#warm awakening

[magic-belodie]

The outfits in the color I choose and this how Belodie and Susan look after the Christmas event.

[tropicalcryptid]

I missed Chrobin week sorry guys have a "winter" prompt anyway!

This was fun and hard and stupid I shouldn't have decided I was going to force myself to learn shading in a dang FIRELIT SCENE why do I torture myself

I love Chrobin very much, even though I can now confirm that yes Chrom's outfit is an absolute nightmare to draw. Why does Frederick let you out of the palace dressed like that? Why do you have so many random cuffs, onesie-boy? Also I stole some design elements from Legendary Chrom's outfit in FEH--I absolutely love the fur cloak and it seemed appropriately wintery for this scene.

Also also my endless war to force as much texture as possible into my photoshop work continues. I know I can get more crunchiness out of this program! Just absolutely trying to figuratively mash/smear a dry paintbrush into the crevices of my digital artwork. Blah.

[thetarttfuldickhead]

A week or two after the Dubai Air protest Sam happens upon Jamie lounging listlessly on a bench in the otherwise deserted gym. He’s not doing any exercise, just sitting there and staring out into nothingness with a curiously vacant look on his face.

Sam hesitates, hovering in the doorway. He’s come for a little bit of extra weights before heading home, and he hadn’t expected anyone to be here this late, least of all Jamie. It’s been a long day and Sam’s not sure if he’s up for dealing with the (possibly) reformed bully right now. Even if they are edging towards friendly, and even if that’s no small thing given what’s come between them before, there’s still an undercurrent of charged uncertainty to their interactions, a stilted hesitancy to their cautious politeness and careful attempts at casual camaraderie.

Jamie hasn’t explicitly told Sam that he’s sorry for the things he’s put him through. Sam has decided that he will not let his decision to give Jamie another chance be contingent upon this. It’s very tiring, being angry and resentful of the other’s presence: so much easier to accept the taped up logo for the peace offering it was, and let that be Jamie’s apology.

(If it rankles, it only rankles a little.)

Reminding himself of his decision to let bygones be bygones, and that they won’t ever get anywhere if they don’t actually learn to talk, Sam steps into the gym. Asks as he would any other glum-looking team mate he’d unexpectedly happened upon, “Are you all right, Jamie?”

Holds himself ready, holds himself steady, if Jamie should bare his teeth and bite, now that there’s no one around to see it.

But Jamie only starts a little, like he hadn’t noticed Sam or he’s surprised to be voluntarily addressed. “Uh, yeah. Yeah, I’m good, man. Great, you know. It’s just… I’m a bit tired, I guess.“ He pauses, then his face suddenly collapses and he gives Sam the most plaintive of looks. “It’s just so fucking exhausting being nice all the time. I don’t know how you do it, mate.”

Ah. Sam tactfully doesn’t say that it’s usually no effort for him and that he doesn’t really understand how it could possible come that hard for anyone.

He also doesn’t point out that not actively being mean to people isn’t quite the same as being nice.

Because Jamie is trying, isn’t he, even if it’s painfully evident that he still needs to try, that it doesn’t come quite naturally.  

“Bit like when Spike had that chip in his head and had no choice but to team up with the good guys, isn’t it?” Colin had muttered a few days after their wayward striker had re-joined them, and yes, Sam had had to agree: it is a bit like that.

But there’s no chip in Jamie’s head (Sam is pretty sure). He’s here of his own free will, trying to be a good team mate and a better person because he wants to be. That has to count for something, doesn’t it?

Sam is pretty sure his dad would say it does. Sam wants to be the sort of person that lets it count.

And Jamie is looking genuinely dejected, in a way that has Sam feel a small surge of something that isn’t affection but isn’t too unlike it either. A little bit of pity mingling with amusement; enough that he’s moved to brave sitting down next to Jamie.

“Well, I have had more practise,” he says lightly. “I bet you will be really good at it if you give it a bit more time.”

“Yeah?” It’s offered casually, but there’s no disguising the faint hope in it. Sam can feel Jamie watching him out of the corner of his eye.

“Of course,” he says, and then, feeling bold, “You are Jamie Tartt. Aren’t you good at everything?”

A pause, and Sam holds his breath, praying that Jamie will understand that he’s being teased rather than mocked—

Then Jamie snorts, a sound halfway to a chuckle. “Yeah, man,” he retorts, bumping his shoulder against Sam’s, very carefully. “I’ll be the fucking best at being nice. Swear down, I’ll be so good I make you look like Geezer Scrooge.”

“That, I’d like to see,” Sam says drily; says sincerely. Standing, he nods towards the weight bench. “Do you think you can be good enough not to let me be crushed to death while you spot me?”

For a moment, Jamie looks taken aback, and Sam braces himself for a snide retort to his presumption – but it doesn’t come. Instead Jaime’s face clears, and he gives a sharp nod.

“Course, mate,” he says, and rises to follow Sam.

[feroluce]

So this ficlet-ish thing was inspired by @hydrachea, nsfw super genius extraordinaire, but also by the fact that in addition to Boothill's left eye being cybernetic, I like to hc even the parts of him that look human aren't fully natural. I mean the dude eats bullets, after all. I think he should also have vents in his mouth so he can literally blow smoke/steam, it would look super cool. Think Father Gascoigne or Studio BONES' Todoroki. We as a fandom deserve that!!

So anyway, of course, sometimes these vents get blocked up and need to be cleaned manually. Thankfully, Dan Heng is super helpful ☆

Like there's one day where Boothill is lazing around in the archives, fresh off a bounty and happily soaking up the luxury of the Astral Express after however long he's spent tracking his prey through all the dust and dirt with almost no rest.

Boothill likes it in the archives. It's not silent, but it's quiet. There's no music and only muffled voices from outside, but there's the hum of all the computer systems. It makes for a nice place to hide away and recharge when he's just finished exhausting himself.

And besides, Dan Heng is there.

Sometimes the two of them talk back and forth, but today it's mostly quiet...except for-

"I didn't know it was possible for you to get sick."

...Except for Boothill having to constantly clear his throat. That's the thing about your mark trying to flee into the desert. You either go after them and get sand everywhere (and even worse, sticky sand once it gets all bloody) or you wuss out and lose out on the bounty. Personally, Boothill likes being able to afford to eat.

"Grit's stuck in a vent somewhere, 'n' the usual maintenance ain't gettin' it. I'll prob'ly have ta manually dig it out." But later, when he's not laid out half asleep on Dan Heng's extra futon. Usually after a chase as long as this one took, he can shut down for almost a full day. He doesn't want to get up yet.

Something shadows over him, and reflex demands Boothill's eye open. Dan Heng steps around him on his way to some drawer built in the wall on the other side of the room or something. Boothill closes his eye again.

From under his hat he hears the sounds of rummaging, drawers sliding open and shut, the swish of a long coat. The shadow returns.

"Sit up, just momentarily. I have something to help." And Boothill groans a tired don't wanna, but he does it anyway, he hauls himself upright into a kneel. And then he sits up a little straighter because he realizes Dan Heng is standing right over him.

Dan Heng tells him "open your mouth," and Boothill's jaw pops open without his permission, without even a second thought, and hey, what protocol in there ok'd THAT?!?!

Before he can really unpack whatever the heck that just was, though, Dan Heng murmurs for him to say so if he needs them to stop, and then he's sliding a long, hard rod down Boothill's throat, tipped with some soft little brush he probably uses for all his fancy archival equipment.

Dan Heng tells him the handle of the brush is straight and can't be bent, he needs to move his head to be able to reach the vent in his throat. Boothill hums affirmatively; he can't do anything else with his mouth occupied.

Dan Heng's free hand holds him by his jaw, tilts it up slowly but firmly so he has to look straight up at him.

Boothill feels dizzy.

The cycle of blue blood through his artificial heart whirrs just a bit faster, his temperature sensor pings an internal alarm to warn for imminent overheating. Boothill curls his fingers into the guard over his knee as Dan Heng carefully brushes at the dust irritating him. All other sounds- the hum of running equipment, the occasional beep from the computers, the noise of the crew outside of this room- seem to pull away, until all Boothill can focus on is the steady and measured breathing from the man above him.

"Almost done."

Thank the aeons, maybe one of them likes him after all.

"Your tongue is in the way... I'm going to hold it down, ok?"

Nevermind.

The fingers holding his jaw curl around his chin, thumb slipping past open lips to dip into his mouth and pin down his tongue. One of his teeth catch on the digit, breaking skin just enough to bleed a drop where he can taste it. Dan Heng doesn't even flinch. Another temperature alarm pings off in his brain, then another, then another.

Boothill has never been shy about eye contact but oh, god, it nearly kills him when dull green irises flick away from their task and look down right at him as his mouth is held open. He quickly squeezes his own eye shut for some relief.

With his vision cut off, the rest of his senses automatically recalibrate to compensate. He can hear every breath even more distinctly now, every soft inhale and exhale, feel the strain in his neck, the softness of the brush, the hard floor beneath his knees, the hand holding his jaw and the fingerprints that feel like they should leave burns in his skin, the taste of Dan Heng heavy on his tongue-

Forget it, eye open, eye open!!

"Alright. There's one last pebble stuck."

Boothill had been trained to endure torture, back on his homeworld. It was part of being in a gang, part of being a bounty hunter.

Somehow, keeping himself quiet and still as Dan Heng inches the brush even further down the back of his throat is a profoundly similar experience.

The seconds tick by, Dan Heng's brow furrowing, face growing ever more concentrated and Boothill struggles not to watch him too closely, fights down the noise that suddenly tries to escape him as the brush withdraws-

"Swallow."

Stars and aeons, Dan Heng is going to be the death of him.

Boothill swallows. He feels it when the movement finally dislodges the loosened pebble from his vent.

His face feels shockingly cold now bereft of touch, even though Dan Heng's hands are always cool. He asks to see, and Boothill's mouth is already open again to show him, even as he belatedly realizes he could have just told him it had worked.

"Good." There's the slightest smile on Dan Heng's lips as he finally, mercifully, leans back out of his personal space, goes to put away the brush. "That should feel better now." Boothill spends a moment dizzy and dazed, feeling the need to blink spots out of his eye even though his vision is clear. He still hasn't moved off his knees.

What the fudge.

[arrozconlecheeee]

[timetodiverge]

Crosshair & Omega | The Bad Batch Season 3

Rey | The Force Awakens

[d00xle]

frobin friday

[crownedinmarigolds]

The faces of "nothing we can say can salvage this conversation or make us look good." I love Seinfeld. Raymond and Joaquin just bein' hunter bros having normal night shift conversations!

[chemzee]

Mel being metamorphnagus means she canonically can be a catgirl

[tryingtobegoodwitch]

Life advice is

Never tell people what you are going to do

Always and only tell people what you have done

Instead

[magic-belodie]

Here are all the outfits in all the color options, including all the wigs of the MCL Christmas event 2022.

[bisexualalistairtheirin]

King sweetie~

Bonus:

[manchesterau]

i hope theyve seen all the fanart, video edits, analysis, academic essays and general fandom creations dnpcrafts has inspired bc it's truly inspiring me and it's so wonderful to see

[melodybottles]

woe. olivia redesign be upon ye

[fe-fictions]

Hello! <3 If it's okay, may I request a bit of Lon'qu? I'd love something soft or angst if possible, but whatever is completely okay! Thank you for reading, I love your stories!

(Have some Lon'qu snuggling with a cold Robin!!!)

Even after you came home, Lon’qu had a little trouble readjusting.

He’d always been difficult to reach physically. Even after consummating your marriage, nearly four years ago... he was a bit distant in the touchy-feely department.

After your sacrifice, he’d launched at you and engulfed you in an embrace so tight he could’ve crushed you (and you would have let him). But following that, he had trouble giving you the attention you wanted... not to mention the attention he wanted to give you.

He was scared that you might disappear, again. So he deliberately pushed away. You were patient, you understood. You were gentle with him, and allowed him space. But it was nights like this, where the brutal Feroxi frost snuck in through your windows, that you wished he would come a little bit closer.

You shivered in your sleep, your fingers quaking as you curled them deeper into the blankets. While Lon’qu would sleep beside you (his back turned, naturally), he would always provide enough heat to keep you warm.

This, unfortunately, wasn’t going to do.

You sighed, tiredly, staring into the darkness. You were exhausted, but you couldn’t sleep because of how cold you were. 

This was going to be a long, brutal, awful winter.

You rose from the bed and wrapped the quilt around you, shuffling from the bed to the living area. The fire was still roaring, at least, and the grates were making sure you didn’t burn to death as a result of having a fire going in the middle of the night.

Speaking of... you glanced at the front door, Lon’qu nowhere to be found. He was most likely sparring with Basilio again and as a result, you were going to be sleeping alone, tonight.

You sighed softly and found yourself staring at the flames, hunched in front of the fireplace as you tried to find a comfortable position to sleep in. You’d be sitting there rather than lying in bed, but at this point, you didn’t care.

You didn’t even remember falling asleep, honestly... it was just warm enough that you were able to lull into an achey substitute to a good night’s rest.

That’s why your husband was so surprised to come in, that night, wrapped in at least six layers and still shivering from the biting cold. 

He trudged in, quick to latch the door shut. He turned to take all of his layers off, only to freeze when he spotted the lump of blanket across the room.

You were still awake?

“... Hey.” He called to you, but no response. He frowned, peeling off the snow-covered coat and gloves, kicking his boots off and hanging his scarf to hopefully dry by the time he headed out, tomorrow.

Eventually he was down to his socks, pants and sweater, walking over to where you were sitting.

Tentatively he reached out, putting his hand on your back, nudging you gently. 

“Robin.”

No reply, again. He leaned over to look at you, and found you snoozing soflty where you were sitting. Lon’qu’s face blanched, staring at you like you were crazy. Of course you could fall asleep sitting up.

You did it all the time back in the war. It only made sense you’d find the ability to do it, now.

He shook his head, taking off the last few layers and hanging them in front of the fire. Then he came next to you, lifted you up, and carefully carried you from the fireplace.

It felt odd to pick you up.

It felt odd to hold you, so closely. He shook his head at the thought, chiding himself. You were his wife. You were supposed to be held. You were the one he loved, and you were home, again.

You were here.

Lon’qu grimaced. He didn’t know why this was so hard. He didn’t know why his fingers trembled as he carried you to the bedroom, and more still when he settled you into the blankets, drawing them over you once more.

He couldn’t be scared of you disappearing, again. You’re home, and you would stay home, this time. He changed out of his clothes into his nightshirt and pants. He pulled on some woolen socks, a gift from you, no less...

Then he returned to the bed, careful not to let the floorboards creak beneath his feet as he came to your side.

Slowly he slid in under the sheets, an involuntary shiver running down his spine. The bed certainly wasn’t getting any warmer. He could see why you had gone to the living room on your own. 

He sighed softly and drew closer to you, your back to him. For a second, he waited, wondering if this was the right idea. It was, and he knew it.

He was tired of running away from his wife. It’d been a few months, as is. He wanted to be near you, again. 

He settled in closely behind you, snaking his arm around your waist and pulling you into his chest. He buried his face in your shoulder, inhaling the warm, comforting scent he remembered so well. Your hair tickled his cheek as he relaxed against you, relishing the feeling of you pressed against him.

You fit so well together.

You were warm, and shivering no more. His anxieties dissipated as he allowed himself to sink into you, his eyes sliding shut as sleep called his name.

He barely heard the soft giggle beside him, or felt the gentle hand that ran through his hair.

“Sleep well, Lon’qu... I know I will.”

He would, too.

[transmascgerudo]

good for Zelda, good for her