#gunpowder chicken wings

[thetockablog]

Gunpowder Chicken Wings

Gunpowder Chicken Wings Ingredients1 tbsp olive oil2 tbsp ground cumin2 tbsp ground coriander1 tbsp garlic powder1 tbsp chilli powder1½ tsp bicarbonate of soda800g chicken wings2 chillies, finely sliced, for garnish10g fresh coriander, for garnishLime, to serveHabanero sauce, to serve MethodIn a small bowl add the cumin, coriander, garlic, chilli powder, and bicarbonate of soda in a bowl, mix…

[talesfromsiteredacted]

Things Doctor Alto Clef is No Longer Permitted to Do On Site

As ordered by Site Command, O5 Counsel, The Administrator, several SCPs, and generally everyone who ever met the man, Doctor Alto Clef is no longer permitted to do the following:

Not allowed to point at anyone and state "Someone tell 049 quickly, here's a clear case of the Pestilence if I ever saw one!"

Not allowed to give anything with artificial sweeteners to 999. Poor little blob had a horrible stomachache after the infamous episode with the sugar-free gummy bears. Incidentally, the cleaning bill is coming out of your pay.

Not allowed to suggest anomalies to "reeducate" or "reclassify". We know how you'd prefer to classify 682, but it can't be done. And a more intelligent person would stop trying.

Not allowed to smile at staff or anomalies "in a threatening way". Frankly, you're lucky Agent Markovich only gave you a black eye.

Not allowed to "menace" staff with that damned ukulele. But feel free to torture the Chaos Insurgency to your warped heart's delight; those guys are assholes who can not just eat a bag of dicks, but choke on them.

Speaking of bags of dicks... stop sending them to Doctor Bright. His entire desk is overladen with gummy genitalia.

Not allowed to suggest movies to Doctor Bright. The "SCP Fight Club" was your fault, a bad idea all round, and got much worse once 076-2 tagged in.

Not allowed to read bedtime stories to any children on site. We do NOT need another incident of " Where's My Cow?"

Not allowed to tell D-Class that 096 "just needs a hug" and "he's not so scary, just sing to him and you'll be fine".

Not allowed to suggest Site Spirit Day ideas. Yes, Daganronpa is a great series. But... no one wants to live in Hope's Peak Academy, if only for one day. And the Monokumas were just overdoing it.

Not allowed to follow Doctor Gears around with a music app set to "Mr. Roboto" by Styx. Doctor Gears is NOT a robot or any variant thereof.

Not allowed to cook for anyone. Seriously, those pancakes were so hard you could use them as clay pigeons, and somehow the bacon was so raw the pig didn't even notice it was missing yet.

No more gurney racing! We get more than enough injuries on site to begin with.

Not allowed to dress the anomalies. 173 may not have cared about the wig and dress, but we dare you to try it on 076-2 or 106 if you're THAT bored.

Not allowed to start sing-alongs. You know what you did.

Not allowed to barter, buy, sell, lease, or rent souls. How do you even rent a soul? Never mind, that's a rabbit hole best avoided.

Alcohol is not permitted on site. Even if Doctor Bright drives us to drink. Where did the vodka even come from?

Not allowed to request alcohol from 294. Just in case.

Not allowed to use his ukulele as a melee weapon. Just play it, whomever is attacking will surrender instead of hearing that.

Not allowed to create improvised explosives. Kung Pao Chicken does NOT require gunpowder. How did you even turn a live chicken into a clucking grenade?

Not allowed to practice horticulture. Combustible lemons were bad enough, but making them insult you as they hit you is a bit much.

Not allowed to "decommission" anomalies without authorization from above. Doctor Bright does not count. Doctor Gears does count, but he's not likely to agree.

Not allowed to refer to new hires as "fresh meat for the grinder". First... creepy much, Alto? Second, it's just cruel.

No more than 75 kills per day. Sorry, but in this economy ANY help is hard to find, especially good help.

Not allowed to feed the anomalies marijuana brownies. We don't even know how 073 was even able to eat it due to his properties. But seeing 682 stoned was funny. Who knew the big nearly undead bastard had a plethora of dad jokes? Not the three D-Class who nearly died laughing. Still, don't do it again.

For the last damn time... 714 is NOT a Green Lantern Power Ring, we have no such item, there is no Power Battery hidden in the Keter Wing, and you should stop telling staff and D-Class this. We're losing 6 people a day to this nonsense.

Not allowed to refer to his exploding poultry as "chicken riggies", no matter how humorous it may be.

Not allowed to go "undercover" in the women's restrooms, showers, or lockerrooms on site. No, not even for "research". Especially not for THAT kind of "research". Get a RealDoll, Alto!

Not allowed to encourage Doctor Bright in his shenanigans. Does Jack Bright really need encouragement like that?

Not allowed to perform unauthorized tests on staff or anomalies. Putting a "Free Hugs" sign on 049's back was not funny, and if 049 hadn't noticed who knows what would happen.

Not allowed to point at staff in hazmat gear and chant "Unclean. Unclean." Especially not around 049.

"More shotguns" will not solve all problems. Stop suggesting it.

There will NEVER be a "Dress Like a Ninja" day here. Stop trying to make it happen.

Not allowed to "rent" out his services as a "divorce mediator". No one needs your kind of mediation.

No stalking the staff. Period. No, not even if they're a suspected security risk.

If it's on the Bright List, don't. And stop suggesting new ideas to him.

There are no maps for the Wanderer's Library. Please stop selling them.

Jello shots do not typically involve firearms.

Stop referring to Bright Duty as "Witless Protection".

Not allowed to show episodes of "The Twilight Zone" to anomalies. Ferdinand is still looking for that damned cookbook.

[myriad-of-things]

Retirement Home SMP or, the Book and Quill 1.19 June 2022 - Jan 2023 (6 months)

From left to right, then top to bottom if people overlap: Dice (@dontrollthedicesideblog), Squish (@squish--squash), Schleep, Alias, Faded, Myriad (me), Light (@lightns881), Ryan, Cyngus, Lumo, Pack Yak. Missing is ZodiacLight who joined a bit later.

I'm almost a year late putting this out. I drew everyone in like 2 days but hated coloring so I never finished :(

The new server name was a reference to how we were all once a bunch of mcyt writers and now we’ve “retired” and dispersed into other fandoms. The spawn area contained two villages: one in a plains biome, and the other in a mangrove swamp. The server was mostly split into two factions depending on where players resided: the Grove and the Plains. There was also a third “faction” of wanderers who belong to neither village.

This season contained the original Book and Quill members, and also some of my irl friends I invited. Yes, it was briefly a social nightmare but I survived.

Below the cut: character notes about the server members, in the order of the list above

Dice: The Warden Affiliation: Wanderer

the first thing they did on the server: stab fish and dig a hole

an End Busting god???? went on their own and didn’t die.

built a PRISON. made people very concerned about who it was supposed to hold

Squish: Guardian of the Grove Affiliation: The Grove (leader)

has a fox form. used to have wings but lost them when The Grove briefly fell into disarray

local prankster. Hid 18 skulk shriekers around the common areas after the ancient city raid, then moved them to new locations when found. Gave the entire of server war flashbacks

escalated into a prank war with Schleep

built giant gunpowder farm over an ocean

goat horns! got goat horns for everyone so that the two villages could call to each other!

Schleep: The Anarchist Affiliation: Wanderer (duh)

anarchist, has been convicted of All the Crimes

residential minecraft sweat, carried the server

made a powerpoint presentation on how to raid an ancient city

the techno to Myriad’s philza

filled the Grove with chicken bombs and bells after Squish left one too many shriekers around the Plains

Alias: Wanderer of the Wastes Affiliation: Wanderer ("leader")

skin suggests a relation to the warden glow squid

accidently jump scared a bunch of people (namely, me) during the ancient city raid because their skin looked so much like the warden

Faded Didn't make it onto the server but had a cool skin design

Myriad Affiliation: Plains

on their retirement arc

founder of the Plains village but not in any positions of power. trying to keep a low profile

the philza to Schleep’s techno

kept getting rickrolled by Light with the lyrics of Mask

god complex. Light and Schleep built a giant statue of them while they were offline

Light: The Executioner Affiliation: Plains and the Grove

local redstoner. built most of the farms on the server, such as: iron farm, melon and pumpkin farm, lava farm with rotating cauldrons????

built like, 70% of the buildings in the Plains.

built a guillotine. ended up becoming the only person to have ever been executed by it after she got too impatient and decided to try it out on herself

built a cute little cottage on the side of a hill with a secret doorway in a waterfall that could only be opened by triggering skulk sensors hidden midair in hot air balloons with an elytra.

went to extreme lengths to prank Myriad with the lyrics of Mask (and got me every time. see her post about it here)

“Ryan”: Director of PASA (Plains Aeronautics and Space Administration) Affiliation: Plains

the only normal person on this server

hasn’t played minecraft since like 1.8. tried to get out of a boat once by ramming it in hopes that it would break. has died multiple times due to new game mechanics.

player with the most deaths on the server. Responsible for 11 out of the 17 collective deaths during the ancient city raid

built a scale model of the NASA Artemis moon rocket. went to space before we went to the End

Cygnus: Pontiff of the Plains Affiliation: Plains (leader)

insane builder

built the titular Retirement Home. also serves as a city hall and their personal manor

the Honorable Judge Cygnus. serves as judge to the like 50 court cases against Schleep that we never got around to holding yet

Lumo Affiliation: Wanderer

just vibing

frOg

Packyak Affiliation: Plains (he just happens to live under it)

MINEcraft

spends all his time mining. only resurfaces occasionally to upgrade his tools. rarely seen otherwise

bomb disposal robot during the ancient city raid.

ZodiacLight (not pictured)

the other Light on the server

minecraft sweat

With summer rolling around again and 1.20 coming out soon, Retirement Home SMP Season 2 is on the horizon!

[wordywarriorwrites]

Returned

Title: Returned AO3 | Master List | Rating: M Summary: Sam’s gone for a long time. Will you be there when he gets back? Written For: The #SSB2021  Pairing: Sam Wilson x Female Reader Warnings: Language. Light smut. Brief mentions of violence. Angst.  

A slow kiss and a nonchalant, “I’ll be back before you can even miss me.”

That was all Sam had given you before he’d taken off.

Two days. Three. Then, one more week turned into just until the end of the month, baby, promise…

But it was six months. Six months of Sharon’s shady evasiveness and pulling Bucky’s snarky ass out of the literal fire. Six months of political tip-toeing and back-stabbing, of dodging bombs and bullets, and of smoothing things over and cleaning up the mess. Six months of dropped calls and always just missing you and too many damn apologies to count.

Six months of wanting desperately to get back home to you.

Sam had seen a lot of shit, and had pretty much become a been-there, done-that man, but it took meeting you to understand home was more than a place; it was feeling as instinctual as a heartbeat. And he hadn’t been able to breathe easy since the day he’d flown away from you, but he’d over-promised and under-delivered and stuck his foot in his mouth so many times in the last six months…

What right did he have to expect you to be there waiting for him?

Cocoa-butter and gumbo – it beckons him from the front door to the kitchen and chases away the remnants of gunpowder. The boy’s laughter and Marvin on vinyl – it lulls him and drowns out the distant echoes of screams and firefights. You and his sister, bumping hips and singing a duet at the stove – it comforts him, reminds him there are still beautiful sights to behold.

You’re chopping vegetables, Sarah’s using a ladle as a microphone, and AJ and Cass are making themselves indispensable by being sous chefs and taste testing everything. Sam hovers at the threshold, but he doesn’t go unnoticed for long. His nephews spot him first – cheer and jump and climb all over him in that child-like way that is all-encompassing and all-forgiving. His sister is a little more subdued – a warm hug, a smile, and a murmured, “Welcome back.”  

He says your name like a prayer. Benediction.  

You grab a cleaver and cut the head off a chicken. Damnation.

Within three minutes, the boys have their shoes on, and Sarah’s got her keys and purse in hand. They’re going into town and won’t be back for a while. Sam’s the only one on the receiving end of a very pointed look from the three of them as they head out. The please, don’t fight, break anything, or burn the house down goes unspoken, and he waits for the front door to slam shut and the car to putter off before he dares to step forward.

The best cuts of meat, the highest quality produce, and the freshest herbs and spices. You don’t skimp, and you sure as hell don’t cut corners. Everything is properly prepped and organized – from the knives down to the stabilizing towel beneath the cutting board – because you know what you’re doing in a kitchen, and you look so damn good doing it.

There’s a little bit of powdered sugar in your hair, dough caked beneath your nails, and an overflowing basket of homemade beignets on the table. Sam doesn’t even think – he just reaches for one – and you smack the top of his bruised knuckles with a spatula. You don’t even have to say anything because the action alone reminds him of both his prolonged absence and his forgotten manners.

He heads upstairs. Unpacks. Stows his wings and shield. Takes a shower. Moisturizes and reminds himself to charge his phone and visit the barber and see if the boys need anything before school starts up again. Sam’s lost in his head – mind spinning, gut churning, and body aching for you – and he’s wondering if this is the beginning of the end when you step into the room and just lay right into him.

The bit of French Creole – that’s your momma and daddy. The splash of Spanish is your abuela, the dash of Italian is your nonno, and Sam knows you’re cussing him out in every language and dialect you know, but he can’t argue back because you haven’t taken a breath.

And you’re more than likely not wrong.

Then, you’re crying. Years of kitchen accidents – cuts, burns, bruises, even broken bones – and not a single tear had been shed. The flames of your temper abruptly gave way to a sob, and that wounded, broken sound shook him in a different way because yes, you’re angry, but you’re also relieved.

“You’re here,” you hiccupped.

“Yeah, baby, I’m here,” Sam sighed. “And I missed you. So damn much.”

You squeezed his shoulders; gave him a once over; buried your face in your hands and shook with a mixture of laughter and tears. Sam reached for you. Did what he could in the moment to sooth you. Shushed you, told you it was okay – he’s okay and you’re okay – and murmured nonsense while he held you and rubbed your back. You’ve got your cheek pressed to his chest, he’s got his chin resting on top of your head, and the smell of you and the feel of you, all warm and wrapped up and safe in his arms…

It’s everything he needs.  

When you kiss him, he’s relieved and revived, and when you remind him that good gumbo has to simmer for at least forty-five minutes, the double-knotted strings of your apron don’t stand a chance.

Sam takes you to bed and takes you apart in all the ways he knows how. He touches you first – makes up for lost time and whets his appetite by tracing and retracing the soft, warm skin of your lips, breasts, hips, and thighs with his hands and mouth. Next, he tastes you – makes it up to you and satisfies some of his own thirst by sipping and slurping between your legs until you start chanting his name and babbling what sounds like a witch’s spell.

But it’s when he’s deep inside you; when you’re eye-to-eye and mouth-to-mouth; when you tell him you love him and fall apart all around him; when he lets go and you’re right there to catch him – that’s when he’s finally able to take a deep breath for the first time in six months.

And a little over an hour later – when you make him a plate and serve him first?

That’s when he knows he’s finally home.​

[fictionalabyss]

Eight kids and counting.

Pairing : Garth x Reader, Hailey -15(OC), Hunter -13 (OC), Twins Connor & Coen - 8 (OCs), Twins Amber & Aaron - 5 (OCs), Jackson - 3 (OC)

Word count : 1,909

Written for : @spnabobingo​

Square : Pups.

Warnings : A/B/O,  Pregnancy, breeding kink mentioned in passing, Heat (mentioned), children roughhousing/not listening to mom, minor injury, almost a fire, pregnancy brain. Fluffy.

Beta’d by : @artemisthebadger​

Masterlist • Patreon • Ko-fi.

SPN A/B/O Bingo Round 5 Masterlist.

“Mommy!” Amber, your 5 year old daughter, whined from next to you as you tried to set the dining room table.

“Boys..”

“Mom!” she tugged on your shirt.

“Boys, please..” They were running, fast as they could, chasing each other around the house showing off how fast they were getting. Your 8 year old twins coming into their abilities with reckless abandon, and bringing the other children into their shenanigans as much as possible.

“Mommy, Aaron he-”

“Hunter, can you please get them to stop before they-” You heard a crash, one twin yelling that he was okay while the other yelled it wasn’t him.

“I got it, mom!” Came your oldest son, now 13 years old.

“Mommy!” Amber yanked on your shirt and you heard a stitch tear at the strain. “Aaron he-”

The fire alarm sounded and you yanked her hand off your shirt a little harshly as you ran for the kitchen, cursing the whole way. “Shit, shit, shit, shit!” You burst back into the room to find Hailey, your oldest child at 15, pulling dinner from the oven.

“Sorry mom.” she winced at the roast now charred black.

“Shit..” Your shoulders dropped.

“Mommy, you keep saying bad words.” Amber scolded.

“I’m sorry honey. And for whatever Aaron did-”

“He gave my new dolly a haircut.” she held up the doll that had no head and claw marks down it’s front. “With his claws.”

“AARON!” you called out in a firm tone.

“I didn’t do anything! She’s lying!” he called back from wherever he was.

“Mom?” Hailey tried to get your attention. “Did you have something in the other oven, too?”

“SHIT!” you yanked the oven mits from her hands and pulled open the oven, smoke billowing out and making you cough.

Firm hands yanked you back and pulled the burning hot tray from your hands and tossed it onto the counter. “Hailey, go open the windows. Hunter, you get the door. Amber, honey, you bring mommy out back for some fresh air okay.” he crouched down to her eye level. “The smoke isn’t good for the baby.”

“Aye Aye, Daddy.” She saluted him before taking your hand and leading you towards the door. “Do you think you can fix her, mommy? Or do I need a new dolly again.”

You sighed. “I’ll see what I can do.” You glanced down and she smiled. “And I’m sorry I didn’t listen when you tried to tell me.”

“It’s okay, mommy. I’ll just cut his hair with my claws.”

“Please don’t.” you groaned, stepping out into the fresh air.  She gave you an innocent grin that you knew not to trust. “You’re supposed to be the good one, Amber.” you teased as you dropped to sit in the porch swing, hand moving over your large stomach. “Our little angel, remember?” you poked her nose and her whole face scrunched up making you chuckle.

“Is Aaron the evil twin?” You cocked an eyebrow at that. “Hailey says that there’s always a good twin and a bad twin. That Hunter was so bad he ate his!”

“Hailey!” you called out and shot an accusatory glare at the doorway to the kitchen, despite her not being there.

“Then tell Hunter to stay out of my room!” she yelled back from inside the kitchen.

“Then stop taking my things!” Hunter shot back.

“Come on, guys.” you groaned, letting your head fall down. You heard footsteps approaching, and you didn’t even need to look up to know who it was. “No more kids, Garth. I swear to god. Eight is more than enough.”

“You weren’t exactly stopping me.” When you looked up, he had a smirk on his face. “In fact, you were rather encouraging.”

“I’m sorry.”

His eyebrows came together in confusion. “About what? About encouraging me so many times? Wouldn’t change a damn thing.” he was smiling wide again.

“About dinner.” you pouted up at him, and his smile fell. “I burnt it all, I- shit!” you shot up from your seat. “I had things on the stove, I-”

“I turned them off, relax.” he chuckled, stepping closer and bringing you into a hug.

“Did I ruin them, too?”

“No, they were just... overdone with love?”

“I ruined them.” you started to cry.

“Hey, hey, don’t cry, it’s okay. It’s just dinner, it’s no big deal.” Garth ran one hand down your hair while the other went up the back of your shirt spreading warmth in its wake. The feel of his skin against yours was calming. “Take a deep breath for me, breathe it in.”

Taking a deep breath, you let the smell of him fill your nose. He smelled of sweat, since he hadn’t showered yet, wood, gunpowder and “Chocolate?” your head snapped up to meet his eyes.

“Ruined the surprise.” he teased, before pulling a chocolate bar out of his pocket. “I know how bad you’ve been craving this the last few days.”

“They don’t even have these here..”

“Well, I found one.” he brought his lips to yours in a sweet kiss. “Feel better?”

“I will when the pack you’ve got me building starts to listen.” you teased. “It’s hard enough with my brain all scattered, but with the boys-”

“I know. I’ll talk to them.”

“No more, Garth. Two sets of twins already, the other three kids, and now this one.” you looked down at your stomach. “This is the last one.”

“Hunter was supposed to be the last one.” he teased. “And then you went into heat, and-”

“I remember.” you groaned, letting your forehead fall to rest against his chest.

“Amber and Aaron were suppose to be the last, as well.” he teased. “Second set of twins, you didn’t want to risk another. Then I came home one night.” Garth’s lips were against the top of your head as he spoke. “And you-”

“I remember.” you sighed softly, and could feel his lips spread into a smile.

“What happened?”  You groaned softly, having all but forgot Amber was outside with you as Garth sent you down memory lane. “What’s heat, Daddy?”

“We’ll talk when you’re older.”

“I wanna know now!” she stomped her foot. “I’ll ask Hailey or Hunter.” she skipped off into the house.

“Aaron messed up her new doll again.”

“Yeah, I saw it.” he sighed.

“Connor and Coen are getting faster. They’ve been teasing Jackson again.”

“And put a hole in the wall, breaking a few family pictures in the process.” Your head shot up. “Hunter’s cleaning up the mess, and I’ll get the boys to help me fix it all tomorrow.”

“No more pups, Garth.”

He smiled softly, giving you another tender kiss. “I know. Go eat your chocolate on the couch, I’ll order us all some pizza before I shower, okay? Anything you want, it’s yours, my love.” You smiled up at him, a smile filled with as much love and adoration as he always showered on you. “Except that. You said no more kids and this one isn’t even out yet.” he teased, making you roll your eyes. “Mind out of the gutter.”

“Mom? Why is Amber asking us about heats?” Hunter asked from the doorway, making you groan, your forehead against Garth’s chest again as he laughed.

“THAT’S DISGUSTING!” came Ambers yell, while Hailey laughed hysterically.

“Hailey!”

“Heats is kissing!?” Amber came out, shooting you and Garth glares, and Garth laughed even harder. “I never want a heat.” she spat. “Boys are gross.”

“You’re gross!” yelled Aaron.

“No more.” you muttered to Garth one last time.

Pizza had arrived, and feeding time at the zoo started. The kids practically shoving each other to fill their plates and rush back to the living room to get good seats and not get stuck sitting on the floor. You watched from your spot on the couch as they rushed into the room, sometimes arguing over which spot was who’s, who had dibs and if dibs were even allowed.

This was why you didn’t let them eat in here every day. To be fair though, the dinner table wasn’t much different.

“Sit.” At the command from their father, everyone settled down. Garth all but smiled triumphantly to himself before walking over and sitting next to you, handing you the plate he’d made for you.

“Never leave.” you pleaded, making him laugh.

“Who picked the movie?”

“Hunter.” Everyone answered at once.

“Alright, Connor’s turn next.”

“Yes!” Connor pumped his fist. “Get ready for blood and guts!”

“Coen’s turn is next.” Garth countered.

“Hey!” Connor turned, shooting his father a glare while Coen grinned happily. Connor turned his glare on his twin and gave him a shove.

“Boys.” Again, at their father’s firm tone, they stopped. “Hunter, turn it on.”

The plates were all stacked on the coffee table. Discarded crusts, chicken wing bones, and crumbled napkins formed a mountain on the top one. The kids were all focused on the action movie that played on the screen. Amber ducked into Hunter every time an explosion made her jump, while her twin brother Aaron was on the edge of his seat with wide eyes.

Jackson, your three year old, was half asleep in Hailey’s lap where she sat on the floor with her back against the couch. Connor and Coen were on the floor as well, punching and shoving each other with excitement every time something happened.

You, you had your arm wrapped around Garth’s, your head on his shoulder, enjoying the feel of his hand gently stroking your thigh. You took a deep breath, breathing him in once again, and let out a soft moan.

Garth chuckled.

“You seem happy.” he whispered quietly, his lips brushing your head.

“I am. It’s quiet, and nice. I love it.” you looked around the room at your pups, at how sweet they could be once the chaos died down.

“You said no more.” When you looked up at him, he smiled knowingly. “I can already smell that your mind is changing.” he gripped your thigh and you licked your lips.

“We’ll see in a few years.”

“Guess I’m not the only one with a breeding kink.” his voice was lower than before and in your ear.

“Don’t start, Garth.” you warned, eyes falling shut as a wave of arousal coursed through you.

“I’m so glad I found the perfect woman to carry my pups for me.” he stroked at your chin before pulling you in for a kiss.

“EW! MOM! ARE YOU HEATING!?”

You couldn’t help but laugh against Garth’s lips. “No, honey. I just really love daddy.”

“I love daddy too!”

“Then come here, princess.” Garth opened his arms, and Amber jumped down from her spot on the couch with Hunter to rush to her father’s arms. As soon as he had her in his arms, he began to pepper kisses all over her face.

“Daddy!” she shrieked as they both laughed and she tried to wiggle free. You giggled as well as you watched them.

“Oh, god.” Hailey groaned, letting her head fall back.

“What?” Hunter asked, looking down at his sister, who’s shoulder was just inches from his leg.

“That’s moms ‘I want another one’ face.”

Hunter winced. “I’m moving out.”

“We’re going to have to just to make room.” Hailey laughed. “Eight kids and counting.” she sighed.

“Better not be twins again.” Hunter muttered.

“I heard that!” Aaron shot his older brother a glare. “Now shut up, I’m watching the movie.”

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[dollfaceeeeee]

What it would be like to have Dean Winchester as a partner..🥺🖤

I don’t make the rules. He’s adorable as hell.

He hates secrets, so make sure you’re aware that you don’t keep any from him. He’s very, very good at reading people, much better than he gives himself any credit for, and you will either learn that the easy way, or the hard way. It’s your call.

He’s loyal to the end, and although he may seem like a flirt, once he has someone he genuinely loves and cares about, he could care less about any woman that’s around him. It’s an admirable attribute of his, because he does get hit on often, but when he only has eyes for you, he ONLY has eyes for you.

His brother, Sam, means the world to him, so make sure you find a connection with him just as much as you do with Dean. Luckily, Sam is super easy and laid back, and massively sweet, so that should be an easy task.

He prefers date nights at home, with a box of pizza or a bucket of chicken wings, but if you want to go out somewhere, he will make no move to object. Just make sure the place has pie, and he won’t complain. That man can eat a live cow and be happy, so long as it’s with you.

He’s a major animal lover, and is not picky about it. Cats, dogs, snakes, lizards, whatever. If it’s something that makes you happy, get them all. He will just send Cass to feed them when you guys are on a hunt.

Teaching you how to fight is sort of a love language for him, and it means a lot to him if you actually pay attention, and not goof off. Your safety is super important to him, so make the effort to make him feel more at ease in case a hunt goes wrong.

His car, Baby, a 1967 Chevy Impala, is sacred to him, but he will both allow you to choose the music, AND occasionally drives when he gets tired. Not even Sam gets those opportunities often, so don’t fuck it up.

He loves a good whiskey, or a beer, so if you can drink, it’s a good trait to him. If you can keep up with HIS drinking? Even better.

He can be sweet when he wants to be, and is a major lover boy, trust me. He loves to be babied; shoulder rubs, back massages, him laying his head on your chest, playing with his hair, showering together after a hunt, feeding him pie when he’s driving, the whole ordeal. He’s a big softie, no matter how much he denies it. Believe me, he is.

If you ever get cold, he will always lend you whatever jacket he’s wearing, and it will always smell like him. Bourbon, pine, gunpowder, and woodsmoke. It might not sound like a good combination, but trust me, it works.

Quality time with you matters most to him, so even though he likes to be at home any chance he can, in bed with some pizza, that doesn’t mean he doesn’t like to surprise you with a late night drive to the beach with a blanket and a cooler filled with beer. With him, anywhere seems like paradise, even a shabby beach in Georgia.

He will go with you anywhere, and I mean anywhere. Wherever you are, he will follow. He doesn’t trust you anywhere alone, or anywhere without him, so expect that clingy nature from him. It may get on your nerves at times, but he will never back down from that, no matter how you feel. Just accept it.

He’s not a morning person, but he appreciates it every time if you surprise him with a pot of coffee already made for him on the counter, or even breakfast, if you’re a good cook. He appreciates the simple things, so even if you don’t think that’s enough for him, believe me, it’s more than enough.

There will be many times he will want you to stay at home, especially on crazier hunts. I know you will want to fight him, and fight him hard, but don’t. He’s lost so many people, and he can’t bear the thought of losing you. Just stay at home with Cass. Play chess, cards, research, anything. Just don’t put up a fight about that. It already kills him enough you’re a hunter too. Don’t make it harder.

He’s not big about texting, even though he will do it if he has to, but if you’re away from him he will almost always call you whenever he has a chance. He loves to hear your voice. It calms him, under the harsh stresses of the job, so just ramble about your day to him, it doesn’t really matter what it is. It’ll distract him, and he will be able to find a sense of peace from that.

He will always find it cute having you fight alongside him, no matter how much he will obsess about keeping you safe. It’s secretly his favorite thing about you.

He’s a major goofball, and will have you laughing about the dumbest shit constantly. When he needs to be serious, he will be, but when he’s being his normal, relaxed self? Be prepared for a man that loves Scooby Doo, Lion King, Dirty Dancing, and The Breakfast Club, along with being covered in grease from hours of working on Baby. When he gets excited, it’ll make you feel exactly the same.

He does gently snore, just very lightly, but don’t comment on it because it’s something that makes him slightly embarrassed. Don’t worry, you’ll probably find it as cute as I do.

His favorite pet names are sweetheart and baby, however he does use angel once in a while too, but not very often.

He’s a machine in the bedroom, let me tell you. He’s experienced, fierce, gentle, and passionate all in one. He’s a great lover, and will make you feel shit you’ve never felt before.

Besides the fact that he will chase you down and wipe grease from the engine of Baby all over you, and will kiss you even with pizza grease on his lips, he will make you fall in love hard and fast. Enjoy the ride. I know I do.

[yespolkadotkitty]

Fighting Blind, pt 4

Masterlist of all chapters

The meat William had roasted tasted surprisingly good. Perhaps it was just that I hadn't eaten for some hours, but the savoury flavour reminded me of chargrilled chicken and I ate at a pace. William eyed me with some concern as we feasted. Tovar seemed occupied with his meal and didn't speak.

"Where did you say you were from?" The Irishman asked after picking the leg bone clean.

"I didn't. I'm….not from here."

His blue eyes danced with amusement. "That's becoming clear."

Tovar glanced over at us. The flickering flames from the campfire in the centre of the camp kissed the planes of his face. How would he look without that heavy beard? The firelight bathed the left side of his face, illuminating the scar across his eye. I expected most found it fearsome, but to me it gave his face interesting topography.

“And do you plan on finding your way home, princesa?” Tovar drawled.

His mood was really started to irk me. “Why do you call me that?”

He shrugged. “You have soft hands, soft skin. Fine clothes. What are you other than a princess, hmmm?”

“Tovar,” William muttered in warning.

“No, it’s fine,” I snapped. “By all means, don’t hold back, Tovar, if that is your real name. Tell me what you really think.”

Tovar tossed his picked-clean bone into the fire. The flames sizzled a little. “I think perhaps you are a spy, no? Sent by the Chinese to see if we really are on a mission to find the black powder.”

“Black powder?” I echoed, stupidly. Then I thought back to the axe. Gunpowder. Europe wouldn’t have it yet. “If I was a spy, would I really need your help?”

Tovar drank deeply from the water canteen. “Exactly what a spy would say.”

William threw up his hands. “Enough. I’m turning in. Jade, perhaps you’ll keep first watch?”

Ignoring the sneer from our Spanish friend, I nodded. “I’ve been asleep half the day, it’s only fair.”

William took a small pouch from his pocket and headed for the stream, after tossing an identical pouch to Tovar.

I watched with interest as Tovar took out a little linen cloth and a tiny wineskin and followed William. They were cleaning their teeth, I realised. I’d never seen it done before. Of course I hadn’t. Opportunities to see historical figures cleaning their teeth were very few in 2019.

William came back first, drying his face on his sleeve, and offered me the pouch. “I have a clean cloth.”

“Thanks.” I took the dry square of linen - must have been expensive for them - gratefully, crossing his path to tuck behind the scrub.

Tovar knelt by the stream, a little cake of soap in a bone dish by the rushing water. He held a cut-throat razor and studied his reflection in the slow-running, pooling water in this slower part of the stream.

He looked up when I knelt, said nothing, but started to spread a mixture of soap and water over his beard.

I hesitated with the cloth. Should I offer to help? He’d likely bite my head off.

“You don’t have a mirror?” I asked.

He scoffed; shook his head. “I rarely need one, unlike you, princesa.”

“That’s hardly fair. You know nothing about me,” I snapped, staring at the little cloth in my hand and wondering how the hell to use it. I hadn’t read about middle-ages hygiene since I was an undergrad.

“And you know nothing about us,” Tovar replied, his voice low, somehow intimate. He lifted the razor and his eyes went thoughtful.

“Why are you shaving?”

He spared me a glance from those honeyed bourbon eyes. “It’s hot and itchy here.”

I eyed the deadly edge of the razor. If he’d wanted to, he could have slit my throat by now. I’d seen him do it, quick and deadly. “Do you… can I help you?”

I saw him start to recoil. Big bad mercenary accepting help? No way. But there were only the three of us here.

I stood and peeked over the scrub. “William’s already snoring.”

Tovar glared at me and the suspicion in his eyes was almost tangible. “Why would you help me?”

I held out my hand for the razor. “If you slit your stupid throat shaving, I’ll only have William to protect me.”

He hesitated, his scarred hand still gripping the blade tightly. I’d seen his hands before, I realised. In my dreams. I’d felt them on my skin, felt his sword calluses on my most private places. I’d wanted his touch.

“Some might say he is enough,” he muttered, but I could feel his resolve weakening. The smell from his rosemary soap drifted on the air between us.

“Why, are you jealous?” I asked sweetly.

As expected, Tovar slapped the razor into my hand. “At least if you kill me, I will be spared your insanity,” he bit out.

I hadn’t shaved a man before. How hard could it be? “You want to keep any of it?” I asked.

Tovar slid a finger over his top lip.

“Mustache, huh. Okay. I’ll see what I can do.” I’d be lying if I didn’t say I was curious about the shape of his face under the enormous (and probably filthy) beard).

He moved into a sitting position, cross-legged, and I turned his face toward the setting sun, to make the most of the waning light. His beard was very soapy and I dipped the razor into the water, shaking droplets loose before I started to gently scrape the metal across his skin.

Tovar watched me intently as I worked, and I had the feeling I was being weighed and measured. His beard started to fall away piece by piece, and I scraped until only dark heavy stubble remained. His adam’s apple was tricky. I held my breath as I worked, one hand braced on his throat. Touching his skin, feeling his pulse beat, was making me wet. I pushed the feelings away, hoping he didn’t notice.

Finally, I scraped away the first few layers of hair on his top lip, leaving him with a full but not bushy mustache. It suited him, made him look darkly sexy, roguish, especially with the thicker stubble around his jawline. Fuck, he was hot. Just my luck.

Tovar looked at the huge pile of matted beard on the ground. “I suppose I needed that.”

I grinned and lifted the razor. “Let me do your hair, too? I promise not to kill you, unless you annoy me.”

He winged up a brow. How had I not noticed how expressive his face was? My mind flashed to my dream; his hands skating up my naked ribs towards the prize of my breasts. A premonition or just a fevered wish?

“We’ve come this far,” he sighed.

*****

Thankyou @rzrcrst​ for the beta!! Tagging: @badassbaker​ @songsformonkeys​ @a-seeker-of-imagination​ @keeper0fthestars​ @hopelessromanticspoonie​ @just-the-hiddles​ @agentpike​ @littlemissthistle​ @alldatalost​ @ly--canthrope​ @starlight-starwrites​ @stylelovechild​ @maryan028​ @seawhisperer​ @synystersilenceinblacknwhite​ @restingnurseface​ @emesispo​ @havenforafrazzledmind​ @tardisfangurl @holographic-carmen​ @pedropascalito​ @thewaythisis​  @mstgsmy​ @jaime1110​ @10-96dispatcher @talesfromtheguild​ @kindablackenedsuperhero @marydjarin @hdlynn​ ahopelessromanticwritersworld

[touchmycoat]

ASL brothers, happy lunar new year!

happy lunar new year from Taiwan!! all the celebratory spirit got me feelin’ all kinds of ways about chinese folklore (also got me scrubbing my whole house clean for hours but that’s fine), so here’s a short ASL brothers, 年獸 lore!AU I guess

//

Ace slung the carrying stick with all the bamboo pieces clattering on either end over his shoulder, along with his trusted old pipe.

“Ready Luffy?”

“Yeah,” Luffy replied, pulling on his shirt, red as a flag, and all the bundled up scrolls of red paper. “All set.”

“You guys,” Sabo hissed, tugging roughly on the ropes around his wrists, “are being so fucking stupid right now. Do not do this.”

This was astutely ignored by Ace, who’d thrown open the door of their little cabin, letting in the dark and cold breeze. The village before them, usually still kindled with at least a few lights even at this hour, was completely dark. Everybody had already evacuated.

“Ace,” Luffy said, handing over a square of red paper with unusual solemnity. Ace grabbed it, and slapped it on the outside of their door. Luffy was nodding. “Don’t worry Sabo, we’ll catch it, no problem.”

“You can’t even catch a regular old mountain tiger.” Sabo must really be desperate, to have resorted to that disparaging tone toward Luffy. “How are you gonna catch a nian—”

Seized by a coughing fit, Sabo never finished the name. Not that he needed to; it was all that anybody could whisper nervously about for weeks. The same time every year, the same path of destruction wrought. Everybody and their livestock have already evacuated just earlier that day.

“Nojiko said it’s just a bird,” Luffy was definitely-not-pouting. “I’ve caught tons of birds before.”

“A giant, murderous, evil bird. Ace, do not do this.”

“And what,” Ace snapped, refusing to look back over his shoulder, “let you die? I don’t fucking think so.”

Luffy had fetched the rope, and Ace had tied Sabo up in his fevered sleep. This “dragon’s disease,” Sabo knew, bothered Ace more than it bothered him—that it was inherited, was Sabo’s educated guess. An affliction of royal blood. Something that felt a lot like karma to Sabo was a battle Ace and Luffy were more than willing to charge headfirst into.

His goddamn foolish brothers. It’s not that Sabo wanted to die. It was just that he’d rather cough until both his lungs came up in tatters than either of his sworn brothers get hurt for his sake.

And all for some stupid folklore.

“There is no such thing as immortality,” Sabo huffed. He was upset to find that his general breathlessness thanks to the illness had rendered his tone more bleak than properly upbraiding. The line in Luffy’s brow deepened, and Ace’s fist clenched hard at his side. “Even if you do find this beast, there’s no magical cure—”

“There will be,” Luffy insisted. Underneath all the red paper was a steel pipe of his own. “And even if there isn’t, we’ll just keep—”

“We’ll beat it out of the damn thing if we have to,” Ace snarled, slamming his free fist against the threshold of the door. “Drag its corpse back and make you chicken soup. We’re keeping you alive Sabo.”

The bamboo, packed with gunpowder of Sabo’s design, clattered as if in agreement. Ace still wouldn’t look back at him, and Sabo stared at the silhouette of his profile, barely visible in the thickening dusk. Memorized it, and the reassuring, determined grin of Luffy right beside Ace, far more striking in red.

Outside, far, far down the village road, came the sound of a single step. Human or not, there should be nobody around for miles.

Ace and Luffy squared up at the door, stepping outside, and Sabo struggled one more futile time against his ropes.

“We’ll be back,” were Ace’s last words, before the door shut with alarming finality.

“You better be,” Sabo whispered, and didn’t hear the silent descent of wings on their rooftop.

[squirrels49]

What Fowl Can Be Known as a Hawk, But Isn't a Hawk in Any Way?

It was not the first moment that our kitty had brought a surprise back with her. It was not the first time she'd attracted in a live fowl. Maybe it had been she published it in the sack instead of the basement or livingroom (her standard locations to place her victim unfastened ). I presume what really surprised me that the most was the size of the bird that has been now flying in a panic around my bedroom.Over years, using just two female house cats who we let outdoors a few of hours per day, we have experienced our share of rabbits, mice along with other bark , and birds input our residence. Most of time they're still alive, fearful, but for the most part, unharmed. Cats that are satisfactorily fed do not hunt for meals, they hunt for fun, and thus they ordinarily don't eat the animals/birds they capture. They often bring them to the individuals as a present or to demonstrate that they'd caught something.Being a Healer, I understand the value of aiding those creatures and critters overcome their shock before discharging themas it is the jolt which often kills themnot any injury they may have sustained.So the chicken that was currently flying across the sack was just the modern chicken necessitating my attention.Unfortunately, which has been going for considered a significant issue. I was used to helping little sparrows that frequented our garden and the neighbor's bird feeders. This chicken was much bigger-in factthat he had been a predator . He was a hawk.I need to admit my close connections with hawks has been lacking. I feel the nearest I came into one was one had been at an tree eyeing a deceased bird close by. Still, the chicken proved to be much further away compared to main one who currently stood in my dresser looking like it would attack anything or anyone which moved.Normally I'd have let the chicken settle down a bit before approaching him, but it was hurt by my cat like I saw blood onto the ground and walls where the hawk had flown. This absolutely had been enough bloodstream to imply that waiting was not wise if I wanted him to survive.But there have been those talons. And there clearly is that sharp, pointed beak.And these very modest eyes were seeing each movement I made.I shut the bedroom door to contain his flight then grabbed a small blanket to throw over him. This functioned. The bird can barely fly. I donned leather gloves and sunglasses (for security ) subsequently lifted the package, careful to grip the ft. With my husband's assistance, I had been able to examine the bird without even any the damage to either of the us. He experienced only a small cut on his rear and one of his wings had been overlooking a couple larger feathers. Each wounds were bleeding.As I found no other wounds that were of immediate consideration, '' I gave the fowl that the homeopathic medication Aconitum napellus("Aconite") for the shock. Aconite operates great to relaxed shock in animals along with human beings. I have used it before on creatures and critters, also when responding to vehicle accidents.When the remedy had slid the bird, I washed the cuts afterward gave him that the homeopathic medication Gunpowder to stem infections. I bandaged his wing it wouldn't proceed for transport to the Wildlife Sanctuary. For rehab, they'd execute a excellent job.But Al As, these were shut, or so the hawk was attracted house and put from the spare rest room because of the night-it was quiet and there was nothing the hawk could damage himself should he drift all about. He looked a ton better than he'd had before he had been awarded the homeopathics.The subsequent early morning , the hen was doing great, however that I still wasn't certain about the wing. I removed the bandage from his wing, lifted up him and enabled him to fly-he didn't do so good-so I took him into the Sanctuary for more treatment. The hawk was possibly the size of my kitty and that I wondered just how she'd gotten the jump on him. Marin (my kitty ) had no harms, that had been surprising since the hawk was a predator who would prey . Maybe, becoming that the hawk was not small, he was not a threat to Marin.The hawk was published from your Wildlife Sanctuary that a few days later. The rehabilitation helper had been amazed the bird had not arrived for the Sanctuary in jolt, and failed to develop an infection and was able to become released so fast. I wasn't amazed, however, due to the fact I understood the healing skills of homeopathy.I believed the stories that the hawk would tell to other hawks, even joked only just a bit believing the hen could probably come up with a very dangerous and exciting story, telling of this great struggle which had hurt him. Had he told the truth-that he was captured by the cat-he would have already been teased for quite a while.The initial issue we did our trip was supposed to check to our hotel which was that the Barrier Station re sort at Kitty Hawk, North Carolina. On our holiday bundle we've got a 3 days and 2 night live, they gave us some dinner certificates to Mulligan's restaurant and pub and Jolly Rodgers. Also a excellent surprise in our vacation package had been 2 tickets to a Musical Show.After checking in we moved right into the hotel to examine it empty the large quantity of luggage we had brought us. The room was we predicted. Even though there were only 2 of us they gave us a two bed room accommodation. This was the bomb because we had our own toilet. The master bedroom had a huge Jacuzzi inside (which we use every night) along with also a king size bed together with a huge balcony. The other bedroom needed to bedrooms and your bathroom. They both had television's and were very well decorated. Along side a huge living space, dining room and kitchen that they also had a washer and dryer. Had we know this we'd have brought much less clothing?After unpacking we moved into the welcome center and assessed all those tasks that these were presenting. They had special to ground meals, games and a variety of lessons, along side several traveling excursions. Perhaps not merely did they all will have outside pools however they also had just one of the largest indoor grills that I have ever seen. And of course a weight room with all types of exercise equipment and also in door and outdoor hot tubes. Of course, when that was not enough they had a superb character walk trail and a location for runners.After exploring the resort we chose to simply take benefit of one of those dinner certificates we had been given and also went on Mulligan's for lunch. We're impressed by the number and high quality of the food and service we received. They'd a deck which moved to the surface of the cafe s roof with tables up there and also you could take pleasure in the sea view as you dined. I do feel just a modest sorry for its waters since they needed to go upward and down about half staircase all day long.When we ended dinner we continued with our vacation going to the shore where we did just a small sunning and tried some small fishing in the fishing pier that had been a few miles from our resort. Not bringing some fishing gear together were surprised that they'd everything you might want to go fishing. It simply cost us about 40.00 for all the apparatus and bait you wanted and now being outside to the pier you did not need to worry about getting eaten alive from almost any critters which might possibly be wondering all around on the island. We also toured about thirty kilometers of the island also found many great places to eat and shop. One of my favorite areas in Kitty Hawk to eat would be Jimmy's Sea Food Buffet. They offer an early bird special at which you can win $100.00 in funds as well as to get the first hour they give you lobster. You really don't even miss the lobster though, because with every different kind of seafood you may think of they possess ten different sorts of crab legs plus you can eat everything you want. Unfortunately we didn't get to eat there this time round because of the a number of other locations we never tried while there on vacation.However we did get to see one of the better musicals that I have ever gone . It was mixed with oldies and classical tunes together with some humor. The entire cast was superb. It lasted about two hours was so interesting that it felt which we're only there for half an hour. They change shows frequently so if you visit into the outside banks regularly you may get to see distinctive reveals. On Wednesdays that they offer you a magical show for those magical buffs in the same construction. So the next time you go there on a break please put that on you are todolist because you won't be sorry when planning on taking my own advice.One issue I did not plan moment doing our vacation was a round of golf and I am sorry I didn't because there weren't several really nice cheap golf courses near. I'm not sure but some one told us there were 12 in the area. Sounds like a golfer's paradise to me personally and together with this most golf courses I think that you need to plan to stay per week instead of just a few days. We did not go into any one of this course's this time round whilst the temptations would have already gone to great but I am certain that with many that they might never have been on to crowded.Well the bottom point for the full article is that it was really so relaxing and so gratifying our next vacation will likely be in the outside banks next year plus people also plan on taking a couple mini holidays or long weekends because a few call it there on a normal basis. And certainly will always be towards the top of my record for vacations to get quite a while for you to come.Because a few varieties of hawk some times kill game critters, the full class continues to be contested. You can find those, and they are several, who fail to observe that birds of prey fill out an important part in the amazing scheme of character. Does the hunter who shoots down the hawk at each and every prospect, because some species occasionally captures what he is very happy to take into account his special property, ever cease to request exactly what caused the quail along with different non-migratory match critters to reach the powers of swift flight that alone create sure they are desired as things of sport?It may be that the bird of prey, pursuing one opposite since the days of these invention, which has evolved not only its own strength of wing, but but in addition that of its quarry. And just as certainly as it is accurate, therefore indeed will that electricity be lost in the event the contributing cause be removed. The do do, a pigeon, found himself over the island of Mauritius in which enemies were unknown. He yielded to gluttony and in action, designed a corpulence that uttered traveling, and was eaten out of the face of the planet in a limited while right following his discovery by gentleman. His relative, the rock dove, who'd to flee the chasing hawk or perish, created but retains a power of wing which is famous around the world.To find additional details on this please dig this. At the same manner some other species, notably a number of the rails, by adopting a carefree lifetime, have forfeited flightand now face extermination if some active enemy invades their haunts. The most hawks, which we have been now , have made our grouse and quail what they are. Close students of the area additionally recognize that the amazing significance of hawks from removing game animals suffering from infectious diseases. Just a small thought should convince people of the fallacy of this debate the diminishing ranks of our game critters are the consequence of depredation by hawks, an idea that's become the foundation of most of the prejudice directed toward them. In case this were well founded then the decimation of the hunters would have caused a gain in match birds.In real truth the two hawks and match possess diminished concurrently, and also from exactly the very same primary bring about. For example of the destruction of harmless hawks under mere sensing, there can be cited an item only published in the report of advancement within an evaluation of methods for increasing quail. Up to thirty marsh hawks had been frequenting roosting regions from the match addresses, and so approximately 1 / 2 of these were taken. Subsequently over one million of the castings of the birds have been analyzed, each signifying dinner with the result that the stays of 4 quail had been observed, whereas a lot more than 2 hundred dishes had comprised one or even cotton rats, which eat the eggs of the quail. Really the announcement is highlighted that the majority of the opponents of those quail are the destroyers of its foes.The nighttime bird that is described being a Frequent Nighthawk is not a hawk in any way, but also a Nightjar. The title derives from the fact that the man makes a exact loud'jarring' call. All these 10" jay-sized birds have plumage that is indeed well camouflaged it renders them almost undetectable once they are nesting around the ground. They like to use gravel on which to rest and also build their nests. Nightjars additionally utilize dry grass and leaf litter, which hides their brown and gray mottled feather coloring perfectly.Nature also has given the nightjars' eggs with camouflage by creating grayish brown scrawling marks all around the off-white egg-shells. Mama nighthawk incubates the eggs all by herself. Preventing the nest emptied at the early day and afternoon, the feminine nightjar ventures outside to collect pests on that to feed, whilst her male counter part watches from a position never far away. He will finely lure off any prospective predators. Surprisingly, regardless of the typical nighthawk's custom of nesting on the ground, they are remarkably long-lived. The normal life span for a nightjar is 5 years, which is quite a while in bird years.After 18 times have passed, and the younger nightjars hatch. Now they're totally coated with fluffy down feathers. This really can be when the male measures in to help feed the younger hatchlings. Flying pests comprise their whole diet and are pre digested and then regurgitated with their own ma ma and papa.If the infants are jeopardized by almost some other predator, including individuals, ma-ma nighthawk pulls a nifty trick out of her bag and acts like she was hurt. She is good at this action which the predator is tempted to move off out of her nestlings since she clumsily blows off a brief distance away. After the intruder was taken enough by the nest, ma-ma nighthawk flies off usually. Nightjars are all about foraging at dusk, twilight and in moon light. Additionally they hunt as darkness turns to dawn. Their highly sensitive crimson reddish eyes tend not to require plenty of light as a way to locate their prey. In fact, too much light can blind them into your own foodstuff. In case the current weather is wet or snowy, nighthawks revert to a country of torpor to reserve their power. When problems are favorable to good searching, they take to the skies all over again. Nighthawks forage only on the wing. Once they restthey lay length wise across a branch or right on a lawn. Their feet are so tiny and their legs really long as to be not quite ineffective to them.The telephone of a nightjar can be a high-pitched'spee-spee-spee' sound that I have heard often when I am out throughout bliss. During a night of trying to find insects like moths and mosquitoes, even a nighthawk can rid us of thousands of pests. Their mouths are deceptively large and open very wide while they scoop the air for all types of traveling bugs. As they want more open spaces near forests in which insects are plentiful, nightjars are one of the very first ever to take advantage of a freshly burnt forest region. These areas afford a very good background due to their bright colors, thus helping them combine in to that environment additional easily.The decline of common nighthawks has been brought about partly with using pesticides, deficiency of habitat in which to hunt, and also the deficiency of their favorite nesting sites. That are the older style apartment lava roof. The other exact obvious rationale is that their habit of earth nesting and resting makes them much more at risk of predators such as owls, falcons and hawks.When their instinct tells them to go for warmer climes at South America, they shape flocks at times numbering in the tens of thousands Their migratory travel starts in mid July as the nightjars take the own time to stop and eat on the way. If they spot a river or marshland about sunsetthey are going to pause to eat their fill and re-energize, subsequently continue their very lengthy trek southward. Nighthawks return to the united states and Canada around February with the very same leisurely method.Common nighthawks also have been referred to as'bull bats' because of their nightly . However, they don't use echo location as snakes do to find prey. Nightjars have likewise obtained the strange name of'goatsuckers'. At some point it had been mistakenly thought they made their way into barns at night time to sneak the milk out of goats, but this is not true.There are just six species of us Nightjars: Eastern Whippoorwill,'' Mexican Whippoorwill, Chuck-Will's-Widow, Pauraque ('pa-RAW-kee') and Buff-collared Nightjar. All of these species are on the reduction. It isn't probable that you may understand a nighthawk because of these nighttime flights along with camouflage, form fact which they can stay absolutely still whenever approached. They will only fly when the prospective predator has too close for comfort. But in case you need to ever see one of these birds, consider yourself quite blessed indeed!Connie Smith could be the proud operator and director of Grandma Pearl's Backporch, LLC, and the professional writer of many online content about effortless and one of a kind methods by which you can cause the greatest bird-friendly lands to enable wild birds thrive and thrive. Understand just how to produce fun and secure backyard habitats for wild creatures with their preferred crops and foods, even whilst adding shade, odor and beauty to your landscape. Uncover simple how-to projects for producing your very own one of a kind bird feedersand find out how easy it's to entice various birds into your gardens and lawn. Visit today!

[starfaring-princelotor]

The Prison Kingdom

Chapter 2: To Create A Name

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Summary: With new companions comes new information you were unaware of before.

Warnings: Mentions of suicide and blood.

★ Disclaimer: I do not ship Lotura and I respectfully ask that this story to not be tagged as Lotura. This is a Lotor x Reader/Self-Insert OC story which is in no way related to Lotura at all. Please be respectful of my chosen pairing. ★

A/N: Click here to learn more about fairies.

1 . 2 .

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“I didn’t know pirates can read.”

“Aye, fancy that, eh? Learn something new with every rising sun,” you closed your book then fully turned your attention to the man leering over your shoulder, “I didn’t know that incubus’ can be nosy, little whelps, and yet, here we are, mate.”

Lance, he said his name was. Young faced with an offended scrunched up frown because of your comment, he seemed fresh to the battles of blades. And of insults. Rule number one when growing up under the honorable tutelage of your aged seafarer captain: whatever you do, do it well. May he rest in peace, the poor fool who took a cannonball to the gut. 

“Hey! I’m not nosy!” came his witty reply, accompanied by a muttered grumble.

You took that as his white flag.

“Pirate.” 

“Aye, capitain?”

Shiro said nothing else, only gave you that good old “stop picking on the soldiers” look. You shrugged in response. He stated that he needed to stop by his neighboring guilds and request assistance from a few specific set of people. And thus, along with you and a few others who gathered at Altea, Shiro created a small group of warriors for this expedition. 

There was Ulaz, a powerful necromancer who channeled spirit energy from the dead to do his bidding. Attractive mercenary with those glowing eyes and pointed ears, leader of the Blue Tail Guild. Then that one golem from the deep mountains, what was her name? Shay of the Yellow Eyes faction? Those fancy jewels embedded in her rocky exterior were tempting, but you were sure she could pack a punch if you tried to use your five-finger discount. And, last but not least, a dryad ghost who calls himself Rolo, belonging to the Green Claw Guild. His skills with traveling between planes of existence at ease would be most useful for scouting. 

Right now, the only one left was meant to be meeting at this farm on the outskirts of a small, unnamed village. Someone from the Red Teeth Guild, supposedly the one King Alfor led until his untimely demise. Her name was Hira, one of the Alteans who was tasked with defending the royal family. Keyword: was. She gave up that title and dedicated her life to hunting monsters with vengeance, more importantly the dragon that razed Altea to the ground. Though she lacked the magical abilities passed down by her ancestors, she made up for it in pure strength as a berserker. 

“- He is ready, Shiro. I have seen the boy fight alongside Lance, they both would make worthy comrades in battle.”

You could sense the pride and ushering tone in, who you assumed, was Hira. Off in the distance, the two boys mentioned were tending to a bull peacefully. Out here, it was easy to fall into the dull sense of a domestic life. A farm, crops to harvest, animals to feed. Making pasteurized cheese from only the freshest of milk. A humble existence, not one meant for the explorative type of people. Much too docile, too vulnerable.

“No, Hira. They are just boys. If we were hunting wild boars, yes, I would bring both Keith and Lance along, but this mission is too dangerous for the inexperienced,” Shiro argued, voice muffled behind the bales of hay, “I’m not putting their blood on my hands. Are you willing to?”

A pregnant pause, only to be interrupted by the peppered clucks of chickens nearby.

“Altea needs soldiers, Shiro.”

“Children are not soldiers, Hira. I’m done discussing this. Are you with us or not?”

“Fine. But keep your Galra scum on a leash. This war still isn’t over and I won’t forget what happened a decade ago,” she spat with spite lacing each syllable in her words, “His kind shouldn’t even be joining this party.”

“No one would forget, but his skills are invaluable if we’re going after a dragon that uses quintessence as an energy source. Our mission is to kill it so a repeat of the past doesn’t happen. Do you understand?”

Part of you wanted to say you didn’t mean to eavesdrop. Really, you didn’t, it was just convenient that your hearing was much more enhanced than the average being. And, judging by the pupiless stare of Ulaz, you knew he heard them, too. That slightest, almost barely noticeable twitch in his ears gave him away. 

“That bull is going to charge them. Watch,” Rolo informed, also watching the spectacle of Keith and Lance’s shenanigans.

As if able to predict the future, Keith must’ve patted the animal a little too hard, which irritated the beast. He started hoofing the grass, gave one loud baying screech, before shoving both of them away in a disgruntled thrash. Don’t run, you thought, but it was instinct to flee when something once neutral becomes aggressive. Pity that Keith fellow was wearing red, though. 

“Useful trick ye got there. Ever thought about trying yer hand as a fortune teller? Could swindle a few fish for quite a bit o’ gold,” you chuckled, recalling the time you did such a thing yourself. 

“Huh. Wonder if Nyma would be up for that gimmick after this hunt.”

“This hunt...it is such a small group. Can we really fight a dragon?” Shay’s inquisitive voice openly asked, “I have heard rumors and stories of such feats only being accomplished by massive armies, yet we are of only 10 bodies.”

“We are not going to kill a dragon. Shiro needs us to find it first before requesting for support from Altea. Perhaps the kingdom’s allies can send reinforcements as well.” Ulaz spoke of Shiro as an old friend, an old comrade in arms, and oddly enough, that fact was reassuring, “We can not trek through enemy territory with siege weapons and cannons. Not yet.”

Not until we know what we are going against. 

“Can you build, pirate?”

“Can a shark bite?” you immediately retorted, but judging by the blank look on his face, he didn’t understand the reference, “Aye, aye, I can build. Bless me with a keg o’ gunpowder and I’ll gift ye bombs strong enough to take out me other leg.” 

Shay giggled, Rolo smiled, and even Ulaz found the dark joke a little humorous. 

-

There was something stifling about traveling by foot through the thicket of the woods. You would take the open sea and the ship over mangled trees and looming leaves any day. Rolo, however, was in his element. It seemed like the vines were reaching towards him to give an odd embrace from the trees themselves. Was it just you or did that trunk have a face carved out in it? Perhaps you’ve been spending too much time reading that book of yours. 

[Not every spirit is malicious. Some belong to those children who ventured too far, unguarded and blind to the dangers lurking deep within. Be careful if you hear echoed giggling of the young. Faes are master tricksters. Under no circumstance should you ever answer their question, lest you wish to be swept up and vanished into thin air. Avoid rings of mushrooms at all cost.]

Below was a quickly drawn image of cap mushrooms formed in a circle. There seemed to be a child-like figure with butterfly wings attached on its back. You came to realize then, while sitting around the campfire and partaking your turn for watch, that the creatures of the land vastly differ than those of the sea. You expected this, of course, but something in the back of your head had one question buzzing in your skull: how far could you flee if you came across such beasts?

Shuffling off to the side alerted you of Shay awakening. Slowly, she emerged from her tent as the fire danced, making those gems glimmer even more beautifully in the night. 

“Are you well, p-pirate?” she asked albeit hesitantly stuttering on the title.

With a nod of confirmation, you shut your book quietly just as she took a seat across from you. She seemed to be lost in thought, curious even, and it amused you greatly to see her glance away when you caught her stare. Then, her gaze stayed locked on the very interesting rock by your wooden leg. 

“Lass, does this ol’ thing give you the willies?” you tapped your leg, already quite used to not feeling anything come from the action, “It t’aint rigged with explosives, ye can trust me word on that.”

Now, she quickly snapped her wide eyes up at you, “No, no, not at all! I mean, it’s a little...I have seen such things before. But that is not why I was - forgive me - for staring.”

“Eh?”

“Your name. The captain calls you ‘pirate’ and you were introduced to us as so. I have never met someone who doesn’t have a name,” Shay rubbed her hands together unsurely, wondering if her question came out too personal, “ I - does it bother...do you have a name that you wish to be called instead?”

Cute and utterly kind by a default. You liked that about her.

“Would ye like to hear a story, mate? A story of the Name-Stealing witch of the sea?”

At that, her attention was completely enraptured by the flourish wave of your hand and the quill you pulled from your coat sleeve like magic. If there was one thing you enjoyed more than crafting bombs, it would be telling stories embellished in exciting lore and haunting truths. Or lies. That was left to be decided by the listeners. 

“Aye, among those who were unfortunately marooned on desolate islands, legends say that the nights following an empty sky, there be but a single bottle floating to the shore. No matter where, it always held a single piece of parchment and quill. You nay see her on the bank, or hear her whisper, but some say she stands afloat as a speck on the horizon. And some say...she will grant ye solace if ye but write yer name on that there paper.”

You now pulled out a rolled-up sheet from your other sleeve, earning a gasp of surprise from your audience. Well, your one audience.

“I came across her one fateful night. There’s a rule among us pirate folk: those who fall behind are left behind. Ye carry yer own weight to survive out there and me weight was just a little too heavy,” cue you knocking on your wooden leg, “I was starved and alone with nothing but me ‘n me pistol. Good ol’ trusty Kretch. Once the taste of sand could no longer sustain me, nor the grass, nor the leaves of the palms, I had to decide if I wanted a quick death to be my end.”

Concern. Of course she was concerned to hear those dreadfully haunting words. 

“But she came to me one night, offering me nothing but a bottle. I told meself, if there were a chance to live, I’d take it without thought. And I did. I wrote me name, but oh, what a fool I was. There I lay, death washing upon the shore, and she came to me. She took it with a kiss, so I may never speak it again. She took that parchment so I may never write it again. And when I woke on a different bank, and when those kind souls helped poor little ol’ me, and when they asked who I was…”

You crumpled the paper then immediately tossed it into the fire, the blaze quickly sparking a green flame in a show of bedazzlement.

“...I couldn’t remember it.”

At the end, Shay was practically sitting on the edge of her log with wide-eyed awe. Couldn’t remember your own name? The very idea seemed appalling and completely impossible. Not even magic can do that...right? 

“But why? What could a sea witch want with a name? Was she born without one and chose to steal names, collect them, to satisfy her own cruel jealousy? Or was she searching for hers? She may still be out there yet, Shay, ready to make a deal with those desperate enough to survive. Perhaps she even haunts those in the forests or the caves…”

“No! I want to keep my name, I - “ she shook her head to get the jitters out, clearly displeased with the thought of losing something so important, “Can you get it back? Your name?”

“Many have tried, but all have failed or perished in the pursuit,” you paused, letting a slow, sneaky grin spread on your lips, “Unless...ye have more than one name to go by.”

“More than one?”

“Aye. That’s why ‘tis important to make a name fer yerself. And that’s why Shiro calls me pirate, fer me own safety, eh? Not even she can steal a title like that.”

“Can...stealing a name kill someone? Do you think she can kill a dragon if she took its name?” Shay questioned more for herself than for you, “It’s scary to think about…”

“Ah, but then ask yerself, do ye want t’forget the dragon? Pain is the world’s cruelest teacher, but I cannot imagine waking one day and not remembering how me family died by the dragon’s fire,” you explained before tilting your head in thought, “Were ye there, lass? When the dragon attacked?”

She shook her head no, “I wasn’t, but my people helped with saving the injured who were buried under the wreckage. Many were worried about the royal families and of the prince and princess as well.” 

Now it was your turn to lean in, intent on catching every word she shared.

“It is tragic that Queen Mellanor passed at Allura’s birth. Even more that her father was killed by the ally he trusted. We weren’t able to find Prince Lotor nor Emperor Zarkon, assuming they had fled as soon as the attack had started. It was horrible, hearing the survivors share their woes. I wish it hadn’t happened. Even a few Galra citizens living in Altea were affected, but…”

Here, she began fidgeting with her hands nervously then lowered her voice down a pitch as if the forest have ears of their own.

“When we uncovered Galra citizens, they were herded off into the castle...and they never came out.”

Somehow, Shay’s story was much more frightening than yours. Not only because you believe her, but you also believe that the fate of those Galra was likely leading to an unhappy ending. 

“I think - “

A rustle, one against the wind, and your head snapped in the direction of the noise. 

“Shh - wait, I hear - “ and before you could finish your sentence, a blunt force punched you in the face, sending you flying off your seat to knock into an allies tent. 

You heard Shay let out a yell, a battle cry and a way to warn everyone that an intruder was here. A cacophony of noises rose in volume, people scrambling to attack a wisping shadow in failure, for the punches came too quick and too powerful. A whirlwind of purple light trailed by each landed blow and, tried as you might, every shot from your pistol did nothing against the flurry of that damn bludgeoning weapon. 

“Rise!” Ulaz shouted and, instantly, a cooling spell fell over you, releasing you from the bruising pain of your crushed rib. 

You owe him a drink for that one. 

“Form up on me! Shields up!” Shiro ordered, equipping his own shield to cover his front, but it was already too late. 

By the time the chaos settled and the dust came down, the attacker had Hira’s throat in a deadly grasp while holding her body up in the air. Metal claws were cutting into her skin, drawing a line of blood, just to emphasize how serious she is close to dying. One wrong move, and her life would be forfeit. You waited with held breath on a command, anything from Shiro, but nothing came in one, two, three seconds.

Then, Shiro’s eyes widened at the person standing across from his infantry.

“Sendak?”

[poppies-to-potions]

The Men In The Superhero Costumes -  Chapter 1

Wattpad link      Next Chapter (N/A)

Night was a frightening time on Hermit Island. The second the sun set, the monsters came out to wreak havoc. Zombies broke down doors, creepers exploded causing large craters, and skeletons shot arrows that were surprisingly difficult to remove from walls. Because of this, the inhabitants of the island, the self-proclaimed "hermits", agreed to never leave their houses at night.

Well, except for Grian.

It was well known around the island that Grian was a risk taker, from setting up elaborate, but non-lethal TNT traps, to constructing ridiculous builds that no one could ever dream of, but none of the other hermits knew about his nightly ritual of monster hunting. Every night, Grian would secretly leave the safely lit confines of the island to travel hundreds of blocks away. How he got there? Well, that was his own little secret.

Usually these fighting sessions were a piece of cake, but this night seemed a bit tougher as Grian ran through the forest. He'd made the mistake of picking a roofed forests as his hunting spot of choice, meaning that there were tons of dark, shadowy places, perfect for monster spawns. Of course, this meant that there would be more monsters he had to chase down; the only problem was that the monsters were now chasing him.

Grian sprinted between the trees, twigs pulling at his sweater. He didn't slow down as he ran through a patch of mud, which splashed onto his previously-white leather pants. The cold night wind beat against his face, tangling his strawberry blond hair and chapping his lips. He clutched the pouch attached to his belt tightly as he ran, making sure all of his precious loot from the night was still there.

The boy kept glancing behind him at the hoard of creepers chasing him. How many were there? He'd lost track after six, and he didn't even bother to count the zombies. Every few seconds he would hear the dreaded hiss of a creeper and would have to pick up speed. Eventually he could even feel his lungs burning and his legs turning to slime.

Up ahead the trees began to break up, and he could finally see the sky once again. Grian grinned; a plains biome! He'd finally be able to shake of the ever-growing hoard of monsters! Grian continued his sprint, bursting into the open field, or at least what he thought was an open field. It didn't take him too long to notice that it wasn't actually a plains biome, but the edge of a cliff that led straight to the bottom of a large ravine. While this would be devastating to any other hermit, it wasn't for Grian.

After noticing that the ravine now looked much larger than it did just a few seconds ago, he promptly began to slow down, leaving behind large skid marks from his bright orange boots. The monsters were now about thirty blocks behind, yet still rapidly approaching. While he could just easily make his escape right now, Grian decided to wait, turning around to face the mobs and placing his hands on his hips. He lived for moments like these, moments that made his heart race and pumped adrenaline into his veins.

Grian smiled from ear to ear as the monsters approached. Twenty-five, twenty, fifteen, ten, five blocks. Grian stepped back until his heels were dangling off the edge. He clapped his hands together and took a deep breath.

"Later lads!" He saluted before leaning back and plummeting off the edge of the cliff.

Grian closed his eyes, waiting for his instincts to kick in. Seemingly like magic little white feathers began to pop out of his skin on the top of his cheeks and around his neck, the first sign of what was to come. Shortly after large wings sprouted from his back, resembling those of a chicken, but with a color palette of pure white that faded to a rich red at the bottom. His wings spread out, slowing the fall as Grian prepared to take off. He rolled over so that he was facing the ground, which was surprisingly close even for him, and gave his wings one large flap.

Grian then soared into the air, feeling the wind hit his face and ruffle his feathers. He did a few twirls in the air before turning back to look at the monsters he'd left behind.

"Bet ya haven't seen these before!" He scoffed, reaching to the holster on his chest and picking out what appeared to be an egg. He peeled off a little piece of the shell and threw it down at the monsters. The egg landed straight into the face of a skeleton, exploding on impact and leaving a decently sized hole in the ground. Grian let out a small "Score!" before reaching back into the holster and chucking a few more eggs at the monsters, causing more destruction to both the mobs and terrain.

When the smoke eventually cleared there were only a few measly zombies left. Rather than waste any more egg-bombs at them. He swooped down and landed right in front of the zombies. Grian held out his hand to reveal a set of fairly large talons, those that you would find on a bird, before swinging his arm and attacking the zombies, slashing them until they'd disappear into a puff of dust, leaving behind nothing but a small pile of rotten flesh.

Not even a minute had passed when the last zombie fell to the ground. Grian smiled to himself before wandering around the area to clean up the mess. He reached into his bag to take out a few spare dirt blocks to cover up the hole left from the egg grenades, picking up all the loot he'd found along the way. It wasn't the best haul, with way too much rotten flesh, a few bones, one sword (who enchants a stone sword?), and a few pieces of gunpowder. Grian shrugged, at least he could use the gunpowder to make rockets to help him travel. Besides that it doesn't matter if the loot wasn't great, he didn't really need it anyways with the mob farms back home, at this point he was really only doing this for the fun of it.

After picking up all the mobs drops and fixing the ground to make it look like he was never there Grian wiped his hands on his sweater, glancing up at the sky. The moon was still in the sky, but there was only about half an hour left until sunrise. He took one last look around the area before running across the field. He held out his wings and with one flap he was already off the ground and soaring back into the sky towards his base.

[castillon02]

Woodland creatures AU

Summary: Bond is a grumpy badger and Q is a clever crow. 

Bond hears the crow before he sees it, caw-cawing its way through the woods as if some decent woodfolk weren’t trying to get some sleep. Bond digs his claws into the dirt and widens his sett a little deeper. Hopefully this blasted noisemaker is just passing through.  

In the clearing above, Tanner’s herd of deer bolts away, the thud-thud of their hooves audible through the ground that makes up Bond’s roof. The breeze carries the sound of the hunter’s curse and the smell of her gunpowder; the deer would have sensed her before too long. Maybe not before she’d got a shot off, though. 

Not if the crow hadn’t sounded the alarm.

Hmmph. Maybe the crow’s mouth had been good for something after all.  

***

The crow is still there when Bond goes foraging at dusk. It’s perched on a silvery birch tree a short ways away from Bond’s den, the beginnings of a queerly shaped nest cradled between two sturdy branches. 

“Good evening, sir badger,” the crow says, lifting his beak in greeting. His shiny black pin feathers gleam in the fading light of the setting sun; the tiny ruffled feathers on top of his head need a good grooming. “I’m Q.” 

The ache in Bond’s scarred-up shoulder only seems to get heavier as he looks at the young crow. “The name’s Bond,” he says. “James Bond. Planning to stay long?” 

The crow considers him. “Why?” he asks. “Don’t think I’d be a good fit for the neighborhood?” 

“I think you’re just out of the nest, and we don’t need another open mouth to feed,” Bond says, testy. “Let alone an upstart trying to form his own colony.” 

The crow flicks his wings and hops out of the tree, landing only a few feet away from Bond. “Better an upstart dreaming high than a low-life who can’t see beyond his own den,” he says, gleaming eyes fixed on Bond’s own. “I’ll bet I can be of more use to this place with my eyes in the sky than you can rooting through the underbrush.” 

“Then why not go settle somewhere with no pesky badgers at all?” Bond asks. He bares his badger teeth and casually flexes his great claws. 

The bird doesn’t blink. “Because sometimes things need a good mauling,” he says. 

 “Or they don’t,” Bond says. “Hard to tell when you’re up there in the trees. Q.” 

“Bond.” The bird flutters up to its nest and comes back with a brown object gripped in its talons: a small chicken egg. 

Bond loves chicken eggs. How the hell did a crow get a chicken egg? 

“Consider it a ‘welcome to the neighborhood’ present,” the crow says, and preens briefly. 

[bugcthulhu]

Spanish/Iberian mythological creatures: So Many Goblins edition

Marraco: Wingless dragon with a very wide mouth and stomach. While said to swallow people whole, it is also treated as a spiritual guardian

Ayalga: Nymphs that guard vast treasures in caves or palaces, alongside dragons. Some were cursed into the role, but many just do it from the get-go. Only go outside during a single night of every year, and may offer some of their riches to the men that seek them out if they follow certain rituals. A dragon whose Ayalga has abandoned them for good succumbs to despair and abandons the land.

Crespell: Cave-dwelling, child-eating monsters covered in warts that spew flames from their eyes. Always appear in groups of seven: six tiny ones and one gigantic.

Ollaparo: A man-eating cyclops with an additional eye on the back of its head

Xacio: Amphibious beings that live at the bottom of rivers. Usually presented as merfolk, but sometimes they have the lower bodies of lizards.

Carmenco: A creature covered in woolly black hair that prowls the mountains. Settles in abandoned houses and prevents them from falling to disrepair, but spotting one brings years of bad luck. Can be driven away by throwing stones at the house its chosen.

Nonell: Horse-sized dog of dense, flowing white fur and black eyes. Its arrival precedes the fall of snow in mountain areas.

Cucala: Black birds that dislike being seen and emerge in droves during the darkest nights. Extremely dangerous, and really noisy

Sacauntos: “Grease puller” A bogeyman that carves children open to remove and devour their body fat. Carries its bounty around in a sack

Maruga: Tiny critters that swim in rivers and ponds. Their bite makes women pregnant, but what they are pregnant with is not specified.

Lambiron: Demonic being with the power to poison sources of water, make fields go dry and ruin crops

Mouro: Dark-skinned, really tall humanoids (sometimes flat out giants) that live underground. Extremely skilled in mining and metallurgy, to the point everything they own is made of gold, and are immensely rich. Often made deals with humans with gold as payment, but humans had to never reveal the source of said gold, or else it would turn to coal….or the Mouros would kill them straight away. Said to love wine, and have outstandingly beautiful women

 (The Mouros are a really tricky one because their name sounds almost exactly like Moro, which is the word for the ancient muslim invaders of Spain, and a modern-day derogative slang to refer to muslims. Coupled with everything else about them… yeah)

 Serpe: Very much like the Cuelebre in that they’re giant snakes with bat wings and extraordinarily hard scales, usually guarding the treasures left behind by the Mouros. Other times they’re women cursed into the form of huge white snakes, waiting for someone to break their curse

 Zarronco: A child-eater that usually takes the form of a huge insect

 Bloody Pirico: Bogeyman that resembles a bloody, skinless humanoid. Steals lost children.

 Half-Face: Another child-eater, appears as a figure with a single arm, a single leg and a single eye, like a body that’s been bisected.

 Malismo: The Spanish answer to norse trolls, a drooling, excessively hairy, stinking, hideous and malicious monster that dies when exposed to sunlight. Though said to be on the small side, they are noted as extremely dangerous due to their knowledge of sorcery

 Trasgo: The quintessential Spanish goblin, usually depicted with a hole in the palm of each hand. Though not evil, it is an obnoxious prankster that loves playing tricks on the people it shares a house with. May sometimes take a shine to said families, which means it’ll follow them wherever they go. Extremely hard to get rid of

 Trasno: Similar to the trasgo in many aspects, the trasno is also said to assault people in forests, and stalk travellers to bring misfortune upon them

 Martinico: Benevolent and helpful goblin, though terrifying if upset. Has the ability to shapeshift into animals

 Tardo: Unlike its brethren, a genuinely evil goblin with green skin and sharp teeth, usually carrying a small sword. Causes nightmares

 Quarantamaula: Half-man, half-chicken, half-vulture. Jumps from roof to roof to make noise and scare children.

 Cerdet: Snaggle-toothed hairy pig that spooks travellers at night, loves riding horses

 Goncho: A beautiful male giant that takes wives away from their husbands, appearing only when said wives want him to do so

 Maragassa: Female figure that causes anguish and grief on women.

 Pardalot: Bird that feeds its chicks with human children and enjoys the warmth of fire and smoke, entering houses through the chimney

 Man of the Noses: Self-explanatory, a man possessing as many noses on his body as days there are in a year. Benevolent, but in some areas it is treated as a bogeyman that can be bribed away with money.

 Aneto: A giant that refused to help Jesus when he arrived exhausted and hungry to his domain, was punished by being transformed into a mountain. Only recovers his conscience on stormy days, and all he does is wail about his fate.

Meiga Xuxona: Blood-sucking witch that takes the form of a bumblebee.

 Falugue: Tiny being similar to the Nyitus that enters the bodies of humans and devours the inner ear, rendering them deaf

 Avelainya: Spectral butterfly that can be black or white depending on whether it brings good or bad omens. Might be related to Cuques, glowing worms that appear at night and are likened to the souls of the dead

 Famelier: A goblin with a huge head and mouth, and a terrible voice, born from containing a certain kind of ephemeral grass inside a black bottle. Constantly asks for either food or work, will indulge the former if not given the latter.

 Boet: Another servile entity, except this one will go out of its way to NOT do any tasks after begging its master for some.

 Freba: Small, shiny fairy that uses crickets and/or legless lizards as steeds. So beautiful anyone who spots one falls into lovesick melancholy

 Joanet: Luminous goblins that can be summoned to find hidden treasure

 Barruget: Goblins of elongated heads and immense strength that usually live deep in wells, but might emerge in groups on days of bad weather to play in the raging waves. A prankster that can be placated by offering it bread with cheese.

 Martinet: Born from mushrooms, extremely fast, easy to anger, and outrageously powerful, capable of changing the course of rivers or altering mountains. Is repelled by snake drool

  Negret: Black goblin that turns into a pile of coins if someone touches it while holding a candle

 Telles-Melles: Invisible goblin that watches over children and plays with them.

 Follet: Sometimes said to be a goblin, sometimes just said to be a special gift. Either way it is tied to an individual person and grants them powers.

 Rotlla/Rotlan/Errolan: A version of the fictional Sir Roland, wielder of Durendal, in which he is an heroic giant. Rode an equally gigantic one-eyed horse that could chew through mountains.

 Pesanta: Sometimes a huge dog, sometimes a huge cat, both with legs made of iron. Enters houses from under doors or through walls and sits on people as they sleep, giving them nightmares and great pain

 Pupieirinya: Forest fairies that love bread crumbs, very quick and very silent. Can hear the voices of children that are too young to speak, and bring them gifts.

 Lavandeira: Old woman that sits by rivers washing clothes and calls for passersby to help. Ignoring her pleas or folding the clothes in the same way she does nets you extreme bad luck, if not guaranteed death.

 Canouro: Vaguely defined evil entity associated with water. Fond of mortally wounding children on the arms of their parents

Butoni: Hairy bogeyman with claws, horns and two faces that enters houses through keyholes

Aideko: Wind spirit said to be responsible for every disease and disgrace that cannot be explained by conventional means. An even more malevolent variant, the Aidegatxo, also controls storms. Can only be driven off through magic.

 Es Vedra Giant: Sea-dwelling. Hunger for human flesh only surpassed by his love of octopi. Will eat until it can’t move anymore

 Saint Llorenc’s Dragon:  Brought to the land by foreign invaders, originally very small but grew to monstrous proportions by devouring everything in its path, and soon claimed an entire mountain. Survived what should’ve been a fatal sword strike, forcing its slayer to call upon divine intervention to finally smite it down

 Altzuruku Dragon: Enormous and fierce. A knight called SIR GASTON fought it to a stalemate for weeks, some say months, and finally had to resort to feeding it an ox skin filled with gunpowder to do the trick, blowing its head off.

 Espillet’s Dragon: Considered one of the dracs, of deadly all-rotting stench. Terrorized the city of Valencia until a man called Espillet slayed it in return for avoiding life-long prison and reuniting with his lost love. In one version, however, the dragon merely scared people away to live in peace, and the city blamed it for all sorts of kidnappings. Espillet had no choice to kill it anyway, even if he felt pity for the beast.

[theburgerlist]

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[midnightsnapdragon]

side-effects of poetry

He wonders if there'll be any poems left in the galaxy, if she has them all to herself.

Keep scrolling, or read on FFN or AO3.

The student café smells like tea and old afghans, thick with dust because no one wants to open a window and let in the freezing February air. Jacin adjusts the strap of the book bag on his shoulder, looking for someplace dignified to sit. The space designated for the poetry slam is populated only by beanbags.

His jaw ticks.

"All right, everyone, we're going to start in a minute," chirps a girl in overalls and highly impractical heels. Her braids swing behind her as she ushers the milling students to the floor.

Jacin gives up and plops down on a red beanbag that's lost most of its beans, leaving it basically a sack with too little stuffing to keep his butt off the floor. The book bag leans against his thigh, paper whispering to him above the murmur of the four o'clock crowd.

Let me out, let me out, let them hear me.

He pats a hand against the fabric to silence it. He hadn't known before that poems so longed to breathe – that they begged to be spread like wishes, like dandelion seeds on the wind.

Across from him, a willowy young woman sits cross-legged on a purple beanbag as comfortably as a bird in her nest. Curly black hair frames the face of an enchantress. Jacin catches a glimpse of luminous amber eyes as she flips through a battered notebook, her lips bunched together.

"Who'd like to share first?" says the girl with blue braids once everyone has settled down, clasping her hands under her chin. "We'll go around the circle, shall we?"

He listens with detachment as his fellow students read their poems from paper or from memory. Some are pretentious and elaborate, others as literal as bricks. It's the simple ones that pack the most punch, he notices.

Not that he would know. He's not a poet – he's in pre-med, actually, and wrestled with himself for a fair bit before coming here. Something must have possessed him, a couple of days ago – some sort of poetry virus that every teenage boy is bound to catch at least once in his life before becoming immune forever, like the chicken pox – to try to capture in words how he felt about being entrusted with life and death, as a doctor.

He'd put pen to paper, as awkward as someone on his first date, and now here he is. Like an idiot.

Maybe someone had sneezed on him.

Quite simply, a poem should fill you up with something, he once read on a poster in the metro car. Could make you swoon, stop in your tracks, change your mind or make it up. A poem should happen to you like cold water or a kiss.

He's not a poet, but maybe he is a narcissist, because he wants someone other than him to know that this fledgling poem exists, written by his pen, written from him like tendrils of his own thought spun into calligraphy. It would make the thing real.

Maybe he's waiting for a poem to happen to him.

Maybe he hopes that his will happen to somebody else.

The circle comes around to the black girl with amber eyes. She glances up at Jacin, offhand, as she flips to a new page, and he straightens unconsciously against the wooden wall of the café.

"She carries her heartbreak in a metal case," she reads, her voice melodious and clear, "and feeds it gasoline and memories. Her hands shake as she tries to stitch it whole …"

And Jacin forgets all about his irritation with poetry.

It's a story – the story of a girl with a broken, feral heart, a girl on her knees trying to patch together something irreparable, a girl with a bitter tongue and a basketful of gunpowder and flowers. What do you know about heartbreak? She can't carry it anymore, can't feed it anymore –

The poem washes over him and settles into his skin like cold sea spray, the tingling of a spell. He holds his breath until the very end, and when it comes, he's too disoriented to clap along with everyone else. It feels like being abruptly shaken awake from a nap.

He can't remember ever being … moved like this. And by what? A certain arrangement of words, a story told just so. Her words have already evaporated into the stifling, musty air of the café.

The applause dies out, the circle moves along. Jacin's little seedling poem is ready to spring awake from the depths of his book bag. If he listens closely, he thinks he can hear it rustling its wings.

And all at once, he is ashamed of it. Next to the story about repairing heartbreak, which encapsulates everything a poem should be, his is ungainly and awkward, pitiful really. Not fit to be read aloud.

When his turn comes around, and everyone turns to him expectantly, he shakes his head.

"Just here to listen."

Then he looks at the person next to him, passing the hot potato.

He's not the first to pass. No one suspects that he still has a poem stuffed down in his anatomy textbook. No one ever needs to know.

Jacin stares at the enchantress-girl out of the corner of his eye for the rest of the half-hour, and leaves the minute everyone gets up for lemonade and store-bought cookies.

He stands atop a small hillock, holding a scrap of paper in his fist. Fields of overgrown grass unfurl around him in every direction – the horizon an infinite, unbroken circle hemming him in. A few white clouds are strewn across the midday sky. Wind whistles quietly over the hills.

He looks at the poem in his hand. It flutters hopefully at him, seeking approval. He frowns.

"Not you," he says.

Above him, a cloud drifts nonchalantly closer to the sun.

Scraggly branches wave and scrape against his window. It is eleven oh two at night. Jacin pores over his books, a pen tap-tap-tapping against the page.

The labeled illustration of a human heart stares back at him.

Out of nowhere, he thinks, this diagram is scientifically inaccurate. All the blood vessels are there, the thick tubes of arteries, the colour schematics perfect – but where is the sorrow, the patriotism, the infatuation, where are all the follies and stupid things the heart is capable of? Where are the clear-cut lines pointing yes, here is where love and hatred intersect in passion, or here, you see, is the node that seeds pure joy just once in a person's lifetime?

Where in this textbook does it explain why his heartbeat stutters whenever he looks at the girl with amber eyes, the girl who makes the English language into a magic spell, an overgrown rosebush, an endless blue sky, a new miracle?

His right hand, still balancing the pen between two fingers, drifts toward the desk drawer where he keeps scrap paper. Tentatively, he begins treading a new line of thought: they say there's a new heart surgery that can erase your name, carried by the pulse under my jaw –

Mm, too pretentious.

I have a new patient. And I can't figure out what's wrong with the thing beating inside of him –

No, that's. That's not really a poem.

His hand comes back to rest on his textbook.

At the next poetry circle, the enchantress-girl reads half a dozen verses about a monster in the woods. Jacin watches her face light up as she goes through the lines – the same fond, melancholic look people get when they sing a song they've known by heart since childhood – and wonders if poetry is a gift given to you or if it's something you can study, like cardiac arrest. If poets are born, or made.

(He wonders if there'll be any poems left in the galaxy, if she has them all to herself.)

The circle comes around to him and he refuses again, his face impassive. A few scribbled lines try to scratch their way out of his book bag (beside them, the first poem lies dormant and stale) but he pats them back down. It helps to think of himself as the cliché'd Emotional Bad Poet; the mortification stifles any stray words that try to wriggle their way through his pen.

When this round ends, he lingers by the snacks table, feigning indecision – conveniently within earshot of the poet/stargirl/witch/history student as she chatters in a bright voice to her friend with the mop of fiery red curls.

Winter, the other girl calls her. No, Winter, I'm not calling in any favours with the animal shelter … you know the landlord wouldn't let you keep him, anyway.

Jacin's fingers hover over a butterscotch scone he's not remotely interested in. He mouths the word to himself, tasting it. Winter. Cold and crystalline. The muffled silence of snowfall, the tinkle of icicles, the gentle chime of sleigh bells, freezing slush that soaks through your socks. Why winter, of all things? He has never known anyone who radiates so much warmth.

A chill wind hits his cheeks when he leaves the café, and he wraps his scarf around his neck to keep it out. He has a test tomorrow, and an essay due a week after that. He can't afford to get sick.

He can't afford to get distracted, either, yet Winter's poems lace themselves into his mental archive of medical knowledge, dancing in and out of his mind as he walks home, consumes cup after cup of coffee, flips a textbook page as the clock strikes witching hour

as the left pulmonary artery is an extension (she is just a child, with a child's eyes) of the pulmonary trunk, while the right (you could only ever be half a person, half a pair of bones) pulmonary dips under the aortic arch and under (I cried the way women on TV do, folding at the middle like a five pound note –)

His hands keep itching for a pen.

Whenever he does try to write something, though … all he sees is a blank page. Her poems have strung a cat's-cradle of fairy lights through his head and he cannot think through them, can't seem to find his own words when hers are all that he hears, giggling in the shadows, a crisscross of pixies and glowing fireflies.

Atop the hill in the middle of that vast prairie, Jacin examines another poem with a critical eye, and lets it slip through his fingers. Its small cry of abandonment is lost in the breeze picking up to ripple through the grasses. Strands of pale hair blow into his eyes.

Another, another. He searches his pockets for the spares.

Winter, he thinks, a pencil hovering over a blank page. A dozen scribbled-over beginnings litter the paper.

Winter.

The whimsy of wind chimes, a bright yellow songbird, the clear breath of snowmelt in your lungs on the first day of spring.

Not a girl of ice and snow but a girl of sunshine and stardust.

Stardust. The word tickles at him. He has four lines down on the paper before the last line of her poem about sky-people splits his concentration, a silver dagger slicing through the air:

Now there's stardust in her hair, and ashes and obsidian in her wake.

If a poem is something that happens to you, this was a goddamn bolt of lightning. He staggered out of the student café dazed, bewildered, a little disoriented. He ended up missing his bus stop because he kept mouthing snatches of the poem to himself.

Fingers pinched around the pen, Jacin inhales deeply. And it occurs to him: Why bother?

He sets the pen aside and calmly, methodically, crumples the page in one fist and flings it out the open window.

Why bother, indeed? That girl, Winter, she has stories in her blood and ink stains under her fingernails; she is a poem, all graceful lines and mischievous eyes, a crimson-bright cardinal among dreary brown flightless birds, the only one awake in a city full of sleepwalkers. And what is he? A cynic, a pretender. A pre-med student who should stick to his science instead of reaching for gifts that don't belong to him.

Disgusted with himself and his painfully inadequate words, Jacin pushes back from his desk and leaves the stifling room, pausing only to grab his jacket on the way.

The vast gray sky casts the grassy fields in shade. He digs the poems out of his pocket and holds them to the waning light in his cupped hands.

He sees nothing worth keeping. He opens his fingers and lets the wind carry them away and out of sight, crumbling to ash.

It's not regret that sends a pang through him. It's not. He doesn't care about those attempts at poetry. It's better that they should disappear.

He stuffs his hands back into his pockets.

Three stories below, a girl walks down the street with her chin tucked into her brilliant crimson scarf to ward off the chill. A crumbled ball of paper drops gently from the sky, landing at her feet.

Winter stares at it for a moment. She thinks, absurdly, of falling pinecones. Then she crouches to pick it up, and smooths it out. Chunks of road salt dig into her heels through her soft boots.

It's a poem on cheap lined paper, likely a standard-issue 200-page notebook. University kids can't afford much better. A smile is already spreading across her face when her gaze snags on her name.

Winter.

Not a girl of ice and snow but a girl of sunshine and stardust.

The words send a peculiar, electric glittering over her skin. Her lips part. She glances up at the nearest apartment building, at the open window three stories above. There's a quick flash of pale hair, an arm extended to shut the window.

Before she can think to wave, the young man who never brings any poems vanishes from sight.

A chilly, foreboding wind whips through the fields. The grass is starting to wither. Vultures circle overhead. He crumples poem after poem in his fists and throws them to the ground, grinding them into dust with his heel.

"Worthless," he says harshly. He hates the pitiful things he holds, even as it drives a tiny shard of ice into his heart to feed his own hatred. "Meaningless."

They cry out for him to stop, to take them back, for nourishment. He ignores them. Better to put them down than try to heal them or make them grow.

His voice is thick with contempt. "Embarrassing– trite – pretentious –"

Another poem shrivels in his fingers, another crumbles like an autumn leaf in the winter. He tosses them left and right, scattering pieces of himself to the wind. It takes something out of him to hate these things he has created, but if they're supposed to reflect what's inside of him, he must be worthless too.

"Try the raspberry jam ones," says a merry voice behind him. "They're divine."

Jacin snatches his hand away from the plastic box of macarons. Winter has materialized next to him, a little too close than is polite to stand next to a stranger, and like a bird pecking at cornseed she snatches two at once.

"I don't believe we've met," she says through a mouthful of macaron, extending a hand to him.

Despite himself, the corners of his lips quirk into a smile as he takes her hand and shakes it, twice. She's like a child, completely shameless about taking more than her fair share of sweets. "Jacin Clay."

She covers her mouth with the back of the other hand so crumbs don't spew out. "I'm Winter."

"I know."

Her brows lift. "My name has gone around, then?"

"Yes. Your poems –" He hesitates. It costs him something to say it, knowing that he cannot speak to her as an equal. Not in this. "They're … very good."

She's already stuffing the second macaron into her mouth like a sticky bun. "Thank you." Bemused, he waits for her to chew, and after a moment she swallows and tips her head at him. "I wanted to ask – why don't you ever read out your poems?"

Jacin's smile vanishes. "I don't write."

"I don't think that's true." She draws a crumpled bit of paper from her coat pocket and holds it out to him. "I think this is yours."

Heat creeps into Jacin's cheeks as he stares at the paper, as though his face is a stovetop and someone is slowly, excrutiatingly, turning the dial.

"Where did you find that?"

"Your poem found me," she says matter-of-factly, as if he should know what his poems get up to when he isn't looking. As if he should be held accountable. "I think you could share it. I mean, not if you don't want to, obviously. But I liked it." Her lips flicker into an uncertain little smile. "Then again, I can't be objective, seeing as it's about – um."

He tears his eyes away from the crumpled paper, torn between mortification and the desire to scoff with every ounce of spite he possesses. She likes this ugly, unpolished thing? She, silver-tongued Winter who can move his cold, practical heart with a simple turn of phrase – she wants him to share?

She knows that she was the subject. She must. A girl of sunshine and stardust … How many girls called Winter can there be in this town?

Jacin picks the crumpled paper from her fingers, careful not to brush her skin. "How do you know this is mine?" It's tempting to deny it altogether, but he is too proud to do that.

"I'm fairly sure it fell out of your window."

"Ah."

There's an awkward pause. Students are filing out of the café, bundled into scarves and mittens against the icy winter wind. Winter takes a breath and asks, "Could I read another?"

"Another?"

"One of your poems."

"There aren't any more," he says stiffly. "This was just a fluke –"

She sounds genuinely insulted. "Poetry is never a fluke!"

He makes a derisive noise. "Easy for you to say."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"How can any of us write when you're here to blow us out of the water?" He'd meant it to sound flippant, a joking self-disparagement , but instead he just sounds bitter. "I mean, really, what's the point? You're better than anything I could ever be. 'There can only be one', and all that."

Winter's lips part in outrage. "Don't tell me you stop yourself from writing because of me –"

"Of course I do," he snaps. "Every time I reach for a pen and paper I have your voice in my head, and your poems, and how can I even try when you …" He gestures vaguely at her, more frustrated than ever that he can't put into words what he feels. When you can capture a feeling with a few lines the way an artist captures a face with strokes of charcoal.

She watches him, dismayed, as his ruthless posture sags a little.

"Never mind. Sorry for blabbing like that. It's not your problem." Jacin hefts his book bag more comfortably over his shoulder and turns to walk through the café door. "See you next time."

He knows before the words are out of his mouth that he's lying.

He fishes his very first poem out of his pocket – the one about life and death held in a doctor's hands, the power to heal and the power to kill in equal measure – when a horrified voice breaks through the whistling wind.

"What are you doing?"

It's the enchantress-girl, the wood-nymph, the witch. She stands at the base of the hill, her unbound hair whipping every which way in the gale, her eyes widening as she sees the poem crushed in his fist, the remains of its brethren at his feet.

"No!" she shrieks, and something tears in her voice as though it's her verse-children he's ripping to pieces. "Stop – YOU'RE KILLING THEM!"

Jacin frowns in surprise as she runs up the hill toward him, holding her peasant skirts so they won't tangle around her knees. When she grabs his hand and uncurls his fingers, he doesn't stop her. When she gently pries away the suffocating poem – a crumpled knot of spiky letters too jumbled to make sense, let alone beauty – he doesn't stop her then, either.

He just watches, uncomprehending, as the witch kneels in the soil and holds the poem to her lips. Shhhhhh, she breathes. It's all right now. Shhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.

The wind quiets. The vultures settle down somewhere in the field. Calm descends on the vast, infinite grassland as the poem unfurls in her hands, carefully, painstakingly untangling itself like a crushed spider. But even in her gentle hands, it cowers, and the witch looks up at Jacin with grieved eyes.

"Why have you done this?" she asks, her eyes welling with pain. "How could you do this?"

Jacin blinks. He does not understand why she should care so much about his shabby poems. Surely, it's not her place to show them mercy.

"I don't want them," he says lamely.

The witch furrows her brow in genuine confusion.

"… but they're yours."

He hasn't taken two steps before Winter grabs his hand.

"Wait, Jacin –"

His lips part on a sharp breath; his eyes dart to where she twines her fingers with his, then back up to her face.

"I understand," she says earnestly. "Please believe me when I say I get it. Nobody is immune to this once they start writing. It's a side-effect you just have to live with."

He stares down at her and finds that his mind has scattered. Probably a side-effect of holding her hand. Truly, he is a sap. No wonder he turned to poetry. What kind of doctor lets hormones get in the way of critical thinking?

Winter searches his eyes for a long moment before her eyes drift to the paper still clutched in his other hand.

"I'm biased, of course," she says quietly, "but it – it's rather beautiful. More like a story than a poem, I think."

Jacin looks down at his boots. "I don't have your gift."

"You don't have to have my gift. Maybe you have something of your own, have you ever thought of that?" She gestures at his book bag. "You're in pre-med, you would know – no two human beings are the same. No two writers are the same. We all have our own fingerprints."

"Any idiot could tell you that," he points out caustically.

Winter gives him a reproving look. "Please don’t be difficult. I don’t even know if I’m saying this right, but – "

– she pauses, searching for the right words  –

" – if I've learned anything about poetry ... it doesn't have to be good. It just has to be yours."

The witch blows gently on the poem, revitalizing it, breathing new life, and plants it on the hilltop. She picks up the remains of his poems one by one until she has all the pieces, and puts them into his hands.

He cradles them, uncertain of how to be gentle with such delicate things. The poems he did not treasure. The poems he tried to throw away.

"Let them live," she whispers, folding his fingers around them. "Let them grow."

"I guess so," says Jacin quietly.

It's all the concession he's ready to make. Anything more concrete would jinx the tentative new thing planted in him, might erase the twitching of his fingers all over again.

Winter nods and releases his hand, as solemn as if they've reached the end of a ceremony. "I hope you'll let us hear what you write, sometime." She gestures outside. "Shall we?"

A smile flickers across his face. "We shall."

Once the café door clangs shut behind them with a cheery tinkle, she pauses to pull on her gloves, and Jacin gathers his courage.

"You know," he says, "I might let you read one of mine if you let me read one of yours. One of your rough drafts, I mean. It would only be fair."

Winter darts a glance at him through her lashes, an elfin look of mischief. Snowflakes have begun to settle into her curls. "Can't. They're all just variations on" – she pretends to fiddle with the hem of her gloves – " 'blond hair and beautiful eyes and the rising sun in his smile.' You'd cringe."

"I don't think you're capable of writing anything cringe-worthy." Maybe she'll write off his reddening ears as a side effect of the cold. "No less than 'sunshine and stardust', probably."

"You called me a canary."

"I did not call you –"

"And that would make you, what? What bird has a poker face and is in league with the mafia?"

"A horned owl?" he offers.

"I was going to say 'I'd Sell You To Satan For One Corn Chip', but that's a bit of a mouthful." Jacin gives her a perplexed look. "Remind me to tell you about troubled birds."

"Troubled birds," he echoes, bemused. She's kind of wacky. But what else can you expect from a poet?

Winter smiles at him, as bright as melting snow. "I guess you'll just have to come to the next poet's circle. With or without something to contribute." She turns and starts to walk away down the street. "Bye, Jacin!"

He casts about briefly for something clever to say, but all he can think of is the icy roads and so he settles on, "Walk safely."

She answers with a little skip in her step, sending road salt skittering in every direction.

Long after the witch vanishes from the hillside, he kneels in front of the poem-sapling, and cups it gently in his hands to shield it from the steady wind.

He's not sure when it will blossom, or what colour the flowers will be. Maybe it will rise as a colossal beanstalk to breach the clouds above. Or maybe it'll never be any taller than his knee.

He is certain of only one thing: it will grow, if he allows it to.

Author's Note:

I wrote this fic to cheer myself up after a bout of writer's doubt and self-pity. Here, Winter tells Jacin the things I wish someone else had told me - but maybe teaching myself these small lessons was the best possible thing. If that nagging little voice whispers "Why bother?" in your ear about your writing, or your art, or your music, I hope that you will think of this thinly veiled piece of writer's advice and take heart.

She carries her heartbreak in a metal case and Ashes and obsidian in her wake both come from poems by Snigdha Chaya Saikia (a.k.a Canvas Constellations). The first is called "Repairs" and can be found on her tumblr @canvasconstellations; the second, "Stars," and can be found on the website of Strange Horizons under their poetry tag. Snigdha, I dedicate this fic to you. Your writing blows me away every time.

[lunarblazes]

have decided i’m gonna put more over here because i think about this way too often:

scar is like. almost an automaton? if you read my finale retelling fic you’ll see that i used a lot of golden descriptions for him and i will be entirely honest that detail about him was entirely based on [takes crack] [listens to gold by imagine dragons] what if he had a literal “heart of gold” because he’s wealthy and seems kind and gold can be shallowly applied to things in a gilding to make them seem more valuable. he’s missing patches of skin. his bones are shiny. truly a corpse husband.

grian keeps his wings tucked about 85% of the time because if they were out in a fight, they would get cut off so fast! you may ask why he’s wearing a cowl but not letting his wings out. good question. the answer is: if someone grabs his cowl the clasp is designed to break and it won’t hurt him. if someone grabs his wings he will Immediately Be Knocked Over by the pain of, yknow, probably his wings ripping or getting pulled off! he’s a dragonfly, bro, his wings aren’t made of muscle like bird!grian’s are :^(

both grian and scar started this series off completely human. gestures. what the fuck

absolutely love making grian’s general imagery tied to the watchers, because he’s the RED WATCHER y’all. in a server where red lives are the most bloodlusty. mmm. potential.

scar usually wears a shirt because grian can and will murder him if he doesn’t. and also for my own sanity. i refuse to draw mister goodtimes’ titties even if he tells me i must

the bandages they both wear were grian’s idea! they’re breathable but protect from sunburn and are ideal to help with gunpowder and sand handling. whenever they get hurt, they can also unwrap easily to help the two with their wounds!

grian also knows how to sew! he patched up his own cowl with whatever he had on hand.

scar made grian his little feather necklace with dyed chicken feathers.

scar helps grian deal with his wings (because remember, they were fully human before this) because he knows how bee wings work, and surely these aren’t that different?

OH I JUST REMEMBERED I WAS GONNA POST THIS! you guys rlly liked my grian design so i figured i’d just post the sketch ref i did for him and scar a little while back :^) includes some special notes too!

quick hcs that arent noted or apparent here: grian is hoh due to blasting one of his ears off (hence the strange wing-ear thing that took its place) in the battle of the red desert and also just being around explosions in general, the stuff that is dripping from scar’s mouth is just straight up gold, scar uses oxygen cans/a similar device frequently because one of his lungs is severely fucked up from the creeper explosion and a wheelchair when he can because of the severe trauma they suffered from the ravine death, grian is still a sun sprite and can only fly during the sun’s peak, beginning, or end, and finally, scar’s cloak used to be just as long as grian’s before ren tried to grab it in a fight and grian slashed it apart out of panic