#dying glacier

[nature-hiking]

Dying glacier - Alpine Haute Route, September 2023

Photo by: nature-hiking

[thirddeadlysin]

my sister makes fun of my glacier phobia* but i just ran her out of the room by talking about how old sharks are so

[thegreenmeridian]

“Coast guard rescuer” nah the Coast Guard are paid.

Her rescuers were a fully volunteer search and rescue team. The SAR’s primary role in our society is pulling moronic tourists out of situations like this, where there’s multiple signs up saying “you will die if you go past this point” but uwu you need a cool photo for social media so you have to ignore it. If this is where I think it is, there are SO many signs telling you not to do this, in multiple languages. Plus usually a few park rangers trying their best to spot anyone dumb enough to do this. Occasionally a guy in a food truck in the car park debating if it’s worth getting a mouthful of abuse for saying “hey it’s really dangerous, maybe don’t try that.”

Cannot possibly overemphasise how extremely fucking tired we all are of you people coming to this island and putting our search and rescue guys in danger for your instagram photos. I know multiple guys who’ve had the traumatic experience of hauling a corpse off a mountain or out of the sea.

I’ve laid awake at night listening to a helicopter going to the mountain nearby, wondering if they’re going for the tourist I personally tried and failed to convince of the danger of climbing that thing. They were, and it was a body retrieval. And I had to look the SAR lads in the eye the next morning, wondering if I could have been more persuasive. Wondering how I’d have been able to apologise to their families if they’d died trying to collect that hiker’s body.

Really just. This isn’t funny. This is the selfish idiocy we’re all dealing with on a very regular basis when you people come en masse to this country and treat it like winter Disneyland without a solitary shit for either the ecosystem or the people that live here, and most of us are at the point of thinking you should be on the hook for the cost of rescue/corpse retrieval. A fair few are at the point of thinking we shouldn’t haul you idiots out of situations of your own making at all.

POOR GRANDMA!!!

[yandere-wishes]

Hi!! Just wanted to say May I request Yandere Capitano with a reader that’s like “omg you love me? No worries girl I love you too🤭” and doesnt mind his yandere tencedies? she is like really chill!

̩̩͙❆ Anon I tried to answer your ask as best I could but totally forgot about the reader being chill part and kinda made her a bit crazy. I LOVE it when the reader is also unhinged, There's something so delicious about crazy intercepting crazy.

̩̩͙❆ I wrote something similar here: Ice on Ice

｡ ₊°༺🧊༻°₊ ｡

̩̩͙❆ He's salt in the wound. a delicious itch that slithers beneath the skin and nips tenderly at your veins.  

̩̩͙❆ You try to shy away from his kisses, to fear the metal and frost. But instead, you get lost in his scars, fresh and old, raw and weathered. Your fingers trace his jagged lines, nails picking at the cicatrix pealing away the eschar. He only pulls your hand to his lips laying fervent kisses across the palm.

̩̩͙❆ Capitano runs his lips along your neck, inhaling your scent as you revel in his metallic touch. "You should be scared" he chuckles, "Most damsels fear the knight, fear things that are wartorn." His breath hitches, teeth digging into soft skin leaving kisses and claims. Your only reply is a wanton moan.

̩̩͙❆ Somewhere behind you, a body writhes with a final breath before going limp.

̩̩͙❆ Capitano likes to play the role of the vigilante knight. Fine. You'll play the role of the sweet damsel, the valiant darling. You let him kiss you like he's trying to kill, like he's trying to preserve. Wartorn things are not known to be gentle. You appreciate the fact that at least he tries.

̩̩͙❆ You'll kiss him goodbye at the door while hiding sadak knives behind your back. His lips bruise yours, teeth biting your lips raw marveling at the sweet taste of your crimson essence. He doesn't want to go, doesn't want to spend a moment apart from you. But he must obey his queen, he must follow the frozen path. You wait until his silhouette disappears into the immortal snow before turning away and closing the glacier door.

̩̩͙❆ Knights and spies. Swords and Knives. Killers and killers. All of it just sounds like 'lovers' to your jejune ears. Maybe it's the eternal cold that sets into people's hearts, maybe it's the human nature to kill first and question later. Regardless you've come to learn that your lover has many enemies staggering around Snezhnaya. People who wish to see Capitano's helmet resting by a marble tomb.

̩̩͙❆ You extinguish those who plot against him, those who scheme in shadows against the crown. There are none foolish enough to attack him outright. But they prepare his demise in the dark, a hundred arrows pointed at his back. Posion-laced cocktails served at a mandatory banquet. You've learned to hide amongst the shrouds, to leave nothing behind but fatal wounds that won't stop bleeding. You've learned to protect what's yours...

̩̩͙❆ Oh, sweet darling, protector of the knight.

̩̩͙❆ His returns are becoming all too sweet, you can't remember when you started awaiting him at the door, heart in your hands, dying for a cold kiss from a cold man.

̩̩͙❆ You jump into his arms once he opens the doors, Capitano laughs twirling you as he muses over how much he's missed you. You push up his helmet eagerly devouring his lips as he squeezes your body closer relishing in your sweet scent and the fullness of your fragile body beneath his steel fingers.

̩̩͙❆ "Tell me how you slayed them. Tell me about the gore and the way the sun reflects off your red-marred sword" Capitano spears no details, sweet intimidation tactic to keep you in line. Carnage drips from each word, as you peel away his armor, kissing every new piece of revealed skin. Running your tongue inside his fresh scars. You straddle his lap working nimble fingers under his armor pulling away the iron and letting it clank against the floor.

̩̩͙❆ You push him down roughly onto the bed, enjoying the way he hisses and squirms from his broken bones and wounds pushed open. You love him like this bruised, bones still unmended, scars still gushing out blood. You run your fingers over his biceps as he begins to lay kisses across your neck. Fingers sinking deeper into the plush of your thighs.

̩̩͙❆ You paint scars upon his back as his lips peck and bite your hips and chest. Teeth pulling your flesh as he glides his fingers across your spine, enjoying the view of you writhing and moaning under his icy touch.

̩̩͙❆ "I love you" he whispers, a forbidden prayer. Delineating the shell of your ear with his lips. "I shall burn the world for you, my lady, kill any who try to pry you away from me" You cuddle closer never able to fully repeat his words. 'I love you' you long to say, instead you settle for sinking your teeth into the flesh over his heart, and biting until his blood floods your mouth.

̩̩͙❆ I love you, I love you, I love you...

[malvoile]

Me and the Devil ; i

ɪᴛ ʀᴀɪɴꜱ ᴏɴ ᴄᴀʟᴀᴅᴀɴ. ʏᴏᴜ ᴀʀᴇ ʀɪᴘᴘᴇᴅ ꜰʀᴏᴍ ʏᴏᴜʀ ɴᴇꜱᴛ ᴏꜰ ᴅᴀʀᴋɴᴇꜱꜱ ᴀɴᴅ ꜱʜɪᴘᴘᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ᴀ ɴᴇᴡ ᴡᴏʀʟᴅ.

word count: 7k warnings: arranged marriage, politics, graphic scenes of blood, violence, & death of family. trauma, past abuse (harkonnen&feyd rautha warning) not much else. mutual mistrust. notes: hi! tysm to my new followers ily all <3 here's chapter one remastered of this fic [originally posted on @tremendum ] - (inspiration for reader's family is taken from the family of tsar nicholas ii, so if it feels familiar that's why.) feedback very much appreciated :)

prelude series masterlist

Penitent Crimes of Retaliation;

“In accordance with the legal doctrine of the 'Reprisal Accord', as sanctioned by the High Court of the Landsraad, attacked houses are granted the right to retaliate against proven offenses committed against them; This action shall such be labelled as ‘Penitent Crimes of Retaliation.’ 

Under this mandate, should sufficient evidence be presented, the aggrieved house may initiate a retaliatory strike and is sanctioned to engage in warfare against the offending party. While reparations for damages incurred during the conflict are mandated, perpetrators shall be exempt from criminal sentences ensuring a balanced recourse within the framework of inter-house disputes; as deemed by a jury of the Great Houses Major and Minor at court."

- From the Reprisal Accord, Office of the Padishah Emperor. Imperium, 10041. 

There was once a time when green was your favorite color. 

You'd enjoyed a childhood of it – Peridot stones glittering upon headdresses, jade figurines, the velveted forest of winter dresses; halls draped with verdant portraits of the faces which came before you, and before you, and before you – all shroud in that forested pride; an ancient thing, to know the ground of the planet and to take life from the same roots as the trees around you. 

A life cushioned in the nested hearth of mountainside and jade pools of glacier; and of course the breathstealing height of the sacred Pine. Viridescent flicks of the woven banner of your house, waving in the snow-whipped wind; A snarling green wolf upon grey armor, a hall of decadent verdant heirloom stones. 

And in the three months each year when the ice melts off the lower glaciers – the glacial lakes, thawed into that deep emerald green. Your brother, your sisters and you, charging with wild hollers and flailing limbs as tutors and soldiers alike chased after you; scolds and yelps of fear dying on chapped lips as young bodies leapt into the glossy pools, rippling screams through the woods. 

In the yawning abyss of childhood, there’s always been that lingering haunt color; When the men of a faraway House Major arrived to retrieve your older sister, she'd been shroud in that very same sacred pine-satin. An elegant dress, you remember quite clearly – draped in gold and jade, haunting the mouth of the ship in her shining emerald headpiece as she turned to wave goodbye for the last time.

A constant source of home, perhaps; and a reminder of the ever-churning yield of abundance the planet gifted your family. Gifts of life, spurting through the ice, growing over centuries within the warm breast of mountain caverns – miners returning to the villages and towns surrounding the castle, hands stained with verdant dust. Green, that gift of life.  

Even at your sister's funeral. 

A glossy forested casket, laid to rest in the ground of a foreign planet – the wind was sharp against the dark emerald veils of the women of House Bourbon the day you said goodbye to your sister. 

Killed by the birth of her first – a son. You became the oldest of your siblings that day. 

It was an honor, your parents had told you through tears as the earth swallowed the emerald peeks of casket through handfuls of dirt; an honor to serve your family, to serve the Sisterhood, to serve the Imperium. 

Years churn on, as they always do – and somewhere across the Imperium, perhaps a new life has sprouted ,evergreen above the plot where your sister lies in eternal rest. But you can hardly stand to look at green anymore. 

No, instead, you mostly see black.

They'd sent you away to make for your house a fortune; a son, they'd wished, for your sake - and, by whispers of your Lady Mother, a daughter – but the nest you made was one of fear and survival; a place crawling with shadows and monsters and deadly smiles. 

Your na-Baron. 

If Feyd-Rautha ever had a semblance of hesitancy, it was when you first met four years ago. You were at the end of your seventeenth year and he, freshly eighteen – a cordial boy by at least Harkonnen standards; escorting you with an arm held out, eyes malicious and teeth glinting but nonetheless tamed to curved glances and sickeningly sinister grins. 

He'd even called you Lady Bourbon those first few months on Giedi Prime. 

Perhaps in many ways, you can consider yourself lucky. Even if only for your bloodline, or the power laced through the syllables of the name you come from – or even, Maker forbid, in some way for yourself – Feyd-Rautha has indeed taken special care of you. Perhaps he does care for you – the care a panther reserves for his chosen prey. 

Despite his endless vanity, he still has stooped so as to admit he waited too long to claim you as wife; a feat which, in some way, might bring him just a step higher in the chokehold his family holds the Imperium – and you, with tongue as sharp as your mind, know when to push and when to dissolve into those dark shadows he loves so much. 

So you’ve let him stew in fury, avoiding eyes and sneaking from column to column; ears pressed to oaken doors with a trembling hand. 

The accusations had come from Baron Vladimir; House Bourbon has been stealing the precious refinery codes, committing treason against the trading accords along the Harkonnen-dominated exportation route. And perhaps, he thought, you’ve been the one to plot against your beloved future family.

But Feyd-Rautha knows better – knows you'd never dare betray him for the sake of your life or purely through the denial of access. Feyd was, after all, the one to demand a public execution of your family and, in the same breath, redirect your sentencing to imprisonment. As if you weren't already. 

Don't look away. See what we do to scum, my pet? 

Hatred flows thicker than blood; and perhaps if you'd had your blade this morning, you would have finally plunged it right into the junction of creamy skin upon his neck, right there in the stands. 

You were, in some ways, relieved when their bodies hit the sand fast. You've never seen your brother's skin so reflective as you did this morning; and the black sun, oppressive as it is intense, still could not hide the blood that had seeped from him.

A deafening roar of the crowd still did not muffle the glistening cries of the two girls; the ones no older than seventeen and nineteen, the ones who carry your nose, and your hair, and your laugh, and your blood. The crowd could not muffle the sharp loss of breath as the blades slid slow across the seam of their necks to spill that which you share so intrinsically. 

You'd swallowed thickly, twitching to look away, gasp – to cry; but any semblance of pain was concealed under layers of unbudging, seething hatred. There is no space here for anguish; Your na-Baron would love it too much.

Why don't you leave me with them, then? You'd hissed through your teeth.

Though he was wild and psychotic, growling with hunger at the bloodsport in front of him, he heard you for what you'd said. Feyd's fingers pulled your hair hard, forcing your chin up towards his crazed stare. A sickly glint in the black sun, his teeth shone with hunger. 

You'd have me throw you to your Wolves, and lose my prize? He'd tutted, kissing your forehead with a sickening sweetness; enough so that the servants had turned away their spider-black gazes. They didn't care much for the acts of affection you'd occasionally show one another – they know just as well as you that in a world marred by ugliness, any glimpse of beauty becomes a hauntingly grotesque show of power. 

He'd snarled, a growling rumble through the chanting crowd of spectators screaming kill the Wolves; His breath was hot against your cheek. You're mine to keep – there's plenty of life left for you to serve.  

He'd held your hand tight as they slit your father's throat – he was too drugged to put up a fight worthy of retaining his life; after minutes, his blade fell. It was then both of your sisters, swift deaths prolonged only by the wisps of prana-bindu that remained in their muscles’ memories, by the screams that heightened the jeering crowd in bloodthirst. Next came the assassination of your brother; the Tsarevich, the boy whose grasp on his knife shook as he looked up towards your seat helplessly. 

Your mother had fought as much as she could in her drugged state – a Weirding Woman, whose flashing arms and darting legs outsmarted the Harkonnen fighters for far longer than what must have been expected. A Ginaz fighter until the end. 

You saw it all with nails torn into your palms; the Harkonnens are ruthless, and Feyd-Rautha had sat calmly beside you with a sickly grin. 

Your mother met the slow knife’s blade against her throat. It should have finished quickly – but in your horror: The neckline of her gown was too high, and too thickly inlaid with encrusted heirlooms. 

Bless their voided souls.

The emeralds that tore from her gown as she'd spilled her blood to the sand sent a ripple of pain out of your throat; and Feyd had buried his face in your neck, teeth sharp and gaze glued to your own ruby blood beading out of your clenched palms, blackened in the sun's light.

If anybody would have bothered to look before burning the bodies, you know they'd find all the family diamonds sewn into the fabric of their clothing. Centuries of your House, melted away.

And Feyd-Rautha had drank up your agony with his lips, smiling as his hand wrapped around your throat. 

Now, alone and away from the thick industrial air, your chambers are cold and suffocating.

There are screams coming from the hall – not the kind that you've grown to associate with your na-Baron testing his new blades, but the kind that comes with danger. With change. 

As it turns out, you are not Feyd-Rautha's to keep any longer.

A loud noise outside of your quarters jolts you from your bed with shaky legs, whispering to yourself. They're coming for you. The sheets are crisp against your awaiting, tensed body; the blade gifted to you on your nameday three years ago by your husband-to-be grasped in your palm; still tainted with the ghost of your own blood.

Your whispers reverberate in the empty room, a spiny crawl of black moulding curling around your bed and awaiting the coming voices. "I must not fear. Fear is the mind-killer. Fear is the little-death that brings total obliteration. I will face my fear. I will permit it to pass over me and through me–”

Your voice shakes, despite yourself. Air puffs from your lips as your blood rushes - few things remain from your early days of training, before you were sent off to become a Harkonnen; This remains a relic.

A loud clash outside – blades against the failing force of shields.  

For a moment, a hand grasps your arm; ghost-white and possessive, it claws at your skin, voice rumbling through your mind. Don't look so sad, my pet. 

The door to your chambers begins to slam with an external force; Soon, the soldiers will enter, and you will do what must be done. 

The hand squeezes upon your wrist harder – you bite back a cry. I will never let them keep what is mine. I will find you again. 

You almost wish he will. 

Slow as a predator, you rise from the sheets; a preparation for a fight that will end before it begins. A fight that has already been won.  

Even when the hand upon your arm is gone into the shadows, succeeded only by a whispering ghost of bruises clutching your skin, you do not stop the old prayer; in fact, you hardly notice that you're saying it at all. 

Even as the doors give in. 

"-and when it has gone past I will turn the inner eye to see its path. Where the fear has gone there will be nothing – only I will remain–” 

The soldiers arrive in a burst of splintered doors and smooth movements; the one at the front, flanked by only two others clad in Atreides-tan armor, triggers some faint memory from a lost childhood. 

He moves towards you in the sickeningly familiar stride, and it fills you with rage. 

Duncan. Why did you wait so long? 

It is too late. You lunge, snarling like the wild beast you've become; You fight, because that is the only thing you know how to do. It is the only thing you have left. 

Your blade falls within minutes and you're taken by the man from your past not a minute after; you're on a ship, watching the black Opiuchi B disappear in an hour. 

“My Lady.”

There is a buzzing downfall of drizzling rain that slides over the umbrella’s spine above you. The air here is thicker, laced in salt and terra; the voice snaps your mind back to the ground. Wind whips the veil draped over your head as you step forward stiffly, arms sore and eyes heavy. 

The dress you wear, salvaged from your family's old castle, is dusty and pressed. 

It clings to your skin, drowns you, as the rain falls. A staff of House Atreides holds the umbrella above you, shielding the intricate detailing inlaid along the trim of the dress as you walk. 

The dress upon your shoulders is as tight a cage as the one you inhabited on Geidi Prime; and though it was an effort of good intentions, the Atreides' insistence of providing you with the necessities for you to perform your Sabberon's traditional customary mourning rituals has left you with a prickled spine and a saturation of spite bleeding into your heart. 

Your family may be gone, but the ghosts of their deeds remain with you; a hard goodbye to give when you alone remain to pay for their transgressions. Still, you have found yourself draped with the veil, the dresses, the jewelry; you, alone on a strange planet with the symbols of their crimes, of their betrayals, of their poisoned love. It's what they would have wanted. 

It is a death march from the hangar into the covered acceptance hall – banners of Hawks climb high towards the ragged cliffs, whipping and cerulean in the afternoon light. And ahead, stoic and proud, the members of House Atreides await you.

Your hands brush against the dark velvet – a texture you have not felt in years. It is odd, you notice, to catch the light of your skin not wrapped completely in black fabric; It has been many years, too, since you found yourself in green. 

It is with a prickled glance that you slow your pace behind Duncan Idaho – the man turns and glances at you when you begin to ascend towards the House members, but you can't bear the look of unfamiliarity that flickers over him when he looks at you now. Your chin remains high, your eyes over the line of cliff climbing towards the sky. 

Duncan, after these years, still looks the same – perhaps less tall, but that has more to do with your growth than his own; You, however, are not the same girl he last saw on Sabberon. Your hackles raised, your talons flexed within your palms: A coiling beast of hatred backed into a corner.

There is a coastline far beyond the hangar – and it calls to you quietly; a vast thing, cerulean, cold, and deep. You’d been otherwise occupied when the ship entered atmo to Caladan this afternoon; the sea remains something only within your mind, a figment whispering of golden lips and curling tides in the corners of your dreams. 

An urge strikes you as you begin to ascend the stone stairs towards the welcoming party; and subtly, you crane your neck outwards to catch a glimpse of that sea – a crashing call in the distance, the circle of gulls cutting through the clouded rainfall. But there is no ocean within sight; only jagged cliffs which rocket hundreds of feet above or drop off sharp below. 

Duncan stops just before you; Your spine straightens once more, vision concealed in hues of pine and evergreen as you take in the retinue standing before you. 

Duke Leto Atreides at the center; a man with peppered age, a tall pride and commanding stare – beside him, a woman in a gown of the same deep cerulean – Lady Jessica.

A flood of knowing penetrates you the moment your eyes find hers; through the veil she stares at you, before flicking her sight beyond you, to the Reverend Mother who’d travelled with your retinue as per High Court orders. A voice curls in the back of your mind, stalling your heartbeat for a slow moment.  Hello, sister.

Your lips purse as you look to the right, stood tall next to Lady Jessica; a boy intense in stare and proud in ceremonial uniform, eyes already awaiting your gaze with a sharp curiosity. Paul Atreides.

The son to whom you're now destined.

Even from your obstructed vision, there is no hiding such sharply beautiful features – a sculpted visage kissed with a smattering of freckles from the Caladan sun, pale from the weather; a curve of pouted lips, full, furrowed brows – curled dark locks and eyes wide and just as penetrating as his mother's. A properly handsome heir, you allow your heart's skip; But Maker, you realize as he solemnly watches your veil shift in the breeze, those eyes are so green. 

And most peculiar – within them, there is no hunger; nor hatred, no inkling of emotion besides a giveaway twitch of curiosity in the dragging gaze over your shrouded form. Some ancient stirring in your chest, a hibernated anger, a desire to bare teeth towards such an unassuming and altruistic stare – though you do no such thing, remaining balanced upon your feet and tense with the coiled hibernation of an awaiting serpent. 

There are eyes upon you with each movement of breath from your chest, and it stirs your fear in a way you’ve not felt in a long time.

It was easy to go unseen with the Harkonnens; by nature of arrogance and brashness, they paid no mind to the girl hiding around the shadows, slinking through the halls with a dark stare but blood that still bleeds green. The Atreides are no fools, and you are not one to think so; where Harkonnen honor lacks, Atreides honor flows in abundance. Though still, any such action that might come from a place of intrinsic value sets your teeth to edge. 

The Great Houses of the Landsraad have charged you to leave your nest of shadows, and you have done so. You have been shipped to a new world, a new chain to which you will forever be shackled.

You have learned to find the betrayal of emotion that lingers within the stare of men like Feyd-Rautha and Vladimir Harkonnen – the hunger, the greed, the danger; you have learned to sharpen your edges with the blade of their power, and you know now what your place in this galaxy must be. 

And yet, Paul Atreides: His stare betrays no emotion but duty; a foreign thing to you in these times, though as you scrutinize the twitch of his brow or the brush of eyelashes against cheek, you find yourself struck wary and off-balance. 

He does not have that wolfish hunger in his stare that you’ve come to know – in truth, if not for the boyish pout of his pink lips and his freshly-shaven jaw, you might have dared mistake him for his father; A Duke. 

You might have remained in your study of your betrothed if not for the echoing voice of Duke Leto speaking your name. A snap of your gaze towards the man in front of you as he nods warmly, “Welcome.”

It is an effort to bow in return to him, wincing through your stiffened muscles as your headpiece chimes with your movements. 

“We are honored to welcome you to Caladan.” It is an exceedingly polite, humane tone with which he addresses you; you, a stranger who has been delivered from the protection (which itself might even be a laughable term) of their sworn enemy. 

Though despite the sincerity, you find yourself struck with a stinging embarrassment: There is no honor to your presence, not anymore. 

It gives you a moment to gather your expression, however hidden behind the veil it may be – perhaps they can't quite make out your face, but Lady Jessica watches closely. She sees.

You take a sharp breath, swallowing away the lump of emotion in your throat. 

“Thank you, Duke Leto.” It is steel which grinds the melodically polite veneer of your voice; and without a hesitation you turn to greet the Lady of the House.

“Lady Jessica, it is a pleasure.” 

In response you are offered a smile as warm as the Duke’s voice; there is a flicker of understanding which floats along the line of blue in her irises, and it compels you to continue, “Thank you for welcoming me to your home,” You finish, hoping the steely reflection within your voice does not bleed unto the other ears. 

The rain falls quietly overhead, sliding over the high-drawn ceiling of the open acceptance hall. “We understand that these are trying times,” Lady Jessica begins; your legs feel weakened in a moment of shortened breath, though she finishes in a quiet nod. “We are relieved to have you on Caladan.” 

The spin of worldchange has caught up with you at the reminder of such trying times – a day and a half’s travel between systems behind you, and yet the deaths of your family meet you still with a fresh sickness of shock each time you close your eyes. Your headdress chimes lightly when you bow your head once more in appreciation of her words. 

The welcome feels rather intimate, in this moment – a retinue of four strong flanks behind you: Duncan Idaho, the Reverend Mother, and two Atreides soldiers; and before you stands the Duke and Lady, their Heir, and a party of five men in Atreides uniforms. Your eyes sweep them efficiently – no weapons; a surprising show of trust, knowing who indeed you have just been delivered from the clutches of. 

Perhaps they'd thought they'd be taking in some injured little dove; a cooing thing, wings clipped and battered by the ferocious boy who'd gifted her with a knife plunged between her ribs on her eighteenth nameday. A bitter thought. 

The scar that lies just below your breast on your right side is not a reminder, but instead fate carved into flesh – it does not ache; it hums with the echoes of pain grown to purpose.

It echoes of the months spent thrown into a pit under the glaring black sun; Not the arena that rang in the end of your family, no – this pit is smaller, with one large seat for the na-Baron himself; one not with a crowd of vicious jeering but with drugged concubines and slaves clutching blades to service his na-Baroness. 

A place to watch his pets play. 

Your eyes glance to the curved wounds scabbed over your hands – little half moons, skies of pain, etched into the palms of your hands. Destruction: the only thing you and Feyd-Rautha may have ever had in common. 

Unfortunately, you endured; a hard lesson, to live with Harkonnens, to be one of them – and with a clip of fear, you worry you may never be able to unlearn. 

It has been long enough for a bout of thunder to rumble up in the heavens above; you turn to the young man who stands next to Lady Jessica.

Your betrothed watches you in a peculiar tilt of head – subtle, but analytical; a gaze so green you have to look away, nodding slightly as you speak once more. “My Lord,” your heart thuds in your chest uncomfortably, wondering if he, too, will be as displeased as Feyd so often was when you spoke to him; though Paul does not so much as move as he inhales softly, eyes coasting over your jaded silhouette.  

“My Lady.” He returns the formality with a voice much softer than expected; your heart is struck with a cool unease, distrust tightening its clutches around your throat.

A silent moment hangs thick between you; it is only then that you see the tense coil of Paul’s shoulders – surely a mirror of your own. Defiance, your mind tells you. Though Duncan Idaho’s voice cuts through your observations quickly. “We have much to discuss.” 

Cutting to the chase, as always; you are relieved for the attention to fall off your presence as you let out a short exhale. “Yes–” though the Duke lifts a brow, eyes caught on the lump of gauze which wraps around Duncan’s bicep, concealed by his uniform. “–Idaho, Do you need to see treatment?” He questions the Swordsman. 

As Duncan laughs, your shoulders tense; and before you can consider some quieter death, he begins to speak. “No. Harkonnen blades are sharp – but so are Lady Bourbon's nails.”

It is immediate, the prickling of eyes which befall you from all sides, and a heated stare from your betrothed that you steadfastly ignore for the sake of glaring at Duncan. There is a smirk growing on his lips as the Swordsman addresses you. “You fight differently than I remember, Little Bourbon.” 

An old nickname, unearthed from the catacombs of the life you once lived in the wintered palace of Sabberon; a nickname so cherished in your youth and so foreign now that it knocks the air from your chest. Resentment curls within you at the warmth upon his tongue. 

The shame floods you just as fast as the pride does, and in the aftermath, you stand just as rigid as before, hands clenched into the velvet of your skirt, seething under your veil. 

There is no hiding the shock upon the Atreides' countenances; before them stands some monster, some savagery wrapped up in a gown and a pretty smile hidden beneath a veil. 

It had been a habit – rabid hounds don't tuck tail when cornered, do they?

Nonetheless, you smile tight behind the veil, trying not to think of the life you've just left – of what cold life lies ahead. 

When you respond, your voice is frigid. “It has been a long time, Duncan.” You muse; Paul’s piercing gaze of green penetrates the veil, but you ignore him. 

“Threats demand evolution.” 

The rain is gone into mist by the next day.

It rolls in fog along the moors outside, taunting an echo of tides far below the castle – in the morning room, forks scrape over blue-plated China. A grandfather clock lives in the corner; the seconds pass in quiet, insistent ticks. 

A cleared throat, a swallow of water – air blown across a plane of steeped tea. 

Your eyes burn from exhaustion.

To your relief, your arrival last evening held no such time for small talk – you were whisked away by the service staff to make sure your quarters were comfortable; in the minutes you’d been given to yourself, you’d found the clothing of a former life – dresses, tops and trousers of yourself, your sisters and your mother; the dressings salvaged from the Castle on Sabberon in the week leading up to the trial at Harko Arena. 

All washed thrice of soot and rubble, hanging in wait of your touch within the wardrobes in the room. A sickening feeling had haunted you the moment you’d slipped your mother’s old ceremonial ferronnière and hair chain; the reflection of your stare in the mirror resembling too close the sharp gaze of her own. And that feeling had lingered in the shadows of your room still as you shut away the diadem of gold and emerald, the gowns, the old trousers your sister would wear to ritual; your eyes, burning along the skyline in the distance as you locked the wardrobe with trembling fingers. 

Late in the evening, you'd attended a meeting in a small conference hall. 

There, sat across from Paul, Masters of War and Swords and Strategy, a Mentat, and Lady Jessica, the Duke had asked you questions, ensuring you were not harmed – and perhaps more importantly, trying to ensure there was no malicious intent to your presence. It was in your sleepy haze you first detected the twitching motions of Lady Jessica's hands, the flicking gazes of the others as your voice carried to them. A war language, you’d realized quite quick. They think I am lying. 

You'd only been there for ten minutes before you were escorted by a handmaid back to your chambers, where you sat without rest through the night. 

Truthfully, you're breaking fast this morning with Lady Jessica and Lord Paul out of courtesy; You were up far before the sun had teased the horizon this morning, staring emotionless at the ghost who stood in the corner of your new chambers. 

He is not a new visitor; in the hazy world between waking and dreaming, you’re well used to the ghost – how he smirks by the foot of your mattress, whispering with sharp teeth, with sweet memories, with promises of blood and pain. You’d grown used to his presence, and you’d remained upright for most of the night – until something moved in the corner of your vision, and you screamed. 

That had woken one of the servants.

She came in with her head tilted down, holding a pitcher of water; you asked her to stay.

Her name is Hestia; close enough in age if not younger, as she must be merely twenty – the silence was hesitant but not wholly unpleasant as she’d sat, wary but willing as you shared the pot of tea brought for you. 

It wasn't until she'd brought you breakfast a few minutes later that you realized the staff must have been informed of your ancestral customs before your arrival – she said nothing as you ate silently, staring out towards the coast of rocky cliffs and rolling moors you could just barely make out from your chamber windows. She’d helped silently to smooth your hair under your veil as you’d drawn it in preparation to leave the room; and with a beat of hesitance, you’d almost admitted to her you did not wish to wear it. 

Now, you sit quite similarly; hands perched in your lap, tea in front of you untouched as the food on your plate. 

Your future husband sits across the table from you – with a motion sluggish and ruminating, he pushes the omelet around on his fork. You find the boyishly restless knee from Paul, one which  shakes the table just slightly, jilting your glass full of water. 

A polite and quiet conversation follows; some throw off observation of the weather this coming week, how you seem to have brought the sunshine – a comment that makes both you and your betrothed share a sharp glance; heat following the sudden shared connection. 

Efforts to bring you into such discussions are met with your polite, quiet words – and after a short time, a woman enters and whispers something to the Lady at the end of the table. Nodding, Lady Jessica takes her leave with a pointed look at Paul, suggesting he might escort you around the castle to settle you in.

Some cold dread licks its way up your spine, though you force yourself to nod – to adapt. “–If you have time, my Lord, I'd appreciate it.” 

He seems equally pricked by his mother’s suggestion, though he hides it quite well – a quiet, chivalrous demeanor suits his striking features, and you find your distrust mounting in some self-preserving effort. 

Lady Jessica’s leave brings a gust of air through the morning room, and soon you’re met with the scent of forest; a warm soap, sharp with the efforts of Caladan’s bright ocean salt and wooded hills to the west that lingers upon his skin. Your face flushes in the heat of the sudden morning rays, exposed by a gap in the clouds. 

It's silent for a few moments as only the two of you remain; Your food untouched, his half-eaten. 

The wall behind Paul boasts an intricate geometric wall of wood and empty-space; a fascinating architectural choice which complements the beauty of Caladan’s moors – you find yourself intent on tracing each line laid before you, ignoring the glossy glint of Paul’s hair in foresight. In the silence of youthful discomfort, the quiet feels inescapable – until it isn’t. 

“Are you one of them?”

His eyes trace you when you return to his visage. Them?

In a slow realization, it occurs to you that Paul might assume you are just as bald and sickly as each Harkonnen; that perhaps their soil, so poisoned, might have penetrated the evergreen veins that carry your life to each part of you – might have wilted the very things that make you so uniquely yourself. 

You shake your head, thankful for the lack of chains upon the crown of your head today; you are not a Harkonnen, and you never will be. 

Perhaps that would have been the preferred choice of words, but instead from your lips fall a curt sentence: “I have hair.” 

In the morning light, you glance at the skin of your arm; The skin that boasts arm hair, none of the sickly pale skin that knew of no clean air nor healthy sunlight – your skin, glowing with real melanin and health.

It is a brash choice to speak with such frivolity; You'd not dare speak so freely on Geidi Prime – stars, you'd never have spoken this freely at home on Sabberon, either – but there is no home anymore. 

And if you've learned one thing in your years since coming of age, it's that the Great and Noble Houses of the Landsraad are crawling with perjurers, fabricators; Paul is likely the same. 

If the Atreides boy must be wed to you, you cannot help that; They can dress you, insist on your traditional customs – but you will not go down easy. No matter how cold the home, you can be colder – you are more than the bones which hold you up; crueller than the demons that kept you in their ghostly grip for four years. 

Though at your words, Paul’s cheeks flush a peculiar pink – and his lip twitches in a momentary lapse of stoicism. A lost battle, it seems, as you are rewarded with a small, boyish grin flickering over his visage. “No,” he starts again, eyes penetrating your own somehow, even beneath the layers of green that wrap around you. His breath comes in a short exhale, “Not Harkonnen,” His elaboration grows quiet as he continues, “I meant…Bene Gesserit.”  

Your stomach chills. 

His eyes seem to know the words which whisper around your mind, and a faint sense of memory gnaws at the cage within your head. After only half a moment’s hesitation, you shake your head. “No, my Lord.”

It must be what he expected – he does not so much as blink; though a flicker of knowledge passes over his face and he closes off, eyes flashing. 

You are – despite your resolve – coaxed by his expression to continue, “I suppose I was…” Your hand tugs the sleeve of your gown. 

“–Or, I was supposed to be.” 

Your tone, unemotional; Paul bites back the suspicion that climbs up his throat. He’s no fool; he saw the glances between his mother and you, however short – in those breaths, the buzzing of his mother’s whispers behind shut doors, her eyes quaking and steadfast in the same. 

And, of course, the lapping memories of dreams upon a beach of consciousness; a face beneath a shroud, a whisper from golden lips, a pathway dimly lit and forked into the foggy horizon. 

He stands when you rise from your seat.

The dress you wear is unlike any he’s seen outside of your culture’s books; a waterfall of emerald that pools and flows – some frozen-limbed weeping willow, kissing the face of a thawing lake. He offers an arm to you, and you loop yourself to him with only a breath of hesitation. 

Your voice comes again from those lips so hidden behind the veil of pine. “I was supposed to be a lot of things.” 

Your voice is undeniably beautiful; strong, cold, unwilling. Polite, yes – but calculating, aggressive. Coiled in a nest, watching, waiting to strike. 

She tells the truth. 

His mother had signaled during the council the night before a dissection of your honesty; Yet trust is a fragile thing, and as much as he places faith in Duncan and his father, the thought lingers of distrust. 

He saw the claw marks you'd left upon Duncan; a man you've known since you were a young girl. By decree, Paul is now bound to you in marriage; but he has spent endless hours unraveling the Harkonnens — their cunning, their strategy, their thirst for power – and yet, according to Duncan, the Baron and his brutish nephew simply let you go, unscathed and unpursued. 

It gnaws at him, such inexplicable mercy from a house that knows no such thing.

Paul’s wariness does not bleed through his posture, as indeed it does not with you: You walk with your chest out, back as straight as a soldier’s; your words are cordial, indifferent. 

Halls pass as he murmurs a light overview of the castle’s history, introducing you to Houseworkers as you stop to greet them; he is rather surprised by your indifferent charm that seems to enrapture the workers and scare them all the same; he wonders, then, what this life will be like, when you become the Duchess and he Duke. 

A revolt in his heart; one childish and quelled by duty and understanding – and by his father’s words, burnt sharp into his mind. 

Duty often requires us to navigate paths we may not have chosen for ourselves, Paul. You may not always like her, but you will treat her with the respect and care befitting of a future wife. 

Love may come to you in other ways. But you will marry her, you will respect her, and when the time comes, together you will sire an heir.

Outside the walls, it is quiet – the wind is calmed, the tide drawn by the looming moon in the morning sky; you and Paul share no more than one unintentional glance broken up by wind-warmed cheeks and a softly cleared throat. 

It is not until he escorts you along a path that winds down out of your sights that he notices your change in demeanor. Beside him, you take a deep breath, footsteps faltering as you slow – a blink of concern until he follows the direction of your veil towards a clump of moss sprawled across the earth. Curiously, Paul slows to a stop beside you.

For a moment, you stare down at the dirt and fallen tree limbs, the grassy field and rocks; though as if an invisible string pulls you upwards, you snap your head, voice sheepish behind your veil. “Apologies, my Lord.” You start to turn, “I've read of plants like this, but never seen them before in person.” 

It is an odd moment in which Paul comes to understand: He knows what Giedi Prime is like, and your homeworld, from what he's read in the books on Sabberon, is mostly Glaciers, forests, and high altitudes. 

The notion of you finding interest in Caladan’s flora and fauna is as bizarre as it is endearing – and so instead of moving along, Paul bends to grasp a bit of moss from a fallen trunk. 

Your veiled visage tracks him as he returns to his full height; The earthy dirt spreads between his nimble fingers, green and soft against his skin. You watch him silently, curiously.

“It absorbs up to twenty times its dry weight in water,” He explains in an echo of an old ecological lesson, pushing the spongy material with the nail of his thumb. “Banks of it grow just around the brackish tidepools below the castle.”

Your interest, piqued, causes your head to crane slightly from your small height – he can tell, even without seeing any part of your face, that you are fascinated; it brings him a moment of pride. 

At his gesture towards the coastline just peeking below, you follow in a slow move of interest, breath coming soft from hidden lips. He watches the side of your silhouette flutter in the breeze. “Am I allowed to see?” You ask stiffly, arms hanging at your sides.

An odd request – one which penetrates any semblance of protectiveness for his homeworld and instead strikes alarm in his chest. What such monsters do you come from that you must ask such foolish questions? 

He lets the moss fall back to the stump, brows furrowing. “You are to be Lady Atreides one day.” His voice does not reveal any hint of his resistance to this fact, and for this, he is grateful. “You do not have to ask permission to see your own land.” He finishes, cheeks warm with the insistence of the seabreeze and the alarm which still thuds through his heart. 

You have grown quiet – in the rushing blow of wind, you are still as an evergreen. 

The wind from the sea whips in misty breaths even this high; inky tresses swirl around his vision and are swept away by his own hand – there are no words from you for several very long breaths, in which you clear your throat. 

“I…do not feel well.” Your voice is sudden, thick with some hint of insistence – though your spine does not bend, it does not yield; a small breath as your head cranes up. Paul sees a glint of eyes through the ripple of green. “Please, if you would excuse me.”

It is not below Paul to entertain your fib – for your sake, sure; but rather for the growing weight of bitterness that festers in his chest each time he thinks of what is to come. Paul escorts you to your chambers in a tense silence that echoes only the footfalls and the swishing of velveted fabric. 

You slip into your chambers with a polite and half-whispered thanks to his looming frame. Paul watches the fabric of your dress curl around the corner as the door shuts. 

Upon his return to his own quarters, Paul catches Hestia; a girl known long before she began working for the House. He requests she bring you some bread and cheese, and send Dr. Yueh to check on you once more.

An insistent tapping grates in his mind as he stalks the corridor towards his rooms; a clock from halls away, ticking away the seconds – hands clench, flex; an itching shiver down his spine as he turns corner towards his chambers. A flicker of green around the corner just across the hall sends his stomach to tense, stilling in a moment of suspicion; hackles raised, Paul blinks away paranoia as a Houseworker trims a houseplant. A hand swipes over his visage, massaging his eyes. 

Threats demand evolution. 

The memory of your voice pierces his thoughts – and without a second thought, he turns heel and makes towards the training room, fingers itching for a blade. 

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[narcicious]

Oh, that's so cool! I wonder if this similarity in environments, and thus similarity in types and distributions of native species, has to do with their similar tectonics histories as well as their similar latitudes!

The west coast of South America is largely an active convergent plate boundary, where the Nazca plate is subducting under the South American plate and forming the Andes mountain range as a volcanic arc right along the coast [1].

Similarly, a good stretch of the northern part of the west cost of North American is an active subduction zone where the Juan de Fuca plate is subducting under the North American plate and forming the Cascades mountain range [2], extending from northern California to southern British Columbia. Until fairly recently in geological time, all (or almost all) of the western North American plate boundary was an active subduction zone (responsible in large part for much of the mountain building which occurred in western North America since the breakup of Pangea). This was when the Juan de Fuca, Explorer, Gorda, Cocos, and Nazca plates were apparently part of one large plate, referred to as the Farallon plate, which has since largely subducted and left only small fragments [3]. Much of the North American western plate boundary is now a transform boundary with the Pacific plate, so much less mountain building is occurring today, but we still have topography that reflects this history quite dramatically as the moutains weather away.

So we see narrow corridors bounded by deep seas on one side, tall young, volcanically active mountains on the other, and similar climates as a function of latitude, perfect conditions for forming geographically isolated regions with lots of precipitation on the coastal sides of the ranges at appropriate latitudes and (geologically) fresh nutrients from weathering of rocks in said ranges. Pretty good environment for speciation, I'd reckon!

I honestly hadn't thought much about the way the similarity between the regions tectonically might interact with their biological and ecological similarity, but it's really cool to think about!

[1]: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Andes

[2]: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cascadia_subduction_zone

[3]: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Farallon_Plate

About the unique ecosystems in narrow corridors along the Pacific coast, and the mirroring of California and Chile:

Really cool how the (arbitrary political) borders of Chile host a total of about 60 amphibian species, but 37 of them are endemic species, all living only within about 100 kilometers of the Pacific coast. “Chile” hosts about 130 reptile species, of which an incredible 81 are endemic, living nowhere else.

Both temperate rainforest and Mediterranean chaparral are rare ecosystems on Earth, and both biomes have relatively mild winter climates comfortable for cold-blooded amphibians and reptiles.

Here you can see amphibian biodiversity is highest in the Valdivian temperate rainforest, while reptile diversity is highest in the Mediterranean chaparral zone.

Here’s the Valdivian temperate rainforest and Mediterranean chaparral zones, just for comparison to the amphibian and reptile zones of biodiversity.

Compare to the distribution of rainforest and chaparral in coastal North America:

Not coincidentally, California has a similarly high rate of reptile and amphibian endemism and biodiversity.

Even when limited to narrow corridors, temperate rainforest and Mediterranean chaparral still host a surprising amount of unique lifeforms.

Check out California:

Here’s a look at the distribution range of slender salamanders (Batrachoseps) in California. In the Mediterranean-climate zone of California, there are 23 species of slender salamander, of which about 22 are endemic.

Chile and California are essentially mirrored images of each other at similar latitudes; both center on climatically-mild west-coast temperate rainforest and Mediterranean chaparral biomes.

Temperate rainforest biome and Mediterranean-climate chaparral biome are both rare on the planet:

Here’s both the California coast and the Chilean coast recognized as global biodiversity hotspots.

[padfootagain]

Love in Verses (XIX)

Chapter 19: ‘I knew winter cold like the nuzzle of fjords at my thighs’

Hi! Here is new chapter! Today's chapter contains... an update on Saoirse and Sean, a man a little controlling in the kitchen, poetry, and our best boy Elwood!

I hope you like this chapter! Tell me what you think!

****

Pairing: Hozier x fem!reader (professor!AU)

Warnings: slow burn, angst, hurt, hurt/comfort, tooth-rotting fluff in later chapters, some scenes in later chapters will have heavy sexual themes even if it’s not explicit nsfw description, so minors here

Summary: Your life seems perfect. You're engaged, your career is thriving as you become an assistant professor at Trinity College, and this Andrew Hozier-Byrne you're sharing an office with seems to be a nice guy you hope to call a friend soon. Life seems to be smiling at you... until everything goes sour. When your fiancé breaks up with you, your perfect world shatters. And when your colleague also gets his heart broken soon after, your shared office seems to be a curse rather than a blessing. But Andrew seems determined to mend your broken hearts... Will things finally go according to plan?

Word Count: 3119

Masterlist for the series – Hozier’s masterlist – Main masterlist

Bog Queen

I lay waiting between turf-face and demesne wall, between heathery levels and glass-toothed stone. My body was braille for the creeping influences: dawn suns groped over my head and cooled at my feet, through my fabrics and skins the seeps of winter digested me, the illiterate roots pondered and died in the cavings of stomach and socket. I lay waiting on the gravel bottom, my brain darkening, a jar of spawn fermenting underground dreams of Baltic amber. Bruised berries under my nails, the vital hoard reducing in the crock of the pelvis. My diadem grew carious, gemstones dropped in the peat floe like the bearings of history. My sash was a black glacier wrinkling, dyed weaves and phoenician stitchwork retted on my breasts' soft moraines. I knew winter cold like the nuzzle of fjords at my thighs– the soaked fledge, the heavy swaddle of hides. My skull hibernated in the west nest of my hair.

Which they robbed. I was barbered and stripped by a turfcutter’s spade

who veiled me again and packed coomb softly between the stone jambs at my head and my feet.

Till a peer’s wife bribed hil. The plait of my hair, a slimy birth-cord of bog, had been cut

and I rose from the dark, hacked bone, skull-ware, frayed stitches, tufts, small gleams on the bank.

Seamus Heaney, North, 1975

Saoirse reckoned that at this stage, there was more caffeine in her organism than blood, or water, or any other normal component of her body. She was made of cheap coffee, her brain buzzing with chemicals and lack of sleep. At this point, her entire body was trembling…

By her side, Sean wasn’t much better. He had been procrastinating, and now he was paying the price with too much to be done in too little time.

Damn, exam season was something else… A new kind of hell, no doubt…

The library was about to close, that was how late it was. They gathered their stuff five minutes before closing time, and headed for the night. The cold burned Saoirse’s cheeks, although for once it wasn’t raining. It was snowing, instead… how great… she could get frozen and wet…

“Christ’s sake, don’t tell me it’s fucking raining again,” Sean complained behind her.

“It’s snowing.”

“No better. God, my feet are gonna be soaked.”

She looked down at his old boots, the leather visibly tired.

He heaved a sigh.

“Want to eat something before we go to our dorms?”

“A burger. Something that will give me diabetes and cholesterol just by looking at it.”

“Fuck yeah… extra fries too.”

“Of course!”

She almost slipped as they climbed down the few steps leading to the library, and Sean held her hand to steady her. They were both wearing gloves, and yet she felt warmth spread through her fingers as he held her. At the bottom of the steps, they didn’t let go, merely walked across the campus in silence, their feet making the thin layer of white snow crack under each of their steps. It was late, barely anyone was around anymore. Streetlights were tainting the snow a yellowish white, and the world was quieter than usual. It was a special power of the snow to make the world slow down, to make everything quiet. Saoirse was thinking about her exams though, about the book she had to finish for your class, about the notes she had to read again about Yeat’s poetry, and there was this essay she had to finish…

Both of them looked up when a voice rose over the stillness of the night.

“ANDY! LOOK! IT’S FUCKING SNOWING!”

Saoirse recognised you instantly, you were hurrying out of a building, arms spread open and face up to meet the falling snowflakes. You were laughing.

And then another silhouette came out of the same building as you, so tall it was easy to recognise Pr. H-B. He was laughing too, watching you enjoy the snow, his deep voice rumbling through the night.

“I see that,” he nodded, readjusting his man bun under his beanie.

“I hope it won’t melt too fast,” you pouted, looking at the white that covered the grounds, the leaves of the bushes, the empty branches of the trees, the wooden benches. “I want to make a snowman. And a proper one!”

“I want to send a snowball right into your face.”

You exploded with laughter, and he broke into a teasing grin.

“And I thought you were a peaceful lad!” you teased, reaching up to pinch his side, which made him giggle more like a boy than a grown man.

“Never said that I was!”

“You softy…”

You shook your head at him, let the snow fall on your cheeks and your closed eyelids again. Nor you nor Andrew seemed to have noticed Saoirse and Sean though, as they slowly kept on walking across the grounds, looking at their professors’ silly behaviour from afar.

“Christ, I’m freezing… let’s go! I’m starving.”

“So, you’re really going to cook for me tonight?”

“Yeah, I can make you something decent,” Andrew nodded, already turning in the direction of the carpark.

He groaned.

“God, I have to take Elwood for a walk. Fuck…”

“We can go together! It’ll be fun!”

“It’ll be fun to freeze our arses outside? Don’t worry, I’ll do it. You’ll catch your death.”

Saoirse saw you bending over a bench to gather snow in your hand. Not much, but a handful. You crept behind Andrew, went on your tiptoes before pulling on his scarf and pressing the snow against the back of his neck. He yelped, jumping in surprise and cursing like a sailor while he wiggled to get as much snow out of his scarf as he could, while you laughed so hard you were bending over and losing your balance.

“Fuck you!” he groaned, and yet there was a breathy laughter in his voice. “I’ll pay you back for that…”

He hurried towards the nearest bench, gathered some snow as well, but you were running off already, laughing. He ran after you, laughing as well, and managed to throw his snow ball to hit the back of your head. You yelped and doubled with laughter at the contact, but then you slipped, were falling on the icy ground.

Saoirse and Sean both gasped as they saw you falling, but heaved a relieved sigh when Andrew bent down and managed to catch you before you would hit the ground.

“Christ! You’re okay?” he asked with genuine worry, and you looked up at him as he pulled you upright again.

“Yeah, I’m fine. Thanks,” you mumbled as you found back your footing. “That was a nice shot, by the way.”

“One of my many talents, I’m a killer in snowball fights.”

“Your tall arse also must make for a very good target.”

“Depends, I can easily disappear. I just pretend to be a scarecrow, nobody notices me.”

You laughed at that, and so he smiled.

“Let’s go home,” he spoke in a softer tone.

Saoirse noticed that he was still holding onto your arms, she noticed the longing that appeared across his features for a moment when you pulled away, the way he stared at you as you started walking again, babbling about dinner and hoping he wouldn’t poison you. And then he blinked, seemed to find back the use of his muscles, and followed you.

Saoirse stared at the pair of you walking away, a smile forming on her lips.

“What are you thinking about?” Sean asked, noticing mischief in her eyes.

“He likes her.”

“What?”

“H-B. He has a crush on Y/L/N.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Haven’t you seen what just happened? The longing?!”

But Sean blinked, and she heaved a sigh as she pulled him further across the grounds, aiming for the large portal and the busy street of Dublin.

“Men…” she mumbled, shaking her head.

“ELWOOD!”

You had barely passed the door that you knelt to greet Andrew’s dog, generously petting him and complimenting him for no other reason than the fact that he was an incredibly good boy.

You didn’t see the grin on Andrew’s features as he looked at you, the warmth that made his cheeks turn a brighter shade of pink.

“Yes! I’m so happy to see you too! It’s been weeks! I’ve missed you!” you cooed, scratching him behind his ears, and Elwood happily wiggled his tail.

He excitedly licked your hands and cheeks, making you laugh.

“Alright, alright, that’s enough,” Andrew chuckled, bending to scratch his dog’s head as well, diverting his attention so you could stand again.

You made a mental note to buy Elwood a toy, next time you would come over. He was too adorable, deserved all the treats and gifts…

“Alright, I’ll go cook us something.”

“What have you planned?”

“Erm… I can do a decent pasta dish if you want. Like… with a sauce and everything.”

“Hmm… sounds nice!”

You followed him inside, but he stopped as you were ready to enter his kitchen, and turned to you with a serious look on his face.

“I have a rule though. You stay away from the kitchen.”

“What?”

“I don’t like it when people cook with me.”

“Oh… so you are a control freak,” you teased, but he seemed more offended than you had anticipated.

“Of course, not… just… don’t cook with me.”

“So, you’re a control freak, but specifically in the kitchen, then…”

He rolled his eyes, but yielded.

“Alright, maybe I’m a little controlling in the kitchen. I just… like things to be done a certain way. Or maybe I simply have terrible friends when it comes to cooking. You should see the look of those poor vegetables after Alex had ‘cut them’. An outrage, really.”

“I have a special skill though. It’s my superpower.”

He raised an eyebrow, intrigued.

“I can cut fruits and vegetables in perfectly even pieces.”

“What?”

“Like… if I cut an apple in half, it’s almost perfect!”

“So… your superpower is decently chopping fruits and veggies?”

“It is,” you nodded with fake pride, making him laugh.

“I mean… at least, it’s a useful skill!”

“What’s your hidden skill?”

He looked at you for a moment. You could see that he was hesitating, you gave him an encouraging nod. He blushed as he spoke again, his voice growing quiet.

“I can sing.”

You rolled your eyes.

“I already know that! I know you used to write music, I know you still like it. You’ve told me you used to sing in a choir too.”                    

“I sang at Trinity. Anúna.”

“Really? That’s high-level stuff!”

“I still play gigs sometimes.”

Your eyes widened. You couldn’t control your brain as you imagined Andrew standing on stage, singing, looking hot…

You pushed the thought away. Reminded yourself that you were colleagues, friends, and nothing more and this was out of line…

“That’s awesome!”

“Hmm… yeah… I’m playing a gig on Saint Patrick’s day, in fact,” he added, growing increasingly nervous as he went on, he actually turned away from you and started picking up plates and knifes and vegetables throughout his kitchen. “With Alex and the old gang. Erm… and it’s also my birthday, so we’re having a little party about that, nothing fancy, just… a barbecue if the weather allows. You… you could come, if you want to.”

Your heart felt warm at his words, at the thought that he wanted to share this passion of his with you, that he wanted to spend his birthday with you too. You tried to hide how excited you truly were, refusing to look too much like some kind of creep…

“I’d love to come!”

He froze, threw you a side glance, but there was a hopeful smile tugging at his lips.

“Really?” he asked, voice almost a whisper.

“Of course! Sounds like a way to get free beer and get hammered at your expense. Sign me up!”

He laughed at that, but the grateful look he gave you let you know that he wasn’t fooled by your joke.

“Also… are we going to mention that you were born on Saint Patrick’s Day? Like… that is disgustingly patriotic of you,” you teased, leaning your back against the sink so you could stand next to Andrew and look at him.

“Hey, it’s not that bad! Always a day off work, everybody is available, and if they’re not, then they’re just lying gobshites,” he beamed up as you laughed. “Also, my dad pretended the parades were for my birthday as a child.”

“Ha… that explains the size of your current ego…”

He laughed at that, washing tomatoes and stepping closer to you to do so. You didn’t budge though. You tried to ignore that you kind of longed for that sudden proximity…

“Right… I bet I’m insufferable.”

“I mean… you are… just not because of an ego problem,” you smiled at him.

“Because of what kind of problem then?”

You noticed a shift in his tone, and you hated it. You knew he was kind of serious now, that he was growing anxious. You saw it in the way his shoulders bent, how he tried to look smaller than he truly was. You gave him a mischievous grin, made sure he knew you were still joking around.

“You won’t let me show you my unbelievable skill!” you answered, dissolving any trace of stress that was left in the room.

He laughed, standing straighter again, before handing you a knife.

“Alright, show me.”

You made a show at placing the knife on the nearest tomato, and Andrew stared at you with glee, highly entertained by your antics.

“AND…”

You cut the tomato in two fairly even pieces, and Andrew dramatically inspected the fruit. You tried hard not to laugh, but quickly failed.

“Not too bad,” he admitted, poking his tongue against the inside of his cheek.

You threw your fist in the air in victory.

“So… does that mean that I can cook…?”

“Nope!”

You laughed at him, finished cutting the tomato you were still holding. Andrew eyed you for a moment, before sliding some vegetables your way.

You gave him a cheeky grin in return, one that coloured his cheeks with red.

Andrew shooed you out of the kitchen after all the ingredients had been cut though, claiming that you didn’t have a special skill in cooking, but only in cutting, and you yielded after some further teasing; you set up the table, then aimed for his living room while he busied himself with his food, claiming it was almost done. You played with Elwood for a bit, then busied yourself with a meticulous inspection of Andrew’s bookshelves.

A tender smile formed on your lips at his extensive collection of Heaney’s poetry. You picked up North, the collection you had been reading lately. You were not surprised to find traces of many reads on its cover and alongside the pages, with sticky notes here and there. You were not surprised to find the extensive notes slipped between the pages enclosing ‘Come to the Bower’ all through to ‘Strange Fruit’.

“It’s ready!” Andrew called after you, stepping into his living room to bring you back to reality while your eyes travelled through the first verses of the ‘Bog Queen’.

You looked up at him while he approached, tilting his head to the side. There was no animosity in his voice when he spoke, it was soft and warm, on the contrary.

“It’s impolite to snoop around.”

“I’m only assessing your taste.”

“And? Your conclusion?”

You smiled up at him.

“Not too bad.”

He chuckled, but there was something tender in his gaze. Something that made your heart skip a beat.

He bent a little to see what book you were still holding, he hummed as he nodded.

“I do love Heaney a lot,” he admitted.

“I know. I’ve started reading his poetry again, you know?”

“Really? What made you pick it up again?”

“You.”

His relaxed smile faltered, and for a moment, you cursed yourself, thinking you had been too direct, that you had spoiled everything. But then you noticed that he was blinking, saw his eyes shining a little while he averted his gaze.

When he spoke, his voice was so soft you could barely hear it, deeper than usual too, it made your heart beat faster, shook your frame with a shiver.

“That’s… that’s really fucking nice, Y/N. That… that you did that.”

“I saw the books sitting on my shelf the other day, and I know how much you love these poems. It made me think of you. So… I’ve started reading them again.”

Slowly, Andrew nodded, before he would clear his throat.

“Thank you,” he repeated, although you weren’t too sure of what he was thanking you for. It seemed natural to you.

“I see you have a lot to say about bog bodies, and I am not surprised,” you added, showing the pieces of paper tugged safely between the pages.

Andrew chuckled, rubbing at his neck as he grew a little uncomfortable.

“Right… yeah… I do love those an awful lot.”

“Hmmm… I had guessed. Actually… we should discuss them! That would be fun!”

It was your time to avert your eyes now, though, to grow uncomfortable. Fun? To you, perhaps, but Frank had showed you time and time again that nobody else was interested in talking about these things…

“God! Yes! What do you want to talk about? Like… the macabre aspect of it? The political side? The mythical side?”

When you looked up at Andrew, he was grinning, excited like a little child in a candy store. His hand was slightly shaking when he pushed his glasses up his nose again.

“Oh, and… you know, I’ve bought the Divine Comedy too!”

“What?” you asked, taken aback by the sudden change of subject.

“Yeah, I just… I… saw it at the bookstore the other day, and you love it, so I wanted to give it another try, and we have so many points to discuss! I’m almost done, not quite though, but there are so many elements that I want to go through with you… Like…”

He stopped his rambling as you blinked up at him. You must have looked stupid, while you tried to register what Andrew meant.

He had bought that book to read it… because you loved it. Just so he could… talk about it with you… without you recommending it to him or lending him the book, he just… He saw it. Thought of you. Bought it simply because of you. Read it because of you. And now he wanted to discuss it with you…

You blinked tears away. It was ridiculously simple and yet… no one had ever done that. Frank had definitely never done that for you…

“I… I’d love to talk about that with you,” you spoke in a softer voice, a grin slowly forming across your lips.

You were staring at each other for a moment, your hands still holding one of his favourite books, his eyes fixed on yours. God, his eyes… the green that dominated the brown tonight, like leaves on a summer afternoon, vivid and bathed with gold… you couldn’t look at anything else in the room, in the world, in your life…

You noticed that the space between your faces was slowly diminishing. You noticed that Andrew wasn’t that tall anymore, or rather, that he was bending closer. Closer. Closer…

You felt something bump hard into your leg, making you lose your balance for a second, although you recovered almost instantly. When you looked down, Elwood was staring up at you, waiting for your attention.

You laughed, scratching his head.

“The food is going to get cold,” Andrew mumbled under his breath, and you tried to ignore how much he was blushing now. You carried the book in the kitchen as you followed him, Elwood in toe.

God, had you dreamt this? Had Andrew tried to kiss you? Were you… were you ready to let him?

[mochinomnoms]

Just thinking about ocean things and how twst would be different to our world. Was watching a video of a guy finding hermit crabs using trash as their homes and remembered how I went to volunteer when I was younger to clean up the beach (I had to do volunteer hours for school) and how there was so much trash. Just... imagine going with the mer trio to the beach and it being so clean and going to a reef where everything is so healthy.

I can see MC commenting on how beautiful, untouched, just how clean the beach is. The mer trio would obviously be confused cause most beaches are like this. Even the tourist traps take care in preventing too much trash from getting into the ocean. Too much trash effects the environment plus people live there and think of the political ramifications if land dwellers dumped all their trash on the mer people (or maybe that may have happened in the past but doesn't anymore idk).

Imagine the look of horror on the mer faces when MC tells them about the floating trash island, melting glaciers, and coral bleaching. Oh God and the oil spills! Mer trio would be making sure MC never goes back there

Oh they're for sure horrified hearing about the state of the ocean on our world. It's an awful thing to imagine to them and even harder to comprehend! It's correct that the ocean in TWST is incredibly healthy and beautiful, mostly because of merfolk and land dwellers making an effort to keep merfolks' home undamaged and avoid a war. I imagine something still broke out many many years ago, especially as technology advanced and TWST entered the equivalent of the Industrial Revolution. Ideally, after a brief period of war, more magic was incorporated with technological advances (technomagic) to reduce the negative effects of industrialization on the environment. I headcanon that around this time Ignihyde would've been established as a dorm as it's students are known for incorporating technology with magic.

Moving on from that though, the Octotrio are especially inclined to keep you in their world, especially knowing that your world's oceans are dying. Why go back when you have a perfectly good world here (with them, but they might not mention that last part).

[wings-of-fire-confessions]

Guys consider,

Fat Blaze

Maybe even

Fat glacier if you’re strong enough (/j)

I need more chub rep in characters I BET LIKE HALF THE ROYALTY WOULD BE CHUBBY!!!! They get the best eats and probably have never suffered hunger from their crown baby status (kinda jealous but not at the same time bc of how they are treated. Side eyes.)

I want more chubby Rainwings!! They sit n eat all day they’re supposed to be lanky but it can’t be all muscle. They have a better system in place so they get more movement in but some fat just stays man (and it’s beautiful and I love it /pos)

If I wasn’t so tired I would draw what the dragon bodies would look like at different weights, please someone take the pencil I’m dying over here, I give perms GO DRAWWWW!!!!! RAHHHHHHHHHHH

.

[cheriladycl01]

My home country - Pierre Gasly x IcelandicOlympicIceHockey! Reader

Plot: Your boyfriend Pierre watches on as you bring home Gold for team Iceland before you show him around the waterfalls and geysers your country is known for!

A/N: Having been to Iceland, this one was really fun to write as I've done all the things mentioned!

You’d just won gold and we’re on a complete high, your boyfriend being there to celebrate you and your teams win. It was a thrilling feeling having the Gold Medal placed around your neck and hugging all of your team mates who'd been a part of the journey.

You had all worked insanely hard and you'd cried once you realized you won.

The celebrations that night were crazy, you and Pierre spent the whole night in the club with all your friends and some of your family. There were also randoms there who were congratulating you and buying you drinks the whole night - much to Pierre's annoyance as they were mostly men.

But once they offered him a drink too after recognizing him, he didn't feel as peeved.

They day after and you both woke up with the worst hangover imaginable. You laid in bed in the fancy 5 star hotel you were set up in, both complaining about the headache you both had before you sulked down the stairs for the breakfast buffet.

You guys filled yourself on all the greasiest food in attempt to get rid of the hangover.

"Fuck Elskan. I feel awful" you say in Icelandic and Pierre looks at you as if you've grown two heads, not understanding anything but the pet name you use often for him.

"Babe, English or French please... I'm dying here!" he groans.

"Sorry, i revert back when I'm tired!" you smile before taking his hand.

"We have a busy day today!" you smile, excited for the plan you guys have.

"Nooooooo, please I just need a day in bed!" he complains looking over at you.

"You don't want to see my country?" you say with a sad voice, knowing he did as he'd been asking for ages for you to take him across Iceland and show him all the things you did growing up.

"I do!" he whines looking over at you.

"I just - cant we do that tomorrow?" he asks looking over you his sleepy eyes telling you he was struggling a little bit more than he was letting on.

"The fresh air will do you good, come on lets go get ready! It's cold so we need to wrap up warm" you advise grabbing his hand and dragging him out the restaurant.

You both change into warm clothes and waterproof having a little rucksack with you each. You guys had a busy day where you'd be hiking up a glacier and seeing some of the best waterfalls Iceland had to offer before going to swim in the geothermal spa called the Blue Lagoon to round up your day.

"The guys said we might even get to see the northern lights tonight!" you grin excitedly.

"Really?" Pierre asks knowing you'd seen them multiple times in your lifetime but it was something you still got pretty excited about.

You guys were on the tour bus and went straight to the glaciers, you had grippy shoes on, knowing what Iceland was like in the winter but Pierre didn't exactly think that through and when you looked back to where he was, really behind the rest of the group he looked like Bambi.

You couldn't help but laugh at him.

"Pierre, come on here!" you say handing him the walking stick you'd been using. He thanked you before you helped him up, holding one of his hands to try and keep him stable.

You get to the top and Pierre has a red face and watering eyes from the wind at the top unlike you wearing googles and a bandana to cover your mouth and neck to keep the warmth in.

"Why didn't you prepare me better!" he groans looking around at everyone else.

"I told you what to bring!" you giggle. You then start to make the decent down the glacier seeing the top of the gushing waterfall.

"I didn't expect it to be so loud!" Pierre shouts over the really loud water. All you could do was laugh at him before the tour guide started to talk to you in Icelandic about what was coming up next on the tour. Pierre awkwardly waited off to one side not knowing what to do.

"You are really going to enjoy the next bit!" you smile taking his hand and pull him into a searing kiss. His lips were a little chapped from the cold but you didn't mind.

You guys made the drive to the blue lagoon. You split in the changing rooms and Pierre was shocked to be greeted by multiple naked men. It was normal for you and when you met him at the entrance into the water he looked almost traumatised.

"Sorry I should have warned you about what you would have walked into!" you giggle before he shakes his trying to get rid of the images burned into his brain.

You both swim around, going to grab the face scrub at the bar to plaster over you face. You loved coming to the geothermal spa. The sensation of dipping right under the water, feeling the heat warm up your skin before standing up and having the wind whip around your wet skin was a sensation like no other.

"This is very romantic" Pierre smiles, holding you as you both float around clinging to each other.

"Mmmmm I'm glad we've done this. I've been missing home far to much!" you sigh. You'd made the decision to move with Pierre, as it made sense considering he was closer to Alpine and he was travelling for most of the year.

"I'm just scared for tomorrow!" he sighs, knowing it was a day he'd been expecting for a while but it didn't feel real.

"I've told you so many times, my parents will love you. We should have seen them earlier!" you grin, pulling him in for a kiss as you wrap your legs around his waist.

"God I love you!" he exclaims twirling you round in the water.

y/user

Liked by pierregasly and charlesleclerc

y/user: Just brought home gold for my beautiful country! Iceland 🇮🇸 you are beautiful and I loved showing my boyfriend round!

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pierregasly: I loved spending time with you and congrats on your win ma cherie 🍒

-> y/user: I love you very much

->pierregasly: I love you too 🫶🏼❤️

alpinef1team: Congrats on the win Y/N!

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Showing kærastinn minn around 🇮🇸

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[rott1ngbra1n]

I WANT YALL TO KNOW I SAW THE “save my boy Cole” PETITION WHILE ON A 7 AND A HALF HOUR SHIFT AND ALMOST STARTED DYING LAUGHING.

I love this fandom so much for clowning and memeing on the people who made the poll NDBFJSBJD /pos

My contribution to this is some Cole x Geo artwork (I love Bruise, Glacier and Lava as well) and a Cole goober

[ackerfics]

to the girls who are failed by the narrative: masterlist | jjk

enclosed here are stories of tragedy; of loving someone too much that his loss becomes your ruination, of waves of blue and black that threatens to wash your cheeks with the colors of summer, of curses trapping you in prophecies not even a red string can break, of unlikely saviours and damsels who fell harder for each other.

note: all of these are connected. every character has their own 'reader' (except for yuta). once we move on to the next character, the previous reader will be given a nickname. i am actually excited about this <5 consider this as my official comeback (?) here on this site.

my love is mine all mine — zen'in toji (later fushiguro) x reader

: 'the glorified womb', 'the heir bearer', 'the blessed flower of the jujutsu society' — they are just some of the titles given to the women of your mother's clan, and all of them eventually fell to you, the prodigal firstborn who has the misfortune of birthing someone who will be stronger than their predecessors. with the fate of someone's clan on your shoulders, there are only a handful of things told to you while growing up; be as demure as you can be, never open your mouth and squash your thoughts, sit with a posture befitting that of a lady wearing an invisible yet heavy diadem. but the one that rings the most goes like this: your only purpose in this world is to be a silent wife to a man who will give you the opportunity to carry the next generation of powerful sorcerers. you remember all of these as you walk toward zen'in ogi in your uchikake, the constricting material around your waist akin to the gripping hold of your cursed technique.

and in fate's funny little ways of fabricating legacies and stories, you forget them when you are spirited away by the man who always welcomes the coming of the seasons with you without fail.

chapters:

i: their redness talks to my wounds

ii: in our circle of green

iii: the answer will be an echo: why did you do this?

iv: coming soon !!

v: coming soon !!

to love and be loved is to rest  — gojo satoru (w. geto suguru) x reader

: you knew you will never love gojo satoru, the godling that will make kingdom come if he so wished it, the moment he pushed you into a puddle of muddy water the day your older sister was announced to be engaged to the possible heir of the zen'in clan. with your new kimono drenched in brown splatters and your hair in disarray, the little white rat had the gall to cackle in front of majority of the jujutsu society. that was the day you vowed to always harbour hate for him. yet for some weird reason, gojo becomes a constant in your life — the only one to ever see you at your weakest when your sister abandoned you to become the next bride and the only one who promised to return your youth to you by being your semblance of normalcy among the decaying beliefs and elders of the jujutsu society.

you thought you will never know love until you met geto suguru and all his gentle smiles, warm demeanour, and weird fringe. and before you know it, your little world with gojo expanded to include geto, ieiri, and the colours of summer throughout the year. but summer will always fade away to autumn, a season that chills you to the bone and sets glaciers in your blood, its fingers promising change like no other.

because it was fall of 2007 that you wish you never knew what love is at all.

chapters: coming soon !!

except for your eyes, no blade can control me  — fushiguro megumi x reader

: coming soon !!

[bonus] hearts be burned asunder with love — okkotsu yuta x oc

: it's a new generation of sorcerers and the flower of the jujutsu society truly lived up to her fate of carrying new heirs for a dying clan. from her union with the nefarious sorcerer killer comes a blessing and a festival; a shepherd of umbras in the shape of animal curses and the other an amalgamation of opposing energies.

the moment fushiguro matsuri first sung her pleas to the world, the shadows danced and the flowers tried reaching for a speck of light. and it is when she was finally swallowed by the mass of shadows that her twin brother first saw how cruel their part of the world can be.

it's november 2017 and a cursed womb has been spotted hanging like an ominous raindrop of cynicism above a remote forest near a clan compound. all sorcerers near the area are dispatched to the scene but fushiguro megumi has one request to his mentor (begrudging uncle), bring the first-year jujutsu high student he met a few months ago to where the cursed womb is. after all, okkotsu yuta is the only sorcerer megumi openly respects to save his sister and matsuri is the only person everyone expects to neutralize the queen of curses if the time comes for the sword to reap its harvest.

: coming soon !!

send an ask or reply if you want to be added to the taglist <3

[fatorangepoo]

Wriothesley Teaches You How to Fight Like A Pro

"First things first... fix that attitude of yours," Wriothesley grumbled, clad in his long-sleeved dress shirt, fitted pants and mechanical gauntlets. Slicking his hair back with both hands over his head, he groaned, "You don't even want to do this properly. Are you just here for me or what?"

Upon hearing that, your jokester ass laughed out loud and you clutched your clenched stomach bending over in joy. Wiping a tear from your eye, you muse, "Well what if I was?" and continued giggling with your feet circling in arcs like a dying roach.

Let's just say some people have a different sense of humour. You weren't even surprised when you lightly peeked with one eye at Wriothesley to find him glaring daggers at you with those striking eyes of his, because he has never appreciated your skibidi toilet jokes.

Even you knew his limits, and you didn't know him well. Just well enough to share drinks and inside jokes. For you, well was quality time and bouts of intimate touches. So no, you didn't know him well. You got up and sprung back into action, picking up some Gintama move you saw Chinese grandmothers do in Tai Chi. Hands in karate chop motion, you tornadoed to his direction and landed a foot directly in front of him, hand positioned directly before his nose.

Wriothesley scrunched up his nose and forced out a reluctant "Better, I guess," and lowered his head. Addled and confused, you tilted your neck to your side in a classic WHAT?! pose, then you heard a chuckle from somewhere around the room. Looking around, you said, "Well, I never knew you invited some others to our practises."

When he didn't respond, you turned back to him kneeling on the floor, gorgeous di-coloured hair sprawling out from his scalp. You squat with your legs open like a frog or sneaky spider in front of him, leggings stretching against your calf. Looking down at him, you saw a glimpse of his canine tooth revealed by a devilish grin. He looked up at you and laughed at your face, eyes closed all the way through in a joyful daze.

Sobering up, he projected with a husky voice, "So funny, are we?" and you could swear his Arctic glacier eyes thundered periodically, letting you in a world of dark, deep sea typhoons. "Let's see what happens when you face real danger. You think they would loosen their grip because you said something that started with ski, ended with di and rhymed with clinically? I'd like you see you £#¢¥ing try," he threatened gloomily, advancing onto you with a fat forearm.

You hastily avoided his arm by holding it back with both hands, but you never really won over the gymbros in arm wrestling, so you got overpowered instead. He locked his arm under your neck, lifting you up so your toes were dreaming of touching land, which never happened considering you were taller than the average population. His shirt sleeve was so distracting because it smelled like your cousin's detergent and made you wish you had money to afford laundry that was more than just rinsing fabric with water.

You felt like Loki being held by his neck by Thor, albeit being the superior brother in the situation. In every situation, actually. Loki just suited you better. Pranksters have your whole heart.

You snuck your hands under his arm and pushed outward with all your might, and he was still unyielding. Bruh, at this point you just gotta turn around and start pushing his chest away from you. That'd be more effective, right? Whose chest can withstand brute force? Well, not yours, to be frank. You can't even wrestle your cousin.

"LET ME... THE £@#& GO!" you yelled with your back against his locked hands in a smooth manoeuvre, and tried to push at his chest. Ew, this feels like molestation. Who cared about molestation when your life was being threatened by a raider!!! You don't care anymore, you went from poking his chest playfully to shoving the hell out of his dress shirt, and he stumbled, hands losing their grip.

Like a proud hen, you stood arms akimbo, head inclined as you stared Wrio down. Oh my effing god. He surged and started CHARGING at you!!! He threw himself on you like on those WWE Superslams and you flew with your back sliding on the floor. His arms were around you, then you realised they weren't around you as much as they were wrapped around an actual dagger. Oh archons!

If you were wrong in the head, you would think this was fun and mentally stimulating. It was a bit exhilarating, but you were fearing for your life here. Mr Puppy here looks like he would actually kill you here and now for saying skibidi toilet during a company dinner 3 weeks ago. Deeply stashed anger, am I right? Poor pup doesn't have an outlet to release stress, so he keeps it all pent up and explodes on you for a tiny joke consisting of toilet...

His knee kneeling in the space between your thighs, he seemed chivalrous and angelic and deadly. The light shining on him from his table lamp just further intensified the dark side of his face, unilluminated by anything. That pretty much sums up your first impression of him. Dark, sepulchral and a pain to be with. Now, you're wrong. This is fun.

"Alright, yes yes, I'm afraid I'm deeply invested now, Your Grace. Continue," you chirped happily from your position under the Duke's glinting knife. If you stole a jewel from the hilt now, would he realise? You were quite good at this gemstone side hustle of yours.

"Second of all, do not let yourself be vulnerable," he gritted his teeth and you wanted to caress his neck just right above your collarbone. "Well, I don't. I never open up to people! I consider it one of my great strengths-" you got cut off by his bejeweled dagger pinning itself on the fabric of your tank top like a dart pinned to a dartboard.

"Not what I meant," he offered, "but thanks for the invitation." Then he lifted a hand and punched you on your good side. Alas, no more side profile selfies!

You grabbed the gloved hand that was about to go for a second round of punching you with one determined fist of yours, unyielding in your grip. You observe Wriothesley's amusement, his face on top of you taunting. God, his lifted lips are so distracting in their angles, sharp at all the right places. Dangerous men should not have smiles more perilous than their charm.

Despite that, you shook him with your hand guiding him in the direction you wanted to go - in this situation you wanted him the floor where you previously were. Locking your elbow around his dangerous arm, you channeled enough strength to pull him down on the floor beside you. After the satisfying thud of your bully/mentor's back hitting the floor (his tough back muscles are probably fine), you swiftly roll yourself on top of him, legs clamped around both of his. Tank top strap slowly sliding down your shoulder, you dislodge the dagger on the floor and rest your elbows on the sides of his face. Curling his hair on the dagger's pointy edge, you look down, half-lidded, on his tired blue eyes and sadistically remarked, "Any tips for ending someone with a dagger?"

[kick-the-clouds]

The planet is burning.

The evidence is undeniable. From record-breaking heatwaves to catastrophic floods, human-caused climate change is ravaging our planet, and we are all witnesses. The science is clear: our addiction to fossil fuels, deforestation, and relentless pollution is driving this destruction. Our one-of-a-kind, life-sustaining environment is under siege, and the clock is ticking.

This isn’t a distant problem. It’s here. It’s now. The melting glaciers, dying coral reefs, and burning forests are not just statistics—they are the dying breath of our Earth. We are losing more than just land; we are losing our home.

This isn't just about the environment; it's about survival. We are all part of this intricate web of life, and when we disrupt it, we face the consequences. The Byzantine complexities of our ecosystems, perfected over millions of years, are unraveling before our eyes.

The truth is harsh, but it's not too late. We still have the power to change course, to protect our planet, and to secure a future where our children can thrive. But we must act now. The science demands it, our survival depends on it, and the Earth—our only home—deserves it.

The time for action is now. Let’s not be the generation that witnessed the destruction of our world and did nothing.

[geodethecrow]

summer is dying early this year. perhaps it is a summer of death, of the snapped sunflower that was eleven feet tall before the wind took it, of a deer still splattered on a windshield, of my cat slowly getting skinnier. the summer of shelf fungus on a downed tree’s corpse, of the power lines spooled on the road after a bad storm, of the volunteer squash plant in my front yard flowering but not fruiting for lack of pollination, living but unable to carry on beyond a single iteration. it had a younger sister, once, across the sidewalk to our porch, before I squared the first one in brick to ward off the lawnmower.

it's barely August and already the night breeze is taunting me with hints of the ice to come. it's spreading up the stalk and bursting cell walls with spikes of remembrance and anticipation of what winter truly does to me. fall is lovely but it leads to the season of my bones being covered in hoarfrost and my brain cracking apart like a calving glacier, and I want to spend as little time as possible in the dark. so I cling to what summer is leaving behind, the baskets of peaches at the farmers’ market and the sunburn warming my cheeks. I hope the turning leaves burn bright enough to stave off winter for a while.

[hugsandchaos]

Eudaemon Incorrect Quotes

Time: You’re pretty pale and your hands are freezing. I know what you are.

Danny: Say it.

Time: Iron deficient.

Danny, for no reason: My breakfast is plotting to kill me.

The Links: *unanimous side eye* ???

Danny: *eating something*

Warriors: What are you eating?

Danny: Crushed ice pebbles.

Warriors: Wh—

Warriors: Why would you eat ice?

Danny: I wanted something crunchy and refreshing, so I snapped some off the edge of the pond.

Wild: Can I have some?

Danny: *leans in to whisper to Wolfie* By the way, I know.

Wolfie: *baffled wolf noises*

Four: There could be a ghost breakdancing right next to you and you’d have no idea.

Wind, watching Danny breakdancing next to Four: Yeah… No idea.

Danny: Anytime someone refers to a Gatorade bottle as the flavor instead of the color, they’re 100% a cop.

Twilight: Maybe, but you’ve gotta specify. “Frost Glacier Freeze” or “Cool Blue”, you can’t just say “blue” because there’s more than one blue.

Wind: Blue and light blue! Nice try, Officer!

Quick Warning! This last one is a pretty inappropriate joke! Not inappropriate as in rude, either!

Twilight: Why are you and Legend on the ground? Why are you laughing?

Time: You did something.

Danny, dying a second time laughing: I accidentally insulted him! He said “You’re heavy, you’re going to break my back”, and my first instinct was to tell him “I thought your boyfriend did that last night”!

Legend: That was on instinct?!

Danny: *wheezes so hard he goes ghost*