#h-haha

[sasuketwo]

risa. ur last three vids from ur just friends collection on tt is scaring me 🫩🫪

Omg I didn't know people knew I had that collection on tiktok stay scared babe

[sekizein]

[girlboss-nahi-girlbas]

*When an old mutual reblogs my post*

Me: COULD IT BE!?!?!?

[petalade]

the secret to building the best sand castles is teamwork! (and maybe a sacrifice or two..)

[visnomer]

Oooh 13 and 17 together? for meanbeans? 💛

Set somewhere between bullet hearts and bulletprone ;^) it originally was meant to be in the story anyway, just maybe, not exactly like that but oh welp.

Still can take some more prompts if ya have any

Easing Jack into his new responsibilities, shouldn’t be Rhys’ job. But then again, there is no one else who could do it better, no one with more pride in what Atlas has become and he’d rather suffer through it now, so the man doesn’t end up dropped into the thick of it once the doom’s clock chimes its final tune. Not when we’re talking about Rhys’ beloved baby. So that’s how the two of them end up on a cruise taking them through more remote Atlas’ facilities.

Frozen Wastes and the holiday resort situated along the mountain slope greet them with a snowstorm. The place is grand, caverns adapted to act as hot springs and the network of hotels, hostels, official buildings and various attractions for tourists, spanning in every direction. 

They are not here for the hyper-skiing or rocket-snowboarding, (although, Rhys thinks, he wouldn’t have anything against the hot springs) but rather to investigate how the current administration is doing, get them acquainted with Jack and maybe convince the man not to shoot anyone. 

Rhys fixes the scarf around his neck, cold wind tugging at his fur lined coat and the insistent snowflakes somehow keep finding their way under his many layers of clothes. Jack isn’t faring much better, chasing the indignant clatter of his teeth with a cup of mulled wine, because of course he had to be stubborn and say he, and let Rhys quote him on that, ‘wasn’t some whimpering, soft, warmth-loving baby kraggon and he could handle the cold like a man’. Like a man meaning without gloves or a scarf. Their guide for the day, has left them at a fairly remote little hut, humble on the outside but furnished like a palace suited for a CEO on the inside, Rhys’ private quarters this side of Pandora. The tour has left them both exhausted and chilled to the bone, last few moments before they inevitably retreat into the welcoming warmth of the indoors and the fire crackling in the hearth. The setting down sun makes the snow glimmer, the harsh outlines of the mountains softened with the warm orange. Jack scoots closer, breath misting in front of his lips, cheeks and the tips of his ears reddened from the cold. Now, face to face with the other man, hands that are verging on being frostbitten by now, start aimlessly drifting over Rhys’ front, probably looking for a way to warm up, regardless, he doesn’t chase Jack away, letting him offer this weird kind of affection. His intentions become clear once he tries to stealthily unwrap the scarf looped a couple of times around Rhys’ neck, a colourful if rather unevenly knitted gift from Gortys. “Oh hell no, forget it You should have brought your own!” He just about catches the end of the scar before it completely slips free from around his neck and the rough tug he gives, makes the fabric tighten around Jack’s throat and pull him closer, crashing into Rhys’ chest.“F-fuck,” it comes out choked, followed with a few coughs, “come on pumpkin, I brought -you- with me and it looks like..” instead of pulling away, but despite still not releasing his end of the scarf, Jack chooses to keep the proximity, his cold nose now pushed into the crook of Rhys’ neck, “you’ve got all I need, so,” he can pick up traces of sweet alcohol on Jack’s breath when the man smirks against his skin and then has the audacity to bite, “don’t be a little bitch, you don’t want your best buddy catching some nasty cold, do ya?”No he doesn’t, not because he cares, and how suiting that’d be, but because he’s quite certain Jack would turn out to be the most annoying, whining patient ever and he doesn’t feel like dealing with not only having his bedroom occupied by an unwelcome guest but also acting as a nurse slash temporary slave to one, bed-ridden Handsome Jack.“I don’t but I don’t want to be sick either, get inside if you are this cold…”“That is precisely what I’m doing right now kitten,” closely followed by the sound of a pulled down zipper and Jack worms himself under Rhys’ opened coat, arms coming around his waist and looking for a way to slide under his sweater, “damn, you’re like a lil’ heater under all those layers!”“ ’s because baby kraggons are smart enough to keep heating pads in their pockets,” he could chase Jack away but the lips trailing down his throat do quite a good job of keeping him placated and so Rhys only buries his face in the mussed hair at the crown of Jack’s head. Usually, Rhys doesn’t share, especially not with Jack, but in this case, he can make an exception and settle on having his scarf loosely wrapped around the two of them for a little while longer.With his arms now securely keeping the coat snuggly around the other man, Rhys breaths Jack in and then breaths his worry out, a little cloud of condensation drifting away to dissipate in the cold wind.Later, he will let Jack peel one layer after another and warm his restless hands against his skin, but now, the series of light brushes and nips inching up and to his lips, make the hungry kiss, laced with the heady taste of wine, warm his heart. It lasts only as long as it takes for cold fingers to find an opening and slip under his sweater, the surprised yelp swallowed straight from his lips and turned into a cackle ghosting over his skin.

[gokubrain]

also u guys arent allowed to look at any post i made before 2018

[purisea-blog]

[tracelcss-archived-blog]

It’s quiet, and Gods know Fate could use some in his life. Sometimes the quiet is peaceful, other times it is painful and awkward and stiff. This was neither of those times -- rather, a comfortable silence filled to the brim with a bright anxiety. Though Graves does not seem to feel it, Fate is surely experiencing some form of heart palpitation with how fast said organ is beating.

He can’t remember when the two of them had dozed off in his living room upon the comfortable furniture (somewhere between Graves’ sarcastic remark about Fate finally settling down and the decision to lay back and enjoy each other’s body warmth. Fate stretches his back, the bones in his neck and shoulders creaking in retaliation, before comfortably resting back in his place. Half of his body is numb and his left arm is starting to feel the sting of pins and needles, but he honestly couldn’t care less. His free hand (not trapped between the couch cushions and Graves’ massive arm) spreads its fingers across Graves’ chest, mingled with Fate’s dark hair and the fabric of Graves’ shirt. A steady heartbeat thrums there, gentle and strong. 

So contrasting to Fate’s own rapid beating. 

Why, exactly, was he so ... on edge with this? Was it possibly the risk of death at the hands of the man who he is currently being squished into a lounge with? Is it the fact that the intimacy they had when they were younger (and far more naive, far less broken) is somehow alive and even stronger than before? 

Or maybe it’s because Graves smells like ash and burnt wood and beer and so wonderfully, delightfully, sinfully, familiarly, lovely, wonderfully Malcolm that it makes Fate feel dizzy. 

The hand trapped in the cushions sends a sharp jolt up his shoulder and that means it is time to reevaluate positioning. Carefully, Twisted Fate pulls up and away, careful not to wake his partner (partner? Didn’t sound right, but what else could he call him? He felt too old to have a boyfriend) as he frees his hand. He lowers down again, fully on Graves’ chest, and lets their breathing harmonize for just a moment.

Because a moment is all Fate can handle before the butterflies in his stomach return and he feels like a foolish child, falling for the closest thing to perfection they can find. 

His eyes trail back to Graves’ face -- and for just a tiny bit, he looks young again. The lines and wrinkles disappear in the soft light from the moon and stars outside, the pain of the years has slipped away in the vast nothingness of dreams, and all is calm. 

All is quiet.

Fate shuffles forward just a bit to press a harmless, chaste kiss to Graves’ cheek, satisfyingly planting it directly upon the bone, before he hunkers down into the crook of Graves’ shoulder and lets himself vaguely drift off.

Or so he thinks.

It’s hard to sleep when you’re in love.