#c: myrtle

[adventuresofalgy]

The wonderful and distinctive aroma of bog myrtle is only released into the air on warm, sunny days, which, as many of Algy's friends will know from his adventures, occur only rarely in the wild West Highlands of Scotland…

But it brings to those few balmy days a quality which all who experience it never forget, for the combination of that unique fragrance with the other scents peculiar to the peat bogs (and indeed to "the hills of the North") creates a lasting memory of an environment "far from the madding crowd" where - providing the weather is kind - it is still possible to find comfort and peace.

So Algy hopped down from his view point and nestled deep into one of the many ragged bushes which were scattered across the hillside. Taking a big, deep breath he inhaled the scent of the aromatic leaves, rejoicing not only in the delightfully invigorating effect, but also in the knowledge that the infamous Scottish midges so little appreciate the benefits of this particular herb that their vast hordes would keep well away from him so long as he stayed close to the protective bog myrtle. 😀

Let them boast of Arabia, oppressed By the odour of myrrh on the breeze; In the isles of the East and the West That are sweet with the cinnamon trees Let the sandal-wood perfume the seas; Give the roses to Rhodes and to Crete, We are more than content, if you please, With the smell of bog-myrtle and peat! Though Dan Virgil enjoyed himself best With the scent of the limes, when the bees Hummed low 'round the doves in their nest, While the vintagers lay at their ease, Had he sung in our northern degrees, He'd have sought a securer retreat, He'd have dwelt, where the heart of us flees, With the smell of bog-myrtle and peat! Oh, the broom has a chivalrous crest And the daffodil's fair on the leas, And the soul of the Southron might rest, And be perfectly happy with these; But WE, that were nursed on the knees Of the hills of the North, we would fleet Where our hearts might their longing appease With the smell of bog-myrtle and peat!

[Algy is quoting the poem To C H Arkcoll by the 19th century Scottish author and collector of folk and fairy tales, Andrew Lang.]

For those interested: bog myrtle (Myrica gale) has long been used in traditional herbal medicine, as it has many useful properties. The Herbal Resource has further information.

[hayleythesugarbowl]

╰┈➤ if you enjoyed these books growing up then 1) your sense of humor is immaculate and 2) you’re either in pre-med or you’re a detective there’s no in between

[the-dust-jacket]

[onepiexe]

puppies from the shop today

[bookcoversonly]

Title: How to Get Away with Myrtle | Author: Elizabeth C. Bunce | Publisher: Algonquin Young Readers (2020)

[kingsbridgelibraryteens]

Middle School Monday: Premeditated Myrtle: A Myrtle Hardcastle Mystery by Elizabeth C. Bunce 

12-year-old Myrtle Hardcastle is naturally curious about the world around her, and she wants to follow in her parents’ footsteps of law and medicine. Sometimes her curiosity gets her into trouble, like when she notices some Mysterious Circumstances at her neighbor’s house (by observing it with a telescope), and then contacts the police. It turns out that Myrtle’s neighbor Miss Woodhouse died overnight, from what appear to be natural causes. But Myrtle doesn’t believe it, and neither does her governess Miss Judson. 

Together, Myrtle and Miss Judson will work to prove that Miss Woodhouse was, in fact, murdered. But that will be an uphill battle since nobody else believes them, not even the town prosecutor … Myrtle’s father.

This book, the first in the Myrtle Hardcastle Mystery series set in Victorian England, will keep readers hooked with Myrtle’s quick wits and hilarious sarcasm. Readers will also keep turning the pages to find out if Myrtle and Miss Judson can stay out of trouble long enough to solve this murder.

Give this book to older kids and younger teens who enjoy historical mysteries and smart girls who love science!

[riverwindphotography]

Myrtle sparkles after a morning rain

(c) riverwindphotography, May 2019

[kaijuno]

The Egtved Girl

(c. 1390–1370 BC) was a Nordic Bronze Age girl whose well-preserved remains were discovered outside Egtved, Denmark in 1921. Aged 16–18 at death, she was slim, 1.6 metres (5 ft 3 in) tall, had short, blond hair and well-trimmed nails. Her burial has been dated by dendrochronology to 1370 BC.

In the coffin, the girl was wrapped in an ox hide. She wore a loose, short tunic with sleeves reaching the elbow. She had a bare waist and wore a short string skirt. She had bronze bracelets, and a woollen belt with a large disc decorated with spirals and a spike. At her feet were the cremated remains of a child aged 5 to 6. By her head there was a small birch bark box that contained an awl, bronze pins, and a hair net.

Before the coffin was closed she was covered with a blanket and an ox hide. Flowering yarrow (indicating a summer burial) and a bucket of beer made of wheat, honey, bog-myrtle and cowberries were placed atop. Her distinctive outfit, which caused a sensation when it was unearthed in the 1920s, is the best preserved example of a style now known to be common in northern Europe during the Bronze Age. The good preservation of the Egtved Girl's outfit is due to the acidic bog conditions of the soil, which is a common condition of this locale.

[syoddeye]

snipe

141 x transmasc!reader | 6k words | part four of spoils CW: noncon, MCD/major character death, predator/prey, restraints, lots of spit, degradation, praise, knives, guns, suicide/suicidal ideation, violence, blood A/N: Cunt, cock, and clit are used to describe genitalia of a trans masc reader’s body. Hit the back and/or block buttons as needed. Reader has body hair and hair long enough to grab. Banner by @/cafekitsune.

Stars dance across your vision before you’re properly awake, head swimming from the impact of hitting solid wood. The ringing in your ears gradually clears to the sound of wheels passing over gravel. Blearily, you roll to your stomach and spread your feet shoulder-width apart for stability, though that is as far as the bindings allow. The rope around your wrists is tighter, rooting them to the base of your spine. Being tied is something you’re accustomed to now, the skin a little rougher at the joints.

The hood is new.

Thin enough to breathe, thick enough to block your sight. The last thing you remember is disrobing for a morning bath.

You sniff. The scent of ripe grapefruit on the stem, sharp and bitter, coats your skin. A fragrance far weaker than the usual oils and perfumes the washers dip you in. You smell clean and sanctified, meaning whatever lies at this journey’s end is sure to be awful.

Laughter and cheer grow closer. Voices overlap, men talking amongst themselves in celebratory and enlivened tones. Thumping hooves and crushed rock keep their words from you. The cart rolls to a stop, and the chatter dies. Then footsteps, heavy but muted thuds on earth. A shrill squeal of a hinge, a shunk, and the floor rocks in place.

Tendrils of an earthy scent and leather seep through the hood, and your nostrils flare. A flash of warning before—a hand hauls you upright onto your knees, and another yanks the fabric roughly from your head. The sun litters your vision with spots, rapidly blinking away as a shadow falls over your face.

John looms. 

“Hello darlin’.”

His eyes drag over your form, his grip shifting to hoist you over a shoulder. You squirm as he adjusts the weight. For a moment, you glimpse a loose row of a dozen men bearing shotguns, various dead wildfowl hanging at their waists. Your stomach draws to your spine in a shocked breath as John ferries you closer, the cart driver, an older man, following. He sets you down facing the men and studies your apparel.

Myrtle green, medium-weight fabric sleeves one shoulder and cuts a dramatic slant down your torso, exposing half of your chest to the air before wrapping around your waist. It falls above your knees, and a brown leather cord cinches it together. Mercifully, someone’s given you shoes—plain things made of the same leather as the belt but sturdy with firm soles.

John traces the sleeve with a sound of approval. You do not count his three, your other tormentors, among the men. A fact that does not quell the boiling uncertainty in your gut.

Your keeper chucks your chin.

“I had a brilliant idea the other week, thinkin’ of your excursion in the gardens. Been some time since you had proper exercise,” He starts, “Today we hunt. A reprise of you playing quarry.”

John shrugs out of a tailored jacket and drapes it over the cart driver’s arm. “The four of us drew lots. Quadrants.” He gestures at the tree line at the bottom of the sloping hill behind you. “You, my darlin’, will have a ten minute headstart signaled by a shot. A second will announce the beginning of our hunt.”

He produces a strip of black leather with a brass closure from a pocket. “The first to find and collar the quarry, wins the right to exclusivity for three days.”

Three days. Three days with any of them.

John pinches your jaw, pressing the collar into bone. “Once you’re in there, you don’t leave ‘til one of us finds you, understood? These men, and others, have orders to shoot should they see your pretty arse take a single step out of the forest’s boundary.” He releases your face, patting your cheek with the brass. “Go to the tree line and wait. I’ll see you soon.”

Your feet feel leaden on the walk to the forest’s edge, struggling to shrug off his confidence. The sun above suggests it’s closer to noon than morning, meaning you must be far from the grounds. Meaningless hope buzzes about your head like a biting fly; you know there is no outrunning them. They’ve fucked the lesson into you countless times. It’s marrow-deep.

While you wait, you shift foot to foot, subtly stretching. John barks a laugh, cheering his men and clinking a snifter. How entertaining it is for him, the revelry of your torture. He catches you staring from the starting line and pats the bundle of rope strapped to his thigh. An eye drops in a wink, and he smirks into his glass. Something clicks into place: If this is a game to them, it must also be one for you. 

They do not expect strategy. They expect the same scared, pliable creature they corner at night. If there is no escape, you must choose the jaws to jump into. The lesser evil, if such a thing exists.

Immediately out of consideration is Simon, the brutalizer. All the power and heft of John in a meaner package without a thimble of mercy. He doesn't call for a servant when he’s finished, and you’ve never slept in his bed. He sends you, limping, into the halls to your rooms.

John is predictable and safer that way, but you’ve seen how he acts in competition, big or small. He already flaunts you like a trophy, seating you in his lap, between his legs, or tucked to his side. He muses openly about fucking you on the table at mealtimes. If he wins, you know he’ll use the occasion as an excuse to finally do it.

Soap is hardly better than Simon in ferocity, favoring teeth and nails to open and mark your body. He’s vocal, eager to condescend, and contorts you into positions he finds amusing. At least he winds down, licking his bites and scratches, massaging muscles. The worst, though, is that he pets your cunt like a cat, calls it one, too. Kitty.

Then there’s Kyle. He’s never taken you alone or slunk into your chambers in the dead of night. John’s invited him to share a handful of times. He seems to prefer...groups. Egging on his companions or keeping your mouth preoccupied. You do not know what three nights alone with him would entail.

No sooner do you make your decision, the starting gun fires. Instinct as old as the land propels you forward into the woods.

The trees swallow you whole.

~~

The temperature drops, the sun blotted out by the canopy. The woods are unfamiliar terrain. You cannot remember when you last visited a forest; if you had, it would’ve been by carriage or palanquin, on the safety of a road, and encircled by a retinue.

Ducking low-hanging branches and leaping over roots, you ruminate on your whiff of a plan. How to ensure Kyle finds you first. Without knowing the scale of the forest or the starting points of the other men, the task is daunting. The hedge maze was a controlled environment, tame and kept, but the woods are hostile, whipping and clawing, and the men, as far as you can tell, are trained for pursuit. Bloodhounds.

You come to a small clearing with a tranquil pond. Its polished green-blue glass surface reflects the trees and the window of sky above. A pang of thirst keenly reminds you of your last refreshment and meal from the night before. The memory invokes the taste of salt and tobacco on your tongue. You hesitate, torn between thirst and fear of stagnancy in more than one way. Still water harbors danger, and the woods will soon host another. You cannot be found retching.

A distant bang, sharp as a cracked whip, echoes. The sound of birds erupting from the canopy in a flurry of wings follows. The forest seems to hold its breath, frozen in the wake of the explosive sound. The reverberation slowly fades, leaving behind an eerie silence more unsettling than the noise itself.

Your heart finds new lodging in your throat.

The hunt is on.

~~

By your best estimation, four hours pass. A miracle, if you still believed in benevolent forces. Instead, an already immense paranoia metastasizes, making you frightened of your own breath. You creep as slow as molasses, but you might as well sprint. Mental exhaustion nibbles at your energy stores, demanding bigger and bigger bites.

Following a deerpath down an embankment, the sound of water brings your thirst front and center again. Hurdling a fallen tree, its decaying and damp wood gives some under your weight with a muted groan. You wince, pausing a moment before reaching the edge of tall grass. On your hands and knees, you swallow at the view. Cold water carves the landscape, beckoning and glinting in the light.

You creep to the bank and dip your hands into the clear, sparkling water,  nearly moaning from relief. The water finds and soothes the cuts and nicks on your fingers and palms. You drink greedily, ignoring the taste, eyes wide and darting. While the fear of falling ill remains, you cannot dehydrate further.

The third handful never makes it to your lips; it splashes on your chin and chest as you clap a hand to your mouth, stifling a screech. Upstream, resting on a log as if sunbathing, is the eviscerated corpse of a rabbit. Protruding from its tiny body, a knife. You throw yourself into the bush.

You wait. No movement from the trees, nothing in either direction of the stream’s course. It’s from one of them, and you know who among them favors knives. Simon. He’s been here. Close. 

The sun bounces off the blade and excises a thought—you could defend yourself. Do the hurting for once. 

Stealthing through the brush, you stare at the creature from across the water. Dead for a few hours, long enough that the gore is cooled. The decision is torturous. Terrified, you dash and hop over the stream, grab the handle, and continue. The rabbit’s corpse slides off with a wet noise, dropping to the ground as you jog.

You skid to a halt some distance away and duck behind a tree. A glance back reveals no pursuant; the foliage barely looks disturbed by your flight. Wiping it clean on moss, you examine the weapon. A four inch blade mounted on a polished wood handle, and sure enough, the letter ‘G’ is burned beneath the bolster. ‘Ghost’, a nickname John occasionally uses. A misnomer, you think, given how Simon never lets you forget where he is on the grounds. Stomping around, jeering, and crooning whenever you’re near. Whistling like you’re a dog.

And as if summoned by thought alone, sharp, shrill, and piercing—

Your head whorls on your shoulders. Endless green in every direction, trunks thick enough to obscure a giant—another whistle, closer. It echoes like the first. Disorienting. Yet you smell him before you see him as if he’s stepped upwind, probably on purpose.

A twig snaps, and you take off. 

He follows. The unmistakable thuds of his boots on the forest floor, too heavy to be anyone else. It hits you, vaulting over a log, that his pace is intentionally slow. Relaxed. Meant to wear and walk you down. How long has he been watching? A bleak question you want no answer to.

Tearing into a thin, narrow clearing, an alley of open space, you veer right toward a rocky outcropping. Two paces in, and your foot hooks an unseen root, hurtling you forward into a rough slide. The knife flies out of your hand, perhaps for the better. Your palms rip open, slivers shunting beneath your fingernails. Not a single sound leaves your mouth—pain is second to fear. Flipping to your back to push up, you freeze.

Clad head-to-toe in camouflage, with smears of paint coating the few places exposing his skin, Simon hovers in the tree line with a new, olive-colored mask fixed to his jaw. Through its cracked teeth, his lips move.

“Have a good run?”

His steps resemble a tiger’s loping confidence, unhurried and languid. No need to posture or bare his teeth; his bulk does the talking. Whatever light filters through the canopy is smothered in his dark eyes. The brutalizer, all solid and sharp edges, a mountain of a man seeking subjugation. The only struggle he must know is deciding how to take you apart. You scramble backward and clumsily grab the discarded knife.

“Don’t hurt yourself, snipe. That’s my job.”

A mitt disappears into a pocket then retracts with a metallic clink. A heavy chain choker dangles between his fingers, thick welded links with all of its burrs intact, a crude thing of his own design. How he must’ve labored to fashion it, imagined how it’d feel around your neck. What he must’ve pictured.

Surely not nine inches of steel disappearing into his stomach.

Simon doubles over with a guttural noise. The collar slips from his fingers, and John emerges from the trees to your right, his brows lowered in a menacing glare. Striding quickly, his fingers wrap around a second blade, not so much as glancing in your direction. Simon staggers to his feet, one hand gripping the offending blade's hilt, the other reaching for one of his own. He turns in time to meet John head-on.

You do not stick around for the outcome but look back as you reach the trees. Simon lurches, barely held at bay by John, and bellows something primal and incoherent. It rattles your very core, bouncing off each rib with the reminder: Hunting is a blood sport.

The sound of the fight fades as you run. 

After scrabbling down a steep gully and to the other side, you look for a hiding place. The hollow at the trunk of an elm all but rolls out a welcome mat, and you dive into its dark. Batting away cobwebs and tucking your legs into the cramped space, you suck in deep breaths. Your lungs scream for air, heartbeat in your ears. Every part of you shakes. The initial rush of the chase and escape ebbs away, leaving the burn of your muscles and the pulsing warmth of the gash in your left hand. Your good hand trembles as you cut a strip of tunic to crudely staunch and wrap the wound.

The hollow is dry, sheltered, and passably comfortable—circumstances aside. As you allow your muscles some respite and your heart rate to return to a baseline panic, you realize this is the first time off your feet since the cart. Exhaustion creeps over your shoulders like a warm blanket and whispers sweet lies of safety into your ears. Your mind does its best to keep you awake, but your body begs for compromise. The sleep that falls over you is fragile and whisper-thin, a veil.

~~

Distant voices wake you with a jolt, growing louder by the second. You wipe the sleep from your eyes with a knuckle and peek. Shadows dapple the ground, and rays of gold and amber of sunset streak through the canopy. The stiff muscles of your legs protest as you shift and strain to listen. You expect John or a wounded Simon; instead, a thick brogue trades barbs with the smooth timbre you hoped to hear all day.

Several minutes pass until they come into view.

Kyle and Soap a fair distance apart, fanned out and sweeping. It’s a far cry from the violent clash between Simon and John. Is working as a team allowed? John said three days of ‘exclusivity’, the prize of the hunt. Did they strike an agreement?

You hold your breath. Kyle strides ten meters from the elm. His suit is strange; you would not recognize him if it wasn’t for his voice. A cloak resembling the forest floor sweeps the ground, fastened to his back. It curves overhead, drooping low to cover the top half of his face. If he wasn’t moving, the mottled patterns of green and brown would render him near-invisible. You shudder at the thought and look past to Soap, who is, interestingly, clothed entirely in black, seemingly uncaring about camouflage. His gear absorbs the dying light of sunset.

You need to get Kyle’s attention and fast. 

Without taking your eyes off the men, you blindly feel for and pluck a pebble from the hollow’s floor and silently slide a foot out of the opening. You take aim at a nearby tree.

“Tav, I see something!” Kyle suddenly yells, pointing to an unseen space beyond his companion, and the men break into a run. You stumble after and nearly cry out, biting back a curse when they disappear into the lengthening shadows. 

When you no longer see nor hear them, you return to the hollow. Perhaps they’ll double-back and—

“I thought you might be near, snipe.” 

You whip around.

Kyle stalks toward you, his chest heaving from exertion. “Had an inkling.” He pushes his hood off, the sight of his focus unnerving in the low light. He’s more deliberate in his approach than Simon, curving his mouth in an easy grin like he’s not going to collar you like a wayward dog. A grin that has nothing to do with kindness. Gooseflesh rises on your skin.

“I see you found my knife.” He nods at your hand. “Thought I’d be nice.”

Your stomach churns at how he emphasizes nice. You turn the knife experimentally, the handle an inch too big to fit comfortably in your grasp. ‘G’ for ‘Gaz’; a clever red herring.

Kyle exhales, his smile sharpening into a smirk. “I admit I was curious to see what you’d do with it. I’m disappointed, snipe,” He advances, tutting when you retreat. “You’re either stupid, or you don’t hate us as much as you think you do.”

A breeze rolls over your naked shoulder, and you shiver, brows furrowing. “What?”

His eyes drop to your waist, then bounce to the knife. “You didn’t try to hang yourself with your belt, nor did you slit your own throat. Didn’t even risk getting shot.”

Kyle’s words stew your insides. You hadn’t thought of that method of escape. Was it stupidity? Naivety?

You know what it is. Hope. Like a cold you can’t shake. Protean and irrepressible. 

He holds a collar aloft. A rich, deep blue velvet comes alive in a sliver of light, its plush texture shimmering. Somehow you think it will be the softest thing you’ll see in Kyle’s company. The tinkling of the tiny bell fixed to its front an alarm. A third starting shot. The moment he intentionally shakes it, you turn tail and run.

~~

You hate these men. Loathe them. Fuck what Kyle said.

“Running will only tire you out, love,” he calls out playfully. ”And when I catch you—and I will catch you—it’ll just make things worse for yourself.”

To think you wanted him to be the winner.

Bolting into a lower area of the forest, the air is damp with fog. The ground softens beneath your feet, and it’s a step too late when you realize why. Your left foot plunges into mud, swallowing it to the ankle. Panic lights your veins like a spark meeting gunpowder, igniting every nerve ending as Kyle’s laughter dies abruptly. You curse, struggling to pull free, but each yank sucks the boot deeper. The cool, sticky mire oozes around the leather, making a messy suction noise with every tug. You wrench your foot free with a final kick, but the boot is lost.

You flounder over the muck to the solid ground of a meadow, eyes scanning the path ahead. They seize upon a massive nurse log, its void half-covered by a moss curtain, and you reroute. Diving, you crawl into the tunnel until you can’t go any further. You twist to your back and peer through the fissures in the wood to the outside. Quieting your breathing proves impossible, sheer terror ratcheting your heart rate at the sound of approaching footsteps. An insect with too many legs scurries up your tunic, but you do not dare move.

“Creative, I’ll give you that, but you can’t hide. Not from me.” Kyle chides, stopping beside your hiding spot. “You forget how I found you the day we met.” He speaks ponderously, probably thinking of how to flush you out. The damp wood bends beneath his boot as he steps onto the log, bouncing and testing it. “It’s poetic that I find you again…Ah, there.”

He’s silent, hovering over your concealed form, then steps off. 

There’s a rush of air before something slams into the bark, and the decaying wood splits with a sickening crack. Debris rains down on you, but you watch, frozen in horror, helpless, as Kyle violently opens the tree. He raises and swings something down, breaking your shelter open like any skilled durophage seeking a prize. His face gradually becomes clearer, the sclera of his eyes bright and irises burning. 

Kyle tosses his tool and cloak to press a knee to the ruined sanctuary. You swipe desperately with the knife, but he snatches your wrist. “Now, snipe, be good.” With a twist, he wrests it from you and sends it flying. He hauls you upright into a seated position and brings the length of velvet to your neck. “Blue suits you.”

It’s a futile thing, the fight. Victory is out of reach, just like your knife. Still, you kick. Push. Claw uselessly against the tough material of his clothes. A slip in your defense allows him to press the collar firmly to your airway. The pressure chokes a wheeze out of you, and his eyes narrow. Another push, and he’ll have you.

And then, gradually appearing overhead, a striped face, unnaturally iridescent eyes, looming—

Hooking Kyle’s neck with one arm and head with the other, Soap tucks his chin over a shoulder, grinning. “Hi, kitty. Is he troubling you?” He pulls Kyle off, laughing when you clamber up and out of the splintered log.

An awful thwack and subsequent thud spurs you onward. The man most likely to eat you piecemeal is going to get you. Have you. For three days. Discordant cackling, crunching leaves—your vision tunnels into the dark woods. Stupid, stupid hope.

Soap’s legs eat up the ground with a predator’s grace.

No, no, no.

An arm ensnares your waist and yanks, dragging you back into a solid mass. A tongue immediately licks from the crook of your naked shoulder up to a spot behind your ear. Wrestling you to the ground, Soap collapses his weight over you into the grass, fixing his torso to your spine. Your arms trapped underneath the combined weight, he lazily rolls his hips with a groan. He’s hard, worked up.

“Yield.” He hisses with a harsh dig of his hips, and when you don’t, he sets his teeth to your neck and bites.

A howl rips from your throat, and Soap chokes it off by shunting something under your windpipe. He curls a broad, coarse strap of fabric over the fresh wound and cinches it. Surfacing after a surreal wave of pain, you jerk at the sound of a shackle clicking into a lock.

“There we go.” Soap hoists you to your knees, fixing the collar until the small padlock fastening it sits in the notch of your throat. His eyes positively glitter when he works a fingertip underneath, rubbing it back and forth. “All mine.” A groan diverts his attention, the momentum making you stumble after him.

“You fucking madman.” Kyle spits, rubbing his neck as he stands, a bit unsteady on his feet. “I had them.”

Soap swings you around to his front, shoving you to your knees in the center of the meadow. He unzips his vest and withdraws a bright orange, snub-nosed pistol. “Aye, had—sit still, kitty—but it’s over.” He ignores the other man’s complaints, eyes flicking down as he fires. 

The flare soars into the twilight, leaving a fiery trail in its wake. Your captor, backlit by the glow, haloed as he heralds your defeat. Soap holds your gaze, licking his teeth until the light dissipates.

“Garrick. Build us a fire.”

~~

Revulsion hotter than the bonfire at your back burns in your belly. Jaw aching and throat raw, you stare at the four shadows passing a flask. John grips Soap’s shoulder, gesturing in your direction with a cigar, voices low in a conspiratorial tone. 

Simon glares daggers from his place on a fallen tree, a broad hand over the mass of fabric tied to his abdomen. He drinks the deepest, but Kyle is a close second. It had been Kyle’s idea, shared while he built the fire, that Soap christen his victory with your mouth. He was the one to tell Soap to tie your hands to your collar, too.

Your lips are puffy and swollen, covered in dry spittle from Soap’s conciliatory, wet kisses.

A loud clap and a snicker breaks you from your stupor. Eyes rolling in their sockets, refocusing, you watch John push Soap toward you. His vest long discarded, he reaches over his shoulders and pulls his shirt off, grinning, insufferably smug. Willfully misreads your staring. 

“Like what you see?”

Soap drops to a knee, lifts you by the rope, and forces his lips to yours in another mockery of a kiss. All to drop you onto the dewy grass, flicking open a knife to unceremoniously part you from your clothes. The draping fabric comes away in large swathes, the cool air chilling your sweat-slicked body. He sighs and drags a finger from your collarbone to your navel, tracing a circle around the divot, then continuing to the regrowing thatch covering the pad of fat above your sex. His lip curls at how you wince at his fingers, tangling and pulling the coarse hairs.

“Open ‘em,” he orders, sighing almost wistfully when you do, releasing the mean hold in your curls to drag a meaner knuckle down your seam. He stares at your cunt long enough that the shape of him becomes plain in his pants. With a grunt, he adjusts and leans closer, whispering conspiratorially as if you’re an accomplice, not a captive. “They keep callin’ you ‘snipe’ but that’s not what you are. My kitty. Sweet, fuckin’ kitty.”

It’s not often you talk back, no point to it, but Soap brings it out of you. 

“Don’t call me that—I’m not—“

His palm strikes like a cobra, the full width and fury of it slapping your cunt. You bite off the scream as fast as you can, pain white hot, but the titters of laughter say not fast enough. 

“Say again? Hmm? Thought so, kitty.”

Simon’s deep grumble floats through the flames, but the slap’s sting is slow to diffuse. Whatever is said, it prompts Soap to stand and strip. The flames dance across muscle and mass, and it’s then you think, pointedly turning your cheek in the grass, if there’s a way to sour his victory.

Soap makes a noise in the back of his throat when he knocks your legs open wider, spitting twice. One’s a bullseye to your cunt, a warm glob followed by the rough pad of a finger. He chuckles at your reflexive wriggling, spreading it over your hole. You’re already wet enough, no bottom to your body’s traitorous instincts—this is all part of Soap’s routine. Teeth. Tongue. Spit. 

There’s no pomp and circumstance, no triumphant speech you imagined a smug bastard like him would recite, just a single tap of his cock to yours, then he’s pushing in with a steady plunge that takes and takes. Despite how many times he’s had you, how they’ve all had you, the stretch is a punishing test every time. He retreats for half a second then barges in again, fucking into you, setting the tone.

It’s a long march to the brink. Blood lingers on your tongue and lips, having bit through them at the start from his fervor. It mixes with the saliva that drips from his mouth, long strings of it, glinting in the firelight. He’s practically foaming at the mouth, face twisted in an anger he’s too impassioned to hide. All because you haven’t made a sound louder than a single, pained breath. 

He’s tried hard, short strokes. Deep and slow. His frustration is as thick as the mist gathering in the trees above, but even that burns off with the fire. 

“C’mon, kitty. Not like you to hold back.” He pants, warm breath fanning over your face, his chest pressed to yours and arms bracketing your head. 

His companions remain close by. John attends to Simon between his legs, occupied, but Kyle—he’s happy to play heckler. “Chase take it out of you, Tav?”

Soap doesn’t respond, not to him, but drops his mouth to your ear. “Tryin’ to make a fool outta me?” He nips at the lobe. “Hm? Think you can steal from me? Keep quiet?”

“Forget their cock?” Kyle croons. 

He did out of selfishness, you think, and so did you, out of necessity. You’ve ignored the throbbing ache, pushed it to the far corners of your mind, treating the friction of his body as an annoyance rather than a source of pleasure. You’re helpless to watch realization pass over his reddened face, your wrists wrenched up to your neck.

“That it?” The blue of Soap’s eyes blacken slowly like the wick of a candle. Smoldering. He lifts off, settling onto his haunches, cock buried and twitching. Dog wagging its tail at the mere suggestion of a bone. He spits again and glides a hand over a thigh to rectify his mistake.

“No,” You rasp, throat dry from disuse. The sudden attention of his fingers on your engorged clit is electric, hurtling its ignored wanting to the forefront. “Fuck, no.”

Soap smirks and resumes thrusting with a renewed vigor, clumsily toying with your cock but spinning you up nonetheless. “Aye, there it is.” He snarls, shoving and adjusting slightly for a deeper angle. He crows with delight, finally punching noise from your lungs. 

It’s not often you protest, long past the point of it, but Soap—his barbarity, his hubris—it triggers something awful.

“Don’t touch me!” You snarl, jerking your own head and neck painfully, trying to claw at him. Your hands don’t make it past your bent knees. “I’ll fucking kill–”

A squeeze bordering on harsh around your dick cuts off the threat. 

Soap tuts, showing too many teeth as he bucks. Sweat from exertion and the fire’s heat drips from his temple to his chin, dropping somewhere onto your skin. “From silent to this, all your hissin’ ‘s just music to my ears, kitty.”

Your protests fade to ragged pants as Soap continues, a hard-fought and equally resisted overwhelming pleasure rendering you wordless. A tremor shudders through your body with a deliberate shift and targeted stroke of that unbearably sweet spot inside of you. Your back arches involuntarily off of the ground, eyes wrenching shut as the back of your head digs into the grass. Trapped and useless, your hands twitch. The grate of the collar a cruel tether.

His mouth claims yours once again, lips crushing together—broken moans spilling out from deep within your throat against his mouth. His fingers are deft things, milking sound and slick out of you. An intense, telltale pressure tightens like a coiled spring poised to snap.

Your nails dig into your skin, desperately holding onto the last fragments of control. 

“Give it, kitty,” Soap demands. “Give it here, you fuckin’ wildcat, be a good bo—”

A spark to a powder keg, fire licking at dry tinder. You white out, burning alive.

~~

You come to, impaled.

Kyle, down on one knee, tips your head back. He smiles at your recognition. “Yeah, they’re alive.”

His image bobs up and down. It takes a moment to piece together why.

Soap’s hauled you into his lap, cradling your legs in the crook of a thick arm, bouncing you with short, angry upward thrusts. The wet sound obscene and telling, the combined spend splattering between you. Your bound hands barely clasp over his bicep to hold on, back aching in discomfort, belly crushed. There is no corner of your cunt he does not find and mold to his liking at this angle. He ruts, groping and twisting your flat chest and nipples with his free hand.

He raggedly pants into your ear, nipping your neck when his movements jostle you into him. Filth streams from his lips, his wretched glee stitched into every word. Squeezing me good, fuckin’ mine, gonna be too loose for them after this.

“Cut the rope,” Soap suddenly commands. 

You catch a glimmer of uncertainty in Kyle’s eyes, quickly replaced by a smirk. 

“You sure?”

“Fight’s almost fucked out of them.”

“Slow down a tic, then.” Kyle chuckles, withdrawing a knife from his hip. He kisses the air in front of your face as he pulls the cord taut on the edge of the blade, sawing it until it snaps. 

The force knocks your back into Soap’s chest, and your hands fall to his thighs and brace.

Soap hisses in pleasure, nuzzling into the crook of your neck.

“You’re welcome,” Kyle murmurs, eyes locked to yours before retreating toward John and Simon, their positions reversed.

“Fought so hard and for what, wildcat?” Muffled into your skin, he prattles, tacking on a few more nothings. 

With Soap, he always reaches a point of near-incoherency. Fucks like he eats at the table. Messy, territorial, loud, and doesn’t know when to stop, to the point of overindulgence. A glutton.

It’s a running joke among his companions. Simon once said he needed a bib given his propensity to drool and spit. Put a plate of something tasty in front of him and he might as well be blind to—

Firelight bounces off something shiny in the grass. Your heart thunders at the sight. Balanced on a curled tuft of grass, the handle pointed toward you, is Kyle’s knife. Gaz’s knife.

Thought I’d be nice. 

I was curious to see what you’d do with it.

You can’t see his face now, but the message is clear. 

It takes some convincing, a few dramatic moans and a reciprocated praise that makes you want to tear your own bloody tongue out, but Soap eventually relinquishes your legs. Spine screaming, you flop into the grass face-first, tucking the knife under your chest. His fingers dig into the meat of your hips, lost in the pathetic cries you give him. 

It’s persuasive enough he doesn’t fight you when you motion to roll to your back. His eyes screwed shut in pleasure, stuttering, balls slapping against your soaked skin. Fully consumed.

You tug on a bit of chest hair and lure him into an open-mouthed kiss. He tastes like grapefruit. Faintly. The scent that coated your skin that morning. 

You cut him like one.

The knife sinks into his carotid, disappearing, then you yank it free and do it again. Soap jerks wildly, thrashing violently. Wet, gurgling curses and screams rip out of him as he struggles. He slips out of your warmth, buckling over onto you as blood pours from his neck. It’s adrenaline that pushes him off. You stagger to your feet, ignoring the rush of fluids from between your legs, and watch him writhe in the dirt. 

He slowly stills.

“Knew I liked him.” 

The deep gravel of Simon’s voice lifts your gaze. The three men rise from their perches, John discreetly wiping his mouth. 

“That’ll be fifty, sir.” Gamboling over with an impish smile, Kyle clicks his tongue at Soap’s corpse. “Well done, snipe.” He takes the knife from your hand, shock surrendering it easily.

Kyle throws an arm around your blood-soaked shoulders, laughing softly at your slack jawed expression. He admires the body like a painting then releases you. 

“Don’t worry, snipe. He’ll come to in a few hours. In the meantime,” He smacks a cheek. “You might want to start running.”

Tearing naked through the forest, their echoing laughs remind you once more.

Hunting is a blood sport.

[femboy-central]

… if you want to read my essay on how gay Nick Carraway is it’s under the cut

Until recent years, very few authors had the courage to express homosexuality in their work for fear of institutional punishment or negative social reaction. With stories like that of Oscar Wilde, writers were accurately terrified to explicitly explore the diversity of the sexual and romantic interests of their characters. Despite this, they were not stopped and authors chose to implement their gay characters with artistic subtlety. F. Scott Fitzgerald's most well known novel, The Great Gatsby, homes one example of this type of character. Although he does not live in a time period where he can be open about it, Nick Carraway is a homosexual man and this fact is crucial to truly understanding his self and his relationship with Jay Gatsby.

Perhaps the most damning evidence of Nick's sexuality is the fact that the only sexual encounter he is implied to have had is with Chester McKee after the party in New York (28), but it is not all. Nick's homosexuality is most casually clear in the descriptions he gives of the people in his life. Although he does acknowledge past romantic relations with women, he does not read as particularly interested in them. When questioned about a rumoured fiancée out West, Nick remarks that he is very opposed to "being rumored into marriage," (15) and in his first meeting with his supposed love interest, Jordan Baker, Nick compares her to a cadet (an exclusively male occupation at the time) and points out her most masculine features as ideal including her small breasts and erect carriage (8). In comparison, Nick's descriptions of the men around him are rich with intrigue; Nick notices how Tom Buchanan's eyes establish dominance in his face and the way his muscles move under his clothing (5). When Nick speaks about the train conductor on the hottest day of the summer, he critiques people who think of kissing flushed lips and laying with a partner in the heat despite no one else in that scene expressing those feelings (87). The suddenness of this flustered complaint implies that Nick is reacting to his own desires; desires he wishes he did not have.

While Nick is at least vaguely attracted to multiple men in his story, there is one he is consistently interested in throughout: Jay Gatsby. From their first meeting where Nick goes on about how pleasant a smile Gatsby has (36) onwards, Nick is very fond of Gatsby, going so far as to emphasise that he is the only rich person he did not end up disgusted by (2) and that all of the East was haunted for him after Gatsby's death (137). In Gatsby's life, Nick even expressed his affections to him in whatever ways he could. For example, when Nick agrees to reintroduce Gatsby and Daisy, he does not allow Gatsby to reimburse the favour (62). Also, after Myrtle's death, Nick only leaves Gatsby's side because he feels like he is intruding (112), returns to a bed he can not fall asleep in, and takes the first opportunity available to meet Gatsby again at dawn (113). Nick listens to Gatsby's story then (114), something nobody else would do in favour of spreading scandalous, borderline slanderous rumours.

Nick claims he is not a judgemental person, but proves himself wrong as the novel progresses in regards to every person he has met but one. Despite remarking that he disapproved of Gatsby "from beginning to end" (118), he was equally endeared to him. Nick also claims to be an honest person (44), which he proves not entirely true either. Realising Nick's true feelings for Gatsby reveals the intricacy of his character and calls into question the reliability of his narration. Although his intentions are always sympathetic, Gatsby is by trade a bootlegging criminal and yet even after meeting Meyer Wolfsheim and being told about his business (54), Nick plays ignorant about Gatsby's involvement. To Nick, the idea of Jay Gatsby is related only tertiarily to the idea of "Wolfsheim's men". Nick makes this clear every time he visits Gatsby after Wolfsheim's men begin working at his house by how suspicious he always is of them, even describing one's face as “villainous" (86). Nick does not judge Gatsby as the same as these people nor the Buchanans despite not being so different in truth because he is already in love with him and truly wants to believe he is a good person at heart. Even Tom Buchanan is aware of this on some level, showing his cognisance after Gatsby's death by telling Nick that "(Gatsby) threw dust into (Nick's) eyes just like he did in Daisy's" (138).

To ignore Nick's sexuality is to intentionally misunderstand his character and The Great Gatsby as a story. On his surface, Nick Carraway is a single objective voice in a world of desires and deceit, but as much of The Great Gatsby does, his character requires the reader to look below to his own human biases if they intend to comprehend him.

[oh-my-bindery]

I clearly had a little late night rant to myself so I decided to share it…

Drarry and how I see them and why they are SO IMPORTANT to me

Draco

Draco is sheltered, an only child, he is spoiled, he has been fed blood purist nonsense all his life by his family and those around him. Which is so relatable to me as I am an ex-catholic who not only had extremely clouded beliefs about race, but also sexuality and religion. I said awful things to people, I was being fed that by teachers, parents, newspapers, Catholic Church, school classmates and teachers. Everything around me was that way. I was a very closeted trans gay man who eventually lost it and wanted to burn all those beliefs down once I figured out what I his deep down about myself and became more aware of people, suffering and prejudice.

I used to use my words to protect myself and even being nasty to people, wanting to hurt them so they couldn’t hurt me. I was a very closeted gay and transgender person. I really relate to Draco.

Draco’s humanity/ vulnerability

The turning moment for me seeing Draco differently (or having a chance of change) as it was for Harry in the books, was seeing the humanity to Draco.

We never truly see Dracos humanity or how he is on his day to day basis (we do get some scenes that shape him as a person and present wider outlook on his character) as the book is written from Harry’s perspective and JKR really hates Draco.

Which is awful, she never gave him a true redemption despite hinting at it, building it up over the 6th, 7th book. Draco stops eating in his 6th year (it’s not directly stated but it is said that he looks “sick” which could be taken is such which addition to not sleeping and overwhelming stress and pressure clearly visible on him), he is forced to become a Death Eater and given the mark as a punishment to his father, he becomes panicked and miserable and acting out of paranoia and not doing a great job. He cries so much so, he becomes friends with Moaning Myrtle and even she says how sad and depressed he is, how lonely he is. Which leads me to conclude that either a) he distanced himself from his friends b) his friends are not his real friends but only friends with him bc of his high up status as a Malfoy or they have been family friends for years due to their parents being friends. c) both. At first maybe Draco felt like he could restore the good family name to his family. He was proud. But then he realized what all of it meant it meant that he would have to kill and he is truly not capable of it.

Draco’s wand working for Harry very well/ being a light side wand

Let’s take a look at what Harry Potter Wiki says about it first.

“Draco Malfoy's wand was 10" long, made of hawthorn wood, and had a unicorn hair core. “

“Hawthorn wands are said to be "most at home" with a wizard passing through a period of turmoil. During the last couple of years of owning this wand, Draco Malfoy was under enormous pressure to murder Albus Dumbledore, and immediately afterwards suffered through Voldemort occupying his family's home. Harry Potter claimed mastery of this wand at a time of great turmoil as well, undergoing a robbery of Gringotts Bank and the Battle of Hogwarts within a short time of gaining this wand.”

What can be told about Draco from it is that he not only was going through some turmoil when he was chosen by his wand at 11 but also continued to do so in Dracos darkest time in 6th year.

What we can gather from this regarding Drarry is that they are both going through the worst. They would understand each other.

Then we move on to:

“Wands with unicorn hair as its core are the hardest to turn to Dark Arts. Although this would seem ironic at first, as Draco's inclination to Dark Arts during his early to middle years (and his success at casting the very dark Imperius Curse) his last years at school led to a change of his lifestyle that made him realise he had gone further than he expected, and henceforth turn away from the Dark Arts.”

Draco was opposed to Dark Arts from a young age even though his father was most certainly very into them. Which is extremely interesting. What was Draco like before he came to Howarts? I can only assume his mum was a good and living influence on his life (she’s definitely flawed and believing in blood purity, but she will give up her own life and happiness if it means Draco is alive and happy).

And yeah Draco was always a terrible Death Eater because his heart was not truly in it. He wanted to save his family and himself from dying.

Draco’s wand in Harry’s hand (GET YOUR MIND OUT IF THE GUTTER)

“Harry looked down at the hawthorn wand that had once belonged to Draco Malfoy. He had been surprised, but pleased, to discover that it worked for him at least as well as Hermione's had done.” - Deathly Hallows

IM SORRY BUT DRACOS WAND CHANGING ALLIANCE TO HARRY IS THE GAYEST THING EVER.

Wands to tend to have difficult time switching masters. Yet Dracos wand doesn’t. It works great for Harry despite Garry not winning it fairly.

Draco’s wand is one that is the least likely to turn into dark arts. The wand chooses the wizard. On the topic of wands Dracos wand felt the most friendly to Harry and he defeated Voldemort with it. Dracos wand also is said to have a very hard time to switch owners/ sides yet there was no problem of it when Harry took it from Draco. Draco didn’t even fight back enough for it. Almost as if he wanted Harry to have it. Which would make sense that the wand worked so well for Harry as Draco wanted it to work for Harry. It only makes sense that way. It may have not been intended by JkR to write that but it’s what she wrote.

Not Identifying Harry in the Malfoy Manor

Draco lies to his family risking his own and his family’s lives to give Harry time to escape the Manor. He knows Harry is Harry but instead says he “can’t be sure” which is the only response he could go for in order for Harry and his friends not to be killed. If Draco said that Harry was not Harry, him, Hermione and Ron would have been killed because they are useless to the Death Eaters and Snatchers.

Draco is top student in some of his classes from what we know. He is smart, he must have known how to deal with this situation. He also was terrified when he saw Harry as Harry noticed.

“… Draco… approached.

“Well, Draco?” said Lucius Malfoy... “Is it? Is it Harry Potter?”

“I can’t—I can’t be sure,” said Draco….

“But look at him carefully, look! Come closer!… …Draco, come here, look properly! What do you think?”

“…Draco’s expression was full of reluctance, even fear.

“I don’t know,” he said, and he walked away…”

-Deathly Hallows

Harry noticed so many of Dracos emotions, more than anyone, they both read each other so well. Know each other by their breath, by their slight movement (main piece of proof is the emotive HBP). They know what the other is going to say or is thinking. Harry knew Draco was terrified and didn’t want to torture Rowle as his punishment. He could see it on Dracos face in his visions after the Manor escape. So far so Harry felt bad for Draco, it hurt him to look at it and he had to cut off that connection it hurt him so much.

“

“More, Rowle, or shall we end it and feed you to Nagini? Lord Voldemort is not sure that he will forgive this time. . . . You called me back for this, to tell me that Harry Potter has escaped again? Draco, give Rowle another taste of our displeasure. . . . Do it, or feel my wrath yourself!”

A log fell in the fire: Flames reared, their light darting across a terrified, pointed white face — with a sense of emerging from deep water, Harry drew heaving breaths and opened his eyes.

He was spread-eagled on the cold black marble floor, his nose inches from one of the silver serpent tails that supported the large bathtub. He sat up. Malfoy’s gaunt, petrified face seemed branded on the inside of his eyes. Harry felt sickened by what he had seen, by the use to which Draco was now being put by Voldemort.” - Deathly Hallows

Also going back to Draco, he had to live with Voldemort since his fifth year. Terrified, watching people die in his house, terrified that his parents or himself will be tortured or killed. And let’s not lie he probably was tortured himself by letting Harry get away. Draco is a skilled at occlumency so he could probably hide his feelings towards Harry from Voldemort or his father.

Harry saves Draco from the Room of Requirements and then again even tho Draco is talking to a Death Eather saying he is on their side. Harry cares about Draco not dying. He risks his own and his friends lives to save Draco. I’m pretty sure Harry would not to that to other people he hates and he didn’t- not Crabbe or Goyle. All he cared about was Draco. This boy is not just a noble Gryffinor and his Harry-self who is adamant about saving lives. He cares about Draco more than he does for other people that are not his friends or family.

I can definitely continue but if people want to add to it, please feel free as I WOULD LIVE IT!

[moodymelanist]

What Happens in Vegas

Happy @cassianappreciationweek everyone! I had a lot of fun with this one and major shoutout to @c-e-d-dreamer for giving me the plot idea for this ❤️‍🔥

Summary: Cassian and the guys spend a weekend in Vegas to celebrate his upcoming marriage to Nesta.

✵✵✵✵✵✵

Cassian 

When Cassian had agreed to let Rhys take him to Vegas for an all-expenses-paid bachelor party weekend, he’d been so excited that he hadn’t been able to stop talking about it for days. 

He just hadn’t factored in how much he’d miss Nesta.

“You have everything?” Nesta asked, leaning against one of their living room walls as Cassian wheeled his suitcase to the door. 

“I think so,” Cassian answered. He did a last-minute check that he had his phone, wallet, and keys, along with a light jacket for the flight. “If not, I can just buy it there.”

“Assuming you’ll be sober enough to think straight,” she teased, following him as he walked to the front of their home. 

When they’d been throwing around bachelor party ideas, originally Cassian had wanted to do something chill. He wasn’t into the stereotypical strip club party — especially not when he had Nesta at home waiting for him — but Rhys, Azriel, and Lucien had managed to convince him to visit Vegas for the weekend. Cassian wasn’t a huge gambler, but there were lots of things to do other than throw money away at the casinos, and he’d always wanted to go to Vegas. So he’d agreed to make the trip, and now the moment of truth had finally come. 

Cassian wheeled his suitcase outside to see that Rhys’ familiar black Range Rover was sitting in front of their townhouse, the trunk already open for Cassian to add his suitcase to the mix. He waved toward the car and turned back to Nesta so he could give her a proper goodbye, leaning in and pulling her into his arms in a fierce hug. He buried his face into the side of her neck and inhaled the familiar smell of her perfume while she wrapped her arms around his neck and leaned into his embrace. Maybe he was being a little dramatic, but who cared? She was the love of his life. He could be a little dramatic if he wanted. 

“I’ll miss you,” Cassian murmured. He pulled back from the hug to fix her with what was probably one of the dopiest looks he’d given her yet. “So much.”

“I’ll miss you too, Cassian,” Nesta replied, the hint of a pleased smile making the corners of her lips turn up. “Have a safe flight.”

“Let’s go, lover boy!” Rhys called out from the car. He honked the horn like an asshole and Cassian whirled around to flip him off. “We’re gonna be late for our flight!”

“Shut the fuck up, Rhys, I’m saying goodbye to my wife,” Cassian yelled back. “Who I love very much!”

Nesta laughed, pulling Cassian’s attention back to her. “I love you too. Now hurry up, I have to keep packing for my trip.”

Nesta had decided on taking a beach trip for her bachelorette party, her and the rest of the ladies deciding to drive down to Myrtle Beach to spend a few days relaxing by the water. She and her sisters – along with Emerie and Gwyn – had rented out a beach house for a long weekend, and Cassian couldn’t wait to see just how many freckles would appear on her skin.

“Have fun at the beach,” Cassian said. He leaned in for a goodbye kiss and forced himself to eventually pull away, but not before he cupped her face and ran his thumb across her cheek. “Bye, sweetheart.”

“Bye, baby,” Nesta said back. She waited until he’d put his suitcase in the trunk and got in the car before she turned around and went back inside, though not before blowing him one last kiss. 

God, he loved her.

“Fucking finally,” Rhys muttered once Cassian had strapped himself into the passenger seat. “You’re leaving for a few days, not going off to war.”

“I’m not going to apologize for giving the love of my life the goodbye she deserves,” Cassian said primly. 

“Cut him a break, you know he can’t help it,” Azriel chimed in from the backseat. “We might as well get used to it. He’ll probably call her every night for a bedtime story.”

“If you got the kind of bedtime stories I did, you’d be calling every night too,” Cassian fired back with a smirk. 

“I don’t think any of us want that level of trauma,” Lucien teased, pulling 

Thankfully, once they made it to the airport, the rest of their traveling went smoothly. They made it through security without any problems, their flight left on time, and Cassian even got to take a nap in first class, all while he was texting Nesta about how nice it was to have real legroom. By the time they touched down in Vegas and made it to their hotel, Cassian was more than ready to walk around and see all that Vegas had to offer. 

Rhys had gotten them some super fancy suite that had a loft and room for everyone to have their own bed, and Cassian could hardly believe the view when they got upstairs. They were so high up that all of Vegas was spread out below them, and Cassian couldn’t stop gaping at how expensive everything must have been. 

“Rhys—” Cassian tried to thank him once Rhys had emerged from putting his stuff away, but he only waved Cassian off. 

“Don’t even think about it,” Rhys replied. “Come on, we have reservations in an hour.”

Cassian obliged and went to get changed, the four of them eventually making their way downstairs to the hotel’s restaurant. The food was amazing and the service was impeccable, and by the time they made it back upstairs, Cassian’s stomach was pleasantly full and was more than ready to pass out. 

“You’re getting an hour, and then we’re going back downstairs,” Azriel told him, waggling his phone at Cassian to show him the timer. “Chop chop.”

“Fine,” Cassian huffed. Once he reached his bed, he kicked off his shoes and stripped down to his underwear before flopping on top of the comforter. “Good night.”

When Lucien came to shake him awake, Cassian was abruptly pulled out of his dream and nearly rolled off the bed. “Morning, sleeping beauty.”

“Fuck off,” Cassian replied good-naturedly. 

Lucien just laughed and left him to get dressed, and once Cassian was presentable, he left the warmth of his bed to find Rhys pouring out a round of shots. 

“Look who’s finally back to the land of the living,” Rhys said as he put the cap back on. “Nice of you to join us, lover boy.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Cassian said back, flipping him off. “What are we drinking?”

“Tequila,” Azriel answered. He pushed everyone’s shots toward them before moving a little bowl of limes to where the glasses had just been. “If you want one.”

Cassian took one and turned toward Rhys expectantly, since he tended to lead their toasts. His brother was already holding his little shot glass up in the air and waited for the rest of them to follow suit before saying, “To Cassian, who I still can’t believe managed to convince Nesta Archeron to let him follow her around for the rest of their lives. Salud.”

“Trust me, I can’t believe it either,” Cassian joked once he’d tossed back his shot and sucked down on his lime. He’d hardly believed it when she’d said yes to a date, let alone to spending the rest of their lives together, but he wasn’t about to question any of it. “Hit me again.”

By the time they all made it downstairs, they were three shots down and ready for more. Cassian had never really been much of a gambler, but it was cool to see so many different games spread out across the casino floor. There were slot machines and card tables and people cheering or booing depending on how things were going, and Cassian was feeling just enough of a buzz for it to all be exciting. 

Of course, it didn’t take long for the buzz to turn into being full-on drunk. Lucien got him one of those enormous daiquiris while Azriel showed him how to use the slot machines, and Cassian felt like a kid in a candy store. He wanted to try everything at least once no matter how much money he won or lost, and his friends were more than willing to encourage him. There were also plenty of women willing to help him out, but Cassian was far too quick to mention Nesta for any of them to get too close. 

“You want another one?” Azriel asked once Cassian hit the bottom of his daiquiri. It was so loud inside the casino that it was almost hard to hear him. 

“Yeeeeeeeah,” Cassian answered, grinning widely for no reason. Well, not for no reason. He had the greatest friends in the world. “I love you so much, man.”

“Likewise,” Azriel replied. He looked only a little alarmed when Cassian leaned over and threw his arm around him. 

“Nooooo,” Cassian whined. “You gotta say it back. Stop being so repressed. And depressed.”

“Yeah, Az,” Rhys chimed in, laughing. “Tell the man you love him, for God’s sake. It’s not healthy to keep everything inside.”

“He knows that I care about him,” Azriel responded with a heavy sigh. 

“Just say it,” Lucien told him. “He’s not gonna let it go until you do.”

“Fine.” Azriel turned to Cassian and awkwardly patted the side of his face. “I love you too, Cassian. Now can you please let go of me?”

“Yes,” Cassian replied with a big grin. “You’re the best.”

Azriel patted him again before extracting himself from Cassian’s grip, muttering about how he preferred sober Cassian before he and Lucien headed off to the bar. 

“You’re a mess,” Rhys told Cassian fondly. 

“I’m your mess,” Cassian replied just as happily. “Well. Mostly Nesta’s mess now.”

“And isn’t that something,” Rhys said, chuckling. He let Cassian lead him over to another slot machine and made a disappointed noise when he didn’t win. “Let me try.”

Halfway through the game, Rhys frowned and pulled his phone out of his pocket. Cassian saw Feyre’s photo lighting up the screen and he couldn’t help but pout. He wished Nesta would call him. 

“I’m gonna talk to Feyre for a few minutes,” Rhys said, leaning over to poke his finger into Cassian’s chest. “ You better stay right here. Do you hear me?”

“Yup,” Cassian said back. “Stay right here. Got it.”

Naturally, the moment Rhys walked away to call Feyre, Cassian couldn’t help but wander a little too. He didn’t go far, he just wanted to go somewhere that wasn’t as loud as their corner of the casino was, but that was basically impossible. So he just ended up at one of the smaller bars, sighing as he fiddled with his phone and wished Nesta’s photo would show up on his screen.   

Cassian wished Nesta was here. He’d wanted her here with him the entire time, of course, but he was really feeling her absence now. 

Maybe he should call her. 

Yeah. Yeah. He really wanted to hear her voice, and tell her how much he loved her in case she forgot, which she definitely wouldn’t, but it never hurt. Just in case. And if she wouldn’t call him, then he could always call her to remind her. The perfect compromise.

He dialed her number from memory just because he could, and pressed the phone to his ear while the line rang. He hoped she picked up because he really missed her and wanted to talk to her about Vegas and hear her laugh. God, she had the best laugh. The best everything, really. She was so perfect it was almost too much to handle. But he could manage. For her, he’d do anything. 

Nesta didn’t answer, which — Cassian was not going to cry about it. He was not. She was having a good time with her friends, and between the time difference and her being on a well-deserved girls' trip, no way she was picking up the phone right now. 

Still. He could be a little sad about it. 

“Hi, you’ve reached Nesta Archeron,” came the start of her very professional voicemail. “I’m not available right now, but please leave a message and I’ll call you back as soon as I can.”

“After the tone, please record your message,” the automated voice told him. Cassian blinked away the not-tears in his eyes as he waited for it to finish. “When you are finished recording, you may hang up or press one for more options.”

“Heeeeeeey, sweetheart,” Cassian began once he heard the beep. “Nes. Nesta. Babe. I don’t wanna be annoying or anything. But. I miss you. So, so much. I know it hasn’t even been a day but I wish you were here. I lost all the money Rhys gave me and I wanted to buy you something good but you’re not even here to make me feel better and I hate it.”

Wait. Fuck. It wasn’t her job to make him feel better. 

“Not that that’s your responsibility because I am a grown man.” He made sure to stress those last two words so she knew he was being serious. “I just. I’m having fun, but I know I’d have a lot more fun if you were here too.”

He took a deep breath before continuing. “Not that I’m not having fun. I hope you’re having fun. You work so fucking hard and you never do nice things for yourself even though you deserve it. You deserve all the nice things because you are the best fucking person I know.”

God, he was so drunk. Nesta was definitely going to laugh at him about this later, but then she’d kiss him and it would all be worth the embarrassment. 

“I just love you so much,” Cassian said, a distressing sniffle making its way out of his nose before he pulled himself together. “Okay. Okay. I’m okay. I’ll see you when you get back. I love you, sweetheart. Okay. Bye.”

Cassian forced himself to hang up and then released a heavy sigh, putting his head in his hands for a few moments to collect himself. 

“You alright, man?” someone asked. 

Cassian pulled his head out of his hands to see the bartender giving him a semi-worried look. “Yeah. I just really miss my fiancée.”

“Bachelor weekend?” the bartender asked with a sigh. At Cassian’s nod, he added, “You should be enjoying yourself.”

“I am,” Cassian insisted. “I just. Really miss her.”

The guy’s name tag read Kallon, and he looked distinctly unimpressed. “Aren’t you going to see her in a few days?”

“Yeah,” Cassian answered slowly. “So?”

“So?” Kallon repeated. “So? So you’ll see her in a few days, man. You gotta get it together.”

“I’m trying,” Cassian told him. 

“Maybe you could order a drink and that would make you feel better,” Kallon suggested pointedly. “Or maybe you could go mope upstairs in your room?”

“Trust me, you’d be moping too if you had a fiancée like mine and she wasn’t here,” Cassian promised. 

“Oh yeah?” Kallon replied, sounding extremely skeptical. “Sure, buddy.”

“I’m serious.”

“I’m sure you are, man.”

“I’ll prove it to you.”

“You really don’t need to do that.”

“No, I think I do.” Cassian fumbled with his phone before pulling up some of their engagement photos, his heart squeezing all over again at how gorgeous Nesta looked in them. “Here.”

“Huh,” Kallon said, surprised. “Would you look at that.”

“See?” Cassian said back smugly. He accepted his phone and slid it into his pocket so he wouldn’t lose it. “I told you so.”

“Yeah, alright,” Kallon replied. “You can have that one. She’s beautiful. You two look great together. Now are you gonna order a drink, or are you gonna keep moping?”

Cassian was just about to pull up some more photos and keep being snarky when he felt someone’s hand roughly spin the back of his barstool around. “What the fuck — Rhys?”

“Where the fuck have you been,” Rhys hissed into his ear. 

“Right… here?” Cassian replied, confused. He hadn’t gone that far. “I just went to sit down somewhere else.”

“We have been looking for you for the last fucking half hour,” Rhys continued. “We thought we lost you!”

“How the fuck could you lose me? I’ve been here the whole time,” Cassian told him. He turned toward the bartender and made a flapping motion with his hands that he hoped got his point across. “Tell him!”

“It’s true,” Kallon replied resignedly. “He’s been here the whole time, moping about missing his fiancée and not ordering anything .”

“My gorgeous fiancée,” Cassian corrected automatically.

“Yeah, yeah, the sun shines out of Nesta’s ass, we get it,” Azriel chimed in, sounding exhausted. 

“Let’s just be grateful nobody had to tell her we lost him,” Lucien muttered. He exchanged a relieved look with Rhys and Azriel before turning his attention back to Cassian, pulling one of Cassian’s arms over his shoulder so he could bodily haul Cassian out of his seat. “Come on, lover boy. That’s enough shenanigans for one night.”

tag list: @perseusannabeth | @bookstantrash | @charming-butt-insane | @oversizedbats | @melphss | @sv0430 | @podemechamardek | @autumnbabylon | @live-the-fangirl-life | @julemmaes | @that-little-red-head | @jmoonjones | @sayosdreams | @thewayshedreamed | @hiimheresworld | @brieq | @pearlfortears | @swankii-art-teacher | @nerdperson524 | @snickerdoodlechittybangbang | @imsointobooks | @nesquik-arccheron | @sweet-pea1 | @champanheandluxxury | @dustjacketmusings | @mrs-shadowsinger04 | @unlikelypersonalknight1 | @goddess-aelin | @arinbelle | @talkfantasytome | @simpingfornestaarcheron | @duskandstarlight | @letstakethedawn | @vidalinav | @c-e-d-dreamer | @dealfea | @katekatpattywack | @burningsnowleopard | @thatsowlmazing

[warrior-names]

Warrior Prefixes: White Cats

Words that aren’t derived from things found in North America or Europe aren’t included.

60+ prefixes under the cut!

A

Allium-

Aspen-

Aster-

B

Birch-

Blizzard-

Blossom-

C

Chamomile-

Chickweed-

Cloud-

Clover-

D

Daffodil-

Daisy-

Dogwood-

Dove-

E

Egret-

Ermine-

F

Feather-

Flower-

Flurry-

Frost-

Frozen-

G

Goat-

Goose-

H

Hare-

Hellebore-

Hemlock-

Honeysuckle-

I

Ice-

L

Laurel-

Lily-

Lotus-

M

Magnolia-

Milk-

Moon-

Moth-

Myrtle-

P

Parsley-

Pearl-

Petal-

Poplar-

Q

Quartz-

R

Rabbit-

S

Sage-

Salt-

Sheep-

Shell-

Snow-

Stoat-

Swan-

T

Tulip-

Y

Yarrow-

[the-dust-jacket]

Myrtle Hardcastle mysteries by Elizabeth C. Bunce, with cover art by Brett Helquist

[vriskaenergy]

♍ Maryam Letter holder ♍ complete ver!

Remember this post? It's been forever but I finished the sides and boarders! C:

Check out my Ampora letter holder, too

Going to copy-paste what I already posted about each level:

> each level has thread, beads, and a plastic plant.

> no beads 4 the cancer constellation on Porrim's level cause i got lazy lmao

>also on Porrim's level, those are crepe myrtle trees on the right. wanted a tree/plant that looked barren to rep how their session went and these looked cool

>the blue tree like thing on the middle right has star patterned papper i tried to make look like fabric hanging like the ones around Kanaya's hive

> also the mannequins got purple/violet painted around the middle and head

> those are cerulean and teal blooms on The Dolorosa's tree, the thread goes around her neck. :3c

[bookcoversonly]

Title: Premeditated Myrtle | Author: Elizabeth C. Bunce | Publisher: Algonquin Young Readers (2020)