godihatethiswebsite

[godihatethiswebsite]

I shouldn't feel bad after a shutout victory by my own team. Korpi deserves love for how he's played, but jesus fucking christ can we stop judging Swayman by the shitty performance in front of the net?! Yea, Korpi did good today - because the team stayed on the other side of the blue line and the defense actually fucking showed up! Korpi and Sway have both had shutouts this season, Korpi just got a second one tonight. Let's not fucking act like 'we pay our backup goalie $8.25 million' and that he should be benched for the season

[godihatethiswebsite]

Daughters with Soft Underbellies [Chapter 1]

[Outlaw/Cowboy!John Price x Preachers Daughter!fem!Reader] Masterlist | AO3 | early access | navigation

there's someone new in town

cw: western time setting, archaic punishments/abuse, religious trauma, religious imagery, bad father/daughter relationship, minor wound mention, archaic standards of women, reader is Christian, probably inaccurate Christianity, more tags on ao3

wc: 2.7k

He has you kneeling on rice again. 

Unforgiving grains burrow deep into your skin as their wickedly sharp ends pierce straight through your knees. Eyes trained on the scuffed wooden floor below you, you do not look at your father. Leather boots skirt your vision as he paces beside you, slow and with consideration. You swallow and the aftertaste of that morning’s communion dances on your tongue. Sweet wine pairs oddly with your father’s brutality, but it is the only flavor you’ve ever known. 

Bloodied fingers coil around the back of the pew in front of you as he raps your knuckles with a wooden stick no larger than the circumference of his thumb. Searing pain cuts through you with the consideration of an untrained blade, but you are good at willing your tears away. He reminds you that this is your fault, and that this is a terrible waste. A waste of time, a waste of food—everything that concerns you is pure prodigality. Gluttony in its most concentrated form. You can consume nothing—not resource nor time���without it being a sin. 

Crack!

“Again,” he demands. 

Biting back the acrimony boiling in the depths of your throat, you shift. Rice scatters, bouncing along the floor as it spreads, and you grimace. There is only the slightest amount of comfort to be found in your movement, but it is met by swift punishment. You are not supposed to find solace while in the midst of one of your father’s demanding lessons. 

Crack!

“Then, they spit on Him. They took the stick from His hands-” 

Crack!

“Wrong. Again,” he demands. 

Your mind reels as it attempts to recall the sermon your father gave that morning. His words spoken with utmost faith, the ones you are always made to recall as a lesson at the end of each morning, and yet you can’t. It’s patchy. Like the frayed ends of poorly woven textiles. No matter how often you blink, it won’t fix itself. You can only stumble and pray you pull on the right string to unravel it all. 

“Then, they spit on Him. They took the stick from Him, and beat Him with it,” you attempt. 

Once more, you are punished. It’s difficult to hold back the tears now as the skin on your knuckles parts like dried clay in a forgotten riverbed. They’re wide, deep crevices. Broken skin is good. It serves a purpose. It allows you to soak up your father’s lessons directly from the source. 

“Do you not listen at all? Does your mind wander during my sermons? What better things do you have to think about than His word? Again,” he demands. 

“Then, they spit on Him. They took the stick from Him, and beat Him on the head with it.” 

There is a gentle lull that succeeds your recitation. Anxious pacing ceases as your father stares down at your kneeling form, gaze burning into the back of your head. When he hums, content with your answer, you feel every muscle in your body melt. Proud, you look up at him, ready to revel in accolades, but his lips are pressed firmly together. It is the only way he is able to restrain the acidulous words he would otherwise spew at you. 

“Good,” he mutters, though it is flat. There is no pride to be found anywhere within him.

He strikes the stick against your knuckles five more times on each hand. With each impact, he reminds you this is for your own good. This is what a loving father does—a man of God—he teaches his daughter right from wrong. 

As usual, you are made to clean up the mess that remains after your lesson. Rice is swept up by broom and stowed away into the pockets of your apron like treasured pebbles found on a walk, and what little blood that remains on the pew is wiped clean. Your hands ache. They pulse and throb, and the apex of your knuckles sting as if you’ve rubbed salt in the broken skin. You might as well have done as much with the brine that seeps into the wounds each time you rub at your eyes. 

When all is clean, and your transgressions are swept aside, momentarily forgotten, you pray. Your father always says forgiveness is God’s duty. God is the quintessence of love and mercy while your father has proved many times he is not. A devout worshiper and priest, his love and respect is saved for his savior—never his daughter. So you kneel in the pews and bow your head before the cross strung up on the wall above you, and you beg. You apologize for the simple sin of your existence. You pray that God might bless you with the tools to be a better daughter. 

Amen.

You rise. The church is stilly, and you are alone. You are left to ruminate about your failures in this divine building until it is spotless. There is always more cleaning to be done. Breadcrumbs left from communion, wine that stains the wooden floors nearly as bad as your own blood does, muck from work boots; you are on your hands and knees more often than your own two feet. Perpetually in prayer. Reciting scriptures. Cleaning this house of God until not a speck of sin remains. 

When you are finished with your duties at the church, your father sends you into town to fetch wine. It’s foolish of you to believe he would allow you to sit at the dining table with him and partake in lunch. To enjoy a mouthwatering meal of boiled potatoes and ham. He always sends you out when you look like this—disheveled from cleaning and still trying to stunt the bleeding of your hands. It’s the acme of his lesson: ignominy. Shame digs in deeper, settles in nicer, when there’s an audience to witness it. 

Mr. Beckett’s chickens are roaming the town again. You notice a few stragglers as you come to the end of the path that slowly morphs into the main road. Colorful hens cluck and bob their heads as you weave between them. They feast on small beetles with iridescent exoskeletons that flutter and click between sparse strands of grass, but when they take note of you, they stare expectantly. You try not to wince as your knuckles scrape against the fabric of your apron, hands diving into your pockets to retrieve uncooked rice. They flock as you toss the grains on the ground for them to peck and gorge themselves, putting your punishment to good use. 

Sheep bleat at you just as you turn the corner into town. The flock has grown steady this spring with several new additions of playful lambs that trot after their mothers. They curiously line the fence as you pass by, and cry pitifully as your figure grows smaller in the distance. Townsfolk flutter in and out of steady wood buildings with their pockets full of money, both earned and spent. Your own fingers brush against the cash your father gave you for your task—you keep in mind his words of warning: 

I’ll be counting that change when you return, girl. 

The saloon isn’t busy this early in the afternoon, yet Mr. Beckett is perched at his bar wiping down glistening glasses. Empty tables adorn scratched wooden floors, and the tops are sparkling clean. The summer sun seeps through cracked windows, though the building still seems darker than it should be. A group of four men lurk in the far corner of the bar, each talking lowly and looking at you with shifting eyes, yet you avert your gaze as you approach the bar. 

“Afternoon, Mr. Beckett,” you greet. You muster your best smile as you wipe a hand beneath your eyes, worried tear stains are still visible on your cheeks. “Your chickens are out again.” 

Chuckling, Mr. Beckett pushes the empty glasses to the side to give you his full attention. Wrinkles settle in his face as crows feet wink by his eyes, and they only deepen as he smiles at you. There’s a cheeky twinkle that lurks in his grey eyes, and a rosy color that fills his cheeks.

“I’m sure that broke your heart having to see those critters running amuck along the trail,” he teases. “What can I do for you, kid?” 

“My father sent me to get some wine for next week’s service,” you say. 

“Ah, I should’ve known. Three?” he asks. 

“Yes, please.” 

Mr. Beckett holds up a finger as if to tell you to stay put before he wanders off to fetch your order. Sighing, you look down at your knuckles while you wait. They’ve stopped bleeding, but the blood crusts on your skin like boulders on a mountain. Your father didn’t even give you time to clean the scabs from your hands before sending you off to do his bidding. It’s almost as much of an eyesore as it is a literal sore. 

But—as it is with all wounds—your blood seems to have attracted the dogs. 

Their gazes burn your flesh, and you are suddenly well aware of the men at your back. You had done your best to ignore them upon your arrival, but curiosity gnaws at you with dull, aching teeth. Casting a cautious glance over your shoulder, you soak up swift looks at each of the men. You catch sight of a masked man too large for his own good, a handsome fellow with deep brown skin and kind eyes, a stranger with an even stranger haircut, and a man with a low sitting hat. The brim nearly covers his eyes, but you’re still able to catch the blaze of his cobalt gaze as he stares at you. 

You shiver. 

“Alright, here we are,” Mr. Beckett hums as he returns behind the bar. Glad to have someone else to focus on, you find a smile on your face as he begins to unload the bottles in his arms onto the counter. “Three bottles of red wine. Should be plenty for everyone, I hope.” 

“I appreciate it, Mr. Beckett,” you chuckle. When digging into your apron pocket, you can’t help but wince as your knuckles once again scrape against the unyielding fabric. You play it off with a cough as you present the cash to him. “This ought to be enough.” 

At the same time as he grabs the cash with one hand, Mr. Beckett grabs your wrist with the other. Gently, he turns your palm over until your knuckles are on display beneath the oil lamp that sits just above your head. Pressing your lips together, you keep your eyes on the bartop, too ashamed to witness the results of your own stupidity. 

“Why don’t you grab a seat, kid,” he insists. 

There’s no use in arguing; you’re well aware that he won’t give you your change until you let him clean you up. Sighing, you hop onto the stool and lay your palms flat on the counter while Mr. Beckett retrieves his strongest moonshine. He pours a bit of it onto a rag before pressing it into your cracked skin where it soaks deep like thirsty soil. Your squeak echoes in the near empty room, and you feel your face heat as you attempt to keep your head down. 

“Why’d he do it this time?” he asks. 

“It was my fault,” you insist. 

“You and I both know it wasn’t,” Mr. Beckett retorts. 

You swallow as he wipes the rag along your skin before moving to the next knuckle. “I couldn’t quote his sermon today. I should’ve paid better attention.” 

“Perhaps your father should have more grace. He ought to marry you off already. I reckon you’d find more peace with a husband than you would with him.” 

Things grow quiet between you and Mr. Becket just as the muttering grows louder behind you. Those men—those strangers—make the hair on the back of your neck stand on end. Still, you are grateful for their presence, as they give you something else to talk about than your unfortunate life as an eternal servant to your father. 

“Mr. Beckett, can I ask about the gentlemen behind me?” you whisper.

He politely drops one hand in order to move to the next, but his eyes stray to strangers at your back. “Travelers. Blew into town a day or two ago. They’ve been doing odd jobs to scrounge up some money, but they’re nothing but trouble, if you ask me.” 

“What makes you say that?” you ask, voice cracking as he starts cleaning your other hand. 

Sighing, Mr. Beckett keeps his tongue between his teeth for a moment as he weighs his options. Eyes turning back to your hands, he pauses as he inspects the blood crusting on the rag. 

“That fellow in the mask… I’ve heard of him. Ghost stories ‘bout him anyway. They all have strange accents. From across the pond, or so they say. They’ve all got this uncanny look in their eyes and… well, if I didn’t know any better, I’d say they’re the 141 Gang. At least, that fellow in the back looks like the man wanted from Blackpeak.” 

This name—141—drops from Mr. Beckett’s lips like it’s supposed to mean something to you, and yet it doesn’t ring a bell. Eyes narrowing, you tilt your head at him. 

“I’m not familiar,” you admit. 

“Dangerous people. Robbers. Murderers. They might greet you with a smile, but just look at how sharp their teeth are, kid. Nothing but wild animals ready to rip out throats for a bounty or good pay. Surprised they’re not wanted by half of The West by this point. They make people disappear, then vanish just as quickly. I’m just hopin’ if I keep my head down long enough, they’ll skip town before they cause any trouble.” 

Neither of you speak as the rest of your knuckles are cleared of debris and coagulated scabs. You are often plagued with the human affliction of having your heart stuck in your throat, but now you know your feelings aren’t unfounded. That tingle in your skin, the heat boiling at the nape of your neck—you wonder if these men even bother to wash the blood from their clothes before pretending to be human. Do they shed their wolf-teeth before attempting to blend into the flock? 

Once Mr. Beckett is content with the dismal state of your hands, he finally gives you your change. You quickly stow it away in your apron pocket before you turn to the several bottles of wine waiting for you on the bartop. You gather them in your arms before you slide off of the stool, eager to get home and well away from this 141 Gang. Yet just as your feet hit the ground, the fabric of your skirt catches on the wood stool, and suddenly your seat comes toppling to the floor with a deafening thud. 

Shame boils deep in your chest where it superheats your blood until your entire body is sweltering. You look up from the mess you’ve made with parted lips, yet no words come out. Your chest heaves as you stare up at Mr. Beckett with wide eyes, yet he only looks at you with benignancy. 

“I-I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t mean- It just caught-” you stutter. 

“It’s alright, kid,” he interjects. 

Silence envelops you so suddenly that you’re painfully aware of how many sets of eyes are on you. Dark gazes glint in the numbra that lurks in the corner of the saloon. The men look over their shoulders and from beneath the brims of their hats to soak up the view of you—a trembling, pathetic thing that’s about to drop the wine from her hands. 

“I’ll clean it up, don’t you worry about it,” Mr. Beckett assures as he rounds the corner of the bartop, waving you off. “Now, you best be on your way. Shouldn’t keep your daddy waiting.” 

Turning around feels like opening a healing wound—it burns and leaves you trembling as you mutter a farewell and stumble out the door. You keep the wine in your arms clutched to your chest with wounded hands as you rush back home. Sheep bleat and chickens cluck, yet their whining cannot drown out the sound of your heart. That booming thunder as blood gushes through your veins; it still boils. Vermillion waves of unrelenting shame and fear. 

Even on the edge of town you can still feel it—the gaze of those wolves. You pray to God that they leave your sleepy livestock town alone. 

Then again, God has never been merciful in answering your prayers.

[godihatethiswebsite]

Can we stop acting like Korpi is the only one making big saves?

[godihatethiswebsite]

Unfortunately hot hockey take: I'm not about to get mad at my goalie for a bad night when he's been the fucking pillar of this team the whole season.

I listen to the commentary; I stay late for the post game breakdowns. You know what I don't hear from people smarter in this sport than you or me? Shit talk about my goalies. I'm sorry they're not perfect, but they're the reason we're still somehow third in our division with our disaster of a defense/special teams. Sure, it hurts seeing my guy let that many in, but I know how he normally plays in our 5v5s (hint: today was a fluke) and if he's still been as good as he has with the teammates he's been given then take your fuck up Sway. You won't hear me stop cheering.

[godihatethiswebsite]

once i beat the depression and the burnout and the anxiety and the loneliness and the exhaustion and the guilt and the awkwardness and the apathy and the low income and the chronic illness and the impatience and the vulnerability and the creative block and the capitalism and the cruelty THEN you'll see

[godihatethiswebsite]

Complimenting someone’s content:

Getting complimented back:

[godihatethiswebsite]

Mating press. Mating press. Mating press.

Mating press. Mating press. Mating press.

Mating press. Mating press. Mating press.

Mating press. Mating press. Mating press.

Force me into a mating press. Mate me.

Breed me. Press me. Plz. Mating press.

[godihatethiswebsite]

Can we just take a moment to appreciate this?!

[godihatethiswebsite]

[godihatethiswebsite]

North | late blooms

| Gamekeeper Simon Riley x Virgin Fem!Reader |

Post WW1 1920s ish setting. Historical inaccuracy abounds. Gruff Simon Riley. Mentions of warfare, PTSD, gore, overbearing parents. Shameless dedication to the English countryside. Period misogyny and era specific class snobbery.

Big thank you to @cherrieswine my muse. And @godihatethiswebsite my historical consultant and @theorist-fox for being wonderful!

Endlessly the train rolls forward, the metallic clatter of tracks moving ceaselessly underneath the carriage, cleaving a way through the green landscape as it moves further into the countryside.

The compartment is quiet, thankfully no one in here but him. Faded fabric covering each seat, tired with use and worn thin in patches. Simon’s gaze fixes on the frayed threads of the carpet, unseeing as he jolts backwards and forwards, the patina of the lighter held fast in his fist occasionally catching the late light of the afternoon. Every once in a while he flicks it open, sparks the flint so a flame warms the calloused pad of his knuckle.

Simon isn’t really here. His mind still wanders the churned fields of Flanders, air heavy with the scent of death and decay, cloying mud knee deep and as treacherous as the bullets soaring across the top. His men lost to the turgid ground in no mans land, craters so big corpses float upon them like lily pads across a pond in the summer time, blood blooming over the surface of stagnant rain water.

In a perverse way he misses it, his reality for what feels like a lifetime, years of waiting for the order to march to certain death and facing it stiff backed every time. The camaraderie, that suffocating need for closeness with other humans in the wild upheaval of warfare. A tangible sense of belonging, before the conflict ended and they all were expected to get on with their lives as if nothing had happened. Like gore didn’t coat the seams of his gaiters, as if foul ruin wasn’t now laced under his eyelids each time he closes them to sleep.

In reality he supposes it’s not the trenches he pines for, but his friends. A family born from a determination to stay alive, one Simon felt a sense of belonging in that was as foreign as the soil beneath his boots. He didn’t leave the soft comforts of home for Europe like the others did, just a grim terrace in Manchester’s industrial district and a family torn apart by his monster of a father. Simon would rather have faced the enemy ten times over, then remain in that shell of a place much longer. Far from the cradle of his life, it felt like a burden. A thing to be escaped from and never glanced back at.

Still, John came through as he endlessly did on the front. Found the lads work, including Simon. He’s always been good at that, has connections in high places built from years of service before any of them joined up. John always managed to find them tinned fruit at Christmas time, fresh socks when the ones they were wearing became welded yarn to skin from the damp. Tinned stew heated on a gas burner while they each sat shoulder to shoulder, a small slice of heaven in the midst of purest hell. He couldn’t shield them from the suicidal orders from above though, or the fear that beat like a drum in their ears on a particularly risky mission into hostile territory.

The best of the best, Taskforce 141. All three of them had tea and medals after the war, but no homes for their service or gainful employment. Abandoned by the country they sacrificed it all for, relegated to a chapter in the history books, the brave Tommys that staked it out for four years in the greatest conflict. It makes Simon sick, the whole lot of it. Cheering and ribbons, pats on the back, the thank yous for your service. They have no idea what he’s seen, who he’s lost in the process.

The train rumbles on. A fresh start John said. Simon holds the reference written for him in the breast pocket of his smartest suit, the words on the page looked odd, praise for him to deliver to his new employer. Simon isn’t used to such things, tales of exceptional gallantry in the field, mentions in dispatches. More for something to do than because he wants one, he places a cigarette on his thin lips. The lighter in his palm flares, the air filled with greyish plumes of smoke. Simon’s head nods back into the headrest, the smell of nicotine exhaled from the fabric in a puff of dust.

His collar feels too tight, his tie knotted close against his neck. One large finger runs underneath the starched surface, loosening the constricting pressure. He can’t wait to be out in the open country, where unbuttoned shirts and good impressions don’t matter. Only himself and the grouse to contend with, foxes the one enemy to be shot at and thankfully they can’t return fire. Simon can wear open collars without fanfare while he’s stalking the land, he has the freedom to keep entirely to himself along with a small cottage of his own to boot.

He’s thankful for John’s support. This isn’t Simon’s first position as gamekeeper, but he hasn’t worked the fields since before the war and possibly is grossly under qualified for an estate of the size he’s heading to. It’s more than he could have hoped for, a role with lodgings where he gets endless peace and quiet. He craves it, a simple life away from the thrum of crowds or expectations of others. Freedom in the main, he just needs to keep his politest manner on for today, then get his head down into bringing the game up to scratch.

It’s not lost on him, the privilege he’ll be living on the outskirts of. Money he’s never seen before and grandeur Simon will never understand. The country outside is already changing, evolving into wild hills scattered with gorse, while the birds fight the slipstream of the steam engine. He’s heading further south now, closer to the coastline. It’s freeing in a way, to know he’ll be able to sleep in a bed to call his own tonight, after years spent catching rest wherever he can land it. If it wasn’t for John he’d probably be in a doorway somewhere, or still serving. Neither of those options seem particularly appealing when compared with a space of his choosing.

Simon pats the letter in his jacket again, reassuring himself it’s still there. Another toke spent on the cigarette before it’s put out under his boot. His big hands fold into his lap while the vibrations of the rails lull him into a doze. Maybe he’ll find a dog or two to help him keep the estate secured. Happily his mind leaves the torment of trench warfare for a while, imagining a jaunty spaniel at his side, bronze coloured and keen to explore.

•──⋅☾ ☽⋅────•

“For goodness sake stop feeding him. He’s had quite enough.”

You eye your mother, sat carefully on the low settee in the drawing room. She always looks so elegant, hair neatly coiled up with the latest fashion in mind. Her ankles are crossed lightly while she reads her ladies journal, the delicate saucer of tea on a side table sending a fine vapour cascading onto the polished mahogany wood.

The dog at your feet paws you, requesting the second piece of scone clutched tightly in your hand. He belongs to your father, a fat yellow Labrador named Apollo, with wide molten black eyes that water with anxiety over the food held hostage from him. Surreptitiously you snaffle him the remaining crumbs of sponge, tickling under his chin while he drools. A secret, yours and his.

“Don’t slouch. Honestly, why we spent money on finishing school for you to sit like a washerwoman I will never know.”

A roll of your orbs is barely suppressed, irritating as it is having her needle you, a falling out would be most uncomfortable. She would sulk for the rest of the day, dinner would be depressing and your father would only chew your ear off about it. Instead you busy yourself with smoothing the fabric of your dress, checking for flecks of saliva from Apollo the dog and removing any excess crumbs. Your own tea is abandoned half drunk somewhere nearby, cold with milk curdling within the amber fluid.

Dully, you get up to stretch your legs. The routine of your home life is slowly eating away at you, the energy expended on pointless tasks is tedious in the extreme. How many times can you stroll through the library, or paint the landscape around the manor without yawning at the predictability of it all. Each day you rise and complete a carousel of the same things. Dress for dinner smartly and take coffee with your mother in the parlour before lying awake in your bed for hours.

Longingly you consider sneaking back upstairs to finish the romance novel hidden beneath the loose floorboard near the wardrobe. A friend lent it to you on her last visit and steamy as it is, you don’t imagine your mother would be thrilled to catch it in your hands. It’s like poetry though, rugged lovers and ladies from far distant worlds who come together in a time of need, fusing their bodies with such tenderness it makes your heart pound hard in your throat.

How you long for change. Anything other than learning boring etiquette, feeding into the idea that women are only fit for marriage and childbirth. You had hoped the war might change things, volunteering at the local hospital gave you purpose. Seeing veterans clawing their way to recovery opened your eyes to a greater sense of self. They had changed their fates, taken the hand dealt to them and reshaped it into a future worth existing for. Why should you not have that very same power?

“The Baron will be visiting us in a few short weeks. Why don’t you go and practice your piano ready to entertain him?” The voice of your mother rings loudly through your thoughts. “Or brush up on your languages. I imagine his English is good, however it won’t hurt to impress him.”

Silently you pull a face at the window. Another one of your mother’s attempts to set you up with a wealthy husband. It’s no secret the estate needs money desperately, your sister married well enough to an American businessman, but the loss of your brother during the Somme left your father heirless. Keen to avoid selling the estate after his death, the patriarch of your family wants nothing more than your life and livelihood to be bartered away for security.

What a small price to pay. An unhappy marriage in return for land and title. In fairness, you don’t know that the Baron will be awful. However your mother’s other matches have proved boorish in the extreme. Your dear brother would be rolling in his grave at the thought, wherever he now rests. You always got on best with him, a trail of memories left hanging in his wake, vacated by the departure of his spirit from earth. You’d sobbed every tear you had to cry when that telegram was delivered and your mother still wears black everyday.

You asked the gardener to plant poppies for him under your window, hoping in some sentimental way you’d stay connected to him. It was futile though, you’re alone with the weight of expectation crushingly heavy to bear.

The estate looks cold. Dank, wet lawns sweeping up to the window while each late bloomed flower withers. A sad time of year, the last adieu of summer as the larks fly overhead, searching for seeds or worms to feast on in the damp soil. The sash panes of the glass are letting in a draft, but reluctant to leave the sanctuary of distraction you remain shivering there still.

A figure is making it’s way up the long, gravelled driveway, too far away to make out currently, but adding interest to the landscape all the same. You watch it draw closer still, trudging forwards with broad shoulders set firmly. It’s a man by all accounts, tall and wide, clad in a dark brown suit and heavy boots. A plain looking bag swings in his hand, the material tough and dour just like his countenance.

As he reaches the house, he slows to a stop, gaze cataloguing each crumbling facet as if he’s looking for a threat. The low peak of a cap perched on his head makes it impossible to truly acknowledge his features, but for a moment you feel his eyes on your window. You stare back, unsure if he can see you or just an opaque reflection. Without any reaction, he continues his grim march until he moves out of sight entirely, leaving you curiously peering at the place he’s vanished from.

“Are we to have a visitor today?”

Your mother snorts softly.

“Hardly a visitor worth naming darling. The new gamekeeper has arrived I imagine. Let your father deal with it.”

A gamekeeper, that explains the thick haversack he was carrying. A bell rings somewhere upstairs, likely one of the maids letting your father know there’s a person to see him. Flagrant boredom gets the better of you, making an excuse up on the spot you leave your mother sniffing over the greyscale pages on her lap and depart to investigate.

Cautiously you pad into the hallway, skirting the large oak staircase so you remain hidden in the shadows. Peeking around a pillar, you watch the man now waiting to be called up to your fathers study. Heavy tracks of mud lie behind his steps, shoes that have obviously walked all the way from the tiny station in the village, through the sodden fields and up to the house without much care for cleanliness.

His features are scarred, skin pale and face guarded with a stern expression that makes you glad he can’t see your concealed position. A thin white line dissects his tight mouth, while several slashes mark his cheeks. The curve of his nose suggests a break or two in times gone by, offset by high cheekbones and thick blonde lashes. His gaze is impenetrable, eyes darker than charcoal and reserved with tension. He looks entirely mean, storm clouds fit to burst might as well be circling him in a halo of poorly concealed indifference to his surroundings.

The planes of his body are heavily set, someone used to hard physical labour and exercise. His arms strain at the coarse fabric of his jacket, material barely concealing lines of muscle and fat. One hand rests in a pocket, the other toying with something shiny. He’s nervous perhaps, definitely not used to his current location, or maybe your brain is just desperately craving stimulation and filling in the cracks around his mysterious arrival. It does soften him though, the repeating motions of his fingers, a habit built up via life’s pressures. Loosening the lid on a tightly sealed jar just a little, so you get insight into the emotions locked within.

A floorboard creaks loudly as you shift and the man looks up at once. Dark, rich eyes meet your own and you feel the embarrassment of it immediately stir. Stomach flipping and chest tightening, you cringe slightly.

“S’rude to stare.” His deep, rasping voice makes you jump. “…My lady.”

You can’t tell if he’s being genuine or sarcastic with that additional statement tacked on to his words, the tone so dry it feels almost grating. No one has ever spoken to you so directly, clearly he isn’t concerned about being blunt.

Warily you observe him from a distance, but step out from your hiding spot. He is right, it is rude to peer at someone unashamedly and you’ve been caught in the act.

“I apologise.” Uncharacteristically shy suddenly, you struggle to meet that weighted, black gaze, toying with the details of your dress. “Mr…?”

“Riley. My lady.” He pauses, taking in your form, pupils narrowing slightly. Riley’s head tilts, his tongue running across the surface of his teeth briefly.

“Nice to meet you Mr Riley. Apologies again, I’ll leave you to your business with my father.”

“Ya father? Not the Mrs of the house then?” A blonde brow almost disappears under his cap, but you barely notice it, more flustered by his unabashed question than the idea he thinks your father has taken a young bride. A knot in your gut forms, some unfamiliar feeling that you’re missing an inflection in his words.

“Just a daughter, I’m afraid.” You reply softly.

He seems entirely disinterested in you and feeling thoroughly awkward, you make to sidle back into the drawing room, desperately trying not to trip over your own feet or the hem of your gown.

“Not married then yet?” With the same aura of deadpan calmness, his eyes are back on your face as you turn with a gentle movement of fabric at your calves. “S’pect tha’s on the cards tho innit… my lady.”

The statement is dripping with low sarcasm and you feel your stare widening at it. Internally you’re so shocked by his sheer nerve, that you’re sure your face must show it.

With a grinding of gears you rearrange your expression to one of pleasant cordiality. It’s actually painful, but you do so with the practice of someone used to barbs across a dinner party.

“I don’t imagine that’s any of your concern, Mr Riley.”

His lip quirks like something’s amused him. Things change subtly when that happens, long forgotten humour lightens all of his dour features.

“Quite right.” Mr Riley grunts in response, finally looking away from you and around the lofty entry hall. “You enjoy your tea yeah, hope the days exploits aren’t too tiresome.”

You gawp at him, utterly taken aback and lost for anything to reply with. He doesn’t say another word and silently your fury reaches new heights. It’s not lost on you that society expects someone of your age to at least be engaged, but to have a total stranger call that out so boldly is a new level of torment. The retort dies on your tongue though, an unwillingness to give him any acknowledgment overpowers it.

Shutting your mouth with a pop, you stalk back towards the drawing room, just as Mr Riley gets called upstairs by a footman.

“Why do you look so scandalised?” Your mother sighs, finally putting the journal down and allowing a maid to pour her a fresh cup of tea with the air of someone enduring a great trial. Evidently none of the new fashions were to her liking and she’s in a sour mood because of that.

“No reason.”

You keep your response careful, keen to avoid further questions. You’re so irked by him, that you barely find it within yourself to complain when your mother insists you remain with her for the rest of the afternoon.

Why should the bluntness of such a man disturb you. After all, that’s all he is, a man. One evidently of poor disposition and without manners.

@cutiecusp @murder-hobo @misshugs @pxssygxblin @frudoo

Masterlist

[godihatethiswebsite]

WW2 AU where you attend a dance for local serviceman and meet Sergeant Kyle Garrick, spitfire pilot and dogfighting extraordinaire.

He’s got the casual glamour of a man at the top of his career, but it’s you he holds close and moves slowly with all night while the record player skips and scratches. He plays the most dangerous games of chicken in the air all day, you’ll give him a night of sweetness to take the edge off right??

[godihatethiswebsite]

I know updates on my series are taking me awhile sorry T.T but I've been trying to use a couple low energy days to at least churn out some drabbles for y'all lately 👉👈

Would you guys rather me just try to devote all my time into churning out the big projects or do you like the small things too?

[godihatethiswebsite]

Simon Riley x reader - Hot Cocoa

CW: childhood abuse, implied alcohol and drug usage, angst/comfort

You didn’t know it at the time, but it was more than just a cup of hot cocoa.

Soft hands–so unlike his mothers–never having been braced against the impact of another’s cruelty, yet clutching his with the same maternal insistence as you slip the steaming mug of sweetness between the gnarled, calloused proof of his misfortunate life. 

There is no preamble of cracked leather; no metal branded welts to be found from a diseased monstrosity who does not care if they are hidden. Simon’s knuckles are intact, not bruised nor split against his sperm donor’s chin. Sentinel instincts are rendered obsolete without the triggering sniffles of his traumatized sibling. No need to keep playing the brave little soldier – the screams of nearby children are not born from brutality.

Doe eyes gaze up at him with an exuberant sparkle, no glassy haze plying you into absent submission. Water molecules of heated breath turning crystalline vapor in the frosty night air hold no trace of ABV – no lingering aroma of whiskey sorrow. The tremble in your bones is from a lack of knitted mittens, not survival induced adrenaline spikes. Frozen fractals catch in silken strands kept immaculate and washed, a polished sheen so unlike her familiar limp straw, reflecting the untarnished soul within he’s done his best to keep pure.

The failure of his mother’s visage haunts his waking past, but the dying warmth of her love renews in an unexpected presence.

He never told you of the act – the ritual of younger nights in a bygone civil hellscape. When the door had finished rattling on rust weathered hinges and the taillights of abuse were all but distant fireflies. When his brother crawled out from his false sanctuary of childhood innocence, having braved the monsters beneath the bed rather than the one he still called ‘papa’. When the woman who should’ve loved them better remembered who she was, the pain of mottled flesh replacing the lucidity of the mind. When he saw his mother for who she was: a woman worn down by sadistic malice. Who was just as much a victim with the scars left on her skin, the pockmarks on her elbows forced there by a stronger hand, the blonde hairs scattered and bloody pulled like cobwebs from her scalp.

Red rimmed eyes spoke wordless apologies for the naivety of her past; for the regrets of choosing wrong the father of her children, the life she wished she had the chance to go back and undo. 

A dead end promise to fix the mistakes of their future – someday.

He clung to the cheap disposable cardboard like the memory of crawling into a threadbare twin, shadows kept at bay with the weak glow from Tommy’s nightlight. The kettle whistled as the pair of them settled, packaged powder dumped into chipped ceramic and brought to them with a shaky smile. He would never voice aloud his own preference for less marshmallows, to give force to the cracks already shattering her resolve. If not for her sake than for his brother’s. 

The expression on your face brings him back from gloomier times, wrapped up in festive cheer all windswept and frost bitten, a backlight of radiance from the bustling market stand you purchased the beverages from. He watches as overeagerness singes your tongue, the small yelp of complaint soothed by a mouthful of whipped cream, the pain doing nothing to retract from the unbridled joy you feel in this simple cherished moment.

You. 

A gift–he knows–sent from heaven by the broken woman he forgave so very long ago. Her promise to him taken physical form.

It’s so much more than just a cup of hot cocoa.

It’s healing.

Masterlist

[godihatethiswebsite]

One of my favorite authors is rewriting one of my absolute favorite stories. It's been a go-to comfort fic for a very long time now and seeing her breathe new life into it is such a warm welcome hug, especially right now...

Please go show them some love! ❤️

Birds of a Feather

Pairing: childhood best friend!soap x f!reader

Warnings: bullying, nothing else

Words: 2k

Synopsis: Having moved to a new home, you meet your best friend in kindergarten...

Cbf!soap masterlist (rewrite)

Your life sucked right now. 

It started months ago when your mother told you that you would have to leave your house behind. You didn’t like it, especially when you had to pack away all of your things and say goodbye to your friend, and when you tried to have your parents explain why you just couldn’t understand why you had to leave everything behind for something like a job.

You didn’t want to leave your only friend behind, you didn’t want to go to a new school. 

It wasn’t fair.

You didn’t know how it was going to be, how the other kids your age would act or accept you. If they were like your old classmates you weren’t sure if you’d be able to make friends with any of them, you were worried they wouldn’t want to play with you and you’d just be alone.

It was your first day and you felt nauseous. 

You wanted to beg your mom to let you stay home because you were sure you’d throw up. You didn't want that to happen and you hoped that maybe if you told her that she’d let you stay home for the day. 

You tried to but before you could even start your sentence, your mom gave you a look and that was the end of it. There was only one thing you could do to make yourself feel better, so you decided to take matters into your own hands.

You held your stuffie, a cute brown bunny with floppy ears and beady black eyes, on your way out the door of your new house. It was your prized possession that you slept with every night since you could remember that never left your side. 

“Are you sure you want to bring your bunny with you, sweetheart?” Your mom asked you when she noticed you carrying it. “It might get lost.”

“I don’t want to go without it!” You pleaded.

She didn’t say anything else as she helped you into the car. You practically choked your stuffie on the drive to your new elementary school and crushed your mother’s hand when she walked you inside. 

It was much smaller than your old school and no other kids were roaming in the halls but that didn’t stop the anxiety you felt as you stared at the doors that led into many classrooms.

The principal greeted you both and you found it hard not to hide behind your mother’s legs when she offered to take your hand.

“Oh, no need to be shy!” She gave you a big smile. “Be a brave lass, you’ll be fine.”

You looked from your mom to the principal. You didn’t move, even as she gave you an expectant look. Your feet felt like they were full of lead and the idea of moving forward made you feel like crying. 

Your mother gently pushed you and you had no choice but to take the principal's hand. You barely got to say goodbye before you were being led down the hallways towards your new classroom.

You clutched your bunny tightly and the principal smiled.

“We don’t usually allow students to keep their personal items with them but I’ll make an exception for today.” She explained and you hesitantly nodded. 

The door to the classroom got closer and closer. You gripped the principal’s hand tightly as it really set in that you were going to have to make new friends and that you were going to be the new kid.

The principal opened the door to the classroom and suddenly all eyes were on you. 

You squeezed her hand as you stood in the front of the classroom. The silence from your classmates made the staring worse and you hugged your bunny close to you as you stared back like a deer caught in headlights. 

“Everyone, this is our new student I told you about.” The principal announced with a smile. “She came a long way to come here, so let’s make her feel welcome.”

She let go of your hand with a reassuring pat before she left the classroom. 

The teacher walked up to you with a similar smile and introduced you. All the while your eyes scanned the many new faces that stared at you with a sort of curiosity that animals faced inside a zoo.

A particular boy in the back, you noticed, leaned across the table and stood on his chair to see you over the heads of his classmates. You watched him strain to see you and you instinctively moved to hide behind the teacher’s legs.

“I’ll seat you next to John for now,” the teacher said. “We’re finishing up an activity and then we’ll go outside.”

The stares didn’t stop as she led you to the back of the class towards the boy who had been standing on his chair. Slowly, however, as she took your bag and set you down next to the boy they went back to whatever they were doing while still sparing a couple glances in your direction.

You sat awkwardly in your chair and hugged your bunny close.

“What’s that?” John asked and you glanced at him to see he was pointing towards your stuffie.

“My bunny.” You held it closer to your chest as he looked at it closer.

“Why do you have it?”

“It makes me feel safe.”

John titled his head curiously before he locked eyes with you. His eyes were a bright blue that you had never seen before which made you stare at him with uncertainty before he grinned.

“I’m Johnny.”

You introduced yourself as well and then suddenly it seemed like he spoke a mile a minute. You had trouble understanding a few of the things he spoke about because of his accent but you began to feel less on edge the more you listened to him. 

Before long, the teacher was calling for everyone to go outside and you followed close behind Johnny as he continued to talk about anything and everything. 

You couldn’t help but feel close to him. He didn’t act like you were some alien and he was happy to invite you to play with him during recess.

However, when you reached the blacktop, someone tugged on your shirt and you turned around to see a group of girls. 

“Hi, I’m Holly.” 

You introduced yourself and watched as the other girls looked at you with that strange curiosity everyone seemed to have behind Holly. She herself stared at you with a gleam in her eye as she smiled.

“Do you want to play with us?” Holly wondered and that was when you noticed that they had dolls with them.

You looked to where the other kids had gone and searched for Johnny. However, he had disappeared and you weren’t sure where to find him.

Besides, in your mind you thought it wouldn’t hurt to make more friends, especially with how friendly Johnny had been.

“Sure!”

You’re not really sure what happened next. One moment you were following Holly and her friends around, playing with your bunny and their dolls, the next you found that she had taken your bunny from you.

You kneeled in the grass and fidgeted with your fingers as you watched them turn away from you. You looked at all of them nervously as they played with your bunny in their game, making it the bad guy which formed a pit in your stomach.

“Can I have my bunny back?” You asked but they seemingly ignored you. “I don’t like this game…”

When they didn’t say anything you frowned and poked Holy on the shoulder.

Holly glanced back at you with a quizzical look with a hint of annoyance that made you nervously play with your hands.

“Can I have my bunny back?” You repeated and she shared a look with her friends.

“We’re not done playing.” 

“But it’s mine.”

Holly stood up and her friends stood up with your bunny in her arms. They began to walk away from you and you quickly went to grab your stuffie from her before she moved it out of the way with a glare.

“You can have it back when we’re done.”

You watched as they moved further away from you in shock. You balled your fists and felt a rush of anxiety and anger through you as you stomped your foot.

“I’m telling the teacher!” You exclaimed and they stopped.

“If you tell the teacher, then you’re a tattle-tale.” Holly spat. “And no one likes a tattle-tale, no one will be your friend.”

Your eyes widened and she led her friends away from you.

You stood there unsure of what to do as it felt like the world crashed around you. You didn’t want to tell the teacher because you wanted your classmates to like you but you couldn't be without your bunny, not when it was the only reason you were able to even make it to school today.

It was the only thing that helped you sleep and the only thing that consistently brought you comfort.

What if she didn’t give it back? What if you’d never see it again?

You didn’t know what to do, so you began to cry.

Tears rolled down your cheeks and down to your chin before they began to stain your shirt. You held onto the hem as you shook, quiet sobs leaving you as you struggled to breathe. You weren’t sure if you’d ever stop crying, even when recess was over, which only made you cry more.

That was when you felt something tap your foot and you noticed a small ball that Johnny was chasing. 

He had a smile on his face as he came up to you before it slowly faded away when he saw that you were crying. He titled his head and came up close to you before he placed a hand on your upper back.

“Why are you crying?”

“I don’t want to be a tattle-tale.” 

He looked at you with confusion before he shrugged.

“I won’t tell.” 

You looked at him with suspicion and blinked a few tears away to see his face. However, all you saw was sincerity as he waited for you to say something and suddenly you knew that you could trust Johnny with anything.

“They took my bunny and won’t give it back.” You pointed at Holly and her friends as more tears began to fall.

Johnny followed your finger and when his eyes landed on them his face went serious. He stared at them for just a moment before he scowled and grabbed your wrist with a firm hold.

Your eyes widened as he marched forward with you in tow. You didn’t try to pull away from him however as he brought you up to the girl and let go of you before he went up to Holly.

“Johnny, play with us!” She smiled before he yanked the bunny out of her hands.

“Ye dinnae take things that aren’t yours, ya daft cow!” 

You gasped, as did the other girls, before Johnny turned around to you with a toothy grin as he held your bunny like a prize he had won. You stared at him as he held it out for you to take with a twinkle in his eyes while Holly began to wail behind him.

“Thank you…” You sniffled as you took it back and hugged it close to you. You couldn’t help the warmth that spread across your face as you stared at him with awe.

“You’re welcome! Me mam told me to always help others-”

“John MacTavish, I can’t believe what I am seeing!”

You and him jumped from the loud yelling that came from the teacher. Immediately all eyes went on her as she raced up to Johnny whose face went beet red.

You’re not really sure what happened after the teacher dragged him away to the principal's office, asking another teacher to bring you, Holly, and her friends along too, but you didn’t really care.

All you knew was that Johnny was going to be your friend for a very long time. 

part 2

A/n: meant to get this out earlier. hopefully will be able to get more of it rewritten. Also! lmk if you want to be put on the taglist for this

[godihatethiswebsite]

[godihatethiswebsite]

I'm livid.

I'm ashamed.

I'm terrified.

I'm so sorry...