#mountain slims pool

[yanderenightmare]

Bakugou Katsuki

TW: NSFW, noncon/dubcon, kidnapping, captive darling, gross Bakugou

fem reader

Thinking about hermit forest-dweller Bakugou who lives alone in his lodge…

You got a little lost off the beaten track and were so relieved when you happened upon his homey red-wood cabin, spotting smoke from the chimney and feeling your stomach gurgle from the promise of warm food when knocking on his door.

You’re so terribly sorry to bother him – but your phone has no cell reception, and the map you brought with you had gone pasty and torn in the rain and you have just no idea where you are or how to get back.

He’s rather handsome for a loner, you think. Rough around the edges – hairy and reeking of beer and barnacles. He grunts out a “come in” after you’ve explained yourself, and you follow with a relieved smile, already thanking him.

But only a short second after you’ve taken a step over the threshold comes a hard cack to the back of your head. And for a cloudy moment, you’re something akin to numb all over – only barely registering the harsh feeling of splintery wooden floors against your cheek where you’d fallen to – slowly succumbing to the darkness that forced your eyes to glide close – but not before you could recognize and curl your brows to the big pair of black mountain boots in front of you.

When you wake up, you’re in a bed. It’s a welcomed softness – a warm pleasantness against your wintered skin after you’d wandered aimlessly around in the cold rain – now getting toasty from the heat of the fireplace. 

But there’s something more – something not right. 

You’re not wearing any clothes. And your hands have been roped behind your back in a strict knot, keeping them locked tightly together. 

And you’re being rocked against the sheets – back and forth, back and forth – and you can barely breathe because of it.

And there’s something on top of you – and something fat and wet stuffing your cunt from the back, fucking your taut hole while your eyes flutter with sleep and the start of a pounding headache.

You try screaming when it dawns on you – try twisting your arms free – try getting up, but your mouth has been filled with what you think is your underwear and only muffled cries manage to escape it.

He gruffs out something like, “Quiet, whore.” Planting a harsh slap against your ass while keeping his rhythm steady, thrusting his thickness inside the wet welcome of your quivering little cunt as it seeps with slick for him, soaking him so sweetly it’s even trickling down your thighs in slim lines.

You cry, feeling the stranger touch and fuck you, his heavy hands gritty from work groping the soft fat of your ass while his booted feet kick yours further apart once you try pulling them closed – punishing you with another mean slap to your plush. 

The ache in your belly tells you he’s been at it for a while. Having fucked your tightness sore with his girthy meat – shoving it so hard it bends in order to fit all of him inside. His heavy-hung balls swing beneath him, clapping with wet slaps against your budding clit – making your cunt squeeze and suckle him despite your efforts to ignore it.

He groans at the feel before thrusting in all the way to the hilt in one harsh jab – spewing his gross warmth right into your womb. 

You’re shell-shocked. Eyes terror-wide, drying as you stare into nothing – waiting for it to make sense – but it doesn’t. A stranger had just spunked inside you and you can feel the warm fatty liquid trickle down your cunt and thighs once he pulls his chubby member out.

“S’been a while since I had my balls emptied like that. Good puss’ milked me dry.” He grumbles with satisfaction, lifting his pants from the pool around his boots and buckling himself back up – giving your puffy cunt a wet slap before he’d quite simply just walked off and gone about the rest of his day – returning to use you later.

From then on, you wear nothing but an old red flannel shirt – it smells of man sweat and other things and is so well-worn all the buttons are gone. The clothes you came in were used as easy firewood. He’d burned it all – every article in your backpack except one – the panties you’d worn – which he instead nailed to the wall like it was another pelt or the head of an animal he’d hunted down.

He keeps you on the floor most of the time. You’re leashed with a fat metal chain meant for a rottweiler – and a leather collar kept snug around your throat with a lock and a tag that reads Pup. He must’ve had a dog at some point, but you’re guessing it died – and you’re its replacement – and whether you want it or not, he’s going to train you into being his proper bitch.

During morning news, you take care of his morning wood – sometimes with your cunt and sometimes with your mouth. He’s still cuddly after waking up, needy for warmth, wanting you skin-to-skin – mostly seating you down on his lap, bouncing you lightly on his cock with his chin resting in the grove between your neck and shoulder. Groaning tiredly while pawing your tits. 

If he doesn’t blow his load before the news is over, he’ll bring you with him in the shower. And in the steamy heat, he’ll wake up to give you a real pounding. Your face mushed against the tiles – chin and cheekbone bruising from the force of it while he holds your arms behind your back and rams up into your cunt faster than the droplets fall to the floor. Quick juts until finally creaming inside you, resting his forehead between your shoulder blades while dumping every last drop in deep.

After a long day, he likes when you suck his balls while he drinks his beer and eats his dinner, watching sports. Licking the sweat off the back of his cock, no doubt tasting the dried piss from when he’d taken a leak in the forest. Sometimes he’ll say it. “Suck it clean, slut- be happy I didn’t take a shit, or you’d be tonguin’ my ass with that pretty face too.” Always threatening you with something gross that’ll kick you into the right gear – motivating you to be his little cock-eager whore – down there on your knees with your hands bracing against his thighs, throating his length while he holds a firm hand at the back of your head, fisting your hair so tight strands rip free from their roots while you desperately try and will away your gag reflex in order to please him – eyes squeezed tight with slobber making spit bubbles down your chin.

You’re not allowed dinner before swallowing his load. Dinner – being the leftovers he’ll scrape off his plate into a dog bowl. The first time around, you’d looked up at him like he couldn’t be serious, and he’d only squeezed your face rough and said, “Be happy I don’t piss in it, slut.” And then he’d spat on you, once on your face, then once more in your mouth. It was thick and tasted of brown nicotine and ash and you haven't gotten rid of the taste since.

He’ll throw his feet up on your back while you bow down to eat out of your bowl – using you like a warm footstool until the game is done. If his team wins, he fucks your cunt like usual – but if they lose, it’s your assthat’ll pay the price.

When you’re allowed on the couch, he likes sitting opposites so you can take his muddy boots off and massage his feet. They’re still clammy with sweat from work when you peel his woolen socks off. Chipped dry toenails and scaley callouses, the skin yellow and cracked and rough where you dig your fingers in. 

He’ll take his cock out after a while and gather your smaller, softer feet around it – rubbing himself through them while you keep rubbing his soles. When you’re busy with one, the other rests heavily on your tit, pawing it. Sometimes, he’ll even bark at you to suck on the toes.

But it's only until the news is over. After that, he has you crawl over to rest on his chest, nose stuffed with the musk of sweat, wood oil, and leather while he sinks his fat erection all the way up into your womb – storing it there, where it will stay nestled and warm while you watch a western or hunter’s documentary.

He’s hairy like a bear and it makes you feel extra naked. Feeling it tickle your soft skin while he rests an arm on your back – a hand absentmindedly twiddling with your pretty hair.

When he’s not outside cutting down trees and hunting or inside on the couch with a beer, he’s in the meat locker – skinning animals and sectioning flesh. He often fucks you in there. Bent over the cold metal slab, your face in the stags' blood while he growls at your ear how that’ll be you on one of them hooks if you don’t squeeze his cock harder. 

But he’s not always so mean.

He’s nicer to you when you act cute for him. When you lie belly-up, raising your thighs and keeping them spread wide for him – covering your gash with your hand while you work it into a nice glossy welcome, wet and ready to get fucked like a little breeding cow. Pretty words on your pretty lip while you beg him with pretty pleas, asking him to stuff you like one of those animals he’s mounted on the wall. 

Rich city sluts like you need to be taught you can’t fuck around in his forest without paying your dues. And you’ve learned your lesson – riding him like he’s a mechanical bull from the rodeo like a good tramp should – jumping on his fat shaft with your perky tits bouncing in his face. 

#yandere x reader #yandere #yandere x you #yandere imagines #yandere smut #yancore #yandere bakugo #yandere bakugou #yandere bnha #yandere bakugo katsuki #yandere boku no hero academia #yandere katsuki #yandere my hero academia #yandere bakugou katsuki #yandere bakugo x reader #yandere katsuki bakugou #yandere bakugou smut #bakugou smut #boku no hero academia smut #bakugou imagine #bakugou katsuki #mha bakugou #bakugou katuski x reader #bakugo katuski #katsuki bakugou #bakugou x y/n #bakugo katsuki #bnha bakugo katsuki

[hotmentransformed]

A Dip In The Pool

This new gym was awesome! Moving to a new city can be hard, but at least it allowed you to start fresh. Going to the gym was something you always wanted to learn how to like, so you signed up for this cool new gym near your house. Everyone was super chill with the fact that you had no idea what you were doing. These huge muscular men would teach you how to use a machine before saying, "Soon enough, you'll look like me!" They were so encouraging! You were starting to like going to the gym. But you were still so skinny. With your curly hair and thin frame, you looked like a literal mop. All of these musclemen were super nice, but there was no way you were ever going to look like them.

As you went to the front desk to check in before you started your workout, the attendant mentioned the fact that the gym had a pool. Since when? You were still new to this place, so you're not surprised that there was something you didn't know about, but still... you don't remember hearing about it. The attendant assured you that it was free admission for gym members, so you hesitantly asked to see where it was and were led through the gym floor to the back of the locker room, and sure enough, there was metal lettering on the face of a large mahogany door: Pool.

As the attendant returned to the front desk, you decided that you might as well go for a swim and get some cardio in while you're thinking about it. Although you hadn't come prepared with a swimsuit, you decided that your gym shorts were similar enough and would suffice, so you went back to your locker to get ready. After placing your gym bag in the locker, you peeled your t-shirt off of your torso, exposing your thin, hairless frame. Reaching downwards, you slipped your slim feet out of your shoes, and peeled off your socks, placing everything in your locker. After closing the locker and securing the padlock, you turned and headed back to the mahogany door.

Pushing inward and stepping into the room, your nostrils were immediately bombarded with the unmistakable smell of chlorine. Your eyes watered: it burned! The room was dark, merely illuminated by the lights in the small pool. There were no windows, no benches, nothing. Not even another person! The pool itself was short and rather shallow. It wasn't big enough to do laps or anything, so why was it here?

Seeing steam rising from the surface, you figured that the pool must be set at a high temperature for recovery or something like that. To you, that made enough sense to justify its existence. You began to lower yourself to the edge of the pool before sliding in, but you stopped yourself. Looking around, you decided that since no one was here to tell you not to, you were going to have some fun with this pool. Taking a small step back, you launched yourself forward, tucking inwards to a cannonball position. Your body cut through the warm steam as it descended toward the pool. As you hit the water, your body was wrapped in its warmth. It was almost like a hot tub. It felt amazing. Your body submerged beneath the surface, leaving an impressive splash, especially considering your small frame.

Rising from beneath the ripples you created, you reached your hands upward to wipe your face with your hands and to push your hair from your eyes. Only there was no hair there to be pushed. Your hands went over your head, but the hair that was usually there was gone. Something was wrong.

You opened your eyes and saw your now-massive hands in front of your face. They were connected to your thick forearms which met your mountainous biceps. Your torso was huge. Looking down past your swollen pecs, you saw your washboard abs, large thighs, and defined calves. Running your hand along your abs that were not there a moment ago, you allowed your hand to explore further down, pushing its way into your shorts. You grabbed your throbbing cock and began stroking it aggressively. Moaning in your deep voice, your massive body buckled in the water, sending ripples as you continued jerking off. Your bicep bulged with strength, veins becoming more and more prominent as your pace accelerated. Your breaths became short and intense. God, it felt so good. Pure ecstasy overtook you. With a grunt, you shot out ropes and ropes of cum into the pool.

Wading through the milky substance around you, you climbed your way out of the pool. You had never gone in the pool after your daily workouts, but with all that testosterone you have flowing in your veins, an outlet is good. Flexing the massive muscles that you had spent so much time growing in the gym, you decided that you were going to take a dip in the pool after every workout from now on.

#male tf #muscle tf #muscle transformation #muscle #tf #transform #transformation #male transformation #jock tf

[arch-obsessed]

Inside the Barbie Dreamhouse, a Fuchsia Fantasy Inspired by Palm Springs

Barbie’s Dreamhouse is no place for the bashful. “There are no walls and no doors,” says Greta Gerwig via email. “Dreamhouses assume that you never have anything you wish was private—there is no place to hide.” That layered domestic metaphor has proved rich fodder for the filmmaker, whose live-action homage to the iconic Mattel doll hits theaters July 21.

To translate this panopticon play world to the screen, Gerwig enlisted production designer Sarah Greenwood and set decorator Katie Spencer, the London-based team behind such period realms as Pride & Prejudice and Anna Karenina. The two took inspiration from Palm Springs midcentury modernism, including Richard Neutra’s 1946 Kaufmann House and other icons photographed by Slim Aarons. “Everything about that era was spot-on,” says Greenwood, who strove “to make Barbie real through this unreal world.”

Neither she nor Spencer had ever owned a Barbie before, so they ordered a Dreamhouse off Amazon to study. “The scale was quite strange,” recalls Spencer, explaining how they adjusted its rooms’ quirky proportions to 23 percent smaller than human size for the set. Says Gerwig: “The ceiling is actually quite close to one’s head, and it only takes a few paces to cross the room. It has the odd effect of making the actors seem big in the space but small overall.”

Erected at the Warner Bros. Studios lot outside London, Barbie’s cinematic home reinterprets Neutra’s work as a three-story fuchsia fantasy, with a slide that coils into a kidney-shaped pool. “I wanted to capture what was so ridiculously fun about the Dreamhouses,” says Gerwig, alluding to past incarnations like the bohemian 1970s model (outfitted with trompe l’oeil Tiffany lamps) and the 2000 Queen Anne Victorian manse, complete with Philippe Starck lounge chairs. “Why walk down stairs when you can slide into your pool? Why trudge up stairs when you take an elevator that matches your dress?” Her own references ranged from Pee-wee’s Big Adventure to Wayne Thiebaud’s paintings of pies to Gene Kelly’s tiny painter’s garret in An American in Paris.

For Barbie’s bedroom, the team paired a clamshell headboard upholstered in velvet with a sequined coverlet. Her closet, meanwhile, reveals coordinated outfits in toy-box vitrines. “It’s very definitely a house for a single woman,” says Greenwood, noting that when the first Dreamhouse (a cardboard foldout) was sold in 1962 it was rare for a woman to own her own home. Adds Spencer: “She is the ultimate feminist icon.”

In Barbie, as in previous films like Little Women and Lady Bird, Gerwig set out to realize a whole world. “We were literally creating the alternate universe of Barbie Land,” says the director, who aimed for “authentic artificiality” at every opportunity. As a case in point, she cites the use of a hand-painted backdrop rather than CGI to capture the sky and the San Jacinto Mountains. “Everything needed to be tactile, because toys are, above all, things you touch.”

Everything also needed to be pink. “Maintaining the ‘kid-ness’ was paramount,” Gerwig says. “I wanted the pinks to be very bright, and everything to be almost too much.” In other words, she continues, she didn’t want to “forget what made me love Barbie when I was a little girl.” Construction, Greenwood notes, caused an international run on the fluorescent shade of Rosco paint. “The world,” she laughs, “ran out of pink.”

#obsessed is an understatement #barbie #movie sets #set design #barbie 2023 #greta gerwig #architecture #interior design #interiors

[kendrene]

Avatrice + “Ineptly kiss cheek”

(Also I love your writing)

Ava never lingered much on the concept of water before Beatrice taught her to swim. She’s come to learn since that each body of water is different. Wind blows down from the nearby mountains and fluffs the surface of the lake with its touch. The public pool at the end of their street every single afternoon — weekends excluded — hosts a miniature tsunami; 3pm sharp, the end of daily kindergarten summer camp.

The stream they’re resting next to is overseen by gravity. 

Ava spends a solid fifteen minutes crouching on the edge of it, watching water race downhill. Vortexes and whirlpools form where the stream runs deeper, foam laps at the bigger rocks. The stream sometimes forces a path through them, sometimes hops right past. 

“Take off your shoes and come in!” Beatrice bends down, splashing a little wave in her direction. “The water is nice, I promise.”

“The water is cold.”

“If you come here I’ll teach you to fish.”

Ava frowns, making a mental inventory of everything that’s in the rucksack Bea had her lug all the way up here. Nope. No fishing equipment.

“We have no fishing poles or bait.”

“All you need is your hands, Ava.”

Beatrice is gonna teach her some kung-fu level shit. Hell yeah. She’s in. 

Literally.

//

The water is cold, as the chill rising from it to sting Ava’s cheeks had her guess rightly. It’s colder than expected. She wades upstream to where Bea is waiting, the soles of her feet slipping over smooth rock until her flesh is solid pins and needles. The numbness makes it somewhat bearable to copy Beatrice’s stance, body braced against the swiftness of the current, but only just.

“Okay. I’m here. Now what?” Ava wiggles toes she can no longer feel and peers under the clear surface of the water. It’s like observing the world through a piece of warped glass; her feet still attached, but kind of the wrong shape. She wonders, briefly, whether they’re starting to turn a shade of blue. It’s a trick of the light, splicing through water. Maybe.

“The fish, do you see them?” 

It takes a few moments for Ava to notice the first. Slim shape threading like a silver needle through a tapestry of water. There’s more; a school of them camped in the shade of jutting rocks a few steps away.

“So you want to make sure not to shadow the water.” Beatrice bends her knees slightly as she talks, shifts first one foot, then the other, careful not to cause any ripples. “Fish will notice and dart where you can’t catch them, if you do.” 

Ava can see what she means, how she positions herself so that her shadow, while stretching big over the water at her back, does so away from where the fishes gather. “Once you’re in position, you wanna dip your hands in slowly. Like this.” Beatrice’s fingers break through the water tension, and she lowers her voice to a barely audible whisper. “And then—” Beatrice makes a scooping motion. The fish scatter. Except for the one that she’s holding, steady, with both of her hands. “Here.” She lets the fish go. “Now you try.”

Ava tries.

Again.

Again.

Again.

//

“Ava we should head back. It’s getting late.”

“Just one more try?” Ava’s legs are numb all the way to her thighs. Her hands are red, the skin of her fingers wrinkled from having spent so much time underwater. Her shirt is soaked through. “I swear I almost had the last one.” From the grassy streambank Beatrice looks at her, doubtful. “Please, Bea?”

“One last try.” Bea finally agrees, and Ava has to hide a quick grin. “I mean it Ava.” Beatrice adds, like she knows exactly what Ava is thinking.

“Okay. Alright.” Ava totters back upstream, shielding her eyes against the setting sun. Orange-soft light hits the water at an angle, making it hard to see what lies under the surface. Not that it makes much of a difference. Even when she could see the fish, Ava didn’t catch shit.

One last try. She pulls in a breath, holds it and feels her heart slow. Feels Beatrice’s gaze on her like a tangible weight, a hand cupping her cheek. Her whole face heats up, and to offset the sudden flush Ava plunges her hands in the water. 

One attempt. 

She’s got to make it count.

Something smooth and quick bumps against the curl of her fingers right as the day ends. Her hand closes, reflexively, pulling in and up the way Beatrice had shown her.

“I got it!” Ava lifts the squirming fish over her head with a laugh. “Bea, look! I caught one!” 

“So I see.” Bea stands. Stretches. A smile teases at the corner of her lips, rivaling the setting sun for brightness. “You did good.”

“Don’t worry, lil guy.” Ava cradles the fish gently. “I’m gonna put you back into the water now. But first—” She brings the wriggling form to her face and kisses it quickly. “I kiss you goodbye.”

“Ava!”

“What?” Letting the fish go, Ava clambers out of the water. “Wait, are you jealous? Because I can kiss you, too, you know.”

“Ava, st—”

Before Beatrice can complete the sentence, Ava has reached her. She means the kiss to be just an innocent peck on Bea’s cheek, but her wet feet make the grass slippery. Ava falls forward. Beatrice catches her.

Ava kisses her right on the mouth. Neither of them break away.

Oh.

Fuck.

#warrior nun #avatrice #fishing au #switzerland era #my beloved #dren writes

[tadpolesonalgae]

Amren x f!reader: The Taste of Blood[*] - Drabble

A/N: not entirely sure how I feel about this

Warnings: pussy eating, Amren, implied blood-drinking

The silver in her eyes sparks with malice as your fingers fumble with the lace at the back of your dress.

She’d known for a while of course. A creature like herself doesn’t get this far without learning a thing or two about emotional cues. So when she’d told you to stay after you brought her a tray of food, she hadn’t been at all surprised when you’d followed her instruction, anticipation daring to blink back at her in the depths of your eyes though it was hastily smothered by nerves.

Then when she’d stood - your spine straightening - and moved to the bed, her eyes hunting yours the whole while, she’d marked the roll of your throat, the forbidden spark of curiosity. “Untie your dress.” She’d ordered. You’d stammered, but following a choice set of words, you’d complied without issue.

Now she watches as the material slides from your shoulders, a shameful flush heating your cheeks as you keep the fabric pressed to your chest. All she has to do is narrow her brow and the material is pooling at your feet, your eyes unable to meet hers as she ravishes your body.

Amren shifts on the bed, settling herself comfortably into a small mountain of pillows as she parted her thighs invitingly, “come.” You’re clumsily moving forward, nearly tripping over the discarded clothing as your body trembles, unbelieving that she’s allowing you this opportunity.

You stop at the edge of her bed, fingers wringing nervously, nipples peaking with tension and arousal.

“Did I tell you to stop?” She snaps, making you jump, the sound breaking you from your haze as you nervously shift onto the bed, crawling up until you’re settled between her legs. You kneel, watching as a slim, gem-decorated hand moves to the band of her soft trousers that sit low on her hips. One sharp talon drags beneath the seam, her up-tilted eyes watch you with cruel pleasure while yours are glued to the subtle movements of her jewel-adorned fingers.

“Remove them,” she commands, enjoying the tension in your body, the desperation writhing beneath arousal, so eager to please her. Your fingers settle reverently over the low waistband, dipping beneath the fabric then sliding round to her ass as she lifts her hips, smoothly removing them with practiced ease. It’s a pleasant surprise on her end.

The roll of your throat is more pronounced as you sit back, your gaze licking heavily between her parted thighs, a mere slip of dainty silk keeping you at bay. That is, until she spreads herself a little wider, sharp eyes hungrily sizing you up. Goosebumps litter your skin as her tongue glides over her lower lip, as if she’s waiting to devour you.

“Do as you like,” she drawls, a wicked smirk settling on the red slash of her lips. She watches every move with predatory focus, noting the tremble to your fingers as you crawl forward, the hesitation to touch her that’s filled with reverence—awe.

Slowly, so slowly, you settle between her thighs, arm wrapping over her as you inhale her scent. Your eyes flick up to her nervously, as if making sure you’re okay to touch her, as you settle your lips to the apex of her thighs. The silky fabric is soft against your mouth as you kiss gently down her centre, nose bumping her clit as you reach her entrance.

Hesitantly, you thumb away the material, eyes rolling back as her scent hits you, her gleaming heat on display. She doesn’t have to give you a word of encouragement before you’re diving in, tongue dragging up in a firm stroke. Her hips buck and you push the fabric out of the way, intent on setting your mouth on her.

She tastes wonderful, slickness coating your tongue and you nip, and suck, flick and lick at her, sealing your lips over her clit as your fingers join the mess.

Your middle and forefinger press against her entrance, softly prodding, circling her. Getting them nice and wet. Then you push them in.

She growls softly, winding her hips as you begin slowly dragging in and out, curling them softly as you begin searching. Your tongue flicks over her clit with perfect pressure, swirling over her as your digits drag against the spot inside of her.

You begin focusing your attention there, pressing against it, working her so well.

Amren snarls as you bring her to her high, abusing that centre over and over again, teeth occasionally nipping at her, then soothing her with the wet heat of your tongue. Her nails rake over your scalp as she grinds against your face, winding over your mouth as she comes, power rumbling as her eyes flash with lightening.

She has to drag you up her body with a sharp tug when you seem content to continue working her—gently.

Your arms are either side her head, her legs still parted beneath you. Then she’s bringing your mouth to hers, her canines scraping over yours as she devours you, tongue sweeping in to taste herself and you melt. Your eyes roll as she grips you tightly, legs wrapping around your hips as her arms wrap around your shoulders. Her fingers tangle in your hair, keeping you where she wants.

When you pull away, you’re dazed and panting, noting the slight smudge of her matte lipstick. You look at her then, nerves flaring as you debate—

“Spit it out,” she drawls, eyes flashing.

You bite your lip, and she marks the gesture with narrowed eyes. As if she’s the only one who now has that right.

“I…” your cheeks flush under the intensity of her gaze. Thighs squeezing together. You can still taste her on your tongue. “I had some cranberries…and lamb…earlier.” You can feel your body warm as you confess to her. “I thought you might…” you shake your head, embarrassed, making to pull away from her.

Amren snarls softly, “want me to make a meal out of you, girl?”

You shiver with pleasure and you know she can scent your arousal. You nod meekly, thighs clamping together at the idea of having her mouth on your neck, her teeth in your throat, her tongue lapping at you.

She offers you a grin, nothing fae about it, utter hunger in her sharp silver iris’. As she sweeps your hair from one side of your neck.

“Don’t blame me if you pass out,” she smirks, the talons of her nails scraping teasingly over your nape as she brings her teeth to sink into your throat.

Taglist: @myheartfollower @tcris2020

#Amren #Amren acotar #x f!reader #Amren smut #Amren x f!reader #Amren x f!reader smut

[ink-flavored]

Dream WIP: The Forest's Wisdom

So now that the characters from the Unnamed Dream WIP have names, I want to share this with you all! Hooray! warnings: none you can also read this on my neocities site!

Asim traversed the wetlands with a walking stick in hand, mud splattered up to his ankles, and grass up to his knees. Clouds of gnats swarmed where the water pooled, and not even a wide-brimmed hat could deter the humid heat of midday. Sweat dripped down his temple from the weight of his long, dark hair, even tied up from his neck as it was, but Asim kept a light heart. In the near distance, he saw the tangled trunks and branches of mangrove trees, encroaching upon the sky. Farther above them, the craggy, violet peaks of the mountains. The forest was near.

His foot sank deep into the mud, again. He tugged, trying to take another step, without success. Bracing against his walking stick, Asim heaved with all his might. With a grunt he successfully tugged his foot free—but his boot stayed behind.

“Praise to Sister Nature,” he muttered, “and all Her persistent annoyances.”

Balancing on one foot, Asim bent awkwardly to retrieve his boot from the mud. The heavy pack strapped to his back jostled. His stomach flipped and he froze, putting a hand to it to make sure nothing had fallen out. The strange artifact thrummed against his hand, like an answer. It did nothing to soothe his anxiety. Asim worked quickly to get on his way.

Whatever this thing was, it was clearly magic, and clearly ancient. Whatever he could find at the Mirror Pools would be better aid than none, but if any one of the world’s cousins could tell him what it was, he’d bet everything on the dryads. The trees were older than anyone in the village could remember, and spoke of things Asim barely understood. The one challenge would be asking for help without risking their ire. Souring his standing with the forest would… end poorly.

Asim wiped the sweat from his brow and tried to put it out of his mind. He could worry about angering the trees when he was within a conversation’s distance.

On the slim chance the dryads didn’t know what this artifact was, or refused to help him so explicitly, what would he ask the Mirror Pools? There were so many questions to answer. What was it? Was it dangerous? What sort of magic powered it? Were there more artifacts like it? Why did it come from the sky? Did the Family send it? Why? At least a dozen more options buzzed in his brain like blood-sucking flies, and equally draining. He didn’t have the resources for more than one ritual. He’d have to make his single question count.

Asim spent the majority of what remained of his journey puzzling over them, long enough to hear the calls of the swamp birds that made the forest their home. With the mangroves near-overhead, he put the Mirror Pools dilemma to the side temporarily. The forest would need his full attention.

Tangled roots broke through the soft earth under his feet, a wooden alligator’s back cresting the grass and mud. No wind disturbed the hot air, but Asim swore he heard the whisper of leaves. Damp wood joined the pungent smell of swamp water. The mangroves stretched as far as the eye could see, and even deeper where the forest swelled. Beyond him was dense with twisted branches and roots that sprouted from their trunks long before they touched soil or water.

Instead of entering the forest, Asim picked his way over to one tree, taking care not to trip on any roots. With practiced reverence, he pressed a fist to his chest and bent at the waist.

“If the forest should honor me and speak for itself,” he said, “I seek both entry and guidance from it.”

The wood creaked and groaned as if this single tree alone was caught in a gale. Branches snapped, leaves rustled, roots writhed like the tentacles of some great ocean menace, but Asim dared not move. He kept his eyes trained on the dirt as the roots slithered away, and the shadow of the tree loomed over him of its own accord.

“They are the Speaker,” said a voice, and it thrummed deep in his chest. “Are they not?”

“I am,” Asim replied.

The voice rumbled, akin to an earthquake, or a mountain-sized cat purring. “They should look upon us, as the sure friend they have been.”

“And an honor it is to be one.”

Asim slowly unbent to face the dryad he called forth. Standing at ten feet tall, part of the mangrove tree he addressed had come to life and detached from itself. The low branches served as arms, the ancient, textured wood for skin, and the trunk for a torso. The roots twisted around each other in an approximation of legs, still partly buried under the dirt. A great head, featureless except for a pair of eyes made of glistening amber sap, tilted affectionately at him.

“What brings the Speaker back so soon?” it asked, words booming from seemingly nowhere, but heard all the same. “Surely they are not here to gather from us.”

“Ordinarily, I would ask no more of you, Mangrove,” Asim said, using the only name the forest had allowed him to give it, “but I come seeking the Mirror Pools, and—”

Mangrove cut him off with a laugh, like wood creaking in the wind. “Ask of us!” it chortled. “Our friend may come and go as they please. They must know this, do they not?”

“As gracious as the forest may be, I would never exploit it by taking what was never mine.”

The pleased creaking stopped. Mangrove lowered, placing its branches in the dirt. The weight of it sunk them into the mud, but it didn’t seem to notice. Down it went until it could look Asim eye-to-eye.

“The roots gossip about the Speaker,” it told him, the hushed rustle of leaves. “We say that they are too wise for their own good.”

Asim bowed his head briefly. “I’m flattered that the forest thinks me wise enough to again become foolish.”

“We were not complimenting them.”

“And yet I am not wise enough to take offense.”

Silence. Asim held his breath. Mangrove picked itself up, returning to its full height.

It burst out laughing. Bark creaking and groaning, branches shaking, it was Mangrove’s equivalent of a laughing fit. Asim joined in to vent his relief, letting the strange joke from his unconventional friend roll off his back.

Mangrove calmed itself, a sigh like the wind. A dripple of sap leaked out of its eye. “Take ease, Speaker,” it said. “They are free to pass through us, as we have said.”

“Thank you,” Asim said, “but I’m afraid that’s not all I need from you.”

“Oh?”

“I’m bringing a—” He paused, unsure how to describe it. “I have a strange, enchanted artifact with me. I’m not sure how dangerous it may be, and I would never take it between your branches without your say.”

“Is this what they seek the Mirror Pools for?”

“It is. I can show you if you wish.”

Mangrove slouched down again, expectantly, and Asim slung the pack off his back. Carefully, he retrieved the artifact, wrapped in the fabric just as he’d left it. The moment his fingers touched the first corner to unwrap it, it thrummed in his hand. Asim threw off the wrap until he held it in the palm of his hand, a single layer the only thing separating it from his skin. The rune shimmered a soft green.

“I’ve never seen anything like it,” he said. It pulsed, magic tingling his palm.

“Old,” Mangrove rumbled, amber eyes glistening. “They have brought us old magic.”

“You’ve seen it before?”

“We have felt it. The roots remember such power.”

“What kind of magic is it? Do you know?”

“The Speaker might ask us—what kind of magic are we? What kind are they? The old magic is.”

His heart sank. “So you can’t help?”

A deep hum shook the air and the earth as Mangrove shook its head. “Not how the Speaker might wish us to.”

“Do you think the Mirror Pools will?”

“We do not know. But we know the visions do help the Speaker. They may take this old magic within us.” Asim wrapped the artifact again and put it away, pausing when Mangrove put a branch on his arm. “We ask them to tread with caution.”

Afraid to ask why, and not planning to take the artifact out of his bag again anyhow, Asim nodded. Mangrove released him and lumbered back against the tree from which it appeared.

“Go, Speaker,” it said. “May their roots stay watered, and earth be fresh.”

“And yours, Mangrove,” Asim replied, bowing shortly.

Mangrove closed its eyes, sap disappearing into the bark. Its body melded with the rest of the trunk, the branches snapped out, the roots tunneled under the dirt like so many worms. The dryad had returned to slumber, and Asim was alone.

He leaned against his walking stick and sighed heavily. After Mangrove’s warning, there was no question about what he would ask the Mirror Pools. Knowing how dangerous this artifact was for him, Mira, or any of the villagers he spoke for was the most pressing matter he could think of. The rest would have to wait.

#original writing #original character #original characters #spilled ink #writers on tumblr #writeblr #original fiction #writeblr community #annika talks #unnamed dream wip

[victoriautmorse]

tokyo howling // faim de loup ◥ ▍ howl / aevitas verse starter; @lovehungered

Neon lights scatter amongst the mist of rain;

A shower of artificial light, vibrant hues of cyan and bright magenta rafracting for less than a breath in the midnight downpour before breaking in a smatter against concrete, asphalt and glass - forming shallow pools beneath the step of feet to mirror back the rising city above, rippling with its burning image and abuzz with the dreams of a never-slumbering metropolis. In this dense a packing of streetlamps, vibrant phosphorence and cross-mounted screens the domination of light burns out the stars themselves, leaving only the full of the moon to hang a looming, singular eye in the dark of the night beyond the peaks of manmade monuments to commerce and entertainment.

In the heart of Tokyo, it listens and brings life to the music of a million people, the swing and laughter of endless venture, joy, despair, the deep rumble of traffic framing it like a backdrop beat--

But down here?

It's all just noise.

The vapor of his breath breathes a cloud of fog in the air in front of him with each rapid respiration, rough pads and the scrape of claws against the ground pushing him forwards with each thrum of his pulse whilst the shadows covers his descent through backlit passages; only grazingly does the cast of light break through the slim gaps in the steel-stone constructs around him, cracking between buildings into narrowing alleys to catch a flash of wet, red-tufted fur, the flicker of neon signs reflected in the glint of wild eyes and the white of too sharp teeth, bared raw against the world. This concrete jungle, built for animals of a different kind.

He doesn't belong here.

But where does he ever?

Taut muscle strains in acid and his lungs wheeze hot with smoke; the shrill sights and sounds of the city stinging onto already high strung senses, setting the beast's eyes narrow at every glare of LED that invades them and peaked ears twitching irrate with the drum of engines and screech of tires all around him. It's too loud to think, too loud to do anything but feel and let his instincts carry him away, somewhere, anywhere, as far as he can go and as deep as his claws can bury him until the urge to lash and tear at the universe suffocates with the empty hunger at the pit of him.

With a careless thrust of his bulk past a mountain of trash - stacked upon old containers which see a clattering of rusted discard scatter around his wake - he rounds the corner into a sudden wash of almost open air punching his gut, the stench of waste overtaken by the sweeter scent of cherry trees and the symphony of rain sinking into an expanse of winding water ahead. He stills. A tattered chainlink fence stands between him and the riverfront walk, the light of the street spilling faintly between brick where it comes to fade and dim, casting shadows at his feet and outlining what's emerged of his bearing a grimhound silouette. The metal is frail. It wouldn't stop him. It's not what does.

It is the figure of a man behind it, looking back.

#◥ ▍ verse: howl #t: midnight hunger #lovehungered #t: tokyo howling #// fireelmo.png

[forlorn-crows]

A little rant before we get into this one, I'm genuinely thinking about changing my major- I love analyzing different works and always did so well on essays, and the idea of pursuing an English career is just so much more appealing.

Alright, anyways!! Why Movement reminds me of Rain.

The song itself is about movement (duh), dancing, and I headcanon Rain to be a good dancer. He has a slim build and those long legs, he's just built right for the job.

There's a few references to water throughout the song, so that's a good correlation. "As if through water from the bottom of a pool" & "Like Jonah on the ocean / When you move, I'm moved".

It's a love song, that's what Hozier writes about, and I imagine this could be Mountain related just because he'd be easy to pin to a Hozier song, but I think Swiss would be good for this one because it's dance related.

Just the idea of him walking into an empty band room to find Rain with a radio playing, dancing by himself. "When you move / I'm put to mind of all that I wanna be / When you move / I could never define all that you are to me"And imagining Swiss being so happy he has something only he and Rain share, it's their special moment. "So move me, baby / Shake like the bough of a willow tree / You do it naturally / Move me, baby"

Sorry this analysis kind of sucks, I underestimated how tired I'd be, but there it is :)

-🖤

i loved English in school. i did a lot of analyzing and research for my undergrad too; it was a love hate relationship, but its in my nature to relate and analyze things. especially poetry and songs. if thats what you like to do, you should do it!

this song i always go back to "when you move, i'm moved" and "i could never define all you are to me". it reads very much a love song TO rain/ABOUT rain. i can see both mountain and swiss expressing these feelings about him.

also the description of rain having a dancers body/soul is perfect, especially because water is so fluid, always moving!

thank you for sharing, heart!!

#heart anon #ask #ghoul headcanons #rain ghoul #the band ghost

[outofangband]

Geography, Environment and Ecology of the Fen of Serech Part One

Flora, fauna, geography and environment of Arda 

The Fen of Serech were a marshland in Northern Beleriand around the meeting of the River Sirion and its northernmost tributary, the stream Rivil which flowed from its well in Northern Dorthonion

The Fen of Serech were located in the Pass of Sirion, a passage between the Ered Wethrin and the Encircling Mountains north of Gondolin where the river Sirion flowed through

They are the sight of several notable events in The Silmarillion.

First, during the second battle of Beleriand, the orcs fighting the host of Fëanor were caught there. During the Dagor Bragollach, Finrod Felagund was saved there by Barahir, the father of Beren and it was due to his bravery here that the oath of Barahir was sworn which culminated in Finrod saving his son at the Isle of wolves

Finally during the battle of Unnumbered tears, Húrin and Huor protected the host of Turgon by forming a wall with the men of Hithlum to guard their retreat.

It was here that “ as the sun westered and the shadows of the Ered Wethrin grew dark, Huor fell pierced with a venomed arrow in the eye and all the valiant men of Hithlum were slain”

Except Húrin of course who was captured. He remembered this day and would later cry to the wilderness “Turgon, Turgon, remember the Fen of Serech” and when the only response is the dry grass in the wind, he mutters “even so they hissed at Serech at the sunset”, presumably referring to the grass

A fen is actually a particular type of wetland ecosystem, characterized by the accumulation of peat (partially decayed organic material, mostly vegetation) fed by either ground or surface water that is rich in minerals. It is distinct from a bog, which is another type of peat accumulating wetland but which gets much of its moisture from rainwater and has an acidic rather than basic pH level

Fens are considered a type of Palustrine wetland, which is characterized by the types of vegetation most common to them. The Fen of Serech however seems to be a riverine wetland, a wetland within a river system

The Fens of Serech likely get most of their water from a number of little rivulets and streams as well as run off from the two rivers themselves

The climate of the Fen of Serech and surrounding areas is cold, temperate climate, likely one of a few subarctic, humid continental climates with cool summers and winter months where below freezing temperatures are possible. 

A variety of grasses grow in the pools and around them, as is indeed noted by Húrin. 

Sedges  (slim sedge,  lesser pond sedge, lesser tuft sedge,  dioecious sedge )

rushes and spikerushes: common rush, chestnut rush, marsh spikerush, etc

reeds (purple small reed and other species of Calamagrostis)

,brook grasses (reed sweet grass,  and more are common. Mosses are also indicator of fen ecosystems, usually peat mosses. (compact bog moss, spiky bog moss, etc)

Other plants include bogbean, cross leaved heath, common sundew, marsh thistle, common alder, gray alder, marsh fern, bog pine and more. 

I can do a more in depth flora and fauna post if there’s interest!

#the silmarillion #the children of húrin #fen of serech #beleriand #musing and meta

[alysblog15]

Ok so hi guys, I wanted to start posting some writing on here because why not? I found this old start to a book I was working on so I just wanted some feedback on it I suppose (it’s really cheesy bare with me- it’s promit correct grammar too tbh).

Warning ⚠️: Blood, crime, country depression? Basically just basic detective type esc

The Window

The cold air whisked through the broken windows as she stared down at the man, the pool of blood spilling out from underneath him. She had been so close to grabbing him; but he took matters into his own hands and ended his life before she could end his so called “career”. As she stared down, feeling an almost sense of sympathy she heard a voice behind her “ Bernadette do not pay any respect to him, he was a terrible man who did even more terrible things.” She recognized the voice of her childhood best friend, Jaques, who she ended up working with, solving crimes around France. She looked up at him with a look of regret washed upon her face, what she felt it for she didn’t really know, but it was prominent. Jasques took in the look on her face and his gaze slightly softened, as he opened his arms welcoming an embrace. “ I know this unfortunately did not turn out how we anticipated but you can not blame yourself.” Bernadette looked up at him and nodded her head slightly, as if to agree yet not fully understand. They walked out hurriedly, in an attempt to leave before the officers arrived on the scene. Though they knew that there was a slim chance anything would even happen to them due to the lasting effects of the war- there was an increase in illegal activity yes, but the economy was in a shocking state prevailing the ability to continue to chase and hold. The country was completely devastated. But the two were unknown heroes in a sense, working an underground private investigating business. Hurrying through the streets as a cold hard rain pounded against the sidewalk. Entering their flat they took off their coats, hanging them next to the ticking stopwatch hanging on the wall. Bernadette slowly walks over to the window, staring out at the view of the Eiffel Tower through the soft falling snow, changing rapidly from the pouring rain just an hour before. She sighed, thinking about how peaceful it looked, an evil deception to what the world outside was actually like. She turned around and picked up her violin, releasing the strong emotions into the bow, letting a sad beautiful cry escape from the instrument. Jaques stared and quietly watched from the kitchen doorway, he loved her music; it was one of the only times she let herself be vulnerable and he aspired to keep it that way. In a sense that he could never be emotionally vulnerable himself but was always ready for anyone else. Eventually the cry stopped, as the sun set behind the clouds leading into the darkness of night. Bernadette crawled into bed that night, staring up at the ceiling and letting her mind wander the mountains of thoughts. Eventually drifting into a restless sleep leading deep into the depths of the night. She awoke quite early the next morning, grabbing her coat and practically running out the door. She walked along the snowy sidewalks as she stared at the people opening their shops for the day. Coming up on her usual spot something triggered in her brain telling her to turn back, but the curious urge was even stronger as she saw something sticking out of the snow. As she knelt down to pick it up she saw it was a singular cream glove. Stained with the maroon metallic scents of blood. She shoved it in her pocket and quickly turned on her heels, walking swiftly away feeling as if someone was staring her down. Hurrying to lock the door to her apartment; her heart pounding against her chest. Jaques steps out of his room, taking in the apparent fear on her face as she hurriedly walks over and closes the blinds. “Where were you, what happened?” he asks, the concern lacing his voice. Bernadette turns- piercing her eyes through him, staring off into nothing. “ I believe I found another case”. She pulls the glove out of her pocket and hands it to him. “ Where ever did you find this?” The surprise in his tone is relevant. “ I went for a walk and was going to my usual spot to sit and let my mind wander but I found this and got a bad feeling so I came back and-”

“ It’s alright, take a breath and slow down. We will figure out what’s happening. Now did you see anything else at the scene?” his voice cuts her off. “ No, I did not see anything else but when I was walking back this terrible feeling of dread washed over me as if I was being watched.”. Almost if it was on cue, a loud banging comes from the door followed by the doorknob rattling. The two look at each other in shock and run to the closet tucked in the corner of Bernadettes room and lock it; it was agreed months prior when they moved in that it was the safest place in the house. The crashing of the door being slammed open rings through the house. Deep voices could be heard from the living room, though not fully being able to make out what they were saying it clearly wasn’t good. One seemed to be more controlling and the leader, while the other was submissive and following the directions of the other. *Bang*, another loud crash echos. The voices grow loud and angry full of panic, soon fading away as they leave. Bernadette and Jaques exit the closet, going into the living room. Shock filled their faces as they took in the sight. The place was ransacked as if the men were looking for something extremely important. Bernadette’s breath catches in her throat as she looks over to the corner, where a small child’s glove lay. The same cream color as the one she found earlier, just smaller. As she takes a closer look she can see that the small glove is also coated in the shiny metallic coating of blood. Questions fill her mind as she finally takes in what has just happened. Why did they leave this here? Who are they? What do they want? Who’s blood is it? Were there multiple victims? As these race through her mind Jaques turns and sees what had broke, an old antique vase that they had for years. Along with that lay a note with an address on it, nothing else. “Well I think I have an idea of where we should start” he states, turning to face Bernadette, the horror still present on her face as she turns to face him holding the small bloody glove in her hand. “I believe anywhere to help would be a good idea just now” she says, serious and panicked.

- So there’s that, I know the separation is really awkward but it’s my first time ever doing this so I’m trying to figure it out 😭

#teen writer #idk what else to tag #idk what this is

[warsawmountain]

Church Janitor Shoplifter

An unexpected jolt of electricity, a rapturous rural light: Old books, used books, strange books, discarded books within strange, forgotten side streets of beguiling city. & above, drunken fireflies in night sky.

The first time my rubber-soled shoes squeaked down the marble-floored hallways, within the towering presence of downtown, an uncanny gravity

Fear my own making; vigilant for security @ corner stores located upon intersections chattering, buzzing Kensington streets.

Pink & yellow buildings brighten a passing stranger in a pastel scarf, and a deep, warm wind, God in the faces of the drunks walking along Macleod Trail

Nocturnal journeys, feet silently fall onto familiar cobblestone wander thru the winding back alleys, glittered w/ dumpsters trekking to the glow of the bookstores, stacks of volumes with colourful hardback covers, enticing written words waiting to be stolen.

slipping a slim volume of verse from a shelf, wrapping with my coat and scurrying,

In my pocket a pen taps away, beating a drum to a private rhythm: Pick useless locks, get around muted alarms, sneak unto the unheard,

Secret-coded language, take mental snapshots with a shopping trolley stuffed full of handouts & pamphlets thrumming with evangelical desperation.

On borrowed time, steps swift, in silent contemplation sharp, metallic; overpowering taste of fresh paper. The way the lights lit up the aisles, sounds of advertisements and ringing write-ups of new merchandise in the background.

Courage & daring in unexpected places, heavy vanilla incense & candle smoke, homecooked dinner & heady aromas wafted from kitchen windows sneaking away in suburbs.

The seed of faith, always within me, waiting to bloom. uncertainty in the swirling Chinook breeze sanctuary in the laughter of elementary children,

Rain-soaked pavement and burnt cigarettes fills my lungs, carried by the winds from the west. The sea to the west proudly tossing waves against the shore and sending foamy gifts inland to the city at my feet. urban creation in mid-autumn.

Scrub great stained glass window, illuminated the towering spires outside, golden slates upon the rooftops:

The endless rows of spruce trees, the Queen Elizabeth II Plaza bathed in neon lights, the Olympic Plaza filled with the nomadic two-step with bare-footed street dancers at midnight with a mechanical charm, shaking plastic cups and rattling rusty tambourines in rhythm.

Come morning, I wake to clean air, soft silk to the touch, muscles scrubbing, wiping, sweeping, the strangers heads bowed and hands clasped as they intone ancient hymns, and the knowing kindness in someone's gaze.

the sharp sting of the incense, the comforting warmth of the sun, the tolling of bells, and the voices of people in conversation.

The distinct smell of a thousand years of rites and rituals, inhaled an ancient air of stories and secrets with my brush and broom survey the full length of the cavernous space— the hovering gilt-bronze lamps at one end, a musty stairwell.

ceaseless stillness cloaking the building in ancient net. clean & restore the slowly-erased away— dusting the ancient coffins in crypts, polishing the old wood pews in sanctuary, hauling buckets of refuse into the alley. holy rites, an unknown agent unknowingly stumbled inside.

Between the last of the bars, a shimmering hundred foot torrent cascades down the side of a mountain a pool of cool, clear water.

Oil lamps hang, casting shadows against the rocky walls, engulfing w/ a warm amber hue.

Couples wade into the water, submerging in the cooling liquid baptism emerging, reborn, one can almost imagine.

At the end, evening tomorrow, ready to fill my pockets with all the poems I could possibly fit, to read and appreciate and maybe even understand. Take a step closer, drink sweet wordless water.

[blarrghe]

I. Wish to learn. About the inquisitors shiny cape

Been putting this off, sorry! So I drew some outfits/hairstyles for my Inquisitor a while ago and as I did a little ficlet popped into my mind for each and every one. This is the one for this art, in which the Inquisitor has a Shiny Cape.

(No guarantees on me finishing them any time soon, but psa that anyone can go ahead an request a ficlet for any of the other outfits, too...) --

Inquisitor Taren Lavellan swept into the room with a swoosh. A silvery blue cape swung about him as he stepped lightly across the woven rug that kept his feet from freezing on the floors of their chambers, high in a tower of the fortress Skyhold.

Their chambers, hidden away atop a mountain. Plenty of rabble and riffraff to deal with outside the fortress' walls and even just downstairs, but not behind those doors. It was actually official now, Josephine had made them sign something. And Dorian liked that, their chambers.

"Dorian," he hopped up to the place where Dorian lay lounging, leaning with a book across from a low-burning fire on a very comfortable Orlesian settee. Josephine had bought the settee during the Inquisitor's last lengthy foray into the field. She'd bought it because Taren had the habit of spending his free moments outside on a garden bench, and, in her words, "the poor dear was going to catch cold." Taren kissed Dorian on the cheek, and the brush of Dorian's skin with Taren's own cold cheeks as he did revealed that he had clearly not yet given up his habit of spending the majority of his sitting-and-thinking hours outside. "I have made a very exciting discovery," the Inquisitor declared.

Dorian closed his book and raised an eyebrow. "Oh?"

The Inquisior nodded, grinning. "First, be honest. How do I look?" he asked.

Dorian moved the book to his side and sat up, lifting from his leaning sprawl over the length of the short couch to swing his legs forward and work his eyes slowly up and down the length of Taren's body. "You look..." Dashing as ever. Roguish smile, unruly hair -- though a little more ruled than usual today. He'd braided some of it back and left the rest to curl. The cape, shimmering around him like silk threaded sky, brought out the deep moss green and spark of life in in his eyes. He gave it all a spin while Dorian considered, twirling in place like that braided cord carpet was the great hall of the winter palace. "Very nice, actually," Dorian smirked back at the Inquisitor's small slanted smile, a smile which always seemed ready to crack into laughter at any moment. "For what occasion are you all dressed up, my Lord Inquisitor?"

The Inquisitor dropped his cape, letting its shimmering liquid silk pool onto the floor. "I'm not," he said, smile widening to a grin. "Look at this shirt," he pulled a bit of fabric forward, away from his torso where it fell loosely and comfortably over his slim frame, "what do you think it's made of?" Dorian shook his head, and gave the fabric an obligatory pinch. It was fairly soft, though a little stiff to the touch, as though recently washed and sun-dried, dyed a faded pale green, loosely spun. "Linen," he answered. "Linen!" The Inquisitor beamed. "And these trousers?" He lifted and tucked away the ends of his tunic, the soft green linen shirt had obscured a pair of very ordinary trousers. A deeper green, tapering at the calves where simple leather ankle braces met his feet in the elvhen style of a barely-there sandal. Unremarkable, until he touched them. They were very soft, and upon closer inspection between his thumb and forefinger, subtly embossed. "Velvet," he noted, jealously impressed, "embossed with --" he leaned forward. He'd thought at first that the Inquisitor had managed to incorporate Dalish designs into his formal wear, as he did sometimes with his more casual ensembles -- when he paid his outfits any mind at all, that was. There was a shawl he liked, with ancient and fraying Dalish embroidery, a bag he stuffed to spilling that was decorated in careful beadwork. But upon closer inspection, the art on his current trousers was not Dalish at all, but Tevene. His pants were all spiralled in snakes. "Are you making a statement about me with velvet-embossed trousers?" "You noticed!" Dorian laughed, falling back against the cushions of the settee. "Who taught you that?" The settee, too, was upholstered in embossed velvet. Dorian suspected Josephine had known just with whom to place her orders. "You did," Taren answered, still grinning, "I listen when you talk." Dorian let out an amused snort. "No you don't," he teased, "I have more than once caught you napping." "I do!" The Inquisitor protested lightly in return. "And I noticed when you made one about me." "Oh?" "You always have a square of embroidered dales laden wool now, its worked into everything you wear." "Aha," Dorian flicked an eye once more across the Inquisitor's form before him, admiring his easy posture and simple ensemble of linens and velvets one more time before pulling him down into a seat, into his lap, into a seat on his lap with his happy green eyes sparkling into his from mere inches away. Splaying his fingers across the smooth velvet on his thighs, pulling him closer and feeling the give of his body through the thin linen of his shirt.

"Yes," he kissed him, quickly and with a proud smile. "That is about you. But you didn't need to notice that, amatus, it wasn't for you to notice. It is for the people who notice these things to notice. You don't need to become one of them." "Well, I listened when you talked, and now I notice things." The Inquisitor waggled his eyebrows playfully, "the things I wouldn't do for your love." "Madman." Dorian kissed him again, longer this time. Deeply.

"So, watch this," with a flush still in his cheeks, Taren sprang back up, away from Dorian's hold on the couch, and picked his cape gingerly from the floor. He gave it a shake, then threw it round his shoulders again and sealed it quickly at his collar with a simple silver clasp. "Fancy, right?" Dorian chuckled as he shook his head. "Your definition of fancy…" "I could meet dignitaries in this." "You could meet dignitaries." Taren crossed the room to a dresser, where he found a large Inquisitorial pin, heavy with its golden sword and flaming eye, and added it to his ensemble. "And now?" Dorian laughed again; it really did elevate the outfit. "The king of Ferelden," he said, "but if the Queen-Consort were to be present I'm afraid you'd need a couple more medals. She's real nobility and a national hero, after all." "I've met the king of Ferelden. You were there, remember?" Taren replied as he turned again to search through a small chest on the dresser, "we were both covered in blood and ichor. He didn't seem to mind. "Fine," Dorian agreed, still mildly chuckling through it, "I suppose with the right earrings, you could treat with the empress of Orlais in that outfit." Taren returned from the dresser holding up a pair of golden hoops to match his pin. "How about these?" "Mm, the winter palace should throw another ball." "See?" He returned the earrings and the pin carefully to their places, then returned again to Dorian. Taren flopped onto the seat himself this time, landing beside Dorian with his cape billowing about him in ripples like the lyrium shimmer of a barrier spell.

The look suited him in more ways than one. Outside of the walls of his fortress he dressed practically, but soft fabrics and shiny baubles brought out his eyes and smile in a way that rough leather and metal armour never would. Yet in the brief moments that he hadn't spent fighting, he'd only been picked apart -- from his ears to his lack of shoes. Skyhold had become a home, but a restrictive one. He'd never cared much about appearances, and Dorian had nothing but appreciation for that insistent rebellion, but even he had been guilty of talking his ear off on the necessity of style when his chambers had become theirs.

But he looked, now, like he belonged. On this couch, in these chambers, with his shimmering spell of a fancy cape and his entirely too comfortable clothes beneath. Comfortable and yet impressive, the confidence of a Herald and the heart of a healer. It was funny, in its own twisted way, that the Inquisitor was supposed to heal the world. Everyone said so, and Blight it he wanted to, but most of the time bringing about peace and healing was the farthest thing down on his long list of duties. The world needed its Herald, and Taren Lavellan was, miraculously, the best suited person Dorian could ever imagine for the job, biased though he was. And yet, never did the world seem to want him. Not as he was. Except right here, in their chambers. Taren leaned into him, shrugging from his cape and pushing it to one side until it was draped over an armrest, curling closer as he took up Dorian's discarded book. "All I need is a nice cloak and some shiny shit, and I can wear whatever I want and still look important," he rounded off the declaration of his important new discovery, beaming. "Mm, I don't know," Dorian plucked the book from his hands and tossed it to the armrest with his cape. "Personally I believe all of this would look better tossed on the floor." He began tugging on the tunic, loosening its laces at the collar, "and these look very important…" he dropped a soft kiss to the edge of his collar bone, poked a rougher one under the fabric at his shoulder. Taren laughed a tickled laugh, and pulled himself back around onto Dorian's lap, his too soft shirt already half lifted.

#my fic #my writing #dragon age fanfic #dragon age inquisition #dai fanfic #dai fanart #taren lavellan #dorian pavus #pavellan #a rare canon universe fic from me lmao #not me getting emotional about clothes....

[wandering-woodlands]

PREDATORS IN THE FOOTHILLS  ➳ Silvan Musings

“This is a foul land,” the Silvan elf spoke in a low voice, not wanting to disturb any creatures that may be lurking within the shadows.  The putrid smell of fire and brimstone overwhelmed her senses and was enough to make her sick.  The air itself was thick and hot, cloaked with ash that blocked out all light from the sun above, leaving any wandering traveler to question whether it was day or night.  With the impending mountainscape that surrounded them, it was nearly suffocating.

“Aye,” Erandir, a ranger from Esteldin and her current companion, agreed solemnly.  “Angmar is a dark place, Tauriel.  I fear we may be too late in our search for my brethren.

”Tauriel’s eyes narrowed as she looked outward across the desolate, rocky land.  Days had passed since the missing rangers set forth across the mountain borders and into Angmar, yet no word had reached Esteldin regarding the company’s status.  To Tauriel, the reality of the rangers remaining alive was slim and the shadow of doubt for their survival was etched in the features of her delicate face, as she could not help but agree with Erandir.  

“I hold the same fear as you, mellon nîn.” Despite her want for hope, the elf was unable to hide the hint of despair in her voice.  “There are far too many outposts and not enough cover for even the best of hunters to hide.  Creatures of darkness seem to lurk around every corner in wait.”  

Raising her gaze towards the sky, she nods with a lift of her chin.  Through the noxious gases that rose from the bubbling pools of the land, monstrous winged creatures dappled the smoky sky, emitting piercing screeches that travelled down and echoed off the rocks below. 

“This Darkness has watchers everywhere.  Even from the skies we are being hunted,” lowering her gaze back to the man once again, she gave him a foreboding shake of her head.  “There is no stealth gifted to any man to make it through Angmar undetected and we alone cannot face such a threat.”  Carefully, Tauriel lifted herself from the crouched position she held behind the dusty bolder.  “We must return to Esteldin and inform those willing to aid what we have witnessed here. Though, I do not know what forces could possibly match this.  This is an ancient and powerful evil, Erandir, and they are building an army for war.”

Following suit, Erandir stood, his hooded cloak masking much of his face.  “You are right, Tauriel.  We cannot venture further into Angmar alone.  We must make haste for Esteldin and continue to hope that if my brethren are alive, they remain safe and see themselves out of this accursed place.”

Fleet of foot, Tauriel gracefully climbed the rocky slopes of the mountainside, occasionally glancing behind to ensure her companion remained close by.  They had gambled much travelling so far into Angmar, and their trek out proved to be more laborious and dangerous than it had coming in.  Troops of Orcs marched in formation through the foothills, obscuring their path and causing the elf and ranger to detour from their original passage.  A simple, wrong turn led them directly in the line of the eyes of a scout.

It had been too late. Before Tauriel could lose a keen arrow through the darkness, the warg scout had thrown its head back and let out a deep howl, notifying a troop of orcs of their presence.  Stuck between the craggy and jagged rocks of the mountainside, there would be no escape.  The two would have to face down this threat alone and only by the grace of the Valar would they make it out of Angmar alive.    

#-- ➻ || silvan musings: predator in the foothills #angmar #drabble

[28northgroup]

The Island Issue

We are excited to welcome you to The Island Issue of GG Magazine. This new issue is all about the endless appeal of islands, featuring stories about individuals whose island lifestyles and enterprises never fail to inspire. From stunning boutique hotels and resorts to the vibrancy of cultures captured by world-renowned photographers, we welcome you to explore the stories that emulate the island dream.

In this issue, we meet serial entrepreneur Sir Richard Branson for the opening of his new boutique hotel “Son Bunyola” in Majorca. In an interview about dreams, pioneering spirit and the thirst for adventure, we learn the story behind his entrepreneurial spirit and “never-give-up” mentality. Following is a section exploring the work of legendary photographer Slim Aarons, who captured the glamorous lives of the upper class in the Mediterranean and the Caribbean, followed by a look inside the colorful Manhattan townhouse of John Demsey, former Group President of Estée Lauder, who was forced to start over in his mid-60s. Finally, discover the luxury resort known as the “Bawah Reserve” located in Indonesia, rewriting the definition of peace via seclusion.

Meeting Mr. Yes!

In the heart of Mallorca, a new chapter unfolds in the story of Sir Richard Branson, the intrepid founder of the Virgin Group and a connoisseur of adventure. With the unveiling of “Son Bunyola,” his latest venture, Branson beckons us into an extraordinary world where the narrative is as captivating as the landscape.

“Son Bunyola” stands as a beacon of luxury within the Tramuntana mountains, sprawling across a 520-hectare estate adorned with more than15,000 olive trees. Mallorca's essence is captured in every detail, from the meticulously selected décor to the furniture that echoes the island's soul, ensuring that the spirit of the Balearics pulsates through the veins of this majestic retreat. At its heart lies a 28-meter pool, born from ruins, symbolizing rebirth and the enduring allure of transformation.

Yet, it is Branson’s personal journey that imbues “Son Bunyola” with its unique allure. His journey, initially fueled by the pursuit of a lost love, ultimately led him to a different kind of passion—a love affair with Mallorca itself. While fate may not have granted him the romantic outcome he once sought, it gave him a profound appreciation for the island, its beauty, and its capacity to inspire.

Beyond the enchanting landscapes and luxurious amenities, “Son Bunyola” is a testament to Branson's life lessons—family, dedication, and the importance of patience. It embodies his belief that “The brave may not live forever, but the cautious do not live at all.”

For this article and more, you can get the full issue here. Enjoy your read.

#28northgroup #realestate #realestateadvisor #richard branson #home & lifestyle #lifestyle

[remisummerglow]

Airplane Crush (Prologue)

Isabel opened her eyes. She had fallen asleep for the best part of an hour, the drowsiness catching her indicating that her flight anxiety medication was working properly. Once she looked outside the window she was surprised to see how the landscape had transformed. No longer the plane was surveying the lush outlands of the Micro Province; the area they were flying over now displayed completely different proportions.

“Luke, look!” she called to her husband.

The young man held her hand and smiled. The woman couldn't help but stare, her mouth agape, at the gigantic landscape over which they seemed to progress so slowly. It created cognitive dissonance, as it seemed to her that they were flying at just a few dozen feet height, while in reality, they were at the peak height of the plane's trajectory.

“Right,” he said, amusedly. “This is your first time flying over Gigantha.”

“Uh-huh.” She turned over her husband. “And I really don’t like it. I wish we only passed through over Micro lands, even if that meant the flight was longer.”

She was shocked to peek outside the window to see the balcony of a five-story building. She saw a young woman smoking, leaning on the railings. The cigarette she was holding had to be as long as half their whole airplane. When she puffed out the smoke, it reminded her of a volcano eruption.

“Relax,” he said. “They know what they’re doing. I’ve been on these flights more times than I can count.”

“I can’t help but think we’re going to crash into one of these buildings,” she said.

He laughed. “It’s normal, I guess. You’ll get used to it.”

“I don’t think so,” she murmured, looking out concernedly. “I just wish we’d get out of here soon.”

He looked at his watch. “Well we still have four hours before landing, and I guess about a couple will have to be in Gigantha.”

She groaned. He laughed and put his arm around her waist.

“Luke?” she asked. “What’s with this noise?”

He sighed. “Sweetie, you’re just being paran...”

That’s when all hell broke loose, and their dream voyage instantly turned into a nightmare.

*

Rose was lying still on the long chair, soaking up the sweltering August sun on her tan slim body. She was enjoying a few lazy days of holiday at her vacation home before going back to the busy life of modeling. An opened book and a half–drunk cocktail were abandoned on the table beside her; she had placed her baseball cap over her face, closed her eyes, and stretched her legs out.

She was the type of woman who would get checked out anywhere she'd go, but she believed to be in the privacy of her home, where no indiscreet looks could bother her. She had no idea how many sets of eyes were glued to her body at that moment. Dozens of passengers from the micro plane were looking down at the sight of the statuesque, dazzling feminine body that seemed to expand for the length of a small town.

The majestic view kept the passengers holding their breath and was even capable of distracting the pilot, who was doing his best to find a suitable emergency landing spot. He wanted to avoid to land on the floor, to minimize the risk of the plane being stepped on, so he was hoping to land on the small table next to Rose’s chair.

Gabby was standing in the middle of the pool when she noticed it. She saw the tiny object gliding right over Rose, just half a meter over her friend’s head. She raised her sunglasses to take a better look. It really looked like a tiny plane was floating inside her friend’s courtyard. “Bizarre," she thought, as she walked toward the side of the pool to get a closer look.

From the tiny people’s point of view, Rose looked like she was sleeping, though they couldn’t tell for sure as she was wearing sunglasses. Her body was perfectly still, and her tight figure displayed an excellent level of fitness. Her pearly white bikini contrasted with the darker color of her tanned skin, and her large round tits, which looked like mountains on their own, were only partially covered by the triangular shape of her bra and chunks of her long dark blonde hair.

“We’re going to land in that woman’s house?” Isabel wondered. “Is she even going to notice us?”

“Babe, she looks like a nice girl. I’m sure she’ll help us once she discovers us,” said Luke.

“I’m sure she looks nice to you, huh?” dryly responded Isabel.

“C’mon sweetie, this is not the moment for jeal...”

Their conversation was interrupted by a sudden and unexpected collision. Rose had swung her arm to place her hand in front of her mouth as she was about to lazily yawn.

As she raised her arm, the trajectory of its swing hit the little plane. She only barely touched it with the side of her little finger, but the blow and the air displacement troubled the pilot, who was forced to rethink his landing strategy. Having lost some altitude from the consequences of the impact, landing on the table was now impossible. The pilot was forced to descend into the pool, hoping to land safely in the middle of the body of water.

Gabby could see the plane heading towards her. She was now on the pool steps, her feet the only part of her body still underwater. The minuscule plane stopped its flight in front of the giant woman, landing in the water right between the twin towers of her legs. The blonde bent down so she could grab it.

The passengers screamed as the gigantic blonde lifted the plane in the air at a speed that they could barely sustain. Many were injured as they were thrown to a height of over 2000 feet in the space of a second. Gabby held the plane in front of her eyes, holding it between her index and thumb’s fingertips. The white object was about five inches in length and looked exactly like a miniaturized commercial aircraft. "Rose? Look at this,” she called to her friend.

“Are- Isabel, are you ok?”

“I think so”, said the woman in a shaken voice. Despite the drastic changes in pressure and the impact the plane had just survived, the passengers seemed to be alright.

“I’m not sure what happened but…”

Screams erupted again as the plane was subjected to another swift change in pressure. People turned to the windows and recognized one of the giantesses from before looking in their direction.

“She’s seen us!” said Luke.

“She’s going to help us now, right?” Isabelle cried.

Gabby was impressed. The plane looked so realistic. From the engines to the wings to a set of itty bitty windows, everything looked like a perfect scale reproduction of a real plane. The company logo, written in minuscule letters, said "MicPro Air”. She had never heard that name, but in her mind it made sense a toy wouldn’t use the name of an actual company.

Leaving the empty glass on the table where the plane was supposed to land, Rose got up from her long chair and walked towards the pool. She looked at her friend holding the little plane and sent her a confused look.

“It flew inside the yard, I saw it gliding over you, then it landed on the pool,” Gabby explained.

“Must be some kid's toy," Rose hypothesized.

“It looks very realistic for a kid’s toy,” Gabby said.

Rose shrugged. “We’re in a pretty wealthy neighborhood,” she explained. “Makes sense that they would have an expensive version.”

“What if it’s a drone? Maybe from some creep trying to spy on us?” Gabby asked.

“Could be,” said Rose. “Or some paparazzi.”

“Or some stalker obsessed with you,” chuckled Gabby.

“Why me? It could be you the stalker’s obsessed with,” Rose rebutted.

“You’re way more famous,” Gabby quipped.

“Maybe he’s a niche stalker,” joked Rose. “Or maybe he’s really into those monsters of yours,” she said. Gabby giggled. Her body was all around exceptional: she was a tall, slim woman, but her most famous features were definitely her gravity-defying tits, currently being sustained by an overworked bikini top.

“Well, hiii, Mr. Stalker,” Gabby waved at the plane, smiling at it as if it really carried a camera.

“Wait, look at the text on the side,” said Rose. “MicPro Air?”

“What’s that supposed to mean? Maybe it’s the brand of the toy.”

“I’ll look it up,” Rose said as she grabbed her phone.

As the woman ran the name through the search engine, Gabby saw a serious look develop in her eyes. “What did you find out? It’s a stalking device after all?” she anxiously asked.

“Gabby, it says here it’s an actual air company,” said Rose, adjusting the baseball cap on her head.

"Okay…? Then does that mean it’s a reproduction?”

“Nope, I don’t think so,” Rose explained. “Their planes are meant to be this size.”

Gabby chuckled. “Huh? And what’s the point of an airplane that small?”

“The same as every airplane!” Rose revealed. “It’s an airplane from the Micro Province!”

Gabby opened her mouth in surprise. “Oh! MicPro… Micro Province… figures!” She looked as if she remembered something. “Wait, I read the news on the phone once!” she recalled, “They had found an agreement to let their planes fly in our skies!”

“So,” Rose said, intently watching the plane in Gabby’s hand “this may be an actual plane full of real microscopic people?”

Gabby’s eyes widened. “You really think…”

“Let’s go inside,” Rose said. “I have some magnifying lenses we can use.”

Full story:

https://books2read.com/u/boX5dL

https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B0CRBMY2TK

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0CRBMY2TK

#size k!nk #macrophilia #giantess #giant women

[casspurrjoybell-23]

Berserkr - Chapter 5 - Part 1

*Warning Adult Content*

Midnight Canvas

Tiny specks of dust floated, captured in thin rays of daylight and reflecting like stars before they finally found respite atop the button nose of the omega who lay, bundled deep beneath a mountain of furs.

Multicolored eyelids twitched, chasing after dreams.

Although the barn loft was quiet... the sound of soft, sleepy breaths and the occasional huff of the horses below the only indication that it bore any semblance of life... the rumble and clang of faraway movement gradually roused Valie from the pacifying depths of slumber.

Mismatched eyelashes fluttered, full lips stretching into a small oval as he yawned, squirming back to life beneath the warm furs.

His dreams had been licorice sweet, filled with flickerings of delight as the sky morphed into a tapestry of Tofa's bright, blue eyes, pinched up in the corners with joy.

Valie had held his arms out in that dream, soaking himself head-to-toe in the immortal light that dripped from his friend's eyelashes like tears.

Tears like mercy. Tears like forgiveness.

It was with a heavy heart that Vali eventually managed to tear himself from the abstract farewell and crack his own eyes open, blinking a few times to clear the weary fuzziness that had settled over them throughout the fitful night.

His face was still tight with the remnants of salty tears when late morning trickled through the hay loft, hazy lines of light crisscrossing the floor from the places where the wallboards bowed away from one another.

The meager space was still filled with the same few knickknacks and necessities he'd spied the previous night, although it didn't take more than a moment for his senses to pick up on the fact that a particular something.

Better yet, a particular someone, was absolutely nowhere to be found among them.

Pushing up onto his arms, Vali shivered when the furs fell, pooling around his waist and exposing his skin to the nip of chilled air.

The Omega drew in a deep, calculating breath through his nostrils.

The scent of Alpha was caked into each strand of the soft bedding surrounding him, as if the large man had remained there, beside him, for the entirety of the night.

But it was somewhat stale now, muted and dull as it swirled through his sinus cavities.

Where could he have gone?

Valie found himself contemplating, puzzlement only deepening once mismatched eyes settled on the rusty hook from which the man's giant bearskin still hung.

Certainly, its presence meant that he must not be far... right?

The call of an impatient bladder interrupted his diffident musings.

Valie scurried his way out of the tangle of furs, yanking at his britches as he made a beeline for the chamber pot, the wooden pail still tucked away in the same corner it'd been the night before.

With a sigh of relief, he quickly handled his business and tied himself back up before turning around to ascertain a better view of the room, now with the assistance of intermittent daylight that trickled in.

Someone less perceptive would certainly have overlooked it but on a spot high up on the wall... far exceeding what Valie's short form could possibly reach on his own... a loose wallboard tapped against the ones around it, wind jostling it around in its spot.

The Omega immediately took interest.

It took almost all of his might to tow the heavy, dusty old trunk that had somehow escaped last night's survey of the loft to the perfect spot.

But he was immediately rewarded for his efforts when he hopped atop it with a small grunt, pushed up onto his tiptoes and slid his fingers up against the loose spot.

It slid up with a quiet creak, hinging on the nail that still attached it to the other wallboards on one side, and Vali craned his neck, peeking through the slim crack as if it were a portal to the outside world.

Billows of grey smoke rose on the horizon and although the village was a few minutes walk from where he currently resided, Valie could still distinctly make out the milling of bodies around what looked to be a town square, laboring diligently at whatever tasks they were busied with.

Multiple structures littered the giant clearing, some clearly more well-kept than others.

But one in particular caught the Omega's eye more than any of the rest.

It was a gigantic abode, almost larger than life itself as it towered over the clearing like a tombstone, shrouding much of the ground around it in shadow.

Intricate designs were carved into almost every inch of the wood that made up its sturdy walls and the roof was a beautifully manicured thatch, trimmed into impeccable, harsh corners that looked sharp enough to cut.

Vali could clearly make out the rune carved deep into the front door, one so large that even an inexperienced reader such as he could make it out as the letter 'G.'

His eyes widened from behind the opening in the wallboard.

The structure was beautiful, a display so grandiose that Valie could barely even comprehend that what he was witnessing was actually real.

In fact, as he allowed his eyes to drink in more of its hyper-symmetrical magnificence, the sight seemed to evolve into one that seemed a little too perfect, so much so that it left an ice chip sliding down his back, injecting an unsettling tingle at the base of his arched spine.

Valie sunk back down onto flat feet with a harrowing breath, allowing the wallboard to slide back into place and resume its endless tap, tap, tapping at the boards adjacent.

Eager to shake the confusing and undeniably troubling sensation that he'd come awash with during his mini-expedition, Valie carefully slipped down off of the trunk and instead turned his attention toward the very first thing that his eye caught next, the leafy drawings that obscured the floorboards where they lay underneath the hand-drawn map he'd noticed the night before.

Valie couldn't help but feel as if he were intruding into the Alpha's personal thoughts, like he was about to break into the man's private diary as he approached the spot.

But a profound wave of curiosity drove him onward, sinking to his knees as one brown and one milky white eye scanned the items before him.

There were probably around fifty large leaves scattered around the area, most of which were filled with charcoal drawings ranging from fearsome animals to one which Valie immediately recognized as an excruciatingly detailed depiction of the same village he'd glimpsed through his peephole.

But by the time he got around to the last few drawings, Valie's eyes were shining with delight, head twisting this way and that as he excitedly drank in the sheer beauty that the Alpha had managed to capture on his leafy canvases.

A giggle lifted from his lungs when he spied an adorable bunny drawn onto the second to last leaf that he held in his palm, the drawing so detailed that for a moment, the Omega even considered that it may jump right off of the page and into his waiting arms.

Eventually, once he finally managed to tear his gaze from the adorable little creature, Valie carefully set the leaf aside, only for his breath to catch once his gaze shifted to the lone leaf left in his palm.

Fingertips stained with dark charcoal traced the familiarly unfamiliar image, lungs locking up, pulse thudding louder than a drum in his ears.

The distinct softness of his sleeping features were captured in an unmistakable parallel to life itself, curls wavy, nose arched and lips just as full as he knew them to be whenever he had an opportunity to glimpse his own reflection in the freshwater creek back home.

It was as if the Alpha had managed to seize a single moment in time and paste it onto the leaf with remarkable accuracy, giant hands nimble as he manipulated the charcoal so delicately.

And somehow... by seeing himself through the Alpha's eyes... for the very first time in his life, dare he say... Valie felt pretty.

A shaky smile spread across dark red lips as he continued to caress the found treasure, fingertips stuck there as if they'd been glued to it.

But sooner than should ever be allowed, the distinct creaking of straining wood demanded his attention.

Einar's head ascended above the floorboards just as Vali's swiveled toward the source of the new sound.

The Alpha had already pushed aside the deerskin blocking the landing, yet another wooden bowl held in a wide palm.

For a moment, neither did anything as they simply indulged in the sight of one another, barely noticing the lapse in time that would have otherwise been considered awkward.

Einar's hair was down from its usual bun, spilling out onto taut, broad shoulders that led up to the same handsome, chiseled face that made something strange flutter to life, resonating like a scream within the cavernous pits of Valie's restless stomach.

A few unruly plaits weaved through the Alpha's dirty blonde tresses and the Omega's fingers itched to work their magic against his scalp, to weave those neglected strands back into a new glory.

Meanwhile, Vali's own curly hair was effortlessly tousled from his night of tearful sleep, forming such a celestial halo around his face that it made Einar burn with the desire to fall to his knees in worship.

The Alpha's free hand gripped the side of the ladder enough to splinter the wood, forcing back the desire to tangle his fingers into those waves, just to see how downy the white and black strands surely must surely feel against his own, war-torn skin.

Valie's eyes shifted back to the final leaf that he held in his palm, and Einar's blue-eyed gaze followed closely behind.

"Your drawings are lovely."