#ragged stone hill

[maypoleman1]

29th November

Ye Olde Trip To Jerusalem

The Old Trip To Jerusalem interior. Sources: Mario Sanchez Prada/ Flickr/ Dusty Old Thing website

On this day in 1330, Roger de Mortimer was allegedly apprehended by the King’s soldiers hiding in a cellar of The Trip To Jerusalem inn in Nottingham. Mortimer, lover of Queen Isabella, had conspired with her to depose and murder her husband King Edward II. The pair ruled as regents for Isabella’s and Edward’s young teenaged son until the prince attained the age of 17 after which he rallied the support of the nobility and overthrew the usurpers. Mortimer was sent to the gallows and the new King Edward III pensioned off his mother to live in exile in the country. Roger’s tavern hiding place is still known as Mortimer’s Hole. Ye Olde Trip To Jerusalem continues to do business and is held to be the oldest pub in England. The name is supposed to derive from the fact that East Midlands crusaders would down ale there on their way to the Holy Land.

There is a cursed hill in the Malverns known as Ragged Stone Hill, under whose shadow you must never lie. The unfortunate Cardinal Wolsey once fell asleep under the hill’s shadow and believed he was cursed from that day on. Perhaps the curse was fulfilled when Wolsey fell foul of his patron King Henry VIII when he failed to arrange the king’s divorce from Catharine of Aragon and died on this day in 1530 en route to his trial for treason and probable execution.

#Roger de Mortimer #king Edward II #queen isabella #king Edward III #the old trip to Jerusalem #ragged stone hill #cardinal wolsey

[everythingelseisextra]

First Time

Part Ten: Stand Your Ground

Description: After being discharged from the hospital, you and Tommy visit the racetrack. Warnings: Language, brief mention of rape/trafficking Word Count: 2506 Tag List: @ttaechi @theshelbyslimited @weaponizedvirtue @majesticcmey @optimisticsandwichgladiator @zablife @princesssterek @mm0thie @callsignvenus @babayaga67 @shelbydelrey @globetrotter28 @look-at-the-soul

Days turn into weeks turn into a month. As always, you wake before dawn and start your work up in that subliminal time between night and day, simultaneously both and neither. Your work drives you through the day. Eleven horses, each with different needs, different sensitivities, different opinions, and you, the center of their lives. You care for them accordingly. You don’t get days off or breaks, don’t get the chance to catch your breath, to relax, until dusk, when the cab rolls into your driveway to pick you up. You climb in, smelling of horse and sweat and hay, and rest your head back, eyes on the road ahead of you.

The darkening city flows past you, fluid in the falling night, and something like nostalgia washes over you. You remember the girl you loved, her pale green eyes like the hills that surround your home, her naked body trembling next to you, your exhausted bones leaning against each other for support. It was a broken sense of togetherness that came from a godless place, from being surrounded by cruelty and twisted minds. You found each other, and you helped each other, but in the end, you couldn’t save her. Only avenge her. You remember, before you could define the feelings that boiled inside of you, a sense of home, of feeling exactly in place with her, even though your circumstances were unnatural. 

Love, you think, is like most other predators. It tries to warn you before it bites. 

Before you’ve pieced the ragged bits of yourself back together, you’re walking into the hospital and nodding to the woman at the front desk. She knows you now, knows your alliance, knows the only person you ever visit, so she doesn’t have to ask. You reach his room and knock, receiving the answer to come in.This is his last day in the hospital, and the routine you’ve made is about to end, and neither of you will allow the elephant in the room to speak. And you sit and talk, mostly you, with his quiet eyes watching you with a glint inside of them, tracing the outline of your face, memorizing you. There are some days where he talks, and you listen, and you learn about his war in France, and the battles he endured, and how no one wins war, they just survive it. You learn more about Grace, about Campbell, about the guns and the horses. Tommy tells stories as though you’re sitting by fireside, with the flickering gold and orange light on your faces, an aura fending off the darkness, and evokes a life to his words that you’re not used to. You find yourself hanging on each phrase, completely under his spell. 

Sometimes, there’s a holiness to your conversations, your words quiet and respectful, as if so precious that even the air could damage them. Other times, you’re revelrous, and laughter echoes up through the stone walls and bounces around off the slanted ceiling. Days like this lead to nights full of half-reluctant, half-exuberant movement; tossing and turning, standing up to pace, toying with the knife that lies between you, belonging to both of you and neither of you, now. You spend your days working and spend your nights with a comrade against the battle of loneliness, and for the first time in your life, you feel balanced. 

But, days like today, where you’re quiet and reserved, lead to careful, quiet nights. You lay in bed and stare at his bare back across from you. Even though your fear has diminished, he still insists on starting off facing away from you, out of some form of respect, giving you something like privacy. The night curls in around you, chilly and peaceful, and your eyes trace the graceful curve of his back. You allow time to pass, and, when you’re brave enough, you speak.

“Tommy?”

“Yeah?” He responds still facing away from you, but his head tilts upwards, glancing over his shoulder at you. 

“I’ve been thinking about how things change.” You start out slow, then your words cascade out of you, speeding up as you go. “I’ve been thinking about how I used to think I was a terrible person. For loving another girl and for being a victim and for killing a man. I used to think that I had no reason to go on, because I had nothing but skin and bones and muscle and even that didn’t always belong to me. Now I know I was never terrible, I was just fifteen and terrified. Now I think I’m terrible for other reasons. 

“I have this body that doesn’t love me and has never saved me. I have this body that was used against me for years. And I am sorry I was born with it. But I didn’t used to be. When I had her, I used to want to be a body for her. I used to want to give her my shoulder to cry on, used to want to hold her hand as she walked me to the next hotel room or alleyway or basement, used to want to cradle her in the dark. I was thinking about her and it made me realize my body isn’t just for sex, or being abused. But, these days, all I do with it is work. And that made me think of you. Because what’s the point if it’s just work? What’s the point if you’re still being pushed to the brink, even when you’re not supposed to be?”

He’s quiet for a moment before he speaks. “Why are you telling me this?”

“Because I don’t want to keep autopsying the body of who I used to be. I want to take this new shape and run with it. I— I want to be, unapologetically, without being held back by the fear of scarring myself again.” You take a deep, shuddering breath. “And I want— I want to do this.”

Slowly, with the awkward tenderness of someone who’s forgotten what it’s like to touch another person, you move towards him, hesitant, and lightly drape your arm over his side, so nervous that you barely touch him. 

He takes a short breath, then his hand reaches up to take yours and gently pulls you closer. Your lungs seize and you fight the urge to pull away. Instead, with a streak of bravery you didn’t know you had in you, you bury your face in his back and tighten your hold, almost clinging to him. His bare skin is warm against you, soft and unburdened, not like yours. His hand stays resolutely over yours. 

You stay like that, fighting with yourself, talking back to the fear in your mind that tells you he’ll take it too far. You know he won’t. You trust that he won’t. You will break the habit of being afraid. You will face the gargantuan monster of your past and insist that you will not become it. 

A lump forms in your throat. Your heart beats hard against your chest, and you think he can probably feel it against his back. He’s warm. He’s holding you and asking you for nothing else. His hand tightens around yours, then relaxes, a silent communication; I am here. It’s been years. Only the sun has been this close to you. Only the sun. You close your eyes and a tear rolls out, and you don’t understand it but you think it’s relief. 

“Don’t need to force your—”

“I’ve been thinking,” you say, voice slightly choked. “About what you said. About not having enough time.” 

“And what have you been thinking?” His words are soft, gentle. 

“I think that that makes this more valuable. We’ll never be here again. We’re just a moment, and then we’re gone.” You press your forehead against his back, closing your eyes. “And that’s comforting, isn’t it? We matter so much that we don’t matter at all.” 

“I don’t want to be a moment. I don’t want to be limited.” 

You smile faintly. “Thomas Shelby will live forever, won’t he?” 

“Maybe.” 

“Maybe I will, too. The horses and you and I. Maybe there’s some kind of forever there.” 

There’s a smile in his voice. “You’re dreaming.”

“Yeah, well, I never got to before.” Your breathing evens out, the lump in your throat begins to dissipate. “This is my first time.”

A few days later, you stare at the open stall in your barn, the weak morning light seeping slowly through the rafters. You cross your arms, then turn and head to your house, pushing the door open and going straight to the phone. 

He picks up almost right away and you smile to yourself. “Hey, you up for an outing?” 

“Where?” 

“I still need to keep my promise to you, and I have an open stall.” In your mind, you’re begging him to say yes. You got used to seeing him daily, to spending your nights with him, and you’re starved of his attention. 

“You want to do that today?” 

“Are you doing anything else?”

He sighs. “Charlie asked for me this morning. Not Grace. For the first time.”

You nod. “Spend time with your son. There’s always tomorrow.” 

“Tomorrow morning, then.” 

“I’ll see you then. Bye, Tom.” 

“Goodbye.” 

The rest of the day passes agonizingly slowly, and you sleep badly that night, finding yourself in the hazy half-dream state of sticky thoughts and flashing images. You’re grateful when the morning comes, when you can rise and head out in the brisk air to feed your horses. They’ll get the day off from work, a rare treat for them. You’re almost done with their grain when Tommy’s car rumbles towards you. You nod at him, then continue your work. He steps out of the car and comes towards you, head slightly bowed to avoid the fresh brightness of the morning. You look him over once, noting that he’s back to being constantly impeccably dressed, back to the mask of professionalism. 

“You need help?” 

“No,” you chuckle. “I’ve got it. Thanks, though.” 

He watches you as you walk from stall to stall, dumping the grain into the corner bins, the horses calling to you as you approach. 

When you return, his eyes flick over your face, shadowed by his cap. “You spoil them.” 

“I do.” You walk past him, heading towards the car. “They’re the only thing between me and the world, of course I spoil them.” 

He tsks, following you. “Not the only thing.” 

“No?” You glance back at him as you open the passenger door and slip inside. 

“No.” 

You nod vaguely, something like pride welling up in you. “Good to know.” 

He sits down beside you and starts the car, deftly maneuvering out of the craggy driveway. “Pol wants to meet you.”

You let out a short breath. “How fucked am I?”

A small smile appears on his lips. “Depends on the kind of mood she’s in.”

“I can handle a thousand pound animal, but I assure you, I won’t be able to get a word out when she talks to me.” You shake your head. “At least she’s not a man.”

“It would be a tragedy for you to meet a man.”

You grin and look over at him. “Devastating.” 

The rest of the car ride continues in the same manner. You reach the racetrack with a smile on your lips. You’re closer to the city, and the air leaves a residue on your skin, faint smog in every breeze. After you park, you lead the way inside, keeping your head down and on a swivel, and your attention on everything around you. Tommy follows close behind you, his hands in his coat pockets, shoulders back and head held high. You feel safer with him around, braver, more willing to glance up and acknowledge the people around you.

Under the arching gates, you walk into the general area of the racetrack. On either side of you, standards sit sentinel, completely empty, almost ghostlike in the overcast gray. Tommy pauses for a moment, and you notice him take a deep breath, his hands moving slightly in his pockets, flexing and clenching. 

“What?” You stop, turning to look at him. 

He shakes his head, a small movement. “Last time I was here…” 

“You don’t have to tell me.” You step back to stand by his side. “There’s barely anyone here. We’ll be alright. I’m keeping an eye out, too. You’re not on your own.”

He glances at you, then inclines his head, suggesting you move on. You start walking, and this time, he falls into step with you, side by side. 

You reach the stables. You pull one of the workers aside, and, as quietly as you can, explain who you are. She nods, says she’s heard of you, and goes to retrieve her supervisor to bring some horses out. 

There’s a lull. You glance at Tommy. His eyes wander around the track, catching on the wooden standards, the makeshift bathrooms not far off, then to the entrance of the stables. 

You nudge him with your elbow. “Where’s your mind going?”

“Nowhere good.” He looks down at you, blue eyes searching. “Why?”

“What do you mean, ‘why?’” You chuckle. “It matters to me where you’re at. I can tell you’re drifting off somewhere.” 

“I am.” His eyes flick to a few horses, tucked-up waists and gleaming coats, being led towards you. 

“Just… try to be here. With me. Don’t go running off to play with the dead while you still have living to do.” 

He nods, then gestures at the horses. “Let’s take a look.”

There’s a sleek black gelding with a star and four socks, flashy and brave, according to his handlers. He has a bone chip and would require surgery, which you can afford. There’s a bay mare with kind eyes and a blaze, with a deep tissue wound in her stifle, with a daisy-cutter trot and swift, clean legs. You see Tommy’s eyes narrow slightly when a small gray stallion is brought out, pink nose and pale body glistening. He stands with his head and tail up, alert and watchful. He broke his leg, they say, but stayed standing, not so severe as to shoot him on the spot. 

“That one has spirit,” Tommy murmurs as they walk him past. 

“Stallions tend to.” You look up at him, trying to read his expression. “The gelding would be the safer choice. Bone chips are easy.” 

“They’ll shoot him if you don’t take him.” 

You nod vaguely, eyes traveling over the compact white horse, getting an idea of conformation, of sturdiness. Then, your eyes fall on a man at the entrance of the racetrack, and your blood goes cold. You waver on your feet and Tommy looks down at you, confused. You grab his arm to steady yourself.

“We have to go.” Your breath hitches in your throat, your lungs contract, and you pant like a dog. “Please, Tom, we have to go now.”

#peaky blinders #tommy shelby #peaky blinders x reader #thomas shelby #peaky blinders imagine #peaker blinders fandom #peaky blinder imagine #thomas shelby x reader #tommy shelby x reader #tommy shelby imagine #tommy shelby fanfic #thomas shelby x y/n #thomas shelby imagine #thomas shelby fanfic #peaky fucking blinders #peaky blinders fanfic

[oncewhenalongtimeago]

Sorry, but I Think I Lost Your Plot pt 8

Pairing: Onesided!Hiccup Horrendous Haddock III x Modern!Fem!Reader

Words: 1,794

Hiccup learns. Or, well, he tries. And then he doesn’t.

Tags: Time Travel, Reader into Movieverse, the earth is round, the earth is flat, quiet moments pt 2, Changewings

<Previous - Next>

“Chores?”

“Yeah, you know, fetch water, deliver parts and do laundry. Clean carts, a bit of herding on the side, I wash down dragons sometimes for a few extra coins. Plus doing all of my stuff,” You picked at the sleeves of your tunic then decided better of it.

“Your stuff.” Hiccup stated.

“Laundry, clean out the hay in the barn, cook, repair the shed, which is really nasty by the way, I hate it, something’s always wrong. Like that.”

“That’s… A lot. And you’re not getting paid? For all of it?”

“Yeah. I am, I mean. I get food and board. Coin, I only get that sometimes. The stables get kind of chilly in the winter, otherwise it’s alright.”

Hiccup looked at you oddly, “No, no, it really is not. You live… in the stables.”

Most Vikings even across clans would take the time to hunker down together during the winter, especially during the devastating season even if they hadn’t yet gotten to the point where everyone had to be ushered into the Great Hall together. You knew at least that much, which was maybe why it came across as odd to Hiccup.

“I mean, yeah? I don't see you getting paid for working in the forge.” You shrugged.

“I guess, well, point, but also I get to build what I want with whatever I want. Which can get kind of… expensive.” You nodded. That made sense enough.

“Well, I guess it is what it is. I can’t really be picky, you know.”

You were both sitting on the hill in front of his house. He’d caught you in between jobs somehow. You always seemed to be busy.

There were a few Vikings below putting effort into rebuilding 

“This is really comfy,” You sighed. While making a delivery for the Chief, Hiccup had come by and the two of you had stumbled into each other, getting whatever he had in his arms spilled all over onto your shirt and sizzled a bit.

It probably had something to do with the cleanup going on. You were just glad you cleaned up fast enough to avoid getting burned.

“It’s my favorite,” He said.

“Really?” You sat with your knees up to your nose, arms wrapped around your trousers, which were salvageable, though your skirt was not. Your arms were donned in red fabric of a familiar shade, which was extremely comfortable despite its scratchy exterior.

“You gave it to me, so…” Hiccup shrugged his shoulders oddly. He avoided looking in your eyes as he spoke.

“That’s awfully flattering.” You said kindly. You could tell why it was. Or maybe you were just extra thankful to be in something dry. Whatever Hiccup had been carrying was very sticky and hard to scrub off, which you had a ball doing, hidden away behind a curtain in their home with a small wash bin and rag. 

You spent the whole time in a rush hoping that Stoick wouldn’t come back early and catch you in the nude, or something, despite the irrationality of it. That would be incredibly embarrassing.

“I’m sure,” Hiccup nodded his assent fiddly, before he gestured with his hands, laughing awkwardly, then staring down at his own knees, “But, you know. So, what brings you up here?” 

You yawned, resting your hand over your mouth, “Well… Package for the Chief, mostly. Also, I wanted to say thank you.”

“Thank you?”

“For helping me out, earlier. I would have died, you know.”

There was some drama earlier, a Dragon attack that had something to do with lucky stones, which you didn’t have a lot of time for. 

You paused running, probably not a very smart move, as you spotted a small group on the other side of the clearing standing far enough apart for you to watch and ogle as someone who you thought was Tuffnut pet the base of a fire tower.

“Oh, well,” Hiccup said, scratching his neck, “It was nothing.”

Hiccup was the one who got you out of the way in time. To not die. You owed him another favor, you guessed. You sighed.

In the time it took for either of you to come up with something new to say, Toothless came and lumbered in from the back. You’d seen him wander off there earlier. He probably spent a lot of time out when he wasn’t stuck like glue to Hiccup’s side. Berk was going through a very rare and treasured heat spell, which the dragons were very much taking advantage of.

“What do you think about?” Hiccup asked, leaning backwards.

You blinked at him, and at the set of bandages peeking out from under his green tunic.

“Not much. What I’m going to do later, what’s for dinner. I think about home sometimes. And… The world is round,” It was a bit random. Admittedly, You usually avoided talking about future your-world things, but you had gotten into a tizzy over a few things earlier with one of the Vikings by the fields. Maybe you were feeling a little peckish about it still.

“What?”

“Yeah.”

“But…”Hiccup raised his eyebrow, squinting quizzically, “The world isn’t round.”

This world, apparently, did not operate on cartoon physics. It would have been a really cruel joke on you if it had, you thought, You double checked. It was just the people. So there was no reason as to why they shouldn’t be able to get it.

“You’re kidding, right? Come on, Toothless.” 

Toothless deadpanned at him, turning around to walk away, his tail ending up smacking Hiccup in the head and arms as he made an effort to protect his face.

“Oh, wow, great, thanks, Bud.”

Hiccup squinted, and waved his arms at his dragon, mock brushing him away.

“See? He agrees.” You grinned.

Hiccup turned to look at you, “That’s my best friend, if you would believe it.”

“Are you sure about that?” You sniped, “Because I’m not so sure about that.”

“I can tell.” He deadpanned, shrugging playfully.

You shook your head. There were more important things to be talking about. Like…

“I don’t understand how you guys fly around all the time and you still don’t know the earth is round,” You snickered.

“It’s not,” He insisted, “Flying wouldn’t change that.”

“It would!” You insisted, “It’s all about perspective.”

You shook your head as one of a pair of vikings down below dropped a large log from his shoulder, causing it to roll off and back towards the other houses.

“You’re up in the air, or somewhere up high, really, and you see that the horizon line is round.” You’d been up to Gothi's enough to be sure, “It’s like when you look really close at a ball or something. And the ball is spinning a lot. It’s physics. Science.”

“What kind of science? The Thorston kind? I find it hard to believe, if that’s the case.”

At some point, you realized that, despite it all, he didn’t actually know a lot about you. Where you came from, what your family was like, if you had one. What you liked to do. You really did have to explain.

You wrinkled your nose at his sarcasm, ignoring it as you decided to go on, “The world is really heavy. Like I said, it also spins. Like when you sit on something soft and it sinks. It works like that for both the top and bottom. It’s Gravity.” You used the English word for it.

There was a thump on the roof above you as a flock of Terrors landed by your feet. Probably one from the group. They tended to spin out of control often, especially if it was breezy out.

“It’s common knowledge where I come from,” You said, 

“Is it?” Hiccup squinted, as if he was seeing you in a whole new light. A whole new, mental light, “Well, I don’t know about the whole round thing, but- What next, are you going to tell me that the sun revolves around Midgard?”

“Also yes,” You interjected, with a vendetta, gesturing with both hands, “Why do you guys always lead with that? Is it really that crazy of an idea? Seriously.”

You glowered at him, “I think you all are busted in the head. Or the lightning scrambled your brain, or something, because I have no idea how you’re seeing this.” 

“What? No,” Hiccup said, “No, I’m perfectly healthy.”

“Yeah,” You snorted, “You guys lack what I would call common sense.”

There was a loud rumbling from back inside the Haddock House. It was definitely Toothless. At least someone had your back. It probably didn’t help that the only ones who agreed with you were the twins.

Hiccup turned back to shoot a nasty look at Toothless, probably forgetting about his bandages. And the burnt skin under.

“I probably owe you another favor, don’t I?” You winced as he jerked back around, cursing. It was kind of silly, and kind of nerve-wracking watching his scrawny shoulders curl in over his stomach. 

“Nah,” Hiccup looked up from his knees and feet, resting on the steps to his home, to you, and then back, trying to hide his wheezing, “This one’s… on the house.”

Your hands hovered over his bak unsurely, worried if you tried to help you might agitate his burns more. You would probably take a trip up to Gothi later and ask if she had anything more to use to help.

“And, well, We’re Vikings.” Hiccup grimaced, “And, hey, I have some common sense, too.”

You stayed silent, giving Hiccup a moment as he gathered himself. You hoped he hadn’t any acid left in his skin. You felt awful about it.

Hiccup sat up steadily, and you made sure to scoot back and give him space as he did. He kept an unhandy smile on his face, the corner of his mouth twitching, eyebrows pushing up as you attempted to make sure he was alright.

Your face fell, molding into something more confused, as he mouth a question under his breath.

“Why did you leave?”

“What?”

“Sorry, I’ve just… Been wondering. What brought you to Berk?” Hiccup brought a shaky hand back up to his neck.

You felt your eyes unfocus a bit.

You guessed it was probably the natural progression of things. You wondered whether you were supposed to come up with something, or just not. You decided on something more square in the middle.

“I don’t know,” You huffed, a little lost, “One day I just started walking and ended up here.”

Hiccup looked at you skeptically, though not without sympathy. You were on an island surrounded by all water, but still. You stood up straight, puffing out your chest.

“Take it metaphorically, if you don’t believe me.”

#how to train your dragon #httyd #x reader #fanfiction #hiccup haddock #hiccup x reader #httyd imagine #toothless #fem reader #female reader

[mousetoe-wc]

I Got bored one time awhile ago and made a list of every prefix plus some into organised sections so I thought I might as well share.

All the ones that aren’t cannon to warriors, yet at lest are bold

Describing names

Colours: red, russet, copper, golden, amber, yellow, green, blue, violet, pink, white, gray, black, ebony, dark, pale, silver, brown, tawny, fallow

Pattern, Texture + Size: spot/ted, dapple, speckle, freckle, brindle, patch, mottle, ragged, tangle, kink, bristle, fuzzy, curl/y, wooly, soft, sleek, little, tiny, small, slight, short, tall, long, big, heavy, crooked, broken, half, stumpy, shred, torn, jagged

Actions + Character: flip, pounce, bounce, jump, hop, crouch, down, low, drift, flail, strike, running, fidget, mumble, whistle, snap, sneeze, shiver/ing, shining, flutter, fallen, lost, rush, fleet, quick, shy, sweet, brave, loud, quiet, wild, hope, wish,

Other: claw, whisker, dead, odd, one, spike, fringe, echo, song, hallow, haven

Elements

Time + Weather: day, night, dusk, dawn, morning, sky, sun/ny, moon, storm, lightning, thunder, cloud/y, mist/y, fog, snow, blizzard, ice, frost, dew, drizzle, rain, clear, wind, breeze, gale, shadow, shade, bright, light,

Earth/Water/Fire names: stone, rock, boulder, slate, flint, pebble, gravel, sand/y, dust, mud/dy, meadow, hill, rubble, river, ripple, whorl, float, rapid, shimmer, lake, swamp, marsh, wave, wet, bubbling, splash, puddle, pool, creek, fire, flame, flicker, flash, blaze, scorch, ember, spark, ash, soot, cinder, smoke

Plants

Trees: alder, aspen, birch, beech, cedar, cypress, pine, elm, willow, oak, larch, maple, bay, rowan, timber, bark, log, wood, twig, acorn, cone, seed, spire

Berry/Nut/Fruit/Herb: juniper, elder, sloe, holly, yew, mistle, bramble, hickory, hazel, chestnut, nut, apple, cherry, cranberry, olive, pear, plum, peach, chive, mint, fennel, sage, basil, mallow, parsley

Flowers: aster, poppy, primrose, rose, bluebell, marigold, tansy, pansy, briar, cherry, daisy, dandelion, daffodil, tulip, violet, lily, myrtle, thrift, yarrow, heather, lavender, blossom, bloom, flower, petal

Other: leaf, frond, fern, bracken, sorrel, hay, rye, oat, wheat, cotton, reed, pod, cinnamon, milkweed, grass, clover, weed, stem, sedge, gorse, furze, flax, nettle, thistle, ivy, moss, lichen, bush, vine, root, thorn, prickle, nectar

Animals

Mammals: mouse, rat, mole, vole, shrew, squirrel, hedgehog, bat, rabbit, hare, ferret, weasel, stoat, mink, marten, otter, hog, wolf, hound, fox, vixen, badger, deer, doe, stag, fawn, sheep, cow, pig, lion, tiger, leopard, lynx, milk

Birds: robin, jay, cardinal, thrush, sparrow, swallow, shrike, starling, rook, swift, dove, pigeon, crow, raven, duck, goose, heron, wren, finch, swan, stork, quail, gull, lark, owl, eagle, hawk, kestrel, buzzard, kite, hoot, feather, bird, egg, talon

Fish, Reptiles + Amphibians: pike, perch, pollack, trout, tench, cod, carp, bass, bream, eel, minnow, fin, snake, adder, lizard, turtle, frog, toad, newt

Bug type Names: bug, lady or ladybug, moth, spider, ant, snail, slug, beetle, bee, wasp, dragon or dragonfly, bumble, worm, maggot, cricket, fly, midge, web, honey

Skyclan + Warriorclan: Bella, Billy, Big, Harry, Harvey, Snook, Ebony, Monkey

#warrior cats #wc

[theoutcastrogue]

"The river twists and turns to face the city. It looms suddenly, massive, stamped on the landscape. Its light wells up around the surrounds, the rock hills, like bruise-blood. Its dirty towers glow. I am debased. I am compelled to worship this extraordinary presence that has silted into existence at the conjunction of two rivers. It is a vast pollutant, a stench, a klaxon sounding. Fat chimneys retch dirt into the sky even now in the deep night. It is not the current which pulls us but the city itself, its weight sucks us in. Faint shouts, here and there the calls of beasts, the obscene clash and pounding from the factories as huge machines rut. Railways trace urban anatomy like protruding veins. Red brick and dark walls, squat churches like troglodytic things, ragged awnings flickering, cobbled mazes in the old town, culs-de-sac, sewers riddling the earth like secular sepulchres, a new landscape of wasteground, crushed stone, libraries fat with forgotten volumes, old hospitals, towerblocks, ships and metal claws that lift cargoes from the water.

How could we not see this approaching? What trick of topography is this, that lets the sprawling monster hide behind corners to leap out at the traveller?"

— China Miéville, Perdido Street Station

#China Miéville #Perdido Street Station #rogues in fiction #the city speaks

[punk-in-docs]

‼️YOU (don’t) KNOW I’M NO GOOD‼️

Detective (Killer) Quinn x Reader

3.6k words - Sequel to Tainted Love -

Inspired by *that* photo shoot - this is for @ceriseheaven 💋

Summary: Danger is apparently closer than you realise. ‼️ TW dark themes within: graphic descriptions of death/murder, and some mild stalking ‼️ porn coming up hot in the next one folks (I forever wish I could be one of those writers who just hops right on into writing smut - you’ll have to hear me waffle a little bit first Kay?)

A Hooker is found dead off Sunset Boulevard. Throat slit.

Her lanky limbs, stuffed into a horrible stinking dumpster behind the Whisky a Go-Go.

A blue dime store high heel lays in the alley. There’s blood spattered on it

You were there like a flash. Still tripping into your heels and zipping up your skirt, pulling on panty hose. Doing up your pussy bow blouse as you waited at the bus stop. No food or coffee in your belly. You’d no time.

Just sheer gut adrenaline and deep throbbing hunger for this continuing nightmare. Your story is here and you’ll hunt it out.

The bucking up bootstrap talk you give to yourself every morning. Shaking off shallow sleep. Finding that well of your elbow grease and getting the bit tight between your teeth. Grabbing your lipstick and your voice recorder as you run out the door.

Forever hauling ass to and from the corner of Clinton and Larchmont at the Chronicle office. Whenever you’re needed; have pen and gumption, will travel.

Sleeping at your desk with a deadly knotted crick in your neck. Back and fucking forth, from your baby pink and slowly rotting Las Palmas apartment building.

You exist from ends to end of cigarettes and chucking back shots of bourbon at night after a steamy shower. You scrounged your way by on half snatched lunches on the go, mustard hotdogs or everything bagels, black coffee, two sugars, no creamer. Gin with ice and lemon on Friday nights, and little to no sleep at all.

News never sleeps. Why should you-

You’d scrape to the bottom of this hellscape crime if it killed you.

Oh Birdie, Birdie, Birdie.

Another girl mangled dead. Another bloodstain soaking into the very same stretch of tarmac that’s laid with the gold star walk of fame.

A house way up in the Hollywood hills with two male roommates. And now a Hooker dead a stones throw off the boulevard. It’s random. There’s no pattern there. No food-chain event to yet glimpse a rhythm in.

You’d managed to elbow your way past the male reporters. Balding fat Murray’s and Brad’s, who came flocking from the Times and the Glendale Press.

With their cheap brown suits and oily moustaches. Ketchup blobbed on their polyester shirts and sweat pit stains, and usual brand of misogynistic bullshit. The way they talk about the dead hooker is like she was vermin.

You struck gold. You found the girls. You shamelessly shove your nose, and your cheap Jet Rag heels, all up into the business of the deceased’s friends.

Gathered around the cordon with you, tear streaked. Wiping weepy mascara trails. Last nights make up still caked on and very high heels. Hickies around their necks and up fingertip marks cobwebbed up their thighs.

You don’t take shit from them. No male reporter thinks their input is valuable? You do. You carve out time for them in this callous fast paced city that sees them as unwanted features.

You learn her name. Skinny Tina. So called because of her love of smack. Junkie to it. Liked leopard print dresses and her blue denim jacket. Smoked lucky’s. Came from Nashville. Old fixture on this block. Older than the stars she trod over.

You learn how she kept her corner. Worked her patch solid, from Bob Hope, all the way up to Ella Fitzgerald. That was her turf.

They tell you about the John she got off with last night when they last saw her. You cling to that morsel like it’s your lifeline. Root out as much as you can.

Scribble furiously. White male. Mid forties. Red Thatcherite braces, whiff of Wall Street about him. Prick from a lawyers office or some shit like that.

You nod. You ask. You write. Pulling meat off the bones of this case

You’ve no idea you’re being watched.

From behind the shiny windscreen of a Porsche no less. He sips his shitty weak coffee. Slips his eyes all over you as you stand there with the hookers. Unswerving determination behind those glasses lenses of yours.

You give each of them your card. You tell them to get in touch if another girl goes missing. Or if anything happens. Catch anyone skulking around. Ring you. Day or night.

Like you care toots. You just want your name in the paper right? They stand there with one hip cocked. Eyeing you with spiky pessimism.

You’re punchy. You meet eyes and you don’t shrivel away. “I care.”

You scribble your personal number on the back in red biro and hand it over. Shove it at them with hard core stoicism. You take the time to stand here and give a shit about these women.

You stand behind the yellow tape and write endlessly on your pad, the girls drift away from you. Heels clicking sharp on tarmac. Back into the filthy streets. Back to brutality and drugs and trying to make a living.

The cops buzz around the scene like the very same flies that drift off the trash. Shooing people off from the alleyway. Overflowing garbage trampled all over the sticky greasy puddles in the concrete.

Poor girl. No place to die.

You feel your heart sink low, dragging deeper down like sediment as you consider how it must have been to have it all end like that, in a place like this.

This shining golden city of angels and hope and promise, and this is the worst part of its seedy underbelly. Rock clubs of legendary name and girls selling themselves outside of it. Dying out in the back alley, being left to rot like trash.

Worst of all, is that no one gives a shit. Another hooker dead.

That’s LA’s normal beat baby.

Out the corner of your eye you catch that car again. Flash of it. Hot rod red. Waxed shiny. You know he’d be here somewhere.

He strides into the crime scene past you. Time of no concern. Dunkin’ coffee cup in hand. Licking sugar glaze off his lips. Box of six glazed his other hand. Like this is some sort of brunch date, and not the scene of a homicide.

The big boots are still a fixture. Bell bottom black trousers like he’s on the set of Starsky & Hutch. Sitting on that trim slutty waist. Sways with his hips as he walks. A satin black button up with a too big collar, undone to his sternum. Wearing a gold medallion chain with a saint, but he sure as hell ain’t one.

His neck swims in sainted things but his hands have committed all manner of sins.

Peers at you across those ray bans. Brown eyes swimming up your legs. Licks his lips. Sweet sugar.

That prim little blouse he swears he can see your bra poking through. Dainty lace cups holding your tits. Skirt grazing good big sexy handfuls of your hips.

Fuck you look heavenly.

“Well well. If it ain’t my little Birdie.” He calls across to you as the tape is lifted for him by a stony faced cop. Macabre grin.

You look up from your pad. Meet those swallowing chocolate eyes. He’s leering over his shades at you.

“Quinn.” You swallow.

Try to ignore the way the blaze of morning sun slips like liquid amber down his skin. Slipping between his pecs and collarbones like he’s bathed in mandarin orange oil. Glimmering off that necklace. Ocean cold blue neon from buzzing sign shot through those dark curls from behind. Bleeding out the alley.

You don’t know what it is about him that you like. He looks so wildly slutty that it’s making your mouth water. He’s definitely anything but boring, and your mind absolutely runs to a filthy place with that insinuation

He’s got you trying to recall the last instance you carved out time for some sex in your life. It had been months. The clench in your gut made you aware.

“Are we making a habit of this?” He checks. Narrows eyes at you all playfully.

You, me, the yellow crime scene tape. Mangled bodies. Sirens shrieking. Yeah. Romantic as hell-

“Let’s hope not. Detective. Hardly the stuff of foreplay.” You counter. “Can I get a quote for tomorrows edition.”

“Wouldn’t that be neat of me.” He teases.

You bite back annoyance. He sees it in the scrunched set of your jaw.

He brings up another doughnut to his lips and takes a huge untamed bite. Smirking at you.

He swaggers away and up to the dumpster. Prances around the evidence. Not that the killer left much- blood spattered shoe. The cut throat. Same old same old. Blah blah blah.

You sigh as you make ready to leave. Blood out of a stone. You won’t get anything else here.

Only a small scrap of what you’d hoped for clutched in your pocket. That will get you shunted back to your usual place on page six.

You turn away and begin to head up the Boulevard. Maybe you’d find a place for some breakfast. Your feet are aching. Head sour for lack of caffeine.

“Miss.” Comes a bark from a gruff cop. Who steps under the tape and towards you.

“Chronicle. I was just leaving.” You flash him your staff badge and back away thinking you’re gonna get chewed out for being nosy. You’re a girl reporter, the axe blows tend to fall heavier on you from grumpy cops. Sexist fuckers.

“Quinn asked me to give you this.”

He hands you an empty cigarette packet. Lucky Strikes. The paper is worn thin. Perfumed like it’s been in a purse. Not a pocket.

Skinny Tina smoked Lucky’s.

You look at the cop. He just rolls one shoulder up in a shrug. Not his job to care. Plods away.

You open the well thumbed crimson cigarette packet and inside is a line of scrawled text. Slanted spidery scrawl. Pin nib stabbing into the paper.

This is the work of a serial killer.

Your world grows cold. Sudden and terrible like someone’s sucked out all the dry choke of that LA heat. You thumb the packet in your hands. When you peer up and spin back to the cordon-

Quinn locks his eyes on you. And smiles. Those eyes glow at you.

There’s your story, Birdie.

~

Rain is LA is vanishingly rare. But when it comes, it comes fucking furiously.

It’s spitting down your windows so hard it’s like it will do anything in its power to shatter the glass.

Palm fronds from the stumpy trees outside your windows skate and scrape the glass and cast long fingers of spindly shadows. A faded essence of tropical paradise about this shabby place. The pink walls, palm trees. The empty pit of a mouldy swimming pool out back, filled with graffiti, crumbling tiles and trash.

The air walking home was so thick and smooth you could sip it. Full up of rain clouds and chasing away the humidity.

You turn home and show your back to this water-logged night. Your shoulders and hair damp from running from the station.

You draw your thin drapes but the red light soaking into the room through the shitty pink things. The light stains them up like they’ve been left bloodied.

Your bedside lamp glows in the corner. Peachy pink from the rosy shade. Your room is entirely bathed in lapping tongue red and rose pink.

You cranked your pathetic shower up high and stood under the warm spray until it drained to cold. Your scrubbed your hair from dripping to damp, and slipped on an old white t shirt that slipped off one shoulder. Black lace panties.

Hair still wet as you padded through to your bedroom. Empty glass of bourbon on the nightstand. Half full bottle. You’ll be dipping well into it tonight.

Today was long. Endlessly so. Dragging you down like you’ve got concrete blocks tied on your heels. Cutting into skin as it drags you down.

There’d been another one. Found tonight way out past skid row, under the 6th street bridge.

Stabbed in the back and left to bleed. A kid. A stupid punk teenager, with his apple green spiky hair, belt chains and ripped spray painted anarchist shirt. Bruises on his knuckles showed he put up a fight.

A bag of weed and ketamine in his pocket. Track marks up his arms. All tangled and fired up in fiery self-rebellion. And it led him to dying under a bridge like some junkie.

There was such a clamour at the crime scene cordon that you got physically shoved aside, and ended up skinning your knees in the process. Tearing your pantie hose. Walking home with blood peeling down your calves. Stuck with muck and grit.

You felt miserable. You were miserable. Another day designed to sink you. All teeth and stomping jaws clamping on your pride and happiness.

You hounded as much as you could squeeze out the cops on scene with bleeding knees burning. Hands scraped from your fall. Not much at all.

Your mood was as far in the gutter as it could get. The shower helped. You swiped stinging betadine across your broken skin and chucked back Bourbon to ignore the grating pain.

You drunkenly shuffle to your small strip of a kitchen. Aqua blue and white tiled lino. Cheap but clean. Your whole place was really. Pink drapes and thick blue carpets bleached and matted with age.

Bathed briefly in the blue light and puff of cold from the fridge. You reach and chuck more ice in your used glass and fill it up with even more brown liquor. Mind swirling away and you let it. Close your clunking fridge door with a sloppy hand.

The booze helped. You were ignoring the irony that after a hard day you were crawling into the bottom of an Old Taylor bottle.

You were supposed to be a man about all this. Man up. Well. You’re a woman and you have to do this job twice as hard and relentless and with double the scrutiny from men. And in heels. So you decided long ago;

Fuck that.

You laid on your bed and thought about having dinner. A sad tin of soup or some box of ramen you’d forgotten about in your cupboard.

But instead you just lay there on your sheets and let the bourbon take you away.

And then your phone rings. Shrills to attention on your bedside.

You twist your head back to look at it. Past your cheap peach satin sheets. Your crappy cracked pink telephone won’t shut the hell up.

You launch over the bed and sit up to answer it. If it’s another call out to a murder site, you swear you’ll quit. “Yes?”

There’s a second or two of huffing crackling static the other end. And then,

“Nasty night isn’t it?”

That voice makes your whirling head sit up and pay attention. Oh that voice. He hears the way skin grazes on your covers. The pull of your lungs seeking breath. That makes him outwardly think of your tits too and he can’t help his mind wandering off into filthy plains.

“Quinn?” You check. Your mind is curling and blurry. But by now you’d know his tone when you hear it.

He bites his lip cause it gets him hard. Rubs his fingertips into the square box of the telephone he’s curled against. Sweat on his fingers chafes against the black plastic.

“Hey Birdie.”

“How did you get this number?” Your drunk mouth blurts out. Your tongue feels all fat and clumsy with drink. Loose- even.

He chuckles. It’s breathy and it’s beautiful. Slips like melted chocolate into your ear through the receiver. It may be a smooth sound but it does something sharp and twisting to your gut. A tug.

“I have my ways.” You can hear his stupid big grin.

“Cop ways I’m guessing?” You counter. He detects a tone levelled at him. Flash a badge and he can own this town. Walk in anywhere.

You reach over and bring the phone onto the bed. The cord of it trailing behind as you wrap the coiled wire around your finger. You sit up and cradle the phone between your ear and shoulder.

Eyes flicking over for a second to that well thumbed Lucky Strike’s packet. The one he wrote in and gave to you.

“I don’t need to go flashing my badge as much as you’d think. I can be very persuasive.” He charms. Like he could pluck down all the hanging stars and set them at your feet.

You don’t doubt that. Silver tongues and doe brown eyes seldom mix.

“You weren’t at the scene today. Worried me a little.” He adds.

“I worried you? You hardly know me.” You state.

“I personally-“ There’s a clink as he presses his hand flat to his collarbone. Clink of a chain. “Think we should change that.”

You sigh in confusion because you just can’t think of what else to do. Is he asking you out? Is he hitting on you? Is that what’s happening here?

“I was at the 6th street bridge today. Up until I got knocked down by the clamouring TV and camera crews and skinned my knees. And then it started to rain, I was getting nowhere so I called it a day.” You offered up.

The blazes up something in him. Sparks churning friction against the liquid gunpowder of his temper. All it takes is a spark. He has to take a deep breath at the thought of you bleeding.

“You alright?”

No not really.

I saw a kid brutally mangled and stabbed today. Skin ripped where someone tore him open with a knife.

I’m fucking lonely in this city and I have no friends for miles.

My job is the fucking pits of Tartarus some days.

“Ask me after my hangover tomorrow. When I don’t feel like a failure. And I didn’t see a dead kid torn to strips. And I’m- sober.” You curse under your breath.

Bulldog tone of yours all snappy and treading the borders of your patience. Bone weary.

“That sounds like a lot on your plate.” He offers. He sounds tender. The tenderest thing you’ve heard in a while.

“It sure as shit is. But I’m not sure I should be venting to a cop about it.” You admit gruffly. Standing up and holding the phone to your ear. Idly gazing at the rain outside. Coming down in sheets, hammering cold at your window ledges.

You pour yourself out more bourbon. Cause fuck it.

Oh, you play spiky and icy and he likes it. He’ll play you into his hands. You’ll be worth the wait.

“What if I’m one of the good ones.” He grins. Licks his lips. Outright lies.

“Don’t play games with me, Quinn.” You warn.

Funny; that was his line. Usually with a knife in his hand edged against a fragile throat.

“What if I can help you out with some private information on these cases.” He leans right in and purrs into the phone. It makes you feel squirmy. Like you’re under his gaze again. That flirty one that gets peered over his ray bans.

“And why on earth would you be doing that for me?” You keep your head screwed on straight. What little sense there is left that Bourbon didn’t steal.

“Mutually beneficial arrangement.” He drawls.

“Listen Detective, if you think you’re gonna get your dick wet just cause you toss me some scraps, you’ve got another thing coming, and it’ll be my heel stabbed in your eye.” You promise with punch.

He chuckles. He can’t deny the threat of that and the thought of fucking you had him harder than he’d care to admit. The glimpse of you he had in his head on your back and taking it. Indecent. Glorious.

“I’m no idiot, Birdie.”

His dark eyes graze through the glazed rain walls of the phone booth. Glass striped with wriggling rain and haloed car lights burst through in reds and searing white. The Porsche sits waiting behind him. Dotted in silver.

He can see you through your window.

He’s across the parking lot in the phone booth. One arm braced against the metal wall. Eyes pinned on the slice of that tongue pink room and the vague shape of you he can see through the thin drapes.

White shirt. No bra. Lace panties. Sat on your bed in that entirely pink-red washed room. Light kissing and wrapping your skin. And you’ve no clue he can see you.

You’ve no idea how bad he truly is for you. It’s delicious that.

“Why did you give me that cigarette packet, Quinn?”

He’s quick to answer. He’s thought about this answer. “Leverage.”

“Leverage?” You repeat like you can’t comprehend the word.

“Over those assholes at your paper who think that you don’t deserve your spot alongside them. Scraping together your sanity for every shot at the front page.” He says.

He cut to the quick. Like he’s torn your skin away to see in. Your dimly lit life with your bottles of booze and your struggles. Somehow he pieced you together so well it was like he had your blueprints.

“You don’t know me.” You gasp out. It’s incredulous. He’s making your head spin.

“I know a lot more than you’d think. It’s my job, after all. I like to think I’m good at it.”

“That sounds like a lot of ego talking.”

“In that case you should let me take you out for lunch tomorrow and see for yourself. Buy you something to soothe that little Bourbon hangover.”

Your spine flashes clammy.

“How the hell do you know what I’m drinking?”

Your head is thumping. Dread curling horrid up in your stomach like dead burnt leaves come fall. Crunching and crushing.

“Like I told you. Birdie. I’m just that good.” He chuckles.

Oh but he isn’t.

There’s a click and he promptly hangs up.

You’re left there watching the rain skate furiously down your windows. Listening to the dead tone on the other end blare. Thunder grazes the valley.

It feels more sinister than it should.

~

My Taglist for my JQ babes: (if I’ve missed anyone out I’m so sorry !) if anyone would like to be added drop me a comment on here babes !

@indouloureux @stiegasaw @munsonquinns @fujiihime @youaremyfamiliar @captain-tch @ghosttownwherenoonegoes @svenyves @sammararaven @ceriseheaven @feralgoblinbabe @groupie-love-71 @andromeda-andromeda @starbxcks @morganamoonstone @ramona-thorns @gvtosbith @poppy-metal @munsonswhore86 @munsonlov3r @lunatictardis @shenevertricks1831 @hazzaismyreligion @harrys-tittie @anaisweird @cerinthussulpicia @cinnamoncunt

#joseph quinn x reader #joseph quinn stranger things #i would die for this man #Eddie munson #joseph quinn gif #joseph quinn character #joseph quinn characters #punkwrites #serial killer #killer #murderer #stalking #crime scene #1980’s LA #pretty woman vibes #pretty woman

[owlespresso]

gloaming. yuri leclerc.

tags: fem!reader, reader has a personality and vague hints of backstory, sfw, pining

a/n: this is pretty self-indulgent. just fluff.

The night is quiet. Snow-covered fields stretch around you on all sides, leading to a distant tree line full of old, stubborn pines. The winter’s frost has grabbed tight hold of the land, blighting everything above the snow in a fine coating of frost. You can see your breath, like a brief curl of dragon’s smoke right in front of you.

One of the month’s many virtues is its distinct lack of insects. No crickets to chirp and no mosquitos to menace any patch of skin you dare leave uncovered. Not that you’ll have many in this weather. There’s quite a long way to go before winter ebbs into early spring. The patch of land Dimitri allotted you so generously after war’s end will remain in crystalline stasis until the season's turn. 

In the distance, over the hills, you can see Fhirdiad’s towering silhouette. Its rough lines and pointed domes and salient spires cast an imperious picture on your east horizon. Did the people of the capital enjoy tonight’s midwinter festival? Did friends and family rush onto the crowded streets to partake in merriment and games and fantastic feasts? The streets played host to an astounding variety of breathtaking ice sculptures all around the noble districts. You wonder if any happened to feature the king.

You look away, back to the treetops painted frosty white, glistening in the eldritch dark of the night. The stone building you’ve chosen to occupy was once a manor and a military outpost, created to overlook these very vistas. The honorable members of House Rowe often utilized it to rest their heads when too exhausted too plod back to their hillside manners out west, leaving their gilded, cushioned carriages to wait in the front yard all evening. Heavens forbid they struggle for even a moment with a minor chill.

You shut your eyes and drink deep the wintry air. The icy sting in the air is sobering, granting you clarity. Dinner was spent alone, enjoying more mixes of wines and liquors than you would prefer to admit. Sometime along the way, you even attempted to wrangle the guards into drinking alongside you. It was at that point that one of them politely inquired if you would like to take a walk.

And now, the fresh air pricks at your numbing cheeks. The hazy remnants of your late night rendezvous with the liquor cabinet are battered back by winter’s embrace and your own irritation.

Across the countless times you have imbibed in your short life, you have discovered that being drunk is fun until it is decidedly not. It’s fun until you require your motor skills, fun until your stream of consciousness rolls into a riptide loosening the leash you keep wrapped ‘round your emotions. The festivities are long over. You're not even sure what occasion they had been celebrating. All of these winter festivals blend together after the first three.

You slump over the flat stone of the wall, bent at the waist. Your fingers don’t even reach the edge. Faint footsteps scruff across the old stone behind her. Quiet, but purposefully loud enough for you to hear. That alone tells you who dares approach.

“Do you believe in god, Yuri?” your ragged voice sounds unfamiliar to yourself. You don't budge from your prone position. The stone cools the overheated side of your face, seeps through your layers. You can feel the wild thrum of your heart begin to slow, cooling the agonizing sear of you pumping blood.

“I believe that it’s long past your bedtime,” Yuri says, a broken piece of glass crunching under his heel. “And I believe in the Goddess. How could I not when she blessed me with you?” The mocking drawl in his voice forces the corners of your lips into a deep frown.

He’s not going to leave, anytime soon, so you slide back onto your feet. The sudden change in position has you swaying on your feet, foot stumbling out of place. Before you can take a tumble and make even more of a fool of yourself, Yuri grasps your shoulder, touch grounding. You regard him with as blank a stare as you can manage. Despite the lashing winds and otherwise unpleasant conditions, Yuri is unflappable as always, long locks of lavender laid atop his shoulder. He’s traded his cape in for a dark cloak, sticked lines of embroidery lacing the cuffs and bottom of the garment, dance around its bone white buttons. 

He’s still all purples and reds, but the smokey greys you’ve come to associate with his wardrobe have been traded in for darker shades. And he looks good, like he hasn’t lost a night of sleep in his life.

“Can’t sleep,” you mutter, kicking a nearby pebble. It’s sent skittering under a nearby table. Yuri regards you flatly, lips pressed into a thin, straight line—as thin as his petal plump lips can press, anyways. They’re coated in a subtle shade of pink, tonight, just blush enough to look natural. He rarely ever applies any intense, saturated shades of lipstick or gloss, lest it distract from the keen smolder of his eyes and his natural good looks.

Though, it doesn’t matter much what he wears. He dazzles on every occasion, sways swathes of civilians with his silver tongue and striking smile. He’s horribly, magnificently magnetic. Anyone would be lucky to have him, for what he has and what is underneath it all. He would surely make a marvelous spouse—

He flicks your forehead, sending you stumbling backwards. Before you can take a tumble onto your arse, he does you the good favor of snatching you by the arm to steady you. When had he come so close?

Up close, his chagrin is much more obvious. You shift uncomfortably under his stare. You cannot recall what having a mother was like, but you can imagine this is what being scolded by one would feel like.

“Where do you go in that head of yours?” he says with a sigh, wry smile breaking out across his pink petal lips. 

“I… I don’t—” you stammer, scrambling for mental purchase. 

“You can tell me all about it later,” Yuri takes your hand with a graceful flourish of his cape, drawing you close to the firm, lean line of him. The scent of faint lilac wreaths around you like an old, comfortable coat. “When you’re a little more sober, at least.” There’s a genteel grace to his steps as he shepherds you towards the stone staircase.

“Where are we going?” You’re left to do aught but follow, a sudden, giddy giggle erupting from your chest as you stumble into his side. 

He sighs, belied by his wry smile. He relinquished his hold on your hand to wrap an arm around your waist, the stretch of his body so blessedly warm against your own. He chases the clinging chill away, dizzies your thoughts into paste.

You hardly hear him ask, “Bed. Yours or mine?” His question rattles you out of your drunken stupor. Your eyes go wide as saucers, palms hot with sweat as you struggle to form an adequate answer. Despite having known him for quite some time, his directness still manages to fluster you—an effect he likely intended, given his devious simper. What’s somehow worse is that you can’t bring yourself to be cross with him.

“Y-Yours,” you hardly realize you’ve spoken your mind until Yuri breaks out in a loud, genuine laugh. It’s unlike his typically tame chuckles, a sound of sheer exuberance that makes the inside of your chest twinge. You like hearing him this happy. You want him to be this happy all of the time.

“Bold. I like it.” he teases, jostling you in his grasp. 

“Oh shove it—wait!” you huff, but stay in step with him, struggling not to stumble as he shepherds you down the stone stairs A line of torches straddle the descending path. In your drunken haze, you had forgotten about the two guards posted at the bottom. The sight of them shocked you stiff-still. Your fingers curl into the fine brocade of his black cloak, pulling him flush to the wall. “Wait!” you hiss, voice nearly lost in his many layers.

“What? Did you leave something behind?”

“We can’t be seen sneaking around together!” you insist, and are immediately incensed at the eyeroll he gives you.

“And why would that be? Too ashamed to be seen with a charlatan like myself?” he drawls, yet takes you in closer. There’s a mean glint in his eyes, something decidedly wicked as his breath ghosts over your cheek, teasing your ear.

“Of course not!” you protest, eyes wide, cheeks got. How could you have misspoken so terribly? The last thing you wanted was to make him feel judged for the life he led, for the methods he employed in his occupation.  “It’s you I’m worried about. What’ll people say if they saw you consorting with the Mad Witch of the Wend? No one would… would…” You draw a trembling hand over his chest, feeling the cool silk under your fingertips.

“You’re worried about my image? How darling.” Yuri coos, clearly disregarding the seriousness of the situation. People talk, servants talk, guards talk. If you two were to be seen on a random, midnight rendezvous, then word would surely get back to the capital, where plenty of available, valuable bachelorettes could hear.

“Of course I am. You could still marry someone nice and rich from the capital. Someone connected…” you reason. You blink your bleary eyes attempting to clear the blur that sticks to your periphery like stubborn burrs. The world at its edges is opaque and slow as melting candle wax. This is precisely why you typically abstain from the absinthe and fine brandies which tradesmen plod through the outpost. It makes your head dull and your words impossible to find.

“Hm. No. I don’t think I will. Noble life never agreed with me.” Yuri gives your cheek a consoling pat. You get the feeling that he is still, for some reason, very amused. Which is preferable to him being offended, or hurt. You don’t mind him laughing at you, you think, not when genuine mirth flatters him so. “If I’m going to make a difference, it’s not going to be with someone else’s spending money.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that.”

He tugs you past the posted guards, ushering you within the hollow halls of the outpost. Torches positioned on the wall shed gentle light up and down the small tunnel. You break beyond the thick walls which surround the inner manor—a proud, brutal building that sits a hybrid between the harsh stone architecture meant to shield from the cold and the slender, elegant cathedrals and house manors found en masse within the capital.

“I know.” Yuri shoots you a conspiratorial, knowing look. His thumb rubs gentle circles into your side. You can feel his touch through the two layers you have on, his arm having scooped beneath your outer cloak with dangerous efficiency. “The fact that you still think I could find some nice, doe-eyed girl from the upper crust to fall in love with is adorable, but I’m not interested in all that.” 

He pulls you through the inner sanctum with a self-assuredness that would make you think he owned the place. His strides are slow. His voice keeps his strides slow and his voice quiet, sticking to the walls and where the shadow sinks the deepest. His cape swishes and billows around you, keeps you shielded from prying gazes of glancing guardsmen. Every step he takes is quixotically quiet despite his heels.

“I just want you to be happy. With someone nice. Who can help you make your dreams come true.” 

He scoffs. “Ugh. When did you become such a ham?” you shove him again, and he laughs. “If you must know, I’ve already found the person I want to spend the rest of my days with.” He herds you to a nondescript wooden door, jamming a key into the lock before thrusting it open. The room is deathly dark, the only light slipping in silvery through a slit in the curtains. 

Incredulous and wide-eyed, you gape at him as he draws you inside, wondering if you had heard him properly. While he engaged with a number of brief romances and paramours, he never seemed entirely beholden to the idea of a permanent entanglement. Which you will not judge him for. Only members of the nobility prioritize marriage so persistently, all too eager to shuttle off their children to new, unloving homes for the sake of power. You can’t imagine Yuri buying into such a sham—even if the court’s coffers could fund his ambitions.

“You are? Who is it?” you finally muster up the gumption to ask. There’s a strange, cold feeling at the pit of your stomach. Burgeoning dread you cannot make heads or tails of.

“Worried they’ll steal me away?” Yuri says with a fond smile. He looks at you while he lights the bedside lamp. He does it with magic, you realize, catching the tail end of his somatic gesture, pointer finger aimed straight at the lamp in question, thumb quirked skyward. You’ve seen him do it a few times before in battle, spells interwoven with fast footwork and flashes of forged steel from underneath his half fastened cloak.  “You don’t need to worry your pretty head about all that—but you’ll be relieved to know that they live nearby. Very nearby, in fact.” He said, voice slowing to emphasize a point you don’t quite comprehend.

He unlatches the clasps on his cloak, gently dropping it over a nearby wooden chair. He smooths his hands over the back of it before he reaches for the buttons of his shirt. If you were perhaps a shred more sober, you would have immediately looked away. But you watch as he deftly sheds the silken garment, exposing planes of leam, pale flesh to the slight candlelight. 

He clears his throat, with a knowing smirk. You pointedly snap your gaze downwards, pretending to find sudden interest in the floorboards. They seem to glow a soft, warm brown, aged polish scuffed and scratched with the wear of time.

Hastily, you follow his example, casting off your outermost layers with great haste. It’s second nature to shift down to your undergarments at this point. Despite his teasing, you’re comfortable with Yuri. Word of his cunning and cut-throated customs is rife in both the underbelly and upper crust of Faerghus, but none of the gossip mongers who gab on about him actually know him. 

Years spent at his side have let you understand exactly the kind of man he is. Which is also why you know he would never be interested in someone like you. You’re something broken, something bent, misshapen by the malicious hands which made you. The idea of being coveted, of being loved strikes within you an uneasy feeling of wrongness. 

Ah, but you’re sure he’s still waiting for an answer…

“Yuri…” you begin. You don’t quite remember what you had been discussing, you realize with a strong swing of dismay. Yuri, blessed with an unfathomable amount of kindness, is quick to remind you.

“What? Does the honored Marquis truly want to know the sordid details of my sex life? How scandalous!” he exclaims. You guffaw, dropping onto the mattress face-first, still in your boots and trousers.

“I just wanna make sure you’re with someone good.” you mumble, pressing your face into the pillow. It’s cool, and you breathe a sigh of relief as you burrow further into the cushions. The entire bed smells like him, and if you were possessed of but an ounce more of sobriety you would be too abashed to savor it. 

“Again. Adorable. But you should really watch out for yourself,” he hums. His footsteps trail away from the bed, and you’re about to look over your shoulder when his hand wraps around your ankle and tugs, urging you onto your back. “I’m surprised you don’t have a line of suitors breaking down your doors everyday…” His fingers run down your clothed leg, to the leather and latches of your boots. You watch the graceful weave of his fingers as he slides them off, one after the other. He’s taken off his gloves, allowing you to just barely feel the fleeting warmth of his hands as they briefly swipe over your skin.  “Though, I suppose I should be grateful.”

“That I’m gonna be lonely forever?” you grumble, turning onto your side. 

“That I don’t have any background checks to do.” Yuri says, further away this time. You glance over your shoulder to where he’s gently dropping your boots near the door. So much care and compassion for something so small. 

“Oh… Does that mean I can ba…background check the person you like?” you ask, and he smiles. 

“Of course,” he says. His fingers weave through his long lilac locks, handily undoing his hair tie. He drops it on the nightstand before slipping underneath the sheets to settle beside you. “I have full confidence in your investigative skills, and you’ll quite like the person I chose.”

“That’s because you have good taste,” you mumble, eyes slipping shut. You wait a moment, and then two, and then three before opening one eye to peer at him. “Can I get a hint?”

“Again, don’t worry about it. At least, not right now. I’ll talk your ear off about it tomorrow, okay?” he says, consoling. His hand runs over your hair, fingers sliding down your neck. A flush of heat rolls through your spine, so silken and sanguine that you can’t suppress a shudder. You retreat to the cool comfort of your pillow, letting his touch sap the tension from your sore muscles. “When you have a better chance of actually remembering what I say.” The meat of his palm presses against your upper back. His heated touch saps the remaining tension from your body, soothing you enough to slip into the beginning phases of sleep.

“...Fine.” you huff, but there’s no real bite behind it. It’s half muffled into the pillowcase. You know Yuri likes being a man of his word, but he’s also a man in demand. There’s no telling if one of his gang members will burst through his door and announce a sudden tragedy that demands his attention. There’s no telling if he’ll be gone in the morning, a note left in his place written in that familiar, tidy cursive.

His roaming touch wanders upwards, warm fingers spanning across the nape of your neck. His thumb rubs soft circles into the skin together, and the touch alone would keep you awake if not for the alcohol muddling your system.

“And I’ll be here when you wake up,” he continues, as if sensing your apprehension. “You have my word on that.”

#fe3h x reader #fe3h/reader #yuri leclerc/reader #yuri leclerc x reader #yuri/reader #yuri leclerc #oz write #featuring fe3h

[irregularcollapse]

A Storm That Took Everything

Fic preview to celebrate Damen Love Fest 2023

Full disclosure: I hadn't intended to do anything for the Damen Love Fest being run by @damensource purely because I'm disorganised and can only focus on one thing at at time. But then beloved mutual @zumurruds convinced me (read: she literally just asked me) to contribute something, and I thought, "Well, I do have a whole lot of writing about Damen done already." So, to celebrate the Damen Love Fest, I'm going to release the first chapter of my current WIP, a gothic romance AU titled A Storm That Took Everything, in installments across the week. As a whole work, it addresses all of the Damen Love Fest prompts in some way—keep a keen eye open for these themes throughout the first chapter! The caveat I can't help adding is that it is very much still a draft, so by the time I post the full chapter on AO3, some changes may have been made! The completed chapter will also have footnotes relating to research/references for your readerly enjoyment xx Anyway! Without further ado, a little bit of Damen love, courtesy of the first part of Chapter I of my upcoming fic, A Storm That Took Everything.

Chapter I In Threes

The first sign is the goat. It had been invisible on one stretch of the wooded path, and then the turn is taken, and there it is: a thing of exposed bones and matted locks of wool—huge and horned, black coat long and appearing clogged with fungus, risen on its hind legs and stripping bark from a plane tree. The efforts are not easy, jerking and ragged movements, tearing and not shedding. It is so close to Damen’s path that if he were to veer his horse slightly, to lean across and reach out his arm, he could pull on its mouldy fur. He slows his mount to a trot as he passes, inexplicable thrill clamping around his throat, and continues down the path. With a glance over his shoulder, the goat slips away, camouflaged by the silver of the tree bark and the foggy green of the leaves.

Damen speeds up again.

This high up, in the hills of Ios, the riding paths are twisted. They wrap around the rock formations, following the lay of the land in a way that makes for an easy ascent but an attentive journey. Every other turn, Damen catches sight of the city through the trees: buildings lit gold in the morning light, the sparkling bay beyond. His sunrise habit, to ride to the clifftops before the day has fully dawned and the troubles of his schedule can set in—to clear his head, and ready it for his father’s office. On this morning, though, when he crests a particular crag and halts his horse to take in the view, as he often does, a sharp glare forces him to shield his eyes. His heart quickens once more—fire, across the city. The buildings, orange and ablaze; the bay, sparking not with turquoise glitter, but with waves like sharp knives. The wind, likely what has whipped the dry heat into an inferno, is incongruously cold as it chafes his exposed skin. Damen’s breath catches; he swallows; he blinks.

Ios is not aflame. It is the sun lighting on the stone, nothing more, the rays filtered odd and splintered through the scattered cloud cover. The tumult in the bay, only caused by what must be a polar wind migrating from colder climes. The seasons have shifted, after all, and winter looms.

He forces a laugh, admittedly as much to convince himself of his own stability as anything, patting at his horse’s neck as it patiently awaits setting off again. It wickers in response: are you quite finished with your overreactions? Some of us have oats and apples waiting. Damen gives it one more pat, before nudging it onward with his heels. Home, now. With the way his nerves are going, cutting the ride short seems necessary.

Sleep has been difficult. That has to be the reason; seeing the goat was unsettling, in short, but only because of the scant hours of rest and long hours of restless waking that have been darkening the bruises under Damen’s eyes day by day. Or, night by night. The goat on the hillside bore only a passing resemblance to the one in his dreams—the horns, the black coat. The phantasm that he sees sometimes is more shadow than creature, a blotted impression of a goat that he largely recognises because of the smell. This real beast had a form, and meat. It was fetid. Rot-ridden. A pitiable thing, on the doorstep of Death and inevitable decay.

No, Damen decides as he and his horse break through the trees and onto the field path that leads back to the city, the goats were not the same. His sleeplessness is playing tricks, as the light had played tricks to turn the city’s glow into a flame.

He assembles his smile and his posture for public, consciously loosening the grip of his gloved hands on the reigns. Not a moment too late; barely has he crossed the row of houses that back the field, when he passes two ladies dressed for the market, and has cause to tip his hat. He attempts a genial expression, but likely approximates a grimace.

The horse-groom is waiting at the gate to the Vasilias property when Damen arrives, a high-hedged plot of land neighboured by other such high-hedged plots of land in a heritage district of the city. In Damen’s youth, he did not think of the house as particularly large or significantly appointed—it was so of a piece, the other houses on the street with just as many rooms and just as much imported furniture. It was only when he became a soldier, only when he returned from the Veretian border and started to frequent the dockside boxing hall, that he came to realise the exact measure of his father’s money. Damen’s money, ultimately. And perhaps sooner than he would want it.

He is likely frowning as he hands the reigns off to the groom, which is perhaps why the boy gives him a startled, pale look before dropping his gaze altogether and performing an admirable attempt to melt into the horse’s shadow.

“Thank you,” Damen tries, an endeavour to smooth it over, but it comes out entirely too gruff. He hesitates a moment, before straightening and striding toward the house. He does not look back. He does, however, slow at the sight of a figure emerging from the front door, closing it delicately behind herself with a clear effort to ensure the action is silent.

“My Lady,” Damen calls to her, proper thought abandoned, because surely this will lift his mood. Surely this will be a bolstering—a shore against whatever tempest is hammering away at his rationality and habitual composure. Lady Jokaste turns, and even before Damen broaches the distance between them, he can see her rosy smile.

“I thought that I had missed you,” she says once they meet, her stood on the top step of the porch and him on the cobbles, bringing them to almost the same height. She is hatless, an oversight for visiting, but Damen has no cause to complain: her gloriously yellow hair, pinned and curled with volume and wave as it is, catches the morning light and turns her golden. She is also not made up, her complexion un-powdered and unaltered, which is a further pleasure to see. He notices something which he has not before: a pretty constellation of barely-brown freckles, on her cheekbone under her right eye.

“You would have, if I had followed my habit. Yet the stars have seemed to align in our favour; I cut my ride short, and find you here to greet me.” Her gaze drops for a moment, causing her blonde eyelashes—abundant and rendered uncommonly colourless in the sun—to flutter. Damen finds that his smile is now more genuine. The day has improved already.

“I am aware of the impropriety, but your brother permitted me to wait in the drawing room. I had hoped that—No matter. I unfortunately cannot linger. I have an appointment, and Madame Broussard does not like to be kept waiting.”

“I wonder that a Veretian dressmaker has the audacity to dictate the schedules of Akielon women, no matter how fine her tailoring. I am sure she will not make you suffer consequence for a few minutes’ delay. And besides,” he adds with warmth, sweeping what is perhaps an overly-obvious gaze down her person, “you appear to be already well-dressed for a ball.” Indeed, the gown she wears is of a gleaming cream silk, barely shades lighter than the skin of her exposed décolletage. The hollow of her throat provides a cradle for a resplendent ruby, suspended from a velvet ribbon tied neatly around her slender neck. Her gloves, of the same burnished ivory as her dress, are clenched in her fist; her caplet, draped over her forearm almost as though she had picked it up as an afterthought, in a rush. If he had seen her in this dress across a ballroom, Damen would be unable to stop himself from bypassing proper introduction and hurtling straight to asking for the dance.

The imagined scenario is not, in effect, all too different from the way that they met—a meeting the direct cause of the heavy diamond now nestled on her left ring finger, a promise made and intention declared with the most fashionable stone available. When he had presented it to her, her expression made it seem as though he could have mined the diamond from her own sparkling eyes.

“I have not yet been home,” she tells him smoothly, free of self-consciousness where another lady may be victim to it. This is something that Damen liked of her instantly: her honesty. She has always been forward with her thoughts, and remains exactly as she seems. “Or I did stop in, at an early hour, but did not stay long enough to dress for the day. I was given a message by my housekeeper, appraising me of something which an acquaintance of mine discovered—there was barely sunlight, but I came to you directly, only to find that you had already left for your ride. But—perhaps it is not so urgent as I fear. I am going to be late,” she adds, descending the steps and making to sweep past him. Unthinkingly, he catches her by the upper arm. It does stop her, but it also puts a hardness into her eyes that he has not seen before. As gently as he can manage, he releases her, and puts a wide step between them.

“I apologise, unreservedly. That was a liberty taken and not asked for. But Jokaste, please—can you not simply tell me now? Or I shall take you in the carriage, and you can tell me on the journey?”

“Do not trouble your groom. It is barely a block away.” She has not gone cold, but uncompromising; the solidity of marble, only brought to softness by the application of a skilled sculptor’s hand. Damen’s hand, it seems, lacks the artistry in this moment. “You have been issued an invitation. I daresay it is for the reception that I will also be attending tomorrow night. We will discuss the matter then.”

“Then—if it is truly not urgent. And as long as you are well. I look forward to seeing your new gown, tomorrow night.” Into the sentiment, he injects all the warmth and apology available to him. It does little to soothe the injury, clearly, as she looks to him with a pronounced blankness.

It is a fortunate thing, that she is so forthcoming with her speech; he often finds her expressions inscrutable.

“Captain Vasilias,” she replies by way of farewell, and this time he does not move to stop her. Damen does not move at all, except to watch her, until she has exited through the visitor’s door to the side of the main gate and disappeared from sight.

It is not as though he has not touched her before. They have danced, obviously, and he was blessed to hold her hand while they courted. Since the arrangement has been made, even, she has visited his bed on a number of occasions (always with the admonishments of “No other will hear of this,” and “This will not occur again”). The memories of those secretly-bestowed nights filled his absent thoughts, until about a month ago.

The gift of her body, only ever given with the acknowledgement that it is promised to Damen anyway, and so the long engagement is no reason to behave as though they are still courting. He knows that the endurance of their betrothed state has been grating on her, the situation of suspension which he keeps her in being a cause of much frustration. He had always made it clear, though, that he could not dedicate himself to her when the company was in flux. She does not deserve his instability, nor only a careless portion of his attentions.

With his father’s current condition, perhaps she will not have to wait much longer.

Part II of Chapter I of A Storm That Took Everything will be posted on day 2 of the Damen Love Fest 🖤🖤🖤

#damenlovefest2023 #captive prince #damianos of akielos #captive prince fic #lamen fic #my writing #a storm that took everything fic

[clintashaotp]

Authors note/summary: I have not been on this account for several years, but I've recently been finally getting back into writing and wanted to get back on the site! I hope the Marvel fandom is still out there, feel free to send prompts or requests :)

No Such Thing as Easy Missions

1433 Words

...

Steve should know by now that there’s no such thing as an easy mission. Even though Fury swears this one should be simple, just an in-and-out hostage rescue situation, he should have known that there was a catch. There always seems to be. And right now, the catch is a room full of young girls handcuffed to their bedframes, and the stone-faced, silent redhead assassin to his right.

“Are these the hostages?” Tony asks, rather unhelpfully. The girls are silent, watching, waiting. They don’t seem to be able to understand them, but they don’t look afraid, even though four of the six avengers just burst through the locked door to their – what is this, a bedroom? There are probably thirty girls, the oldest no older than twelve or thirteen, each sitting up in their beds and watching the group attentively.

“теперь ты в безопасности.” You’re safe now. The girls all snap to attention at Natasha’s words, who has snapped out of barely hidden shock and starts to unhook the chains of the girl nearest her.

“Right, Russian. That makes sense.” Tony goes for the next row of beds, and Clint and Steve quickly follow suit.

Steve kneels next to the bed, where a little girl in ragged clothes watches him with eyes that seem much too old for her face. When he glances over his shoulder, Natasha is still working on the chains of the girls in the first row of beds. She’s always been hard to read, but Steve has tried his best over the years to learn her tells as well as her triggers, and right now they’re in a remote Red Room facility with no warning. She doesn’t look shaken, but he knows she must be, and as the group continues to release the girls from their beds, he keeps an eye on her. Clint follows her closely, putting a hand on her shoulder that she shrugs off, eyes dark and dull. They exchange a few words in low voices that Steve can’t make out, but he doesn’t try to eaves drop. Tony is also uncharacteristically quiet – something about the gravity of the situation seems to register with him, and Steve is grateful that Tony was able to pull himself together and stay on track.

After Natasha’s words in Russian, the girls all seem to flock to her with much more comfort than with her teammates – though Steve can’t say he’s surprised about it, seeing as Natasha is also the only woman in a room full of tall, foreign men. Natasha keeps reassuring the girls in soft Russian as they walk through the maze of hallways, destroyed by hammer blows and the footprints of a monster much bigger than a man (the wielders of both weapons who currently wait in the jet half a mile away).

“I called extraction, Hill’s got a jet for the hostages out front,” Tony supplies helpfully, and all Natasha does is give him a nod, her eyes not leaving the faces of the girls. She’s pale, and Steve notices her tighten her hands into fists to hide her shaking. Clint walks alongside her, keeping a subtle eye on her that doesn’t go unnoticed by Steve and Tony, who exchange a cautious glance.

The hostages load into the sleek black jet Hill has parked outside of the facility, marching diligently into the hanger. As Natasha turns away with the rest of the group, one of the girls tugs on her hand gently, and Natasha whirls around, kneeling to reach the girl’s level. She can’t be more than eight years old, and her hair is in dark knotted braids, her lips chapped. Steve watches Natasha whisper quietly to the girl, who gives Natasha a shy hug before following the rest of the group to the jet. Natasha stands there for a moment, watching the girl go, and the group stops with her, waiting.

“We good to go?” Tony asks carefully.

“Yep.” Natasha turns suddenly and brushes past them, heading for their jet. She’s walking so fast they can barely keep up with her.

“Clint --” Steve starts, but the archer cuts him off.

“I know. She’s…I know.”

When they reach the jet, Natasha’s already gone into the back compartment to change. Banner and Thor sit in the main bay, looking confused as the rest walk in.

“What happened?” Banner asks quietly, glancing behind him where Natasha disappeared to.

“Red Room,” Steve doesn’t need to elaborate. Banner winces.  

“Ah. Fuck.” 

“What do we do?” Tony, surprisingly thoughtful, turns to Clint for help.

“I’ll handle it. I’ll – she’ll be fine. Let’s fly.”

“Roger that,” Tony shrugs, offering a half-assed salute.

The jet takes off smoothly, the team waiting apprehensively for Natasha. She comes out a good ten minutes after takeoff, having changed into more comfortable clothes. She doesn’t look at the group, instead opting to pull a book out of her mission duffle and curl up in the corner away from them. There’s a heavy silence in the room, broken only by the crisp turning of pages as Natasha pointedly ignores the group. Her hands are shaking.

“Nat?” Tony asks, softly, tentatively. She doesn’t look up.

“What?”

“That was…was that the Red Room?” he tries. Her shoulders tense, the only sign that she’s even listening.

“Part of it,” is the only response she gives.

“Do you want –”

“This isn’t a press conference, Stark,” she snaps sharply, finally looking up and closing her book swiftly. “Yes, that’s how I was raised. Is that what you want to know?”

“No, I—”

“It’s no one’s business what my childhood was like. I’ve done my best to keep it under wraps, so of fucking course that’s where we get sent for extraction,” she swears, and alarmingly to both her and the team, her eyes burn with unshed tears. She stands on shaking legs, and Steve reaches out a hand and grabs her elbow to steady her. She wrenches out of his grasp, taking a few steps back.

“No one’s judging you,” Steve offers quietly, and she scoffs, but it’s much less controlled than her demeanor a few moments ago.

“Of course not, Super Soldier,” she laughs. It’s a barked, panicked sort of sound, and Clint turns around from the controls to see what’s happening. Thor’s on his feet now, looking uneasy, and Bruce has shrunk into a corner, trying to remain as out of the line of verbal fire as possible.

“Natasha, we –”

“Save it, Stark,” she barks. “You and your fancy supercomputer already know everything, or close enough.” Her voice is higher, and it cracks at the top, and Clint quickly flips the jet to autopilot to join them all in the back.

“Nat.” He’s firm, and she turns to face him. It’s then that he sees how truly rattled she was by the sight of all those little girls chained to their beds.

He knew, of course he knew – the nights that he caught her chaining herself to the bedframe so she could sleep, the times he held her as she screamed and writhed from nightmares, the tears he wiped off her face in the rarest moments of vulnerability. She’s panicking now, her pupils are pinpricks, her hands trembling, her face pale. She’s staring into his eyes and even though her demeanor is threatening rather than threatened, he knows how to read her better than anyone.

“Copilot with me,” he offers. She holds his gaze for a moment. Tony and Steve exchange a look, Thor shifting uneasily on his feet. There’s a moment where Clint thinks she might refuse him, throw her book at his head and run to the back of the jet, or pull one of her many knives out of the hidden pockets in her clothes, but she doesn’t. She just nods, once, and follows him up to the front of the plane. She could sit in the copilot’s chair, but of course she doesn’t. She squeezes in with him into the main chair, sitting half on the chair, half on his lap, leaning subtly against his chest. He puts a hand on the back of her neck gently, offering a small squeeze of reassurance. He doesn’t say anything – he doesn’t have to. They listen to the sounds of Steve, Tony, and Thor settling into their seats again, and Clint ventures a careful look at the spy once more. Her eyes look straight ahead, blank and tired. She’ll be sleeping with the handcuffs again tonight, he knows it already, but they’ll work it out. They’ve figured it out before, they can do it again.

#clintasha #clintashaotpwrites #clintbarton #natasharomanoff #originalavengers #marvel #mcufanfic #clintasha fanfiction

[bookshelf-in-progress]

Stars and Shadows: A Fairy Tale

An extremely experimental piece I've decided to submit for @inklings-challenge.

If you wait patiently, there will come a day--in a month, in a year, in a hundred-thousand hopeful days--when you will stare outside into the deep blue-black of a cold winter night and not be able to tell the snowflakes from the stars. It will call to your heart and pull you from the warmth and light of home--wrapped up in coats and boots, scarves and gloves, and one thick woolen blanket thrown over your shoulders like a cloak--in the hope of becoming, even for a moment, a part of the beauty of this moment of creation.

The cold of night will bite your face and steal your breath, but in a moment, you will find yourself racing across the white expanse, snow crunching beneath your boots, soul expanding toward the shining heavens in one upward rush of joy. As soon as home and family are safely out of view, you will slow from your sprint and find yourself content to amble, and wonder, and be, with the shy, slender moon watching patiently above.

You will carry no light, for the world will be light, with the moon and the stars and the snow wrapping all the world in bright illumination. Your breath will shine before you in delicate white clouds, your very life made visible for the fragile, lovely thing it is. In the silence you will hear the snowflakes fall, hear the hushed sound of your footfalls, feel every beat of your strong and pulsing heart.

And then, if you close your eyes and listen long enough, just at the moment when your heart is near to breaking from the beauty of it all, you will hear a cry. For a moment you might think it a phantom of thought, your own soul giving voice to all the aching loveliness that surges through you, but then, you will hear it again. Over and over, thin and wailing, the cry of a child newly born horrified to find the world so great and cold.

The sound will travel like an arrow in that crisp, cold air, and you will follow it without hesitation--over a rise, down a hill, through a twisting stand of trees and countless banks of snow, and at last to an old well, such as you've only seen in illustrations--a construction of wood and stones, covered with moss and aged with time, that you can say with certainty was not there a day before.

Standing by that well will be, not an infant, but a child. A little girl three years old, reaching desperately for the rim of the well and crying for water. Everything about her--her skin, her hair, her eyes--will be white as the snow she stands in, and she will gleam faintly with the light of the stars above, and she will wear nothing but thin, white rags, torn at the edges and singed at the ends, a ragged line of ash the only color in her form.

You will notice all these things and think it strange, and then you will forget everything because the child is crying. You will find a wooden bucket on a chain by the well, and in sheer desperation you will throw it down, though there will be nothing but ice in an open well on a night so cold.

But to your shock, you will hear a splash, and you will pull up a bucket full of liquid water that looks like light itself. You will give it to the girl--you would not dream of taking even a drop for yourself--and she will drink with cupped hands and lapping tongue, and gaze at you with silent gratitude.

When she has drained the last drop, the faint gleam of light around her form will become a white glow. She will seem a bit taller--perhaps a bit older than you first assumed--and for the first time, she will seem to feel the cold. She will shiver and wail and curl in on herself, and you will suddenly understand--or at least bless--your mad impulse to take a blanket out into the night. You will take it from your shoulders and wrap it round her form, head to foot, with only her shining white face peering out. Then you will take her in your arms, settle her on one hip, and carry her across the vast expanse of snow toward your home.

It will be a long trip--you have walked a long way--and before you have gone far, the child will grow too heavy for your strength. You will look to her and find that the blanket you have wrapped around her no longer seems so large, and clings more closely to her form--like something between a deep blue dress and cloak--so you will feel safe in setting her on the ground and letting her walk beside you, her thin white hand in yours.

You will wonder for a moment if you've fallen into a dream, for all seems so strange and perfect--the light, the snow, this silent child--but the bite of the cold and the burn of your legs will assure you that you remain in the waking world. Yet you won't think to question the child--who or what she is, or from whence she arrived--because she is so like the snow and the light and the stars of this crisp, cold night--things that do not become, but simply are. Your wonder make peace with the night's mystery.

The way back will seem longer than you remember--the trees taller, the stars brighter, the air colder. The night will seem large and you so very small, but you will not be afraid, for there is one beside you too innocent for fear. You will walk in the tracks you left on your way, stretching between footfalls that seem much more distant than you expected. Yet the moon will look larger, and you will take comfort in that. You will need the comfort before long.

For just when you are in the very midst of the trees, you will hear a sound from the shadows--dark and dangerous, like the growl of a wolf or the rumble of a distant train. And then the shadows will seem to take shape, growing arms and legs, teeth and claws, and they will gather in a great black wall that blocks the way you mean to take.

The voice that speaks will be less of a voice, and more like the clench of fear in your chest, the monster that mocks you as you lay awake at midnight with all the shame and sorrows of your wasted youth.

We will have the child.

You will know that the voice promises death for disobedience, and you will know to the depths of your soul that you would rather die than obey. You will hold the child close, and she will cling to your neck, and you will sprint with all your strength back toward the well. The shadows will surge and swirl around you, grabbing at your clothes, tearing at your face, and once--only once--drawing blood that drips a red path upon the snow.

You will sprint through the snow and twine through the trees, each step seeming a mile, each moment a lifetime. The shadows will gather--closer, darker--and the light of the child in your arms will fade with fear.

At last, you will see the well at the base of the hill, seeming to shine in a circle of light. If you can reach it, you know, you will be safe--every childhood game seeming suddenly like training for this very moment.

And yet, at the very edge of the clearing--somehow you always knew this would happen--you will lose your footing and fall face-first into the snow. You will shield the child's face from the snow by holding her close, and you will shield her body with your own. The shadows will fall upon you, tearing you to pieces. Your very body will seem to dissolve in pain.

Through their snarling, the shadows will promise relief, if you will only relent--the child's life for yours. Not so great a sacrifice, is it, for a child you've known for mere minutes? These words will tear at your mind, but it is your heart that will reply, drawing strength for defiance from you know not where. And you will. not. move.

You will feel the night fading--the stars and the snow and even the cold growing distant, like some faraway world in which you have no part. Even the pain will seem like something happening long ago and far away to some ancient hero in a dusty, tattered book. Yet you will feel the child beneath you, her beating heart still alive against yours, and that hope will keep you clinging to the tatters of breath in your body.

Then, at last, there will be light. So bright that it blazes white even through your closed eyes. The shadows will crumble like ash, retreat like the dark from a flame, and the destruction of your battered form will cease. The child you shelter will cry with joy.

A gentle touch will lift your shoulder so you lay on one side, and attempt to pull the child from your arms.

With a cry of defiance, you will hold her with what remains of your strength.

But then a voice will flow through you, lovely and feminine, like water and winter and moonlight given tongue. Peace.

Peace will come, perfect and pure, and you will release the child without fear. But without her presence, your need for strength will fade, and all your pain will come rushing in upon you, dark and hot and crushing, and you will have no strength to hold it back.

Absurdly, you will be most aware of an all-consuming thirst. Tears will pour from you--precious, wasted droplets. Then it will be you, and not the child, who cries for water. Then it will be the child who will draw water from the well and put the shining liquid to your lips.

You will drink, and the first mouthful will bring the cold climbing back upon you. But you will welcome it as re-entry into this world, and drink deep, again and again, until you find yourself freezing, but wholly alive, your wounds as if they never were. You will sit and gaze up at a woman dressed in midnight blue, as white and glowing as the child, who clings to her as she would to a mother, and you will find yourself alight with the same glow.

You have served my daughter well, that lovely inner voice will say again. Come and be at peace.

She will turn your eyes toward the heavens, and offer you a place there in the shining light, far from the troubles of this dark world. It will draw you as the snowflakes drew you from the warmth of home, so many long moments ago. Yet you will find yourself standing, and bowing your head, and with utmost humility refusing the honor. You will not leave this world, be there ever so many shadows, while there is still more beauty to behold.

The woman will smile, pleased with your answer, and the light surrounding you will fade. And you will see your home alight on a nearby hillside, waiting for your return.

You will say your farewells to the child--who embraces you with gratitude--and turn your path toward home. The child and her mother will do the same, fading as the sunset fades with the coming of night. And you will notice two stars in the sky above where you had noticed none before.

You will smile up at them and walk home--warm, alive and fearless. There will be no more shadows lurking along your path. But high above, and all around, you will know there is--and always will be--light.

#adventures in writing #have this weird fairy tale #i threw this together on a whim with this morning's writing session #i've been wanting to write a fairy tale #and to write something in second-person future-tense #and to write something in a self-indulgently florid style #and i guess this is what resulted #and i'm debating whether to make it an official team chesterton entry #i'd still write a 'real' story #but i want to run this by you guys first #to see if this is worth sharing further or if it's too weird and self-indulgent #inklingschallenge #team chesterton #genre: intrusive fantasy #theme: drink #theme: clothing #story: complete

[mistresslrigtar]

Chapter Ten: Melody - (written for @zelinktines24 day 10 prompt)

Read below or HERE

Link’s heart pounds as he races through the house looking for Zelda. The visit with Robbie and Jerrin and her subsequent breakdown has exhausted her, and Link had been hesitant to leave her that morning. However, they needed supplies and she insisted she’d be fine for the few hours he’d be gone in Tarrey Town.

His panic rises to epic levels as he calls her name and checks the last room, only to find it empty. Sprinting downstairs, he rushes outside, hands in his hair, and turns in a slow circle wondering where she could have gone. He forces himself to scan the sky above, but it’s thankfully clear of any celestial body, clouds, dragons, or otherwise. Grantéson’s voice cuts through Link’s whirling thoughts, informing him he saw Zelda heading up the path toward the Rasitakiwak Shrine not long ago.

Link shouts a harried thanks as he runs up the hill to the shrine that overlooks the house. He cleared out the constructs long ago, but he hurries all the same. His body vibrates with tension as the elevator descends at what feels like an agonizingly slow pace. Jumping off the platform before it completely settles, Link moves into the dimly lit, cavernous space.

After the machinery’s rumble ceases Link can hear a faint melody echoing through the large hall. That’s new, or he never noticed it before. Once his eyes adjust he follows the sound of the music, looking around pillars and in the darkened corners of the room as he progresses.

Approaching the doorway that leads to the cella, relief floods through Link when he sees Zelda standing in front of Rauru and Sonia’s statues. Her hands are clasped at her breast and she softly sings. Link strains to make out the words, but it sounds like she’s singing in an ancient Hylian dialect. Mesmerized, he pauses at the threshold to observe. As she sings, her hands begin to glow and she opens them, revealing her secret stone.

Link’s heart seizes in his chest, as he holds back a gasp. How can she be so calmly holding it? Doesn’t she remember the physical pain it caused her and the mental anguish him? It takes all his willpower not to charge to the altar, knock the cursed stone from her hands and smash it to smithereens with his sword.

Instead, he clenches his fists and tries to even out his ragged breath while Zelda continues to weave a sorrowful melody that floats in the air around them. The golden light she holds pulses in time, casting eerie shadows over Rauru and Sonia’s stony visages as she draws to a close.

When the last of her echoing voice dissipates and the glow fades from her fingers, Link straightens up and steps inside. His voice comes out in a trembling rasp when he speaks. “Why do you have your stone?”

“Oh!” Zelda startles, eyes darting to the side when she turns and sees him. Her cheeks redden, but she quickly regains her composure, and clasps her hands in front of her, hiding the stone from sight. “I thought maybe if I came here… with the stone, I’d feel their presence. But, I suppose they’re truly gone.”

Sighing, she pockets the wretched stone as she approaches Link, and holds out her hand. He hesitates, wanting to pursue her reasoning behind using the stone. Despite her melancholy, she seems content. He’ll ruin the moment if he voices his misgivings. Link shoves his trepidation to the side and focuses on trying to enjoy the time with her he’s been given.

Hoping she won’t feel how much he’s shaking, he takes her hand and leads her out into the large antechamber, leaving the ghosts of the past behind them.

Zelda looks over with worry in her eyes. “I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

He nods, looking into her emerald green eyes, shining with unshed tears for her long-lost mentors. Link longs to kiss away all the pain and remind her of what they once had.

Zelda must sense the direction his thoughts have taken, since her flush deepens and she ducks her head, twisting away to gaze at the ceiling. “What was the puzzle in this one?”

Link’s disappointment is tangible, but maybe he deserves to feel this way. He can’t help thinking if only he’d been better, stronger, none of this would have happened. He’s to blame for her being lost, and forced to swallow the stone.

“Running over constructs with a concrete slab and shooting them with a cannon.” Link points where the vehicle he’d modified still rests against the wall. She used to love studying the Sheikah technology and had come more alive helping Robbie. If she wasn’t ready for a kiss, perhaps… “Want to see if it still works before we go?”

“Of course! I imagine you enjoyed that immensely.” Zelda releases his hand to pull her journal from her pocket. “Mind if I take notes?”

“How are you going to do that if you’re steering?” The way her eyes light up makes up for his fear, her distance, and is the best reward Link’s ever received inside a shrine.

Many thanks to @floraunderground for betaing this!!!

#legend of zelda #zelink #the legend of zelda #tears of the kingdom #zelinktines24 #dailyprompt #prompt melody #secret stone

[forekast]

Nsfw

18+ ONLY

Vampire Bakugo x FemReader

WARNINGS: NSFW Age gap( reader is 18+ bakugo is over 1000) FINGERING, CUNNILINGUS, VAGINAL SEX, BLOOD, BITING, DUBCON, NONCON, SLIGHT DEGRADATION.

summary:( With the sweetest scent of blood running in your familytree in a world full of vampires, you find yourself locked away hidden from the world for your own safety. That is till your luck runs out and you find yourself in the middle of a terrifying? Vampire’s territory.)

{my first write so sorry if it’s bad }

Pt 1

It was a cool summer evening, the warm purple sunset causing your skin to glisten in the sun. You knew you weren’t supposed to be more than 100 yards away from that old vegetated brick house that constantly smelled of roasting apples, but you couldn’t help but enjoy the ambience of the blue birds singing and the chirping that came from the wild animals that hid in the depths of the tall dark forest. The forest was at the foot of a waved coastline with sparkly pink sand and white glistening rocks that almost looked like mirrors . You couldnt help but pretend that the distorted reflections coming from the rocks, were friends you’d would talk to when you felt lonely. And you felt lonely most of the time after all you only had your callous grandpa to look after you, your grandfather was never the same after the attack on the village and the loss of your family nothing was the same. Once the sun faded away and the stars came out to reflect upon the ocean, a very faint large figure stood tall in the corner of your eye. Out of curiosity you climb down the ragged hill you were resting upon, slipping down carefully you inevitably got dirt on the silky white dress you had just taken 3 months to make. You only had a small lantern to guide you through the thick darkness caused by the abnormally large trees that towered over you, your vision was blocked off and the moon was nowhere to be seen you weren’t sure you were even heading the right direction anymore. The eerie quietness also set you off, usually the forest floor was bursting with noises but the further you walked the more you could only hear the squelched steps coming from your walk on the muddy floor. After an hour of walking but to you felt like an endless wonder into the depths of darkness you stumble upon an old shed with no house to be seen, the trail must’ve been cut off from the years of dirt blowing in its path. The outside paint of the shed was peeled off but it seemed in good condition, the inside told a different story it was rotting from the inside out. Holes in the walls, decayed tools and frames and vegetation all over , you could smell something so pungent and strong it felt like it was attacking your insides making your ears ring like crazy so you decide it’s best to leave. Disappointed you wonder what it is you saw on top of the hill the shed was simply too small to be caught in the distance but you head back into the forest this time you hasten your pace. Unknowingly you wonder into the wrong direction and find yourself in front of a large wooden house. It looked as if someone had inhabited the house, everything was clean and there was even deer skins hanging on a rack. There was a river that hugged around the outskirts of the house and a tall stone well to go with it. You could smell the scent of dirt and blood on a rack near the rigged doorway, approaching slowly you peek to see if your senses are fooling you. Touching the skin to make sure, you rub the blood between your fingers in disbelief there was definitely someone nearby, suddenly you felt the air around you thicken and a hot and moist breath softly touched your warm skin giving you goosebumps. “That’s mine.”

A deep and husky voice that spoke so sensually in your ear making your knees weak as you slowly press your thighs together , you freeze at his words and your chest heaves up and down frantically trying to collect your words until you feel a warm breath take you in harshly, pressing against your neck and taking in your scent. You feel hot and heavy and trickles of sweat drip down your forehead and onto your cleavage, suddenly the warmth disappear and you feel the cool breeze hardening the beads of sweat on your neck. You quickly turn around eyes widened at the sight before you, a tall well built man with blonde hair his chiseled jawline making his grin even more intimidating. You were appreciating seeing another human other than your grandfather, you couldn’t keep your eyes off the way the moon made his sweat glisten on his well defined muscles. Staring at the way his bare chest moved up and down everytime he flexes looking him up and down until finally meeting up with his vermillion eyes gazing upon you. He frowns at you and takes a step back holding a large buck with a missing antler on his shoulders. “What are you doing here?” he spoke so condescendingly, making you step lowering your timid body back in fear. “I-“ “I-“ he frowns at you even more his gaze almost piercing through your somewhat innocent soul making you stumble on your words “I- I- was just lost b-but i’ve found my way back n-now so s-s-sorry.”

Instinctively you take off running but as soon as you take a step away you find yourself face to face with the man, he’s towering over you staring down like you were his prey his eyes were set and stern never looking away. He grabs you by the thin strap of your dress almost pulling your breasts from out of their designed place and forcefully pulls you inside dark the house. You fall down swiftly and quickly scoot away hugging your knees. Eyes never leaving you he puts the deer down placing his slender fingers on the knob as he locks the door. “You’re not leaving so don’t even try” Terrified by his words you cower down hugging your knees tighter with pleading eyes you beg. “Please let me go, i haven’t done anything i’m not ready to die yet.” Warm tears start pouring down your soft red cheeks and your eyes begin to swell, unbothered by your tears the man firmly walks over towards you. You flinch out of instinct but that doesn’t stop him from getting close, trying to create some distance you keep backing away until your back hits the framed wall and there’s nowhere to go. He’s now too close, a knee between your small plush legs and both arms at your curved sides, his forehead and fists clenching. It looked like he was trying to hold something back but couldn’t as he dipped his face into the crook of your neck his cold skin made your nipples erect as you let out a small gasp. He inhaled deeply and slowly his skin cold but his breath hot and moist as he lowers his cold lips unto your warm neck. You feel them softly tracing down till something very sharp graces your neck the fearful sensation fills your core again only to look down and see what you thought was a glimpse of a fang inside his glossy pink mouth. FANGS!!! you thought, you remember your grandfather always berating you about vampires, you always thought they were a fantasy and that your family had died in a fire instead. But oh were they real and you started to wonder could this be the same vampire that killed your family? Fear clouding your mind as tears began falling down those soft cheeks again. “Please don’t eat me, I swear I don’t taste good so please l-let me go please.” You cry and plead with glazed eyes desperate for an answer , he furrows his brows at you and dips his head back down to your neck, you struggle to push him off scratching and pushing at his stiff shoulders, but he doesn’t even budge a muscle. Your semi exposed chest heaving up and down dramatically as he begins to suck and pull on your delicate red skin teeth sinking in slowly sending shock waves of pleasure throughout your entire body. You jerk your body upwards unintentionally rubbing against his cold bare body and let out a small moan making him look up at you wide eyed, embarrassed you look away with flushed cheeks until he bites your neck and sinks himself fully into you pulling your body as close as possible to his. The sucking motion of his mouth on your neck sends pleasurable ripples through your body making your sweet panties soaked in your thick juices, pussy trembling and throbbing to be touched as you moan sweetly and harden your grip on the man’s shoulders. You begin to grind your hips up onto the man hoping to get some friction on your sensitive clit so you can chase your release. “F-Fuck” he groaned deeply into your neck as he felt your clothed wet pussy rub against him so nicely. After a bit of sucking making you lightheaded the man moves his focus to your breasts blood trickling down your neck reaching your hardened perked nipples, he licks the trickle of blood down your neck until he reaches your darkened areola. He began to gently squeeze your nipple between his fingers as he sucked vigorously on the other one like a baby who needed to be fed. You moaned louder massaging his coarse hair as he fondled and played with your breasts, his cock aching for some friction he starts rutting his hips into you relentlessly. He flips you over to lay on your stomach mounting your plush ass grinding his cock desperately, pre cum rubbing and dripping down your thighs.

He towers over your naked body burying his face into your bloody neck, reaching for your neglected breasts as he lifts up your dress over your head and leaves you laying in your pink soaked panties. Careless of your clothing he rips through your panties and begins rubbing your wet slit with his thick but slender fingers, groaning deeply into your neck as he drags your wet slick up and down your throbbing pussy. Desperate to feel your tight walls trapped around his thick cock the man yanks his pants down and palms his aching cock rubbing it up and down your wet folds using your warm slick to lube himself up. You can’t see his cock but you can feel the thick bulging muscle rubbing up and down your slit his veins giving a fiery sensation to your clit, you can only imagine the monster making you clench and tighten at the thought of him entering your tight virgin hole. ( you knew about sex your grandpa using the excuse “It’s just us to repopulate” trying to have his way with you but you never succumbed). Not being able to contain himself anymore he quickly plunged himself inside of you tearing you open so fast and shoving himself so deep inside of you. You cried out and clenched around him even tighter than before back arching pussy dripping in your thick juices just trying to take him in better to ease the sudden fullness inside you. “F-F-Fuck you’re so tight, taking me so damn well.” He groaned huskily into you ear shifting himself pushing his cold naked body against your warm back to get comfortable, getting himself further and all the way in

“nnngh” he moaned softly into your ear his hot breath and the feeling of him so deep inside your wet pussy, you moaned out loud to the feeling and gripped onto the sheets to help relieve tension you felt throughout your body. He began thrusting himself into you mercilessly, longing and so needy to be buried inside a tight wet cunt he couldn’t help but bruise into your hips only searching for his own pleasure at this point. Your walls clenched more and more around him as he hit deep into your cervix filling your womb with his fat cock, a belly bulge would sure be visible with how deep he is inside of you. His pace quickened as he bit into your neck again sucking and biting sending immense pleasure through your body, blood trickling down your breasts onto the stiff wooden floor along with your combined beads of sweat. you couldn’t help yourself from creaming on his cock so deliciously. He turned you onto your back and groaned quietly at the sight of the blood rolling down to your breasts he began palming them roughly still thrusting into you at a intense speed, the sounds of his cock slapping into your pussy and his hips against yours pushing your legs more and more upwards testing the limits of your flexibility, the sounds of his cock squelching in and out of your dripping hole, the heavy groans and moans and the hot panting that filled the air. He started to slow his pace still hitting your deepest spots with each thrust, tightening his grip on your bruised hips. Your eyes start to roll to the back of your head as you felt your stomach tighten and your pussy clench down sucking him in so tightly as you released rings of cream all over the man’s cock.

He growled loudly in your ear “God you’re such a perfect slut.” as he quickened his pace riding you into overstimulation, vision blurry from being fucked into relentlessly you cream all over his cock over and over again he’s milking you for all your worth. His thrusts start becoming more erratic after you cream on his cock for the 5th time he can feel his release coming as you wrap your legs around him pulling his cock even deeper him slamming into your tight pussy hard enough to leave bruises. You feel his cock twitching inside you as he cums a full load deep into your overstimulated cunt still thrusting deeply riding out his release as you whimper softly

“Ahh F-Fuck” he grunts quietly into your ear. His cock still inside, you can feel the overflow of warm cum dripping out of your abused cunt, your legs twitching and numb. Just when you thought the pleasure train was over he suddenly thrusts into you harshly starting off with a quick pace making you cry out. “I thought you were done !” you said in a whiny voice. The man looks at you and presses his soft warm lips on your neck. “I’m not even close to finished yet.” But you couldn’t help but think to yourself “I don’t even know your name…..”

Like for Pt 2 <3

#bakugou smut #fantasy bakugou #bakugou x you #bakugo katuski x reader #katsuki smut #katsuki bakugo smut #katsuki bakugo #bakugou x reader #mha smut #mha x reader #mha fanfiction

[jeiceys-dead-poets-hcs]

Songs That I Think Sound Like the Poets if You Squint

probs will get updated the more i remember to <3

some characters have more than others but i’m working on it i swear

Todd Anderson:

Something In The Orange - Zach Bryan

cry with me over it

Where Is My Mind? - The Pixies

Mind Over Matter - Young the Giant

I Hear a Symphony - Cody Fry

Looking Out for You - Joy Again

Sunrise - Kenny Elrod

Nunemaker’s Parable - Everybody’s Worried About Owen

stream his new ep nunemaker’s swingset ^^^ it’s SO GOOD

The One I Love - R.E.M.

Chamber of Reflection (Live Cover) - Your Anxiety Buddy

Fly Out West - Yot Club

Mystery - Matt Maltese

star tripping - Kevin Atwater

Neil Perry:

Safeword - TV Girl

Cigarettes out the Window - TV Girl

listen neil just gives the tv girl vibe i’m sorry for being right

Wicked Game - Chris Isaak

Everybody Loves Somebody - Frank Sinatra

i will die on this hill ^^

The Stable Song - Gregory Alan Isokov

Dance With Me - Topline Addicts

The Stable Song - Gregory Alan Isokov

Matilda - Harry Styles

Young - Vacations

Exit Music (For A Film) - Radiohead

No Surprises - Radiohead

aime-moi. - Axel Enderlin

Heart Like Yours - Williamette Stone

Privately Owned Spiral Galaxy - Lovejoy

Steven Meeks:

Lonely Day - System Of A Down

Baby Bride Rag - Roar

Numbers - TEMPOREX

Tourist - Jon Cozart

Gerard Pitts:

Journey to Wherever We May Go - Grand Commander

The Other Side of Mt. Heart Attack - Liars

Love Me, Normally - Will Wood

Richard Cameron:

Here With Me - d4vd

Run Away to Mars - TALK

Charlie Dalton:

Blackbird - The Beatles

Hey Lover! - Wabie

#dead poets society #neil perry #todd anderson #dps hcs #dps headcanons #charlie dalton #dead poets headcanons #gerard pitts #dps fandom #richard cameron #steven meeks #knox overstreet

[bardicbeetle]

in the dirt in the dark - nano2k23 - #3

Warning this time around for blood and violence!

Are you going to keep sitting there in the rain?

You might.

It’s softened out.

No longer a downpour threatening to drown you in the dirt.

Maybe you’ll just sit here until you get pneumonia and cough yourself right back into the hole.

Your feet are still dangling in it. You haven’t been able to fully pull yourself out. You can’t really see the point. You had been so desperate to get out once you started and now, here you are, three-quarters of the way through and quite completely given up.

What are you supposed to do?

You take a breath.

The rainy air is still sweet and damp. Soothing to your scream-ragged throat.

Your knees and hands don’t hurt so much anymore. Which could be a good sign or a bad one. Your heart is still silent in your chest, you still have to think about breathing to actually do it.

It was a dark and stormy night.

Except the dark feels bright enough, like you’ve got a lamp lit behind your eyes.

Are you going to get all the way out of this grave?

Or are you going to keep sitting there like the lump of rotting flesh you ought to be?

One leg up, then the other, that’s it.

The rain is stopping. Slowing to just a sprinkle.

Where are you going to go?

The cemetery spreads out before you, wide and hilled and completely unfamiliar. You could be anywhere. Literally anywhere (maybe not literally, you are, clearly, not at the bottom of the ocean, and you are also somewhere that the stones are still written in a mix of English and Latin). You pick a direction and start walking. Sliding a little on the slopes in the watery grass until you are running pell-mell down the hills towards what looks to be a gate. Tall and imposing, like the gate to a castle, but only to the dead.

You half expect some sort of barrier to stop you walking through it. Since apparently this is where you belong.

Nothing stops you.

There is no barrier.

You step off the gravel road and onto pavement.

You look to your right and see the road curve out of sight past the gate.

You look to your left and see a brightness in the sky you think means light pollution, which means streetlights, which means town.

So you start walking left. Hugging the ditch on the side of the road because there is no sidewalk here. That’s alright, you don’t really need it. Nobody seems to be out at—whatever hour this is. There’s no moon, it’s still too cloudy. The pavement shines wet and slick under your feet, brightening more and more as you get closer to the glow of streetlights and civilisation.

You still haven’t figured out if you know where you are.

It’s hard to tell at night.

Places always look different in the dark.

Everywhere near where you live looks basically the same anyways.

You could be within spitting distance of your childhood home and not even notice.

You round a corner into blinding light and the earsplitting blare of a car horn, you’ve got just enough time to remember how much you hate LED headlights and then—

BANG!

Oh.

You think that should hurt a lot more than it does.

The impact of the car throws you fully into the ditch, you hear it when one of your shoulders crunches inward against your collarbone. You think the heavy pressure in your chest might be—oh—oh shit you are coughing up blood that is definitely broken ribs—why doesn’t any of this hurt?

Your chest and stomach hurt more from all that disgusting sobbing you did less than an hour ago than they do from getting hit by a car.

Add that to the list of things that don’t make any sense.

You stop breathing again.

Just so that you can maybe stop coughing up blood.

The tang of iron and salt on your tongue is making your stomach churn again—although, that could also just be from getting thrown several feet by a car.

You were hit by a car.

Where did the car go?

You can still hear it, engine growling a little ways down the road.

You wonder if the driver is alright.

Are you more or less dangerous to hit than a deer?

Hitting a deer can be a death sentence.

…You’re probably smaller than a killer deer.

You drag yourself back up to your feet and oh—oh there is the nausea again as you hear one, two, three, four, five distinct cracking noises, and the pressure on your chest ebbs away.

Okay.

Okay?

You roll your shoulders and are rewarded with another sharp snap as your collarbone rights itself.

You start to doubt your earlier conclusion.

You must be dreaming.

“Hello?”

Oh?

See, you are smaller than a killer deer after all.

“Hello? Are—christ alive I’m so sorry—are you okay?”

You are nowhere near the realm of okay.

But…aside from the lack of a heartbeat and the having to think about breathing and the very intense nausea, you are physically unharmed. Now, anyways. What could be said for seconds ago.

You should respond.

You can see the driver walking towards you.

“I’m okay.” You are not okay, you are not okay, you are not okay.

“I’m so sorry,” the driver says again, close enough now that you can see how absolutely terrified he looks. Who wouldn’t, having just hit a person on the side of the road. “I didn’t see you until it was too late, rain at night you—” he stops, frowning at you in the dark.

“Is something wrong?” You ask, and you don’t really know why. You don’t particularly care what is wrong with this man who hit you with his car when you were barely even on the road. You tilt your head to one side in a move you are quite sure is condescending. As though you are challenging him to say he is shaken up.

“I—sorry, I’m a little shook up by, shit, can I take you to the hospital?”

No.

That would be a bad idea for someone without a heartbeat, you think.

“Sure.” You say, and it sounds friendly enough. It’s not what you meant to say, or even in the ballpark of what you wanted to say.

But you follow him back to his car.

You don’t need a hospital.

…But you do look as though you do.

Covered in dirt, bloody-fingered and kneed, and soaked to the bone to boot.

And now spattered with mud, covered in more blood from the impact of the car.

Of course the guy wants to bring you in, he wants to make sure he doesn’t leave you for dead.

Pity he’s a little late for that.

You kill him as he reaches for the passenger door.

…

…no the fuck you do not.

You do though.

You quicken your steps up behind him and tear him away from the car before the door is even open. Your fingers dig into the flesh of his throat, your left arm wraps around his middle and pulls him back to you, blood runs hot under your fingers and your mouth follows where they’ve torn into—

No. The fuck. It does not.

You sway a little where you stand, having stopped several feet back in the middle of the road.

You stare at the man as he opens the car’s passenger side door.

He looks back at you, waves you forward.

Can you have a panic attack without breathing?

Without your heart racing?

You think you are having a panic attack.

You make your way forward, wait until you are both in the car, and then?

Then you kill him.

You reach across the console and pull him by the shoulders, letting go once he’s halfway across and tangling fingers into his hair, ripping out chunks of it with the amount of force you’re using. You squeeze fingers into eyesockets, bring your tongue to the beckoning red that leaks out—

No.

NO.

“Are you sure you’re okay?”

You are sitting in the passenger seat of this stranger’s car.

This stranger whose car hit you not ten minutes ago.

Your mouth is hanging open, you might—you might be drooling?

“I’m fine.” You’re not fine. You’re not fine. You have now pictured murdering this man twice. You are so incredibly distant from fine.

This is definitely just stress, right?

You have had a very very long few hours, days? However long you had lay in the dirt and then however long it had taken to dig yourself out and then however long it took to get…here. Where you are sitting in the passenger seat of a car belonging to a man who you have not murdered.

Yet.

No yet. There is no yet. There will be no killing this man.

Except there will be.

Very soon actually.

Before he starts the car would be ideal, but if you crash as a result it will only be bad for one of you. If the airbag knocks him out all the better even. If the glass of the broken windshield lacerates his throat, that just makes it easier for you. Even if it is a bit awkward maneuvering your body across the center console in the wreck.

The blood is worth it.

Hot and salty and despite the tang of iron that should leave you feeling sick again it is the best thing you’ve tasted in—well at least since waking up. Maybe longer.

Did you even notice how sharp your teeth had gotten?

You didn’t, did you.

That’s alright.

Plenty of time for that later.

@flyingbananasaur / @vampireposter / @gewhanaa / @abalonetea / @leopardsnake-stories / @captain-kraken

(want to be on the tag list? click here!)

#nanowrimo #nano2k23 #itditd #in the dirt in the dark #lsdente #vampire writeblr #writeblr #horror writeblr

[hedgewitchgarden]

The so-called “wishing trees” at the Co Meath heritage site are in danger of collapse and the Tara Skryne Preservation group is now appealing to visitors to the Hill of Tara to stop suffocating the trees after one of the hawthorns fell recently.

Also called fairy trees, it has been a tradition to place strips of cotton to the trees in the hope of curing an ailment which would disappear as the cloth decayed.

But in recent years, visitors have been tying hundreds of items including nappies, plastic cards, bras and even handcuffs to the branches of the trees, which stand near the legendary Lia Fail stone.

Coins have also been hammered into the trees, causing fungal diseases to develop in its bark.

Although locals have made an effort to keep the trees stripped in clean-ups over the years, one of the hawthorns fell recently.

John Farrelly and Carmel Diviney of the Tara Skryne Preservation Group are now calling for immediate action before all six hawthorn trees are killed.

Mr Farrelly said: “These trees have been weakened considerably and now one of the root systems has been exposed which will end the tree’s life ultimately.

“The trees can’t carry all this junk which gets heavier in rain and people have been hammering coins and penetrating their protective layer, leaving them open to poisoning from fungal diseases.

“Another fairy tree on the hill is also in bad condition and we have to act now to save the others.

“These hawthorns are lone bushes which have survived growth in exposed areas. According to folklore, if a tree or bush was able to withstand the elements and grow unaided in these areas, there had to be some sort of magical force helping them.

“People believed that lone bushes were helped to grow by the fairies or other spiritual beings as a reminder that we are not alone on this earth - we are not the masters of everything.

“It would be a shame to see them die.”

John has taken slips from the trees and managed to grow saplings which he will nurture until they become strong enough to survive the elements and the animals.

However in the meantime, a call is being made to the Office of Public Works (OPW) and tour operators to keep the trees free of rubbish.

“Tying a small piece of bio-degradable rag is one thing but hammering coins into the truck is another,” said Carmel.

“We are also asking the Office of Public Works if they can help in the matter.

“Most tour guides and buses are on our side but you will see some tours actively tying stuff to the trees and to these we plead, Stop!”

The Hill of Tara attracts thousands of visitors each year to see the former seat of the High Kings of Ireland and it’s also said that the hand and head of fierce warrior Cuchulainn is buried near the site.

#Ireland #wishing tree #hill of tara #County Meath Herotage #Tara Skryne Preservation Group #psa

[seas-of-silver]

"Okay, have a look around."

Thanks, anon! And because your quote didn't have any characters attached to it, I really got to play with this idea, which was a lot of fun! Thanks for sending it in! I hope you like it!

~/~

'Okay, have a look around.'

Harry opened the doors to the Great Hall for the students in front of him, and watched as their eyes widened in awe. Walls and floor of stone were hidden by green rolling hills, a small forest, waterfalls and ragged cliffs.

'Today's combined class is all about focusing on your environment,' Harry announced, leading the gaggle of stunned students into the room, the occasional student having to be herded back to the group by one of the other professors to stop them from wandering off too early. 'Us professors decided that while the classroom environment is all well and good, sometimes seeing and experiencing things in a more practical way helps us remember lessons better.'

He paused, letting the students take in everything, before regaining their attention.

'Now,' he continued, 'there will be multiple components to today's lesson, and each of your professors will explain what you all need to look out for each subject: I, of course, will discuss Defence Against the Dark Arts; Professor Granger-'

He was cut off by a sudden burst of excited giggles from the students as they looked between him and Hermione conspiratorially. The Hogwarts rumour mill was alive and well with whispers of a secret romance between him and his fellow teacher, his best friend, Hermione Jean Granger. For once, the rumours were right, but neither of them were going to confirm anything, taking amusement in the students' lack of subtlety as they tried to get them to confirm the rumours; some of them were very creative in their methods...and Hermione wasn't one to stifle creativity.

'Professor Granger,' he repeated, 'will cover Transfiguration; Professor Longbottom will talk about Herbology; and Professor Flitwick will explain Charms. And, to help us out later in the class, we have a special guest instructor.'

The children all gasped and started murmuring amongst themselves, and he let them speculate for a moment before gaining their attention once again.

'We are very lucky to have with us today... Auror Ronald Weasley,' said Harry, who fought the impulse to turn to where Ron was hiding under his invisibility charm in favour of watching the students' reaction as he revealed himself; they did not disappoint. Gasps, squeals and awe-struck exclamations filled the air, and Harry could practically feel Ron preen under the attention. Harry had never been one for the fame and the spotlight, but that didn't mean he wouldn't prevent Ron from having his moment to shine.

'Yes, it's very exciting to have Auror Weasley present,' Harry conceded with a chuckle, but we still have a class to learn from, so pay attention and grab out your notebooks.'

As the students all scrambled for their notebooks, Harry greeted Ron with a grin and stole a glance at the ring on Ron's finger. The war had a profound impact on everyone, including friend and classmate, Lavender Brown. Being on the verge of death awakened a more mature side of her, and her terrifying interaction with Fenrir Greyback drove her to go on a deep dive investigation into werewolves after her extensive recovery at St. Mungo's. Her investigation led her to requesting information from the Auror department, where she reunited with Ron. They worked together for months, and their relationship rekindled and bloomed over time, leading to their marriage last month. Harry had never seen Ron happier than he was that day.

'Starting with Defence,' Harry began, once all the students were ready, 'I want you guys to observe the terrain and think about: how it can be used to your advantage in a fight; what are the pros and cons to each environment; what creatures might inhabit these environments; what spells would work best for you in each environment; and what non-magical skills or actions could be beneficial in each environment.'

Harry waited patiently for them all to write down his instructions before he passed it over to Hermione. He couldn't help but watch how she lit up as she gave her brief to the students. Over the years he had known her, he had come to love how she would become delightfully animated when she learned something new, how she puffed up with giddy pride when she got the chance to share the knowledge she possessed to others, how her eyes would sparkle when someone asked her a tough question, and how moved she would get when a student grew under her tutelage. She had really grown into a most wonderful woman, and Harry was helpless to do anything other than admire her.

'So, when are you going to pop the question?' Ron muttered from beside him. Harry elbowed him.

'Don't let the kids hear you,' he murmured in response, keeping a keen eye out for any distracted students that may have overheard that damning comment. 'If they hear it, I'll never hear the end of it - many of them would probably volunteer to help plan it out.'

'I don't see what the issue is,' Neville teased, eyes glinting with mischief behind an innocent facade. 'I thought you wanted your proposal to Hermione to be a big flashy event.'

'Betrayal,' Harry hissed, mock glaring at his friend, causing Ron and Neville to snicker at his reaction.

'Leave Harry be,' Filius lightly admonished, before smirking. 'Oh Harry, I thought I'd let you know that Irma has granted you and Hermione access to the library after hours on Saturday, but asks you kindly keep any candles and rose petals away from the books.'

Harry grimaced at the way Ron and Neville got boisterous, cheering and slapping his back good-naturedly, but had to stifle his grin when his friends froze at the impeccable glare Hermione sent them for disrupting her, just like the old days. He could still sense her curiosity about what caused the reaction, but her curiosity would have to wait for three days more, and once she knew, he hoped she’d answer with “yes”.

~/~

Ask game: Give me the first sentence and I'll write a short piece for it!

#this was a lot of fun to write #I do write more than just Miraculous and this was the perfect opportunity to show that #I'm writing this when I should be asleep #so hopefully this all makes sense hahaha #anon request #seasofsilver writes #ask game #writing game #hp #harry potter #hermione granger #harry and hermione #harry x hermione #hermione x harry #harmony #ron weasley #neville longbottom #filius flitwick #post war #lavender brown #lavender becomes an investigative journalist #lavender is alive after the war #fluff #irma pince #first sentence then scene