AH WRITING PROMPT REQUEST! YAAAAAY!!! Okay, because I know this could be angsty, and I came up with 2 scenarios with these prompts.
1. kind of nsfw version 16 and 46- because I took liberties with the connotation of fever and based on the idea that someone from this wonderful fandom has proposed. (I think it was Suzie-Guru, but correct me if I’m wrong). I guess their mating cycles overlapped at one point and oh my gosh the stuff all of you have come up with has had me in stitches.
It’s a thing of beauty…When the time is right and the moon dances high and the summer’s heat raises something half hellish and half heavenly within them.
It’s the time in between her lull and his rise. The time when her passion is reaching one last magnificent crescendo and his is just barely reaching the summit.
It only happened once so far, something to do with the lunar cycles and the shifting winds and biological adaptations.
It only happened once and it is glorious.
She is searing heat and molten gazes, swift touches and biting remarks.
He is indolent satisfaction, and languid kisses.
She burns and he proves to be the perfect fuel to her fire.
And he thanks the stars and the moon more than once with his heavy brogue.
He thanks them for this beautiful piece of them he has somehow come to hold.
He thanks them for the pain and the pleasure of her burns and embraces.
He thanks them that they have crafted him from sharp edges and resilient armor, because he needs to be tough enough to withstand her intensity and to keep himself together on this night.
They lose themselves, fever pitch, summer heat, searing pleasure…
It’s all there.
When she throws him against the wall, there is a loud crack.
There is also pain.
He is struck momentarily speechless by it and by the strength of the passions shaking her small frame.
He is also speechless because he has had the air knocked out of his lungs and he can’t catch his breath because her lips are on his, and she seems not to have taken note and then…
Every line of hers presses against his, and they fit so well together.
The noise he makes is both a product of hurt and delight, and she can’t really tell the difference.
His attention is drawn away from the aching pain lancing up his back and is all on this fiery thing of starlight in his arms.
There is no cooling calm in his own gaze, and she finds herself burning brighter, because his cool blue gaze is made up of fire…and because everyone knows that the blue flames are the ones that burn the hottest.
He is the pain that comes with keeping your hand on ice too long, and she is nearly numb from it…from his look, from his touch, from her own reactions that are both mechanical and biological in their perfection.
Together they burn, fever upon fervor.
They awake, and she is somewhat sated.
His time is not yet done, but for his own good, he must be physically restrained.
“No more…not until that broken wing of yours is fixed.” His mother chides him.
But even that is not enough to stop him or Marianne from sneaking in a few rounds once she’s left the room.
Version 2: Angsty- play with connotation of broken wing
For all the highs and lows he has experienced in his life, there are precious few joys that can compare with flying.
There are just as few disappointments that compare with having that taken away, however much temporarily.
But as he looks at the tiny, shivering thing settled into a too big bed of heather and covered in the thickest moss, he thinks to himself that this is worse than not being able to fly.
This isn’t just being grounded.
This is sinking.
He should have known. He should have anticipated.
Because no matter how alike she may seem to him, no matter how tough her exterior, she is still a part of the Light Fields.
The muggy, cold rains and winter frost of the Dark Forest are too harsh for the likes of them.
Her fever rages as hot as the anger in his heart.
It burns him, makes his claws itch to tear and fight.
But there is no enemy here.
He can only watch and pray and trust in the healers and in her strength.
And he is struck by her smallness…her iridescent wings are tucked tight around, in an attempt to keep herself warm. She writhes and twists, tangling the moss around her in a mess of a net.
She is just as flightless as he feels. Her wings are as ineffectual as broken things. They are merely heavy things to drag her down in her maddened movements…things too large and burdensome to do much good with this fever rushing through her.
A light knocking breaks his musings.
There’s a tightness in his chest, and it travels up his throat, scrabbling up and up.
It seems to hurt more when he sees who enters.
Small hands, not as tiny as the ones grasping the sheets, but small nonetheless, grab his own long fingers.
They carefully wind their way through, soft caresses and shared pain tightening their grip.
And when he looks into Marianne’s troubled gaze, purple berry dye not enough to hide the bags under her eyes, he understands.
His wife is drowning just like him.
Their wings have both been broken in this instance, and no amount of blame will buoy them up to the sky they so loved because their daughter was sick and they were useless.
It’s only when the fever breaks with the rising of the sun that they are able to fly again.