#salt air rusty doors and all that

[oursacredoasis]

august - taylor swift

#taylor swift #I know I'm late but contemplating takes a long time okay #anywayss #HAPPY AUGUST!! #salt air rusty doors and all that #lyric edit #lyrics #tsedit #tswiftedit #tslyrics #tswiftlyrics #tswift #ts #taylor swift lyrics #taylor swift edit #august taylor swift #folklore edit #folklore ts #arvee #usersarh #usershiloh #userartistry #userelena #tscreators #tuserbee

[herlondonboy]

Why does she sound like she’ll beat me up if I don’t

#happy salt air and rusty door season to all that celebrate #August #Taylor Swift #elijah random

[nobrookenocrime]

happy August. video credits: me😫🥰🤍😍

@taylorswift @taylornation

#august #folklore #taylor swift #salting the air as we speak #I’m literally rusting my door #leave out some salt and rusty nails for Taylor Swift tonight in hopes that she’ll bring you the hope of it all

[bowieandqueen11]

Moonlight Dalliance / Izzy Hands Imagine

Request: I wrote this a couple of weeks ago but I think I might have accidentally deleted it off Tumblr because I can’t find it now! Hope you enjoy and I’ll have another request out asap! 😘

Warning: spicy, implied sexual content, sword fighting, mentions of blood and some strong language!

(I do not own OFMD or it’s characters, all rights go to creators. Gif credit goes to @goodsirs.)

☆.。.:・°☆.。.:・°

Before you had even reached the deck, you could hear the clashing of steel reverberating through your bunk.

If it hadn't been for the pouring of sawdust through the cracks in the ceiling beams that rained down like ash over your nostrils: if it hadn't been for the graceful leaps of careful footsteps lightly stepping in box squares above your hammock, you might have chalked down the noise to Roach's snoring. In fact, as you swing your legs over to your side and try, as quietly as possible, to land on the floor of the recreation room without waking as many as your ship mates as possible, said cook was trying to do his best impression of what could only be called a foghorn mixed with an incredibly rusty blender.

'For God's sake-!' The sound of Lucius' voice disturbing you as you were trying to tip toe towards the door almost makes you jump out of your skin. Unravelling Black Pete's arm from around his waist, he gives a final groan into the side of his pillow before throwing it in a wide arch straight at Roach's head. 'If you don't stop snoring I'll stick my wooden thumb, splinters and all, straight up your ar-.'

Thankfully, the sound of you wincing as you grab onto the handle and inch the hinges slowly backwards is drowned out by a stout HMPH as Lucius' pillow lands on Button's stomach. You can't help but let out a snicker at the way the man shoots straight up from his slumber like a scarecrow being raised in a field. He arches one eyebrow and glanced around intently. 'Attack, we're under attack!' You take the opportunity of your fellow crewmates either lunging out of their hammocks, or being tipped out onto the floor during the frantic hustle and bustle that followed to escape out to the helm of the ship. In fact, Wee John seemed to take far too much pleasure out of twirling the Swede's hammock so that the man ended up a mess of tangled limbs, yelping like a fly caught up in a spider's web as Oluwande tried to grab his arm and pull him back out. You didn't mind the good natured jostle of your friends: you had spent so much of the evening tossing and turning, unable to get the thought of one arrogant prick in particular out of your mind, and so the excuse to leave your bunk and get some fresh air was more than welcome.

The sea air - god, the sea air felt so kind on your tired lungs.

The night seemed fragile, the moonlight tender as it spilt over the creaking boards of the ship and pooled in a warm puddle around your feet. It seemed to widen within your eyes, a fine mist spraying like a wicked phantasm from its shadows and coating the surrounding sea in thin tendrils of smoke. With a mind hazed with tiredness, you rubbed at the corners of your eyes and tried to chase away that dream-like glow only the late night could bring. The sails caught in the mild wind and groaned above you, masking out the sounds of Izzy's short pants as he wiped his forehead with the untucked end of his shirt. In fact, not realising yet that you were standing only a mere few metres away from him, he grabbed his shoulder and tugged his shirt off completely, discarding it with a frustrated throw at Stede's cabin doors.

Two hands grip tighter on the wood, willing its body to relax. The tang of salt could do nothing to burn away the fizzling want banging against your ribcage, nor could the cool pinch of the helm railings distract you from the fact that you had spent every second of that day restless; as if on repeat, every time you closed your eyes, or had your thoughts distracted away from repairing the helm, or talking to Lucius, or exploring the islands Stede had insisted you all stop at so he could take Edward off on some grand adventure, you were taken back to that afternoon. The feel of Izzy Hands, the soft ache in his eyes, so desolate, so hopeful: when he had been congratulating you on a job well done fighting off some remote Englishman who had tried to ambush your crew once you had docked, and behind the thrum of his beating heart he hadn't the wit to stop his arm from reaching out and brushing the back of his knuckles against the droplets of blood splattered on your cheek.

His smile had dropped almost immediately of course, and he had run like a gun was being unloaded against his heels back into his quarters and hid there for the night, but the look in his eyes when he had touched you... god, if it wasn't enough to make Davy Jones repent his sins, for even his adoration for Calypso would seem like hatred in comparison.

Yet only the smoky gleam of the moon melting over the champagne waves kept your aching head company. The moon, being a sneaky temptress, was in fact the one thing that drew you to the cause of your distraction; squinting down onto the deck, it took you a minute to remember the reason you had come up here in the first place.

Izzy Hands. In the flesh. And lots of it, if the sweaty gleam of his bare chest was anything to go by.

It takes a moment for your mind to shape the shifting umbra into a perceptible form: he looks angry, furious, even, as his sword slices the misty air like swiss cheese and gives lashes to the main mast. The cherry wood cracks easily under the weight of his blows, the poor shaved shards that land by his feet obviously taking the brunt of the walloping you can only assume is meant for your captain.

Swallowing your nerves, you call out to the fickle shape. 'What are you doing wandering about at a time like this?'

He startles as you wander across the ship towards him, perching back against the side of the mast he was currently tearing to shreds. Incredulously, he looks you up and down before bowing his sword. Your laughter sweetens the edge of his blade, and for a moment Izzy's step falters at the sound.

‘I could ask you the very same thing. Don't you know that all the horrifying creatures slink out from the depths after the full moon rises.' He tilts his head at you, pushing his tongue up against his teeth to stop a smile from breaking like welcome dawn across his face. 'Would hate to see you get dragged away by something... wanton.'

You scratch your cheek, trying your best to hide how you were growing flustered at his words. 'Well, at least if I get dragged away I'll be going with clothes on.’

He flushed at that, head tilting down as he crossed his arms gruffly over his abdomen and blinked languidly.

'What are you actually still doing awake?', you ask, crossing your arms and doing your best not to fantasize about leaping forward and ripping the rest of his trousers straight off with one tear.

'I couldn't sleep.' What he didn't tell you, was that he couldn't sleep because he was so in love with you his heart felt like it was going to bleed out of his fucking chest any time he tried to distract himself from thoughts of you.

'Yeah, neither could I.' What you didn't tell him, was that you couldn't sleep because you were dreaming of grabbing Izzy by that scruffy collar and kissing him silly.

A tense silence suffocated the two of you, sliced only by Izzy shooting his sword through the air with one last precise carve through the freshly hollowed mast. Izzy whips out his wrist, clenching his fingers into a tight fist to try and alleviate some of the burning tension running through his joints at the desperation to touch you.

‘You did well today. As much as I hate to admit it, you can fight better than any of those other morons.’

‘A compliment? From Izzy Hands? Pinch me, I must still be dream-‘

‘Your footwork is a little rusty, though. Could use some work, so you don’t trip over and fall on your own bloody sword.’

‘There we go. There’s always a but with you, isn’t there? You can’t just give the compliment and leave it hanging.’

'I'm just saying... it would be a real shame to pierce such a breast.' Your breath hitches as his eyes dip down to contemplate the sliver of skin still on show between the free flowing buttons of your dress shirt. He sniffles, fingers almost indiscernibly tightening around the metal of the hilt as he did his best to stifle the overflowing shiver that was running up and down his legs. He keeps a tight watch on you for a moment, before biting his bottom lip with his top teeth and darting his eyes out towards the ocean, both incredibly aroused and also incredibly sheepish from having shown such weakness.

'And to ruin such a fine blade.'

He runs his hand across his beard, motion tired yet calculated. Too jolted to speak, let alone run away back down to your bunk and hide your head underneath Oluwande's arm for the rest of time, you leave Izzy the perfect opportunity to pounce.

’Here… come here’, his knuckles fold as he beckons you forward with one hand, his other still resting on the hilt of his rapier as he jabbed it into the floor and let it drop after a moment. If he had let it go just then, as he watched the swish of your hips approach him, he had a pretty good feeling his knees would buckle underneath him. ‘I have far more experience than you do. You ought to learn from a real pirate. Not the hoity toity arsehole that runs around this ship like a headless chicken.’

‘If I remember correctly’, you say sharply with a growing smile, ‘you lost against that headless chicken.’

‘Don’t.’ Before you have time to realise what’s happening, Izzy has grabbed you by the waist and rugged you back. He prays you didn’t hear the hoarse groan that jilted from the back of his throat as your buttocks bounced back against the tensed muscles of his lower abdomen. His voice is gruff and warm against the shell of your ear, but his fingertips burn with the ferociousness of a thousand lantern fires as he snakes his free hand around your shoulders and grips onto the bottom of your chin.

'Don't tease me. It won't end well for you.' His thumb digs into your jaw as he tilts your head back, and you can feel his smirk branding it’s way into the bare strip of skin between the nape or your neck and the hollow of your earlobe. Your head is fully resting back against his forehead now, and his vice on you only lessens once he’s content that you’re too far gone to step away from him.

'Put your foot... here', he guides your right foot forward with the toe of his boot, almost sinfully slowly so he could feel every twitch and tense of your quadriceps against the inside of his thigh. 'There you go, lean your weight forward-'.

He tips you then, doubling you over so your back is pushed down against his groin. You swear you can feel the curls of his hair fall in loose curls down against the small of your back, gathering that his head must be hovering just above your tailbone. For your own sake, to stop your legs from turning into jelly and letting your full weight fall so easily into Izzy's grip, you pretend the haunting moaning sound you hear must be from the hinges of the sails as they turn through the night sky.

'Perfect form', he breathes out in a short gasp against the shell of your ear once he's collected himself, his arm tightening around your stomach as he places you. His right hand drags down your arm, teasingly burning a trail right down over the back of your hand and onto your fingers as he entraps them with his own. He turns your hand, his own clenching so they fold over your own. 'That's it, now jut forward and strike.'

His knee pushes against the side of your buttocks as he jumps the two of you forward; he shoves a little too harshly, though, and just before your feet nearly trip backwards over the rotund exterior of a rogue barrel, Izzy's hand has shot out like a viper to latch its teeth around your wrist. His fingers squeeze as he tilts you upright again, a sharp exhale whistling out of his nose at how close you come to falling into his chest.

'You're not a bad teacher', you manage to laugh out between gasps, 'but unless you're packing... who doesn't bring a weapon to a sword fight?' Straddling to the side, you manage to slide down and grab onto his discarded sword, sweeping the tip through the air until it landed just below his chin. Tilting the skin up, you gaze down at him through dropped eyelids, his fingers now nearly convulsing against your wrist.

You manage to break free of his hold, grabbing onto his bare arm and pulling him so now he was the one caught in your trap. Your bicep holds around his stomach, moving with each tremble of his breath as you graze the sharp edge of his rapier down across his face and jut it under his jaw.

The bastard only smiles as you hold the edge of his blade against his throat.

'Did you really think you could win this fight?', he asks between the tight lips of a knowing smile, and it takes you a second to realise that his free hand has wrapped round to hold onto yours on top of the handle. He shoves the blade away, kicking out with his foot so you trip backwards. He easily catches you before you hit the ground.

You dance your fingers up his chest as he holds you tight against him, dipped down like lovers do during the first dance. All the stars burn deep within the depths of his soul, pouring out like razing destruction from his eyes as he keeps darting a path between your nose, and back down to your lips.

'I don't think you won this either, Izzy Hands. In fact, I think we both lost something here.' You spread your fingers out over the bare skin across his pec, feeling the flittering thud of his heart pound out against your fingertips.

By god, if he had ever been so delighted to lose.

His lips ravish you like a man shrivelled under the island sun, desperate to drown; before your gasp can fully deflate from your lungs, your legs have been kicked out from underneath you by a swift and skilled kick from the side of his boot.

Oh, he had been planning this for a long time. Had been thinking of nothing but this since he had boarded this vessel. The tightness of his arm as it snakes around your back and stops your shoulders from taking the brunt of the bounce off the boards: the way he throws his rapier behind his back without a second care, instead replacing his clenched fingers with the reddened meat of your hip as he levers you down was far too precise and meticulous to be a mere spur of the moment, subconscious thought.

An uncomfortable heat shivers over your torso and settles as an anchor weight in the pit of your stomach as Izzy grazes his right hand over the top of your thigh. Plop. Plop. Plop. His leather gloves ball as he taps his finger one by one, teasingly, against your inner thigh, using them to shove your legs wider apart. His lips pull away with a sickeningly sweet pop from your neck only for a second, as he breathlessly glances his eyes in a jagged path across your face.

He looks wonderstruck.

You can't help but reach out to touch the tough muscle of his left peck, swirling your finger across the short strands of his chest hair. The soft scrape of your fingernail soon turns into your fingers fully spreading out like the tendrils of a swift current once you feel him bury his head into the curve of your neck; his chin juts into your pulse point and the bastard has the audacity to whimper at the feel of your palm brushing over the hardened tip of his nipple.

If he wasn't living out all of his deepest, darkest dreams, the man nearly collapsed on top of you may have felt embarrassed at the way his pelvis began to buck down and brush the tightening leather over the rising line of skin underneath your belly button. In your turn to be bashful, you can feel a flush crawl over your cheeks as Izzy grabs onto the bottom of your thigh and tugs you closer, fist clenching over your ankle as he throws your right leg up and over the side of his hip bone. His hands are surprisingly soft, surprisingly gentle as he claws and kneads and mewls into you, his lips dragging down and over to the side of your jaw now with quick, tempered nicks.

You're scared his skin is going to melt off at the bone with how it burns against your hip: it holds tightly to the side of your pelvis, his thumb toying with the tassels hanging from the band of your trousers as he impetuously grinds down against you again. You can feel his shit eating smirk as the flat edge of his tongue licks a hot streak up to the shell of your ear; he bites down, tugging at your earlobe and clenching his fingernails so tightly into the soft skin at the side of your buttocks that you were amazed he didn't draw blood.

‘What on earth was that noise?! What’s going on up here! Which hooligan is up making a ruckus on my ship? And so late! I know you wanted another bedtime story, but I told you, we all need our beauty sleep!’

The glim flicker of a handheld candle illuminated out from the stairway as the ruffled hair of your captain peered out past the door like a startled meerkat. With wide eyes, he mustered the courage to lift up the skirts of his nightshirt and take a step out onto the deck, away from the safety of Ed's gentle snores as they billowed out through the crack.

Before your captain can spot the two of you caught in such an awkward position: Izzy grinding against you like a needy dog, your hand bunched into a tight fist in his hair and your legs wrapped tightly around his taut waist, he shoves a gloved finger to your lips. Annoyed at being disturbed, you tilt the hand gripping his hair backwards and smirk to yourself as Izzy dips his head down to land between your breast bone to try and hide his groans.

Before you can tease him anymore, he's gripped onto your wrist and is tugging you up; he's near carrying you bridle style in his arms as he slips past the railings of the ship, mingling in with the shadows. His hand covers your mouth to stop your giggles, carrying you off down to the bunk of his room so the two of you can carry on your midnight dalliance where your poor, confused captain wouldn't be able to hear the pounding of the bed as its frame shudders against the wall and your screams echo out against the silent moonlight.

#Ofmd #our flag means death #izzy hands #izzy hands imagine #Izzy hands x reader #Con o’neill #ofmd imagine #israel hands #Israel hands imagine #Israel hands x reader #Our flag means death imagine

[thetempleofthemasaigoddess]

How I long for the time, when your lips would kiss mine

Mihawk x reader.

Title is an excerpt from Blind and Frozen by Beast in Black (again).

This brief fic is the conclusion of a story that started with Built a haven for your love (until I let you fall apart) and continued with (and if nothing brings you back) Surely, I'll roam through life in black.

*****

Three months later.

You smile, more satisfied than greedy, as Vice-Admiral Garp slids a parcel across his desk, close enough to let you take it.

"Thirteen million berries, including the bounty you were owed since last year." he explains as you lift the parcel to stash it in your satchel, without bothering to open it to count the bills neatly stacked inside: you know you can trust the Navy - regarding the money you are due even if not about everything else "Don't take it the wrong way, (name), but I was surprised you had decided to take on this assignment: it is quite a bit below your usual level."

"I am aware. I have been... in poor health, which is why you haven't seen me in a while, and I wanted something simple to make sure I had gotten back to full fitness. From now on I'll be only taking on level three bounties, as usual."

Garp nods, promising to call you when your services will be required. "Got plans for tonight?" he idly adds, leaning back in his chair as he observes you rising from yours.

"I am flattered, Vice-Admiral, but I never mix business and pleasure."

"That was not what I meant. I was simply wondering if there was a reason why a certain man who never spends a minute more than he has to here at our HQ has been sitting in the waiting room for almost two hours twiddling his thumbs."

The mental image makes a smile blossom on your lips; you don't bother trying to deny it, since it would be clearly pointless. "Figuratively, I imagine."

"Probably. Still..."

"Still, thank you for your time. I'll see you soon, Vice-Admiral."

Garp laughs; he seems to find the whole matter highly amusing, which means it is probably a good thing he is discussing it with you and not with the other interested party.

"He was very worried about you; I could feel it in his voice." he suddenly adds, almost as an afterthought.

Mihawk is alone in the room most of your (less memorable, but still dear to your heart) meetings have taken place in, an half-empty glass of red wine in front of him. He is perfectly still, sitting and apparently lost in his thoughts, but the moment you appear at the door he turns to look at you, relief evident in his gaze... or maybe, just maybe, it is you who are able to perceive it.

A simple, inscrutable smile is the only answer he receives, and a moment later you have left his office and are walking down the corridor toward the room Garp mentioned.

"Hello."

He reaches you at the door a moment later, Yoru hanging from on his shoulders, and for a moment you remain face to face, silent as you simply relish being in each other's presence once more. His hand brushes against yours; holding back from hugging him is the hardest thing you have ever had to do.

You happily follow him when Mihawk suggests you go outside to talk, but once you have reached the plaza facing the Marine HQ neither feels the need to actually speak; night is falling, a beautiful sunset painting the sky of a hundred shades of red.

"Has your leg healed?" he asks after a while, as you unhurriedly walk down the pier, the salt-laden air making you feel at home; after all, you were born on an island.

"Perfectly, thank all the Gods. And I took down the pirate i was sent to kill in two days, which means I haven't gotten rusty despite fifteen months of indolence." you happily inform him "I have started with something easy, so as not to overexert myself, but I am tired of sitting around doing nothing; I am ready to get back to business."

"That is good to hear."

You smile, finally taking his hand. "I have missed you." you murmur; it is easy, even pleasant, to utter those words, because no matter how usually strict Mihawk is in judging others, you know you don't need to hide from him, not even the most fragile, most painful part of you "I am so sorry I never called or wrote, I... I needed to be alone. To come to terms with what I had discovered."

"I know, (name). I am not crossed, and..."

"And?"

He sighs; for a moment you simply know he wants to ask whether those three months actually helped, if your heart healed along with your leg or the pain of knowing you will never be a mother, never raise the children you have wanted for nine years, is still part of you, slowly gnawing at your heart like waves gradually wearing away the sturdiest rock. If he did, you are not sure what answer you would give, because you don't have one for yourself. Rationally, you know the passing of time will help, at least a little, and since you have always thought suicide is not the answer you can't help moving on, or at least going on, by inertia if nothing else, and the occasional moment, hour, or even day, of sadness and complete despair doesn't prevent you from cherishing the small and great joys life still throws your way, from the gentle, protective hug of your mother to the pleasure of seeing your bullet, shot from half a mile away, hit the bullseye in the middle of the target's skull... to being finally back in the presence of the man you have never stopped thinking about, even though you had forbidden yourself from using him as an incentive to get back to what you had been. You don't want to be the sort of person who needs her loved one's affection to carry on; you want to be better than that, for yourself first of all and for him as well.

"It is good to see you." Mihawk says after a while; he can't read your mind (or at least, you have no reason to suspect he can; on the other hand, you wouldn't be too surprised...) but you could swear he knows what you are thinking, what you are feeling, or maybe he simply has the gift to say what the person in front of him needs to hear "I have missed you. Again."

"I'm sorry..."

"You don't need to apologize. I just meant..."

"I know, Mihawk. And... I feel the same."

Silence falls between the two of you, and while it is not uncomfortable or tense, as usual when you are with Mihawk, you perceive you can't simply enjoy it as you let time pass you by. You have already wasted so much of it, fifteen months after your first night together (a night thinking back to which makes you still shiver in such a pleasant way; a night that was the beginning of something marvelous, even if not what you hoped) and three after you had quietly confessed to each other you both wanted to be more than simple acquaintances and drinking buddies. You are still young, and rushing things rarely helps, at least when feelings are concerned; but as you said, you have been idle for so long, and you want, you need, to regain control of your life.

"A new restaurant has just opened not far from here; it is pretty good, I am told." you mention after a moment, suddenly thinking back to Garp's conjectures "Would you let me buy you dinner?"

Mihawk grimaces. "I'd be more than happy to dine with you, but you have to let me take the bill."

"I have earned thirteen million berries twenty minutes ago. I think I can afford a dinner for two." you point out, relieved that scowl was not due to the prospect of spending the evening with you.

"That changes nothing. I would have imagined a noblewoman would have been keen on respecting traditions."

You smile; Gods, you are so happy to see him your heart is singing. "Then..." you begin, lowering your voice to an intimate murmur as you take both of his hands in yours, the distance between your bodies reduced to a breath "What if I let you pay for the dinner, and then I take care of dessert? In my inn room?"

Mihawk sighs, his usual serious demeanor betraying his actual feelings: amusement, and relief, and desire. "I suppose an after-dinner drink wouldn't hurt."

"Great."

He kisses you - on the forehead, since you're still in public; when you raise your eyes to his, you can see him smile. "Let's go, then."

The descending night hides you in its dark mantle as you set off along the pier, your fingers still interwined.

#One Piece #One Piece Live Action #OPLA #Dracule Mihawk #Mihawk #Dracule Mihawk x reader #Mihawk x reader #Steven John Ward #Bellona's stuff

[ellethespaceunicorn]

There Is A Light That Never Goes Out

Title: There Is A Light That Never Goes Out 

Rating: Mature, 18+, Minors - DNI 

Pairing: Syverson x Female!Reader 

Word Count: 951

Summary: When an unexpected pregnancy rocks your already uncertain world, you decide the best option is to run. Apocalypse AU. 

Warnings: apocalypse AU, accidental pregnancy, language

A/N: A submission for @the-slumberparty BINGO challenge. My bingo squares include beach day, family friend, accidental pregnancy, and apocalypse. Unbeta’d, we die like people who tried their best.  

Dividers by: @firefly-graphics 

Support/Reblog banner by me

Cover Art by me 

My Masterlist  

As you sit just past where the water rushes on the beach, you can feel the mist of the water on your face. Sea salt is in the air, and you relish the smell. You can remember coming to the coast with your family as a child. 

Of course, that was before the world decided to end. Before you had to change your entire way of life in the blink of an eye.�� 

Now, moments like this are but a distant memory. Your shoes are off. Your toes are buried in the sand. Saliferous wind from the ocean is blowing through your hair. Next to you is a duffel bag full of essentials, at least what you could grab on short notice.  

Escaping the compound turns out to be a bit trickier than you had hoped. But with a close friend at the guard station, you sneak by and out of the gates without a second glance. You make it out of town before dawn, watching the sun rise over the water. 

By now, you know that your superior officer will be conducting roll calls and noticing your absence. You did not care enough to go back, but you wish your brain would stop letting you worry about what was going through their brains. 

‘Is she alive?’ For now, yes. 

‘Did she go alone?’ Technically, no. 

The distant sound of tires on gravel does not surprise you. Neither does the noise of the rusty truck door opening and closing. The softness of sand being kicked up by big boots creeps up to the side of you. You do not have to look up to know who is next to you, but you do anyway. 

The dusty old camouflage pants with thigh holster and sweaty brown plain t-shirt gave him away in an instant, but your eyes continue higher. His unruly beard covers his irked expression, his mouth set to one side as he chews his inner cheek. You’ve known him long enough that he chews his cheek whenever he gets upset. 

He looks down into your eyes and you watch as they wander across your form. 

“Your brothers are worried sick about ya. I told ‘em I would come to look for ya,” He sits down in the sand next to you, “Runnin’ ain’t gonna fix our little problem.” 

“Our problem, Sy? First, it is not our problem. Second, it is not a problem. It is a baby. And this baby wasn’t exactly planned, I understand that. But I don’t expect you to do anything. We can get by on our own.” Your voice breaks and you hate that your eyes are blurry with unshed tears. 

“I wasn’t callin’ the baby a problem. And if ya think I’m lettin’ ya raise this little hellion on yer own, yer outta yer damn mind. Now, yer brothers are my best friends in this whole damn world. And yes, they’d kill my ass if they knew I got you pregnant. But they’d resurrect me and kill me again if they knew I’d let ya off on yer own. Shit, I’d kill my ass too.” 

You swallow the lump in your throat, but it does nothing to stop the fat tears that escape when you blink your eyes. The shuddering breath you take is enough to have Sy scooting closer to you and bringing you into his arms. 

“Don’t cry, Sweetness. We’ll figure this out. Together,” He kisses your forehead and snakes a hand down to your stomach, “Let’s give ‘em a chance, alright? Make a better world for ‘em and all that nonsense. I can’t fathom losing both of ya, let alone either of ya.” 

“We should have been more careful—” 

“Well, we weren’t bein’ careful. And now, we got a kid on the way. So what? Every time we face a little trouble, you gonna run?” He wipes away your tears, looking into your eyes again. 

“I’m really scared, Sy. What are we going to do?” The tremble in your voice has Sy holding you tight. 

“Well, to start, we tell yer brothers about the baby. Then, whaddya say we go over to the doctor, have everything looked at? Make sure he’s growing fine and everything.” 

You laugh, not able to hold your amusement. “He? You already know it’s going to be a boy?” 

“Well, ya know my folks had five boys. Yer parents had two before they had ya. Odds are it’s gonna be a boy, Sweetness.” 

“I’m a little shocked. What changed your mind about everything? You were not this verbal when I told you yesterday.”  

He bites his lip, looking out at the sea before answering. “I guess I was too scared to admit how I felt about ya. And then, outta nowhere, you give me the best gift in the world, and I didn’t know how to handle it,” He takes a shaky breath, then continues, “I’m sorry I waited ‘til now to say it, Sweetness. I love ya. I love ya, so damn much. And nothing would make me happier than to raise this little one with ya.” 

You climb into Sy’s lap, holding his face in your hands, and resting your forehead against his. “I love you too, Sy.” You lean in and slot your mouth against his. You allow him to take the lead as his hand tangles in your hair. 

Pulling back, you smile at each other. Nothing needs to be said. You turn in Sy’s lap and watch as the waves crash in and out. You have each other and you have this baby. With a love that burns bright like yours, neither Hell nor high water would be able to snuff it out. 

A/N: Title taken from There Is A Light That Never Goes Out by The Smiths. It seemed perfect for this story. 

**Tag List** 

@brattymum96 @ambinxe @avengersfan25 @kebabgirl67 @thabiddie23 @astheskycries @enchantedbytomandhenry @peyton-warren @raccoon-eyed-rebel @geralts-yenn @rebelangel1102

#captain syverson x reader #captain syverson #syverson #syverson fanfiction #syverson x ofc #cpt syverson #syverson x reader #syverson fic #captain syverson fanfiction #ellethespaceunicorn fanfic #henry cavill #henry cavill characters #syverson x you #syverson smut #henry cavill fanfiction #henry cavill fanfic #henry cavill x reader #captain syverson fanfic #henry cavill x you #apocalypse au

[oftenwantedafton]

Wanted - Steve Raglan/William Afton x GN Security Guard

Rating: Teen

Summary: Desperate for work, you seek the advice of career counselor Steve Raglan.

A reimagining of of the FNAF movie, with the gender of your character deliberately ambiguous so it can be enjoyed by anyone.

Also available on AO3

Your feet drum restlessly against the carpet and your eyes flicker towards the clock again. When your name is finally called, you don’t even recognize the sound at first. You’re miles away, wrapped in a cloud of worry and doubt because you need work so badly but your options are so limited.

And then that cotton fog draped around you dissipates and you hear your own name, evoked with a heavy dose of boredom and contempt for the position the woman finds herself in, for the endless traffic of hopefuls and rejections. Your voice is dry, rusty from disuse as you creak an acknowledgment.

You jolt out of your chair and follow her, dragging sweat drenched palms across dark polyester, hoping no one notices. You always perspire when you’re nervous, and you’re nervous 90% of the time. You attempt to work moisture into your mouth, try to still the rapid throb of your heart. It’s never been this bad before. You’re so desperate. That must be it.

“In here,” the guide drones, already turning to make the trek back. The open door looms before you. You can smell coffee brewing and think you hear the shuffle of papers.

As if held by some invisible force field you rock back and forth on your heels in the doorway, not quite ready to move.

“Come in,” a voice says, and it is a siren song you cannot resist. “Have a seat.”

You obey, practically collapsing into the empty cloth chair. It takes every amount of effort to lift your eyes and then you see the owner of that compelling voice for the first time.

He’s middle aged, with a crown of salt and pepper hair and a neatly trimmed beard and moustache to match. The fluorescent lighting reflects on gold framed glasses that are at least a decade out of date. The fingers that turn the pages inside your folder are long and slender, deft in their movements. He says your name and your breath hitches in your throat as the man’s head lifts and you see his eyes, the palest blue, piercing you icicle sharp.

You feel him measure you in that first glance and you squirm nervously in your seat.

“This is quite the track record you have here,” he says, and you feel your heart sink. The fog descends upon you once more as a list of your previous positions and their abrupt terminations fills the air. You want to give excuses but they all sound so weak, so pathetic. And you are pathetic. You are undesirable.

And yet.

You don’t feel the career counselor is disapproving, precisely. He looks oddly satisfied as he closes the folder and leans forward, folding his hands. You notice the veins, blue and prominent in places, stretching up through pale white skin. “I have a job for you.”

“You do?” It’s the first sound you’ve uttered since you entered the office. You lick your lips, grateful there is some moisture to be had at last. “I’ll take anything.”

“It’s third shift. Security gig at an old restaurant. There have been some problems with vandalism, things like that.” He stands and you cannot help but notice the grace in the movement of the tall, lean figure as he makes his way to a small table behind you with a coffee maker and a box of baked goods. He offers a steaming cup but you decline, watching him reach for a pastry and settle back into his seat. A stray bit of icing clings stubbornly to his palm and your eyes watch raptly as he laps at the trace of sweetness coating creased flesh. “Do you want it?” His eyes snap to you so suddenly you feel the gaze lash against you, whip sharp.

“I’m sorry?”

“The job. Do you want the job?” There’s a touch of impatience in his voice now and you know you’ve disappointed him. Desperate to redeem yourself, you nod and give a breathless affirmation. “Good.” He smiles, a thin smirk, but there’s no humor in it, the gesture never touching his eyes. He offers a hand for you to shake and you accept, finding the slender digits deceptively strong. He could crush you, you think, with just these hands. “You start on Monday.”

***

You don’t know what exactly you’d expected, but it wasn’t this.

The career counselor had given you a brief history of the children’s party themed eatery, the details of its eventual demise less forthcoming. Your hands fumble with the padlock and chains securing the front door as you recall his instructions about keeping the less than reliable power running and monitoring the security cameras, while also ensuring the place stays tidy.

When you enter, it feels as if you are stepping inside a church.

There’s a stillness in that darkness that makes your movements feel reverent. You tred cautiously, gaze roving over barely discernible shapes in the shadows. You can smell stale pizza laced with the ammonia based cleaner used on the floors.

The security office is stifling and you’re grateful for the fan. It hums loudly to life at the touch of a button and you settle into a creaky old office chair with peeling artificial leather that’s seen better days, like much of the establishment. There’s a training video for you to watch and then it’s just you and the black and white screens for the evening. You don’t roam far that first night, still unsure. The times passes uneventfully and you think to yourself you can do this.

You have to make this work.

The days pass and you survive your first week. A second week progresses and you’re bolder now, exploring more of the building. You walk past the glow of the arcade games and stacks of empty pizza boxes and peek behind stage curtains, studying the animatronics with equal parts trepidation and fascination. You think you see them move sometimes but dismiss the notions immediately. It’s impossible. The eyes of the brown bear did not blink. The rabbit’s fingers did not twitch, ready to strum the guitar slung across his body. You did not hear a sigh from the beak of the bird, nor see the fox move his hooked appendage menacingly. Lunacy.

Past the main dining room , you find the smaller back rooms much more congested. You cannot identify much of what you see, but you endeavor to arrange things, at least somewhat, into neat piles. The internal frameworks of unused animatronics are more frightening than their working counterparts, but you cannot help but admire the colorful wires and trace the metal skeletons. One time you accidentally caress a sharp edge and draw blood. The place has a taste of you now and you wonder, as you suck absently on the injury, the tang of copper heavy on your tongue, if it enjoyed it.

The sensation that the building itself is alive in some way is one you can’t shake, no matter how unreasonable that concept sounds. You can almost feel it breathing, sighing around you. You imagine the generator is akin to a defibrillator, sparking life back into the heart of the structure. The pizza place haunts you even when you’re not at work. You dream about it, sometimes, see the animatronics step off the stage, find a tall figure in the shadows, familiar even in the darkness. You know who it is, deep down, but your conscious self denies it upon waking.

You linger in the mornings even after your shift is over, watching the streams of sunlight filter through the windows and strike the stained glass caricatures of the restaurant’s mascots, spilling shards of colors across the confetti printed carpet. There are no longer any traces of dust on the tables and chairs; you’ve made certain of that during your rounds. You’ve gradually restored the appearance to something nearing what it was in the peak of operation. All that’s missing is the laughter of children to bring this place back to what it once was.

But of course that would never happen.

The career counselor calls you one day, sounding friendlier than you recall during your first meeting. He says the owner is pleased, and you can sense the same satisfaction oozing from his raspy voice. You feel a warmth spread through you. You’ve done it. You’ve finally succeeded. You’re where you belong. This was meant to be.

“On the owner’s behalf, I’d like to treat you to breakfast one of these days. I could pick you up after work.”

“I’d like that.”

There’s an amused hum of sound you’ve come to recognize on the other end of the line as if he’s enjoying a private joke before hanging up and then you find yourself cradling the phone, no longer connected through voice but the link still palpable for you all the same, wondering when he will come for you.

It’s on purpose, you think, this vague invitation. The career counselor wants to catch you unawares, so you take extra care to look and smell nice each evening before going to work. You pace the confines of the security office and drag fingers along every surface. You want everything perfect for him. The place nearly vibrates with electricity, from the sign outdoors to the machines glowing in the arcade. You can feel the building waiting, anticipating. You feel that same energy mirrored in your blood, coursing through your body.

And then one morning you see the older model car pulling up outside the front door and you know it’s him. Your hands fumble the padlock closed and then you’re inside the vehicle next to him, sinking into leather. He offers you a smirk of greeting and your eyes stutter over the pinstriped gold shirt and eggplant tie, noting the rolled up sleeves of the button front shirt. It’s a weakness of yours; you’ve always found it attractive.

“Hungry?” he asks, and you nod, swallowing thickly. “Me too.” The second smile sets something stirring deep inside and you have to look away.

***

The roadside diner is crowded at this hour.

You slide into a bench seat, watching the man’s lean figure fold across from you. You order juice, scrambled eggs and toast and your companion selects black coffee, at odds to the danish he’s chosen. Always the bitter contrasting with the sweet, you think, admiring every movement he makes, from the deft tuck of napkin to the slight press against the bridge of his nose to reposition his glasses.

“Do you think I’ll ever get a chance to meet the owner?” you ask, dragging a fork through the last remnants of your eggs. You’d been absolutely famished, demolishing the contents of your plate.

There’s a long pause. “Do you want to?”

“Yes, I’d like to.” You don’t know where you find the courage to make this statement.

“Maybe one day.” The predatory smirk is back and you drop the fork, making a loud clang with the collision of steel against ceramic.

He waves away your protests at contributing towards the check and before you know it you’ve returned to the restaurant, where your own car sits waiting in the otherwise vacant parking lot.

“Thank you,” you murmur, reaching for the door. You don’t want to leave but he’s given no indication you have a reason to linger.

“Sweet dreams.”

Your fingers falter before making contact with the handle. Your body screams at you to find an excuse to touch him, any part of him, but of course there are none.

The interior of your car is cold and you feel both hollow and full as you turn the key in the ignition. He’s like a drug and you’re addicted and you can’t even begin to explain why. He’s virtually a stranger but you know him intimately, in some unspoken way.

You see the shadowed figure again in your dreams that day and this time you know they’re one and the same. He’s there, waiting for you to step into the darkness.

***

You weren’t even aware the facility had a door buzzer until it sounds one evening, giving you your first real jumpscare. You peer hurriedly at the monitors and realize someone is standing outside in the pouring rain, the hood of their jacket obscuring their features. Not once, in all this time, have you had any visitors, welcome or not. For all the negative claims against the place, for all the alleged talk of problems with vandalism and break ins, you’ve seen nothing save neglect that needed tending to.

The doorbell sounds again and you lurch to your feet. You’ve got a baton at your waist and a flashlight at the ready and you feel woefully unprepared.

The walk to the front door that you’ve made dozens of times effortlessly now feels like an eternal foreign path. You stumble past the booths and tables awkwardly, the hand holding the flashlight unsteady.

The rain drums loudly as you approach the glass. You turn the lock and crack the door open slightly.

It’s him.

It’s so obvious now that the career counselor is in front of you, that willowy frame looming just out of reach. You stammer an apology, stepping back to make room for him to enter, nearly tripping in the process.

He glides in shadow smooth. There are rain drops on his lenses, his cheeks, tracking like tears. They spill over his mouth and you want to taste it, feel the sandpaper scrape of short facial hair against your skin.

“Is everything ok? I’m sorry, I wasn’t expecting…” your voice trails off as the door hisses then thuds shut. You think it sounds like a sigh before a jaw closes, entrapping its contents.

The wet jacket is shed, tossed onto the back of one of the nearby chairs. He still hasn’t spoken, offering no explanation for his sudden appearance. You watch him look around the dining room briefly before pulling the glasses away and untucking the hem of his shirt to polish the damp lenses dry.

“I..” you start again uncertainly.

“You wanted to meet the owner.” He’s still working on the glasses, scowling when he finds they’re not yet clear.

“Yes.” Now you’re frowning, puzzled.

“Well, now’s your chance.” His fingers abruptly still, setting the glasses down on a table and then his eyes find yours.

“I don’t…” you begin to protest but you feel your heart flutter.

“You know. You’ve always known.”

He closes the distance between you, so rapidly it seems as if he’s teleported. His lashes are clumped together, radiating like points of a star. A damp strand of hair drapes across his forehead and you long to brush it back. The compulsion to kiss him nearly strangles you. You can feel the warmth radiating from his body.

“It’s you,” you manage, the flashlight dropping to the carpet. You’re dizzy, breathless, thinking you might collapse until his arms wrap around you. At last, at lastyou feel him, all that strength you knew he had, supporting you, clutching you against him. Your head tips up and his bows down and you have your first taste, those lips swallowing your own.

You drink him in, rainwater laced with faint coffee he must have had earlier, feel his tongue dart over yours, mapping you, marking you, teeth making sharp nips here and there and you welcome all of it. It’s like a dam breaking free finally and you lose yourself in the moment, let everything come rushing forward. He pushes and you crash against a wall, your back sending a framed poster featuring a trio of animatronics askew.

You struggle to touch him, cradle his face, thread fingers through damp tresses and he allows it for the briefest of moments before grabbing your wrists and pinning them against the wall. He draws back, leaving you gasping, writhing, still trying to grind your body against his. “Steve,” you plead, but he grunts in displeasure.

“William,” he corrects in a harsh whisper against your ear before lapping at the whorl of flesh. You repeat the name and his grip on your wrists tightens. You feel his nails digging into your skin, leaving crescent moon indentations. His lips caress your neck, nudging aside the starched collar of your security guard shirt. “I have so much to show you,” he pants against the base of your throat.

You don’t know precisely what he’s talking about, but whatever it is you’re committed. There’s no turning back now. “Show me,” you urge.

William abruptly releases your wrists, stepping back, the sudden absence of his warmth making you shiver. “Come with me,” he invites, pupils blown and shining, reflecting the neon lights. His hair’s mussed, shirt rumpled and he looks wild, almost feverish. He holds out a hand and you take it, allowing him to draw you forward, exiting the room, pulling you into the waiting darkness.

#william afton x reader #william afton x you #steve raglan x reader #steve raglan x you

[chickawah23]

I have no expectations, but something is definitely brewing in the salt air...

We are all waiting for someone to open that rusty door.

#anons

[dickie-666]

hey it’s dickie!

i wanted to show my first chapter my WIP, Lies of Trueline, it’s just an original story i’ve been working on for the last few months.

i have a total of 7 chapters so far however i just wanted to get peoples opinions about the first chapter so i can develop my story more.

thanks so much i hope you enjoy

content warning: the story is about cannibalism, sex, drugs and rich people and is inspired by Saltburn and call of duty zombies 😭😂 this is also a rough draft so grammar and spelling may not be 100% correct

my nails are chipped and my knuckles have started to bleed. 4 hours i have been digging yet still nothing. he promised me… he promised me forever…

6 months earlier

the December heat has never been so brutal. almost as if i stayed still any longer my skin would of began to blister. i slowly began to move, stalking back through the shed roller doors, making sure not to catch my brother’s attention as he tinkered on his rusty old toyota Hilux. he was laying on his back on a car dolly, grease, sweat and what could be tomato sauce or blood was splattered over his baggy blue jeans. i was nearly at the door, still keeping a close eye on Will as he blindly reached for more tools. i begun to twist the handle and slowly pulled the door open.

“Vi please stop making this harder than it is, sit down and just wait.” William sighed in disappointment, i reluctantly began to walk back to the Subaru wheel i was sitting on.

i decided i needed to accept my fate, i let out a sigh as i placed my face between my hands. this shed was my brothers save space, full of different car parts ranging from a turbo STI engine sitting in the corner on pallets to the pile of four wheel driving recovery gear scattered all around. even with the crazy mess will still always knew where everything was, it was just his mind finally displayed in a place he can call his own… if only he could call it his own forever.

another hour of painfully waiting goes by when my father finally opened the shed door, his body was hunched slightly, and the look on his face said everything i needed to know. sweat lined his salt and pepper hair he looked after so well, had begun to fall out of its gel making my father look like something he has never before, a complete mess. he straightened his back and shoulders, quickly ran his hands through his hair and played with the button of his blaster, his deep set grey eyes locked with mine first.

“arrangements have been made, i suggest you both start to pack your belongings.” the way he says it so calmly makes me want to run up and scream in his face, he has always decided this families path, i have never had a mind of my own, forced to maintain the family appearance and nothing was allowed to tarnish the Tempest name.

“so where? where could you be possibly be sending us now?” my voice cracked as i held back tears i looked over to william hoping for him to maybe fight back, his shaggy brown hair hung over his face, his expression was dark as he stared daggers at our father, yet nothing, he didn’t move a muscle yet they were all tense. my father yet out another sigh

“you will be going to the True line estate and staying with the Blaize family. we have other arrangements for your brother.” the last part was just more than a whisper. i want to push and beg, this is my home, Williams home. my fathers emotionless eyes only add another dagger to my heart.

“you leave at 6am, please be ready Viva, we do not need anymore embarrassments this month.” his poisonous tone was left lingering in the air as he left, i walked over and rested my head on my brothers shoulder.

“why did he choose her?” i could no longer hold the tears back, my throat begun to turn raw as the tear begun to soak my brothers stained white shirt, william wrapped his arm around me pulling me closer and planted a kiss on the top of my head.

“please just behave.”

the pit in my stomach grew bigger and bigger as my beside table clock ticked away. sleep never came to help aid my racing thoughts, my packed bags taught me sitting by the door. i slowly walk over to my vanity, slumping down in the small silver stool. i began to study by face in my vintage style mirror and was met with nothing but disappointment; my shoulder length black hair was the perfect home for a bird to occupy, my normally bright crimson eyes looked lifeless and empty. as if this all was a surprise, like i would look ok after my whole life just got derooted. i tried my best to make myself the least but presentable for this family i would suddenly be living with, brushing the knots out and adding some concealer, and blush to try and have some colour in my face, the pain of last night still showed through, it made my eyes look unfamiliar and dangerous, maybe my father had finally pushed my past my limit. i smiled to myself in the mirror before grabbing my suitcases and making my way down stairs. i started to walk slower as i heard an unknown voice coming from the kitchen.

“i completely understand she can be a handful, i will do my absolute best to make sure she is looked af-“ before the stranger can finish my father cut him off.

“no she does not need looking after, she needs to understand the power her name has, you must show her your families ways.” i rolled my eyes and continued to make my way to the kitchen. my eyes are met with a pair of dark green ones, so beautiful they reminded me of a rainy day lost in the forest. the man standing in front of me was nothing short of proper, to his grey tailored suit hugging his muscles his blonde hair was gelled and styled, clean shaven and a smirk plastered on his face that screamed danger. he held one hand out waiting for me to place mine in his, as i did he kissed the back of my hand, shooting me a look up that sent shock waves down my body.

“ Hello Viva, pleasure to meet you, i’m Carson Blaize” his over the top formality made a shiver run down my spine, maybe the eye candy wont be enough to survive this.

“i’ll take your bags to the car, please say your goodbyes and i’ll meet you outside.” he turns and quickly picked up my bags and made his way to the front door.

“ok this is it Viva, please behave. goodbye.” my father quickly waved me off before scurrying back to his office.

“william? will?!” I yelled out hoping it wasn’t too late, but knowing my father my last punishment would to not be able to say goodbye. my eyes began to sting as tears threatened to make an appearance, i breathed in deep and began to make my way outside where Carson is waiting to take me to my so called new home.

Carson was leaning casually on a blacked out supra MK4, one of Williams all time favourite cars. Carson was now wearing a pair of sunnies, he pulled the nose of them down and licked his lips as i made my way down the front stairs. the way his eyes stared through me and made me feel absolutely vulnerable was sending adrenaline and anxiety racing through my veins. he pulled a packet of cigarettes out of his inside suit pocket, motioning the pack in my direction as i walked closer.

“is this a different Carson to the one i met 5 minutes ago?” i giggled while pulling out a cigarette from the packet.

“your father has expectations, as does mine, it’s fun to play along with there game, just have to learn how to play it right.” he voice was deep and husky now, there was more of an effortless to him now yet the status mindset was still seeping its way through. he lit his cigarette then leaned down close to my face, using the end of his cigarette to light mine, never breaking eye contact and i swear i could of fucked him right on top of that bonnet right now. he pulled away leaving me in a cloud of smoke and desire and began to walk to the drivers side of the car.

“we better go, my family are very impatient.” he disappeared into the low car and i follow suit sinking into the black bucket seats.

“you ready?” he glanced over at me, his sunglasses hanging on the tip of his nose.

“i don’t think i ever will be”

through the drive Carson remained quiet, besides humming along to songs and resting his hand on my thigh, playing with the hem of my skirt just to keep me on edge. he knew he was affecting me, his cologne filled the car. but my father was right, i do need to behave, and as much as i want him to pull over and take me now, i need to play the long game to win. the drive was shorter than i thought, only an hour through the winding hills, the True line estate was breathtaking as we made our way up the long driveway, iron gates with metal flowers welded on lined the property, opening up to a dark grey stone brick mansion, it had to be from the 1800’s i marvelled over the gothic architecture and stone gargoyles watching from above on very peak of roof. we reached the end of the driveway greeted by a court with a statue of what looked like a depressed bride in the centre. Carson stopped the car, i reach for my door handle before he grabbed my hand and shakes his head.

“never open your own door.” he quickly walked to my side of the car opening my door and offering a hand. i baffled but reached for his hand and step out of the car.

“my bags.” i go to turn around before he pulled my hand back making my back collide with his chest, his cologne once again intoxicated me.

“foster will collect them and bring them to your room, for now you must meet the rest of my family.” he seemed rushed and nervous, as if he could get in trouble for breathing.

“yeah sure you lead the way.” i smiled softly in hope to help him feel calmer, he was so much taller than me bending my neck back began to hurt. Carson guided me through two big wooden doors, we made our way down a long wide hallway before entering a overly decorated dining room. the walls were covered in all different type of gothic antique art, it made me feel mildly ill, one was just a few cut of fingers. four people sat at a big dark oak dining table, all eyes on me, the first lady was slim and pale her skin was flawless and hair dark black hair nearly reached the floor while she was sitting, she was so beautiful it made you want to rip your skin off for being in her presence. dark 90s style punk makeup made her resting bitch face all the more terrifying, until a light smile danced on her lips, she stood up too quickly and made her way over to me,

“oh my darling, we welcome you to our home, please please have a seat.” she pulled my arm over to the dining table, i took a seat and looked at the other people at the table, the others are all men, one much older i assumed was this lady’s husband and two men mine and Carson’s age looking like they’d rather me anywhere but here. the older man smiled at me also, his cubby face almost making his eyes disappear, he had an overly welcoming energy to him that made me feel at ease.

“Foster has set up your room for you, please we are about to serve breakfast eat with us.” i smile nervously and nod

“yes please that would be great thank you so much.” i looked over at one of the boys, he was staring at me, almost like i had just ruined his life, his dark brown eyes were sending death threats.

“ignore Haven, he doesn’t enjoy hosting.” the older man whispered while smiling, yet i couldn’t seem to shake there was more behind that. Haven still was staring at me, his hair was dark chestnut brown with flickers of blonde through out, he was also beautiful and had my thoughts racing, even if he was looking at me like i was something to eat. he straightened in his chair and shot me a quick smirk, if my punishment is to be stuck in a mansion with 3 hot men i think my father better rethink his choices.

after breakfast Carson and his other brother sterling walked my up to my bedroom, sterling stayed while i began to unpack, he was smaller than Carson and Haven his had sandy blonde hair that was shaven underneath and long on top tied back into a very messy bun, he didn’t seem to care about his appearance compared to the rest of his family.

“don’t annoy Haven, just a word of warning, he’s in a shit place right now so best to just leave him alone.” he sighed annoyingly before leaving the room. i stood there a bit lost for words before shaking my head and taking in my amazing room. there was a four post bed that had those same metal flowers from the front gate welded on all around, now that i can see them properly they were roses but they looked a bit off, almost like the pedals were sharp enough to cut you. i leaned forward and held my finder out pricking it on the end of one of the petals, a small pool of blood began to build on my finger. no one has given me any answers and i keep getting more questions, why the hell can the roses cut me?

#book #bookblr #novel writing #smut #writing #creative writing #current wip #reading #saltburn #writing questions

[starr4ever143]

🌾🌻 Happy August Season!! 🌻🌾

First, let’s make sure we have everything we need to celebrate:

✔️Salt air

✔️Rusty door

✔️Sipping a bottle of wine

✔️Canceled plans just in case someone calls

✔️Meet someone behind the mall

✔️Ready to live for the hope of it all

I don’t know about you but I’m going to be spending the whole month listening to August by @taylorswift

https://youtu.be/nn_0zPAfyo8

#august #folklore #taylor swift #betyouthinkaboutTS

[the-firebird69]

A energia do vovô é muito positiva #shorts

Some other guy shoots me and he's playing Danny DeVito and another guy is doing his character no he's only does it but the guy is trying it's just really is really is an evil mastermind

Mac Daddy

There's a lot of things you want to see and sees two in the house yelling at each other don't use the megaphone don't use it at me and the door slamming and you can hear it all over the neighborhood you have people want to see that stuff and you have money and the telescope goes off the balcony... He says what else can I keep hearing you have to stay here so he's looking at her he says don't stare at me and I guess you can it's working for us that's the only toy in the house she says. He says he's going to put a raceway in and she's laughing at the term and we'll have those little racing go-karts and little racing mini cars and miniature cars and they probably won't fit but okay it's a lot of fun. So we are going to have to figure out what to do about this and we do know what they're saying yeah this is a nightmare he says it's a nightmare the guy next door wants the key to the apartment and it looks like our son wants the key to his house and he says he doesn't want to live in that house it's messy Rusty it's musty he doesn't want to live in that house. And Emily says it's kind of smelly and that's the one from West Palm cuz it's near the beach you just can't get it out of there no matter what you do and he says open it up to the salt Air and she says shut your f****** mouth it's like formaldehyde it really stinks like that she's laughing he says I think you're actually mom and you are a baby it's just a snow I'm Sarah it says that would explain the big ass no why do you have a huge ass. So there's something left without explanation but it's kind of turning kind of funny he's going to have a castle of any kind and people are ridiculous it's like fake money I guess at Christmastime he's going to put money into socks and fire it out into the crowd what kind of dumb things he does now but it is a little ridiculous I don't know what the heck these guys are thinking it's the money center and they want to put him in it to remind them that he has the money okay that's what they're saying and so they keep an eye on it and we know about it and what's a really saying and they'll be like living at the stock market so we have to get ready and we're going to have plenty of time before they do this it's so goddamn slow they might not even ever get him into it it's so f****** horrible here and it's so slow and they're behind on everything and we don't want to pick them up and get them on track they get too excited

Thor Freya

Olympus

[arts-n-drafts]

POV: a writing exercise

Hey guys! This is the first writing exercise on this blog! Feel free to add your own in a reblog :0

The prompt for today was Perspective - each of us had 15 minutes to write a scene and then pass it to the next person. Then, we had to rewrite the other person's scene from a different perspective - be that first/second/third person or from another character's POV

The pieces are Colour Coded -

Espie - Purple

Athenodora - Green

FloralShirt- Pink

Let us know what you think! :D

-Mod Espie

Up ahead, the mountain loomed.

It was already twilight. The mountain’s peak was still brushed by the last of the sun’s rosiness, but shadows had creeped over the rest of its craggy body, and it in turn was casting its shadow all over the road.

At this sight, the lone man on the road stopped and sighed. He had ridden like the Devil was behind him the whole day, and still he had only got this far.

You look up to the mountain looming above you.

You feel your steps getting heavier as the twilight hides behind the horizon. You look at the mountain’s peak, admiring the last of the sun’s rosiness, before the shadows reach up to chase it away. The shadows that have shrouded the lands beyond fill you with determination.

Unable to take another stride, you stopped in the middle of the road and sighed. You had been running around the whole day like a sinner in church hunted by aggressive nuns. It felt like you should’ve made more progress by now.

I creaked up the stairs, dust hanging in the air like spiderwebs. My breath came fast and cold in the stagnant air, heart thrumming in my ears as I strained to catch the whispers above. Hand drifting to my foil, the other reaching for the trap door, I shakily pressed a sweaty palm to the latch. With rusty resistance, I force the latch open. Click, click, click. The footsteps pause above me. As I hold my breath, I hear scratches at the door. The wood hisses open, and as I brace myself and peek beyond it, eyes darting and sharp,  the pressure of the air seems to pop. All at once, winds gust and swirl around me, blinding me as I squint past the pain. Heaving a coughing breath, I push and tumble my way into the attic, slashing wildly about me. A deafening screech hits my ears, and I catch a glimmer of hope in the surprise it holds. Righting myself firmly, rhythm returning, I reach for the popping satchels of purified salt and silver at my belt, hurling them at the towering shadow that lurches above me. Not one to waste an opportunity, I glance forward with a biting strike and drive it backwards, creeping into the corner.

It has been so long since you’d had a good hunt, hasn’t it?

How long…? You don’t know… You can’t remember… It is always dark in this attic. The only lights that ever come, the only breaks in the musty sameness of this place, are the brief gleams and flashes that the preys bring through the trap door. You have forgotten what you do in the time between those moments. Perhaps you’ve been pacing up and down the attic, trying to find a way to break the monotony. Perhaps you’ve been lying with your eyes closed, waiting. Always waiting.

None of that matters now, though - now that there’s a creak on the door’s latch, and the sound of bated breath on the other side of the wood. The sound of something with breath. The sound of something alive.

Alive? Weren’t you like that, once?

You can’t remember.

I opened the door to see my father sitting on the bed. He looked nothing like in the photos. It was hard to believe those sunken eyes of his used to be filled with so much joy and youth. His hunching posture made him look rather out of place in this ornately decorated bedroom. 

“O-Oh gosh, Sera! Didn’t see you there!” He perked up as he walked over to me.

“H-Hello, Dad,” I said, not expecting myself to be so nervous.

“Um… Are you comfy with a hug?” He held out his arms.

“Yeah, sure, of course!” 

She hesitates gracefully at the door, a timid bug skittering by the edges of politeness and duty. He was the sun to her, a grand pillar of honor and wit that overshadowed her in her teens, yet a wacky-waving-inflatable-arm-flailing-tube-man of whimsy and joy in her childhood. She wasn’t sure what would await her behind those doors - a continuation of the humiliating past, something she could never live up to, or another stranger she didn’t know how to love? She wasn’t sure which one she wanted. 

The silence wasted its breath. She steeled herself once more, urging herself past those familiar doors to catch her father, pallid and weak, a hunched spirit ghosting his overbearing image. “O-oh gosh, Sera!”  the words felt flimsy to her ears “Didn’t see you there!” His smile lifted, a remnant of her memory. 

“H-hello, dad,” she spoke, the anticipation stuttering around her. 

“Um. Are you comfy with a hug?” his arms, broad and sturdy, now seemed to open like broken wings in his shattered image. She bit back a laugh, the absurdity of this crushing weight dissipating into dust, the overbearing presence of her past revealing darkness in the passing of his absence’s eclipse. Where was the blazing heat and pressure she had avoided? 

“Yeah, sure, of course!” she spoke airily, the breathlessness of a task overdreaded mixing with the adrenaline of the unknown. “Of course, dad”, she lied, “come here”.

As he crumpled into her arms, she wondered if there was really time to learn to know this fragment of her past, or if, like before, his changing self would pass. And in that, a sadness struck her, the inner child of her that mourned the dad she once knew, that perhaps hoped his newest change would be to return to her. “Happy birthday,” she choked. “It’s good to see you”.

“It’s good to see you too,” he breathed, “my darling little girl,” like a final nail in his coffin.

#espiedark #writing exercise #on writing

[ghhhguy]

Tips for Maintaining Your Security Screen Doors: Ensuring Longevity and Security

Security screen doors are an essential investment for your home, providing an added layer of protection while allowing you to enjoy fresh air and natural light. To ensure their longevity and optimal performance, regular maintenance is key. In this blog post, we'll share valuable tips on how to maintain your security screen doors effectively.

1. Regular Cleaning: Dust, dirt, and debris can accumulate on your security screen doors over time. Regularly clean the door frame, mesh, and hinges using a soft brush or cloth. Avoid abrasive cleaners, as they can damage the surface. For stubborn stains, use a mild soapy solution and gently scrub the affected area.

2. Inspect and Tighten Hardware: Periodically inspect all the hardware components, including screws, bolts, and hinges. Loose or rusty hardware can compromise the security and functionality of the security screen doors Melbourne. Tighten any loose screws and replace rusty or damaged hardware promptly to maintain the structural integrity of the door.

3. Lubricate Moving Parts: Proper lubrication of hinges, locks, and handles is essential to ensure smooth operation. Use a silicone-based lubricant to prevent rust and keep the moving parts functioning effortlessly. Apply lubricant at least once every six months, or more frequently if you live in a coastal area where salt air can cause corrosion.

4. Check the Mesh for Damage: The mesh of your security screen door is its primary defense against insects and intruders. Regularly inspect the mesh for signs of damage, such as tears or holes. Repair any minor damages promptly to prevent them from worsening. If the damage is extensive, consider replacing the mesh to maintain the door's security features.

5. Mind the Frame: The door frame is as crucial as the mesh when it comes to security. Inspect the frame for any signs of wear, water damage, or insect infestation. Wooden frames are particularly susceptible to these issues. Address any problems immediately to prevent further damage and ensure the door's stability.

6. Adjust Door Closure and Latch: Over time, the door may start to sag or not close properly. Adjust the closure and latch mechanisms to ensure a snug fit. If you're unsure how to do this, consult the manufacturer's manual or consider hiring a professional for adjustments. A properly aligned door enhances both security and energy efficiency.

7. Protect Against Harsh Weather: If you live in an area with extreme weather conditions, take additional measures to protect your security screen door. Install a storm door or awning to shield it from direct sunlight, heavy rain, or strong winds. This extra layer of protection can significantly extend the lifespan of your door.

8. Schedule Professional Inspections: While regular maintenance tasks can be performed by homeowners, consider scheduling professional inspections at least once a year. Experienced technicians can identify potential issues early on and perform thorough maintenance to keep your security screen door in optimal condition.

By following these maintenance tips, you can ensure that your security screen door remains effective, durable, and aesthetically pleasing for years to come. Regular care not only preserves the door's functionality but also enhances the overall security of your home, providing you with peace of mind and a safer living environment.

#doors #screendoors #securitydoors #front door

[rayanlovestaylor]

happy salt air and rusty doors to all who celebrate

[thebarefootcajun]

The Case of the Stolen TV, Henrietta, UD Woman

Henrietta decided to bake a cake. Sometimes baking, looking at recipes helped her decide on a case she might be trying to crack. She decided on a fig cake. She had some figs that she had canned left over from

last year’s fig harvest and they were spectacular. Sweet to the bones. The longer they stayed canned, the syrup and the figs began to caramelize. Henrietta wasn’t suppose to eat sweet stuff. Her doctor had warned her against diabetes. But she decided that this was in the name of cracking crime, especially for Patrick and Patricia. She’d bake that cake and eat it, too. Afterwards she was certain her mind would be clear for a woman’s UD work.

The fig cake ingredients:

I quart of figs

3 cups flour

1 teaspoon baking powder

I/4 teaspoon salt

1/4 teaspoon baking soda

3 eggs at room temperature

1 teaspoon of nutmeg

1 teaspoon cinnamon

2 cups of sugar, but 3 are better according to Henrietta (diabetes?)

1 cup of vegetable oil

Henrietta prefers 1 cup

of salted butter melted and at room temperature

1 cup chopped pecans

Henrietta prefers her pecans not chopped

****Henrietta never uses a recipe and measurements vary according to the case she’s solving; if you choose to use this recipe, do so at your own possibility for failure.

The figs, itchy to pick. When one picks figs he usually wears clothes that cover the entire body. Hence, the dark hoodie could be just a cover up for picking figs. Maybe this guy that Henrietta had seen with the black hoodie had been picking figs somewhere next to Patrick’s and Patricia’s place.

When it came to sifting through the flour, salt, baking soda and baking powder, Henrietta knew that these provoked the cake to rise; pieces to the puzzle integral to baking a cake that wouldn’t fall flat; one that would rise. So this young guy had passed back and forth, a hoodie meant he was doing something to camouflage or shield his body.

Henrietta’s chicken’s provided her with enough eggs to meet her needs. She especially relied on Cluck’s eggs. That girl Cluck was on time with her eggs and she laid them in a planter right next to Henrietta’s kitchen door. She had a cup of coffee at 3:99 on the dot and Cluck laid her three eggs at the same time. By the time Henrietta finished her coffee those eggs would be at room temperature.

She cracked those immediately into a bowl

and beat them up to put in the cake. She creamed the sugar and eggs. Smooth and yellowish in color, albeit a bit grainy from the sugar.

“Hmmm”, Henrietta thought to herself out loud, “I’m thinking of the graininess in the creamed sugar and eggs. The back of that dude’s bicycle was all pitted and nicked. The road to Patrick’s and Patricia’s is all gravel; causing scratches to the bicycle.”

And Henrietta had another thought, “Maybe, just maybe, the boy is a girl?”

Henrietta threw in the nutmeg and cinnamon. Two of her favorite spices. She remembered that on one particular day when that bicycle went by she smelled hints of something sweet in the air. And she remembered that the bike was rusty colored. The cinnamon provoked that bit of information; rusty colored cinnamon.

Henrietta preferred butter to vegetable oil. It gave the cake a more complex taste, richer, like butter skimmed off the whole milk from Luisa, her milk cow. Also it made her think of running smoothly; that bicycle was very quiet so it had to be well maintained with some kind of oil. And she knew a bicycle queen whose specialty was bike chains.

Now she threw in the pecans last. She ate a handful, too. They were picked from her own pecan trees. They were absolutely no help in solving this case.

And then a light bulb went on in her head. That same bicycle queen went by the nickname Pecan. She could crack and clean a sack of pecans in one hour. She had won the title of Pecan Cracker cleaner & Cleaner at the last Pecan Orchard Festival.

Henrietta felt the pieces to this case were baking together, but first to bake the cake at 350 degrees. The smell of fig cake for Henrietta just pumped her up. And then the ceremonial cutting of the first piece of cake, or wedge, as Henrietta was known to eat cake like bread. Remember it was all in the name of theft and cracking the case for Patrick and Patricia so that they could again watch the 5 o’clock news, as any sweet and saintly couple should be able to do in the privacy of their own home.

And with the confidence that a robust fig cake with three cups of sugar, not two, salted butter instead of vegetable oil at room temperature and whole pecans instead of chopped, Henrietta was ready to crack the case of The Stolen TV on L’anse Thibodeaux.

Stay tuned for Part 3 of Henrietta, Cajun Woman UD, Unofficial Detective

#humor #woman detective #Cajun prairie #barefoot Cajun shorts

[larrydempsey]

“Grandpa’s Barn”

From the front, it looked like the upper half of a giant circle: an enormous, gray metal barn that housed all the equipment my grandpa needed to take care of his lawn, the livestock, and the garden.  The towering metal doors that led into the barn were on the west side, which meant that most mornings found Grandpa and I standing in the barn’s dark, cold shadow.  As robins chirped in the distance, and a slight breeze drifted the aroma of corn, tomatoes, and strawberries in our direction from the garden behind us, Grandpa would use his key to unlock the huge padlock that was clasped around the barn’s door handles.  The doors were always difficult to open.  They were extremely heavy and didn’t slide very well, but eventually opened with a loud squealing sound, as we pushed them across their rusty tracks, one to the left and the other to the right.     Opening the doors released the warm, dusty air that had been trapped there all night.  Our voices gave off a distant hollow sound, as did our footsteps, as we walked across the cracked concrete floor.  Grandpa’s livestock, a small herd of cows and three horses, out back behind the barn, bellowed for breakfast.  The faint buzzing of the electric fence, still plugged in, could also be heard.  Turning on a light switch, three lonely light bulbs tried to illuminate the vast interior of the barn without much success.  A rickety wooden ladder led to the expansive hayloft above.  On the right side of the barn’s entrance, lofty mountains of dry green hay, tied with red bailing twine, gave off the strongest scent and were the first thing you could smell as you walked in.  Stacked near the hay were heavy bags of salt.  The salt, used to help protect the hay from moisture, also gave off a strong scent, even over the hay.  Off to the left were tall, metal pipe shelves, which held an assortment of well-used hand tools, such as saws, hammers, wrenches, and screwdrivers.  The shelves also stored numerous coffee cans, wooden boxes, and small tool cabinets, all filled with nuts, bolts, nails, and screws of all shapes and sizes.  Several green hoses and rotating sprinklers were hanging on the walls by nails and hooks.  Also to be found were gardening implements like rakes and shovels, as well as an old lead bucket wheelbarrow.  Between the tools on the left and the hay on the right rested Grandpa’s favorite toy: his tractor.  With its scratched rusty frame, its orange paint peeling off, and its giant tires caked with dried mud, it easily showed signs of many years of use, but Grandpa didn’t mind.     Since those hot summer days of my youth, my grandpa has died, the livestock has been sold, and my uncle’s family now lives in my grandpa and grandma's house.  And even though the barn now belongs to my uncle, I8will always think of it as my grandpa’s.

Copyright © 2023 Larry Dempsey.  All rights reserved.

Commentary for “Grandpa’s Barn”

–This was the third assignment for my “Writing for Children and Teenagers” correspondence course, which I took through the Institute of Children’s Literature.

–The objective of the assignment was to write a 500-word description of a specific place I remembered from my childhood.  I was to include specific images that evoked the senses, trying to remember not only the sights and sounds of the place, but all the smells, tastes, and textures, as well.

–My teacher said “...you've worked some good description into ‘Grandpa’s Barn’ – such as that passage on page 2: …lofty mountains of dry green hay….  (Boy, does this ever bring back memories of my earlier years on a farm!)  Good description helps the reader to better see what’s going on.”  Also: “You’ve used your eyes, ears, nose, your sense of feel.  Good!  It’s important to use as many of your senses as you can.”