｡┈┈⋆

Lan Sizhui

you always say that you’re not an artist

but Sizhui doesn’t agree

he can be cheesy and call you art too, but hehe let’s save that for another time

he loves the little doodles that you always draw on your homework and notes

he appreciate your smiley faces on little sticky notes that you leave around his dorm room as well

small reminders and supportive words like:

you’ve got your presentation in the bag! you can do it ＠＾▽＾＠

don’t forget to buy more milk for cereal!

your best look is when you smile (´｡• ᵕ •｡`)

and a plethora of other cheesy things that get him through the day

and you always draw cute little faces, they’re kind of like chibi style

so when he’s rifling around on your desk, 

because you had told him that you had left your flash drive somewhere between all your papers and what not

he’s surprised to come across a full piece of printing paper

with a picture

that’s him

and you

chibi style

and he wanted to stare at it for longer than 5 minutes, but you had called him from the living room and he doesn’t think he was supposed to see it anyways

so he shuffles it back from where it was under your folders and looks a bit closer for your flash drive until he finally sees it next to your eraser

and when he gets out of the room, he doesn’t ask you about the picture, since judging from the ‘happy anniversary’ wording you had begun to trace out, it was for your upcoming date in a week

and really Sizhui can’t wait to see the finished product

⋆┈┈｡ﾟ❃ ❀ ❁ ❃ ❀ ﾟ｡┈┈⋆

Lan Jingyi

all the love for this guy, but he would have no artistic talent

at least, not in the drawing and painting field

which is why he appreciates that you can draw

and also why he always gushes whenever you draw anything

because he can’t draw for shit, lol

but you have a different perspective of him, since well, you do draw

you appreciate how passionate and animated Jingyi is

his face has just the right portions

and the strong emotions in them always

makes you itch for your pencil

and ever since you’ve met him, you’ve found him to be the easiest person to just...draw

Jingyi doesn’t know of course

you wouldn’t dare tell him,

he’d laugh

but whenever you guys are out on a date in the city, or sat together amidst the greenery you get hit with moments of inspiration

moments of inspiration usually wrapped in a loud laugh of his

or his face, tilted up to bathe in the warm afternoon sunlight, sat high on a rock edge at Central Park

or his mused hair whenever you run your hand through them after an afternoon lounging together in your quiet apartment

you remember ever moment 

and you try your very best to capture you favorite moments on paper

Jingyi finds the sketches a few months after dating you

when he is grabbing a book from you desk and accidentally knocks a pile of papers and your large canvas sketch book open onto the floor

he doesn’t believe its him

because you make him look godly,

with the way that you color in the shadows around his hands

and the delicate way you trace his jawline on paper

as you do in real life

Jingyi stares in awe at your work

and he really can’t believe

that someone would love him this much

to see him this way

⋆┈┈｡ﾟ❃ ❀ ❁ ❃ ❀ ﾟ｡┈┈⋆

Jin Ling

doesn’t seem like he could draw himself, but i think he would be pretty good at coloring

specifically water coloring

you’re a lot better at sketching than him and such things like that

but he’s a lot better at choosing the right hues

and overall you both usually work together on most of your class projects

and you work well, together

which is why he’s mildly confused when you suddenly become secretive of something in you sketch book a halfway into the year

because you both had shared most of you art together before

so what was the point of your being secretive now?

did it annoy him a little?

perhaps

okay it very very much did annoy him

it annoyed him to the point that he had waited for you to, trustfully, leave your sketch book alone with him one day on the table at the coffee shop and go to the bathroom

oh what a mistake that was

Jin Ling grabs the book and opens it the moment you’re out of sight

and besides, what’s the worse he could see?

he was expecting some abstract art or even accentuated anime style

he wasn’t expecting to see himself

page after page of different styles 

but the same person

he’s in awe at your progress

and also

he’s become your muse???

he slams your sketch book close when he hears footsteps coming close in the distance

but his face is still so red

you ask him if he’d burned his tongue on the coffee that he ordered or something, but he just denies you

had he become your muse?

Jin Ling thinks and thinks and thinks the whole time

he’d become your muse!

⋆┈┈｡ﾟ❃ ❀ ❁ ❃ ❀ ﾟ｡┈┈⋆

Ouyang Zizhen

would have always wanted to learn to draw

and practice makes everything possible

but the feeling that one would get

choosing the right colors

the right texture

the right...everything

Zizhen didn’t have that

but ever since he’d met you, he’d found contentment in watching you draw

loved the way that you just knew what colors would belong where and what would look best there

you’re the perfect artist that he had always dreamed of being

he thinks so

believes this for a while

until he stops by your studio a year or so after knowing you

and he sees it

they’re large canvas, lining up the back wall of your studio amidst other big projects that you’re planning

the closer he gets, the more he sees the details of frustration that you have left on them

one part of the canvas ripped because you had erased or pressed too hard

a splotch of color clearly gone out of line from the way that you wanted it to go

and such other little things

its the first pieces of unfinished work that he’s ever seen from you

and they’re still, just as beautiful as your finished ones, Zizhen thinks

“do you know what you’re looking at?”

your voice surprises him as you come up behind him

he turns around to look at you, shake his head in confusion

you smile at him, pull him a step or two back so he can the full canvas

it’s a human face...

different directions and trials

“it’s you,” you admit, quietly

your voice echoes in the studio

he widens his eyes as he recognizes himself between the lines you’ve erased and gone over

“i want to draw you...in the best way that i can. but it’s been taking me a while to do that...” you admit, almost like you’re ashamed

Zizhen turns to look at you, taking your hands in his

the calluses you’ve built, as you labored over paintings of a man like him

“it has already been the biggest honor of my life, to be someone worthwhile for you paint,” he admits to you in the quietness of your studio

you smile at him

he smiles back

[bitch-butter]

Little bit of a rivers prequel exploration. I've mentioned this scene a few times in the series, but it's not really my intention to do anything that takes place before part one, so this was just going to like slowly asphyxiate in my drafts unless I released it lol

She's going to live on Tumblr unless I somehow decide I want to do more of Whatever This Is in the future, but since it takes place before the series you don't need to have read the other parts which is sexy.

Read More for like 3k of Gay Shit~

* * *

Hay wasn’t the smell that Joe would have gravitated to normally. The mulchy wetness in combination with the dry and yeasty texture always made him think of bugs, and this feeling was not a welcome one when forced to be bedded down on a big pile of the stuff. Each breath full of the smell was nearly enough to make him gag.

Still, beat sleeping outside. And the smell was strong enough to cancel out his own smell, which, he knows from experience, isn’t a walk in the park right now either. 

He had settled into a comfortable enough doze by the time his mind caught onto the frankly annoying fucking snoring emanating from the corner of the barn. Cracking his eyes open, he glared into the corner where a Hoobler shape slump is curled up against the wall, snoring away into the dark with an unfamiliar body sprawled on the ground a few feet away, seeming unperturbed.

One fucking night is all he’s asking for. Fuck.

Pulling in an aggravated breath, Joe sat up from his hay-bed, contemplating whether or not to try and ignore the sound or move out completely to a quieter spot. He glanced towards the door of the barn, where clear moonlight cut across the ground to illuminate the dry, if a hint cold, night beyond. It wouldn’t be the worst thing to sleep out tonight if he had to, he supposed. 

He’s taking in the details of the scene outside when he spots what looks to be the toe of a boot popping out from beside the doorway. For a moment his heart picks up, hand moving to grasp onto his rifle, but the boot doesn’t move, just remains planted solidly in the dirt. The longer he looks, though, the more he makes out a calf, leading to a body sitting against the wall outside.

It’s curiosity more than anything that brings him to his feet. What kind of guy doesn’t fucking drop the second he gets an opportunity? 

Of course it’s Webster.

He doesn’t know why the realization brings a smile to his face. Why the sight of the other man leaning up against the barn, legs bent and beaten up notebook in his lap, makes him feel oddly alive. He doesn’t even know Webster that well, only spoken to him one-on-one maybe a handful of times at most, and definitely doesn’t know him as well as he knows some of the other guys. 

But still, he feels light. Light enough to step outside and look down in amusement at Webster, who in turn looks up at Joe in bewilderment. “Trouble sleeping in the dirt, Web?”

Bewilderment turns critical as Web frowns, eyes falling back down to his book as he continues writing. “Not tired.”

Snickering, Joe stepped around Web to let his own back hit the barn, sliding down to slouch beside the other man. “Always knew there was something wrong with you.”

He’s digging for his smokes in his pocket when he realizes that Web’s hand has stilled, and that the other man is looking aside at him with an inscrutable expression, eyes glancing over Joe’s face in the near-dark. “What?” he asked, an edge of anxiety in his voice. 

Web’s face clears in an instant. “Nothing,” he sighed, turning back to his book. Even in the shadows Joe can see the tips of his ears are red. 

“Right,” Joe nods disbelievingly, holding out his pack in an attempt to dispel the strange air surrounding them. Web takes one gratefully, mumbling a thanks as Joe placed one between his lips, holding his lighter up between them. They bend in towards each other, close enough that Joe can smell Web; a dirty, grass-like smell with an undercurrent of that same sweat all the guys have now. 

Better than hay, he thinks as Web draws back with his cigarette lit, before snapping the lighter closed and smoking in silence for a few moments. He finds his eyes drawn ceaselessly to Web’s pale hand as it moves across the page, turns to the next, and continues on. Web has good hands, he thinks to himself, before blinking the thought away. 

Doesn’t mean he stops looking, though.

“What are you writing about?” he asks softly, voice creaking a bit.

Web looks at him, face more open as he sighs out a stream of smoke. “Eindhoven.”

“Got a dame you want to remember, huh?”

Web huffs a small laugh. “No,” he takes another pull on his smoke, breathing deep and exhaling steadily. “I just don’t want to forget what it was like. How it felt.” 

Joe smiled quizzically. “Writing a book or something?”

“I don’t know,” Web replies, and it’s such an obvious lie Joe can’t help but laugh. This earns him a withering glare. “Even if I was, why do you care, Liebgott?”

“I don’t,” Joe bites, and it’s such an obvious lie of his own that Web laughs at him. “Guess I’m having trouble imagining anybody wanting to read about you.”

Web scowled at him. “Well, it wouldn’t be just about me, that’s not the point.”

“So you are writing a book?” Joe grinned, bringing his dying cigarette back to his lips. 

Mouth opening and then closing just to open again, Web looks at Joe in bare-faced annoyance. “You...” he trailed, seemingly having trouble finding the exact right word to express how irritated he was.

“You’re going to catch flies, buddy,” Joe smirked, grinding the butt of his smoke in the dirt and almost snickering as Web’s lips clamped shut. “Anyway, don’t count your chickens, Webster. War ain’t over yet and I doubt anything you replacements have to say would be worth a damn.”

This snaps Web out of whatever annoyance induced fugue state he was entering. “I’m not a fucking replacement, Liebgott,” he snapped, eyes glinting at Joe’s in the moonlight. “I was in Normandy, same as you. And even if I hadn’t been, what gives you the right to treat me or any of the other guys like that?”

Scoffing, Joe found himself toeing the line between being amused at Web’s reaction and finding himself somehow actually getting hot. “Way I see it I get to talk to you or any of the other guys however I want,” he said, meeting Web’s eyes with no small degree of challenge. “Seeing as I was here from the beginning and all of you are just showing up to chew on the bones.”

Web stares at him for a moment, his pale face unguarded and awash with surprised pain. “So, what then? Babe isn’t Easy to you? I’m not Easy to you?”

“Babe proved himself.”

A sharp “Ha!” stung in Joe’s face as Web’s head tilted back momentarily, before the other man levelled him with a skeptical look. “You’re so full of shit that you don’t even realize you are, Liebgott.”

Joe shook his head, unsure of why the back of his neck was heating so rapidly. “Keep telling yourself that, Webster. Fact is, what you do out there’s going to matter more than whatever bullshit you’re scribbling in your diary.”

Web nodded mockingly. “Alright, Joe, so I just need to earn the approval of who? You?”

It’s said so sneeringly that Joe can’t help but be nasty back. “Eh, we’ll see if you make it back.”

The hum Web emits might be mistaken for a tease, but Joe can see the lines drawn on the other man’s face as he shoots his eyes down to the ground. “Right,” he nods, swiftly standing and grabbing his pack from the ground beside him, crushing his smoke under his boot. “I’ll take it into consideration,” he says, shooting Joe a dark look over his shoulder. “‘Night.”

Joe blinks and Web is striding away, almost in the space of a breath. “Sleeping outside is for suckers!” he calls.

“Fuck you!” Web called back, casual and unaffected as anything, blue eyes glancing over his shoulder and back at Joe. They shot fire at him, and Joe all of a sudden feels as though he’s been struck by lightning, heat zig-zagging from his head all the way down through his bones. 

Inexplicably, he wants more of it.

As fast as Web was disappearing into the dark and the trees of the orchard beyond Joe is scrambling up, nearly running just to catch up with him. He settles at Web’s side as though they had not just devolved into verbal fisticuffs a few moments prior, and gleans some pleasure from the clearly agitated face the other man gives him as they continue moving along side by side.

“Yes?” Web prompts impatiently.

“What?” 

He holds back a smile at the roll of Web’s eyes. “What do you want, Joe?”

Joe has to scoff, shaking his head in the splintering shadows the darkened trees cast over them. “Like I’d want a goddamn thing from you, Web.”

The chuckle that greets him catches him slightly off guard, and he finds himself glancing back at the other man’s dark profile, the smile turning up the edges of Web’s full lips -

He shakes his head. 

“I don’t think you actually know what you want,” Web said teasingly, voice low in the quiet of the night, eyes darting over to catch onto Joe’s like hooks. “If you did you wouldn’t be following me.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Joe challenged, eyes still caught up in the knowing gleam of Web’s even as he tried in vain to gather the strength to break the connection. 

“You don’t know?” Web asked obliquely, an air of casual imperiousness settling over his words like a heavy fog.

All of a sudden they’re stopped in the dark, trees sprouted up all around them in a pattern that, were it light out, might have been effortlessly beautiful, but in the dark gave the distinct impression of a cage surrounding them, stars glimmering beyond the branches above like shattered glass. But he can see Web in uncomfortable clarity, stood before him with his eyes looking down on Joe like he knows something, like he has a secret that he stole away in the fucking dark of the night, and damn it Joe wants it back. 

“I know a hell of a lot more than you think I do,” he utters in what he intended to resemble a growl, but comes out sounding much more like a rasp. 

“Oh, really?” 

He steps into Web’s space, expecting Web to do what any other guy would have done and take a step back, and is met instead with Web’s unflinching conceit. With this added proximity he finds himself swallowing down some unnamable wave that rushes up through his body and threatens to spill out of him and straight onto Web, and in the dark he can feel his neck flushing.

If he can see Web in the dark then no doubt Web can see him right back.

He does, because his eyes move effortlessly from amusement, to annoyance, to resignation. “You don’t know,” he says definitively, and Joe can almost feel the words moving through the air between them.

Web says this as though it’s supposed to end the matter, break the connection, and yet if anything Joe can feel him moving in even closer, and it’s pure stubbornness that keeps him rooted to his spot. “What are you doing?” he murmurs, eyes moving down along the planes of Web’s pale face, drawn like a magnet to the sight of the other man’s lips, which are pink, and parted, and -

“What am I doing?” Web whispered back, sounding almost as though he was talking to himself, but their faces hovered close to each other in the dark for too long for him to not know what he’s doing, and the way his eyes aren’t on Joe’s eyes but lower, lower -

“I…” Web trails away in the second before suddenly their lips are meeting. And Joe knows he didn’t move, and he didn’t feel Web move, but they’re together, they’re connected, their mouths are moving against each other as soft as fucking clouds and their noses nudge and Joe’s neck is hot and it feels perfect, it feels like heaven to kiss Web, he’s kissing Webster - 

Reality shoots back into him like the sear of a bullet to the head, and as fast as their lips meet he’s shoving Web away. His hands meet Web’s shoulders roughly, pushing him with strength that he almost didn’t know he had in him, and where the fuck was this side of him back in Toccoa?

But he only gets to relish the gasp of air back into his body for a moment, as his forceful push sends Web careening back, feet tripping backwards over the knobby roots of the trees surrounding them, and he hits the ground hard. 

“Oh, shit,” he spits, immediately moving to narrow the space between them yet again, dropping to his knees beside Web’s downed form. “Are you alright? I’m sorry, are you alright?”

For his part, Web looks a little dazed by the quick pivots of Joe’s mood in just the last few seconds, and blinks rapidly in the shadows before coughing. “You’re like a fucking child, Christ.”

“Hey,” Joe mutters, flush deepening with embarrassment, with confusion. 

Web’s eyes are on him again, and he only just keeps himself from shrinking back because where he had anticipated the usual swell of annoyance or of, please, anger, Web appears almost hesitant and...what? Fearful? His gaze moves over Joe’s face quickly, as though measuring every line, every angle, searching for something.

“What?” Joe croaks. “You scared?”

Swallowing heavily, the other man quirks a disbelieving eyebrow. “Aren’t you?”

“No, I -” he starts, before abruptly halting. It’s a lie, he is afraid. But not of Web, who’s still looking at Joe like he half believes Joe’s going to clobber him, but of himself. He’s never done anything like that before, never even allowed himself to linger on the thought of it for longer than the space of one thought between another. Certainly he hadn’t ever drawn Web into those fleeting moments. Well, not in a traditional way at least.

If he palmed his cock and saw Web’s hands, or the curve of his jaw, then that’s nobody’s business. He thinks about a lot of things.

“No,” he settles.

Web doesn’t look like he quite believes him, if the distressed curve of his lips is anything to go by, and Joe reaches out to settle a hand on his neck just to see the way his eyes widen. He swallows, feeling a shiver pass through him at this simple, voluntary touch, and before he knows it he’s smiling, and at the sight of his smile Web is smiling back. And if he’s been paying special attention to parts of Web lately his smile hasn’t been one.

It is now.

“Alright,” Joe whispers through half of a chuckle, shaking his head. “Can I kiss you again?”

Smile melting from relief to happiness, Web looks as though he’d do just about anything Joe asked him to, but he manages to huff a tiny laugh first. “Are you going to push me again?”

Rolling his eyes, Joe tugged at his light hold on Web’s neck, blood heating at the way the other man’s eyes fluttered. “No.”

Shifting up from where he’d been braced back on his arms, Web reached out to take gentle hold of either side of Joe’s face, one hand combing back through his dirty hair. “Then yes,” he nodded. “Yes, please.”

This time they pull each other into the kiss, their lips meeting again just as softly as before, slotting together with an ease that felt almost unnatural with disuse. His hand rubbed clumsily at the skin of Web’s neck, easing himself back into the rhythm of kissing. It wasn’t enough that he hadn’t kissed anyone since Georgia, but now he’s kissing a man on top of that, and the combination of sensations has him shuddering and hardening in his pants even before he feels Web’s tongue gently asking permission into his mouth. 

His mouth falls open with the slightest pull to his hair, and he welcomes the other man’s tongue with a grace he honestly feels he should be lauded for. He’s been with some forthcoming dames, to be sure, but none of them have felt this strong or as sure in his arms, letting Joe take and taking Joe right back. It’s something he could easily get addicted to, he thinks, as his tongue presses in to play over Web’s and he firmly wraps his other arm around the other man’s waist.

Web’s arms wrapping around his neck are overwhelming at first, before he feels their bodies, pressed together, easing back to rest on the dark, mossy, ground. They settle side by side, facing each other, legs fumbling and maneuvering around until Web has one leg thrown easily over Joe’s hip and Joe has one knee pressed steadily between the spread of Web’s thighs.

They split apart at the first accidental nudge of their crotches against one another, Web gasping and Joe hissing, before Web begins gently kissing down along his jaw.

“You taste like olives, a bit,” Joe said hoarsely, catching his breath as though he just ran up Currahee.

“Oh, sorry,” Web apologized, glancing back up at Joe’s face with a furrowed brow.

Joe shook his head, pressing a kiss just off Web’s lips. “I like olives,” he rebuffed, pulling their mouths back together in a smacking kiss. “Fuck,” he gasped softly, pressing in to kiss along Web’s neck beside his ear. “You done this before?”

Web breathed out a little tremble, smoothing his hand up Joe’s back. “Kissed a man?”

“Yeah,” Joe rasped, swallowing heavily as his hips rolled against Web’s own, lazy but with intention.

The nod of the other man’s head draws him out of his fascination with Web’s neck, and he finds himself pressing an exhilarated kiss against Web’s cheek as he speaks. “Yes,” he admits in a whisper. “Not- ah, not many, but yes, I -”

He’s laying another, harder kiss against Web’s lips at the self-conscious wobble of the words, his tongue sweeping through Web’s mouth as though to gather them and take them back into himself. Groaning as the leg Web had thrown over him tightened, bringing them almost fully flush, he brought one hand down to grasp tightly at the meaty flesh of the other man’s thigh, pulling it gently upwards and had to smile at the pleased hum that rattled around Web’s body.

“Have you?” Web asked gently.

Joe shook his head. “No.”

“Oh,” Web murmured, pulling in a deep breath at the steady roll of Joe’s hips against his own, head falling back against the darkened soil and baring his neck for Joe, who immediately resumed kissing along its length. “Lieb...Lieb…” he breathed, almost absentmindedly as Joe realized exactly how much he enjoyed when Web said his name. “Joe...we should- we should pump the breaks a bit.”

Pulling his face from the hot expanse of Web’s neck, Joe frowned down at him. “What?”

“No, I -” Web swallowed, giving his head a clearing shake and blinking back towards Joe with a little more clarity. “I like it, I like it a lot, I’d just rather do this on the other side of tomorrow, if you know what I mean.”

The heat still pulsing through his veins screamed its discontent, but Joe reluctantly acknowledged that wherever this interaction was heading was now paused for the time being.

Figures, Web looks the part of a fucking tease, after all.

“Alright,” he muttered, releasing Web’s thigh with no small degree of bitterness, letting Web ease himself back just enough for Joe to feel distinctly burned. He sat up with a gently heating face, mindful to keep himself angled away enough that Web wouldn’t be able to see it, and looked around the orchard surrounding them, searching out anything to anchor his eyes to so that he didn’t have to think about Web’s lip, his legs, his eyes in the dark -

Eyes that meet his own once more, his chin caught gently in the other man’s warm palm as Web turned his face back. Web, at the very least, seems just as put out at stopping as he does, and for a moment he wants to be an asshole, wants to fight, but can’t bring his mouth to do anything but fall open, breathe.

“Can I?” Web asked quietly.

Joe could only nod.

The kiss is as light as a feather, whispering across his lips like dust settling, and he hums into the feeling and, suddenly, feels at peace. He runs one hand through Web’s hair, smoothing it, and gathers up the heat from the other man’s neck in the palm of his hand, bringing it back to himself like he had stolen his secret back from where Web had hidden it.

He pulls back softly, face still angled into Web’s sphere. “See you on the other side, huh?”

Web sighed, nose brushing Joe’s own, and closed his eyes for a moment before opening them to look teasingly back at him. 

“Arschloch,” he drawled, pushing Joe back with a soft touch to the base of his neck before standing, brushing dirt from his pants, and taking off into the darkness of the orchard without a glance back at Joe.

Joe watches him go, seeing for the first time the length of his limbs, the curve of his ass, and allows himself to want. He, as fast as lightning, very badly wants to find a patch of darkness to crowd him into tomorrow night.

If Web makes it back. If they both do.

Without a second thought, he’s up and following Web into the dark, ignorant and uncaring of their destination. 

[mahixa]

why you all should read Momentum - an epic story of Remus and Sirius

Written by amazing, wonderful and talented Children of the Shadows, the story is “an epic tale of Remus and Sirius's lives, starting from the very beginning. A love that carries on through trials, tribulations, and war.”

The author portrays all of the characters (including James, Peter, Lily and others) with such incredible depth that the actual writer of HP (what’s her name... don’t remember, don’t care lol) should learn how to write characters from this fanfiction. I know there’s some of you who were not in the fandom in 2006, and maybe some of you prefer to read fics from like, 2010s, and that’s okay! Although the story was not published on ao3 (so on the page that everyone is familiar with right now, all the young and old fans) and it was finished almost 13 years ago, please don’t feel discouraged and give it a try. It’s worth it. I promise.

So here are some of my favourite things about Momentum:

everyone has personality which is complex and complicated and there’s a lot going on here. Any personal struggles, doubts, heartbreaks, hope? - it’s all there, and it’s written like.... *chef’s kiss*

the. connection. between. Remus. and. his. family. It’s so so so important to show his relation with his family members, especially with his parents, because it just adds depth to his character, so he doesn’t seem like a guy who’s only purpose is to be Sirius’s boyfriend. He has other relations, and they are explored in this fic (his friendship with Lily and James is powerful in this one).

James. James Potter. The way he is written here? Magic. Trust me. Like... trust me. You’re not gonna regret it. James is the real MVP.

characters act in a way that is logical and in character for them, and they are not like... cheesy or sappy or two-dimensional whatever reason. They have flaws and act like a human being could act. They make mistakes and have doubts and ask questions and can be problematic. But they learn. The GROWTH in this fic is so wonderful

gay issues and difficulties written accordingly to the period of time (70s). The author pays tribute to how brave the gay people were back then and shows us different aspects of being gay at that time (self-doubt, family issues, that fear of how everyone is going to react, violence, slurs, gay clubs, this impossibility to touch in public. Unfortunately, fucking unfrotunately, in so many cases it still remains to be a huge problem for many of us, but what I’m saying is that it’s important to acknowledge how it used to be as well. I’m not saying these problems are gone now, of course). Sometimes fic writers tend to forget about it and all these aspects and just write these two as being openly and loudly gay - and as much as I would LOVE for all of us, all the amazing LGBTQA+ people to always be able to be ourselves as loudly and openly as we would like to be, it was (and still is in many cases, fuck it, I hate it) not entirely possible.

the humour. This story can be really funny and there were times when I had literal tears in my eyes from laughing so hard when I read it for the first time

James and Lily being the power couple

Sirius and James being brothers BUT them being Remus’s best friends as well

the angst. the angst is really painful. but the fluff. it’s worth it, for the fluff that comes after the pain.

so beautifully written. All the descriptions, all the words, ah, it’s just... it is so easy to read and get lost in it. The dialogues are very realistic (which is, again, another problem that may appear in some fics) and are written in character for these people

the order of the phoenix stuff with the Weasleys and other characters THIS IS GREAT them all being young and brave

Sirius saying bye bitch to his racist family but this not being easy for him, which again - any normal human being would find that hard

Remus and Sirius being in love. But oh boy. This love right here? It’s a totally new definition of loving somebody.

REMUS. AND. SIRIUS. RAISING. HARRY.

here are some of my favourite quotes so you could see what I mean with all of this:

Whoever said Sirius Black and James Potter were the most charismatic and attractive third years in Hogwarts were either insanely blind or were yet to meet Remus Lupin. At least in Sirius's opinion.

***

After all, he [Remus] was anything but normal. There was no way of putting it subtly, the world hated people like him, and he knew for a fact that he was not going to receive any sort of affection from them. So, he craved their love and when his parents got their sudden attacks of overwhelming affection, he clung on to them and returned their embraces and small declarations of love. [...] John Lupin stared into those soft amber eyes, and he let his hand slide, caressing his son's face through the thin glass. 'Love you,' he mouthed before moving away, and Remus nodded.

***

[After Sirius’s prank had gone wrong and Remus ended up in the infirmary]:

'Don't you think the flowers and chocolates are a bit too much, Sirius?' asked James as they walked towards the infirmary.

Sirius finger combed his hair. It was getting a bit too long and he'd sort of grown to like it that way. 'It's called courtesy, James, but I wouldn't expect you to know anything about it.'

'Really? I thought you gave people flowers and chocolates on Valentines Day,' teased James, winking mischievously at Sirius.

***

'Don't be ridiculous, Sirius,' his mother snapped, looking up at him with cold hard eyes. 'Gryffindor is laden with all kinds of lowly people – half bloods, and mudbloods, and what not. I hope you aren't fraternising with any of them.'

Sirius put down his fork and looked his mother directly in the eye. 'I am; three of them in fact.'

***

Sirius caught Remus's hand just as it was about to move away and kissed the heel of his palm softly. 'How were the full moons?' he asked, his lips brushing over Remus's wrist with every word he spoke.

***

[Remus, on the phone with Sirius]

'I'm in muggle jail!' Sirius exclaimed happily and there was an ominous silence that followed.

It was broken by the strangled sounds of Remus asphyxiating. 'WHAT?'

'I know, isn't it fantastic?' Sirius asked, obviously misreading the tone of Remus's voice as excitement. It didn't help that James had fallen to the floor in hysterics and was screaming 'brilliant!' between uncontrollable laughter.

***

[The kiss] It was heat. Heat like they'd never experienced before and an overbearing pressure pushing against them, drawing their bodies closer and closer together. They were drowning in each other, suffocating, completely out of control.

[talesfromlissom]

Brother Sharpens Brother (Part II)

A/N: This is the same thing as my latest post, but it takes place after Cole becomes a human again. Technically this is halloween ish cause DOTD is technically halloween ish so. 

For those of you that actually know Ninjago and are watching Ninjago, I chose the alternative version of it, instead of the actual one lol. 

ALSO: I’m so so sorry that this took so long to do. I have school, and I was completely unmotivated for a while, then I spilled soda on my laptop cause I’m stupid so I had to get it repaired but uh,,, here it is, hope you enjoy!

!WARNING! Mentions of blood, violence, and broken limbs, please proceed with caution.!

You had completely ignored your brother, and you could tell he was as well. 

But that was the farthest thing from your mind, as it was racing with so many other thoughts, and you could feel your hair briskly waving in the wind as you leaned over the railing of the bounty. 

“Hey.” A soft voice had startled you, and for a second you thought it was Zane, because he was the only person capable of sneaking up on you. 

However, your soft gaze turned hard seeing the ghost before you. 

Morro fidgeted, turning to the floor. 

“Uhm...nice weather we’re having.” 

You blink. 

“Sure.” You reply quickly, turning back to the clouds below. 

You can feel the wind pick up, as you still feel his presence drifting behind you.

“Alright, I’ll bite, what do you want?”

Morro hesitates, he hesitates, which is new, because you remembered fairly well that he never hesitated, as a child, a teenager, a brother, or a ghost. 

“I’m sorry.” He says, so softly that you almost don’t hear it. 

“What?”

“I’m sorry,” He says, much more confidently and a tad bit louder. “I shouldn’t have left you all those years ago, I shouldn’t have possessed Lloyd, summoned the preeminent-”

“Turned Cole into a ghost?”

He stares.

“I didn’t do that.”

“Because you stole the scroll of airjitzu, Cole had to get the original one, so technically it is your fault.”

He lets out a ‘tsk’, before crossing his arms. “Fine, I’m sorry for turning Cole into a ghost.” 

You don’t reply. You won’t gift him that. Hell, you’re too surprised that he even bothered coming up here to say much of anything.

“You’re upset.” He says. “And worried.” 

You don’t reply again. 

“It’s Cole, isn’t it?” 

Now that gets your attention. 

The wind becomes softer, less loud. 

“Ah, there it is.” He says. “When I possessed Lloyd I fished through his memories-” He pauses, seeming to catch himself, and mentally cursing at himself in the process.

“Uh...you like Cole, huh?” 

“Yeah, so what if I do?”

Morro throws his hands up defensively. “Hey the kid-” 

You frown and Morro bites his tongue.

“Look, I’m not sure how much time I have left until I go back to the departed realm, but...you should...tell him.” 

You scoff. “He likes girls.”

“Do you know that for sure?”

You shake your head. “He has a picture of those girls in bikinis on a car above his head.” 

“I used to have a picture like that above my dead, you’re forgetting all of you are horny teenagers.” 

“I am not horny.”

“Are you?”

You turned to him, a small smile on your face. “I liked it better when you were trying to kill me.”

“No you didn’t.” 

“Pft.” A pause, as you turn back to the clouds. “I suppose you’re right.”

You feel his presence become closer. 

“Anyways, as your bestest big brother-”

“Bestest isn’t a word.”

“Whatever, as your big brother, I’m telling you to go get ‘em.”

“You really think I have a chance?”

Morro shrugs. “I dunno, I’ve only ever tried to kill Cole.” 

You frown. “Wow thanks.”

                                                             _

Morro had disappeared soon after that, you assumed he slipped off of the bounty to go back..wherever he went. 

You had gathered up the rest of the ninja and currently you and the group were making your way over to the air temple. 

That is, until the wind hit.

You couldn’t control the wind, why couldn’t you control the wind.

“(Y/N)! C’mon, do something!”

“It’s not working goddamn it! It's not my wind, my powers don’t worry like tha-”

A large gust throws the ship to the side, and you tumble down the deck and into one of the ship’s posts. 

A rope slaps you in the face, and you grab it with your hand.

“Can anybody see Cole? Or Yang!” A voice calls in the distance, another reply is said, but your ears are ringing far too loudly. 

You grab the rope, and begin to pull yourself up the pole, resting on the top of the bounty.

If Cole was here he’d probably shout something at you, say you were being reckless, and that you’d get yourself killed. 

But here you were.

Your eyes widened.

“I see him!” You shout, hoping your friends will hear you. “He’s fighting Yang on top of the temple!” 

A bright blue light fills your vision, and you screech, tumbling from the post and onto the deck.

A deafening crack! Is heard, as well as a screech from your mouth.

The wind dies down a tad bit, as footsteps fill your ears. 

You see Zane above you.

“Why’s the bone sticking out like that!” Jay cries. “Bones are supposed to stay inside your body!” 

That’s the last thing you hear before you close your eyes. 

                                                             _

Waking up in white was the last thing you wanted to do. 

You knew they had changed you, that didn’t bother you, no.

What bothered you was if Cole was okay.

You sat up in your bed, eyes surveying the room. Looking down, you saw a white cast slung on your arm. 

Great, just great. 

You sigh, and fall backwards into your pillows, staring at the ceiling.

You could feel a soft breeze flowing through the room, that’s when you realized that your window was cracked open, the curtains flowing softly from the wind. The sun was low in the sky, as said sky was painted soft oranges and pinks.

Normally, you would’ve sat up and meditated, maybe even sung a quick tune or two, but your mind was so active with anxiety and fear inducing thoughts that you barely even muster the strength to get up.

Cole.

What happened to Cole?

That was enough motivation for you, as you pulled yourself from your soft bed, despite your entire body aching. 

You made your way down the hall, realizing that you were in a plain black t-shirt, and grey sweatpants. 

Your head drifts to the hallway ahead of you, seeing shadows dancing on the walls, and a soft light from the room to the left.

You step towards the room quietly, only to peep your head into it. 

You see the other ninja, happily chattering away, boxes of chinese food littering the table.

Jay is fighting with Cole over a dumpling, where Cole snatches the dumpling from-

Wait what. 

Jay looks up, his face riddled with shock.

“(Y/N)! You’re awake!” He calls out, almost getting up from the table, but Zane beats him to it. 

“(Y/N), I do not wish to intrude but, you should be resting,” He says. “You...broke your arm, as you can see.”

Zane gestures to the arm, and your eyes drift to it. 

You shrug, wheezing slightly at the pain. 

“I’m fine, nothing hurts right now.” You reply, softly. 

Your eyes fall onto Cole’s, and you almost double back in shock.

He’s there, his face looks full, not green, his eyes are as bright as ever, and he’s non-transparent.

However, your eyes become captivated by the deep, green, and nasty scar that goes from his hairline and falls just below his eyes. 

He flushes, and gets up from the table.

“I’ve...got it Zane, you guys finish eating.” 

Zane flashes Cole a look, before a grin forms on his face, so small that if you weren’t a ninja you probably wouldn’t catch onto it, but Zane returns to the table.

A hand falls to your waist softly, and Cole guides you down the hall.

However, you come to a halt once you know you're out of earshot.

“Wh-” Your unbroken arm grasps Cole's face, pulling him down to your eye leve.

“Is there something on my face?” He asks.

You frown.

But your eyes fall onto his. 

“How…” You say, before turning back to look at him again.

His hand drifts up to your, grasping it so lightly, and god is his skin soft. 

“Yang...he...he tried to become human again, so he created a portal that would...well..make him human again,” A pause. “But, I went through it instead, after he thought better of it.” 

Your eyes widen.

“Yang?” You ask, hearing your almost turn to a shout. “Didn’t he turn you into a ghost?” 

“Technically Morro did.” Cole mutters, and you chuckle.

“True, I even told him that.” 

Cole raises an eyebrow, but you shake your head. 

Your fingers drift to his hair, twirling a strand in between your fingertips. 

“So..what’s it like being human again?”

Cole is silent for a moment, his eyes never leaving your hand, which is still playing with his hair. 

“I..uh...it's different.”

“Do you like it?”

“Of course I do.” He chuckles. “I can touch stuff, again, and I don’t feel cold anymore.” 

You sigh. “That’s good..” 

“It also means I can kiss you.”

You pause, your hand drawing back from his face immediately. Your cheeks feel hot, and your eyes widen at the words, and he sheepishly looks away from you, almost seeming surprised that he even said those words.

“I…”

“Cole.”

“I’ve gotta go now, bye-!”

“Cole hang on a second-”

“Bye!”

Cole races down the hall, leaving you in silence. 

You shout; “I swear to god if you don’t get your ass back here and kiss me, I’ll make you a ghost again!” 

You cried, chasing after him.

                                               ──•~❉+❉~•──

Rules

Overwatch Masterlist 

Ninjago Masterlist

The Arcana Masterlist (WIP)

Ask Box (Requests are open!!!)

[stray-ashes]

I imagine you've already received an ask like this, but...would you happen to have any anatomy tips? The way you draw the human body is just 👌 *chef's kiss*

I am so sorry about the late reply! I sometimes forget i own Tumblr lol. However, thank you so much!

I could spend the following 40 minutes talking and writing and giving advice about anatomy, even if I too stll have a LOT to learn and practice, I actually never studied it professionally, mostly just on my own, through tries and tries and tries. It starts from the fascination with the human body, the way it moves, the way skin wraps around muscles and bones and creates lights and shadows and how it conveys dynamics effortlessly when moving. My advice, is to always look for the beauty of it: go on Pinterest (which is your best friend as an artist) and look through anatomy and poses references images, pick the ones that attract your eyes the most and STUDY why it attracts you.

Look at the body you are seeing, then visualize the major masses in it, the volumes it has, the head, the torso, the legs - I’m finding out more and more myself that it all revolves around volumes, curves, perspective. Idk if you’ve ever had the chance to.... sculpture anything, with clay or even digitally (Blender, ZBrush etc), but that helps a lot to understand volumes and it will reflect on your bidimensional art too. Draw like you are sculting something, skillfully crafting something out of a flat surface.

Take the picture of your choosing and try to recreate it with simpler masses and volumes, just dynamic lines on paper. Start studying the muscles of an arm, or a leg, or abs. Then, everything will gradually become more natural and the pose will be clear in your mind eye. But Art is growth, and growth takes time. And lots of dedication, and love. Like a pet. Or a baby.

Beside all this, I have a huge collection of references I use almost any time I draw, even if I’m not copying it - if I have to draw an arm in a certain position, sometimes it’s enough to look at the picture of another arm EVEN if the pose is completely different. Your mind will still recognize the volume of it you need to recreate. I’d share all of it but wouldn’t ve fair to the artists I don’t even remember the name of anymore.

Personally, the anatomy references that have been useful to me the most through the years are some of the ref sheets created by Jinx-Star on Deviantart! Hope they can be useful to some of you, too.

[ramble-writes]

So here comes another valentine's gift for the glorious @franks-mixtape ! If y'all remember the 2 Franks that are brothers and werewolves that I wrote some time ago, this is going from that again because I thought about it randomly and felt like I then needed more of it sooooooo yeah! If you DON’T know, the gist is being that his Frank and my Frank are half brothers. Father being a werewolf to both which resulted in his Frank being a halfling, while mine is whole werewolf due to different mothers. 19 years apart until both came to Ormond where they met up and figured out they’re brothers. So there ya go!

Warning(s): probs just standard cussing, buuuut that’s it lol

Don’t forget to like, reblog, and follow if ya wanna see more! (◍•ᴗ•��)❤

-

A Wednesday. Worst day for the 14th to fall on. Especially since it’s in the middle of the school week. Frank James Morrison sat there in the last class for the day, English. The teacher decided to focus on how Valentine’s day started from some dude who got executed in Rome or some shit. He wasn’t paying attention, finding it useless to learn about. Emerald green eyes lazily gazed around the room till they landed on his brother’s russet hair.

Frank Fenik Morrison was there a few seats to James’s left, amber eyes were trailing over the printed paper the teacher had passed out previously. As much as he was into literature, if he wanted to learn history on a subject of a man who was killed for trying to teach his religion to the Romans, he would’ve in his history class.

Fenik really was just idly taking his pencil to scribble a random design on a blank spot on the paper, the teacher’s voice seeming muffled in the background. Darkening some lines on the drawing, he felt a nudge in his mind, like someone nudging him with their arm. He lifted his eyes up and flickered to the side where gemstone eyes met and locked.

‘Dude. This shit is boring. Can’t we just.. skip out on this?”

‘I wish. But we can’t or shit’ll go down. Plus, they’ll know it’s us since we have the same exact name, minus the middle name.’

This made the raven-haired Frank sigh out loudly. He slightly scrunched his face up at hearing his other half chuckle both from a distance (thanks to his heightened hearing) and in his mind. Since figuring out the two had the same father, name, preference in tattoos, music, and other things, it made for the two getting along pretty easily. It resulted in a sort of bond to form. Since their father was a werewolf, it resulted in an animal like bond to form, that ran deeper than a standard sibling bond. Emotions, feelings, and thoughts were connected. It resulted in a mind link to have basically silent conversations.

‘Jesus fuckin Christ we have thirty minutes left of this bullshit. Feels like it’s taking foreverrrr!’

Fenik had to cover his mouth to stifle the laugh that bubbled up. Hearing him complain like a child made for lightening the boring mood. The internal complaining actually helped pass the time till the bell rang. Kids instantly got up with grabbing backpacks and shoulder bags alike and hurried for the door as the teacher called out that their homework from 2 days ago is due by Friday. Most likely, no one paid attention.

The two Morrisons waited at the bottom of the steps of Fairview, waiting on the other three of their odd pack in the snow. It didn’t take long for Julie, Susie, and Joey to come out. Julie adjusted her coat she has on as she hurried a bit down the stairs, being mindful of the snow-covered steps as she went over to the russet-haired Frank and planted her lips to his. This drew a very pleased growl from him as he kissed her back. Thankfully, those dreaded words to the holiday weren’t uttered.

“A’ight sluts! What’s the plan for today for shit to fuck up?” James asked, the name making Joey chuckle. “I’m lookin’ for chaos to burn down the grossness I feel from all this love shit.”

“I second that. There’s this jackass that’s been trying to feel Susie up in history when it comes to turning in work,” Julie huffed out. This made Joey look at the pinkett with concern on his face.

“And ya haven’t said anything?” Susie looked away at the tallest’s question which made him sigh. “Sus, ya gotta tell us when this kind of stuff happens..”

Her head only lowered before she pulled her hood up to hide her face. Joey had let out a sigh and draped an arm over her shoulders before looking at the other three. Amber, emerald, and brown eyes met and they all shared the same thought.

‘Trash the fucker’s place’

-

To cut things short, finding where the guy lives wasn’t hard. They did the standard: Egging the house, toilet paper thrown and draped over trees and parts of the house. But the brothers took it an extra step by managing to get up on the house with wadded up toilet paper, where they then shoved it down the chimney to block it up since smoke was coming out of it. And they were out as quickly as they came with a job well done. 

They all split to head to their homes, hearing distant sirens meaning the house called the fire department which was sweet music to them. Of course, the russet-haired teen snuck over to Julie’s place after her father passed out for their... usual time together. Raven, as another nickname to call James rather than by his middle name like Fenik, was laying there in bed till about midnight he heard his name being called through that mind link.

‘Thought you were busy bangin’ up Jules.’

‘Shut up and get your ass out here.’

‘Fiiine. But I still wanna hear about your adventures in the pussy caaaave!’

James snickered when he bet the other was rolling his eyes outside, but he got out of bed to get dressed in his usual letterman with an extra layer underneath since it is midnight and it’s still winter. Out the window he went and onto the ground below where his brother is standing and waiting.

“Alright, whatcha want butt sniffer?”

“Don’t. Anyway, thought it be nice to hang out since school has been riding out asses with work to get us “prepared for college” which I could care less for.”

The raven-haired teen nodded. “Yeah. It’s a lot of bullshit. Ffffuck I hate being a senior.”

“I feel that,” Fenik agreed with a nod of his head. As usual, the two headed into the forest since it is their escape, and the only way that the wolves within the both of them can be let out. It’s a nice reliever since a lot of the times going out was never an option and it would make them feel cramped.

Usually, they don’t speak when out in the forest unless they do their usual practice. But for now, it was nothing but a run. Fenik in full wolf with James keeping up at an easy stride. Surprisingly, there was no clouds which let for the moon to shine bright in the sky and reflect off the snow, practically lighting their path. 

They didn’t know how long they’ve been running, but they did come to a stopping point when the two Morrisons came across a big tree. It was there they stopped and flopped down at the base at the big roots, James leaning on Fenik and a hand running through the rust-colored fur in slow strokes.

“Ya know... I’m a bit jealous you can shift and I can’t..”

“Seriously? I dunno. I’d be pretty happy with just the heightened senses n shit.”

This made for emerald eyes to look at the wolf, which in return, amber looked back at the halfling. Concern was felt on both sides. Concern for how one felt left out of things, and concern for how the other didn’t care if shifting was a thing or not. James scooted himself a bit close to be able to wrap an arm around the back of the head of the large wolf and pressed his forehead to his, letting silence overtake the quiet between he two of them.

Something happened since one moment the raven-haired teen was small in comparison to the wolf with clothes on, to suddenly not and... the same size. It was like his body just relaxed for him to suddenly shift, but the realization got for the two to jump up onto their paws and look at each other.

James now was suddenly the same height, same build. Black fur made him look like a shadow o the white snow. Vibrant green eyes stood out like unknown lights in the darkest parts of the forest. The two were quiet, before sounds of excitement left them and they became nothing but giant mounds of fur and limbs with barks and yaps leaving them.

What felt like hours of nothing but romping around in the snow, they both flopped down panting with tongues hanging out of open mouths and tails swishing in the snow. Two sets of gemstone eyes gazed up at the night sky, the moon nothing but a white orb to the side of their vision.

“I hate valentine’s, but this? This is the greatest fuckin’ gift nature let me have haha!” James boofed out, letting his paws stretch out in front of him. It felt like all his limbs were sore from being contained, and finally was allowed to be out.

“Oh trust me. Being this way is heavenly. Feels like what freedom from the system should be. And now that you can shift, we can do this a hell of a lot more. And no one can stop the hell we’ll raise.” Fenik let out a chuff, a canine version of a chuckle. The black pelted one chuffed as well before rolling onto his side and laying close to the rusted pelt one and pressed close.

They were content like that, black mixing with rust, emerald and amber. It took only a nudge from Fenik to say that it’s best they get going. James got up and shook the snow from his fur, waiting for his brother to get up. Both standing, they trotted off to the edge of the forest where they shifted back to their human selves.

“This weekend. Can... we go running again? And... maybe teach me some wolf stuff since now I can shift?”

“Hell yeah man! I’ll be waiting ‘round seven. Sound good?”

James nodded with a slight smile before it fell. There was hesitation, but Fenik could feel it and brought his brother close for a hug. He melted into it and hugged the other back. They stood like that for some beats before breaking it off and headed to their homes with goodbyes through the link. Days and nights for now on were gonna be different, but they were gonna be hella enjoyable and that feeling of being left out vanished. Everything felt right, just as it should be. 

[alias-b]

The Shape.

Summary: It's Halloween, everyone's entitled to one good scare. Being blind, Marnie McClane considers herself scared of very little. Few things worse than the polite pity she gets from the neighborhood. A misunderstanding leads to a conversation she’ll never forget while she recalls an old friend.

A/N: I’m not back, I might return Monday but idk I guess when I’m down, I write things for slashers that interest very few in my circle. Posting anyways :( I made this in 2 hrs lol

Hope this is enjoyed either way, just trying to get my drive back. Thanks all!! ((TW: Shockingly none!!! Light threats of danger maybe?? No smut sorry)) Let me know what you think and I promise to reply when I return to tumblr for good. xoxo

Halloween, 1963

   “Trick-or-treat!”

   Always followed with shy giggles and little, outstretched hands.

  “Take as many as you like.” A bowl was pushed forward with a colorful selection. Marnie McClane tilted her head to hear the rustling. Parents chided so ‘thank yous’ followed.

   “You’re all very welcome.”

  “Richie, don’t take that many!” A voice sparked. 

  “Ah, mom, she said to take a bunch. She can’t see me!”

  “Richie!”

  “It’s alright, we bought too much this year.” Marnie listened to footsteps across cobblestone.

  “Richie, don’t run too far, young man!”

  “I won’t!” 

  “Sorry about him. Just at that age. You know?” Mrs. Castle approached the porch Marnie had seated herself on.

  “Kids.” A light shrug followed.

  “Who did your decorating?”

  “Dad and I before they left for my Aunt’s.” Eerie blue eyes shifted a few directions. No focused on any impossible blur in the black.

  “And...you’re alright here by yourself?”

  Marnie tried not to sour. The nosy neighbors meant well.

  “Yes. Get around fine same as always.” She plucked up a cane next to her and tapped the ground.

  “Oh, well, that’s good. Pretty costume.”

  “Mom said Red Riding Hood was in this year so I let her dress me. Honestly, I think she just wanted me to stand out in the bright red cape if I decided to wander.” Marnie paused to greet another small round of kids. Smiling to offer the packed bowl.

  “My, ah, nephew is visiting. He’s smart. So handsome. Studying to be a lawyer. You’ll like him. I’ll send him by. Just some good company.”

  Marnie twitched a smile. Story of her life. Everyone trying to set her up with nice, young men. Pity dates for the blind girl.

  “Great.” She replied flatter. “So nice.”

  “You two will hit it off, I just know it. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have an impatient boy gesturing- I’m coming, Richie! ...Enjoy your Halloween dear.”

  “You too, Mrs. Castle.” Marnie heard the wind rustling.

  Chatter and footsteps. Distantly, birds flapped overhead. It was easier to greet trick-or-treaters from the porch steps. Cold didn’t bug her during long autumn days. Always nice to feel wind on her face.

  Not like she could watch much on television. 

  The night lingered and candy ran low.

   Marnie picked up her thin cane and tapped around. Heard some animal rustle violently in the bushes. Probably a raccoon, they loved to eat the pumpkins. She moved back up the steps so she could put the bowl inside and shut the porch light off after feeling for the switch. When her parents weren’t home, she kept the house pitch black.

  She didn’t need the lights.

  Shifting back to the porch stairs, Marnie crouched down and reached about for the pumpkin sitting there. Lifting it poised to blow out the candle. The flicker of warmth touched her expression

  A ragged breath cut into the space. Near the open gate. Made her perk. Dark hair fell over her shoulders and she exhaled. Leaving the candle on to bathe her face.

  “Hello?” Feet shifted over concrete, making a slow scrape. She pressed her lips together. “I suppose you’re here to tell me it’s against the rules to snuff the lights in a pumpkin before Halloween ends.”

  No reply.

  “Well, I suppose I can leave them on just this once. Can’t upset the Halloween spirits.”

  Nothingness.

  “Are you Mrs. Castle’s lawyer nephew? Forgive me, she didn’t tell me your name.” Marnie sat there on the porch. Heard the steps get closer. “Silent type.”

  The Shape stood over her in darkness. Figured the nephew was the man he’d left in the bushes a few moments ago. The street around them hushed as more houses turned off their porch lights. Marnie stood with the pumpkin under one arm. Face glowing.

  “Name’s Margaret. McClane. Marnie for short. How do you do?” She extended one hand out into the wind. Felt the cool breeze kiss it. A broad palm lifted, decided against it, and dropped. 

  All she heard was the tapered breathing. Even like a heartbeat.

  “Shy sort.” She tucked hair away and sat down to put the carved face aside. “Well, you walked all this way. I didn’t hear a car. You can sit if you like.” Bright eyes stared ahead into nothingness. The Shape moved finally. Sat upon the creaking porch steps. “Studying to be a lawyer. I thought you’d talk my ear off. It’s okay, I can talk enough for both of us. Like a guessing game, I like those. Probably my condition. Most of my life is a guessing game.”

  She tilted her head to laugh softer. A too sweet sound. 

  “It’s alright to laugh with me.” She clutched her cane in one hand and placed the other on her knee. “Good sense of humor makes the day a little easier.”

  He might of grunted but she couldn’t quite tell.

  “You’re already thinking I talk too much. I get it a lot.” Marnie swallowed. Sounded a little harder. “We can get one thing straight. I’m blind. I’m not shy. Not helpless. If I need help, I have a perfectly good voice and I use it. I know it annoys people, but they’re too polite. So, if you’re the polite, pitying type, I think it’s best you continue on elsewhere.”

  He didn’t move. She inhaled the air. Metal. Grass. Dirt. Earthy-like.

  “Very well.” Marnie’s lips lifted again. They sat there together. A dark fall night with a glow from the moon and stars twinkling.

  Marnie could imagine them. Although she figured the stars were multi-colored like Christmas lights and the moon was a blob of a shape. Moving as a lava lamp would.

  “I lost it when I was young. My eyesight. I have these memories like maybe I saw what a cat looked like or my mother’s face. But, it’s probably all wrong now.” She leaned back like she was admiring the moon. Basking in its light. Thoughtfully, she recalled something else. “You remind me of a friend I had. He was quiet too. We fit together. He spoke very little and I too much. He didn’t seem to mind. Like you.”

  A head turned finally to study her behind a rubber mask.

  “You know, that old stereotype, that all blind people wanna do is touch faces...it’s all wrong. Everyone thinks I want to, I hate it when they force my hand up without asking.”

  He puffed.

  “Exactly, it’s so rude. I don’t often touch faces. I don’t like to.” She placed her cane’s handle under her chin to hum. “But, this boy I knew...I asked to touch his face. Everyone used to call him angelic-like. Said he had the face of an angel. I wanted to know what an angel’s face felt like.”

  Marnie laughed again like it was silly.

  “Though, I suppose I had nothing to compare it to.” She paused and he felt for a moment that she was looking through him. Burning into the chill of stone and black. Slowly, Marnie scooted closer. Not enough to touch him, but enough to feel body heat vibrate. Her chest shuddered.

  He didn’t move. Hard and rigid like marble.

  “Can I touch your face?” She lifted one hand. “I just want to know if you’re smiling or frowning. Trying to figure out if I should shut my damn mouth.” Extending as steady as she could. A slash cut through the air.

  Marnie gasped out.

  Fingers curled firm around her wrist. Another shaky breath. One they shared.

  “Sorry, if I offended you.” Softening, she stayed there. Heard his lungs vibrate. 

  A rustle followed. Knuckles twitched as he closed the distance. Let her draw lines up his jaw that was smooth and angled carefully. Face sculpture just so. Maybe by angels.

  When he couldn’t handle more. He pushed up from Marnie. Pulled his mask down. Felt the warmth of her touch trapped under it.

  “Leaving?” She jumped up, dropping her cane aside. A hand went out and missed it. The footsteps stopped at her gate. Returned before her cane was pushed aimlessly at her palms. She paused. “Thank you.”

  A glint of a blade met the moonlight. He pointed it at her heart while she stood oblivious. One plunge, it would have eased into her like butter. A stray, dark lock shifted over her eye. 

  “Maybe you’ll tell me your name next time we meet. I hope.” Marnie hushed. Unaware. Unafraid. One finger awkwardly shifted the hair from her face, tracing the line of her cheekbone in the process. She leaned into it and remembered something else. “Michael.”

  He froze. Blade still poised. Tremoring, he pulled back from her face.

  “That was my friend’s name.” She sounded out the syllables mournfully. “He changed. Went away. That’s what they told me. I always wished he grew comfortable enough to speak his thoughts. That’s why I’m not shy. No use hiding behind masks. Except on Halloween, I suppose. I’ve never touched an angel before, but maybe you’re close. It can be another guessing game.”

  Marnie smiled kindly down the blade, chest sinking.

  “If not, that’s fine too.” She said, catching his hand when it came down. Both their palms were chilled. He thought to slash forward. To crush her. Whatever was left of the boy with a face of an angel turned him back to marble. Delicately, Marnie placed one careful kiss upon his knuckles. Burned it there for the rest of his life.

  There was a pause while he slipped away.

  Before she heard the steps retreating.

  “Will I see you again?” She chuckled at herself. Touching her lips. “Sorry, the phrase always makes me laugh.” Marnie went up her porch, cane clicking as she felt for the doorknob. Michael Myers stopped at the gate. Saw her shifting in shadows to open the door. “Will you come back?

  Lips opened to sound out a single word against the cool, night air. Neither of them heard what is was. Just the breath that cast with it. Marnie’s lips pressed simply. 

  She bid The Shape a lovely goodnight and went inside. Left him there. Taking what lingered of the past with her. Leaving him the burn of a kiss he would never forget.

[orangeflavoryawp]

Jonsa - “From Instep to Heel”, Part 7

Finally catching up on posting my chapters on tumblr now that I’ve got the time to do the freakin’ formatting, lol.  I’ve been lazy.  My bad.

“From Instep to Heel”

Chapter Seven: Taken

"(His calloused palm at her thigh, the graze of his fingers along the edge of her smallclothes, the hot pant of his breath at her ear.)

Did you like it?

The question presses sharp and insistent at the edges of her mind." - Jon and Sansa. Like the curve of the horizon, when the moon breaks from beneath its bow.

Read it on Ao3 here.

Part 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 fin

* * *

"You slept well, I hope, brother?" Aegon's eyes crinkle with his smile as he bites off a piece of salted seabass.

Jon offers a tight smile in return, leaning back in his chair at the table, shoulders bunched. Aegon does not wait for the ladies of the house to join them, tucking into his breakfast with poised and slender hands. Jon picks at a piece of brown bread, eyes lingering over his untouched plate. He glances to the door again, half expecting Sansa to walk through it this very moment. "Not particularly," he sighs, tearing off another piece mindlessly.

"Yes," Aegon muses, "I see you're clearly distracted."

Jon raises a brow at him.

Aegon continues chewing, waving a hand nonchalantly, knife in his grip as he speaks, "The first night can have that affect."

"And you've enough under your belt to advise me on it?" Jon bites out, tongue smarting instantly when the words leave his mouth. He pulls a sharp breath in, turns his gaze to the table.

Aegon stops chewing, swallows slowly – demurely. A humoring smile tugs at his lips. "A wife is different."

Jon does not argue him that one, but he decides to keep his thoughts on the matter to himself, drawing his shoulders back, trying to ease some of the tension there.

Sighing almost wistfully, Aegon sets his cutlery down. "Daenerys has not changed much since that first night." A chuckle lights his lips, almost nostalgic. "Still as demanding and insatiable as ever."

Jon scrunches his nose in distaste, resisting the urge to reach for his wine, wash the lump of bread in his throat down.

"I don't imagine Lady Sansa was so, however."

Jon's gaze snaps to his brother, hand clenching into a fist atop his thigh. He draws a slow, tight breath in.

Aegon cocks his head at Jon, leaning back easily in his chair, eyes glinting sharply – a violet lance cut through the brisk, morning light streaming through the windows. He smiles again, the ends of his lips curled like the whip of a dragon's tail. And then he returns to his food, resuming his meal smoothly. Another bite. A slow, long chew.

Jon watches his brother, knuckles white. "Is this really the conversation you want to be having over breakfast?" he manages tightly.

Aegon makes a small sound of contemplation in his throat, glancing back up at Jon. "My appetite isn't so easily curbed, brother. Is yours?" Aegon swallows, a flash of teeth peeking out beneath his curved lips.

Jon grinds his jaw, his bitterness curling like smoke in his chest – sour and lung-scraping.

Aegon continues with ease. "I do hope at least you enjoyed your evening, brother. Mine was terribly lonesome." He laughs, short and disturbingly bright. "Daenerys would not have me last night."

"I can hardly suspect why," Jon snaps dryly, mouth clamping shut when he realizes what he's said.

Aegon watches him with unblinking eyes, rolling the food around his mouth leisurely, wrists resting atop the table edge, cutlery still in hand.

Jon thinks of the petal crushed under Aegon's boot in the garden, and the flick of the riding crop to the backs of his calves, and the smooth, weathered stone sitting pointedly atop their father's desk.

And then he thinks of the way Aegon had stepped back from Sansa at the wedding feast, a relinquishing sweep of his arm and a brotherly smile aimed his way – how he had not objected to Jon's intrusion, nor his brusque manner.

Jon swallows tightly.

But of course.

He should have known better. Aegon forgets little, and forgives even less.

Jon smooths his hands along his thighs, chest constricting, waiting, poised at a knife's edge.

(He should have known better.)

Aegon leans forward across the table, smirk adorning his lips, brows arched in a conspiratorial look, as though eager to share a well-kept secret. "You've never spilled in a woman before, have you?" he asks softly, almost carefully to any other ear.

Jon hears the edge to it, easily enough.

He works his jaw, eyes fixed to Aegon.

His brother leans back smoothly, smirk still curling the edges of his lips. "Too fearful of spawning a bastard, weren't you?"

Jon has no answer for him, can only turn his gaze away, fix it glaringly to his wine glass, feel his skin prick with a resentment too familiar.

"They're not such terrible things, you know – bastards," Aegon says nonchalantly, setting his knife down to reach for his own glass, bringing it to his lips before he pauses, as though in sudden remembrance, "When properly kept."

Jon blows a breath through his lips, heated and halting, unable to keep the glare from his gaze when he looks back to Aegon.

His brother only offers him a lifted brow, lips stained red with wine when he pulls the glass from his mouth.

Jon feels the words brimming in his throat, rancid and airless – a choke, a strangle – feels his mouth open even still, a recklessness blooming beneath his skin, as heady as it is unfamiliar, and –

The door swings wide, Sansa stepping through, Rhaenys following behind her with a dour expression.

Jon swallows that slice of shame back down –stinging and raw.

"Sisters," Aegon greets, and Jon does not miss the address, nor does Sansa, it seems, as she stops short, blinking doe-eyed at him for a spell, before she's nodding her greeting, cheeks a faint pink, stepping gracefully toward the seat beside Jon. She doesn't meet his eyes.

Rhaenys lets out a scoff at Aegon, shaking her head with pursed lips, settling into the empty space beside him.

Aegon cocks his head in question, eyes drifting to the closed door. "You seem to have lost my wife along the way," he says, amusement lilting his tone.

Rhaenys reaches for the sugared plums instantly. "Daenerys says she's too ill to break her fast with us this morning." Sucking a piece of fruit between her teeth, Rhaenys sends a meaningful look Aegon's way, swallowing after a pointed chew. "She sends her regards." A sugared smile follows the words.

Jon manages to bite back his scoff. It isn't the first time Daenerys has sought to spite Aegon with her absence.

Aegon picks the napkin up from beside Rhaenys' plate and raises it to her with an arched brow. She takes it with a roll of her eyes, dabbing at her sugar-smeared mouth. "I'll have to see to her later, then." His gaze flicks to Jon and he has the unexplainable urge to grab for Sansa's hand next to him. He resists the inclination – only barely. "Make sure she's not too unwell," Aegon finishes, his violet gaze settling back on Rhaenys

She's already filling her plate, well past the conversation.

Beside Jon, Sansa is quietly cutting into her own food. He takes a breath, wills the lingering rage from his face, tries to smooth his brow and his frown and his hardened gaze, dipping his head to catch her eye. "My lady?"

She flickers soft blue eyes up at him and for an instant, they stay staring at each other.

All at once he remembers the way his palm had fit around her thigh and the gasp she'd sounded at his ear and the drowning, bone-singing heat of her when he'd finally sunk inside her. His gaze flicks to her mouth, and watches it purse.

When he glances back up to her eyes, he finds her staring unblinkingly at him, fork halted halfway to her mouth. She clears her throat, settles the fork back to her plate.

Jon glances away, wiping a hand down his mouth. A gruff exhale leaves him, and he reaches for his own fork, eager for a distraction. "I'm sorry for leaving before you woke this morning," he says softly, careful not to let the conversation reach his siblings' ears. He glances up to find the two already occupied by their own discussion, and looks back to Sansa with a barely discernible sigh of relief.

She only nods, glancing down to his hands as he digs into his quickly cooling roast.

"I...had matters to attend to," he mumbles.

He feels the lie shrivel up along his tongue even as it tastes air.

Blessed air.

And that's what he had needed – after waking groggily in the early hours of the morning, body curled loosely around her sleeping form, half-hard at her backside, and he'd wanted nothing more than to trail his fingers down the smooth line of her arm, and then lower over the curve of her hip, her skin warm and supple to the touch, and he'd nearly rocked into her on instinct, lulled by sleep and hazy desire, before the night rushed back to him in a flood of memories.

The pained whimper she'd tried to smother when he'd first entered her, the stiffness of her frame, muscles bunched achingly tight, the way she'd squeezed her eyes shut, those soft, iridescent blues blanking out into shadow -

The way he'd clearly hurt her.

(Warnings mean little to nothing in this house, and Jon should know that by now.)

He swallows thickly, pausing in his determined cutting, eyes blinking furiously down at his plate.

Jon had torn himself from the bed that morning, dressed as swiftly and quietly as he could, and then left Sansa to her slumber.

He tells himself it couldn't have been helped.

He'd tried to be quick about it, tried to bring himself to completion without prolonging her pain, and truth be told, it wasn't particularly difficult when she was so warm beneath him, so soft and breathy, so tight around his cock.

It's easy to get lost in Sansa Stark, he finds.

Except, there's a smaller, more insistent part of him, that tells him he is wrong.

"I intend to do my duty," she'd said, and it had been his unraveling

Jon glances up to Rhaenys, finds her watching him with a perceptive stare. He growls his frustration beneath his breath, tearing back into his food.

Sansa does not answer him, only nods mutely, gaze flicking back to her own plate.

His eyes sting.

And what a stupid, foolish hope.

(The realization is blinding.)

He understands now, what he'd been so adamant to smother before, what he'd been unable to admit to, even in the darkest parts of him.

He wants her.

He wants her – maddeningly.

"You will never be more to her than duty."

He only wishes she wanted him back.

* * *

"Alright, I've been patient enough I think," Margaery says on a laugh, shuffling closer to Sansa in her seat. "You must tell me how the wedding night went. Was it everything you'd hoped for?"

Sansa blinks alarmingly wide eyes up at Margaery, hand stilling halfway off the table, cream puff caught between her thumb and forefinger. "The wedding night?" she manages after a gulp.

Margaery cocks her head, a mischievous smile tugging charmingly at her lips. "Yes, of course. From what I saw at the feast, your Jon simply couldn't wait to get you back to your chambers." She shivers deliciously, leaning closer to the younger woman over the armrest of her chair.

Sansa drops the pastry in her hand back down to her plate, going for the napkin in her lap, throat tightening. "Yes, well, it was...unexpected." She smooths her hands over the napkin in her lap, the breeze from the open gardens fluttering strands of copper around her face.

"I'm sure," Margaery smirks. She urges her on with a waving motion of her hand.

Sansa bites her lip, and then she turns fully in her seat to face the Tyrell, brows furrowed sharply. "Margaery, he... he tried to touch me... well, there." She bites her lip again, a flush of remembrance branching through her, cheeks heating.

"I should hope so," she says, a laugh bubbling at the edges of her lips, before she catches the expression Sansa wears, her smile wilting instantly. She clears her throat, straightening in her seat. "And that...unsettled you?" she asks now, voice calmer.

Sansa wears a worried thumb into her opposite palm, watching the motion. "I didn't want him to," she says, and she remembers, instantly, the heat that had suffused her when he did, the almost uncontrollable urge to shift her hips up toward his touch, to chase that fluttering thrum of nerves that ricocheted through her. She clamps her mouth tight around the words, chest tight with her embarrassment.

Oh, but what would Margaery think of her? What would her mother think of her?

"Sansa," Margaery says, infinitely soft, her gaze concerned, body shifted toward her. "Did he..." She stops, brows bunched tightly together, voice working over hoarse words. "Did he hurt you?"

Sansa blinks back up at her, head shaking vehemently. "Oh no, I mean, yes, well – Mother always said – I mean –" Sansa sighs, takes a deep breath, tries to control her raging heart. "I knew there would be some pain the first time, but I... I didn't..."

Margaery's hand curls over hers in her lap, stilling the nervous motion of her thumb against her palm. The touch is light, comforting. "Sansa," she begins, eyes imploring on hers, "When he kissed you, when he touched you, did he not – "

"Oh, he never kissed me."

Margaery blinks at her, suddenly alarmed. "Sansa."

"I couldn't... I couldn't let him."

Margaery's brows dip down in confusion. "You couldn't...?"

She shakes her head, hand turning beneath Margaery's to link her fingers through hers, palm to palm. "I wasn't ready for that. To be kissed – oh, but I want it to mean something, Margaery. I want it to be more than expectation, and I couldn't help remembering all those stories from the books, and the songs, and the tales, and is it wrong? To want such a thing? Even still? Is it wrong, Margaery?"

It was too intimate.

His hand on her thigh, and his stiffness pressed between her legs, and the heat of his bare stomach braced against hers and still -

None of it could compare to the intimacy of his breath fanning her lips, his dark stare through the candlelight, the pink tip of his tongue edging out to wet his lips.

He could fuck her ragged and still, she'd never be as breathless as she'd been in that moment, when he'd stared at her, leant down, moved to take her mouth with his.

To taste and touch and know each other.

To share breath.

No, Sansa had not been ready for such intimacy. And even when he'd slipped inside her, and even when he'd spilled inside her, and even when he'd fallen asleep beside her once they'd taken their turns at the wash basin – even then -

She couldn't let him kiss her.

Margaery rubs a comforting thumb along her knuckles, a sad sigh leaving her. "Oh, dear girl."

"It will come with time," Sansa says reassuringly, mostly to herself. "With care and time, I will try to love him. And maybe then..." She trails off, eyes glancing over the table. She never finishes the thought.

Margaery stays silent at her side for many moments, just holding her hand, letting the silken afternoon light dance across the table set. And then she makes a sound like a hum, thoughtful and cautious, leaning back in her chair as her hand slips from Sansa's. "Sansa, let me ask you something."

She raises a brow in question, expectant.

Margaery seems to mull over her words a moment, expression still cautious and concerned. "When he touched you – when he tried to... to ease you – did you like it?"

Sansa's mouth parts, cheeks heating.

(His calloused palm at her thigh, the graze of his fingers along the edge of her smallclothes, the hot pant of his breath at her ear.)

Did you like it?

The question presses sharp and insistent at the edges of her mind.

Sansa swallows tightly, eyes searching Margaery's. "That would be... improper."

Margaery cocks her head, voice still soft and careful. "Why?"

"I do not love him." The answer leaves her far more readily than she expects, and it carves a longing in her chest she isn't prepared for – a gentle throbbing between her ribs. She swallows back the trepidation.

Shifting in her seat, Margaery inclines her head toward Sansa, eyes focused. "And what if I told you that didn't matter?"

Sansa stares at her, brows scrunched in thought, hands bunching together in her lap once more. "What do you mean?"

Margaery blows a steady breath through her lips, a thoughtful expression gracing her face. "What if I told you, there can be pleasure regardless of love? What if I told you, you deserved it, even still?"

Sansa blinks at her, a frown marring her features instantly. "But I don't..."

"Dear girl, there is already enough grief in this world without you sabotaging your own marriage. Let the man please you. It seems he wants to, at least, which is more than can be said of most husbands."

Sansa's frown deepens, an uncomfortable warmth unfurling in her chest, something close to yearning, if she lets herself linger on it for too long. "And what makes you think he has any interest in that regard?"

At this, Margaery throws a baleful look her way, lips pursed as though in disappointment. "Anyone who saw him with you at the wedding feast couldn't say otherwise," she remarks pointedly.

"Gods, but that was embarrassing," she sighs, shifting uncomfortably in her seat, hands tightening in their hold atop her lap.

Margaery seems to notice the shift, straightening somewhat, interest piqued. She rests her hands along her armrests languidly, a finely-arched brow aimed Sansa's way. "Was it, now?" There's a devilish curve to her lips that Sansa thinks she should be wary of, but she's too caught in her remembrance of the night to notice.

She huffs her irritation. "Of course," Sansa presses on a heavy exhale, chin turned up. "To be so... so rude and brazen, in the midst of everyone, and to the crown prince! To paw at me like some... some... possession. To touch me so in public." Sansa scoffs, her derision staining her tongue. "No, no, I did not enjoy that one bit." Her chest heaves, her hands wringing in her lap, tongue caught behind her clenched teeth.

Margaery merely peers at her.

She finds the look disconcerting, a hesitance washing over her when she looks at the Tyrell, suddenly small and unsure in her midst. "What?" she asks tentatively, barely trusting the word.

A slow, knowing smile slips across Margaery's lips, her hand reaching for Sansa's once more.

Sansa startles at the touch, but doesn't pull away. She glances down to their joined hands, finds her gaze fixed to Margaery's sun-touched hand as she swipes a comforting thumb along her knuckles once more.

"You know," she starts, the hint of a smirk playing at her lips, "It'd be okay if you did, Sansa."

Sansa only furrows her brows at the words, her confusion lighting her face.

Margaery's smirk goes full-blown. "If you enjoyed it, that is."

Sansa pulls her hand from hers, a sharp breath sucked through her lips. "Margaery!" she scolds, even as the smile touches her lips.

But the other woman only laughs, settling back along her chair. She takes a moment, smothering her chuckle behind a graceful hand. "Don't be so cruel to yourself, dear girl." Her smile grows fond, and then an abstract sort of sorrow lines her face, softening her beyond measure. "You don't have to love him," she says, hand tightening over Sansa's. "That's not what this is about."

Sansa sighs, her humor leaving her instantly, eyes drifting to their joined hands.

"We women deal with enough pain in this world without having to endure it from our husbands," she says solemnly, hand tightening over hers. "Take your pleasure where you can, Sansa. And do not be ashamed of it." Her eyes are fervent on hers, imploring, and Sansa feels her chest constricting beneath the look.

Did you like it?

Sansa thinks of the way he'd yanked her to him, the dark gaze he'd leveled Aegon with, the greedy press of his fingers along her ribs.

Did you like it?

Gods help her, but she did.

And nothing had scared her more.

* * *

Sex becomes perfunctory.

"I'll be gentler," he says on the second night, voice hesitant – the pale imitation of an apology, even in its sincerity – and Sansa fiddles with the tie of her robe, standing near the bed.

He's watching her from the threshold, his tunic already unlaced, and when she nods in response, a cool breath leaving her with the motion, he takes a breath, flexes his hands at his side, and then strides across the room toward her.

It begins anew.

They each know what is expected of them, after all.

When he eases into her this time, it's impossibly slower, a long, ragged breath leaving him, his jaw clenching at the effort. Beneath him, Sansa bites her lip, seizing up again, staring up at him in the dark, never looking away, and he has to glance down to her chest, the edge of her shift still adorning her, has to brace a hand along the bed at her head and still himself, let her adjust.

She reaches for his shoulder with a gentle squeeze, an indication to move, and Jon does.

Her legs fit around his hips easily now, her hands more sure at his shoulders. Every night, he still finds hazel oil at her folds when he sets himself to her entrance. Perhaps he is foolish in hoping to find otherwise. She doesn't jump like that first night anymore though, when he touches her between her thighs to line himself up.

He never touches more – knowing how unappreciated it is.

He never tries to kiss her either, and he thinks he hears the light breath of relief escape her lips when he drops his head to her shoulder instead, unable to bear her gaze any longer without wanting to crash his mouth to hers, to hike her thighs higher up his hips, to reach between her legs and ease some of that tension out with a wet thumb.

So, he braces his mouth to her shoulder, panting into her flesh, pumping into her with a steady, even pace that draws no whimpers but draws no winces either, and this he will have to be satisfied with.

Because if he cannot bring her pleasure than at least he can avoid bringing her pain.

He tries to make it good for her, in what little ways he can – always settles her with the pillow beneath her head, tries to massage the smooth flesh of her thighs when he's spreading her wide, manages to keep his teeth from catching along her collar bone with his ragged need, never drops atop her when he's finished, passes her the wet cloth from the bedside basin first and keeps his dark gaze turned from her when she's sopping up the seed spilling from her cunt with flushed cheeks and a still-heaving chest.

One night he swears he hears her breath hitch when he angles himself deeper, strokes inside her along a spot that has his eyes rolling back, her nails digging into his shoulder blades as her knees tighten at his waist. But when he finally looks down at her, her eyes are closed, her brow scrunched, as though she is trying to ride something out, and Jon thinks it must be pain.

He curses himself and draws back out, keeps to shallower thrusts, misses the curl of her nails along his back when her grip relinquishes him.

Another night she lets him cup her breast through her shift, his hand toying at the end of the fabric until she nods hesitantly, his rough palm closing around the mound unsurely, the sigh raking from him when he feels her heat beneath his touch, her heartbeat beating a rhythm against his palm, and he squeezes – gently. She arches imperceptibly, a sound curled in her throat, and she turns her head away. He barely contains his growl of impatience, dipping his head to her throat instead, lips latching to the skin there and palming at her through the shift, rutting until he spills, and her heartbeat never wanes, still frantic beneath his hand. He stays inside her for as long as he can get away with, pulling from her when she touches a delicate hand to his neck, the press of her fingers light enough to send him spinning, aching and desperate again.

He rolls from her with a hand raked through his curls, jaw clenching, his control like a taut string she plucks at precariously, unknowingly.

Because her every sigh he wants to drag out into a breathy moan, every rise of her chest he wants to bow into a delicious arch, every purse of her lips he wants to draw into a needy howl of his name.

To have her writhing beneath him, whining at his ear, coming apart for him with a splintered cry and her cunt clenching around his cock, to watch her break and crest and surge beneath his hands, to drive her to madness for him.

To draw it wildly from her – like a snarling wolf.

To sink his teeth in her and let her do the same.

To taste.

Sansa buries her face in his shoulder when he grunts his release atop her, a low curse panted in her hair, his fingers dug into the flesh of her hip.

She'll drive him mad soon, he knows.

She sleeps always with her back to him.

Jon takes to sparring with the eldest Stark often, a means of releasing some of the frustration he cannot release upon her, and Robb offers little but a raised brow when he comes demanding his presence in the training yard with a scowl and a nod jerked in the opposite direction. Robb always follows with a laugh, and more than once, Jon has found himself panting ragged at the end of a fight, tugging the collar of his tunic open harshly, chest heaving, sweat matting his curls to his forehead, and his body's absolutely thrumming, absolutely screaming beneath his skin, ready to rip and roar and -

And fuck.

Jon rakes a hand through his hair roughly, catching sight of Sansa at the edge of the training yard, gripping at the column she leans against, watching him with unblinking eyes.

He thinks he must be imagining the way she licks her lips, the way she bares her throat just so, the way her nails curl along the column.

(Because he can't be the only one – he just can't be.

Even when every trembling line of her body is telling him otherwise.)

Jon frowns at her presence, mouth opening, but never getting the chance to speak.

"It's been a while since we've had a turn, brother. Shall we?"

Jon's gaze whips to Aegon coming up behind Robb, swinging a blade casually, the hilt rolling through his fingers with practiced ease.

Robb frowns at the motion, eyes alighting the blade. "Live steel, my lord?" he asks cautiously.

Jon bites his tongue.

And so, the punishment continues.

Aegon's eyes dance with violet exhilaration beneath the afternoon soon and Jon nods toward Robb, motioning for him to join his sister. "Step aside, Stark." It isn't said callously, but Robb seems to recognize the edge to it regardless. He joins Sansa at the edge of the yard without further word.

Jon sighs, catching the blade Aegon tosses his way, and the spar begins.

Aegon has always been exceptionally good with a blade, but Jon's always been better. He weaves around Aegon with surety, stepping lightly, letting his blade miss just barely, letting Aegon's swings avoid him just barely.

It is a dance he learned the steps to long ago.

He is a well-kept bastard, after all.

Jon swings low – too low. And Aegon parries it easily, as he'd expected, knocking him back, and Jon stumbles a step, muscles tensing in anticipation, ready for the blow, as he turns his head just enough to miss the brunt of Aegon's responding swing, but not enough to miss the slice of the tip up his jaw, a thin arc of blood catching the air and Jon winces at the pain, a hand clamping over the wound when he stumbles back.

Aegon smiles triumphantly, blade stilled in an over-arch.

Sansa's gasp of "Jon!" has him nearly biting down on his tongue, and it takes all of him not to turn to her, a feral sort of need curling in his chest.

Aegon's blade tips into the dirt. "Well fought, brother." The words are accompanied by an appreciative nod, a narrowing of his eyes, fair skin glinting with a sheen of sweat that Aegon somehow manages to make look graceful rather than grimy.

Jon pulls his hand from his cut, collaring his glare, a tight swallow his only answer.

And then Sansa is at his elbow, one hand turning him in her grasp and the other reaching for his jaw. He pulls from her more harshly than he intends, but he doesn't think he can manage to bear her searching touch or her scrutinizing gaze this very moment.

Sansa retracts from him slowly, clearly hurt by the rejection of her touch.

Jon closes his eyes, breathes deep, opens his eyes on the exhale.

Aegon is standing with his hands behind his back, sword still held in his grip, head cocked toward Sansa. "Did you enjoy the match, my lady?"

Sansa opens her mouth, closes it, folds her hands demurely before her. "You are an exceptional swordsman, my lord," she says softly.

Jon's gaze snaps to her finally, watching the way she doesn't meet Aegon's eyes, her thumb rubbing over her knuckles in a motion of unease. He narrows his eyes at her.

"Well," Aegon begins, a light smack of his lips following the words, "With such a fair lady in the audience, I imagine it is any man's wish to prove their prowess." His smile branches out like a spill of rich wine, his head dipping down toward hers, voice lowering. "I admit, I am not immune to such powers, my lady," he says without faltering, eyes never leaving hers.

Jon glances to the side, fist already curling, tongue already tart with his rage.

"You're too kind," Sansa answers, and Jon feels her gaze on him, her figure a rigid line in his peripheral.

Jon presses his tongue to the roof of his mouth, holds it there, tries to drown out the rush of blood.

To rip and roar and fuck.

His hands burn for her – maybe especially so with Aegon eyeing her so intently.

But his brother only chuckles, glancing back to Jon. "You should tend to your husband, Lady Sansa." His voice goes hollow – a dead expel of air. The ends of his mouth ease down, his smile uncurling like smoke. "He's bleeding," he says, sharp and cursory.

Sansa's hand slips along Jon's elbow, curling along the crook of it. "I shall," she says evenly, no tremble to be heard.

Jon, however, is practically quaking with his fury.

It doesn't abate until Aegon is stalking from the courtyard, until Sansa is turning him in her hands for another look at his jaw, huffing at his reluctance, until he meets Robb's eyes over her shoulder, intent and watchful.

Until Sansa is tugging him from the yard and he's trailing after her skirts, mouth full of useless words, his hand clutched in hers.

Until the spot between her shoulder blades becomes a blur beneath his heavy stare.

Until he is too far gone to ever turn back now.

* * *

"Take off your tunic," she says, wringing out the cloth in the basin beside him. When he doesn't move to do so, Sansa glances over to him, finding him leaning with his elbows over his knees, a bemused brow quirked. She resists the urge to roll her eyes. "The blood will set if we don't clean it immediately," she explains, motioning to the splatter of blood along the collar.

Jon considers her a moment quietly, and then he's reaching along his back for the material, tugging it up and out of his breeches, over his broad shoulders and head. He bunches the tunic in his hands, holding it out to her expectantly, chest sweat-lined and sun-kissed.

Sansa keeps her gaze deliberately fixed to his as she grabs for the soiled garment, handing it off behind her to the waiting handmaid without breaking her stare. Her throat flexes tightly, and Jon seems to catch the motion, a slow, predatory smile tugging at his lips, half hidden in his beard.

Gods, but she can clearly see every sinewy cord of muscle she'd only ever seen before by candlelight.

The handmaid exits the rooms with the tunic swiftly, closing the door behind her, and then they are alone.

Jon leans back in his chair slowly, hands sliding over his thighs, shoulders pulled back as he watches her.

Sansa frowns at the deliberate display, reaching for his chin with perhaps a bit too much force and turning his head away from her. "We'll have to clean the cut," she gets out in a hoarse voice, dabbing the wet cloth to the wound.

Jon lets out an exasperated sigh, but does not fight her touch, letting her clean the thin cut down the length of his jaw. Sansa is focused, brow furrowed, swiping the blood clean that she can through his beard, dipping it back into the water, wringing it out, drawing it further and further down his jaw. She hardly notices the soft puff of his breaths or the way he watches her out of the corner of his eye, so intent on her task as she is. She cocks her head to see the underside of his jaw, to swipe at the blood drying there, tipping his chin in her delicate hold, and he acquiesces easily. But the light isn't good, and it's a bad angle from where she stands at the edge of his knees, so when she presses into them on instinct and he parts them for her, her skirts brushing along the inside of his thighs as she steps into the vee of his legs, she doesn't even note the shift, instead, taking advantage of the new position to better see the trail of blood drying along his throat.

She bends further, hair slipping over her shoulder, fingers perched beneath his jaw. Another swipe of the cloth. Slow and measured. Sansa watches the faint bob of his Adam's apple, the flex of sweat-soaked skin across his throat, and suddenly she remembers the way that throat had looked above her just the other night, with him braced atop her, driving into her with sure and steady thrusts. She remembers the clench of muscle along his neck when he'd spilled inside her.

Sansa's lips part, an unsteady breath leaving her. She's suddenly very aware of how close she stands to him, the steady rise and fall of his bare chest beneath her, how she need only lean a handful of breaths closer to bury her face against his neck. She presses harshly along the half-dried blood marring his jaw.

"You could have parried that last swing," she manages in a thin voice. She clears her throat, swallows back the quiver, hopes he doesn't notice it.

Jon doesn't answer her.

She frowns at the silence, wet cloth dipping along the edge of his collar bone now. She huffs. "Why didn't you?"

Jon takes a slow, deep breath, and Sansa can't help the way her eyes drift to the broad expanse of his muscled chest at the motion. She averts her eyes quickly.

And then he's reaching for the hair spilling over her shoulder, fingers snaking around the end of a softly curled tendril. Sansa stills with her hand at his throat, glancing at the gesture from the corner of her eye.

A sound brews in his throat, low and contemplative, his dark eyes fixed to the strand of copper between his fingers. "At our wedding feast," he begins, ignoring her question, "When you danced with my brother – were you not as upset with his familiarity as you were with mine?"

Sansa grips the cloth between white knuckles, drawing back enough to properly look at him. His hand at the edge of her hair keeps her from stepping back out of the space between his legs. She wonders if he intended it so. She stays resolutely silent.

A short, subtle quirk of his lip lights his face before it's gone. "Or did you welcome it?"

Sansa swallows tightly. "A lady must always be courteous."

Jon's gaze drops to her laced-in side, the fingertips of his free hand suddenly grazing the edge of her waist. His voice is low and breathy. "And your compliment on his swordsmanship? That was courtesy?"

Raising her chin, Sansa watches him with wary eyes. "A lady must also be conscious of her station."

Jon scoffs at the word 'station', his hand folding more surely around her waist, giving it the slightest tug so that she stumbles even closer, her hands going to his shoulders to steady herself. She sucks a sharp breath between her teeth at the jostle, watching as he gazes up at her, his face hovering just above her stomach. "A lady must be so many things," he mocks, his other hand curling tightly over the hair in his grip. "One has to wonder if she manages to ever be herself amidst all that decorum."

She remembers his warning to curb her tongue, suddenly. She smarts beneath the hypocrisy. Sansa's chest tightens with her frustration, the air stalling in her throat. She stares down at him with an air of incredulity.

Jon's hand branches over her waist possessively. "Or have I simply married a pretty little doll? Easily filled with other people's opinions about what she should be?"

Sansa's eyes narrow so quickly he almost misses it, her jaw clenching beneath her ire. His responding smirk incites her more, and she's reaching over to the basin then, dropping the cloth back into the water unceremoniously. "I've watched my brothers sparring often enough back home to recognize a thrown match when I see one."

Jon's hand tightens over her waist, his mouth pursing up at her.

"If even I can see it, who else do you think has noticed?" she says sharply.

Jon untangles his fingers from her hair.

Sansa raises her chin, a tight breath drawn through her lungs. "I doubt Prince Aegon would care very much for you coddling him, were he to know." She moves to step back, but he reaches for her with both hands now, gripping at her hips, steadying her against him as he glares back up at her, eyes hooded and dark.

"You have a particular interest in what my brother cares for?" he intones darkly, fingers curling tight along her hips, bunching in the fabric of her dress.

She glares back just as intensely, trying to ignore the way his steady grip lights a heat even through her heavy skirts, his fingertips marring the curve of her hips with his imprint. A long, charged moment passes between them, with neither relenting, until finally, Sansa brushes a delicate hand to the cut at his jaw, eyes still steel, mouth still cut into a sharp frown. "I'll call Maester Gregor to stitch that for you." She doesn't acknowledge the quiver underlining the words – swallows them back quickly. Her hand falls from his face. "Have you any further need of me, husband?"

Jon grinds his teeth, still glaring up at her, a shadow passing over his face, and then gone. He releases her instantly, almost forcefully. "No," he says simply, gaze falling to the wayside.

She steps from his overwhelming presence immediately, pretending to miss the clench of his fists along his thighs when she does.

"My lord," she says, nodding in farewell, before turning for the door and never looking back.

* * *

Daenerys is pregnant.

They discover it when she doesn't arrive for breakfast one morning, Aegon striding into the room to his chair, hands resting along the back of it as he blinks dazedly at the table.

Rhaenys pulls the spoon from her mouth. "No Daenerys tonight? Is she ill again?" A worried furrow of her brow mars her features.

"I've just come from the maester," he says slowly, eyes drifting to his sister's. "She's with child." He releases the words on a heavy breath.

Sansa's mouth parts, her shock overcoming her for a moment, before she regains her manners, setting her napkin to the table with a warm smile. "That's wonderful news, my lord."

His gaze flicks to Sansa, settling on her a moment, before returning the smile with a lilt of his lips, an appreciative nod. "Thank you, Lady Sansa."

"How is she?" Rhaenys asks, spoon stilled over her grapefruit.

Sansa glances to the princess at the tender exhale of her words.

Aegon steps around his chair, settling a hand at the back of Rhaenys' head. "It is no more than the common sickness, they say. She is well." He offers her a reassuring smile, fragile and barely there.

The image is striking to Sansa.

Aegon's hand falls from Rhaenys' hair when she nods in answer, lips pressed into a concerned but warm smile.

"Congratulations, brother," Jon says beside her, voice gruff as he leans back in his seat. "It's what you wanted, isn't it?"

Aegon looks at him, then to Sansa, and then just as swiftly, back to Jon. "Yes," he says, "It is." A lick of his lips, hands returning to the back of his chair.

It's a decidedly delicate flicker of movement, nothing deliberate about it. It's almost...unnerving, in its fragility – the way Aegon's fingers curl around the back arch, the way his chest fills with his breath, lips turning up into a faint smile.

Sansa shifts in her seat, hands smoothing out over her thighs, before curling in her lap. She glances to Jon out of the corner of her eye. He's staring at his plate now, his hand curled into a loose fist along his armrest, and he's so close, she realizes suddenly. Close enough to touch.

Her hand moves to curl around his forearm, hovering hesitantly in the air, before retracting back to her lap. He takes no notice, and Sansa breathes deep, settling the roaring pit of her stomach.

To taste and touch and know each other.

She sighs, eyes flicking back up toward Aegon. He's watching her steadily, and Sansa almost startles at the look. She flutters another encouraging smile toward the prince, throat tightening. "I'm sure you're very happy," she says.

Aegon cocks his head, a thoughtful purse to his lips. "I am, my lady."

Jon picks his fork and knife up beside her, cutting into his food with a single-minded focus. "The quail's getting cold."

Sansa turns to him, mouth open to scold his brusqueness, but she sees the tight clench of his jaw, and her mouth closes abruptly.

It isn't until later, when she's walking the gardens arm in arm with Margaery beneath a slowly waning sun, that she thinks on it again.

That stiffness in his jaw, the muscles of his arm flexing – all cold and callousness when he's bristling beneath something, and yes, she's become accustomed to his moods long enough to notice when he's bristling.

She wonders when that happened.

Maybe it's because she knows now, the gentle ease that can be found in his palms, the vulnerable quake that can be found in his breath, the decidedly not cold and callousness of his gaze when she's spread beneath him, taut beneath his fingers like the chord of a harp.

Maybe it's because of the way he looks at her these days.

Maybe it's because she's starting to look back.

"Margaery," she says, clearing her throat.

The Tyrell cocks her head to listen, a quirk to her lip in answer.

Sansa's hand tightens along Margaery's elbow. "Do you think Aegon and Daenerys love each other?"

Margaery laughs, short and bright, tapping Sansa's hand affectionately as they continue their stroll. "I think there are many things those two feel for each other, but I cannot rightly say whether any of it is love." She offers an impish grin. "Why do you ask?"

Sansa's gaze turns toward the path, lips pursed. "I don't know. I think I just..." She sighs, shaking her head. "I suppose there must be something of love between them, indiscernible as it may be to others."

Margaery plucks a nearby low-hanging flower off the vine, twirling the short stem between her fingers as they continue. "Because they're expecting?" There's something incredulous to her tone. "Sansa, any beast can breed."

She's taken aback by the words, even as softly-crafted as they are, melodically spoken, no hint of malice.

(The image of Jon, sweat-lined and panting above her, streaks through her mind. Her stomach turns without warning.)

Sansa bites her lip. She thinks, instead, of the look Aegon had let flutter across his face, perhaps even without meaning to, earlier that morning.

More exposed than she's ever seen him, except perhaps during their dance at her wedding, his eyes sweeping out over the room for his salt-haired wife upon her question.

"It is the wish of every marriage, is it not?"

Sansa blinks back the memory, another one stealing swiftly behind it. Jon's breath fanning her lips, his chest hard-pressed to hers, a dangerous glint to his eye – how the heat of him had burned her to the bone when he took her in his arms across the dancefloor, even as her sharp tongue cut into him with a branding chastisement.

He'd only held her tighter, never relinquished his hold, let her rebuke him without interruption.

That heat hadn't dissipated until well into the night, long after he'd spent inside her for the first time, long after she laid awake staring up at the canopy, listening to his soft breaths behind her, wondering if sleep eluded him as well.

She thinks she should have turned to him then, broached the silence, reached for something tentative and shadowed between them – something to hold onto in the comfort of night, where they may be free to be 'Jon and Sansa' outside of 'husband and wife'.

(She hadn't though, in the end. She'd only pulled the sheets up to her chest and turned her face into the pillow, craven and lonely – but mostly –

Mostly, afraid.

Of herself, more than anything.)

"That's not it," she tells Margaery, brows furrowing, steps never stalling. She glances out across the gardens, catches sight of the fountain coming around the bend, the faint light of dusk glinting off the waters like a mirage. She keeps her silence for many moments, watching the soft splash of water as they glide past, her throat tight.

Margaery fondly taps her cheek with the flower, a cheerful motion, even when her voice goes solemn, hesitant. "Is this about you and Jon?"

Sansa gives her an exasperated look but Margaery is undaunted. She merely raises a brow, a pointed look thrown Sansa's way.

"Jon and I – we..." A heavy sigh, a one-shouldered shrug. "We're still learning each other."

Margaery gives her a sharp look, barely managing to keep the disappointment from her face.

If she thinks Sansa a coward, she kindly doesn't say so. It wouldn't matter, though.

Sansa already thinks herself coward enough.

She sighs again, brushing a tendril of hair from her face. "Gods, I'm pathetic."

Margaery stops then, her hold on Sansa halting her as well, and she turns fully to her, eyes searching hers, lips tipped into a pretty frown.

Sansa blinks at her, brows raising in question.

Margaery takes a breath, hand sliding down Sansa's arm to clasp along her own palm. "Do you think Daenerys happy?"

She blinks at the question, glancing down to their joined hands, and then back up. Margaery is staring at her intently, and Sansa finds herself growing hesitant under the gaze. She fumbles for her words. "I don't..."

"In your eyes, does she seem happy to you?"

Sansa clamps her mouth shut, the words stalling along her tongue. She takes a breath, shakes her head almost imperceptibly. "No," she manages, a soft expel of breath.

Margaery only nods, a gentle thumb grazing over her knuckles. "And do you really think a babe is going to change that?"

Sansa bites her lip, a sudden sorrow lighting her bones. She thinks of Daenerys' self-assured words and her perfect posture and her unabashed gaze, all exceedingly graceful, and yet... somehow empty.

It saddens something great in Sansa.

"No," she answers – truthfully.

Margaery looks at her a moment longer, contemplative. "A babe is not the highest aspiration of love, Sansa, no matter what your Septa told you," she scoffs gently.

Sansa opens her mouth –

"Nor should it be," Margaery continues, hand tightening over hers.

Sansa's mouth clamps shut, her brows furrowed.

"Duty is all well and good, Sansa, but will it keep you warm at night? Will it weather the years with you? Will it grow old and grey beside you?"

Her chest aches at the words, her eyes stinging suddenly. She lets out a rueful laugh, the sound catching in her throat. "Take my pleasure where I can?" she asks, repeating Margaery's earlier words with a sardonic smile.

The other woman only offers a comforting gaze, patting her hand once more before releasing it, winding her arm through hers and continuing their trek through the gardens. "Quite," she says succinctly, chin tipped high.

The light has grown dim across the gardens, and they turn back toward the keep in unison. Sansa considers the other woman a moment longer, before leaning into her, whispering almost conspiratorially, "Do you think pleasure can become love with time?"

Margaery mulls the question over, rolling the stem of the forgotten flower between the pads of her fingertips once more. "Perhaps. For some."

"And if it doesn't?"

"Then it is still pleasure," she says simply.

Sansa raises her brows at that, tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth.

It's not an untruth, really.

And what guarantee does Sansa have that her union with Jon will nurture love? What guarantee has she at all that he even wants the same?

Sansa looks ahead, steps light and even, hand crooked into the hollow of Margaery's elbow.

Wolves have never been craven things.

So why should she start now?

Sansa draws her back straight, eyes instinctively searching for the high window that is hers and Jon's bedchamber.

Yes.

She will take her pleasure where she can.

"Sansa, would you..." Margaery trails off, fingers clenching around the flower in her grasp, a nervous sort of tremor making her shake her hand out, tossing the flower to the wayside with a long look. She breathes deep, tucks her hand more surely into Sansa's arm. "Would you find it terribly improper of me if I asked to write your brother back at Winterfell?"

Sansa turns wide eyes to Margaery, but the other woman's staring intently ahead, cheeks deceptively unflushed in the growing shadows, a nonchalant sway to her walk that is entirely too contrived in Sansa's eyes.

She smiles devilishly. "Well, I don't think he'd particularly appreciate letters from a strange woman, even one of such a noble house."

Margaery glances at her, brows raised, mouth parted with no sound coming out.

Sansa can hardly contain her giggle. "Though my brother Rickon is too sweet to tell you such himself," she teases.

Margaery stops, mouth gaping, and then a laugh breaks from her, a hand swatting at Sansa's arm good-naturedly. "Sansa, you terrible thing, I meant Robb," she near shrieks in laughter.

"Oh, Robb, is it? Just Robb? Not 'Lord Robb'? So intimate already?" Sansa cannot curb her smirk as she watches Margaery huff.

"You're teasing me."

"And rightfully so." Sansa beams.

Margaery tuts dramatically. "I find this friendship terribly one-sided, Lady Sansa. I am aghast at your insensitivity to my plight."

"Oh, how unladylike of me."

Margaery nuzzles at her cheek, laughing.

Sansa can hardly imagine why such a self-possessed woman would need her approval or opinion, but she is glad to give it, nonetheless. She clutches at Margaery's arm, keeping her close, smile never breaking from her face. It's a meaningful look she gives her, a warmth blossoming in her chest. "Take your pleasure where you can, Margaery," she says.

Margaery presses a swift, full kiss to her temple, smile etched against her skin, hand braced to the back of her head. "Then I shall," she whispers gleefully.

Sansa shakes her head at her, pulling back slightly. "Though I do imagine Robb is like to be the one to write first. Horrendous restraint, that one."

Margaery's laugh fills the night air.

Sansa is warm all the way back to her room.

* * *

Sansa sits at her vanity table, turning the vial of hazel oil over in her hand. She glances back up to her reflection in the mirror, braid undone over her shoulder, the thin silk robe parted over her white shift, the faint outline of her breasts barely visible in the flicker of candlelight atop the vanity.

And this is what Jon sees each night before they go to bed.

Sansa sighs, placing the vial back on the table top.

Do not be ashamed of it, she tells herself, repeating Margaery's words like a mantra. But she doesn't quite understand how it works without it.

She closes her eyes, thinks back to that first night he'd slid his fingers up her folds, and the jolt that shot through her at the touch. She curls her fingers around the edge of her shift at her thighs.

Maybe it all starts there.

Her knees part hesitantly, her eyes still fluttered closed, drawing the hem of her shift up her thighs, settling it at her hips. Taking a long, slow breath, feeling the tightness pricking at her chest, she trails a finger over the sensitive flesh of her inner thigh, dipping down between her legs.

She imagines spreading her legs for him, the warm, rough pressure of his palms urging her thighs apart, settling his weight in the cradle of her hips.

A shuddering sigh escapes her parted lips. Her hand presses against her clothed cunt, a sharp drop in her gut jerking her hips unconsciously at the motion. She snaps her eyes open.

Her image in the mirror is the most scandalous Sansa has ever seen, thighs parted eagerly, shift bunched up at the waist, chest already heaving, cheeks flushed, and then there – there – her cunt pushing toward the pressure of her palm, fingers curling down over her smallclothes. She gasps at the image, her hand retracting, and she brushes something – gods, something wonderful, a shudder racking her, a soft moan caught between her teeth, surprising herself, and before she even knows what she's doing, her hand is returning, seeking that spark, that surge, fingers more sure now, pressing over her smallclothes for something – for –

"Ah!" Sansa whimpers, hips jerking, fingers finding home. She rubs at the soft nub through her smallclothes again, feeling the dampness, head lolling back, hips bucking up into her own tentative touch, and another moan makes it past her clenched teeth, nearly loud enough to cover the sound of the door unlatching, but not quite, and Sansa rips her hand from between her legs, fumbling to replace her shift, smoothing her breath out, feeling that clench in her cunt even now, aching and eager, and she bites down on her lip to keep from trembling just when Jon stalks through the door.

Her eyes catch along his in the mirror when he stops short, the door slipping closed behind him.

For the horrifying stretch of an instant, Sansa thinks she's been caught out.

Her mortification is almost enough to drown out her arousal.

(Almost, but not quite.)

Jon's brow furrows as he steps toward her. "Are you well, my lady?"

Sansa releases a forced chuckle, a practiced scoff. "I'm still unused to this heat," she says, brushing the hair from her shoulders, hoping the light sheen of sweat at her brow is not construed otherwise, nor the faint flush of her cheeks she still catches in the reflection.

Jon stares at her a moment, considering, before nodding silently, seeming to accept her answer, and then making his way to the bed. He sits along the edge and goes to remove his boots.

Sansa feels the air rake from her chest in faint relief. Her body is still wound tight, her skin thrumming, heat lancing through her, and she watches Jon undress in the reflection of the mirror, hands curled over her knees in anticipation, lip caught between her teeth.

He's down to his sleeping tunic when he sits back along the edge of the bed again, his back to her, a heavy sigh leaving him.

Sansa stands with a surety she hasn't felt in many moons. She makes her way to the bed, settling along the opposite edge. In her peripheral, she can see the vial of hazel oil still lingering atop her vanity – untouched.

It will be the only thing untouched tonight, she promises.

With trembling fingers, she begins to slip the robe from her shoulders. It flutters to the furs just as Jon's voice hits the air.

"Forgive me, my lady, but I – I think I've had the wrong of it all this time."

Sansa stills, hands curled along the material of her robe, ready to drag it from the bed, her gaze flicking over her shoulder toward him.

His back is still to her, his hands hung between his knees as his elbows rest along his thighs.

She licks her lips, shifts to pull a knee up along the bed, angled toward him. "My lord?"

Another sigh racks him, and he's rubbing his face then.

Sansa's chest tightens inexplicably.

Jon straightens finally, turning so that he can meet her gaze across the bed. "When you said you wanted to be a proper wife."

Her mouth opens, words ready along her tongue, but the look in his eye stops her.

They stay staring at each other across the bed, half-turned with their backs to each other, half-leaning into the other's words.

And then Jon offers a rueful chuckle. "You wanted civility, not affection."

She thinks she means to say something, she must, she surely will but... but the words lay dying in her throat. She swallows them back like turned wine.

"But I'm a bastard," he says, gaze falling to the bed. "And it seems I exceed at neither." A light quirk of his lip, the curl of his fingers in the furs, fist white-knuckled and stiff.

Her gaze stays rooted to that fist, chest rising slowly and steadily. Her throat is dry, her tongue heavy. She does not meet his eyes.

"I apologize, my lady," he says now, turning from her fully, back a curved line, like a scream.

Or a howl.

Sansa blinks back the imagine, eyes stinging uncontrollably. She shifts over the bed toward him, hand outreaching. "Jon - "

"We should get some rest." He goes to put out the bedside candle, dousing their room in darkness.

Sansa can still follow his outline in the dark, still make out his form in shadow. She has grown used to the shape of him, the weight of him. She has learned to find him in the absence of light.

"Jon, please, I – "

"It's okay, Sansa," he says lowly, already turning under the covers, gaze fixing to the canopy of the bed. "Duty can take a night's respite."

Sansa curls her lip back in a trembling grimace, hand bunching in the furs, that sting at her eyes a sudden, wet sheen. She blinks back the tears in the cover of darkness, grabbing for her ends of the furs. She shuffles into her side of the bed, curling on her side, watching him.

He takes a breath in, heaves it back out.

Sansa curls her fist beneath her chin, huddled in the furs. "I don't think you exceed at neither," she says softly, watching him in the night.

He makes no move to turn to her, but she can see his eyes searching the dark – skyward, unfixed.

She almost reaches for him.

But instead, her hand stays bunched in the furs beneath her chin until sleep takes her, Jon's outline painted in shadow against the backs of her lids.

* * *

Jon wakes groggily to a noise at his ear, the film of night still dowsing him, sleep still fogging his mind. He blinks in the darkness, a grumble lighting in his chest. He's laying on his back, a warmth at his side, a steady rocking. Another sound at his ear – low and breathy.

Jon stills.

He blinks again, quickly, a hand rubbing at his eyes, straining to see through the shadows as he turns his gaze to Sansa beside him, half-draped over him. She's on her stomach, one of her legs thrown over his, fist bunched in the sheets at her cheek, her warm center pressing into his thigh and she's – she's –

Jon's throat goes dry.

Sansa rocks into him in her sleep, slow and even, rubbing herself against his thigh. Even through his breeches and her rucked up shift, he can feel the throbbing heat of her, her cunt damp against him. Another sigh leaves her, and Jon's gaze snaps up to her face, watching her lashes flutter in her sleep, her mouth pursing tight. He takes a moment, blinking wildly at her, jarred by the sight of her. And then he shifts just slightly beneath her, pressing his thigh more firmly against her.

The soft moan that leaves her has the blood rushing to his cock instantly. His mouth drops open as he watches her. Another rock of her hips against him, a keening sound in the back of her throat, and Jon's breath comes quicker, his thigh pushing against her cunt on each intoxicating grind.

He can feel his growing hardness pressing into the thigh she has between his legs and he shifts slightly on his side to better fit into her rocking. His eyes never leave the enthralling expression on her face, watching the scrunch of her brows, the purse of her lips, the pale column of her throat flexing as she strains in her sleep, drawing closer to him, back arching as she grinds against him, and she's wet, Jon finds, so unbelievably wet, and his mouth goes slack, his breath hitching, a maddening haze overtaking him, and he grabs at her thigh before he can stop himself, fingers inching up past her bunched shift, fixing to her hip. His fingers dig into her flesh, dragging her into him, grinding her against the hard muscle of his thigh, eyes fixed to the look of rapture on her sleep-touched features. His hand reaches further, encouraged by her breathy moans, grabbing at her ass and dragging her harshly against him, pressing his cock into her hip as his thigh wedges further between her legs, pressed up against her slick cunt, that sodden, intoxicating heat of her, grinding her against him, and the chest-rattling groan rakes from him before he manages to bite it back.

Sansa stills.

Jon's breath stalls in his throat and he stills as well, blinking deliriously at her in the dark, hard and aching at her hip, fingers digging into her flesh.

Her lashes flutter, her fist uncurling in the sheet beneath her, eyes lifting in a sleepy daze to catch brilliantly along his. Her breathing is short and shallow, her body stretched taut, a line of precarious rigidity. She blinks at him, her eyes focusing in the dark.

Jon barely breathes. They lay staring at each other, chests heaving, legs entangled. He watches the light of recognition in her eyes, even amongst the shadows, the flicker of a tremble at her lips, her tight swallow as she fixes him with a wide-eyed stare.

And just when he's about to release her, to draw back, to turn from her in heated shame and attempt to will his straining erection down, curled as far away from her on the bed as he can be – he catches the tentative shift of her thigh against him.

Her mouth parts, her breath hitching, and he doesn't dare move. She's still staring at him when she shifts again, this time just as hesitant, but it's a shallow rock of her hips rather than the simple press of her thigh.

Jon sucks a breath between his teeth, fingers tightening over her hip.

She seems to catch the reaction, because then she's biting her lip, brows drawn down in concentration, eyes never leaving his when she rolls her hips very purposely, very surely against his thigh now, a thready moan building in her throat.

Jon's control snaps. He grips at her thigh, pulling it from between his legs, ignoring her delicate whimper at the loss and shifting her so that her leg is swung over his hip instead, angling them so he's on his side fully, pressed into her, his other thigh braced at her center now. She sighs at the return of the pressure, an instinctual roll of her hips meeting him when he presses more forcefully into her. Her eyes go hooded, fixing to his mouth, the hand that was bunched in the sheets reaching tentatively toward his hip, anchoring there to steady herself against his thrusts. Even in the dark, he thinks he can see the pinks of her cheeks at the motion, at the steady rock of their hips, her cunt rubbing incessantly at his thigh through their clothes, and the thought has him impossibly harder, groaning in the space between their panting mouths.

"That's it," he tells her, voice gravelly from sleep and desire, hand guiding her hip against him. Watching her chase her pleasure like this, her cunt soaking him through his breeches, her chest heaving, her lip swollen and plump beneath her teeth, eyes hooded and fixed to his – it has him near on delirious. "That's it, Sansa, just like that," he grinds out.

She moans so prettily at his guidance that the sound staggers the breath in his chest. He ruts into her mindlessly, watching her face screw tight. His hand leaves her hip and fumbles for her shift, tugging the sleeveless thing past her shoulder, almost baring a breast entirely when he stops his frantic tugging, glancing back up at her, eyes boring into hers. She nods fervently, never stopping her grind against his thigh or her enticing mewls. Jon doesn't wait for a second confirmation, yanking the material down, breath catching when a perfect, pale breast spills out, nipple a dusky pink and pebbled to hardness. He cups her eagerly, groaning at the responding sigh that leaves her. He palms at her breast as she rubs herself more fiercely at his thigh, her hand curling tight at his hip.

Jon licks his lips, hungry, aching for a taste of her, growling impatiently as he dips his head down and takes her nipple between his lips, lapping at her, sucking eagerly. Sansa cries out, arching into him, panting above him.

"Fuck," he groans into her skin, teeth catching at her nipple, relishing the tremble that racks through her. His hand returns to her ass, hauling her against him, rutting shamelessly against her still-clothed cunt like a green boy. Jon imagines the slick heat of her, that tight cunt sheathed around his cock, so absolutely drenched for him, as he fucks her senseless, burying himself deep inside her again and again. He clamps down on her nipple, tongue swirling over the pebbled flesh, moaning with her in his mouth, sucking her harder.

"Jon," she gasps sharply, and the sound of his name in her breathless voice has him quaking, so painfully hard against her, wedging his thigh up, grinding her against the lean muscle of his leg, mouth releasing her breast on a needy growl.

"Come on, Sansa, just like that," he grunts. "Harder. Yes – fuck, just like that." His teeth catch at her collar bone, his tongue lashing at her sweat-slicked skin. "I want to feel that hot, wet cunt rutting against me. Want to hear you moan with me between your legs."

And she does moan – loudly – at his urging, grinding wantonly against him now, nails digging into his hip. Her eyes screw shut and Jon pulls back just enough to watch her, just enough to catch the disarming scrunch of her features as she chases her high, whining low in the back of her throat, pressed nearly flush up against him. "I want to see you cum for me, Sansa," he groans out, gaze fixed to her, breathless, and she cries out sharply, shuddering against him, wet and throbbing at his thigh, fingers like talons at his hip, face screwed tight, and it's the most erotic thing he's ever seen, the pleasure crashing through her. He's spilling instantly, vision going white, grunting into her shoulder as his hips jerk painfully, the force of the hardest orgasm he's ever had washing through him in waves and waves and waves.

It seems an age before he's able to regain his breathing, his thoughts.

"I've got you," he mutters, voice coarse, rocking into her languidly, steadily, drawing her close. Her hand edges up from his hip, gripping at his tunic, an anchor. She's trembling, her chest heaving, her mouth at his ear. "I've got you," he says again, swallowing thickly, ignoring the sticky mess his seed has made in his breeches, against her shift.

Like a fucking green boy.

Jon sighs, biting back a curse.

(Too far gone to ever turn back now.)

Sansa's fist doesn't unfurl from his chest until sleep well and truly claims her.

"I've got you," he breathes into her hair, ragged – taken by the sight of her.

Taken – wholly and recklessly.

"I've got you."