Aries: oblivious and unstoppable giggles among you and your friends about each other’s weird drawings.
Taurus: cuddling your mother at night, when there is a nasty storm outside. With you listening closely to the rain.
Gemini: getting a brand new bike, and being able to peddle it, and riding as freely as you wish. Even sometimes having your mum or dad run after you.
Cancer: letting your creativity flow to the top. And imagining adventures with your best friends. Adventures that now may seem surreal to you.
Leo: going utterly crazy, and not caring at all, just jumping and skipping everywhere. Living in your own world and by your own rules.
Virgo: baking cookies with your grandparents, and after trying one yourself, running to everyone in your household to give them a cookie and to see them smile.
Libra: Going on a day trip with your family. Either an amusement park or a historical museum and liking the social atmosphere.
Scorpio: when you accomplished your first goal, either in a sports team or as a personal thing such as being able to read your first book and understand it.
Sagittarius: Joking around with your friends and thinking that this day was your favourite one, because of those moments you believe you won’t forget.
Capricorn: when you started a new obsession or hobby, that includes when you read your first big book series or when you felt like plain thinking.
Aquarius: Getting your first ever pet, and observing it eagerly, not being really sure if you can touch it or if the pet will even like you. Keeping a strange distance between the pet and yourself, yet being intrigued.
Pisces: hazily looking up at the sky, and questioning its existence, and then jumping onto a swing, just to imagine and feel what it is like to fly.
People often misunderstand what the old saying about a cat having nine lives means. The cats prefer to keep it a secret, as most humans can’t be trusted with information so fragile and precious, but there are exceptions.
The merchant who shares his leftover fish. The young girl that hides littler after litter of newborn ones in her room until they find new homes. The old man with scars who still has enough kindness to open his shed to let them slip in from the rain. Boys, teenagers, mothers, warriors, brothers - some are trusted.
Exceptions, yes, few nowadays and rare, but honoured all the more.
So nine lives there are indeed. Each cat is born with them and no matter the time or place, they are lost easily.
This is where the story ends for most people.
But for those who are trusted, those who wake up one morning and find a weird taste in their mouth, the scent of a forest never touched by human hands in their nose, and a strange lingering touch of whiskers on their forehead - they know the truth.
Nine lives for this world, is what all our legends used to say.
You, friend of cats, know the ancient, almost forgotten sayings.
You know of cat eyes shining in the deepest night when they shouldn’t be able to. You know of cats staring past your ear, at that forbidden spot right by the frayed corner of your vision, and you fear that if you look, your cat won’t be able to stare it into submission anymore. You don’t look. The cat purrs. You’re safe.
The kittens have all their lives still. They do not look at the edgewalking beasts that whisper through their humans’ house. It will take time until they fall, hurt, learn.
The oldest cats know so much that a touch of their paw will make an entire village shudder. Their quiet voices cast spells. Let them roam. You cannot imagine the things that flee from them as they walk in silence.
Cat friend, you know it in your heart.
You know of the paths they walk that human feet can’t find.
You know of the nights they vanish and return with the scent of blood, earth and salt in their fur, and when your fingers touch their coat, a cold shiver awakes your skin.
Sometimes, they hear things. You don’t know what, but you know enough to let them sit in front of your house or room, paws tucked under, dark stare never leaving an invisible spot in the air.
And when you float between sleep and life, when you’re unlucky enough to claw at the edge of death before you’re ready to go…
Then maybe, friend of cats, you’ll feel a brush of fur along your legs. Maybe, just before you startle with awe in your heart and wake once more, the same pair of eyes that should sleep by your side winks at you from another world.
Request: Could you write a Reader x Paul Lahote where the reader finds an injured wolf (who is Paul stuck in wolf form because he is too injured to shift back) and she takes care of him? Maybe like Paul realises she’s his imprint and is nervous about how she’ll react when he shifts back and she finds out what he is and that she’s his mate? Thanks xo
So a friend of mine decided he wanted to DM for the usual group including our typical DM. In his campaign, theres my half orc warlock, a half orc fighter named Garrok, and a drow rogue; a small party. Garrok (lacking in nonphysical traits) follows my warlock (lacking in physical traits due to deformity) in a good duo that we’ve found very fun. Garrok is the powerhouse of the party and is often charging into battle with his warcry “YOU LOOK WEAK!”
After clearing a dungeon, Garrok, with his 8 intelligence, decided to touch at this strange contraption a couple times (each time he did, the device pricked his finger). Upon entering an arena, 2 Garroks appeared, screaming “YOU LOOK WEAK!” And “I’M DA REAL GARROK” They then began to fight each other for the claim of being “da real Garrok” Naturally, the party stepped back so that whichever Garrok survived would be our nee companion.
When the original Garrok killed the other two, he began collecting there teeth and shouting “Im the strongest person I know…and I’ve killed me twice!” I began to exclaim an idea (that was already clearly a shared concept between us) that we should clone Garrok and have my character shepherd the now 20 new Garroks to guard the town that I had claimed mayorship over, as well as raid other towns for gold. And Garrok became “Garrok Flametusk, King of Garroks.
Long after the beer in their bottles had warmed, long after Sam had excused himself to ‘do some research,’ Dean and Castiel sat at the table in silence. Dean shot furtive glances at Castiel, who had taken to rubbing his thumb around the opening of his bottle.
The silence was deafening.
“It wouldn’t be the end of the world, you know,” Cas said abruptly. Dean blinked. After today, Cas could be referring to just about anything.
“My death,” Cas continued, thumb moving in slow, methodical circles around the top, “It wouldn’t be the end of the world.”
“Cas…” Dean’s voice was rough, thick with worry. He’d heard enough of what the angel, and Lily, for that matter, had said to him. Not to mention nobody could hold a self-grudge quite as well as the angel.
“You saw how today went,” Castiel continued evenly, “You almost died. Again. Because of me.”
“Pretty sure you weren’t the one coming at me with an angel blade,” Dean replied, weakly trying (and failing) to interject a tone of humor.
Cas scoffed. “It doesn’t change the fact it was my mistake that dragged you into the mess to begin with. It was my mistake Lily Sunders was dragged into it too and…” he paused, thumb on the edge of the rim, balancing over a precipice it seemed. Cas sighed, his hand fell away from the bottle. “Perhaps it wouldn’t be the worst thing for you if I was gone.”
The floor seemed to fall away and Dean had to stifle a gasp. He’d spent most of his time nursing a not-so-subtle anger at Cas and when Cas had returned it, Dean had taken that as a sign that Cas was fine. And yeah, Cas offering to let Lily take him down would have been worrisome, but Cas was smart, he was kind, he was just saying what she needed to hear…wasn’t he?
Castiel proffered a small smile, looking up at Dean at last. “At least you wouldn’t have to worry about my stupid ideas anymore, right?"
It’s said with some humor, like Cas expects Dean to agree and smile right alongside him. Dean just felt sick to his stomach. Taking a shaky breath, Dean stood. Made his way to Cas. Knelt at the angel’s feet, anchoring himself by putting both hands on Cas’ knees as he looked into the angel–his angel’s eyes.
"I would never recover.”
Cas blinked. “What?”
“If you die, man. I…I wouldn’t recover.”
Castiel sat frozen in place, his hand still next to the empty beer bottle.
“It might not be the end of the world, but it would be the end of my world. Cas, I had to face that today, with the banishing symbol and you have no idea–” Dean was breathless now, trying to say the things he could rarely bring himself to even admit, “I know the angels say we treat you bad. And I–I do and I’m sorry, man, but I can’t lose you. Not again.”
Hanging his head, Dean tried to say the other things, the other, far more secret words. The sort of words that the angels would likely claim corrupted Castiel beyond repair. So he wouldn’t say them. He couldn’t. A silent I love you was all he could give Cas.
But as he struggled, a strange thing happened. The faintest of touches on his hands. Dean looked down, really looked, to see Castiel’s hands hovering over his own. They locked eyes. Castiel let his hands drop firmly atop Dean’s.
AU where Faramir went to Rivendell instead of Boromir?
Everything turns out okay.
That sounds flippant but imagine Denethor sending the right son to do the right job.
Faramir goes to the cool green glade of Elrond, where he speaks of dreams and waves, and the elves whisper that the blood of Numenor runs true in the House of Hurin; Boromir spends his time riding like hell between Ithilien and Osgiliath, speaking with men around smoky fires, embracing his captains and saying to them, take heart, gather your strength, these are the times which test a man’s soul and lift it to glory, but we will see dawn come, we will keep Gondor free.
Though they are cut from different cloth, this is something Boromir and Faramir have always shared–they are men deserving of leadership, they would be followed under the shadow of the East. Boromir aches for every one of his countrymen cut down, screams his defiance to the orc armies and rallies his arms; Faramir listens to the words of wisdom Aragorn offers, is gentle and kindly with the hobbits, greets Legolas in his mother tongue, offers Master Gimli praise.
Wandering with the Fellowship below the empty sky, Faramir looks up at Maethor, the Warrior constellation, and thinks of his brother, prays that he is well, that he is safe, that he is still a little pompous, stilted, honest.
Boromir spends another sleepless night playing with the chain at his neck, the small portraits of his mother and brother. (I cannot lose you too, I cannot–come back hale and whole, come back angry and proud and cunning and defiant of our father–)
Faramir has never known the weight of all Gondor on his shoulders, and so is not tempted by the power the Ring offers.
Boromir has always known the love of his father, and so never bears the scorn of Denethor when Osgiliath must be abandoned as too tenuous a position to hold.
The day that Faramir comes striding into the Citadel, a child and wizard at his heels, Boromir cries out with joy as he has not for more years than counting, and they nearly bruise one another with their embrace.
“You are almost skeletal, little brother,” Boromir laughs, though it is not true–Faramir looks touched with strangeness and greatness, as one whom the Witch-Queen of Lorien found favor in, whose nobility of form and face had ensnared the heart of the White Princess of Rohan.
“And you look at least two-stone heavier, elder brother,” Faramir says, though it is false, Boromir is hollowed out and worn thin, deep shadows beneath his eyes and hunger-starved cheeks; in a glance, Faramir knows he neither eats nor sleeps nor laughs, nor feels–and Faramir, wiser and older than when he left, can see the weight his brother has always carried, and how lightly–all the stone of Minas Tirith on his shoulders, and still–
When anyone asks who the romantic in the relationship is, Draco always sneers and easily responds, “Potter. He’s a great sap.” Harry never objects, just smiles slowly and continues on with whatever it is he’s doing. He ought to protest, but this is a secret he keeps to himself.
One day Harry comes home from work and all the pictures he’s been meaning to frame are placed along the mantle of the fire place and along the halls. A few even make a guest appearance in the bedroom. Draco doesn’t say anything and he pretends that he hasn’t done anything at all. Harry smiles and kisses him and says thank you. Draco looks gratified but he never says, ‘You’re welcome’.
When gold and red flowers mysteriously appear around the flat, he gives Draco a quizzical look. Draco sniffs and goes back to his book as though nothing strange has occurred. When Harry touches the petals of one of the delicate things, Draco simply says, “Your flat is boring. And ugly.” They leave it at that but Harry grins.
After Harry spends the entire day up to his knees in a foul smelling bog, he tells Ron he can’t wait to go home, have a shot of whisky and pass out for the entire weekend. Instead he comes home to two wine glasses and a bottle uncorked, and he decides the wine is much better than the whisky, and the company much better than sleep. When he asks, Draco tells him how he’s been meaning to try this vintage for months. He only brought it out because he was thirsty.
Harry has always suspected that his boyfriend is a closet romantic, but it’s confirmed when he falls into a bed full of rose petals. Draco definitely blushes but puts on an air of indifference, as though he didn’t deliberately spread the petals himself.
“I thought it would make the room smell better. I know laundering is a foreign concept to you, but your Quidditch clothes are foul,” he says as he shuts the door and Harry kisses him.
Neither of them notice the smell of the petals at all.
At Christmas they put up decorations together and Draco teases Harry mercilessly for his popcorn garland. He’s drunk on spiked eggnog and keeps stealing Harry’s popcorn before he has a chance to thread it. When he pulls Harry underneath the mistletoe that he’s secretly hung, his face is flushed and he’s smiling like Harry hasn’t ever seen him done before. After they pull away from each other for a breath, Draco says ‘I love you’ in a great rush, as though if he doesn’t say the words fast enough he’ll lose them.
Of course Harry kisses him again, before he can ruin the moment.
So when people ask who the romantic is, Harry just smiles slowly and keeps quiet. He let’s Draco believe whatever he wants, because he’s a bit afraid if he points it out that Draco will get embarrassed and stop. It’s his own secret that his boyfriend is the biggest romantic he’s ever met, and he likes it that way. So yeah, maybe Harry is a great sap.
Lena fills Kara’s office with flowers again the next time Kara saves her (it’s becoming a habit, honestly, in one way or another).
Kara, in an effort to establish that “that’s what friends are for!” and that Lena doesn’t have to do anything special for her, fills Lena’s office with flowers in return.
Lena refuses to accept this, and fills Kara’s office with more flowers.
A gesture that Kara then matches.
Lena, who is too grateful (competitive) to let Kara win this, but who also realizes that Kara is not actually rich, begins sending single flowers instead.
But, of course, these are not just ordinary roses or lilies. Unlike the “pretty rare” flowers she’d sent the first time -the plumerias Kara had said were beautiful- and the pretty but ordinary flowers she’d sent following that, Lena sends a single, exceedingly rare flower to Kara’s apartment.
To Lena’s surprise, Kara sends a different but also very rare flower to Lena’s apartment with the note “You may be rich, but I have connections. ;)” attached.
(Jess, who is wary of Lena’s connection to this reporter but is also very allergic to most flowers is just thankful that they aren’t coming to the office any more…)
They play this game for a while, trying to one-up each other in rarity.
Eventually, after growing tired of strange and expensive flowers, Lena opts for a simple sunflower with the note,
“Not rare, but it’s color reminded me of you. Like the sunflower, you are familiar and just a touch strange, all at once. But it also reminded me of myself. Because I, too, follow the sun and am made taller in it’s light.”
Lena leaves the fact that Kara is the sun in this metaphor unsaid.
The next week, when Kara would typically have a flower waiting on Lena’s doorstep, there isn’t one. Lena goes through a range of emotions, from fearing that she was too forward with her affection for Kara to wondering if Kara is alright. But when she opens the door to her apartment, she sees it, sitting on the living room table.
Lena walks over to the white, shining flower with it’s few, simple, curved petals and it’s red stem, and picks up Kara’s note.
“It’s not from this planet (if you couldn’t tell) and I’m not sure how to write the name but it means ‘The Shining Dark’. It grows in the freezing blackness of the planet Klumithea. Most of these flowers don’t glow due to the harsh conditions of the planet. All of them are survivors for enduring, but this one… this one is special.
It reminded me of you.
I hope you like it, because it will probably stay alive longer than we will.”
The next time Kara is expecting a flower on her doorstep, she finds Lena there instead, empty handed.
“Lena! No flower today?”
“No. Your last one was hard to beat.”
“I’m glad you liked it. It’s actually really interesting, though, how it grows. The-”
“-I have something else, though. Something you might actually like more?”
“Oh. Well. I’ve been trying to tell you, Lena, that’s not necessary. That’s what friends are f-”
But Lena kisses her.
She kisses her deeply and quickly, enough to electrify both of their consciousnesses, but then pulls apart from Kara just as quickly.
Kara’s face is flushed.
“Lena, that’s-” she stops herself, suddenly. Licks her lips.
Kara kisses her back, just as deeply. In seconds, they’re both out of breath.
When Kara pulls back, eyes locked with Lena’s and mind fried from electrocution, she continues her thought,
“That’s… not what friends are for.”
Lena laughs, “No. It’sreallynot.”
“Well,” Kara starts, letting go of her. She slumps against the wall and tilts her head at to look at Lena, whose heart is still racing.
Mediterranean Baby The Baby Pregnancy The Baby Barbarian Blackmailed Baby The Greek Baby Boss Becoming the Baby Count The Baby Doctor Seduction Mistress Man’s Baby Secret Secret Baby The Surgeon’s Baby Surgeon Pregnant for the Rage Double Baby A Irresistible Good Baby
His Pregnant Prince The Sheikh’s Marriage Sheriff Purter the Playboy The Prince’s Virgin’s Virgin Storm Jake The Consultant Count Virgin Viking The Prince’s Round Brothers Prince Dad Sheikh? Butterfly Earl Sin Secret Ray Count Sergei’s Proposal The English Millionaire Investigator The Sheikh’s Convenient Desires
Mistress Wife Husband Bride Marriage Valley Her Marriage Marriage The Husband Man Missingbroom Bride The Man’s Marriage Touch The Billionaire’s Marriage Valley The Savage Bride Consultant Bride
The Strange Consultant Surgeon The Doctor’s Children’s Proposal The Man for Dr. Husband Dear Dr. High-Kungly Seductive Mistake My, Hot Doctor Surgery Seduction
Winning for Christmas Christmas of the Year Christmas Pregnant Paradise Christmas with her Blackmail Desert Santa The Santa Wife Impossible Santa Wife The Boss’s Secret Conspiration to Christmas Wish Mission: Christmas to Knith
Forbidden Texas, Texan Midwife Cowpoke Pregnant Cow Cattle Lover Under the Cowboy In the Mountain for the Tender Seduction
The Sexy Affair Dangerously! Seduction Private Part Inheritance Sex The Sex Lovers Naked Hot Ranger The Virgin Date of Sexy Sex Revenge
(click the link to see the depressing titles and the… borked ones!)