along with the weight of his thoughts

It happened

Edward and Jonathan spend Christmas Eve together. 

Holiday fluff – because it is the time for Giving.

~

It takes a while for either of them to acknowledge that things have transitioned from a place where it’s okay for them to be doing nothing to a place where it’s weird for them to be doing nothing.  Jonathan is the first to eventually come around to the realization; once the credits on the television have been rolling for a few seconds he stirs, unfolding his limbs from where they lay pressed along Edward’s.  

“Ugh…” Jon sighs groggily, removing Edward’s arm from around his middle like he would the protective bar on a ride at the local fair.  "Okay.“

Keep reading

I could sit in this chair beside him forever and just watch how his hand moves as he writes. I could watch the veins beating beneath his skin, signalling life with every movement. I could watch how his eyelashes flutter as he stares at his page, I could watch how his forehead creases in concentration, how his mouth parts slightly in thought.I could tell you he shifts his weight to the left when he’s writing, I could tell you he shakes his leg when he’s nervous.
And yet I could never tell him all the things I notice. I could never look back into his brown eyes and tell him I’ve noticed and counted each freckle on his face just because I wanted to. I could never tell him I’ve spent exactly 284 days watching how he moves and in those 284 days somewhere along the line I fell in love. I could never tell him"

“So, it was you all along.” Michael glimpsed the bloodied edge of the diamond sword. He drew a ragged breath. It hurt. Everything hurt. He felt the hand on his shoulder tighten.“I’m sorry, Michael.” Gavin whispered. His reply was nearly lost in the cracking of burning wood. Bits of the castle collapsed around them.

The Righteous King laughed weakly, “I never would’ve thought it was you. Fucking Gavin Free. Sent to kill the King.” He couldn’t hold his own weight any more, leaning back against the man he had trusted with his life. More of the blade slid through his body. Oddly he felt no betrayal. He could feel Gavin trying to stifle his sobs, every movement he made sent another wave of pain through Micheal’s body. “I’m so sorry.”

“If it’s you Gav, it’s okay.”

“Michael I-”

“Goodbye, Gavin.”

“Bye Micheal.”

I honestly don’t know where this came from. I just had an urge to draw someone being stabbed. Nothing like a bit of Mavin King!AU to help with that. So yeah. Enjoy! Or not, idc.

little dancing feet

follows this, because writing papae Solas has become my way of coping with stress, apparently

***

He walks the mountain slopes – the safe routes where the stones won’t slip, and his steps are sure and his focus steady as he picks his way along familiar footpaths. The sling bears her little weight with ease, and he’s grown used to the feel of it, and of her, tucked safely against his chest and beneath his coat, to ward off the cold.

He walks in silence, enthralled by her gentle, humming noises, but even as he stores them away for safekeeping he catches himself thinking years down the line, and to a set of small feet following, and a small voice keeping up a steady stream of chatter to fill the space between his breaths – a dearly precious thought, for one who has so long been resigned to a path much darker, and much, much lonelier.

But for now he allows himself to enjoy the quiet – her quiet, and her lovely, wordless sounds – for that, too, is a fact dear and precious in its own right.

***

“This is a very small sock,” Dorian observes, holding up the aforementioned object with a strangely delighted grin.

Sprawled on the blanket before her, Sage kicks her legs, and Ellana blows a stray lock of hair from her face, expression contorting with annoyance. With only one hand, changing her daughter is something of a struggle, but it’s practice she sorely needs, lest she saddle the nursemaid with all the work.

Not to mention, it’s a matter of pride – just because she’s lost an arm doesn’t make her useless. Or at least, it shouldn’t.

“I could do that, you know.”

Glancing up, she doesn’t bother hiding her surprise. “Weren’t you just complaining about the smell? It doesn’t get any better when you’re elbow-deep in it, and I’ve seen you deal with filth before. You can’t magic this away.”

“You wound me.”

She swats him lightly with one of the clean linen diapers. “Hardly. If I were really trying, I’d smack you with a dirty one.” But she moves out of the way when he kneels down beside her, and observes with growing amusement as he pokes one of Sage’s feet, watching her tiny toes curl with interest.

They sit there for a while in silence, Ellana watching Dorian fiddle with the strip of linen, turning it over in his hands with an expression that bravely attempts at conveying scholarly intrigue, but doesn’t succeed in hiding the fact that he has no idea where to begin.

Then, clearing his throat, “You know, this doesn’t strike me as a naturally intuitive skill–”

“I’ll instruct you.”

***

It’s the most half-hearted game of chess they’ve ever played.

“Arishok to–”

Sage makes a noise – a soft coo that rises from where she lies in the curve of a massive arm, and Iron Bull’s grin stretches with a laugh. “What, you don’t think it’s the right move? Forgive me if I don’t trust you – since I’m playing your old man, your opinion’s clearly biased.”

Another string of syllables follow – a seamless, meaningless babble, but Iron Bull nods along intently. Solas observes his shifting expressions, the eye-patch quirking with his widening grin, and it’s with exceptional care that he makes to shift in his seat, careful not to disturb the blanketed bundle in the crook of his arm.

And it’s something of a sight, Solas decides, watching someone of Iron Bull’s stature gently rocking a babe small enough to fit in the dip of his palm.

A long moment follows in which neither of them say a word, busy watching the small bundle, and the wide eyes trained on the sharp horns far above her head, obscuring her view of the sky. And it’s a good few minutes before Iron Bull speaks up, although without lifting his eyes to Solas–

“Wait – whose turn is it?”

***

“Purrs, hisses. Fur, soft to the touch. Touch it. I want to touch it.”

“Kit,” Sage chirps, ever-shifting thoughts echoed with far more simplicity, and pointing to the little shape slinking past the corner of the tavern.

“Yes.”

There’s a pause - a pause he feels, along with the childlike need that kindles, small flames that simmer with excitement. It’s a joy unlike anyone else’s joy, this wild, childish thing. More similar to a spirit’s delighted glee, and he has always been good with spirits.

Then, “Catch?” she asks, tilting her head up to look at him. The hat casts her face in shadow, and shields it from the glare of the sun, but despite his small cares, there’s a pale dusting of freckles growing ever darker across the bridge of her nose.

A smile meets her inquisitive gaze, curving under the wide-brimmed hat. “Okay.”

***

At her first banquet she’s toddling with ease, if a bit too much enthusiasm at times as she physically launches herself across the room, the bell-shaped skirt of her dress a pale cloud of green and her curls bouncing about her face, and her shrieking laughter ringing loudly above the ballroom chatter.

She commandeers him for a dance, of course – no one is surprised, least of all Solas, and somewhere in his peripheral he catches the band changing their tune to one that’s not so quick; accommodating for the little legs desperately trying to keep up with the dancing couples around them.

She’s balancing on his feet, little arms raised high and her lip sucked between her teeth in concentration, and it’s difficult keeping a straight face, watching her very serious expression as he makes to twirl in a slow circle, steps steady and deliberate and her hands tucked against his palms. He feels the eyes of the ballroom on his back, and hears the murmurs below the music, but the brief glance he offers across the room is to Ellana, leaning against a pillar with a private smile and laughter in her eyes.

By the third song, Sage is half-asleep, the excitement of the day no doubt playing some part in the heavily drooping eyelids and the earnest yawns, but – “No,” comes the prompt answer when he attempts to lift her up, even though she’s barely standing. But she acquiesces when he promises he’ll keep dancing, although she’s fast asleep long before the band stops playing, arms gone slack about his neck, and sprawled against his shoulder with all her small, honest weight. But he stays where he is, swaying gently to a song from deep in his memory, and feeling her steady breaths under the press of his palm against her back.

He senses Ellana approaching, her steps quiet across the polished floors, shoes long discarded and the skirts of her dress caught between her fingers. “Everyone else has stopped dancing,” she observes, pausing to tuck a stray curl behind a jutting ear. “And there’s no band playing.”

“She would not have let that stop her, I think,” Solas chuckles softly. Then, tilting his head, “Nor would you.”

Her smile widens, and she moves to wrap her lone arm around his midsection, tucking the sleeping shape between them. But Sage doesn’t stir as they sway together in their silent dance, the ballroom empty save the servants clearing away the tables; the only music the clink of trays and glasses, cutlery and plates.

And the softly fluttering heartbeat, caged so gently between their own.

A Thought:

What if the Oversight Sub-Committee was never investigating the Director at all?

What if Hargrove used the weight of his title and the resources he had as Charon Industries CEO to make the Director think the UNSC was coming after him, when in reality it was the Chairman’s tech-gathering crew all along?

Hargrove wasn’t interested in bringing the Director to justice.

Hargrove was interested in scaring the Director into hiding, so that he could gather up what the Director dropped on the mad dash out the door.

Alright listen up because I had this thought and it won’t go away until I tell someone else and since im alone in my dorm y’all get to hear it

so lets talk about Hanzo, his chicken legs and lady ankles

So I remember how the Overwatch devs spoke about how Hanzo had “delicate ankles” after people mistakenly thought his boots/whatever were prosthetic replacements for his actual legs below the knee. I’m saying what if they kind of are, but it’s just not his whole lower leg?

I personally have weak ankles and a very high arch on my foot (its along the medial longitudinal arch which is the one on the inside of your foot, going from your big toe down) so I have a really tiny area on the outside of my foot trying to support all my weight, on top of crappy ankles that all in all want to make my feet turn inwards when they should be resting on the outside part.

this, essentially, is what the foot usually looks like when you show the sole. So you need a orthotic meant to support the inner part of the foot.

So how does this relate to Hanzo? I’m suggesting that Hanzo has a high arch on his foot, possibly also weak ankles, and has some kind of high tech future super support orthotics.

What’s important to remember is how often, fast and quietly Hanzo runs. My turned in and weak ankles often roll and twist when I try to run even a bit. Having the support on the bottom of my feet helps, but I would need a lot of ankle support too to be able to run normally.

Looking at his shoes/boots you can see that they offer support mostly on the toes, heel–and most importantly, arch and ankle. Plus there’s all that extra stuff in between the metal on his knees and feet, which could also be supportive in some high tech way. 

In total, these new age orthotics could be helping correct his posture, the way his feet and ankles sit and enhancing his ability to run all at the same time. 

Plus its fun to imagine tiny Hanzo picking up archery because it involves less running and he works on the movement part later when he gets help for his fucked up feet.

So I encourage you all to please support Hanzo Shimada and his delicate ankles.

Devastator

In pop culture, the name “Devastator” carries certain weight—literally.  Devastator was the first super-robot (gestalt to you fans out there) in the Transformers line, formed when the Constructicons combined.  Other giant robots would come along (I always thought Bruticus and Predaking were terrifying) and neither the individual Constructicons nor Devastator were the brightest tools in the shed…so you’d think familiarity would breed contempt.  But Devastator’s place in our mental mythology was secured by his appearance in The Transformers Movie, when the hushed voice of the otherwise jaded, I’ve-seen-it-all Kup whispers a horrified “Devastator” as the giant bot takes shape.  This was soon followed up by a shot that puts the audience in the Autobot defenders’ POV as Devastator rips open their defenses while Megatron calls for slaughter. From then on, Devastator’s iconic status was assured.

So if you’re going to use the name “devastator” in your game, you better deliver.  Pathfinder’s devastator does, with a CR 22/MR 8 Gargantuan war machine powered by the soul of a corrupted and imprisoned angel being tormented for all eternity. It’s got immunities and damage/spell resistance galore, its attacks are +5 unholy anarchic weapons that deal every kind of damage, it has nasty spell-like abilities like implosion and an at-will blade barrier, its aura boosts demonic allies, and the thing even absorbs good magic to gain temporary hit points.  

It. Is. A. Nightmare.

In fact, it’s so grim and grisly it feels like something more out of the Warhammer or even the Warhammer 40K universes rather than Pathfinder.  Even the Bestiary 5 art seems like Warhammer art—no surprise, since Helge C. Balzer also does work for Games Workshop.  And that’s perfectly appropriate for a construct this mythic and monstrous. When you want to shrink the hope of Good and Man down to a single flickering candle flame…and then introduce a hurricane to snuff that flame out…the devastator is the way to go.

One final note: Remember what I said about every cannon golem having a name? That goes triple for devastators.  (In fact, the full entry in Pathfinder Adventure Path #78: City of Locusts outlines the three named devastators known to patrol Golarion’s Worldwound.)

Obviously, devastators are meant to lead demonic invasions.  Since I assume you can handle that, here are three more unusual scenarios involving devastators:

When the army of demons and oni burst out of the Shadow Realm, their first target was Rotaru, the jinushigami whose forest lined the slopes of the Sleeping Mountain.  After three days and nights of fighting, the outsiders fed the exhausted elder kami into the eternal burning furnace of a devastator prepared especially for his tree-trunk frame.  Now not only do the demons have a new weapon of war for the second phase of their invasion, but as long as the mountain spirit is imprisoned the Sleeping Mountain will smoke, blotting out the rays of the sun so the dark spirits can frolic.

There was a time when demons were common in space, their ships knifing through the blackness like horrible flaming sharks.  Driven back and sealed within the Pain Nebula, demons are no longer a threat, but their many war machine creations are.  Demon moons not tied to any one planet or star float from system to system, their surfaces pockmarked with scars and furnaces.  Some of these carry undead, shadows, oozes, degenerate races like morlocks, and especially constructs.  Nearly every demon moon is patrolled by at least one devastator, and true demon worlds may have dozens.

Taniyar was an angel rescued from the metal gizzard of a devastator after a century of torment.  She spent twice that long recovering in a celestial hospice as her body and mind were restored.  Only the healing of her mind didn’t take.  Now she longs to return to the only home that makes sense to her, the excruciating cage at the heart of a devastator.  Adventurers investigating either an incident of vandalism and theft at a heavenly library or the disappearance of Taniyar herself will eventually track her to the Junk Plane, where she has just used the stolen plans to finish constructing a new devastator.  The construct will be her agonizing home for the next millennium as she smashes world after world.

Pathfinder Adventure Path #78 90–91 & Pathfinder Bestiary 5 77

I had Devastator as a kid, but early on I broke the hard-to-transform Hook so I almost never got to play with him fully constructed.

2

Littlefoot’s training is coming along great! Now that he’s easily hooding, I’m starting to take him outside for flight training. Today was his first real creance training and he took to it like a champ! No fear about being in a new environment and was flying to the glove before I could even get 30 feet away! He did way better than I expected and is working at a higher weight that I thought he would too. 

These are the longest flights I’ve seen him do so far. He flies in a very fast, darty manner and is almost twitchy in the way he moves. Can’t wait to see what his flights after game look like!

You know how Mark’ll just get really appreciative of things?

I wrote a lil’ fluffy MarkXReader blurb thing and Idk what to do with it so here :P

(never shared anything I’ve written before so this’ll be fun :D [i tried real gud] )

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shore n : land along the edge of water

`

“He told me that there were big plans for that little fish.” The fallen angel’s voice carried along with the crashing of waves as the sun mellowed from its perch at the line where water met sky. “I never thought that a small little grey fish could be part of such a grand plan.”

Dean didn’t really understand the weight of this recollection but he nodded with a stern face. What he did understand was the feel of sand tickling his toes and the weight of the hand in his. Even with the salty breeze attacking his senses, he was still grounded to the man who had brought him to this place.

“I remember finding you in hell. Your soul was damaged, charred almost beyond recognition. I watched you long enough to see you torturing others. And even as I watched as you ripped souls, God’s greatest creations, to pieces… I remember what my brother had said. Don’t step on that fish. Big plans for that little fish.” Castiel turned his eyes from the bubbling ends of waves to meet the pure green that shadowed the soul inside Dean Winchester. “So I pulled you out, as I was commanded to do. Not a day goes by that I ever think about what life would be like if I hadn’t.”

“Cas-“

“The shore always brings me solace. It was the start to everything.” With a small smile Castiel turned his shoulders to face Dean and knelt until one of his knees was pressing into damp sand. Looking up into shocked eyes, Cas sighed. “Dean Winchester, will you do me the honor of being my husband?”

Dean blinked once, twice, even thrice to make sure he wasn’t imagining what was happening. And when he searched his heart for doubt, he found none. All he could do was return the fallen angel’s smile and nod, too afraid his voice would fail him.

Just as the sun melted below the sea, Castiel slipped a ring upon Dean’s finger and kissed his salt-laced lips.

Protest Too Much (51): Devotion

Izaya’s mouth tastes better than Shizuo thought it would.

He’s put some thought into the matter. He’s imagined the bite of coffee, the haze of smoke, the coppery tang of blood and the sweet-bitter of that everpresent licorice tang that clings to Izaya’s skin like a marker for his presence. He’s dreamed of it too many nights to count, has framed Izaya’s lips to vanilla and chocolate and the dark, heavy tang of coffee and iron at the back of the tongue until he thought nothing could surprise him, until he was sure the weight of Izaya’s mouth at his would feel more like coming home than a foreign experience. But Izaya tastes better, like everything Shizuo imagined but more, richer, warmer, like there’s a fire under his skin in place of blood and electricity skirting along the palms of his hands instead of the more ordinary texture of skin. Shizuo doesn’t know how they ended up toppled over the couch with the arch of Izaya’s back caught under his hold at the other’s hip and Izaya’s hands winding to fists in his hair, has no sense of how much time has passed since his perception of the world outside faded and narrowed down to just the span of Izaya’s breathing coming hard and hot at his lips, and he can’t be persuaded that it matters, not when all his thoughts are running dizzy with heat and relief and the endless, overwhelming satisfaction of finally, finally being as close to Izaya as he has always wanted to be. Izaya is no steadier; he keeps moving, dragging away to gasp a lungful of air and then pulling Shizuo in against him again, as close as they can get, as if he thinks Shizuo is likely to come to his senses and drag free of the hold he has on the other’s hair if he once lets it go free. Shizuo can’t imagine what Izaya thinks he’s likely to object to; even when the other’s teeth catch at his lip and dig in hard enough to draw the ache of a bruise to the surface his heat-drunk body just shudders with helpless force, his throat opening up onto a groan that spills hot over Izaya’s lips as if to chase away the chill of the winter snow outside.

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Spark Up → Fabian & Sirius

Exhausted was quite the accurate word to describe Sirius. As he settled into the couch in the common room, his limbs practically sighing with him, he couldn’t help but think that he needed a drink. The funeral for James’ grandmother the day before hadn’t exactly been the highlight of his week. It devastated him to see James so torn up, especially knowing that there was nothing he could do. Along with that, Sirius had quit using the stolen batch of dreamless sleep potion, which meant every night was either full of tossing and turning or punctuated with nightmares.

The more he thought about it, the more he wanted that drink, but before he could rise to his dorm he felt a weight settle onto the couch beside him. His first thought, and hope, was for it to be Marlene. The red hair told him otherwise. “Hey, tosser,” Sirius greeted Fabian lazily.

a

entire afternoons
are laid to waste
before cyclical thoughts,
as I smoke myself senseless,
praying
for a change of pace.

days have been dismal
as of late,
they’ve stopped asking
why he just got up
and left.

no note,
no swan song airing
of pent up grievances
to haunt us
until the end of our days,
nothing.

we have past the point
of hollow rumors,
speaking only
as grave-faced realists.

although our encounters
were peripheral,
i find myself searching
for his ghost
along empty waterfronts,
and forgotten parks,
hoping to catch a glimpse
of that boy
turned apparition
by the weight
of an unseen world.

Work Out... For Me

Request:

Could you please do an imagine where Roman and his girlfriend are working out and he is totally checking her out the entire time?? Maybe a little smut (:


“No. Hell no.”

“What?”

“The outfit. That is not gym appropriate. At all.”

I look down at my midi compression shorts and sports bra. The sports bra is really more of bralette length. I personally thought I looked decent.

“What part of compression shorts and sports bra doesn’t scream appropriate?”

Joe quickly pulls me to the side by the weights. His thick brows almost join as one. “All of this,” he uses his finger to slide from the hem of the bra, down to the waistband of my shorts, “is only mine to look at. And these are way too short.” His free hand quickly skirts along the tops of my thighs, sending sweet waves of want a little north of where his fingers roam.

I smile at his territorial rant. Him wanting me all to himself, twenty-four seven is the biggest turn on yet. “Surely you didn’t think I was going to wear a sweater and sweat pants.”

“Actually, yes.”

I thread my fingers between his, and lift his heavy hands closer to my face. I kiss each knuckle softly wanting to ease his tension. “This is a private gym. There are a total of maybe twenty people here. It’s no big deal.”

“All of this precious skin showing is a big deal.” His hands glide down over my shoulders and stop at my thighs. “It’s mostly guys in here, baby. How about you slide my shirt on?”

My fingers automatically curl against his yummy abs. “No. Hell no.” I shake my head. “There are also women here. You shirtless is not appropriate gym attire.”

“Ooh. Touchy, touchy, aren’t we now?” His tone is playful, but it doesn’t hide his scold on me.

“Hmm.” Double standards. Completely lame of me. “I see your point. I still don’t want you shirtless.” I wrap my arms around his wide torso and squeeze him a little.

“I’ll grab one of the gym shirts. You can take my shirt.”

Joe’s fingers find their way to my hair, pulling my face up to his. His perfectly pink lips press against mine and I am reeling. Jesus, I love him. As quick as his lips came to mine, they’re gone. I groan inwardly, but comply with the exchange of shirts because we’re here to workout. Not to make out.

I hop onto a treadmill, adjust the incline and get to speed walking. Most people listen to music at the gym. But no song could ever compare to watching Joe workout. I watch him work with the weights, testing and pushing his own limits, his tattoo sleeve glistening with sweat… He watches me, ogle over him. And so a pattern develops. I move to the stair master and he moves to the treadmill right across from me. The thick veins wrapped around his arms are just begging me to reach out and grab him. The intensity in his stare does bad, bad things to my libido. I move to the weights, and of course, Joe moves to one of the back machines in my line of vision. A delightful and antagonizing view.

After a few more switches, and a lot more eye fucking, we meet in the hallway to the locker rooms to stretch.

“Did you enjoy the show?” Joe asks, his voice thick and I know it’s because he’s ready to go… the bulge in his basketball shorts is unmistakable.

“I definitely did.” I peel the lime green shirt off of my body and throw it over my shoulder. “Did you?”

He lets out a deep breath. “Delayed gratification really isn’t my thing. You should know that by now.”

Boy, do I. Patience isn’t my strong suit either. I move over to him and twirl the strings of his shorts. I make sure my fingers graze his pelvis just enough to tease him. “Then how about… we skip the shower and head straight home.”

One eyebrow shoots up. Clearly we’re both feeling frisky. “You getting impatient, baby?”

The tips of my finger cling to the waistband of his shorts and I tug him to me. He stumbles forward and my back hits the cool wall. “Very.”

“You’re giving me your hungry eyes, baby.” Joe licks my lower lip quickly, and then bites down roughly. The small sting of pain shoots straight between my hips. “I’ve got a better idea.”

He quickly leans down, grabbing the back of my thighs and wrapping them around his hips. I wrap my arms around his neck as he makes a run for it.

“What are you doing?” I squeal, bouncing against his body. And god, does it feel good.

We zip down the long hallway, past men’s locker room and into the women’s locker room.

“Joe!” I half whisper. I don’t want anyone that may be in here to catch him. “You can’t be in here. You’re going to get us both in trouble.”

In his thick voice, laced with arousal, he whispers into my neck, “I won’t tell if you won’t.”

I throw my head back as his grip on my behind tightens. Fuck it. “I won’t tell.”

He continues his assault on my neck, my collarbones, my jaw and finally devouring my lips with his. It isn’t until I feel the water rain over my face that I realize he walked into one of the small shower stalls. If anyone comes in, he’d definitely be spotted over the barrier. A man over six feet is kind of hard to miss, but thankfully he chose a corner shower at the back so if anyone spots us, they have to want to see us.

“You have to be quiet, baby. Okay?” He wraps my legs around him tighter before letting my back rest against the tiled wall. He tugs my sports bra off and it lands on the floor with a splash.

“I can’t make any promises.” I’m not shy about my pleasure where he’s concerned.

“I love when you wear my clothes. You smell just like me.”

I lift his shirt over his head and let it fall. Joe sets my feet on the ground, and the squish of my sneakers in the water makes me realize our little mistake. He moves quickly to take every item of clothing off me, like a child on Christmas morning. If he doesn’t care about our clothes and sneakers, neither do I. My fingers fumble, but quickly work their magic to get his glorious body naked. And before I can grasp it, Joe picks me up and wraps me around him.

His erection presses and slides against the tiny nub between my legs and I groan a little louder than I should. Joe muffles my groan with his mouth. I hungrily bite at his lips, kissing him hard, having no mercy on him as he moans into my mouth. His hips leave mine for a split second, and then he slowly slides himself into me. I cry out a long, broken, high-pitched sob. At this moment if someone were to walk in, I really wouldn’t care.

she carved a space within his ribs,
left her name scrawled along
hollow collarbones, traced the
constellations on his back and
admired the way his shoulders
bore the weight of the world.

he tattooed his name on
her beating heart, the monster
that lived in his chest roared
to life beneath her delicate fingers
and he wished for the stars so
she could have a piece of the cosmos
to remember him by.

because, as he knew, good things
couldn’t last that long.

—  fate is a funny thing, k.t.

littlest-archangels

The thing about being pregnant that Sam was not warned about was the aches and pains that came with gaining so much weight in such a short period of time. Especially since Dean and Gabriel and Castiel were not willing to let him continue hunting. They even insisted on getting him to stop researching for a while. Apparently the stress of researching might be a bad thing for the baby.

Not that Sam was complaining much. At seven months along, he was happily comfortable on the couch watching some TV while he dipped some sausages into a container of chocolate ice cream. (And he thought at one point that the food Dean ate was disgusting… Stupid pregnancy cravings). And frankly, he was enjoying his vacation.

amaratuitor:

It was just a branch.

Just a stupid branch— Or had it been a root? It probably didn’t matter in the end. The only thing mattering was that it had been in the way when Black approached him for whatever reason, evoking the usually so stoic alternate to trip rather ungracefully over his own feet and right towards him. No surprise that it knocked him over as well when the assassin bumped into him, forcing Touya to land rather harshly on his behind, yet the additional weight resting on him kept the boy from letting out a noise of surprise and pain.

Geez, who would have thought that Black would be so heavy. ..either that, or he was just weaker than he expected himself to be. Not a pleasant thought, but it seemed rather obvious right now, considering that he found himself unable to shove the other off again. Too close, Blackie was way too close. Clothes brushed together, warm breath scathed along his neck; everything was sufficient enough to have his cheeks flare up in a surge of embarrassment as he curled fingers into grassy soil. “Uh—” What should he say? What was he even supposed to say without making this even more awkward right now. It was already humiliating enough that they had ended up in such an embarrassingly close position with legs entangled and jackets touching.

“Uh… Are— are you okay?” he finally muttered under his breath, all the while placing his free hand on Black’s shoulder to tentatively push him off him. That… really was an uncomfortable position, yes. “Did you hurt yourself?”

He wasn’t quite sure how he actually managed to lose the stupid thing - whatever it had been - on the ground. Well, maybe he was, but it didn’t mean that he was willing to actually admit that he had been distracted. Something like this would have been dangerous in any other situation, and he wasn’t proud of this mistake. Of course, it was only made more embarrassing by the fact that not only did he drop his guard in his distraction, but he tripped and fell. Right over Touya.

In his surge of embarrassment and regret, the assassin stayed where he fell, letting out a groan of pain. His legs were tangled with Touya’s, his body pressed against his, and somehow he had just barely avoided hitting his nose on the knight’s shoulder, sparing them both that extra bit of pain.

Touya’s voice snapped him out of it, though, and after a moment, he pushed himself up enough to look at his alternate’s face, despite the sensation that his cheeks were red with his shame. At least, the knight wasn’t focusing on how ridiculous he must have looked falling like that, but at the same time, it was a little odd to be questioned about his well being.

“I’m fine, I guess. It hurts, but I don’t think I got hurt.” At least, he didn’t think he had re-opened any wound, and well, bruises were hardly something he cared about. But, that was because Touya had broken his fall, wasn’t it? He should worry about him, too. “… Are you okay?”