#in their dry cellar etc etc

[hcnnibal]

fascinated by how hungry/unfulfilled A1 and A2 feel, like spiritually. What would fix each of them? Not necessarily what they want, but what they would need to be ... satiated?

they do manage to find some level of contentment in the 2020s but i think the core of their characterization is that theyre both empty, hollow men who will never be fully satiated

[innerfare]

Random Mihawk Headcanons

Summary: a random collection of Mihawk headcanons

CW: None // SFW

———

Can’t stop adopting strays to save his life. He’s a sucker for a mangy cat or unwashed pirate. Perona was quite literally the only hygienic guest he’d ever had at his castle. Zoro’s bathhouse allergy only further endeared him to Mihawk.��

Also such a cat person in general. He’s introverted, too. Prefers the peace and quiet, enjoys sitting with a glass of wine, a good book, and a purring cat in his lap. That being said, for whatever reason, he just can’t help but gravitate toward rambunctious dogs who get mud on the carpet (i.e., Shanks). 

In general, has a magnet pull toward things he disdains and even outright despises. In relationship terms, this means he claims to want someone who will make him better, but he will really only go for someone who will make him worse. King of guilty pleasures.

Suffered the loss of someone he loved dearly when he was quite young. Shanks knew the person, too, thus their bond. The person died at the hands of a marine who saw no consequences, thus beginning Mihawk's reign as the dreaded Marine Hunter.

Is actually a horrible shot. Can't fire a gun or bow and arrow to save his life. Claims to dislike these weapons and refuses to fire them because an honorable fight can only take place in close quarters (or something like that) in order to save face. Only Shanks, Beckman, and Zoro know he can't shoot.

Smells so good. Has a fondness for jewels and shiny metal, fine wine, and other such luxuries, but expensive perfume has always been his weakness. A bottle was the first thing he purchased after his first big score as a pirate. 

Complains incessantly about being bored but is such a creature of habit that it’s a cage of his own making, low key. He wants excitement, but he also doesn’t like sleeping in a bed that isn’t his own or sipping wine he doesn’t like from a glass he did not hand select. He’s only grown more particular with age. 

Has a sentimental side. The type to keep small mementos to remind him of various events and people. Sometimes goes back through these mementos when he'd had a bit too much wine to drink. These include everything from his first sword to a copy of Shanks' first wanted poster.

Hates how people act around him- the infamous Mihawk. Be it kissing his ass or tripping over their words because they’re scared, he hates being ogled. Actually bonded with Crocodile over how annoying the masses, as he calls them, are in that regard. 

Claims to hate it when the Red Hair pirates come to stay because they always make a mess of things, but smiles to himself every time he passes the tapestry a drunk Lucky Roux somehow managed to rip a hole in despite its place so high on his wall. 

Though he had a perfectly logical reason for telling Crocodile to spare Buggy, he would have gone to bat for the Clown regardless due to his connection to Shanks, not that he would ever admit to this. Why Shanks is soft on Buggy is completely lost on Mihawk. 

Doesn’t do anything half-assed, and part of that means reading up on everything he does. Gardening? Stack of books. Cooking? Another stack of books. Interior design? More books. 

Total wine snob (obviously). Likes his wine as red as blood and dry as Alabasta. If it’s sweet, he doesn’t consider it to be a wine and scoffs at it. Only respects wine drinkers who share his particular taste. Nearly died when he found Buggy’s cellar full of rosé. 

Has repaired roofs and walls, but is a bit lost on how to decorate his castle beyond high-quality basics (silk sheets, fine glassware, etc.). Would appreciate someone’s thoughts on wall art, fine china, and furniture. 

If Beckman were not in the picture, would take his place as Shanks’ first mate in a heartbeat. Would also never admit this, pretends to hate the idea of being on a crew. Also has sexual tension with Beckman that has never been addressed, probably never will be.  

———

Hope you enjoyed it! If you want more, you can check out my masterlist here!

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Winter's King 23

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon, cheating, violence, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: You are a maid to the Duke of Debray, a lord of the Summer Kingdom. That is, until the king of Winter appears with his particular air of coldness. (Medieval AU)

Characters: Geralt of Rivia

Note: I sprained my ankle.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

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I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

The king shifts you off of him, lifting you with him as he stands. The tension is rigid in his grip. He steadies your bodies and helps you over the edge of the tub. Another pounding sounds at the door and his name arises again. 

King Geralt follows, splashing water on the floor in his expediency. He takes a bath sheet from the wardrobe and wraps it around you, not saying a word. Your heart races as you let him move you. You’re paralysed with the embarrassment of that moment. You’re about to be caught out in a perilous position. 

He urges you towards the bed and points you onto it. You hug the sheet around you and sit near the pillows. He pulls shut the canopy around you, blocking out the room behind the drapings. You sink down, horrified. He’s hiding you. As thankful as you are for his discretion it only reminds you of your own guilt. 

He coughs and his feet slap around. You hear another rustle of linen and your ears prick as he goes to the door. He inches it open with a creak, “Vesemir,” he greets flatly. 

“Ah, the king lives,” the gritty voice is more familiar without the barrier of the wood, “ah, and look at him, in his respite, enjoying the hot waters as his wife runs amok in my castle.” 

“Wife?” Geralt repeats grimly, “what is your meaning?” 

“Do you mean to keep my out in the corridors of my own home?” The man demands and slaps the door. “Boy--” 

“Eh,” the king grunts, “mind yourself.” 

“Don’t play proper with me,” the man scoffs and the door groans, letting him in. You can see shadows through the small slot between the curtains. You shy away, hoping whoever it is won’t look back. 

“Vesemir,” the king repeats, confirming the identity, “what is my wife about?” 

“Won’t you come see?” The man challenges, “her and her soldiers are raiding my cellar. I allowed one bottle and now I will be drunk dry. I serve the kingdom but I did not swear myself to spoiled summer welps.” 

“Mm,” the king growls as he moves beyond your sight, not that you can see very much through the narrow space. “I’ll tend to her--” 

“Certainly, you will or I will march her out with my ax.” 

“You needn’t go so far,” the king girds with a sigh as you hear the stiffness of leather. 

“When you marched south, I didn’t think it would soften you,” Vesemir rebukes, “you hide in a tower, soaking in steam.” 

“It has been a long road. We won’t be long here and I thought to wash,” King Geralt sneers defensively. “Even bears like you need a good scrubbing. You more than any, I think.” 

Silence. Tense and roiling. You crawl forward to get a better view of the room. You put your eye to the slat between the curtains and nearly squeak as the older man booms with laughter and claps the younger’s bare shoulder. 

“Aye, I probably do smell like the caves,” he rumbles. “And you always did smell like a horse, Geralt.” 

The king mutters again as he pulls a tunic over his head, the wet tails of his hair leaving speckles of water across the wool. You blink as the other man shifts and you see his profile clear. You know the man. It is the cook. Rather, not a cook at all but Vesemir, the lord of the castle. You're caught in surprise, staring through at him. 

As if drawn by your gaze, he glances over and you quickly retreat from the curtain, hoping you were not spotted. His tongue makes a noise against the roof of his mouth and he huffs. His sole scuffs as the king’s laces whip against his boots. 

“Geralt,” Vesemir intones with disappointment. 

Silence and another heavy breath. You don’t know from which man. The chair scrapes as the king stands. 

“It isn’t to mind,” King Geralt insists, “I will fetch my queen and put her back in her chamber.” 

Vesemir growls, “I do wonder why she might act so, with such a loving husband.” 

“Enough. It isn’t your concern.” 

“Not as yet, but the king’s business is everyone’s concern. Especially of those who marched on his behalf for a summer’s kingdom and a summer’s queen.” 

“You did not march,” the king rebuffs. 

“Eh, do not,” Vesemir warns, “I do not lecture, I warn you. You are a king now, mm, not a boy playing at tourney knight.” 

“I am aware,” King Geralt snips, “tell me what you are aware of, hiding away in your vultures’ pit. These winter lords wanted home to their families, so I made it so. I agreed to marry that... traitor’s daughter and what have I got for it but a headache? You need not make my skull pound any harder, Vesemir.” 

“Oh yes, your father was no fan of politics either. Nor did he play them well. Perhaps you might take another lesson after him,” Vesemir rebukes, “that turncloak’s daughter will not be any more amenable should she learn of her husband’s follies.” 

“She cannot see past her own nose,” Geralt straps his sword over his back. 

“You are hard to miss,” Vesemir insists. 

“Let us go to the cellar, I tire of your reproach.” 

“Ever obstinate, my liege,” the lords tuts and shakes his head, turning for the door. 

You angle to watch them go, the door shutting heavily in their stead. You let out a breath and hug your legs to your chest. You look up at the canopy and the looming bed frame. And so it begins, you sit, trapped by the king’s deceit. 

⚔️

After some time, you dare to step beyond the canopy. You dress and sit at the table; the chamber growing still as the water cools and stagnates. The fire crackles to embers but you’re too fraught to think to feed it. You stare at the door. The longer you wait, the more your doubt threatens to consume you. 

There is no dial or no sunlight to gauge how long but it is longer than you anticipate. You grow restless and rise, pacing as you twist your palms against each other. Is it the queen the keeps the king? Or something more dire? 

When at last you hear movement on the stairs, you can’t help but hide against the wall. The footsteps hammer up and the door bursts open from the other side. At first, you fear the worst. Perhaps your mind has made it all a bit too extravagant but in a manner, you long for it to end, one way or the other. 

King Geralt storms in like a gust of wind and snow. The wood snaps against stone as he blusters across the floor and kicks a chair. It cracks against the table and the armrest splinters. You curl your fingers into your apron and sway.  

The king grabs the edge of the table and overturns it, sending the books and plates atop it to the floor. He circles like a rabid wolf, stomping and seething, growling as his anger simmers up his throat. He stops as if struck and goes to the bed, tearing back the canopy. His chest puffs as his brow furrows. 

“Treasure...” he breathes. 

You shudder, “your highness.” 

He turns and sees you, his shoulders easing. He closes his eyes and his jaw locks. He pushes his hands over his hair as he calms himself. He opens his eyes against and drops his arms. 

“Did I frighten you? I didn’t mean to,” he slowly comes closer, “you know I could never harm you.” 

“Yes, your highness, I only meant to be out of the way,” you utter. “Something is amiss?” 

“Mmm,” he hums through his nose, “that is a way to say it.” He takes your hands in his, his thumbs rubbing your knuckles, “my wife has not been a very gracious guest. Lord Vesemir’s hospitality quickly wanes. The storm won’t be much longer before we can depart...” he doesn’t look happy for the fact, “and we would be best to do so quickly.” 

“Is that not good? Aren’t you happy to go home?” You ask. 

His expression softens, “little maid, of course. I cannot wait to show you it all but... I hoped we might have some more time before that. The road is not easy.” He exhales and raises your hands, kissing each, “I must let you go for now. I have acted hastily and there are still matters to attend to. The war I started still roils in the air.” He shakes his head, “I have foes to harry as yet.” 

You blink, “what do you mean?” 

“Never you worry,” he lowers your hands, “I’ve only one mission for you, little maid.” 

“Yes, your highness.” 

“You will return to the queen’s service, yes? You will tend to her as you always have but you will watch and you will listen. Every lord, every lady, ever single vermin that keeps her company, I want to know of,” he sneers.  

“Your highness? Why--” 

“Do not ask why. I require it, that is all you need to know. For our safety, you must do this,” he clings to you, “treasure, I know you are a loyal creature, it is what first drew me to you, but that woman you serve wouldn’t know loyalty if it crept up her skirts.” He lets you go hesitantly, “she is still a traitor’s daughter.” 

Your lip trembles and you quickly still it. He is asking you to play spy. On Jazlene. On your queen. His very own wife. But why? She is foolish, she is a drunkard, but she is harmless. 

“You swore yourself to your duty, didn’t you?” He arches a brow. “The king comes above all. Regardless of house, of master, you serve me.” 

“I will serve as I swore,” you grit out, injured by his tone. 

That same day he was gentle and now he is steely and demanding. He toys with you. He only means to use you in whatever way the moment calls for. It is not grand revelation but no less painful. 

“Do not be sombre, treasure, in due time,” he rasps. He backs away and puts his back to you, “go, before I let my heart get the best of me. Should you stay longer, I might never let you leave.” 

“Your highness,” you bow and walk to the door. 

“The knight awaits you. He will take you to the queen.” 

“Thank you,” you stand in the doorway. 

“Wait,” he calls to you and follows after. You turn to find him with cloak in hand, “you will need this.” 

You look down at the cloak. You take it without protest. Even if it is tainted, he isn’t wrong. You will face the cold soon enough and you wouldn’t fare long in your wool and linen. You thank him and he sees you through the open door, closing it as you descend. 

As you come to the bottom, you find a shadow awaiting you. It isn’t Bryce. The figure is broader and his white hair shines in the torch light. You step off the bottom step and bend your neck. 

“My lord,” you greet the castle lord. 

“Maid,” he returns dully, “so it is the little dove that coos as the king.” 

You keep your head down, turning it away in shame as you purse your lips. It is your first lesson in judgment but not an easy one. 

“I didn’t expect you so much as you didn’t expect me. Sir Bryce has allowed me your time but he warned me he would be back,” he explains. “I only wanted the measure of the king’s fancy. I’ve known him a very long time so it is curious to me that he has put himself in such a... circumstance.” 

“My lord,” you whisper, throat crackling. 

“Hmmm,” he gives a thoughtful hum. You languish in his silence as he looms in the flicker of lanterns. He pushes away from the wall and steps closer. “You are not offended, but guilty. There is no presumption in you, dove. You do not take insult from what I say, you only take on the onus of the king’s desire.”  

He leans in and brings his hand under your chin, forcing your head up. He looks at you, examining you like some riddle. His wrinkles deepen as the shadows make caverns of his eye sockets. 

“I see it clear,” he remarks as he pulls his hand away. “I remember the dove who treated cook no lesser than lord,” he stands straight and crosses his arms, “I see no difference between her and you. Yes, I was not mistaken before, but I believe our king is. He does not know you though he believes he does.” 

“My lord, I serve the king.” 

“You serve your queen,” he counters, “you are of the summer, just like her. So how do you choose?” 

You stare at him and your eyes sting. Can you choose? 

“It doesn’t matter which one, either would clip your wings,” he lets out a gray breath. “Dove, I will keep your peace. I hold no malice for you, no, I pity you.” He puts his hand to his chest, “while you are under my roof, you will have whatever you need. I will have that soldier find you a proper chamber. For yourself, and should you want, you will have the pick of my pantry. What little delights you might have, I would enjoy them while you can.” 

“Thank you, my Lord, but that is very much for a maid.” 

He touches your cap, his fingers lingering on the linen, “summer dove... I told you these winds were too cold for you.” 

“I must go to the queen,” you plead. 

“Yes, go,” he backs away, “I will send your soldier to you.” His lips go crooked as his eyes narrow thoughtfully, “I’ve known Sir Bryce a very long time. That man alone is the best army you could have at your back.” 

“He is kind, sir,” you say. 

“Is he now?” Lord Vesemir scoffs, “well, maybe one day, I might remember him as such. Do not let me keep you from your duty.” 

He stays by the wall and you step around him. You don’t look back as you march forward, the cryptic conversation follows you through the corridors. There was something unsaid in his voice, as if he knew something you don’t. One might take it as him making a joke of you, but you don’t see that man laughing over such grave matters. 

[halcyone-of-the-sea]

TALK TO THE DOVES (IX)

|| COV MASTERLIST || NEXT: CHAPTER X ||

PAIRING: Kyle 'Gaz' Garrick x F!Reader

WORDCOUNT: 4.7k

WARNINGS: Angst, strained familial relationships, crying, mentions of suicide, I can finally I can say we have fluff & hurt/comfort y'all, etc.

A/N: Surprise, the MC finally gets her nickname

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*

“Tell me about the,” your mother pauses, looking at you as you sit at the dinner table for supper. She’d made a hearty meal—stacks and food piled high on the long, polished wood. Her throat clears. “The years. How is school? Keeping up with classes?” 

“Yeah,” you mutter, your plate holding all the items it had started with. Alex was drying the dishes, of his own volition, you have to add, across the room while Gaz took a long sip of water from his cup. The Sergeant leans against the island and tries to look like he’s not listening, tapping his foot on the floor in steady intervals. “It’s good. You?”

Your mom frowns, setting down her utensils with a clink. Alex hums a song under his breath and sets a dry pan on the counter. 

Eyes darting to the open patio curtains, you stare out across the estate, your estate, before your mother brings you back in with a strained sigh. She’s watching you—gaze hard on your face but not once do you look into her with anything other than a brief glance.

“I’ve been talking with Mr. Ramsey,” she says like she’s reading the newspaper.

Kyle and you both go rigid at the name. 

It’s only after you get over the slap to your face that you take a shallow breath, blinking quickly. “My…professor?” 

“Mhm.” Clearing her throat, she takes the glass of water from the table and sips slowly. The scent of her perfume—citrus and wool—invades your nostrils even if she’s a good few feet away on the opposite end. Horrible, and evoking memories like no other. It suddenly makes you sick to be in the same room as her. “I asked him to keep up on you while I was away at work.” A pause. “Hector too.” 

A sharp gasp is twisting in your throat. You think you stop breathing entirely.

“Now, before you go and act like you usually do,” hands clench and start to shake. “I really need you to understand—you’re my daughter, and you’ve lost your father; I lost a husband. Without all of,” her hands shrug, “this going on, I still wanted you to be looked after while I…tried to fix myself. I needed my work, but I needed my girl to be safe too.”

Inside of your sockets, your eyes twitch, staring blankly into her neck and the expensive jewelry she wears as if the glimmering will give you an answer as to what had brought this along. Her logic wasn’t what bothered you—caring about your child is natural. 

But yours was a special case. Because by her logic…she knew about…You make a small wheezing noise in your chest involuntarily.

Alex has stopped drying; Gaz widely side-eyes the interaction, fancy glass stalled at his lips. 

“Now,” your mom smiles easily, body burning with pride. “With that out of the way, back to you—let's maybe get some wine from the cellar? We can sit in the library and talk like old times. I remember your father’s bottle of—”

“Cellar’s empty,” you push back from the table and stalk off. “Enjoy your supper.” 

“Erm,” she stares after in shock, face pulling in while her neck’s vein pops. “Sweetheart? Please, let’s not fight. I just want to know what you’ve been up to—I’m worried, you seem exactly the same as when I first left...”

You walk and disappear out the back door, not leaving the estate, no, just…going. Gaz makes a small huff of air from his nose and lightly jogs after you; exiting the house just as the door’s about to slip back closed. 

Walking a short while, you push through the willow trees near the back pond and plop to the long grassy ground. 

Gaz sighs into the dark area, scanning the shadows. He wants to tell you that you both shouldn’t be here, but you’re already reclining back on your hands with your legs popping out ahead of you; the water ripples in the moonlight.

A small silence echoes like mute steel. 

“Should have known,” you end up muttering under your breath. “Figures.” 

Hec had been your mother’s bug, Mr. Rasmey, that ass of a professor, too. Why did it have to be Hector? The one…the one damn person it would hurt to have it be. 

You can’t even find the energy to cry, you just fold your arms and lay back, scalp grinding away plush greenery as it digs into the earth. 

“She seems to only have good intentions, yeah?” Gaz coughs, unable to stay completely silent in this instance. His anger still simmered, but…well…it wouldn’t be fair to keep you isolated if you insisted on pulling away from everyone else. That wasn’t who he was.

He supposed he was the only one able to get any sort of reaction now. “Just because there were extra tasks didn’t make Hector’s feelings any less fake, Ma’am.”

“Back to ‘Ma’am’ now?” You huff, brows loose and sullen. 

Kyle stares before his browns begin to soften on the edges. He looks to the ground before sighing and walking a few steps forward, easily stooping down and sitting beside you—a good few feet away. The Sergeant takes off his hat and places it on the ground beside him, running a hand over his hair and rubbing the back of his head.

“Well, what else would I call you?”

“I don’t know,” you stare at the wisps of the willows. “Idiot?” You say lower, “Mental?” 

The man’s eyes lightly flinch at that. 

“That wasn’t…” he begins, clenching his jaw in guilt. “I said some things I shouldn't have and I—”

“I’m sorry.” 

The world sills and a gentle breeze makes the trees speak for you as the shock lays waste to the sinews of your throats. 

It’s as if the words had taken what little resolve you had and shattered it entirely. The back of your eyes burns. 

“I’m sorry, Kyle.” You say it again and fold your elbow over your mouth as it quivers. “M’sorry.” Again, again, again, until a small break in your voice makes you go quiet again—you shove your flesh over your face, eyes narrowed with tears you refuse to let fall. 

Gaz’s face is open with delicate concern, chest tight and fingers so frozen he could pull the trigger on a rifle and nail a shot with little effort. Did he even have a heartbeat? 

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” you hiccup, not able to stop now that it’s started. “And everything hurts. I-It’s all spinning so fast I don’t know who I am, but I know that you’re right and it burns.” 

He’s taking you by the shoulders and grappling you into his arms. 

His touch has the same feeling as when he’d panicked at seeing your blood in your father’s office, pulled you in, and set you down on the couch. A tight and firm hold of skin and fabric; of a care that goes bone-deep and calls to this man’s nature—a gentle love for the protection of all innocent people. 

Your face finds the dip of his neck, hands wrapping his waist. It had been so long since you’d wanted to hug someone. Your mother didn’t count, no, right now you needed someone you hate to fix this. 

And there was no one better.

You hang off of Gaz’s shirt and he places a hand on the back of your head, lightly keeping you to him as you shake and lean into his chest. He curves over you slightly, as if shielding you as he did at the park—but there were no bullets here, no great boom of guns being fired, or rapid footsteps at your heels. 

There was no deteriorating room with peeling wallpaper; chairs and the scrape of a bag over your head. 

It was just the willows, the pond, and the two enemies. 

“It hurts,” you sob into Kyles's neck, and his lips thin as he pulls you to him tighter. “God, it always hurts, and I’m so tired of it. I can’t sleep, I can’t eat; I don’t feel good anymore. I don’t even remember what it’s like t-to wake up and feel happy that I did.”

“It’s okay,” Gaz mumbles. “Hey, it’s going to be alright, yeah? Just breathe with me.” 

Your words are garbled and wet, you breathe in shuddering gasps. It’s ugly, your crying, it gives you a headache, but not once do those hands leave from around you. 

“I don’t want to keep feeling like this, Gaz.” Fingers digging into his shirt, you have to wonder if he’s repulsed by you—you’d been so rude to him, so uncaring and blunt. 

But how else were you supposed to act? 

The Sergeant may not have pulled the trigger, but he was there. He was there…and he had apologized for his part. 

This was not forgiveness, but it was the only thing you could offer anymore.

You nuzzle your face deeper into Kyle’s neck, limp and still feeling tears being expelled from your eye sockets; lids firmly closed. It’s in a brief second of the still-air between another sob that you hear him speak again. 

Gaz’s eyes stare off at the mansion behind you as he breathes in silent puffs, heart beating quickly and his pulse hammering. This was beyond what he had expected from you, but that didn’t change the fact that what you were saying made his mouth tight and his face crease.

He knew it was bad, but…

“You’re afraid of me.” The thought hadn’t left him since the blow-up in the hallway. It’s said in a whisper, finally bringing to light the fact he already knew. The sarcasm as a defense, the biting comments, sneaking away and not trusting him. He already understood it on the second day you’d officially met.

Your tears wet his clothes, sticking them to his heated skin as your breath creates condensation. You shake so bad that it becomes apparent it’s not only from your mind breaking. 

It’s because you’re close to him. 

Brown eyes widen, and he glances down at your head in pain, yet even so your hands keep him to you like a bear, panting and near hysterical. 

“I just want,” you confess, his fingers heavy across your spine as the willows rustle. “I just want it all to stop.” 

You shouldn’t be here—not like this. Not with him.

But, dammit, being anywhere else is even worse.

“Easy, Sweetheart,” Kyle speaks quickly, accent deep on his smooth tone. “I’m going to get you through this. It’ll end, I promise you. Nothing that’s goin’ on is permanent.” 

He’s hesitant to do more, not wanting to step any boundaries, but you’re still not calming down; three years of heartbreak spilling out like a broken vase. Kyle’s head finds the side of yours, and while you involuntarily flinch, you don’t pull away. 

You sniffle and suck down tiny, quick breaths.

“Listen to my pulse, Love. C’mon, now.” His hand on the back of your skull twitches its fingers into small circles, the other pulling you farther up. “I know you like me being quiet,” he jokes, but still serious. “So I’ll save you the trouble of focusing on my voice. Right there in my neck…you feel it?”

You shiver, face on fire. Silently, you do as he says. 

You listen for it, his pulse, searching as you focus on just that. Not the man and his arms, not the squish of his chest or how you feel so warm by the strength in his biceps, but by the way it calms you. Searching. Being in control of yourself. 

You find those rapid beats after a moment, eyes tight closed and lungs heaving. The grass sways around your forms and Gaz swallows the saliva in his throat to ease himself further. His eyes close, taking a deep breath that you missed in your study of his blood. 

The stubble on his cheeks itches your scalp.

“That’s it,” Kyle whispers, sensing your breath slowing. The tension gradually slipped away. “There we are, you’re doing great.” 

When all is said and done, you’re limp in his grip, forehead on his shoulder, and Kyle’s chin atop your head. The breeze is slow like a sigh and overhead the sounds of kingfishers and the swans that live near the pond gradually return in the silence broken only by far-separated inhales. 

You blaze with a special type of shame for this, but you’re too tired to try and move. So, so, tired. Staying there, you let his grip keep you up, eyes stuck in the dark grip of his compression shirt as you don’t think—don’t fight it. 

It pained you to realize, but your mother’s hug dulled in comparison to this. 

Kyle confines you to his body, his lungs pushing his chest into yours, hands unyielding and steady; with that pulse still in your ear you sense the way he really feels, heart fluttering still rapid. Atop your head the chin, not digging into your scalp but instead turning in such a way as to follow the curve of your skull as if an eagle’s beak pulling at her mate’s form. 

His nose releases a slow sigh. 

“I’ll be here as long as you need me,” Gaz mutters. “Just say the word, yeah?”

The comments bring a bitter bite to your eye—another sting—but you keep it at bay. You have to. The hitch in your breath gives enough away, though.

“You can cry, Spitfire.” You shake once more, a deadly shiver running the length of your spine which the man rubs up and down. “You can cry in front of me. Hell, bloody cry whenever you want.” Kyle hums in his throat. “You’ve earned it. Fuck, you’ve earned it.”

The second round of tears is far more subdued than the first—quiet gasps and weak limbs. It only makes your head pound worse, the onset headache promising to be a big one. This one was reactionary; instinctual. 

It just…had to happen. 

And Gaz is there through all of it. He doesn’t pack up a bag and leave the country, he doesn’t pretend like it’s not happening—he stays. It is both something that makes you grow a new sense of him, and ends up pushing the knife deeper. 

Out of everyone, it just had to be him, didn’t it?

Voice raspy, crackling more than dry bark, you speak as your grip on his shirt lessons.

“Spitfire?” Kyle stills, releasing a tiny breath of relief that you seemed to be calming down for good this time.

“Yeah,” he clears his throat lightly, glancing down at you under him. “Guessed it would fit…Ma’am doesn't have quite the ring to it, eh?” 

Against the current situation, you force out a soft chuff. 

“...You good with it, then?” Your brain is mush, and Gaz seems to pick up on it. “We’ll, uh, we’ll get back to it, Love. Let’s get you inside.”

He makes a motion to pull away but in a display that no one foresaw, your arms constrict like a vice around him. 

Gaz freezes, feeling the hidden strength in your quivering limbs and how your face is hiding itself away even more fervently. You’re too embarrassed to look, to say anything. 

But he was so warm, and his hands felt nice; just like they had room, or even when they had pressed to your mouth in the back alley when this all started. 

Kind.

God, his hands were kind.

Kyle blinks in the darkness, the encompassing willow trees acting as a silent sentinel to this phenomenon. “Okay,” he says, low-like. When your grip doesn’t ease, he reassures, “I’m staying, Spitfire.”

You go limp once more, a shuddering sigh ripping out of your mouth. Gaz has to stay a twitch of his lips, a soft look spreading into his eyes as he huffs. Inside, he grasps for that small string of hope and pulls on it, wondering if this was when he walks back from the knife edge and can truly fix things. 

A relationship can only be mended by the two people involved in it. If you could call this anything more than a dependency, that is.

“I should never have said what I did,” Kyle relays, knowing it was his time to reach out. You listen silently, drained. “A…at least not the way I said it. You didn’t deserve that, and I’m sorry, too. Lost my temper.” He chuckles after a moment. “Didn’t think you’d be able to do that to me, honestly.” 

In a second of contemplation, Gaz moves his head back and brings his hands up to your cheeks, shifting your face back from his shoulder entirely soaked and soggy. 

“I’m sorry.” He says it with no intention of making you look into his eyes, but the action itself makes it seem sincere and honest. Your red-veined eyes stay at his neck, gazing at his bobbing Adam’s apple. “I need you to know that I mean it.” 

Kyle’s thumbs go and swipe the tear tracks, spreading them away with firm attention. He spares a small chuckle. 

“I’ll be honest, I felt like a proper arse after all of that. I don’t like yelling when I don’t have to.” He sighs. “Certainly not at you. Not after everything.”

You let him grab at his shirt sleeve and mutter a small, “Here,” pressing the fabric along your chin to catch the last drops. Silent, you just blink. 

Kyle’s concern peeks back in. 

“...Nothing to say, Spitfire? Makin’ me nervous.” Face only holding blood and no longer tears, you shrug blankly after a moment. 

“Don’t have anything to tell,” you utter weakly, licking your lips as Gaz’s hands fall lightly away—one on the other side of your hip and the other near his. You itch at your neck slowly. “M’tired.” 

“No shame in it,” the Sergeant whispers, eyelids half-tilted. “You want to go in now, Love?” 

Again, you only shrug, looking into Gaz’s chest with eyes far away. Already the internal walls were trying to build themselves back up; capitalize on the silence to spread poison-coated oil in the moat—light an angry fire with flame-coated arrows. 

You feel utterly alone.

Kyle stays silent as you close your eyes and listen to the trees speak to each other, those little birds on the breeze dancing with wingbeats. Your father would take you out here often, not to impart his unending wisdom like some old man, but just to listen. Listen to nature; the simple parts of everyday life removed from the expectations and pressure. 

Water, the ruffling of feathers, and the trees.

My Little Love. 

But he wasn’t a good man.

“I found a USB,” you open your eyes, locking eyes with Gaz and telling yourself not to flinch backward. He blinks at you twice in surprise, body stilling as he looks back. 

Those browns and ambers melt into a concoction of memory—flecks of green tiny and barely noticeable from a large distance; but you two were relatively close at the moment. Your lungs go tight, fingers twitching as you wrap the limbs around your waist loosely. Kyle watches with apprehension, eyes flicking away for a moment at the weight behind this. 

“Say again?” He asks, gaze traveling back slowly only to see you still waiting to meet his eyes. The man holds it this time, clearing his throat against the hitch in his breath. “Are you sure you’re alright—”

“I kept it in my jacket pocket when you took the journal and the laptop.” You interrupt, eyes darting away quickly to look over his shoulder before the panic you feel in your gut spreads to your brain. “I don’t care, I can’t figure out the password—I’ll…I’ll just give it to you when I get back inside.”

There’s a black flash across the pond and as you lock onto the stray cat’s form, those silent paws padding to the water’s edge, Kyle gapes at you; jaw loose as he misses it. Yet the animal doesn't get water, doesn't even stoop down. It watches.

Silent, no hissing. 

Eyes like forests blink, a tail flicks, its head tilted, and then it turns and disappears back into the bushes like it was never there in the first place.

Kyle gets over his shocked confusion at your sudden willingness to confess to him.

“I…I’ll look into that,” he itches at his scarred cheek. “Thank you.” 

You scoff tinily, without venom. If you were a snake, he’d have said you had your fangs cut out. It’s pathetic, you know, how eagerly you want to get this off your chest—all of it. So you don’t stop. 

“Hector was just about the only person who was there for me after Dad…” You lick your lips. “You know. He…he made it better, or, at least, he tried to. I know you think that I’m overreacting to this, but—”

“Negative,” Kyle whispered, body loose and giving you his full attention. “I wouldn’t say that. Wouldn’t even think it.” 

“Then I guess you’d be the only one.” Your hand runs up and down your face, rubbing away the invisible blood. You mumble through flesh. “I shouldn’t be talking to you, Kyle.”

He huffs and tilts his head. “I’m not a bad listener, y’know? Talk all you want, if it bothered me, I’d tell you.” 

“It’s not about it bothering you.” Falling back into the usual bickering, you have to internally reel yourself back in. 

His body heat grounds you—latches on like hands. So starved for affection, all it had taken was one damn hug to entirely break you open like a cardboard castle; tears shed, and whispered words. 

How weak were you? 

Kyle hums, seeing the inner conflict. He could taste it on his tongue. 

“Go on,” he utters, accent lacing the words with patience. You shiver and drop your hands. 

Very.

“He,” your throat closes. “After the first year, I needed something to latch onto—some semblance of normal life. Hector was a constant face, one that was open and kind to me. Hell,” you look to the side, gritting your teeth weakly. “He gave me free food for weeks when he realized I wasn’t even eating anymore. Distracted me from falling back into a hole again. And to find out that after everything, he wasn’t not only doing it because he wanted to….but that my mother knew the entire time and…and,” you strangle down a whimper, the next sentence breathless with utter pain. 

“She didn’t even come back?” 

Kyle’s eyes break, lips pulling tight, before looking down. How many people were going to fail you, he asked himself. Him included.

The soldier thinks back to that small room and your terrified eyes—the blood and the boom of the rifle fired by Row from the corner. No definitive answers, a suicide, and names that led to nowhere. 

Everyone who had ever claimed to love you had stabbed you in the heart over and over again, and in that act, you’d decided to rip those blades out yourself and wield them like a shield. 

“When’s the last time you had a break, Love?” He speaks softly, gazing over your face and strangling down his anger at the people in your life—at the mansion itself; an entire metaphor for everything down to the closed curtains and the dusty corners. 

You blink back to the Brit’s neck, clenching and unclenching your fingers, eyes unfocused. 

“I mean a real one. Took off of Uni, just…forgot about all of it?” 

“If I didn't have college to focus on,” you confess, shaking your head. “I don’t even think I’d be…” 

As you trail, Kyle takes in a sharp breath with his heart jerking to a halt inside of his chest. 

After a moment of his digging eyes, he whispers, strained, “It’s okay. I understand.” 

“Yeah,” your body shifts, pushing past the topic quickly. “Yeah. Good.” 

The silence falls again, but there’s a different air to this one. Kyle doesn’t look away, not for a long, long time. 

“Why did you do it?” The words sneak out of your lips, face twisted up. “Please, Kyle.” You lightly shake your head from side to side, defeated down to your marrow. “All I’m asking you is why.” 

The Brit grits his teeth, glaring at the ground at his side. 

Why? How could he answer that? Nothing he says would bring you comfort—make this make sense. None of this made sense. 

But he can’t not answer you. 

Call him weak for that, not as durable as he thought he was, but you’re suffering—mind a mess of barbed wire and dark phantoms. There’s a weight on your shoulders that he can feel, had been feeling. For all of his opinions on your attitude, you didn’t deserve to live like this—that much was obvious. 

It was not in his nature to be needlessly cruel. 

Kyle stares at your shoulder as he answers, you, in turn, let your eyes slip the tightness of his face; near to one another in a way you’d both never believed you’d experience. 

“I don’t know,” Gaz admits with a single tilt of his chin your way as if to apologize. “Pressure. Duty. That’s all shite, I know, but…but I thought I was going down the only path available. It’s not a bloody excuse.” The man speaks earnestly, without faltering. “He was never supposed to die, Love. Never. That doesn’t make it better, but it’s the truth. You were never supposed to see that, and everything that’s gone on, I share the blame in. And that’s something I’ll take to my damn grave regretting every chance I’m able.” He closes his mouth for a moment, and carefully he shifts to grasp your arm. When you don’t move away, he ends with utter conviction. “None of this is your fault. None.”

You take a large shaky breath, mind a mess of information. But you feel lighter than you had in ages. Glancing quickly down at Kyle’s hand, you blink at it. The Sergeant squeezes once and lets go without a word. His cheeks heat before he clears his throat, going to rub a hand at the base of his neck and spare an awkward chuckle. 

“But, uh,” two pairs of eyes flitter away from each other's bodies. “Regardless, Love, you really do have a habit of making a man regret his actions.”

That gets a thin smirk flicking your lips. “It’s a lifestyle, Garrick.” 

Flexing your still bandaged hand, you lightly flinch at the ripped stitches; the old wrappings at this point entirely soiled. Gaz notices from his side-eye, fully looking down to make a noise in the back of his throat as the willows sway. 

“Let me see, then.” You huff, trying to shimmy away.

“It’s fine.” He deadpans at you, hand by your hip not letting up.

“You think I haven’t noticed you haven’t spoken to me about re-binding it? C’mon, Spitfire, I just thought you were taking care of it.” He smirks. “Then I remembered you’re more stubborn than a damn mule.” 

You glare at his chest and half-heartedly roll your eyes, unwilling to argue. That thought alone is like a strike of lightning. 

“Only one mule?” 

“Hm,” Gaz reaches and lightly grabs your hand, turning it over and picking at the binding. It unravels easily. “You’re right. Make that three, actually. Throw in a nasty habit of being selectively deaf and it’ll be you to a point.”

You slap his shoulder with your free hand and he slightly banks away, chuckling, with his spine hunching in. 

“Easy now, Girl!” You slap him two more times for good measure, a tiny giggle slipping past your lips as he jostles away with a wide smile. 

But it’s natural, surprising, how simply the laugh comes out right after. Maybe it’s the utter exhaustion that finally lets it out from the cages you’d kept it in—a sleeping jailor at the iron door.

You bend carefully forward, as Gaz’s hand holds yours, lungs pushing through the fog of the forest that was once sprouting in them to release little laughs into the air.

“I hate you, Kyle Garrick,” your lips utter as he pulls back the last of the wrappings and looks at the damage you’d caused to yourself, taking the skin and swiping a finger over the old blood to watch it flick away.

He chuckles and smirks, raising a brow. “I know, Spitfire.”

“That nickname staying?”

“Bet your bloody arse it is.” He’s smiling. You’re smiling. Or maybe he’s only doing it because you are. “No one fits it better.”

TAGS:

@fatunn, @mh073099, @littlegaypng, @untitled69555, @babybooday, @caffeine-anxiety-and-randomfacts, @underrated-youngster, @jupiterredolent, @idocarealot, @karnellius, @latteisaqueen, @petrat97, @jade-jax, @roosterr, @escapefromrealitysm, @renaich, @kysa32, @human-turtle, @aurora-basin, @terumisworld, @violet-phantoms, @xxfeelmylovexx, @neelehksttr, @nezukos-number1fan, @20forty9, @mdjenjen, @marrianena, @angeldaisyy, @alhaizen, @homicidal-slvt, @emerald-valkyrie, @raissadoesthingslmao, @misfne, @hollyhopesworld, @wasteland-babe, @330bpm-whiplash, @anna-banana27, @justherebecausesafarisucks, @sunnynomoar, @doggydale, @thecrispypotatochip, @74478328, @blueoorchid, @das-conk-creet-baybee, @dragonfruit1985, @chestnutsandcurls, @vamqyr3, @lavalleon, @nebula67, @urfavsunkissedleo

[pinehutch]

Brief Dispatches

The good:

It stopped being so outrageously hot today

Have made and executed plans the last several weekends in a row (I missed the world, over the last year and a half)

Extension on a work deadline kind of

Drove for about 4 hours today and can still walk

Good sandwich, great (sour) pickle for dinner

My benefits continue to cover my exorbitant prescriptions

My American friends seem to be experiencing something like hope, or at the very least the lightness that comes with the lessening of despair. I like that.

The less-good:

Car making weird noise when it gets too warm?

Extension on a work deadline is only until 9 tomorrow morning

Driving for 4 hours has resulted in a serious case of Knee Hurty that I'm not sure I can tape my way out of

I can't eat as many gigantic sour pickles as I want to because the number is >5 and no one needs that much sodium

My benefits have still not figured out that they're supposed to cover my CPAP machine

My TBQ7 submission was rejected after almost a year (BUT extremely kindly, specific feedback, "we loved this", looking forward to seeing more etc., and it was one of the last to get the no, so a very fine rejection all things considered)

The quietly unhinged:

I played Disco Elysium for the first time in March of this year. I've completed 2 or 3 playthroughs and started others. I have talked about it to my therapist. I've wondered if i could write fic and I can't, because I don't know what else I would say. I leave enthusiastic comments on the fic I read. I'm in playlist-making mode now. It's really great to have fallen so hard for something. (I knew I would love it but Not Like This. Yes I recognize that capital has the ability to subsume all critiques into itself, and if i were a real one I'd have bought it in 2019 - or at least in 2020 - or at least before 2024. Fortunately there is no timeline on being moved by things, even if capital has subsumed them etc. to a degree many find distasteful-to-intolerable. )

Still me. Still cry at the drop of a hat but - and this is kind of a big deal - it stops, now. Letting myself feel something isn't an unstoppable off-ramp to Sob City for the next 4 hours. It's a relief. I suspect this means my nervous system is being restored by actual sleep at night.

I dream, now. (I had stopped, mostly, for a couple of years, while the OSA was going through the roof.) Instead of my childhood home I keep dreaming of my grandparents' house, as it was 15, 20 years ago. The old electric kettle, the kind that didn't whistle or shut off but would boil dry, if you let it. The flour-bin my grandpa made. The pine hutch in the dining room, designed by my grandmother, built by her brother and my grandfather and their friends. Boxes of cereal for the grandkids that were slightly more fun than the ones we had at home. Scraps and ends and cuttings and seeds; pressed plants and flowers in the pages of the field guides; a steel desk from an old office; a root cellar and a pantry and a summer kitchen in the basement. My subconscious is rooting away down there, these days.

[filurig]

🌙 ☄️ forrr arvo or folke ⁉️⁉️ for tha celestial ask game

ill do the second one only for folke, bcs i got another ask for arvo with it so!

🌙 - If given the chance, what is one thing about their life your OC would change permanently? 

arvo: he would've changed it so that he was born a human

folke: he would've made it so that his brother never passed away

☄️ - From your OC’s perspective, write a short paragraph about their average day. 

(folke)

(ill just write a hypothetical journal entry because what he does depends on the season and what there is to do, ploughing/preparing the fields for the year's harvest, harvesting peat, taking care of the animals but that's daily, potential culling of them when autumn approaches, harvesting his fields of rye, oats, rapeseed and potato, general maintinence, etc)

july 17

Checked on the hens at the crack of dawn. Eggs had been laid, thus I did not return to the house empty handed. Although the roosting hens were broody - came out relatively unscathed.

While preparing coffee, Selma came by yet again. Had told her about my plans today to collect peat, so it was expected. She declined both coffee and porridge, although she accepted eggs (need to fish with her soon...)

Let the hens out, rooster in tow. Selma and I went to lead the goats to the field, Adrian came by... Had not expected it. Another pair of hands (claws? wings?) to help... I suppose. Thankfully he stayed in his flighted form.

Went to the wetlands to gather peat. Worryingly arid today - drought is still plaguing us. Hoping that whoever drew the ire of our Almighty Father did not happen to be I - and that they apologise quickly so that He may bring us another bout of rain! (That was written in jest. A little.) The drought does the crops no favours, but no plight comes without a boon (no matter how small) I suppose, as it will assist in the drying of the peat. Selma and Adrian assisted in digging and bringing the peat to the drying field.

On way back, checked for weeds at the fields. Spotted quitch. Curses! Stopped doing our best to remove all. Some remnant of the blasted thing likely remains - as it always does. Couldn't linger too long.

Afternoon. Tired, so might retire early - not much to do now that the peat is drying. Decided to tend to the path - been some time since last time. Selma helped. Adrian decided to leave... Looked uncomfortable after something that I had said... Selma told me I ought to apologise later. She is right...

After path was done, Selma took her leave. Made dinner - some potatoes from the cellar and pickled herring - inappropriate for the evening, I know, but... alas, I had forgotten the mid-day meal anyway. Led the goats and hens, rooster back to their enclosures before sleeping. Their enclosures shall be cleaned tomorrow.

[crevicedwelling]

hey, i've been reading about integrated pest management for home gardens, and resources often mention promoting habitat for predators of the pest species. i have also been dealing with an annoying drain fly problem in my bathroom. all the resources on integrated pest management talk about outdoors... do you happen to know if it would be reasonable to promote indoor habitat for predatory bugs? Spiders, centipedes, etc, which might at least eat some of the adult flies? I'd love to do more reading on this if you have any references :)

it might be possible to do so, but creating a climate that these bugs like might not necessarily be good for structural integrity (humidity, etc). I think if you were to find a nice dry-tolerant cobweb (if in US, Parasteatoda, Steatoda triangulosa are common indoors) or cellar spider (Pholcidae) they'd eat the flies. I tend to catch these spiders whenever I find them and feed them to captive house centipedes though since they tend to make awful white poop stains like little birds on the floor beneath the web.

I don't know of any resources for indoor free-range bugkeeping, as I'd assume most everything you can find would be how to keep them out...

[silverfox66]

The current high water levels make me really appreciate the Room for the river-project. It was a 3 billion euros megaproject to make more room for the river: more floodplains, deeper rivers, more side channels etc. Just to make sure that people living close to the river can keep their feet dry. And it's very successful. Some people are dealing with water in their cellars, but no one really has to get evacuated.

The image below shows how much the water has risen in just a few days.

[its-jess-bitches]

Jessica Harvelle

She/Her

18 (21 years old)

Vampire

Good / Resistance (former EvilTM, it’s complicated)

So What Happened?

Well, who hasn’t been a pawn in some evil mastermind vampire’s plan? That’s Jess’ story. From the moment she left Havensdale that fateful summer, her path was locked. Edward turned her as a means to an end, as a helpful little pawn entangled in the lives of the McReids. It would take almost a year for his plan for her to come to its fruition but it all worked out. Jess turned off her humanity. The bad guys won.

On Prom Night, Jess planned on killing her BFF and one true love Ruby McReid to put an end to her greatest weakness. Needless to say, that didn’t happened. Dave Perry stepped in, opting to kidnap her on prom night and lock her away with a ‘harsh love’ approach to turning her humanity back on.

Locked in the McReid outside cellar, the planTM was to dry Jessica out and start poking at her humanity until it turned back on. Dave had been around a long time, been through something similar even. It wasn’t a plan for the soft hearted but it was a plan.

When all hell broke loose on Founder’s Day, Jess was freed and joined the EvilTM side as truly planned. That was the end of it. Goodbye redemption arc. Goodbye salvation.

For 2 years, 5 months... that was life. No humanity. No attachments. Still at the beck and call of Eddie’s whims but you learned to deal. November 2016 came around and everything changed again. Edward had requested her presence but she hadn’t known what he was going to do that night. She hadn’t known Karen McReid was already dead. When Jess saw Edward stab Carrie McReid, it was just like flipping a switch - beyond her control. Instant humanity, while Caroline lay bleeding.

It all happened so fast after that. Reeling from the feelings, the grief and the bloodlust that overcame her all over again... Ruby barely had to manipulate her. Ruby had Jess turn her into a vampire and then left town.

Where else could Jess go? She was allowed to join the safety of the Resistance but not without judgement. 6 months hasn’t been long enough to heal but here we are.

Wanted Connections

Anyone Dave recruited to try and turn her #humanity back on after prom night - they would have had snarky words and attempted bitings.

Bad GuysTM who were close with her and maybe still are. Bad GuysTM who are now out for her neck that she’s turned traitor.

Equally, good guys/resistance members who’ve welcomed her back and they’ve made amends. Or that are *eye emojis* at her constantly now. 

Anyone who got in a scrap/biting/etc with her during the bad old days.

[seedingthecollector]

The truth Behind the Skin Walker

Somewhere in the middle of nowhere, a tiny home rests in New Mexico. The location of this home is within the confines of The Truth or Consequence, New Mexico. (Yes that is a real place)

There is an old couple whom live within in this town far away in the middle of nowhere in a small house with their beloved dog.

I bet this looks and sounds familiar doesn't it.

This couple would find themselves and others along with them in a terrible nightmare they will never wake up from. One faithful day a man dressed up in a suit carrying a suitcase came to their door. This man will be later known as David Parker Ray, AKA the Toy-Box-Killer.

[David Parker Ray AKA Toy-Box-Killer]

Mr. Ray would go door to door pretending to be a new person every time. He often disguised himself as different people. He would make up stories to garner sympathy by making up sob stories. He would even trick the home owners with grand promises, ex: money/movies deals and etc.

Once he enters the home he would often excuse himself to cut the phone lines so his victims wouldn't be able to ask for help if they were suspicious of him or when he attempted to kidnap them.

Being in the middle of nowhere was easy for this serial killer to run amok and with no one knowing who he truly is or knowing his real face--they were nonethewiser.

Mr. Ray kidnapped 60 people within this small town, and I bet you're asking yourself "What happened to the couple you mentioned before?" Well, he kidnapped them in a unmarked van and took them away into an underground cellar. Within this van of his he had 'toys' he would use to torture his victims. He also had simular tools, maybe worse in his cellar.

If you went to the town of Truth or Consequence, New Mexico and asked them about David or the Toy-Box-Killer. They won't answer you. They won't even speak to you upon arrival. You would have to gain their trust first before they mention anything to you about their little town.

The deeds of Mr. Ray were so horrible that the people refuse the believe the man ever existed. They don't want to believe one person is capable of such evil. So they created the story of the Skin Walker. A demon that can take the appearance of anyone and sound like anything. Hunts you down and takes your form.

Now I bet you're asking yourself "Did you say the old couple had a dog? What happened to it?" People say that after they investigated the house--the couple was nowhere to be seen, all that was left as proof they were there was their dog. The strangest thing about it was that not only was he dead, but it looked like he had his blood sucked out of him. He was bone dry when they found him.

But to me I think that's because he starved to death due to his owner's being kidnapped by David Parker Ray. If you ever plan a trip to New Mexico--tread lightly around this town if you dare to go see it youself. The locals there know people come there for a reason. No one just "come upon it" suddenly.

If you want more of the story I suggest you look it up yourself. Here is a link to the infamous serial killer if you're intersted:

Note: I personally don't know a whole lot about the story or its survivors. I suggest you guys check it out. I'm certain there are videos on YT as well.

[kiss-my-freckle]

145 > 2

“You’re not gonna lose him, honey. You’re setting him free.” Katherine made Damon a metaphoric tomb vampire. Because he spent their 145 years loving her, and Stefan spent those years hating her, expect all of Stefan's parallels to play out with Elena. Through her, he realizes what happened to Damon. 

They go through the same stages of grief, the same punishment phase, etc. Perfect example is Stefan's comment in 1x3. "And you hate me because you loved her, and you torture me because you still do." That's why he bleeds Damon dry in their cellar in the 4th season. 

“Last thing she needs is another grave to mourn.” You can side-by-side Stefan's 8x16 goodbye to Damon's 2x22 goodbye.

[deadlydelicious]

British additions

In the UK your main drinking establishment will be a pub, not a bar. these come in a few variations, but mostly you'll see; the gastropub, the country pub (with beer garden attached), and a 'city drinkers' pub (a place in a large urban center that often fills up with businessmen in suits at 5pm)

We don't have divebars, but we definitely have rough pubs. I would call these drinkers pubs, my mum would call them spit and sawdust.

In the UK people tend to order and purchase drinks in rounds, not by a tabs. This means if you're out with say 4 people, one person will purchase the first round of drinks for all 4 people plus themselves. Then someone else will get the next round, etc. This can vary given social or financial circumstances.

You can buy alcohol in any supermarket or corner shop in the UK

You can legally drink in public in the UK, which you cannot do in Canada or the US

Legal drinking age is 18, but some pubs will let people 16 or older order a single drink if its ordered by a legal adult and accompanies a meal

A shop specifically catering to selling alcohol is called an off-license or 'the offie'

Brits drinking beer in a pub will drink it in pints, usually on tap, and will often refer to going for a drink as 'going for a pint' or 'going down the pub for a pint'

Brits call alcoholic cider 'cider', not 'hard cider'. In the UK its typically a very dry drink not a sweet drink and doesn't have any of the 'cider is for girls' connotations that it seems to have in the US. There is also an even dryer non-sparkling version called scrumpy, which is seen as a proper working mans drink

British beer isn't actually served warm, its just typically served a cellar temperature rather than ice cold, which seems to confound Americans off for some reason

There are certain mixers and alcohols that aren't often paired together, so its worth googling before hand to make sure you're not throwing in a very notably strange combo into a scene where you don't want the drink order to stand out (shout out to that fanfic that featured coke and gin...blergh)

When talking about beer or wine, people will usually refer to it by specific type, such as larger or stout, or chardonnay or malbec

bad alcohol may often be called swill

Alcohol tips for newbie writers (or non drinkers!):

At bars, people who order “chasers” after their shots are ordering something to wash down the taste of their shot with. This can be juice, soda, more alcohol, or even pickle juice

Hard liquor is generally sold in stores as shots (tiny bottles), fifths, liters, and handles or in ml (50, 100, 200 etc)

Most people can’t finish an entire fifth of hard liquor (vodka, etc) on their own without being very ill

Conversely, many people can finish an entire bottle of wine on their own without being ill

Liquor can be “bottom shelf” or “rail” or “well” – all synonyms for the cheapest version of alcohol a bartender has. Bars generally keep several “levels” of alcohol stocked

You order a drink with the alcohol first, then the mix – e.g., a “vodka soda” or a “Tito’s and tonic”

When you “close out a tab”, you pay for all of the drinks you’ve had that night. Either the bartender already has your card (you “opened a tab” earlier) or it was quiet enough that they just kept an eye on you and tallied your bill up at the end

“Doubles” are drinks or shots with double the standard pour of alcohol

In the US, most shots (pours) are 1.5 oz by default. 

Mixed drinks (gin and tonic, vodka lemonade, cosmos, etc) are generally made up of 1-2 shots and a mixer 

If you don’t specify which type of alcohol you’d like in a mixed drink (vodka cranberry, for example) the bartender will put whatever the “house” liquor is – and this depends entirely on the establishment. A dive bar will pour rail by default, whereas a nicer tavern might make all vodka cranberries with Tito’s

PLEASE TIP YOUR BARTENDERS THEY WILL REMEMBER YOU I PROMISE

[atplblog]

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[littleharpethcrossfit]

Thursday, 17 October, 2024.

We are predicted to enjoy a cool, dry, 60 degree evening around the picnic table.

Early voting began Wednesday.

Warmup

3 Rounds

Weighted Squat Holds.....(25/15 Extended Plate)

30 Seconds Down.....30 Seconds Rest.

Strength

Back Squats

3 / 3 / 3 / 3 / 3 / 3

70 to 80% 1 Rep Max

Welp, there was a fine group, but no one took pictures, so I can't post results.

WOD

10 Rounds

3 Deadlifts.....(225/185/135)

10 KettleBell Swings.....(70/53/35)

10 Back Raises

30 Double-Unders.....(60 S.U.)

SCORE: Time

Same as above, great group, no results.

Cool Down:

Anyhow Dips 2 / 4 / 6 / 8 / 10

Note:

Average Dave, WG, Sammy D, Smoothie, Coach, Tom, Joe, were the boys. Alicia, Clara, Camille, Kayla, Kim, Elisa, Linda, Sandy were the girls. The scores were not posted, so you have to guess. My WOD time was 26 +.

The snacks brought were snacks. Crackers, cheeses, olives, carrots, tomatoes, hummus dip, crackers, cheeses, pepper jelly, crackers, cheeses, coconut cookies, etc. No pizza, no Chic fil A, no hamburger soup. Kayla brought her cell phone and left early.

There were only 4 wines originally and the management brought 3 of them. Tom brought the other and left without a sip. Not surprisingly, we ran out of wine and Paul/Smoothie/and WG went to the cellar and fetched another good zinfandel. Paul was told to not show up unless he was wearing an "I voted" sticker. He came wearing the sticker but carrying no wine.

Old Joe The Bird man was under Eye Doctors orders not to strain any muscles, so I gave him the job of tending the fire in the fire ring. I built the fire exclusively for Shannon who loves campfires, but she was absent. Old Joe did a superb job. I'm sad that Shannon missed it.

Saturday at 0930.

[renovatbuild]

Types of Home Renovation services

There are many types of Home Renovation Services. Under Home renovation we Renovatbuild offers most popular home renovation such as Bathroom renovation and remodeling, Kitchen renovation and remodeling, Living room renovation , Balcony renovation, basement renovation , interior design remodeling etc.

Home owners generally under take Home Renovation Project either after buying a ready-made house for uplifting its appearance and as well as making different units of the house as per their convenience and maximally utilizing the available space as per their taste.

The home owners may also upgrade and renovate their house when they want to sell it to obtain best and competitive price and get a keen and interested customer to purchase the same.

We at Renovatbuild in coordination with the home owner can take up either renovation and remodeling project depending on whether the owner is doing it for residing there later or for getting getting better and quick resale value with minimum budget and eco-friendly way.

However renovation can be for improving basic home facilities such as a roof that does not leak ? Functioning gutters and downspouts, a dry basement, a reliable furnace , solid floors that do not ever collapse, retaining walls that work long time, efficient plumbing and HVAC systems.

Or you may want to do Renovate the house to give a stunning appeal and looks.which can be traditional or total modern looks , facilities and gadgets.

On the other hand one may like to do wood flooring new or refinished, insulation upgrades, basement conversions and closet renovation. Some times the home owners may want to add small swimming pool renovation to their villa , a tennis courts , hot tubs,wine cellars, game rooms or even ponds.

One may want to transform a bedroom into a studio , remove walls to enlarge a space to include dining room in the kitchen or create one. Remodeling the basement etc. We at Renovatbuild are capable to undertake any type of renovation and remodeling project that satisfy your taste , value for money, and environment friendly manner.

[jeanjauthor]

Just a reminder, before manufacturers started adding iodine to salt to keep it from rehydrating, turning wet, and clumping awkwardly, well...it did rehydrate when exposed to moisture in the air, and started clumping in rather damp and depressingly difficult to sprinkle ways.

Salt was far easier to add while still cooking, since it was often added to things that were damp that would be stirred a lot, to redistribute the salt for a more even flavoring. So if they brought out the salt cellar for you, it meant they thought you were a guest important enough to be given a bit of dry salt crystals to sprinkle as-you-like on your food.

...Also, the addition of iodine to salt to keep it from turning damp and clumping helped reduce iodine deficiency diseases, including goiters (swellings) in your neck, under-developed brains in children, and other horrible side-effects of the deficiency disease. Putting it into salt for sprinkling at the table meant that people would get a smidge of iodine, but not overdose on iodine (which can cause its own problems...but it's easier to not get enough than to overdose).

Iodine can be found in seaweed, fish & shellfish, dairy, and some meats...but mostly in seaweed and seafood. If you live far inland, and don't eat much fish, etc, then you're more likely to suffer from iodine deficiency issues.

With people focusing more and more in recent years on "gourmet salts" that aren't treated with iodine (himalayan pink salts, sea salt, flake salt, etc, etc, etc), there acually has been a tangible rise in reported cases of iodine deficiency.

Don't diss the "common table salt," folks, simply because it "isn't fancy enough to use a salt cellar."

That iodized salt is keeping most of you alive.

Saltcellar made from gold, rock crystal, emeralds, pearls, spinel or balas rubies, crafted in Paris, France, 13th century

from The Met Cloisters