Dating guide for scorpio
  • Scorpio x Aries: This would be a VERY intense relationship, but if you don't both work really hard to see things from both perspectives chances are it will either burn out or dissolve into fighting over time.
  • Scorpio x Taurus: Opposites attract and you'll balance each other out really well if you can get the momentum to start something more than friendship (which is harder than it sounds). Just make sure that the Taurus knows how much you care about them and this could be a beautiful relationship!
  • Scorpio x Gemini: I really can't see this working out; opposites may attract but you just might be TOO opposite here. For a possibility of this being a good relationship, you'll both need to make sacrifices and give/take in the beginning, and afterwards the relationship will require a lot of maintenance to keep the spark from dying.
  • Scorpio x Cancer: Yes please!!! You have a lot in common but enough differences to keep things interesting. Also, you'll both adore each other and want the same from the other, leading to some incredible chemistry.
  • Scorpio x Leo: This would be difficult to say the least. You might feel like you're just giving and not getting anything back from the Leo, and this could start a bit of a chain reaction of passive-aggression. Learn to accept each other's differences, though, and maybe you can make this work!
  • Scorpio x Virgo: This pairing is one of those fairy tale couples in the beginning; smooth sailing with almost no rough weather. However, if either of you gets tired of the steady consistency from this relationship, things could get even more rough than you want.
  • Scorpio x Libra: Quite similar to Scorpio x Gemini but a bit deeper and more emotional. That's a plus, but at the same time there would still be the problem of how opposite your relationship needs are.
  • Scorpio x Scorpio: One word: INTENSE. Go for it, tiger, but you might reach a point where you need to slow down and take a deep breath, maybe even a break. That's okay and don't be afraid to communicate those feelings to your partner. Chances are they feel the same, and building that communication is crucial in this relationship.
  • Scorpio x Sagittarius: Depth certainly wouldn't be a problem in this because you're both extremely deep and insightful people. Even if this pairing doesn't work out, chances are you'll both learn a lot from this relationship that can be carried onto future ones, making it well worth it!
  • Scorpio x Capricorn: First thing's first, you'll need to get each other out of your shells or else this relationship will be doomed. Once you do, you'll learn a lot from each other and this could blossom into something beautiful, but if you go into things before you're truly open with each other, this could lead to some serious fighting and the whole thing may be downright toxic.
  • Scorpio x Aquarius: This would be such an honest, down-to-earth (ironically enough) relationship; the cute, quirky kind that you see in movies. Your ups and downs will be at their extremes, but if you hold on tight you could get something like a movie ending from this, too!
  • Scorpio x Pisces: I honestly ship this as friends more than as a relationship. As a relationship, things would start out more awkwardly than ever and you'd hit tons of rough patches because of how different you are from each other. The one big thing for this is to expect the unexpected.

Because I love those hours before the sun comes up, when you wake up for a moment and you realize you can stay in bed just a little while longer. And you’re safe. And there’s no rush. And it’s quiet. For all my hub loves. xo Pre-pancakes, so it’s v smutty. Don’t get me wrong, it’s highly emotional and descriptive, but it’s still porn. To experience the full mood of this thing, I’d recommend listening to Max Richter’s “Three Worlds” as you read.  @captainwiley @dassala @the-reason-to-sail-home @thejollypirate @businesscasualprincess @shoedonym @katie-dub @abbadons-little-witch @swanandapirate @mahstatins

+ It’s dark when she opens her eyes. Not the dark of late evening, when the stars have begun to twinkle in the sky—when the only sound to be heard is the choral chirping of insects, the darkening of doorways. No, it’s a darkness that knows it will have to fade eventually, a grey dawn that casts their bedroom in a hazy, dreamlike glow.

A nippy, quiet breeze smelling suspiciously of rain tiptoes through the open window and she catches the scent of him on the air. It’s a spicy mixture of cologne and sweat, a warm, enticing blend that clashes wonderfully with the fresh, tingling wetness of an impending storm. She can feel his rough, weathered fingers against the bare flesh of her waist. The tap, tap, tapping of his thumb against her belly. The smooth, hard metal of his ring against her stomach not unlike the steady ringing of a church bell, a far off song, a call to his side.

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The first time he enters her, he cries.

The sudden feeling of completion overwhelms him.  It’s as though his spirit has been fragmented his whole life, without his ever really having known it, and now suddenly, with every part of her surrounding every part of him, his soul has been re-knit, restored, returned to him with all its once-gaping holes lovingly mended.  

He doesn’t try to hide it because he knows she’ll understand- and she does.  She lies beneath him, cradling his head in her hands, and when she sees the tears sparkling in his eyes, she draws his face down to hers.  She kisses his lips, tenderly, kisses each of his eyes in turn, and brings his forehead to rest against her own.

He tries to speak, but finds that he can’t… and again, she understands.  She holds her fingers to his lips, stilling him.  "I know,“ she whispers.  "I feel it, too.”

He kisses her, long and slow, and begins to move within her.


The first time they’re together after he’s returned to her, he cries.

She’s promised him, repeatedly, that this is okay, that he’s not going to hurt her, not going to hurt the baby, but still, his movements are timid, cautious.  The sight of her doubled over in pain in her living room is much too fresh in his memory.

He lies curled behind her, framing her small body with his, spooned against her, in the position they’d loved to sleep in, before, but had never used for lovemaking.  But now, with their child between them, she says it’s the best option.  And when he at last slips into her, he’s glad she can’t see his face, can’t see the tears streaming down his cheeks as he finally feels, for the first time, that he is home.

She knows, though.  She always knows.  She arches her back against him, twisting her head over her shoulder to capture his mouth with her own.  She brushes his tears away with her thumb, stroking his cheek.  He runs his hand along her body, down her shoulder, over the ridges of her ribcage, around her waist, and across her round belly.

There’s a twitch under his fingers, a sudden ripple in her skin, and he jerks his hand away in surprise.  She chuckles and takes his fingers in her own, placing them back on her belly and holding them there.  He feels their child moving against his hand and thinks, We did that.  Just by doing what we’re doing right now.  And he wonders- the way he’d felt, that first time, had he known, somehow?

She reaches behind herself and clutches at his body, impatient, and after that it’s difficult to think at all anymore.


Their first time after they’ve escaped and driven off together, he cries.

He’d believed, for months, that this would never, ever happen again, that it was impossible.  And until barely a day ago, he’d believed that he was going to die without ever knowing this bliss again.  The first long, slow slide into her welcoming warmth seems to wake something deep within him, seems to tear off the suffocating shroud that his prolonged solitude has wrapped him in.  

He’s dismayed to find that it hurts her.  He wants to stop, but she refuses.  "It’s not that unusual,“ she says.  "Many women experience some pain, the first time after… after…..”  She closes her eyes, holding her own tears in check.  He wishes she wouldn’t, wishes she would just let go, but he knows that she’s never found it easy to cry around anyone, not even him… and he’s been gone for so long.  

So instead, he allows himself to cry, and in soothing his pain, she forgets her own.  For now.


The first time he’s with her in the new house, he cries.

He remembers their first time together, in his bed in his Arlington apartment, neither of them concerned with having to go anywhere at all except to work the next morning, after which they could return, together, and make love again.  Repeat ad nauseam.

On the road, on the run, the constant question of “Where next?” had stolen all possibility of real rest from them.  They had settled down each night wondering whether tomorrow would be the day they would be caught, the day the running would finally come to an end for them, the day that all hope of escape would be dashed forever.  Lovemaking had been tense, anxious, each constantly keeping an ear out, unable to truly lose themselves in one another.  

This house represents an end to all of that… but it doesn’t truly sink in for him until he’s lying on top of her in their new bed, upstairs in their new house.  He will make love to her here tonight, they will go to sleep, and tomorrow, they will wake up together.  Tomorrow night, they’ll do the same thing… and the night after that, and the night after that, and on and on.  He’s never before in his life found the idea of an unchanging routine to be quite so beautiful.

“Only good times from here on,” he tells her, and in the moonlight shining through their bedroom window, she looks as though she would very much like to believe him.


The first time they make love after reconciling, he cries.

He had done everything she had asked of him… eventually.  He had gotten himself out of the house.  He had made the psychiatric appointments (and eventually, he’d even started going to them).  He had filled the prescriptions, had taken the pills, had gotten active again, had developed a routine.  They had returned to the FBI, and he had thrown himself into his work with just as much passion as before- but with far fewer of the foolish risks he’d been given to taking in his youth.

But without her, it had been like preparing a gourmet meal and placing it on an empty table, performing a concerto to a vacant opera house, painting a portrait and hanging it facing the wall.  He knows what she would say if she could hear his thoughts: she would remind him, yet again, that he has to do these things for himself, that doing them just for her would be unhealthy, would be missing the point.

And he has done them for himself.  But what use is it all, without her to share it with?  His life, without her in it, is a “how” without a “why.”  He knows now that she cannot be solely responsible for mending the tears in his soul- he must see to many of them on his own- but sharing it with her is what makes the pain of mending worthwhile.

They’re not as young as they once were.  Their bodies have changed, skin loosening where it was once firm, lean frames hardened and weathered by rough use… but she is more beautiful to him than she has ever been before, a treasure restored to him after a long, painful absence.

She wraps her legs around him, and he is home.  The tears are flowing freely down his cheeks, but he doesn’t care, because he knows she understands.  She always understands.

She takes his head gently in her hands and presses her forehead to his.  "I know,“ she says.  "I feel it, too.”

anonymous asked:

Idk if anyone had said this yet (literally just woke up and saw the cover) but the very first thing it made me think of was "red sky at night, sailors delight. red sky in morning, sailors take warning." Lots of my extended family sail and that's a super common phrase about what to expect in terms of how rough the weather will be. (Also *cough* nautical imagery *cough*)

When someone asked me if it was morning or night that was actually the first thing I thought of too. Not sure if it’s related, but I definitely thought of it. And we know they love a good nautical reference…..

Etched In Ink- An Ivar Imagine

So this is what I wrote yesterday instead of attending to my responsibilities. I’ve been wanting to write this idea for a while, hope you enjoy!

TW: blood, knife play, tattooing with a needle

“Are you sure about this?”

Ivar rolls his eyes, spreading out his tools on the long, well worn table. “I have told you already, woman, I’ve seen it done many times. It does not appear all that difficult.”

You fidget nervously with the neckline of your dress, watching your lover wipe down a very long and very sharp needle. You shiver.

“Yes, but you’ve never actually done it before,” you point out, your voice laced with anxiety. “What if you make a mistake? What if you tap too hard and accidentally kill me? What if-”

Ivar cuts you off with a soft growl. “You said you wanted a tattoo. I said I wanted to be the one to give it to you. Here we are. Are you going to get up on the table or not?”

He gives you a hard look, his beautiful blue eyes burning into your skin. You sigh. You do really want a tattoo. And you trust your body with your lover implicitly. He has taken perfect and reverent care of it since you first offered it to him. So you cross the room and climb up onto the table.

“That’s my good, sweet girl,” he praises you as you lie down. He glides a hand over your face and down your neck, touch light as a feather. You can feel the familiar flush creep up your body as he expertly unties the front laces of your dress. He pushes the fabric down to reveal the skin right over your heart. One calloused finger circles the area, brushing over the top of your left breast teasingly. Shivers shoot down your spine.

“Are you going to tattoo me, or just grope me?” You ask, your voice coming out more breathy that it should. He chuckles darkly, hand covering your breast and squeezing roughly. You shoot him a glare, even though you are half tempted to forget the tattooing and make him put his hand in other places.

“What is if that you want? You never did say,” He asks, removing his hand to prepare the needle.

“A Vegvisir,” you say, and watch as his brow furrows in confusion.

“You want a compass?”

“Yes,” you nod, firm in your decision. “And I will tell you why after this infernal process is over.”

He shrugs. “Whatever you wish.” He looks at the patch of skin again. “I think I will have to lay out a pattern first, so I have something to work off of.” He reaches down to his belt and pulls out his knife. “I will just carve it lightly into your skin with this.” A smirk blooms across his face. “This at least you are well acquainted with.”

Are you ever. Ivar loves to use his knife on you when you are alone and nestled under the furs. He also loves to have it used on him in return. It’s not something you would have foreseen yourself enjoying, but Ivar has a way of drawing out the deepest and darkest parts of you and twisting them to your mutual pleasure.

“Hold still, sweet girl,” he places the blade against your skin, the coolness of the metal familiar and a little thrilling. You wince slightly as he makes the first shallow cut, his brows drawn together in concentration.

“You know, you may have to be more careful with the marks you leave on me,” you try your best to keep perfectly still. “Yesterday the new slave girl who helped me bathe asked if I’d been bitten by a wild animal.”

He continues working but his face splits into a feral grin, no doubt picturing the very red and fresh bite mark he’d left on your inner right thigh the other night. “What did you tell her?”

It’s your turn to grin. “I said yes.”

That makes him bark out a laugh, his blue eyes crinkling at the corners in the way you love. “Naughty thing,” he teases.

It doesn’t take him long to carve out the design. Before you know it he is putting down his knife and leaning forward to press his face into your chest. You suck in a breath, waiting for what you know is coming. Ivar does not wipe away blood. At least not with his hands.

The first stroke of his velvety tongue has you sighing in bliss. The warmth and wet feels wonderful on the sting of the shallow cuts. He licks in long, slow strokes, pausing every once and a while to let out a soft groan of pleasure. You melt to a languid liquid under his ministrations, your bones becoming soft and pliant and ready to bend to his complete will.

He pulls back all too soon, licking his lips like a cat who ate the cream. You watch the last of your crimson blood disappear into his mouth, unable to help but squirm as heat creeps up your spine. Ivar notices, and chides you gently with a wicked smile.

“Not yet, sweet girl,” he coos, picking up the ink and the dye. “Afterwards, if you are very good and keep very still, I will reward you. Now, I must get to work, or we will be here all night.”

You huff in frustration but attempt to calm your body. After all, you do really want this tattoo. You can be patient.

You watch him place the ready needle against your skin. A stab of fear runs trough you. It’s silly really, you’ve had his blade on you more time than you can count and you’ve never felt anything but excitement. This shouldn’t be much different. Except if he makes a mistake, you’ll have to walk around with it on your body for the rest of your life.

Ivar does not coddle you as he senses your fear, however. He simply gives you a broad wink, and taps the needle into your skin.

It hurts, but not as much as you thought it would. It feels like being stabbed with a million little tiny knives, over and over again. Painful, but not unbearable. You decide to focus on Ivar’s face, letting your eyes linger on every handsome feature. The stormy blue eyes, the sharp cheekbones, the soft, pouty lips, the strong jaw. A face you have come to love more dearly than you could have even imagined. You think of the meaning of the ink he is currently etching in to your skin and you feel your heart swell. You hope he will like the symbolism of your tattoo.

You lie on the table for what feels like forever. Ivar barely says anything, his face a mask of concentration. You’d given up trying to talk to him after he’d snapped at you to shut up and let him work. You have tried your best to keep still but you find yourself squirming more than once. Each time, Ivar had hissed through his teeth and you had quickly stilled. But you’d been here for ages. If you were on this table much longer, you’d go mad.

“There,” Ivar says finally, pulling away and removing the needle from your skin. “I think I am finished.”

“How does it look?” You ask anxiously, craning your neck to try to get a glimpse of the ink now permenantly a part of you. Ivar reaches behind him and produces a piece of reflective glass Bjorn had procured on his latest Mediterranean raid. You sit up slowly, wincing at the ache in your chest.

“See for yourself,” he hands you the glass, a self satisfied look on his face. You take it from him, taking a deep breath before looking. You let out a surprised gasp.

It’s beautiful. Pure, midnight black lines, perfectly etched. The shape is even, everything is in its proper place. You smile as you admire it. You had to say, your lover had done an amazing job.

“I love it,” you turn your gaze to Ivar, who gives you a genuine smile in return. “Thank you, Ivar. It’s beautiful.”

“I told you it would be fine,” he takes the reflective glass from you, putting it back where he took it from. “Now will you tell me why you chose a Vegvisir?”

You reach out and take his broad hand. It completely envelops yours, strong, deft fingers covering your own.

“A Vegvisir is a compass, a magical symbol made to help one find their way through rough weather,” you squeeze his hand, suddenly feeling nervous. “You are my compass, my guide through the rough weather. When I touch or see this tattoo, I will be reminded that though life will have storms, as long as I have you, I can get through them.”

You meet his eyes, and the honest surprise and almost child-like hope in them make your heart ache. You have told Ivar you love him before, but from the way he is looking at you now it seems like there was a part of him that never really believed you. Now, with your love for him permanently on your body, he maybe can finally understand and accept the depth of your emotions.

“I am your compass, your way through the storm,” he breathes, his other hand reaching out to gently brush the tender inked area. “I am on your body, in ink and blood.”

You bring the hand holding your own to your lips, kissing his weathered knuckles. “Yes, Ivar. For always.”

His hands are then cradling your face, his breath fanning across your skin as he leans in.

“My sweet girl,” he sighs, “do you even know how perfect you are?”

And then his mouth is devouring yours, tongue hot against your own as he kisses you like a man starving for it. You kiss back eagerly, though with you on the table and him seated beside it’s an awkward angle. But you do not care. You can only think, feel, and taste Ivar. He invades every one of your senses, sinking into your very flesh like the midnight ink shining on your chest. Every fibre of your being cries out for him, and you find yourself whimpering desperately against his lips.

He pulls away, his face once again in the array of arrogant confidence you are used to. “Such a good girl you were under the needle,” he purrs, and you whimper again as his hands slide down to your waist. “You stayed very still for me. I think my sweet girl deserves her reward now, don’t you?”

You can only nod, following his impatient hands as he tugs you off the table and on to his lap. His hungry mouth finds your neck, sucking greedily at the tender flesh. You wriggle against him, the ache from the tattoo being replaced with an ache of a totally different kind.

“Suppose I should get a tattoo for you now,” he groans into your neck as you dig your nails harshly into his shoulders. “Maybe you could even give it to me. Odin above, the thought of you pushing a sharp needle through my skin over and over…” he breaks off with a violent shudder.

You smirk, reaching for his knife still laying upon the table. “Why don’t you let me practice then?” You run the tip of the blade over the shell of his ear, delighting in the animalistic growl that tears from his throat.

“I am supposed to be rewarding you,” his teeth nip harshly at your pulse point. You grab a hold of his luscious hair and pull his head back so you can look into his lust glazed eyes. You trace his parted lips with the knife, and his eyes go almost completely black.

“Oh honey,” you coo, excitement and lust and passion boiling hotly in your veins, “to have you in any way is a reward to me. Now be a good boy and beg.”

Another feral growl, and his hands tighten eagerly on your waist. His head bows slightly, his eyes look down at the floor. He says nothing, but the beginning of his submission has started. It’s rare he lets you take the reins, and you feel like your need for him is about to burst out of your skin.

You grin, your new tattoo throbbing in time with your racing pulse.

This was going to be one hell of a good reward.

Happy Monday, sister wives! ❤️❤️

I’ll always be here when you need someone to talk to. I’ll always be here, when your plans all seem to fall through. I’ll be here to lean on, when times get tough. And I’ll still be here when the weather gets rough. I’ll be here for you when you need someone to talk with for awhile. Because when it comes to you I’d do anything, just to see you smile.
Morning After: Thor imagine

The morning was cold but perfect. The storm outside took over the perfect Asgard weather. But this was your favorite weather. Rough and raw dark skies as rain harshly pummeled against the window. The thunder sounding ever few times in an almost peaceful way to you. The lightening ever so slightly slipping light in the dark room.

Even if it was freezing in the bedroom you felt nothing but warmth as you laid in the large silk bedding with the arms of a God around you.

You laid securely on top of Thor’s chest. He was a giant compared to you. He laid under you, one arm slung over your waist as his other hand rested on your thigh… right under your bum. Your fave was buried in his neck as your leg was thrown over him. Your bodies were pressed against each other as close as possible. 

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Taken (Part Eight)

Pairing: Dean x Reader, Sam x Reader
Summary: When Sam, the reader’s fiancee, is kidnapped with no explanation, the reader uses the help of Dean to find her lost love.  However, many unforeseen things happen on the journey to find Sam. How will Dean and the reader deal with developing feelings for one another?
Reader Gender: Female
Word Count: 1,800
Tags: canon-level gore/violence, situational angst, eventual Dean x Reader
A/N: It’s almost heeeeere!



Dean was gone by the time you woke up.  After blindly reaching a hand out to feel an empty warm spot on the mattress beside you, you opened your eyes.  It took a second to adjust to the bright light peaking through the window and you sat up, blinking.

Dean stood over the other bed, getting ready for the day.  This process consisted of stripping and cleaning all of his weapons before carefully putting them back together.  He was nearly finished, now working on his favorite pistol.

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Under The Greenwood Tree - William Shakespeare

Under the greenwood tree
Who loves to lie with me,
And turn his merry note
Unto the sweet bird’s throat,
Come hither, come hither, come hither:
Here shall he see
No enemy
But winter and rough weather.

Who doth ambition shun,
And loves to live i’ the sun,
Seeking the food he eats,
And pleas’d with what he gets,
Come hither, come hither, come hither:
Here shall he see
No enemy
But winter and rough weather.

i. they just met us and they think we are ultra cool. the manic pixie dream solar system. they even call us goldilocks, like something out of a fairytale. we are the answer to all the questions, we are the future and we are beautiful.

ii. they praise our theoretical oceans like they aren’t already thinking of sucking us dry. like they don’t suck everything dry. like they don’t suck.

iii. but then, surprise, surprise. we have too much flare. wait, i thought you said i was cool?? i guess it’s fun to mess with a “quirky” solar system, but then you got close and now i’m “volatile”, “unstable”, “difficult”, “dead”, “lifeless”. suddenly my storms are “too powerful”. too powerful for who?
i find out that you think all of this about me by reading the papers.

iv. you don’t ask about the plans i was starting to make. but you never wanted to know me, did you? you admired my surface, you liked the possibilities, you loved that i was familiar.
you wonder how i even exist. because if i don’t fit with you i don’t fit anywhere else. right? RIGHT?   

v. “oh no, look how stormy they are. too loud, too bright, too much. how did i ever think this was gonna work?” you take your worst storm and find out it wouldn’t even register on my world. “who can live like that?”
i sit and think about how i survived every storm. how the raining knives shaped me. how i reclaimed that body. how i buried that seed of life so deep even all my extremes couldn’t kill it. how rough weather became an opportunity for understanding. how lives can be so different and yet equally ALIVE. how i still trust people with my oceans. how i will never let anyone convince me that’s a bad thing.
i sit and sing “I WANNA BE A GOOD SKY ON A BAD DAY” over and over, like a prayer.  

vi. they ask themselves why we stick so close together. “if only you were a bit further from your sun.”/ they want to cut me out from my source of light for their comfort. they miss the joy of seeing all your friends as soon as you open your eyes. they miss our dance, the song we make with our bodies, ringing eternal. we never crash. the push and pull keeps us stable.

vii. you move on and look for a different home. i thank the heavens, the universe, everything.

—  TRAPPIST-1 // julia m.
The Stars Above You


Day Six: Stars

(A/N: The beginning is set before Miroku and Sango join the gang.)

Kagome always had strange books on her. Inuyasha was intrigued by her insistence to read and carry the things, but annoyed at the extra weight that slowed her down. 

He was also fascinated by them, and loved it when she read them out loud to herself, but he would never admit that.

She was after all the nuisance that ruined the jewel and made it so he had to go on this quest in the first place. 

She often read while they stopped for lunch; ‘cramming’ as she called it. 

She mostly read by firelight before her little body could stand to stay up no more. That was when she spoke out the words on the pages, because her eyes and mind were too tired to just quietly take them in.

Her books were full of symbols and letters he had never seen before. It made him wonder just how much she knew. The fact she studied those books was a sign that she was far smarter than he had initially thought. 

He realized very quickly while traveling with her that she was most interested in people and the stories about them in her books. She called it ‘history that was unfolding before her eyes’, he called it ‘getting involved in things that she shouldn’t be sticking her nose into.’

He also called it ‘annoying as hell.’

But still, she carried those books with her. She fought him tooth and nail every time he went to use the book pages as kindle – it was some good kindle– but would relent and let him have a page or two of her choosing.

Shippou was at least open about his interest in the books. Kagome, the girl he slept snuggled to every night, was a deity of sorts in Shippou’s eyes. He wholesomely loved her, and if the amount of treats were any indication, she loved him right back.

She also brought Inuyasha all his favorite ‘ninja food’, but it would be while before Inuyasha wondered if she did that out of love of him as well.

It had been a particularly rough day. The weather had been far from forgiving, and harsher than normal for early spring. The wind had been cold and bit harshly at her delicate skin. She had mild sunburns topped with wind chaffing on her cheeks, Inuyasha noted as they settled down for the night. Kagome had not once complained, however, making him worry that there was a bigger injury she wasn’t vocalizing to him.

They were only another day - maybe two at this rate- from Kaede’s village. Inuyasha would mention to the old woman to check Kagome for injury, and leave it there. Kaede simply would not allow Kagome to go into the well without needed medical attention.

It never dawned on him that he was concerned for her because he cared, and not so much because she hadn’t complained.

The fire he had built his new-found pack was burning bright and wonderfully warm. Inuyasha checked to see if his two companions were bundled up for the night in the cocoon she carried. When he looked down, he saw them swaddled up, sitting upright, with a book in Kagome’s hands that he hadn’t seen her study before.

“Remember what I told you at lunch, Shippou?” Inuyasha racked his brain. He didn’t remember much conversation at lunch.

“That the stars shine the brightest on cold nights?” Inuyasha couldn’t recall that bit of information being shared, and made a note to listen more carefully to their talks, even if it was menial things being discussed.

“Yes,” she shifted the book so that it was lit by the fire a little bit more, “and this is the book I was telling you about. Why don’t we try to see what stars are above us tonight?”

Shippou snuggled closer into her body. “How do we tell?”

“We look in the sky and down in the book. This book as all the different stars that might be in the sky, so we just have to look and see which ones are above us tonight. We can even read the stories people tell about them.” Kagome began to turn pages. “We know we are in early spring, so we start there in the book.”

Inuyasha peered down from his perch. He wasn’t settled for the night; he was engaged in the book too. He listened to Kagome, and tried to take in everything she was teaching Shippou.

He listened to the stories intently, fascinated by the tales of warriors and great beasts, of star-crossed lovers and mighty rulers. He was a silent participant to the bonding time between girl and child, unintentionally forming a deeper bond with both of them in his heart.

The very next night, Kagome and Shippou sought hard to see every little difference between the stars of then and the stars of the night before. Inuyasha did the same, but didn’t speak aloud what his observations.

Once they were at Kaede’s village, Kagome left the book of stars there while she went home. Shippou brought it to Inuyasha as the night fell, and opened the pages riddled with words and pictures that barely made sense to either of them.

And yet, both of them look for the different stars, and tried to read the stories that went with them. They searched for the same stars as before, and were able to read those stories. It was a silent partnership that neither of them spoke of in daylight, but at night, they poured over the books side by side.

When Kagome came back, she taught them how to read the book.

This mysterious book of stars, that made little sense to anyone who didn’t have Kagome as a teacher, went on the travels with them. Miroku was better at reading it than Inuyasha had expected, and Sango voiced the questions he had but wouldn’t say. They grew closer together under the stars above them and with the stars in the book. 

On clear nights, they all would study the stars. Kagome once mentioned that the stars were the same in her time, so if they looked up to them, they could know that she was too if she were home. 

Eventually the book would find a permanent home in Kaede’s hut as the travels became more exhausting and dangerous, and having less to carry was more important to Kagome. 

Once Kagome was gone, Inuyasha and Shippou sought comfort in looking at the stars together, and finding quiet, unspoken peace in knowing Kagome had the same stars above her. They would, side by side like so many moons before, sit and page through Kagome’s book, and read the stories held in the pages.

The first night Kagome came back, Shippou pulled out the book and snuggled into her body, just like he had years before. Kagome shifted the book to be illuminated by the moonlight and together they began to find the stars that were above them.

This time, Inuyasha wasn’t a silent party, watching with a hidden desire to join in his heart.

This time, he was wrapped around Kagome, her in his lap, and Shippou in her’s, paging through the stars with them.

so i was bored, a tad bit tired, & extremely motivated to expand my vocabulary & improve my writing, so i figured i’d share. under the cut is a LONG ASS masterpost of anything you could think of to improve vocabulary & such. there will most likely be a part two considering i have so much left to write, & i’ll definitely post that if people enjoy this one ! like/reblog as you please, i just hope this helps some people !

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If I can just make one general statement here in these troubled times, and leave it at that, it’s this: While I encourage people in rough weather to turn off anon to protect themselves if they feel it’d be better, anon hate is never justified. Ever. I don’t care what your excuses are or how poor your judgement is or how much of a dick you think the other person is being. If you can’t back up your statements enough to even show yourself, they don’t belong on a public platform.

Seriously guys. Fess up or fuck off. We’re all too old for this.