#grass plaiting

[tenth-sentence]

A survey of the various cultural regions reveals such technologies as stone wall construction, grass thatching and plaiting, split bamboo, woven pandanus and coconut-palm leaf, clay and mud plastering, excavated floors, sand-weighted roofs, split-cane ties and the weaving of foliage between wall rails.

"Design: Building on Country" - Alison Page and Paul Memmott

[undiscovered-horizon]

"Everywhere is good but home is..." - Mihawk x Reader

@thetempleofthemasaigoddess wondered why Mihawk doesn't quite get along with his mother-in-law and who am I to keep such secrets to myself?

SUMMARY: Mihawk is not exactly fond of his in-laws. Nevertheless, he compliantly tags along whenever you pay your parents a visit. If it makes you happy, he's willing to bite his tongue. For a day, at least.

WORDCOUNT: ~ 2.6k

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Imagine, if you will, an angry boar. A large, stout boar with birse as dark as the night sky. As boars do, it will gore with its tusks to let out the frustration and get rid of whatever it was that made the animal seethe. Now, if you take away its tusks, what can it do? Angrily dig for truffles? 

Or maybe stand beside you, a scowl on his face and a begrudging “I am fine” every time you ask about the bitter expression?

Mihawk doesn’t like visiting your parents. It’s the sickeningly sweet familial atmosphere that suffocates him. Don’t misunderstand - he’s fond of the thought of having a family with you but the aura of your childhood home is a little too… overwhelming for him. A little too picture-perfect. But being the man he is, Mihawk has never outright talked about his dislike because he’s aware of how much that would hurt you. Still, you know your husband a little too well to disregard his sighs and frowns. This piece of secret knowledge always makes you love him more - he’s willing to suffer for a day or two just to make you happy. If it’s not love, what else could it be?

The farmhouse looks different than it did last year when you visited: the roof tiles have been changed, the outside of the building has been repainted and even some of the fence surrounding the land is new. Clearly, your parents have been busy with their retirement.

Despite the irate expression on his face, Mihawk silently overtakes you and opens the shabby wicket gate to let you enter first. He gives you a questioning look when you suddenly stop.

“It’s going to be fine, Mihawk,” you reassure him.

“So you’ve been saying, darling.”

Comforting warmth spreads inside his chest as you smile at him and kiss his cheek. He turns his head, hoping to catch your lips but you’re already on your way to the older man raking leaves in the distance. Mihawk clenches his jaw and lets out an exasperated sigh. With a loud bang, he closes the gate behind him. He follows you in slow steps, naively putting off the fateful moment of meeting your family.

Walking down the path leading to the farmhouse and the fields behind it, Mihawk looks around the desolate landscape. It’s quaint, he thinks to himself. Tall trees sway on the chilly, autumn wind. Right above their peaks, although far away, are mountains with their tops covered in snow. Uncut grass brushes against his clothes. A flock of cranes flies high in the sky, disappearing and reappearing as they fly through grey clouds. Their key is directed south, towards warmth that will shield them from winter snow. The area is a bit too colourful and bright for his liking but with a nice “please” from you, Mihawk could see himself settling down in a place like this.

Dracule just comes into earshot and has the displeasure of hearing your father yelling:

“Pumpkin!” The older man’s voice is filled with excitement. He lets go of the rake, letting it fall on the ground. Despite his age and clear exhaustion from the work, he wraps his arms around you and hugs you almost to death. “Honey, come out!” he shouts towards the farmhouse. “It’s Pumpkin!”

Mihawk almost can’t stop himself from rolling his eyes. You’re a grown woman, married at that, and they still call you by a nickname they had come up with while you were still in diapers. ‘When I asked where children came from, they told me that they found me between pumpkins in their field,’ you once explained to him.

The door to the building flies open. Soon enough, your mother is running to you. Her greying hair is braided into a plait. She’s wearing an apron with traditional patterns hand-stitched into it. Half of the motif had been done by a skilled hand, stitched with precision and perfection. The other part, however, is a lot more crooked and amateurish, probably done by a child’s hand. Your hand.

Tears glisten in your mother's eyes. Despite her older age, there’s vigour and youth inside those irises - a certain love for life that you’ve taken after her. She quickly wipes her hands on the apron and hugs you.

“Oh, Pumpkin!” A stray tear leaves her eye. “I haven’t seen you in ages! You could have said you’re visiting.”

“You’ve always loved surprises, mum.”

She lets go of you and redirects her attention to Mihawk. Her face lights up as though he’s her own son, beaming with love and pride. To his absolute horror, your mother puts her hands on the sides of his face. He almost pulls away to avoid the unwanted affections.

“Sweetie, you look handsome as ever!” she exclaims. Her expression falls as she looks him up and down. “But you’re a bit thin, aren’t you? And that open shirt, tsk. Winter is coming, sweetheart, you’ll catch pneumonia if you don’t cover up.”

“Delighted to see you again, ma’am,” Mihawk lies through his teeth. To some degree, you’re impressed with how honest he sounds.

"Oh, sweetheart, I told you to just call me mum!” She laughs. “We're family now."

You can see the relief in Mihawk’s eyes as your mother lets go of him. Some part of you wants to burst with laughter as you recall countless moments when you’re the one cradling his face and Dracule is more than overjoyed with the tender touch. It feels like there’s something beyond special about you, that he welcomes such intimate things. Although, truth be told, when it’s your hands on his face, you usually lean in to kiss him and that’s definitely not something he wants to think about while standing in front of your mother.

“He’s a grown man, honey.” Your father nags at his wife. He waves his hand in a dismissing manner. “Leave him be.” Mihawk’s terror returns when a heavy hand reaches for his shoulder. “Come, son, you’ll chop some wood for the night. I��m too old for this. The last time I tried chopping firewood, I got sciatica.”

“Pleased to help,” Dracule drones his words. He gives you a glance like a silent plead ‘Look what I do for you’. Then, he follows your father further into the garden.

You feel your mother put her arm around your shoulder. “Boys are off to have fun and we have a dinner to make.”

Something inside you stirs with excitement - cooking and baking used to be your bonding activities with your mum. Since you’ve married Mihawk, you’re not allowed to do any housework. Everything is taken care of by servants. You find that you’ve grown to miss the rhythm of mundane life, although it would be a lie if you said that you dislike the life you have with Mihawk. It’s just… different.

The sound of pots, pans and knives hitting the cutting boards is like a symphony to your ears. An aria to your childhood. If you closed your eyes, you could almost see the world as it used to be, your eyes right below the level of the countertops, always standing on a stool to help your mother.

But the thoughts of your younger years dissipate as you stare out of the kitchen window. You have the perfect view of your husband chopping firewood with your father raking leaves in the back. Mihawk’s skin glistens in the afternoon, autumn sun. There’s not a bead of sweat on his torso. He appears completely relaxed as he swings the axe with one hand. Some logs are already cracked or particularly dry and those he rips apart with his bare hands. Those same hands that tear pieces of wood into matches have caressed your skin with almost fearful softness; the arms that bring destruction have tirelessly shielded you from the dangers of the world. 

Your dad looks over his shoulder at the pile of firewood with a nod of awe. If Mihawk keeps up his tempo, he’ll prepare enough fuel for the next week.

“You remind me of your dad and me when we were younger.” Your mother’s face shakes you awake from your thoughts. Suddenly remembering that you were supposed to be helping her, you look down at the awfully chopped carrots. At least you didn’t cut off your finger. “Always stealing glances as though we weren’t already married.”

A sigh of yearning leaves your lips. What did you do in your past life to deserve a man like him?

“Dad still looks at you in an uncomfortably intense way,” you answer, a smile on your lips.

Your mother’s laughter brightens up the small, crowded kitchen. It’s not hard to correctly guess what your dad saw in her that made him want to spend his life with that woman. “He does the same when you’re not looking,” she says while vaguely pointing at Mihawk.

Her words make you blush. A deep shade of red covers your cheeks, making your whole face hot to the touch. “What do you mean?”

She looks at you with sympathy. “I saw it the day you introduced him to us. And each time you come over, he seems to be a little worse in his affliction, staring at you like you’re the one who hung stars in the sky. It made your grandma remind her of grandad so much, that she cried at your wedding.”

Listening to her, your longing gaze returns to Mihawk who appears oblivious to your undivided interest in him. “Mum, does it ever get boring?” you ask without looking away. “The sense of calm when you’re around him. Like everything could be ruined but it’s fine because he’s there.”

“It’s the only thing in the world that never gets tiring.” A flustered, juvenile smile decorates her face. Even with wrinkles and greying hair, she looks barely older than you at the moment, reliving the flame of love inside her that has never dwindled. “Now, let’s finish with the sentiments and stuff the duck, eh?”

Mihawk is reaching for another log when something makes him momentarily freeze. There, in front of the stump he’s been chopping wood on, sits a dog. It’s clearly a mutt, each feature taken from a different breed. The fur is an amalgamation of markings in different colours: orange, grey, white and black. As the dog notices Mihawk’s interest, it gets up, restlessly stomping in place or rather hopping as the pet is missing one of its hind legs.

“Gulliver,” Dracule recalls the name of the mutt you’ve told him so much about. Your first and only friend growing up in the countryside.

The name is taken as an invite and so the dog places a drool-covered, chewed-out ball next to the piece of firewood. The pet sits again, tail wagging as fast as it can.

For a moment, Mihawk is torn. He wants the dog to leave him be but that would mean he has to put his hand on the slimy toy. Then again, the pet is sure to continue disturbing him now that he has acknowledged its existence.

Cringing at the wet and warm sensation of the ball, Dracule picks it up, only furthering Gulliver’s excitement.

"This means nothing," he drones his words and throws the toy so far it almost disappears from sight. The dog, overjoyed, runs after the ball. 

Considering that your dad’s throw has gotten weaker with age, Mihawk might have dug his own grave with the distance he made the ball fly. Gulliver will probably want another run. Or ten.

For a moment, Mihawk goes back to the fantasy of settling down with you in a mountainous wonderland. Maybe you could have a dog too? Not a mutt but a hunting hound? They look very noble.

But he shakes those thoughts away and continues chopping wood.

The dinner went well. Homemade food, family you haven’t seen in a year, the cosy and sentimental atmosphere of your childhood home… And Mihawk didn’t look as miserable as he probably felt. Although you’re enjoying this little family reunion, you seize the opportunity for solitude when it arises:

Your parents go to the kitchen to put away the dirty dishes, plate the dessert and brew some tea. Tugging on Mihawk’s arm, you pull him outside the house.

The old flooring of the porch creaks under your weight. A bright, melodic tune is carried by the wind as it brushes against the chimes hanging under the roof. The sun has recently set and the sky is still in a lovely, indigo shade. Birds croak in the distance, announcing nightfall.

His warm hand rests on your lower back. The touch makes you momentarily take a deep, relaxing breath. Your thoughts become both orderly and fuzzy as though Mihawk’s presence turned all of your wandering, useless ideas into static you can easily ignore. How can a person have so much control over you? 

Mihawk is towering over you. He tilts his head downwards to look at you. Something about his looming aura makes you feel not only protected but also well-cared-for, as though you could give yourself up to him completely and you’d still live like a queen in a castle.

“If you keep frowning, your face will stay like that,” you say to him.

Mihawk’s expression relaxes at the mere mention of his visibly bitter mood. Or maybe it softens because he’s looking at you. “I was under the impression that you’re rather fond of my face.”

“And you’d be correct. But I do have to say that seeing you tear wood apart was much better.”

You lean closer to him as you put your arms around his neck. He welcomes the gesture, allowing his hands to travel an inch or two downwards, a little too low for when one is in the vicinity of others. Especially someone’s parents.

“So my wife likes to see me do manual labour,” he states, his warm breath brushing against your cold cheeks. There’s no surprise in his voice and there shouldn’t be. He’s noticed the way you look at him when he wields a sword and Mihawk would be an awful liar if he said he doesn’t enjoy those glances.

“I like seeing you, full stop. Chopping wood is just a nice variation to the scenario. Strong arms and all that.”

The said arms pull you by your hips into a kiss. Although he’s spent only a day in this part of the region, he already smells like fresh mountain air and pine needles. Mihawk groans, feeling the curves of your body against his. He will never get enough of this. Enough of you.

“Tea is served!”

Your mother’s exclamation makes you pull away from Mihawk. He instinctively chases after your lips before letting out an annoyed sigh. A chuckle rumbles in your chest. Dracule rolls his eyes but lets you thread your fingers with his and pull him back inside the farmhouse. There, you interrupt an interesting conversation:

“Darling, when’s the cake tasting again?” your father asks while flipping through the calendar, a pencil in his hand.

“On the 25th, honey,” she answers. The dining room is immediately filled with the aroma of bergamot as your mother pours the tea. “At 6 in the afternoon.”

“Cake tasting?” you repeat in confusion. “What’s going on?”

“Our golden wedding, of course!” the older woman beams with joy. “We’ve yet to send out the invitations, though, so don’t tell anyone. Especially your aunt. Gods know she runs her mouth like it’s a marathon.”

As though you’re thinking the same thing, Mihawk and you glance at each other. The miserable, irate expression in his eyes elicits a burst of bright laughter from you. He just can’t catch a break, can he?

[incandescentwarmth]

I think my favorite wolfstar trope is Remus braiding Sirius’s hair

He did it for the first time when Sirius got sick. The curls were sticking to his fevered skin and he wanted to make sure it was out of his face. It was a lose plait in the back that looked pretty terrible and didn’t hold but it did the job and was appreciated.

A few days later, Sirius left the door to the bathroom open when he was getting ready. Remus was watching him quietly, not wanting to disturb, and saw Sirius mess with his hair before getting frustrated and brushing it back out. He did this a few times before giving up and dressing for the day. Later in the afternoon, the two were lounging on the grass in the sun and Remus asked him to sit in front of him. He made two braids on either side, they weren’t fancy but he took his time and they were clean and framed his face nicely. James came out to find them and stopped in his tracks at the smile and blush adorning Sirius’s cheeks.

Sirius never asked Remus to do it but they both knew how happy it made him to have his boyfriend’s hands in his hair so Remus was never hesitant to volunteer. It was always the simple braids though until Marlene got back from quidditch practice one night with two dutch braids that were starting to come undone from the flying. He snuck up to the girls room that night and asked how she did them.

He failed at the fancier styles the first few times, the hair would get tangled or just not sit right. It wasn’t until one night in the common room that Lily was leaning back against Mary’s leg who leaned over and whispered to Remus to pay attention. She did a long French braid down the center of Lily’s hair, going slow enough for Remus to observe. The next morning, Sirius came down for breakfast with two perfect french braids looking at Remus like he hung the moon.

[artifacts-and-arthropods]

Life-Sized Mortuary Doll from Siberia, c.250 CE: a small pouch filled with cremated human remains was tucked into the body of this mannequin, which was then stuffed with grass, dressed in furs, and buried

The mannequin measures about 1.5 meters (nearly 5 feet) tall, and it was crafted out of leather, fur, woollen fabric, tendon thread, silk, and grass. This is one of several mortuary dolls that have been found at the burial complex known as Oglakhty cemetery, which is located in the Oglakhty mountains of southern Siberia.

The mannequin's face was created from a patch of red woollen fabric; a rolled-up piece of leather was tucked beneath that patch in order to create the shape of the nose, while leather flaps were used to form the ears. Several black lines were also drawn across the face using charcoal.

The mannequin was positioned with its head resting atop a leather cushion filled with grass and reindeer fur.

Oglakhty cemetery is associated with the Tashtyk culture of southern Siberia. This article describes their unique burial practices, which often included a mix of mummification and cremation rituals:

The communities belonging to this group left numerous burial sites with an expressive funeral rite famous for its tradition of funeral masks and ‘dummies’: leather-made models of human bodies up to 1.5m in length, stuffed with grass, and  containing charred human bones.

Of special interest is the fact that different rites were used to bury individuals in the same grave: the mummies and dummies both contained human bones. Remains of the mummies, i.e. dry bodies with trepanned skulls and faces covered with gypsum masks were lying side by side with the dummies.

And as this article notes:

These mannequins or so-called ‘dolls’ are the only surviving examples of burials of this type.

It's believed that the mannequins are dressed in clothing that was originally worn by the dead people they represent. Some of the mannequins also have plaits of human hair that were likely taken from the dead just prior to cremation; the hair was then used to form neatly-braided hairpieces that were typically placed upon the mannequins' heads.

Many of the graves at Oglakhty cemetery exhibit a peculiar mix of both inhumation and cremation. That blend of rituals is often attributed to the arrival of peoples/traditions from other regions, and the cultural diffusion that gradually occurred as a result:

Different ways of burying people in the same graves in the early Tashtyk cemeteries may reflect their different origins: descendants of local population and immigrants living and buried alongside each other.

Sources & More Info:

Antiquity: Pastoralists and Mobility in the Oglakhty Cemetery of Southern Siberia

Masters of the Steppe: Mummies and Mannequins from the Oglakhty Cemetery in Southern Siberia

Quarternary International: New Results of Radiocarbon Dating from the Oglakhty Cemetery

Research Square: First Ancient DNA Analysis of Mummies from the Post-Scythian Oglakhty Cemetery

Archeotravelers: The Face Hidden Behind the Mask

Great Sites of the Ancient World: Siberia's Oglakhty Mountains

[fckmini]

Hii, im new to your blog and I love your work!! I was wondering if you could do a thranduil x fem elf reader who is the princess of nature so she can control nature etc and they could of met when they were younger and they were arranged to marry and fluffy ending please and thank you :))

I hope you like this @chocotacobread ! thank you SO much for requesting and feel free to send in any more that you have! :) im sorry it took so long!

—————————————————————————

Spring - Thranduil x fem elf! Reader romantic fluff

I’m sorry if its too waffly but i wanted to write something pretty! 

Thranduil x reader relationship - fluff and romance :)

my masterlist is here - please check out some of my other work if you can!

As always please give me some feedback and please send requests <3

this is written as a part 2 to this request!!

mutuals and ppl I think might be interested: @in-darker-dreams @tolkien-fantasy @the-messy-nessie @blairsanne @aceofatook @lilunoakes @shrimpsthings @the-nerd-procrastinator @khazdith @glorfindelridesagain @therealsomajesticdonki @catnip-and-caprice @blairsanne @leafycasper @ur-gucchi-im-crocs @thelifelemonsgaveyou @emptyspace008 @iactuallyshipeveryone @zemosboy @theelfmaiden @i-did-not-mean-to @gossip-guy-of-middle-earth @catnip-and-caprice

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It was finally spring. Its arrival had always been a cherished event in the Woodland Realm, and this year was no different. A homely warmth seeped into Thranduil's skin, embracing him tenderly. The royal garden, awash with the tender hues of spring, was alive with the soft whisper of cherry blossoms. The sun’s tender touch enlivened soft petals that danced in the wind. They swirled, fluttering gently to the ground like the delicate brush of eyelashes in the morning. The King stood, a spectator to the seasons, his thoughts drifting back in time. 

Many springs ago, this very garden witnessed the first meeting of Thanduil and his beloved wife. It had been an arranged marriage, as is custom for elven royalty. The sun had been gleaming with the same fond brightness as it was now. It cast a golden hue that glittered in the iridescent dew that adorned the grass: nature's pearls. He was waiting with bated breath to meet his betrothed when she floated in. A breath of life. A sigh of sunshine. Ripples of grass blossomed beneath each step she took, leaving a constellation of wildflowers and daisies behind her.  The air was thick with pollen, heavy with the promise of new life. Otherworldly, even amongst elves. Her very essence seemed intertwined with the earth, and the elven king had been entranced from that first moment. 

“Thranduil,” her voice had been soft, melodic, “it is an honour to meet you.”

“And you, my lady,” he had replied, bowing with a grace befitting a king, though his heart had skittered like that of a newborn deer. His eyes of starlight met hers, the deep hue of the sun at dawn. Sunshine incarnate, flowers bloomed before her, but none more so than the elven king. Her smile made the world itself seem dim, her laugh was purer than the tinkling of a rushing stream. He had worn his finest robes, plaited his silver, moonlight, hair in traditional braids. Yet, hers was ornate beyond compare, decorated with a rainbow of blooms, as opalescent as an aurora. 

In that moment, two souls had entwined, as is common in elven life-bonds. Once a sapling, their marriage blossomed into a bond that neither could have anticipated. The famously icy temperament of the king thawed beneath her touch and gaze. He melted before her. Their hands, desperate for the nourishing affection of the other, would reach out, hopeful, longing like ancient roots seeking water. The time in his life before her was but a shadow of a memory, too distant and too dark to recall. 

"My King," a loving voice broke his reverie. She approached, eternally radiant, still leaving a trail of blossoming flowers behind her.

"My queen," he replied, his voice thick with warmth and reverence.

She joined him. "It is a beautiful day, is it not?" she asked, her hand slipping into his, fitting perfectly as it always had.

"It is." He replied, their eyes met, twinkling with the same light that had captivated the other all those years ago.

Together, they stood in silence, watching the cherry blossoms continue to dance in the breeze. The soft murmur of spring stirred around them. The garden, once a witness to the beginning of their love, now stands testament to its enduring strength. Its growth, how they had flourished, was much like the nature that his queen so cherished.

As they stood there, enveloped in the beauty of spring, they both knew that their love would continue to bloom, season after season, for all eternity. 

[tobylix-blog]

Braid bickering — Legolas x Reader x Gimli

Content & Warnings: fluff

Word count: 0.5k

Summary: Legolas and Gimli get into a heated argument about braids that suit you the most. You have to intevene

A/N: I came to love them as a duo even more than separately

"Fishtails!" Gimli stomped his foot in exasperation.

"Dragonscales," Legolas retorted equally as stubbornly.

They weren't even providing reasons anymore, just stating their options. The argument had been going on for a good hour, after all. The reason though was simple and in fact rather immature — they couldn't agree which type of braids suited you more.

Gimli was set on fishtails. In his opinion they did a great job of accentuating your features just right.

Legolas opposed him with his own personal favorite, dragonscales. He fancied their weaving ornament and the way you pulled your hair out into a pretty pattern.

When you returned to the camp, they were practically gritting teeth, unable to harm each other but frustrated to the depth of their hearts. Gimli huffed angrily, while Legolas explained the problem to you, not skipping a bit saying something along the lines of "though it saddens me to acknowledge that Dwarven culture does not bear recognition of the undoubted elegance of dragonscale plaits". It took you a few moments after the elf finished speaking to understand the issue in it's fullness.

And you doubled over from laughter. The sound rang loudly across the field and river, travelling for many dozen feet from your camp and clinging to grass. You went on for a good few minutes, tearing up from the suffocating fits of laughter. Catching breath in a brief pause between spasms, you began cracking up again and again. In the end you were barely alive, holding your aching stomach and forcefully inhaling and exhaling on count.

"Fishtails and dragonscales," you began chuckling erratically once more, but quickly bit down on your lip, "are the same. Different names of one braid."

You looked up at the shocked faces of your lovely companions and wheezed, losing balance and continuing your laughing on the ground. As different as they were, in the deepest beliefs they seemed to be on the same page. Even when they didn't expect to.

Their reaction was diametrically different, though. Legolas was wide-eyed and quiet, while Gimli started mumbling something undecypherable under his nose. Seeing that, you calmed down soon enough and gave the dwarf a hug from behind, washing away his grumpiness with the soft touch. You rested your chin on his head as a playful yet affectionate gesture.

"Oh, love, I wasn't laughing at you, but at the whole exchange. Just imagine how it sounded to me," you murmured. "I'm sorry."

"So am I," intervened Legolas. "I should have expected that our cultures attach different names to the same phenomena."

As he moved closer you motioned him to join in the hug. The elf readily stepped in and embraced both of you from the front, effectively sandwiching Gimli in between.

"I'm an adult dwarf! I don't need no consolations!" he protested. But neither of you paid that exclamation any mind.

"There's no reason for such arguments. You could always simply ask me. And I would settle the issue," you spoke, gently brushing your fingertips against dwarf's shoulders. "Besides, I prefer wheat braid anyway," you remarked casually, putting the end to the pointless discussion.

"Turns out we both were wrong, after all," Gimli sighed, pressing his forehead to Legolas' chest. The elf sighed in response. His mind was busy picturing you with the wheat braids and comparing that to his favorite dragonscales, until...

"Wait, sunshine, but are those not the same- Oh, you..!"

You couldn't help the giggles, pushing away from them both and running for dear life.

[victoria-writes]

I will never forget you.

Pairing: Legolas x Reader (gender neutral)

Summary: Legolas proposes to you and reassures you that he wants to be with you. Fluff & Angst with a happy ending + bonus ending

Word Count: 1605

Notes:

Reader is human

No gender or pronouns used to refer to the reader. Reader is briefly mentioned to have short hair

MENTIONS OF DEATH (reader's). Don't read if you're not ok with thinking about your own mortality xoxo

Read it on AO3 here

Story:

It has been months since you moved to Mirkwood with the prince following the disbandment of the fellowship and destruction of the one ring. Sometimes your mind would drift to what could’ve happened had the ring fallen into the wrong hands or if any other evil lies dormant, waiting for the opportune moment to strike. You could never sit with these thoughts for long, though. Legolas seemed to have a sixth sense for when you needed to see the good in the world again. Today was one of those days. 

“Come, there is something I wish to show you”, the elf smiled as he stretched his hand out, waiting for you to take it from your place sitting in a wooden chair inside the royal palace. 

“It better not be another elk giving birth in the woods. I’m still traumatized from your idea of ‘the beauty of nature’”, you grimace at the memory still not extending your hand.

“No, no, nothing like that. I promise”, he chuckles softly.

“Fine”.

Legolas had brought you to a clearing in the forest, surrounded by old-growth trees and wildflowers. White queen anne’s lace, forget-me-nots, and flowers whose names you did not know, who only seemed to grow near where elves trot, filled your eyes. This is not the first time he’s found a quiet spot in nature to take you, and it will surely not be the last. While overlooking the rainbow of colors seemingly dancing in the field in front of you, you sneak a glance at the elf from the corner of your eye. He stands confidently with his hands behind his back next to you and smiles. If it were anyone else looking at him, they’d think he was completely at ease. Anyone but you. The look in his eyes said “Do you like it? Do you? Please tell me you like it.”. He always wanted to impress you, whether it be shooting three arrows at once when one would suffice, wearing his nicest clothes (“Legolas why are you wearing your ceremonial attire?” “Don’t worry about it, father”.), or finding the best places to take you. Be still, your beating heart. For a nearly 3,000 year old elf, he acted like a lovesick teenager. 

“It’s absolutely beautiful”, you finally say after a long silence. Legolas releases tension in his shoulders he didn’t even realize he was holding. 

“I knew you would. Let us sit in the grass.”, he guided you so that he was sitting with your back against his chest, his legs on either side. 

You felt your tongue form teasing words about him taking you on a hike to a remote spot just for a cuddle, but they faded away as he wrapped his arms around your sides and began to plant soft, slow kisses on your neck and shoulder. You melted into his warm touch. 

“May I braid your hair?”

“Yes, but there’s not much to braid.”, you reply. You had recently gotten a haircut and felt as though Legolas may be disappointed. He was very enthusiastic about your new look the first time he saw it, but now you fear he may not enjoy it. 

“Nonsense, I shall make many small plaits instead”.

“Alright”, you relaxed into his hands as he began to weave strands of hair behind you. You closed your eyes, as you reveled in the feeling of the sunlight on your face as he worked. All was quiet aside from the occasional bird chirping or squirrel running up a tree. A warm feeling took hold in your chest and you couldn’t help the smile that formed on your lips. You were safe. You were happy. You were in love. 

Millenia seemed to pass before Legolas announced he was done. True to his word, he had formed many braids in your hair. He may have gone a little overboard with just how many he made, but he just loved the feeling of being so close to you and never wanted it to end. 

“Thank you”, you whisper as your turn to face him, giving him a peck on the lips. You move your hand to feel the back of your head, itching to feel the braids your lover gifted you. Soft. Your fingers feel something soft. Something thin and soft. 

“Forget-me-not flowers”, Legolas clarified, seeing you trying to decipher with your fingers, “I thought them appropriate”.

“Why is that?” “They are gifted to one whose presence you enjoy, so as not to forget them, as the name implies. I could never forget you and I hope you would not forget me. Each past day with you is a beloved memory and each day to come cannot come soon enough. I treasure each moment with you. I feel myself drowning in my affection for you. No, peacefully swimming. I adore you. I cannot bear to be without you.”, he says softly as he holds both your hands and kisses each one, never breaking eye contact.

“Oh, Legolas”

“Meleth nîn”, he uses his hands to guide you both to your feet. As you look up into his bright blue eyes, he whispers “Please allow me to never be without you. Allow me to walk beside you for all the days we may share together before death takes us. I have lived millennia without you. Now that I know what life is like with you in it, I never want to go back. I want you with me, always.”

“Are you asking me-?”, you begin as he kneels down in front of you and pulls out a ring from his pocket.

“Y/N, will you marry me?”, he gazes at you with hope in his eyes as he lifts the ring towards you. 

“Yes. Yes. Yes!”, he quickly puts the ring on your left ring finger and you pull him into a harsh kiss. You and the elf wear matching smiles as you kiss long and hard. 

“I’m so happy, Legolas…but is this what you really want?”, your smile drops as your nerves hit you. “Of course, my love. Why do you question my intentions?”.

“It’s not your intentions that I question. It’s just that you’re…you”, you vaguely gesture at the elf.

“I’m not following.”

“You’re a prince. I’m poor. You’re an elf that’ll live thousands of years. I’m a human that’ll be lucky if I make it to 70.” “I don’t care about that.”

“Your father won’t approve.” “I care not what my father thinks. His opinion of our union will not sway me.” 

“Then what of my mortality? One day I will die and leave you alone.”

He sighs before he speaks, “I must admit I have thought long and hard on this subject. The thought of your death pains me to no end.” “Exactly. Our marriage would be short-lived in your long lifetime and I will become nothing but a memory to you, one that will fade one day.”

“What are you saying?” “I’m saying you love me now, but one day I will die and you’ll move on and I’ll mean nothing to you. One day you’ll laugh at how you ever loved a silly human”, tears began to well in your eyes, shame overtaking you as you finally let out the fears you’ve been harboring all this time. Your gaze drifts downwards, unable to face your elven lover. Legolas’ eyes widened in realization, shocked at your true feelings. He manages to compose himself and lifts your chin up with his index finger. 

“Meleth nîn, look at me. Y/N, please.”, he whispers his request. 

“It is true that my life will continue when yours ends.”

Hot tears began to run down your cheeks at this. 

“But”, he swipes the tears away with his thumb, “You will always be a part of it. Even when you are gone, I will love you. You have shown me love that I did not think was possible. When you are gone, I will visit your grave with flowers each day. I will braid my hair and miss the touch of yours. I will never remarry. I will walk the paths we have taken together. I will meditate in this very spot, remembering this moment. I will never forget you. In life and in death, we are connected. I love you”.

“And I love you”, you barely choke the words out through your tears. 

“Knowing all this, my silly human,”he teases before turning serious, “Will you marry me?” “Of course, I’ll marry you, you ridiculous elf”.

You both grin as Legolas lifts you up and spins you in his arms. When your feet are planted on the Earth again he kisses you deeply. As you feel your lips on your own, you imagine a thousand more kisses each day with him for the rest of your days. 

Bonus

Many moons have passed since your passing. Legolas meant every word of his promise and has done all that he said. Before he rests each night, he reads the book on his nightstand, your favorite book of poems. He recalls reading it to you on nights your eyes were too tired as he pet your hair while you laid on his chest. When he wakes each morning, he glares at the large empty space beside it, wishing it were you. Although his heart pangs at the loss of you, he finds joy and comfort in revisiting your old haunts, his favorite being the spot where he proposed to you. Today, our elf wanders into the cemetery. “Hello, meleth nîn”, he smiles as he places a bouquet of freshly picked forget-me-nots on your grave.

[chiropteracupola]

"What Grows on the Oak," 2024.

it's the time of year, once more, for an original spooky story!

The oak trees lie across the hills like low smoke, soft and near, and the road dips down into the valley, as inviting as any road has ever been, but the girl on the bench of the buggy on the hilltop makes no move to follow it.

Rose looks out down the road and over the hills, and taps her fingers beside her on the bench. It’s a quiet enough afternoon that there’s little other sound but the high thin sound of insects, and the wind in the long grass, and Rose’s fingers, tapping. The horse, still in harness, looks up and flicks its ear, as if in protest at the sound, and Rose sighs and forces her hand still.

There is a girl in the nearest tree, Rose notices — the fact of it is idly categorized, without true interest. All the same, the light is catching in her hair, dashing shadows over her face as she sits draped across the curve of a branch, and Rose cannot look away from her.

The Fosters, at whose door Rose waits, have no daughter — no children but the one still-toddling son, who Rose remembers as a colicky, twitchy boy. Besides, this girl looks nothing like Mr Foster and his wife, for her hair stands out about her head like a bundle of mistletoe, pale as sun-worn wood. She is, perhaps, their hired girl. Rose is struck by envy, suddenly, that the Fosters’ hired girl had the time to shinny up a tree in the last light of evening, and still would be paid for her work…

Rose sighs, leaning her chin on her hand. Perhaps it is enough for her to be her father’s driver, and to have bed and board in his house — perhaps some day there will be money for school again, in San Francisco or even out east. And perhaps it is not enough, and perhaps there will not ever be.

“Hello, doctor’s driver,” says a voice at Rose’s elbow. Rose yelps in surprise, then turns. It is the girl with the mistletoe hair — dry moss hair — hair like a cloudy day in August.

“No, you’re his daughter, are you not?” asks the Fosters’ hired girl, and Rose nods. “Miss del Llano, that’d make you.”

“Just Rose, please.” She’ll be Miss some other day — not now, in her too-short skirts and with her plait hanging over her shoulder.

“May I come up?” asks the girl.

“Surely,” says Rose, and the girl has swung herself into Rose’s father’s accustomed seat in a fluttering of pale skirts.

“Your father is the doctor — what does he do here? “He is a leech, then? A bloodletter?”

“Don’t be silly, he’s not medieval!”

“Hm-mm, I shall believe you when you prove it me,” says the girl, laughing, and leans her chin on her hand to make herself Rose’s mirror. Side by side they sit for a while, and the dark gathers in across the hills until oaks and grassland alike are made one mass of shadow. Somewhere in the trees beyond the road, a horned owl utters its deep, melancholy cry out into the dusk.

“If ghosts had telephones, I should think they’d sound rather like that,” says Rose, the early chill of after-sunset driving her quite easily to a morbid sort of cheer.

“How the times change,” says the girl, with an odd, but not entirely unhappy, look in her eyes. “No, my dear; ghosts use the same telephones as you and I, as you well know.” Rose does not know, well or otherwise, much at all about ghosts, so she nods, and feels a little more of the girl’s weight settle on her shoulder.

“You have very cold hands,” says Rose, and the girl from the oak tree smiles and taps at Rose’s cheek with clammy fingers.

“I always have, I’m afraid.”

“It’s no bother, really.” And so they sit and watch the sky, the falling-dusk and the distant fog that creeps over the hills, until there’s light, sharp as a door opening.

Rose turns, and it is only Dr del Llano, leaving his patient with his hat in his hand. She turns back, and the Fosters’ hired girl is gone.

“How is Mrs. Foster,” Rose asks, without any particular feeling in her voice, and her father shakes his head in reply. But the road down into the valley, where lies the town, is before them, and Rose is pleased enough at the journeying that she asks no further questions.

It’s in the hills and on the road that Rose meets, again, with the oak tree girl, the mistletoe girl, the girl with hands like marble in the shade. Once again, Rose is waiting for her father while he attends a patient, and, lazing in the sun, Rose has pushed the sleeves of her shirtwaist up to her elbows.

And then the girl is there again, with her shock of cobweb hair moving, ever so faintly, in a breeze that doesn’t seem to reach as far as the buggy-seat.

“Hello, my pretty-lovely,” says the girl, putting her hand out to the horse still in its traces. Though usually affectionate, the horse puts back its ears and pulls its head away.

“I don’t know what’s gotten into her,” says Rose, half-laughing. “Save your sweet words for someone who wants them, all the same.”

“Has she a name, then?”

“Other than Morgan, for what she is? Not at all,” Rose replies. Neither she nor her father have ever thought of one, for all that they’re fond of the hardworking little mare. “And have you a name, then?” For she’s remembered, now, that her oak-tree girl had never told her of it.

“I’m called Saro,” says the girl, and again swings herself up beside Rose. “What does your father do here, my Rose?”

“Oh, I oughtn’t say,” and Saro looks back at her with a stare of please? and Rose laughs and says anyway. She shouldn’t gossip, but she leans in close anyway, and whispers that “Old Man Lucas has got the clap, and him a widower these ten years!” Saro’s mouth twitches at the corners — she can’t hide her laugh for long, and it bursts, bright, out from her.

“I shall tell, I shall tell!” says she, and Rose coughs on her own laugh with a still-merry “Don’t!”

“You’ll have to catch me and make me, first!” and Saro leaps down from the buggy and runs, her skirts, her hair a flash of white in the golden-dry grass. And Rose, her spirits raised beyond what a grown girl such as herself should permit, follows. She’s less fleet-footed than Saro, earthbound still, stumbling on furrows in the land, catching her heels in ground-squirrel burrows.

Saro, she’s sure, is holding back for her benefit — letting herself be caught. And Rose does catch her, knocking her off her feet and into the grass. Saro’s laughing-merry still, her hair stuck full of grass-seed and foxtails. Close-to, Rose can see the freckles that dapple her cheeks and nose, the squint of her dark eyes when she smiles. Saro flicks Rose’s cheek, the snap of her fingers like a prickle of frost, and Rose lies there in the dusty field, entirely lost.

But Saro’s on her feet again before Rose can blink, before Rose can reach out to her, and Rose is standing, blinking in the sunlight, stumbling back to the buggy as she dusts bits of dry grass from her skirt. She buttons the sleeves of her shirtwaist again, the cuffs of which don’t quite come to her wrists anymore, and laughs when her father hands her up into her seat like a lady.

“The best whip I ever had,” he says, perfectly straight-faced.

“Gee-up!” says Rose, holding the reins in one hand and imagining herself perched atop a stagecoach. But even for all her imaginings, she’s as good a driver as her father says, and draws the horse into a gentle trot to see them home. It’s hill and dale down into the valley, hill and dale again like a song, and in the inner slopes lie trees in amid the dust-golden grasses of summer. Beneath the sparse, spreading branches, it is suddenly cooler, then warmer again, as the horse steps evenly onward and back into the sun.

“That’s mistletoe, you know,” says Dr del Llano, as he’s said a thousand times before, and points up at the gray-green mass that clings among the summer-sparse branches of an oak.

“Isn’t that for Christmastime?” asks Rose.

“It’s an odd thing we bring it in for the Nativity,” muses her father, still looking back at the tree as they pass it by. “Poison, that — and it chokes the life out of the oak tree, too. Not a kindly thing, mistletoe, but we hang it up with the flor de Nochebuena all the same…”

He doesn’t speak after that, but sings instead, an out-of-season hymn of sons newborn and deaths already foretold. If the verse telling of tombs ought to be grim, Dr del Llano doesn’t make it so, and so the story of gloom and gravity is nothing but a blithe eventuality, predicted all light-hearted by a man very certain of the truth of it.

Mrs. Foster dies soon after. Rose sits in the church as the priest says the first of the masses for her, the first of seven that her widower has paid for. She waits at the door while her father makes conversation — how she wishes he would hurry up! But the doctor in his black coat and the priest in his cassock are two crows alike, and so she is there in the doorway until her father says ‘good-by, Padre’ and comes to join her. Rose hardly has the time to shut her hymnal closed over the catalog tucked inside before he bustles past her, eager now to be on his way.

“Damned quiet place now that the mine’s shut up,” he says on the walk home, and Rose nods, though she does not remember the mine-town as her father does. She knows that there is no more coal to be had here and no more sand, and that with the mine has gone much of her father’s custom. Without black-lung and burns and broken bones, there is far less for a doctor to do in these hills.

But there is no other doctor than Juan Soto del Llano, with his limping step and his rosary about his neck and his rattletrap of a horse-drawn buggy with his only daughter to drive it, so he goes on as he has, and mends up broken bones and offers fever-cures to farmers and their wives, and to the valley townsfolk nearer home.

Henry Freeman is twenty-two, the bright young son of a new-money farmer. He is sickening for something, he is grey-faced and cold and his eyes do not focus.

Dr del Llano is at his door with hat in hand — money passes from the elder Mr. Freeman’s worn hand into his, and the doctor closes the older man’s hand over the coins. Out on the bench of the buggy, Rose scoffs and shakes her head. The fog-touched night is cold even through her coat, and she shivers involuntarily.

“He oughn’t to do such things,” she says, to no one but herself. But all the same, Rose turns her head, and Saro is there beside her, smiling.

“What oughtn’t he do?” asks Saro, with the questioning merriment in her voice that Rose has come to like so well.

“He doesn’t ask for payment, when it’s hill sickness,” and, seeing Saro’s quirk of the mouth, the way the question lurks in her well-dark eyes, Rose continues. “Father doesn’t know what it is, still, and he can’t mend it. It cannot be consumption, for it doesn’t settle in the lungs, but all the same — it is as if something is drawing out the life from them, every one.”

“So your Henry Freeman shall die, then,” says Saro, blunt.

“Don’t—“ says Rose, and stops, cold. “Who are you?” she asks, and looks Saro in the eyes, the brown of them so dark that Rose can barely find her own reflection. And the girl with the mistletoe hair reaches out, and pulls her hand across the golden curve of the hill as if she is stroking the grass that lies like dry cowhide on the ground.

“You know my name, doctor’s daughter, is that not enough?”

“Saro—“ Footsteps, and Rose’s head turns without her willing it. Doctor del Llano still has his sleeves rolled up, the edges wet from scrubbing. He doesn’t let them down again as he drags on his coat, hauling himself up to the buggy-seat as if held down by a great weight.

“Father—“ says Rose, and looks to Saro beside her, but even as she turns back, Saro is gone again.

“I’ll not talk of it,” he says, and hauls his bag into the buggy. It might well weigh as much as all the world. Rose huffs, and pulls her arms against her chest, and sets them on the road again.

And so it goes, over and over again — the Misses Hayward, unmarried, a few years older than Rose herself — Martin Foster, only three — the widow Ruiz, whose husband died down the mine before Rose was born. All of them greying, cold, dying quick. There is sickness in the hills, and it is sickness that the doctor cannot cure, and Rose — Rose finds that she barely cares. She stands in the church, once more, at Lillie Hayward’s funeral, and cannot look at the coffin, but only turns her head to search for wild light hair among the townsfolk in the pews.

But Saro doesn’t come to town; that’s not the place for her, Rose knows. How could she stay anywhere else but where the wind drags the points of oak leaves down the sky, where the tall grass parts under her hands like water?

So life goes on as it did before — the spiders building their webs across the age-grey clapboards of the doctor’s house by the old mine, the oak leaves stuck by their prickling edges to the drying wash, Rose’s father singing softly in his parents’ Spanish as he stocks his black bag at his desk in the front-room.

Rose leans against the desk, chipping at the varnish with her fingernails. In concession to the afternoon heat, the eastward window is flung open, and the thinnest breeze flicks at the pages of the last Sears catalog laid idly within her reach. She has begun to resent the sun — she closes her eyes, hunting darkness for darkness’s sake, and thinks of Saro in her white skirts, standing candle-slender in the dusk between the hills, Saro’s hands that are always cold, pressed softly against Rose’s face, her neck, her chest.

Telephone, its jangling sound sharp in the late-summer quiet — her father’s soft noises of questioning and assent — the practiced movements of putting harness to the horse. But for all that the interruption is sharp, there’s a pleased rise in Rose’s heart nonetheless, for if she is lucky, she will see Saro on the road.

She reins in the horse when her father tells her so, and hands him his bag as he jumps from the buggy — once he’s gone, Rose allows herself a secret smile. It’s early in the evening now, with the light all golden, her father’s horse with its dark mane a-gleaming in the last of the sun. Rose has a flask of coffee with her, brewed black as her father’s coat. She drinks most of it, hot and bitter, never mind that it had been meant to be shared. It doesn’t keep her awake — she drowses, head on her arms, and feels a breeze like soft hands stroke along her neck.

Today she has a headache. Her face is hot, even with her collar unbuttoned and her hat laid aside in her father’s seat. The day is warm, and the air tastes of dust, hot and dry in Rose’s throat. Saro’s hand on her cheek is as sweet and cold as anything Rose has ever snuck from the ice-house. Saro’s mouth against her neck is a cool draught.

“My dear sweet Rose,” says Saro, quiet, with only the barest hint of her usual merriment. “You’ve been ever so patient, even while I took my time with others.”

“Mm,” says Rose, and lets the weight of her body press up against Saro’s cold frame. Perhaps — perhaps that cold could leach the heavy heat from her head, the feverish blur from her eyes.

Saro’s fingers are at the buttons of Rose’s shirtwaist, now, the full breadth of her hand an ice-print on Rose’s chest. Saro from the oak tree, Saro with her hair like mistletoe. The hills rise golden around them, the wind rushing in Rose’s ears without touching her skin.

“May I?”

“Please,” says Rose, at the last, and lets Saro draw away the last of her living warmth.

[doctorbunny]

MILGRAM THEORY: The Girl in the Weakness Drawings

So in Haruka's first song Weakness, we see a variety of crayon drawings he made. Most are characters we already know:

Haruka and his (two faced) mother

Godzilla (no copyright infringement intended)

Snakes and butterflies under a big tree [I have no proof of this but it always invoked the idea of the garden of Eden in me] which also makes an appearance in Undercover on the drawing pad

But there's always been one uncertainty:

Who is this drawing depicting?

This was a heavy point of discussion back in T1 and this post by @mrgoodenough254 suddenly reminded me of the discussion

The conclusion I came to back then is that it must be Haruka, after all he's standing in front of it. It could represent how he views himself now he's older and no longer recieving the attention of his mother. A self loathing monster~

Of course, this wasn't the only explanation, some thought it could be his still unseen father or something else entirely... But having gone back for a second look, I have a good guess

The girl (who might be Haruka's sister but we don't 100% know yet, either way the one he strangles)

First: look at the hair At first I thought it was just messy like Haruka's But the part that would be Haruka's fringe trails lower, and appears to be tied into a green bow. More like a clumsy attempt at drawing how the girl's hair leads into a plait

Second: The colour of the eyes Haruka's eyes are a blue-green. But the drawing has glowing purple eyes Now, we haven't seen the girl's eyes yet. But we do know someone who has a similar colour of purple hair to her. And she has purple-pink eyes

So we can guess this is the girl's eye colour.

Third: the "mermaid's tail" The drawing doesn't specifically have legs, which is part of why I thought it looked like a monster or mermaid

It looks jagged at the bottom and there's a bunch of lines running through it However, whilst in weakness the girl is wearing a nice dress, we know she died in a middle school sailor uniform, which often have longer skirts

(you can tell because of the sailor collar, also look! her plait falls on the same side as the hair in the drawing, this will be important in a second-) This means the lines could represent the skirt folds

Final note: How the girl is drawn The first and most obvious thing to say is how she was drawn to look like a monster, what with her glowy eyes and spiky teeth And this is a common, if childish way siblings who don't get along may depict each other You don't like your brother? Draw him as a big ugly monster!!!

But I think the more interesting thing is everything else: Part of why I thought this was a drawing of Haruka for so long is because behind the hair is blue scribbling, which I figured was just part of the hair However, in weakness we see something else coloured blue

Blood (We know Haruka killed her via strangulation but its possible when she fell back she hit her head on something? Or Haruka just associates death with bleeding) The drawing also shows the arms bent at odd, stiff angles And the neck is long and crooked The 'skirt' is also ripped and covered in something green (grass stains??)

This may not just be a drawing of Haruka's sister But one depicting her death

(artist's rendition)

[arcane-apathy]

Chapter 10

Prologue | Previous | Next

AN: No you are not dreaming, I'm actually posting another chapter. Thank you all for being so patient with me this past year. I hope this chapter was worth the wait. 🌻

Warning(s): Brief talk of self-mutilation

It only took a week for Talnir to lay down the first layer of snow. The tan of the dying grass was sprinkled with snow and frost. Only to be turned into mud beneath people’s feet that same day. Despite being from a considerably warmer climate, the horde was not deterred. They donned extra layers without being told and helped the rest of the camp as they prepared for winter. The beginning of the winter rush was nothing new to you. And like most years you busied yourself with making tinctures, salves, and medicines. Making sure to use all ingredients you know would spoil if not used soon. 

  While you were busy preparing for a winter full of illness, Kurakh started a project of his own. He would leave once his food was devoured every morning and wouldn't return to your shared quarters until the last meal. You barely saw him around camp, nor did either of you speak unless necessary. It took five days for you to lose your mind because of the silence. Opting to work in the main hall with other camp members who wanted to hide away from the harsh wind.

  The main hall always brought a small smile to your face. The rebel's and the horde's children play together in the middle of the room. An Orcish woman helping braid the tail of an older Centaur. The Dwarves assess broken blades of all kinds. An Elven man was teaching a group of teenagers how to build arrows. Everyone sat in groups, no matter their race. Across the hall, you could see Schelura doing the hair of a younger Orc woman. The intricate style was already full of beads by the time you made your way over. 

  “Oh hello,” Schelura smiles and motions to an empty spot on the table, “have a seat.” You set your tools on the table and sit down, openly staring at Schelura’s handiwork. “Do you want to be next?” 

  “It’s tempting, although that’s a lot of beads…” 

  “She’s trying to catch a young warrior’s eye… Maybe you need this style too,” she teases. 

  “You’re ridiculous,” you roll your eyes. 

  “And you’re blind,” Schelura scoffs. “This is a more traditional plait since his parents are more set in the old ways. I’d give you something different… What do normal Vorren women do with their hair?” 

  "We usually just weave ribbon into our braids. Our hair is usually covered because you're clergy, or due to the cold."

  "Such practical people."  You roll your eyes at her comment and begin measuring out your ingredients. Schelura and the girl start to gossip while you ignore them to focus on the task at hand. "And Kurakh is away checking and setting up traps all day. I wonder what he's trying to catch, he comes back nearly every night looking frustrated." 

"Wait that's why he's gone all day," you look up from your herbs. 

The younger girl turns her head as much as Schelura would allow, "you didn't know?" 

Schelura laughs, "somebody might be getting a gift soon" 

"A courting gift, now that's romantic," the younger orc swoons. 

"Oh I don-" 

"He hasn't told you about it, he's gone all day, and he's constantly frustrated things aren't going as planned. If it isn't a courting gift, I permit you to cut off my hand," Schelura deadpans. 

 "You know I wouldn't do that unless it was at serious risk of infection or severely mangled ." 

  "Maid, that is not the point I am trying to make," she scoffs at your logic. You didn't even get to properly glare before she scolded you, "don't even look at me like that! Kurakh is one of the easiest men to read, like a warg pup."

"I don't even know what a warg pup looks like Schelura," an exasperated sigh leaves your lips.

"Cuter than you'd expect," the younger girl smiles while Schelura repositions her head. "I also heard he threatened a Tiefling in the courtyard yesterday for disrespecting you." 

  "That sounds likely,” Schelura smirks. 

  "You've made your point very clear Schelura," you roll your eyes and refocus on your craft. 

  "Then you should make sure Kurakh is aware that you know. He needs to know if you reciprocate or not. Not knowing is currently driving him crazy. And if you don’t want his advances he should know before he goes too far.”

  “And how do I do that?” 

  Schelura smirks, “you can start by letting me do your hair.” 

  "I'd rather not think of my hair, it has been so long since I washed it last. " 

  "You haven't gone to the hot springs yet?" 

  "And have strangers see me bare," you flush at the thought. 

  "The girls and I could go with you, and if we go in the evening there shouldn’t be that many people." 

  "I would appreciate the company," a rare smile graces your lips. 

  "We'll go tonight, I've been dying to wash off with something other than cold water." That evening you dropped Mazna off with Roldza, luckily without much fuss. And you left a note for Kurakh since he had yet to return. With your only clean change of clothes and bath oil in hand, you meet the girls in the hall. Maaga and Galta were both equally excited to relax in the warm waters that lie further within the former mine. Like Schelura said there was hardly a soul in the springs. Only a few elven girls sat in one of the smaller pools, applying oils to their hair. 

  With the safety of only being surrounded by women making you more confident you begin to undress. Schelura was the first one in, with a massive smile on her face, "definitely better than cold water and a bucket." You slowly follow in behind her, minding your steps on the slippery rocks beneath you. The water was certainly warmer than any water you bathed with before. After waiting a few minutes, thankfully there was nothing within the water that would irritate your wound. You take the chance to properly inspect it, not having to hide in the shadows from Kurakh. 

  "Is it still bothering you," Maaga asks concerned. 

  "Not as much as it used to, it'll be an awful scar." 

  "There is no such thing as awful scars in our culture," Galta chuckles. "I mean just look at Kurakh. Blind in one eye from one and littered with dozens smaller than that. And Orkisch women swoon over him every day... Well, the ones who don't know him like we do."   

  "Men can be scarred all they want in my culture, but for women it's unsightly."

  "The more I learn about your culture the more it pisses me off," Maaga groans. 

  "How do you think I feel," you scoff and sit on a rock in the water. The warm, mineral-rich water goes up to your shoulders. Galta dunks herself beneath the water with a smile. The whispers of the Elven girls were welcomed in comparison to the noise of the main hall, or Mazna throwing a fit. You slowly sink below the surface after getting more accustomed to the water temperature. The voices above you became louder, and you could practically feel the grime melt away.

  The light burn in your lungs prompted you to stand again. The water trickled down your back as you wiped your face. The cold air of the cavern causes goosebumps to bud across your skin. Once the water was out of your eyes you refocused on the rocks ahead. Trying not to stare at anyone in particular. Schelura scoffs and moves beside you, trying to run her fingers through your soaked hair. "This won't do... Don't worry I brought tools for this." She reaches for her comb and motions for you to sit on the rocks again. 

  "I can brush my hair." 

  "I'm aware, but I need to prep it for braiding tomorrow." 

  "Fine," you sigh and try to relax as she works the comb through the ends of your hair. Luckily it felt much better than Mazna playing with your hair at night. Out of the corner of your eye, you watch Schelura reach for the pool edge again, followed by a light herbal smell. "What's that?" 

  "A hair oil," she hums as her hands gently massage your scalp. "Your hair is damaged from the fabric of your headcover. It is too rough... I might need to make you something stronger. You also need a trim; your ends are a mess." 

  "I get it, my hair is awful." 

  "It just needs more than a hairbrush," Schelura chuckles. "Don't worry, you're in good hands," she emphasizes by massaging the back of your neck. You couldn't help but hum in relief, fighting not to melt into her touch. "your muscles are just as stiff as the warriors. You know, for a healer you are terrible at taking care of yourself." 

  An ache settled in your stomach. Schelura was one of many people to point it out to you. Usually, you'd be able to blame it on your duty. The life of a Maid of Eia was busy, even before the King declared war. Maaga seemed to sense this ache, moving closer to the two of you, "so how long until we have snow up to our knees?" 

  You smile softly as you welcome the distraction, "I'd say another month. It's supposed to be a late winter this year. Or as we say in the clergy, Talnir is lazy this year." 

  "Talnir?" 

  "The Spirit of Winter, son of Sokastr and Sala." 

  Galta laughs, "because that explains so much." 

  "The number of deities your people have is ridiculous," Maaga chuckles before dipping her head below water. 

  "It's a lot to remember," you sigh as Schelura's hands leave your scalp. "Honestly I forget most of it now. Just the stories we were told as kids. And the weird stuff you can't forget how much you try." 

  "How weird," Maaga looked apprehensive to ask. 

  "Eia's parents are aunt and nephew." 

  "That's not too bad," Galta relaxes against the pool's edge with her eyes closed. 

  "When creating their children, the elder gods forgot about procreation. So, the new gods had to create their genitalia. Eia took it upon herself to create the females by cutting herself open. Using her muscles to create a womb, and cutting between her legs. Hence the monthly cycle and the pain of childbirth." Galta and Maaga wince, and Schelura groans. "Want to know how Lantes created male gen-" 

  "Absolutely not."

  "Don't even dare." 

  "I'm close enough to push you underwater." Despite the threats you all laugh. A rare deep belly laugh escapes you. It has been so long since you've laughed like that it almost scared you. The good mood carried through as the four of you finished bathing. You felt the most relaxed and clean you've been in ages.  The clean change of clothes felt heavenly against your skin. Per Schelura's orders, your damp hair flowed down your back as it air-dried. The only bad thing was that you now needed to launder your only other set of clothes. 

  You returned to your quarters with your things in your arms, greeted by the smell of food cooking. Kurakh looks up from the pot but doesn't say anything. His good eye was looking you up and down. His silence was killing you, “is something wrong?” 

  “The scouts spotted a battalion just north of us. We'll ride out before dawn to intercept them." 

  "I should probably pack my supplies-" 

  "You're staying here." 

  "Kurakh, I can be careful." 

  "You are what they want. It would be surrender if you came with." You knew this tone well, Kurakh's words were final. And you didn't want to ruin your evening by wasting your breath. "That was easier than I expected," he smirks.

  "I don't feel like ruining my good mood," you set the dirty clothes in the corner. Hopefully, you won't forget them come morning. Kurakh doesn't say anything, choosing to stare at your hair instead. "Will you at least wake me up before you leave?" 

  "Of course, Odmili," he motions for you to sit. "The stew is almost ready." 

  "Rabbit?" 

  "They are plentiful here." 

  "I fear you will run out of recipes before you run out of rabbits," you sit cross-legged beside him on the bedroll. He breathes out a laugh while handing you a bowl. A plate of Freronbrod on the ground beside the two of you.

  "Your kingdom will run out of rabbits before the horde is full." 

  "Your fault for coming in the winter," you snicker as you dip your bread in the stew. Kurakh elbows you in the rib playfully, his worried expression having finally worn away. You smack him in the chest as retaliation, a challenging look in your eyes. For once you didn't recognize the expression on his face. He looked conflicted like something was holding him back. His eye goes back to your hair, nose twitching. "What?" 

  "It's nothing."

"Considering the face you're making; I highly doubt that. Is it my hair?" 

   "Not necessarily... What oil did they put in your hair?" 

  "I don’t know. Schelura only scolded me for how unhealthy my hair is." 

  "That makes sense. I think Schelura is trying to make a fool of you." 

  "What do you mean?" 

  Kurakh sighs, "Orcs have a stronger sense of smell. Because of that, hair and body oils tend to have different meanings. And the one Schelura used on you… Well, it’s supposed to be seductive." 

  Immediately blood rushes to your cheeks, “you can’t be serious.” 

  “I wish I weren’t,” his lips parted as he tried breathing more through his mouth. 

  “I can go sleep with the girls tonight, considering they’re the ones who got me into this mess.” 

  “No,” Kurakh said rather quickly, “I can handle it.” He smiles sheepishly and continues to eat his soup. You decided not to press any further and do the same. Once the two of you finished eating you took it upon yourself to clear up the dishes. 

  “Do you have anything that needs to be laundered? I’ll be cleaning my spare clothes tomorrow.” 

  “I’ll leave a few things on the pile you’ve made. I know Mazna has a few tunics as well.” There was a quiet hiss of a blade leaving its sheath from behind you, soon followed by it scrapping the whetstone. “Do you not have any more clothes?” 

  You glance over your shoulder, hands still in the tub of cold soapy water used for cleaning, “I do not.” Stew was easy to clean off the wooden bowls, you hardly needed to look at what you were doing. “Clergy life is not as luxurious as people think. I had my own room, but it was tiny and drafty. The library barely had anything other than medical tomes. Three flavorless meals a day. We had no days off because ailments and childbirth don’t care for the calendar. And I would be lucky to get a new apron for my birthday.”  

  “Just enough to keep you from complaining about working for no pay I presume?” 

  “A twenty-pence on high holidays, which there are five of in a year,” anger made itself known in your gut. Stomach turning as you tried to ignore it, “it would take me three years to make enough for taxes. Luckily I don’t have to pay taxes. But I do have to catch a deadly disease, get robbed while traveling from town to town, never see my family again, or get captured by the enemy in a pointless war!” The scraping of the blade stops and so do you, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to yell.” 

  Kurakh motions for you to return to the bed roll. Patiently waiting as you dump the dirty water into the floor drain. “I wish you would stop apologizing for being your true self.” You pause and open your mouth to rebut, yet nothing comes out. “It is as if you are playing a character,” he gently takes your hand to pull you closer. “When I see that fire in your eyes, I’m reassured that there is a real person hidden within. You need to break free.” 

  “Kurakh, I hardly know how,” the words barely above a whisper. 

  “We can teach you. Remember you are one with the horde now, and we take care of our own.” 

[viric-dreams]

The change happens so gradually you don’t even notice it, but from one moment to the next the cobblestones beneath you turn to grass. A budding flower snakes its way up your ankle, winding up around your knee before it blooms and its petals scatter to the wind. Following the drift of petals, a figure catches your eye, hovering on the horizon, one that feels hauntingly familiar, despite the differences you can’t quite place. Her hair hangs wild, loose from its plait, a bedsheet barely held in place around their body by tangled plant growth. Except his eyes–those eyes.

Unable to get the image out of my head ever since @eddie-dearest's Arnaud described Ockham as an angel.

All of that cosmogone's burning its way through Ockham's system, struggling to convert it as quickly as possible--an engine running at full throttle, slowly overheating, meltdown imminent. But there have been more lethal things loose in London, particularly this time of year. What's one more menace?

[lessi-lover]

ILYSM- maybe when reader is feeling a bit down and viv makes sure she feels supported and loved? love you!!

you understand me II v.miedema x reader

summary: you have a panic attack but your girlfriend is there for you. ★ you understand me II v.miedema x reader

the grass glistened under the floodlights, raindrops blending with beads of sweat, as they traced the curves of exhaustion etched into every player's face.

but there was one face amongst both teams that shone with a fierce focus, a resilience that the torrents of the weather couldn't dampen, - vivianne miedema arsenal's star striker, or better known to you, your girlfriend.

the final whistle blew, signalling another hard-earned victory, another night where your team would travel home scraping out yet another difficult win, another night in which you and your girlfriend would fall into bed with sore muscles, tired eyes, but hearts full. you barely noticed the weight of the rain soaking your kit; the thrill of the tough win lingering heavily on your mind.

you pushed through the stadium's corridors, the sound of your boots against the concrete creating a steady rhythm in your ears, as your head began to space out.

reaching your locker room, you immediately stripped yourself of your rain soaked clothes, immersing yourself in the warmth of the shower. you scrubbed your body clean, a few nasty tackles had resulted in a lot of grass stains, and a few small cuts that you knew your girlfriend would fret over, much to your displeasure.

drying yourself, you dressed yourself in your girlfriends, your plain cream shorts, and an arsenal hoodie you had been gifted by Steph, for secret santa. you brushed your wet hair, neatly braiding it into a plait, before packing away your belongings and heading out of the stadium.

walking out, you were met with a dizzying amount of photographers shouting your name, and yelling out questions. your mind raced, the pounding in your ears unwavering. you pushed your way past begrudgingly, your usually patient persona completely left behind.

as you neared the bus, you pulled your hood over your head, there was only one person you wanted to see right now.

you knew Viv would be waiting for you at the end of the bus, her arms open widely, with a comforting smile adorned on her face, and with the exact words you needed to hear.

walking past the girls seated on the bus, you could feel a swell of emotions cloud your head. the chatter and laughter of your teammates became a distant hum, as you felt tears brim in the corners of your eyes. each step towards the back felt heavier, laden with the weight of the 90 minutes you challenged your body to play for.

despite your best efforts to stay composed, the strong walls you had built up began to crumble, dragging you down in the destruction. you felt your last veneer of strength begin to fade, mirroring the harsh toll of your day. the barrage of flashing cameras, loud speakers, invasive fans and the sheer physical exertion of the game, left you utterly drained and with nothing to do but try and gather the pieces by yourself.

you longed for solitude, for a single moment in which you could just be you. The persona of the calm, enthusiastic, indefatigable athlete was a heavy mask to wear, and in this moment you felt it start to slip.

nearing the end of the bus, your steps became slow, your laboured breaths echoing in your ears. you yearned for viv. her presence was a light in the haze of your crowded head, a promise of comfort and love. she knew the unspoken battles, the silent sacrifices, the relentless push against one's limits that came with the demanding lives you both chose.

finally reaching viv, you saw her sitting down, arms open, a sanctuary in the storm. her smile, so raw and familiar, able to soothe your nerves. she didn't need to speak any words; her presence was comforting enough. in her arms, you found a haven, a safe place, one where you could let the facade you had built fall away, and just be yourself, vulnerable and real.

collapsing into her embrace, the tears that had been threatening to spill finally fell down your cold cheeks. viv held you, her arms wrapped tightly around your body, her heartbeat beating steadily against your own. "you're okay, darling," she whispered into your damp hair, the three words alone enough to mend your heart all over again. "everything is going to be alright, love." she reminded you, her arm rubbing soothingly up and down your back.

"you're safe." you sniffled, air getting caught in your throat. "you're beautiful." your tears began to subside. "you're talented." your breaths returned to their normal pace. "you're loved." she kissed your forehead, her thumb wiping away your dry tears.

"i love you, vivvy."

you nestled your head into the crook of her neck, her comforting arm never leaving you. gazing out the window, you watched as the rain drops traced effortlessly down the glass, the journey seeming aimless yet purposeful, much like the swirl of emotions you felt yourself. the rhythmic pattern of the rain against the roof provided a calming background noise, to the turmoil of thoughts swimming through your head.

you felt yourself become grounded, safe in her arms.

there was nowhere else you had to be, nobody else you needed to be with.

you found your solitude, right there in the arms of your favourite person. right there in the arms of the girl who would be able to mend your broken heart over and over again. right there in the arms of the only girl who truly understood you, and you understood her.

[skyeeuphixia]

𝚃𝚘𝚖𝚖𝚢 𝚂𝚑𝚎𝚕𝚋𝚢 // 𝚆𝚑𝚒𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝙷𝚎𝚛 𝚂𝚒𝚕𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚎

Thomas Shelby x lover oc (dorothy)

in which tommy comes home to sights worse than war

═════•°• ⚠ •°•═════

warning/s: mentions of war

words: 2.5k

═════•°• ⚠ •°•═════

If there was one constant in Tommy's life, it was his girl. Dorothy.

Through all his hardships, she was right there by his side. The two of them were like something out of a storybook, they were always in their little world as if they were constantly walking through a serene forest specifically crafted for them, rather than the smoky streets of small heath. When she was around, nothing else mattered to him. 

From the first day he met her, he was captivated by her, and no matter how many times his brothers or Aunt Polly rolled their eyes or teased him for saying so, he knew he'd marry her one day.

•°• ⚠ •°•

June, 1897

"You alright?" A young boy asks, standing close to her. 

Dorothy was walking home from school, her pristine braided plaits bouncing as she walked. She was looking down at her feet as she walked, something her mother often yelled at her about as it would 'ruin her posture'. Her mind was filled with the little symphonies she constantly composed, melodies meant to drown out the relentless clatter of the factories meaning she didn't hear the sound of speeding footsteps running toward her.

Suddenly someone barrelled into her shoulder harshly, causing her to tumble to the ground. Her eyes cloud with tears as she feels the harsh sting of her hands and knees colliding with the cobblestones. The person who collided with her didn't even look back, but it was the person who was chasing him that stopped. 

Dorothy looked up to be met with the brightest blue eyes she's ever seen, they were so hypnotizing that she almost forgot what he asked her. 

She wiped her eyes as she was adamant that she doesn't cry in front of people. She huffed as she sat up, mumbling, "What do you think?"

The boy holds his hand out to Dorothy, which she begrudgingly takes and he pulls her to her feet.

"You're bleeding'" He observes, looking at her grazed hands and scraped knees. 

"Oh well spotted," she snaps slightly.

"Hey, I wasn't the one that pushed ya. That was Freddie you should be mad at him," He points out, once again she just pouts and huffs slightly. He takes her hand, or more so he holds onto her fingers to avoid touching the scrapes on her palm and hurting her further, and her begins walking with purpose.

"What are you doing?" Dorothy asks, trying to pull her hand away, but his calloused hand is stronger than hers.

"I'm Thomas Shelby, by the way," the boy introduced himself, without looking up from his task.

He didn't say anything and something in her just told her to trust him, so she went with him willingly. He pulled her towards the cut. Once they arrive, he sits her down on a small chunk wall. He takes out a handkerchief from his pocket, dipping it into the water. Once satisfied he walks back up to her and kneels in front of her, gently padding the handkerchief against her knee, wiping away the dirt and blood. 

Dorothy winced, and each time he softened his touch, as if he were learning how to be gentler.

"Dorothy Hawthorne," she mumbled shyly.

"That's a long name...I'll call ya Dottie," He decided, as he moved to wipe her hands.

"I'd prefer if you didn't," 

"Too late, Dottie it is,"  he replied, a sly grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.

•°• ⚠ •°•

From that moment onwards, Tommy was infatuated with 'his Dottie'. He started going to school more often to catch a glimpse of her, he would even ditch his brothers to be around her, it was quite annoying in Dorothy's opinion. But over the years, and as he refused to leave her alone, she decided to give the boy a chance and pretty soon they were best friends in every sense of the word. 

"I don't need you to be anyone, other than who you are Tommy," she'd say, running her fingers through his hair as they lay in the grass, heads tilted towards the sky.

Dorothy and Tommy couldn't pinpoint when the line between friends and love began to blur, but by the time they were 15, there was no doubt they were in love. To Tommy, Dorothy was the light that made his life a little less grim. With her soft red curls that always perfectly caught the sun and her eyes that shone with optimism that no one in the dreary city shared, she truly was everything Tommy thought he didn't deserve.

Dorothy had this way of making Tommy feel genuinely seen and heard. They would take regular walks around the canal and to the nearby fields, hand in hand where she would listen to him with a patience that no one else gave him. He would ramble on, he'd rant, and, being quite the dreamer back then, share his grand plans of rising above it all, of making a name for himself. And Dorothy, always with that quiet belief in him, never doubted that he would.

"Always know how to ground me, eh Dot?"

"Don't call me that,"

When everything in his life went wrong, it was Dorothy he ran to.As long as she was around, Tommy could smile, laugh, and joke, like nothing else mattered. He was always longing for the feeling of her arms thrown around his neck as they looked at each other longingly. She was his anchor, his constant—his safe place in a world that often felt too harsh.

But when the war came, it shattered the fantasy they had built together. They were ripped from the little world they had created, and everything changed. Tommy could still remember, with painful clarity, the day he told her he was leaving. And even more vividly, the day he left.

•°• ⚠ •°•

August, 1914

"Talk to me, Thomas," she whispers, her voice cutting through the silence.

The sky hung low and heavy across Birmingham, with thick clouds threatening to rain and a cool breeze in the air carrying the last whispers of summer with it. They were once again in the field, both sat under a tree. Their tree. 

Tommy was laid back on his hands while Dorothy lay beside him, her head resting on his chest. Her fingers delicately trailed along his shirt, and for a while, the world felt calm. But Dorothy could feel it in how quiet he was and the way he held her, that something was wrong.

He didn't reply to her at first, his gaze remaining out on the sky. The tension in the 24-year-old's jaw was visible, and eventually, his blue eyes met hers, clouded with emotion that Dorothy hadn't seen in him before, "I enlisted, in the war. My brothers and I leave in a few days,"

For a moment, the world seemed to stop. Dorothy's breath caught in her throat, her heart hammering in her chest. She had known, of course, that this day might come. Everyone in Small Heath had been talking about the war for weeks now, the rumors, the uncertainty. But hearing it from Tommy—her Tommy—made it all too real.

"A few days?" She whispers, her breath catching in her throat, her hand coming up to cup his cheek. "Tommy you...you can't, there must be something-"

"Dottie," He interrupts, his hand coming up to hold hers, his eyes softening, "I have to. It's happening, I have no choice"

Tears welled in her eyes, but she blinked them back, refusing to let them fall. Not yet. Not in front of him. Instead, she tried to be strong, tried to smile the way she always did when the world felt too heavy. “Then I’ll come with you,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “I’ll wait for you, wherever you are.”

Tommy gave a sad chuckle, shaking his head. "You know you can't love."

“I can,” she insisted, the desperation in her voice growing with every word. “I’ll follow you anywhere, Tommy. You know that. I don’t care where it is.”

Without saying a word, he pulled her close, wrapping his arms around her like he could shield her from the storm that was coming. She buried her face in his chest, breathing him in, clinging to the moment, knowing it was slipping through her fingers.

"You'll wait for me here," he murmured, his voice low in her ear. "And I'll come back. I promise."

•°• ⚠ •°•

The train station had never been busier than the day that they left. Part of Dorothy prayed Tommy would get stuck in the crowd and miss the train by some miracle, but it seemed that God had too many prayers to answer that day, before she knew it, he was in front of her, holding her tightly for what felt like the last time.

"You better come back" she whispers.

"You know I will," he whispers back, his voice fighting to remain steady. The whistle of the train pirces through the station and with one last squeeze, Tommy let her go, running toward the train. The platform was flooded with women and children, waving tearful goodbyes to husbands, fathers, brothers, and sons. Dorothy stood frozen among them, her heart in her throat as she watched him leave.

Tommy stuck his torso out the narrow compartment window, a boyish grin on his face despite everything, his brothers laughing at him from behind. Dorothy rushed to him, her hands gripping the window’s edge as she stood on her toes, catching his lips in a desperate, emotional kiss.

"We'll be back by Christmas, Dottie,"

"How many times do I have to tell you not to call me that?" She chokes out.

"At least one more," he chuckles, his hand reached for her cheek, lingering for just a moment longer, before the train began to pull away, taking him from her.

•°• ⚠ •°•

But they weren't home by Christmas, Four long, torturous years passed, and with each one, Tommy lost a part of himself. The war had stripped him bare—his smile faded, his jokes became rare, and his laugh was carried away on the bitter winds of France. The man who had once been full of life felt like a shadow of himself. 

However there was the occassional glimps of light amidst the chaos. Everytime a letter from Dorothy arrived, a flicker of his old self returned and for a brief moment he could smile again. He kept every single letter she sent, tucked safely in the pocket of his uniform—right over his heart, the only thing still capable of keeping him grounded in the hell they were living through. 

Feeling them was his only motivation to keep going.

He had promised her he'd come back for her.

Over time, the letters became less and less frequent, but that didn't come as a surprise to Tommy. There wasn't much for him to tell her, what was there to say when everyday was filled with dirt and death? And Dorothy...had already used all variations of words in the English dictionary to say she loved him.

"You better come back" she had said.

Eventually, the day came that he could go home. His brothers were engaged in a deep conversation about home, while Tommy looked out the window at the rolling fields, but he wasn't really seeing them. His thoughts were miles away, buried deep in the trenches of France, where everything had been consumed by mud, blood, and fire. Sure the war was over now, but it clung to him, a shadow that refused to lift.

He shifted in his seat, adjusting the hat pulled low over his eyes as if the familiar flat cap could shield him from the memories clawing at the edges of his mind. The trenches had been hell, but it wasn't the mud or the screams that haunted him most...it was the silence. The silence that stretched on when the gunfire stopped when the dead lay still, and all he had left were his thoughts. And his thoughts always went back to Dorothy.

And he had promised. He had told her he would come back. But the Tommy who had made that promise...that boy...was gone. The war had taken him, just like it had taken everything else.

Once they arrived at Small Heath, John, and Arthur wasted no time going to the Garrison, but Tommy just wanted to see his girl. The streets were the same, but they felt different—empty in a way they hadn't before, but something gnawed at him, a sense that the world he had left wasn't quite the same one he had come back to.

It wasn't until he saw the posters that the dread set in.

His Dottie's face was on every wall, lamppost, and window. Her name in big bold letters:

MISSING, DOROTHY HAWTHORNE

Dorothy's bright smile stared back at him, but it was a mockery now, surrounded by a message that chilled his bones. Tommy stopped dead in his tracks, staring at the poster as though it couldn't possibly be real. His heart pounded in his chest, a thousand thoughts racing through his mind, but all he could do was stand there, frozen.

When the words sunk in, he ripped the poster of the wall, crumpling it in his fist, before shoving it into his pocket. Without a second thought, he marched straight to the old betting den, his heart pounding with a mix of disbelief and rage. The moment he burst through the door, his eyes found his Aunt Polly. She barely had time to acknowledge him before he slammed the poster down on the table in front of her.

"How long?" His voice sharp, like a knife ready to cut thriugh whatever lies had been kept from him.

Polly looked up at him, and for the first time, Tommy saw the deep sadness in her eyes, the kind that spoke of years spent carrying the weight of a world no one else could understand. It seemed like she had been holding it all together for far too long.

"Just over ten months now," her voice quiet almost like she was bracing for a storm.

"10 months...10 MONTHS! AND NO ONE THOUGHT TO TELL ME?!" He raged, smashing one of the glasses on the table. Polly knew that Tommy had a temper, he was bound to inherit something from his father, but this was anger she hadn't seen from him. The war had made him harder, darker, and she had a sinking feeling this kind of fury might become a new part of him.

"You were at war Thomas, facing god knows what. We didn't want to give you a reason to go out and get yourself killed," 

Thomas couldn't bare to listen to another word, storming out of the house towards their field, their sacred place. The same picture of him mocked him the whole way there. But when he got there, it was no longer the sactuary that he remembered. The wildflowers were gone, wilted and forgotten. The birds that once filled the air with song were silent. The sky above was a dull, lifeless grey, and the entire world felt void of her, as if she had taken all the light with her when she left.

Her name caught in his throat, a whisper at first, then a desperate cry torn from his chest.

“DOTTIE!”

His voice echoed through the empty field, but it brought no comfort, no answer...just the sound of it fading into the wind, as hollow and lost as he felt.

•°• ⚠ •°•

(fin)

part 2?

[azsazz]

Here for You

Azriel x Reader (Zuzu Centered)

Summary: Anon Request: could we get something zuzu centered? we don’t get enough of the girls, and it would be so sweet to see az being a girl dad and y/n being a girl mom for a bit 🥹 maybe them being super excited to finally have a baby girl, when she’s really young or something? whatever you thinks best!

Warnings: None

Word Count: 1,076

_________________________________________

“C’mon Zuz! Keep going, you’re almost there,” Azriel shouts from your side.

You can’t contain the smile on your face, beaming as your daughter races across the open field on her little legs, kicking the ball with a determined look on her face. Her sleek black hair is twisted into tight plaits courtesy of her father, who had – like all things – studied the intricacies of braiding until he was near perfect. There had been many late nights you and your husband had spent together, letting him practice different hairstyles on you while you read, tucked up as far into his warmth as you could, giving him gentle reminders and praises on his final looks.

Zuzu also has dark streaks of paint on her cheeks, a gift from Uncle Cassian, who’d also given her a pep talk before her Moonball game had started. Between him, Azriel, and Rhys, you didn’t know who was cheering the loudest for your little girl, and your heart is bursting with joy at the pride your family is showing in the matching ‘Zuzu Rules’ shirts Rhysand had made for their final game.

Malos pouts where she’s been jostled in Azriel’s arms, on the verge of falling asleep when he’d excitedly begun cheering as Zuzu was passed the ball. Nesta notices at the same time, and is quick to take the babe and soothe her, waving a dismissive hand to Azriel who gives her an apologetic look for a brief moment before returning his gaze to the Moonball game before him. 

He’s nearly vibrating with excitement, and you’ve had to pull Baz out of the way as his wings flared when one of the children on the other team had stolen the ball from Zuzu. 

She’s certainly come a long way since her first game, where the same thing had happened and she’d tried to pummel the child into the ground for doing so. You had glared at your husband and his brothers who had all ducked their heads to hide the grins they were biting back. That was their girl.

Even your older sons had stopped their game of playing warrior to come cheer on their sister, their cousins pushing between all of the tall adult legs for a better view.

One of the children in a navy jersey chasing Zuzu towards the goal suddenly trips and falls into the grass with a surprised gasp but Zuzu doesn’t take notice. Unfortunately, you do, shooting Baz a warning look that says he’s going to get in trouble when he gets home. He’s only eight but he’s already learned a multitude of tricks with his shadows, and to an untrained eye they would’ve thought the child had merely tripped. You knew better than that, and by the way Baz switches sides with Wren so he’s standing further away from you with red cheeks and hunched shoulders, he did too.

Even Knox is intently watching his sister race across the grass. The midnight purple of her jersey brings out the ribbons in her hair, provided by her Auntie Elain and Uncle Lucien, who hadn’t been able to make it, as they were visiting Day for a surprise getaway. 

“Come on baby, come on baby,” you mutter under your breath as she goes. Two children from the opposing team are blocking the way and if she uses her wings again she won’t be able to join the team next season, so you pray to the Mother she doesn’t flare those little wings wide and sweep these kids off of their feet.

“Yes, Z!” Wren jumps, shouting at his sister as she side-steps the offending players. He’d taught her that move when Uncle Cassian hadn’t been playing very fair in the backyard. Everything she’s learned about Moonball had been from her brothers and the rest of her family. She’s a warrior through and through, tough as nails and never backs down even when she was learning with all of the roughness her brothers and male cousins showed. Asteria hadn’t shown interest in the sport, instead she liked playing with her dolls and putting them in poses to draw in her coloring book.

“You got this, Zuz,” Baz encourages, while Jax claps his tiny hands and chants her name over and over again.

Your entire family holds their breath as she sets herself up to kick the ball into the goal. The child in the goal has a ready stance that’s startling for that of someone so young. He looks nearly professional, arms spread wide, knees bent, with a determined look in his eye. He and Zuzu had faced off before, and even her brothers had complimented how good he was at the sport.

Zuzu had scored against him this season once. The other time she had the chance, the little boy had blocked her ball from hitting the goal and you almost hadn’t stopped the rest of your sons from running out onto the field to defend their sister from the goalie who had gloated more than Cassian when he’d won the annual snowball fight, a smug smile on his face.

She’d been more determined than ever, immediately asking her brothers to go out into the yard with the instruction not to go easy on her.

Zuzu cocks her leg back. There’s steely determination in her fierce eyes. Her mouth is set in a firm line as she stares down the child like he’s her worst enemy.

And maybe he is.

The entire field is silent as her leg swings forward. The ball goes soaring through the air, looking like a shooting star, and everyone waits.

The child in the goal pushes off of the ground, throwing his body sideways into the path of the ball.

But he’s too late.

Your family erupts in mass of cheers and excitement, storming the field to gather the star player in congratulations and celebratory hugs. 

She’s beaming, grinning like the day you and Azriel had told her that she was going to have a little sister.

Azriel hikes her up on his shoulders, spinning her around as the other parents gather their children and usher them away, but you don’t care, so utterly proud of Zuzu for scoring the winning goal of the game.

Her braids flop against her shoulders as she twirls, giggling like a mad woman and hands raised in the air in victory. 

“I did it! I did it,” she screams.

And you couldn’t be more proud.

[vivwritesfics]

COMING AT YOU WITH A SOFT BOY RHETT!

He’s working on his ranch when a horse comes onto his land and it’s fully tacked but there is no signs of the rider. It’s spooked but he manages to calm it down and catch it. He’s tacks up his own horse and goes on the search for the missing rider! - nurse-sainz 🥰🥰🥰

I'VE BEEN THINKING ABOUT THIS SOOOOOOOOOOOOO FUCKING MUCH

Rhett x english rider omg

Rhett Abbott sleeping in his truck was nothing new. He was usually sleeping off a hangover, and that morning was no different. He knew he had chores to do, which might have been why he slept in his truck. Waking up when the run rose (well, that was the goal, but it wasn't always the result).

Today, as with most days, Rhett didn't wake up because of the sun. You'd think he'd be used to the sound of horses, after living on a ranch for his entire life.

But this, this was different. The horses that his father had trained, they didn't stampede towards the house like that. They had been taught better than to come to the house.

Rhette sat up, grabbed the Stetson hat covering his face, and looked out of the truck windows. "Shit," he muttered as he pulled on his shirt, covering up his bull rider tattoo. He placed his Stetson on his head and climbed out of the truck.

There he was, a pretty white horse with a dappling of grey spots on his ass. He was fully tacked up, wearing a saddle, a bridle, and some fancy ass boots around his legs. The mane was plaited, along with the tail.

"Woah there," he said as he approached the horse. Since cantering towards the Abbott house he had stopped to much on the grass. He raised his head towards Rhett, who held his hands up as he approached.

His eye ears went back and he let out a snort. Rhett slowed his steps. He reached his large hand towards the reins. But he couldn't get close enough, not without the horse rearing up. "Little shit," Rhett found himself muttering.

As the horse cantered to the back of the house, Rhett moved his truck, blocking the horse in. He climbed out of his truck and made his way around to the horse that definitely didn't belong here.

As he walked around to the back of the house, the kitchen window opened. "Who's horse is that?" His mother asked.

Rhett shrugged his shoulders. He hadn't seen it before, didn't know there was anything other than cowboys riding around Wabang. He certainly hadn't seen this fancy looking thing in the show jumping saddle.

When Rhett asked his mother for a carrot, she happily handed his over. As soon as Rhett had the carrot, it was easy enough to grab the horse. He was far more interested in the carrot than running away from Rhett. "Who are you?" Rhett asked as he held the reins and stroked down his face.

For a total of five minutes he put the grey horse in the barn while he grabbed his own. As soon as he was mounted, he grabbed the grey ponies reins and rode off.

Rhett was a cowboy. Rhett liked going fast. Rhett's horse was used to galloping across the field until they were out onto the rode. The grey horse was making it near impossible. He stayed at a stubborn walk when Rhett trotted off, stretching his neck out until Rhett could get no further away.

So, Rhett was stuck at a slow walk as he made his way around, looking for anybody that was missing a horse. Most of the usual cowboys, most of the usual other ranch owners, laughed when they saw the fancy pony following him.

Rhett let out a sigh as he began riding along the road towards the Abbott Ranch.

"Sparrow!"

Suddenly, the grey horse was pulling against him. Rhett didn't let go, though. He turned himself around to see a girl. She had a black hat on her head, but not like his Stetson. That one was for safety. Long, shiny black boots were on her feet and she wore these tight, black Jodhpurs.

Definitely not a cowgirl.

She ran over and grabbed a hold of the reins. "Oh, you are in so much trouble," she said and kissed the horses face. "Sparrow, I swear. You gave me a heart attack!" She pulled the hat from her head and tucked it beneath her arm as she kissed the pony a couple more times.

And then she turned to Rhett. He didn't recognise her, not at all. But her face twisted in confusion. "Rhett?" She asked. "Rhett Abbott?"

"Uh, yeah," he said, adjusting his Stetson on his head. "And you are?"

She held out her hand towards him and gave her his name. Rhett shook it. "I've seen you at the rodeo a few times," she said. "I... thank you for finding Sparrow. I thought he was ready to go out alone, but I think somebody needs a little more training," she said and released his hand.

Rhett swallowed. "I think he found me," he answered.

Immediately, her face dropped. "He... he broke onto your ranch?" She asked and Rhett couldn't help but grin as he nodded. "Shit, I'm so sorry!" She cried. "Let me know how I can make it up to you."

Rhett couldn't deny that she was cute. Not his usual type, not the usual cowgirls he had wearing his Stetson and riding his cock. Well, Rhett wanted to know more. "You can let me take you out f' a drink," he said, leaning forward.

He watched as she placed her foot in the metal stirrup (incredibly different from the one his foot was placed into), and climbed up into the saddle. Immediately, Sparrow was moving. He walked in an agitated circle as she tried to stay looking at Rhett. "So, if I want to find you, Sparrow should know where to go?"

"An' you can give me your number. Y'know, in case he forgets."

[diazsdimples]

Just saw your thoughts on buddietommyshannon and I’d love some more when you’ve got a moment🩵🩵

Ooh I had a thought which was building on one @hippolotamus came up with. This is how the 'Cule deals with illness

Buck sleeps for days when he's unwell and it takes an ungodly amount of bribery to get him out of bed and onto the couch. Usually the promise of cuddles from any of his partners will do, bonus points if there's more than one involved. Shannon usually joins him in eucalyptus scented baths, Eddie will make him his Abeula's spicy soup and Tommy drags him outside to lay in the grass while they listen to true crime podcasts. After doing this a couple times, Tommy sets up a hammock he and Buck can lay in which is perfect for cuddles

Eddie denies he's sick and will work/ continue husbanding until he's on death's door, unless someone calls him out on it first. Unfortunately for him, Shannon has been married to him for the best part of her adult life and can sniff out a bullshit excuse for unusual tiredness from a mile away. She forces him to rest and shoves food, water, and medicine into him until he feels better. Buck reads him sappy romance while Eddie's on enforced bed rest, giving him lots of kisses and cuddles, and Tommy watches a plethora of sports games with him (or Love Island if Buck and Shannon aren't home).

Shannon gets wicked migraines when she's sick which often comes with the inability to tolerate a lot of foods. Buck has perfected a plait that keeps her hair out of her eyes but doesn't make her head feel like it's going to explode, and also massages her scalp when he's doing this. Eddie sets up the whole house with blackout curtains and has a constantly changing rotation of electrolyte drinks for her that he'll feed her so she doesn't have to open her eyes to find the bottle (he also kisses the excess from her lips so that's a win). Tommy knows exactly what snacks she can stomach and constantly has them on hand. He also takes her to get her daith pierced one day.

Tommy runs so hot when he's sick and gets fevers at the drop of a hat. He's messy when he's sick so Buck makes sure there's always a trash can by him, for tissues and other uses and cuddles Tommy while pressing ice packs to his forehead. Eddie takes showers with Tommy because he finds cooling down after them helps break his fevers, and Eddie will let Tommy rest and hold him up while he washes him (this can sometimes be an Eddie and Buck job). Shannon drags both couches in the lounge together and sets them up with a pile of blankets, puts Love, Actually on TV and her and Tommy curl up and watch trashy movies all day.