#masons yard

[brittsekland]

Dana Gillespie photographed at Mason’s Yard in London, 1966.

[noconcessions]

[jhsharman]

stars of track and field

We may lie in a bit of no-man's land anyway -- too late for reasonable lunch, and too early for reasonable closing time. So why the change?

[gardensinnerdoodleblog]

While I may be sad and not where I want to be, my wizard sona is going on adventures. And that's gotta be something

[hardtickettohomevideo]

Schlocktoberfest XIV - Day 21: Why Would Anyone Want To Kill A Nice Girl Like You?

What are we doing for the 4th tomorrow? Yeah, I figured barbecuing but what else? Going to see Empire is a good option. We’ll see what happens, it usually rains on the 4th anyways. So what is this movie besides a dumb question? Why Would Anyone Want To Kill A Nice Girl Like You? (AKA Taste of Excitement) (1970) The Whole Shebang: *Spoilers Throughout* What’s This About: Either one of the…

[thesingletraveller]

Hidden Gems: London Cheese Crawl

The Solo Scale: If you’re not comfortable with strangers, this may not be the tour for you as you’ll be put into cheese teams with people you’ve never met, but if you can make it past that, the sampling is mostly eating & learning from your guide! If you’re going to London, you might think about visiting the London Eye, St. Paul’s, or maybe one of the other tourist locations. One hidden gem…

[torpublishinggroup]

This advertisement is for Swordcrossed by Freya Marske.

WHAT’S IT ABOUT

Mattinesh Jay is the chronically responsible eldest son and dutiful heir striving to keep his family’s business running. Luca Piere is a menace of a con artist desperately trying to escape his past by taking up the blade. When the pair meet, swords clash, and sparks fly. Soon, they’re entangled in a conspiracy that may bring Matti’s house to ruin if they don’t work together.

Want to see if it’s to your liking? We’ve included an excerpt from chapter one below.

Chapter 1 Matti laid his fingers on the polished edge of the bar’s wooden surface and forced himself to stop counting sheep. And yards of twill. And looms in need of repair, and outstanding debts.

Instead, he counted today’s collection of ink smudges, bruise-black on the brown skin of his hands: six. He counted the number of blue dyes that would have been used in the fabric of the bartender’s layered skirt: four, possibly five if the palest shade was true dimflower and not just the result of fading.

The tense throb of pain like a fist clenched in his hair eased, grudgingly, to a quiet ache. Bearable. Normal.

It was busy in the drinking house, the post-dinner hour that usually found Matti heading back to his study to finish the paperwork that a member of his family had tugged him away from in order to eat. Matti counted the number of flavoured jenever bottles on the shelf behind the bar—fifteen—in the time it took Audry to finish serving her current customer and sweep her sky-coloured skirts to stand in front of Matti. “And here’s a face we haven’t seen in a while! Something tells me you’re here for a celebration, Mr. Jay.”

Matti hoped the smile he’d pulled onto his face wasn’t the wrong size, or the wrong shade of abashed. “News travels fast.”

“Mattinesh Jay and Sofia Cooper. A match surprising exactly no one.”

Matti kept the smile going. There was a silence in which Audry politely didn’t say, Pity she’s in love with someone else, and so Matti didn’t have to say, Yes, isn’t it?Audry said, “Wait here a moment. I’ve got something in the back that I think will do nicely.”

Matti cast a glance over the room as Audry disappeared. His cousin Roland made an extravagant sighing motion and pretended to check his watch when Matti’s eyes landed on their table. A burst of laughter came from a dark-skinned woman nearby; she was wearing a dress that rode high at the knee to reveal a fall of lace like frothing water, a northern style of garment that Matti’s own northerner mother seldom wore these days.

At the closest table the Mason Guildmaster, Lysbette Martens, was deep in conversation with a senior member of the Guild of Engineers. Martens met Matti’s gaze with her own and nodded brief acknowledgement. He was sure she was weighing his presence as consciously as he was weighing hers. This was a place to be seen, after all.

“Here you are. Red wine for young lovers.”

Matti turned around again. Audry named the price for the bottle as she uncorked it and set it on the bar. Matti paid her, ignoring the lurch like a fishhook in his stomach at the amount on the credit notes he was so casually handing over. Mattinesh Jay, firstborn of his distinguished House, had no reason not to indulge in one of the finest bottles of wine that money could buy.

No reason that anyone here would know about, anyway.

Matti took the bottle in one hand and hooked three glasses with the other. Making his way over to the table, his mind circled back to dwell on the wrong sort of numbers. The money in Matti’s purse was painstakingly calculated: enough for the first round of engagement drinks, and enough for him to hire a top-of-the-range duellist who would step forward in the awkwardly likely event of someone challenging for Sofia’s hand at the wedding itself.

Matti’s skin prickled cold at the very thought of what might happen if Adrean Vane challenged against Matti’s marriage to Sofia and won. His family’s last hope would be gone. Matti would have failed them in this, the most useful thing he could do for them.

He was so caught up in this uneasy imagining as he wove through the room that he collided, hard, with another person’s shoulder. Matti was both tall and broad, not easily unbalanced; the unfortunate other member of the collision made a grab for Matti’s coat, couldn’t get a good grip, and tripped to the ground with a caught-back “Fu—”

Matti tried to step backwards. They were crammed into a small space between tables and there were people moving around them. His first panicked instinct had been to keep the wine bottle upright and the glasses safe, so he didn’t have a hand free to steady himself on a chair.

He wasn’t quite sure what happened next, except that he ended up wobbling and stepping forward instead, and he felt his boot come down on something that was not the floorboards. A small, pathetic, grinding mechanical sound crawled up Matti’s nerves, heel to head, and reached his ears even amidst the noise of the busy room.

“Sorry!” he said at once. “I’m sorry. Was that—Oh, Huna’s teeth.”

The man on the floor jerked his head up, staring at Matti, and Matti stared back.

For a moment all that Matti could see was the wide, straight line of the man’s mouth, set beneath an equally straight nose, and the frame that set off the whole: the dark, luminous copper-red hair that seemed to be trying to grow in about ten different directions.

The man’s tongue darted out in a nervous mannerism, wetting his lower lip. Something in Matti’s own mouth tried to happen in a yearning echo.

“Would you please lift,” the man said precisely, “your godsdamned foot?” Heat flooded Matti’s face. He snatched his foot backwards with enough force that his heel collided with a chair leg.

The redheaded man stood, his fingers closed convulsively tight around a small velvet bag. His brown coat was shabby and made of a coarsely woven fabric, though his shirt was good and his trousers had probably been equally so before they’d been overwashed into a patchy shine.

“Fuck fuck shitting—fuck,” the man said in tones of despair, with a lilt to his accent that placed him at least one city-state farther east: Cienne, or possibly Sanoy. He shook the contents of the bag into his palm and ventured into new realms of inappropriate language as he did so.

Enough people had witnessed their collision, or had their heads turned by the stream of expletives, that there were a fair few necks craning to see what was in the man’s hand. Matti, at whom the shaking fingers of this hand were pointed most directly, couldn’t help seeing for himself the ragged, glinting pile of cogs and jewels and glass. Only the intact cover—monogrammed in a swirling, engraved H—spoke of this pile’s previous existence as a pocket watch. A very expensive pocket watch, by the look of it.

The man’s breath hissed out through his teeth. “Guildmaster Havelot is going to use my arm bones as a fucking lathe. He only had it made to order, and he only trusted me to pick it up, didn’t he? Two hundred gold. Fucking fuck.”

“I’m so sorry,” Matti said again. He recognised the name: Havelot was the Woodworker Guildmaster in Cienne. “Truly. I can—” He stopped. The abrupt lack of his words created a silence that seemed to suck noise into itself, as conversations died to murmurs and the onlookers sensed something interesting.

The man looked straight at Matti with a stubborn lift of his chin. His brows, the same absurd colour as the rest of his hair, had sprung up into the beginnings of hope; as Matti’s silence grew longer, they lowered again. And then lowered farther. He swept a look down and then slowly up Matti’s own outfit, and now pride warred with scorn in the way those maddening lips pressed together.

Matti felt sick. His own coat was made of the finest wool, a midnight blue cut perfectly to his figure, and the rest of his clothes were of the same quality. He was holding a bottle of extremely good wine. Anybody looking at him would make immediate assumptions about the amount of ready money that Matti might have, and the ease with which he would be able to reimburse a poor clerk, if he’d just ruined a pricey piece of artificer’s skill that the man’s employer had trusted him to travel all the way to Glassport to collect.

Of course they would make these assumptions. That was the point.

Matti swallowed and felt the burning heaviness of his purse redouble. He’d be left with enough to a hire a duellist, yes, but not one of the highest skill. It wouldn’t buy himself and his family the absolute security they needed.

His friends were looking at him. It seemed like every pair of eyes in the drinking house was looking, and in another moment the murmurs of curiosity would turn to murmurs of disapprobation. I thought Matti Jay had more honour than that, they would say. What’s two hundred gold to someone like him?

Besides, the plain fact of the matter was that Matti had broken the watch. And he couldn’t pretend that he and this man with his proud mouth and poor coat, patched at one elbow, were on an equal footing. Even if he were left without a bronze, Matti would still have influence, connections, the weight of his family’s name. That was still worth something. For now.

So that was that.

“I—I really am sorry.” Matti set the wine and glasses down on the corner of the nearest table and pulled his purse from inside his coat. He kept his gaze on the man’s face, on a pair of eyes that were either grey or brown—impossible to tell from this angle—and urgently willed them not to look away. To a degree that seemed irrational, he wanted to banish the judgemental expression from the man’s face. “Of course I’ll cover the cost. Two hundred gold. Who did the work?”

The man glanced down at the metal scraps in his hand, as though the answer might be hidden in the pile. “Speck,” he said at last. “Frans Speck, in Amber Lane.”

“He’s a fair man. Tell him what happened and he’ll rush through the repair job,” Matti said. He held out the century notes.

The man tipped the wreckage of the watch back into the bag and closed his hand around the money, slow and wary. His fingertips had rough patches that scraped against Matti’s own, sending a tingle up Matti’s arm.

“I appreciate it,” the man said. He looked less cold now, though still nowhere near warm. “You’ve saved my life. Really.”

Matti forced himself to smile. Forced himself to say, “It’s nothing,” as though it really were nothing.

The man nodded awkwardly at Matti and tucked both money and bag into a pocket. Then he turned and was gone, headed for the door.

Matti somehow made his way to his table and sat down. His heart was pounding so loudly that he could barely hear anything else, and he wanted to shout at his own blood to be quiet and let him think. He needed to be alone in his study. He needed to contemplate his options, and make lists, and pore over the accounts for the thousandth time, in case they transmuted themselves into a picture of prosperity instead of the ugly, desperate reality that nobody outside of Matti’s immediate family knew about.

“Two hundred gold,” he said, before he could stop himself. “Two hundred.”

“We saw. Hard luck,” his cousin Roland said, making a face.

Perhaps it was stretching the term to call Roland and Wynn his friends, but they were the closest thing Matti had to members of that category, and the only people he’d been able to think of to form his wedding party. At least the three of them never found it too hard to pick up their acquaintanceship again, even if it had been months since their last conversation.

Wynn turned the bottle of wine to inspect the yellow butterfly on the label. “How appropriate that we’re drinking wine from your betrothed’s own winery.”

“Audry’s idea of a joke, I think,” Matti said. The word betrothed had landed in his ears like a piece of music played in an unfamiliar key; his mind was still turning it over, trying to decide how it felt about the melody. His hand was shaking as he poured the first glass, sending the stream of dark wine shivering and slipping. He’d steadied it by the time he poured the second.

“Huna smile,” he said, opening the toasts by lifting his own glass. “Thanks for agreeing to stand up with me, you two.”

“Drown your sorrows in this one, and by the time we hit the next bottle you’ll remember that you’re here to celebrate. And that once you’re married to Sofia Cooper,” Roland went on, lowering his voice sympathetically, “Jay House will be rolling in enough money to replace a hundred watches.”

Except that Matti had to get himself successfully married in the first place. And he’d just lost his best guarantee of doing so.

He let the old, gorgeous wine flood down his throat until a good third of his glass had vanished. He felt lightheaded; it had to be panic, because the wine couldn’t be working that fast. Panic and a sense of becoming unmoored. And the image of the man’s face, pale and sharply beautiful, gazing up from where he was kneeling at Matti’s feet.

“A fair effort,” Wynn said, when Matti put the glass down. “But I’ll show you children of Huna how it’s done.” He raised his own glass. “Agar fill your plates and cups.”

Matti smiled and drank again, accepting the toast. Maybe the wine was working after all. He could still feel his panic, the wound-up watch of his worry, but he shoved it away into a recess of his mind: its own small, dark velvet bag. It would be safe enough there. It would last until tomorrow. Matti’s ability to worry was shatterproof.

For now, he was going to drink.

[lowkeyrobin]

NEWT ; the night we met

summary ; newt is new to the glade & you're there when he regains his name

warnings ; language, alcohol, very pre-thomas era (about three or four years)

track ; the night we met ; lord huron

word count ; 1.3k

masterlist

Newt, with his arrival to the glade in the box, was a frightened little Greenie. He was merely fourteen years old, about 5"7, with dirty blonde hair just barely hiding his eyes. He seemed awestruck, as usual Greenies were, and obviously scared and confused.

Alby sadly didn't have any answers for him, many, at that. He just had the rundown of the Glade to give him and the rules and to introduce him to the other Gladers out and about. He wouldn't be able to introduce him to you or Minho, seeing as you were both running the maze right now.

The second the poor boy heard the word maze, he nearly had a panic attack. It was like something in the back of his brain had been triggered, reminding him of something he couldn't remember.

But as the cool, green forest faded into an orange-y warm fire, the sun set above, leading you and Minho back to the Glade to join the monthly Greenie bonfire. There was work to be done, tasking you with business before you could join.

The fifteen year old Minho begged you to hurry up, but you had to map out a new section of the maze. There was no fooling around for you at the moment. So, he leaves without you, curiosity stabbing him as he jogs back into the main Glade, away from the Deadheads.

You, finally, were able to join around eleven or so, the moon nearly centered in the dark sky above.

You had a cup of Gally's secret juice in your hand as you rest your back against a tree, a nice view of both the fire and the little fight-circle. You take your time to enjoy the peace and intoxicate yourself, ridding yourself of any worries.

You lay your eyes on the new Greenie, a light, inviting smile as he looks back at you. He was standing all alone, staring at the fire like he was trying to think long and hard about his past. He joins you, seeing that you were also alone, watching the fire and the other boys talk and have fun.

He sits criss-cross next to you, an awkward little hi slipping from his mouth.

"Know your name yet, Greenie?" You ask him, taking a sip from your cup.

He shakes his head, a slight twinge of sadness twinkling in his eyes.

"Don't worry," You pat him on the shoulder, "You'll get it back soon"

He nods, basking the two of you in a calm silence, listening to the fire crackle and the boys cheering and whooping a few yards away. He speaks up after a few minutes, having been conjuring up a question for you.

"How long have you been here?" He asks, question and curiosity dripping off his tongue.

You shrug, "Seven months. Same thing every day, all day. It's nice after a while, I guess."

He nods, watching Gally and Alec tussle and shove each other around the fight circle. He looks down at the mason jar in your hand, seeing you cringe as you feel the sour taste hit your tastebuds.

"What's that?"

You deviously smile, "Gally's secret concoction." You hold out the glass for him, giving him a look to try it.

He looks between you and the glass jar filled with the dark yellow liquid, seeking approval in your eyes. You nod, silently urging him to try it.

"It's good for the nerves"

He's silent for a moment before he takes it in his hand and takes a quick swig of it. He cringes as he hands the jar back, coughing up a fit as he rubs his mouth with his wrist.

You lightly laugh, watching his dramatic reaction.

"Good for nerves?" He repeats, smacking his lips to try and rid the taste from his mouth. "What is that, bloody hell!"

You giggle, setting the jar down in the grass with a little twist so it'd stay. "Dunno, ask Gally"

"Which one is Gally? Good God" He lightly coughs, "It tastes like piss!"

You stand up, a hand out to help Newt up. "I'll show you around, hm?"

He nods, taking your hand as you walk around the bonfire.

"Y'know Alby and Fry, right?"

He nods.

"Cool. Well, that's Minho, my best friend. He's a runner, as am I. He's Keeper of the Runners, though, very down to Earth and stuff. There's Gally and the other builders. They're strong but dumb." You shrug. "Winston is Keeper of the Slicers. He and that whole crew are wonderful. Zart and Jeff are the Med-Jacks. Go to them if you have a splinter or a cold, they'll help you out"

The blonde nods, following your gaze and finger as you look to and point the others out.

"And those are the Track-Hoes. They're gardeners, very sweet, that's Sam, Keeper of the Track-Hoes" You finish, giving him a warm smile as you look back at him.

He goes silent for a moment, looking dazed and zoned out before you snap him back to reality.

"Greenie? Hey, dude?"

"Newt" His lips curl into a smile, eyes twinkling as he looks at you. "Newt. My name is Newt"

You widely smile and chuckle in excitement, both of you with your hands on each other's shoulders as you bounce around, both buzzed off of the alcohol you'd been served.

"Greenie has a name!" You shout, looking to him for him to shout out his name, the whole Glade looking at you two.

"My name is Newt!" He smiles, looking to you for approval.

In your buzzed state, you convince him to jump on your back as you loop around the large fire, the boys chanting his name.

"Welcome to the Glade, Newton!"

"Newton?"

"It's gotta stand for something!"

The boys continuously chant and holler his name, a smile painting his freckled face. You had all of him now, his kind, friendly and trustworthy personality, his dirty blonde hair, his freckles, and his dorky name.

He felt his brain take a photo of the scene as he looked slightly down at you, a hand on your scalp, the other formed in a fist which he held in the air. From the crackling fire beside him, to the feeling of the warm air against his face, to the boys in a circle watching as you proudly carry him on your shoulders. The smell of the bitter drink passed around the bonfire haunted his nose, and the way you gripped onto his ankles for safety did as well.

After the bonfire, the drunk boys return to the Homestead one by one, leaving you, Minho, Newt, and most of the builders by the fire. Minho struck up a conversation with Newt by the fire, sitting on a log together while you sit at the log on the right of them, sipping on Gally's secret drink. You weren't shitfaced but you weren't buzzed either, just the right amount of kind of out of it. You wanted to rid your life of any stress tonight, considering your friend and your new friend, Newt, were getting along and no one had tried to kill each other today, a win in your eyes.

Minho, wanting to embarass you, buzzed, brings up how you requested a guitar from the box and actually received it, although you never touched it afterward because you didn't want to be made fun of. Newt found this interesting and began begging you to play, even just for a minute. He never heard any real, genuine music before, and to experience it from you, his first actual friend would've been a memory he'd remember for a lifetime and more.

You eventually comply, striking a deal that if you play, you wouldn't be singing. You walk back and forth from the fire to the Homestead, retrieving the guitar, re-tuning it on your walk back to the two boys. You sit down again with a dramatic sigh and strum on the strings once to make sure it was properly tuned now.

Newt watches with a smile as you strum away, humming along to the rhythm.

The same rhythm that he could decode one certain phrase from underneath the warm, orange light of the fire, which was now dying out.

Take me back to the night we met.

[gyllenhaalstories]

FORTUNE COOKIE — DETECTIVE LOKI 🥠

summary: you're in luck! the restaurant did not run out of fortune cookies this time.

warnings:food & eating, smut (hickeys, mirror sex, nipple play, thighjob, mention of edging). 18+ NO MINORS.

word count: 1785

gif credits: @/elliewilliums (cropped) / divider credits: @/saradika-graphics

notes: happy valentine's day! i'm sending you all so much love. 💝 thank you for reading & REMEMBER TO REBLOG!

You parked your car next to Loki's, although the parking lot was empty at this hour. This sounded like a cute metaphor about how you could have all the space in the world, yet you'd rather stay close to your man. Anyway. You parked your car and struggled with just about everything beyond that point. Your hands were too full to close and lock the door easily and to zip your coat and put its hood over your head. Once you figured it out, you waddled your way to the restaurant. You struggled with the push and pull mechanism, nothing special there, and you especially struggled to look normal while you bee-lined to his usual table.

You were lucky, his back faced the door so he did not catch even the smallest visual glimpse of your shenanigans. Although he could not see you, his face beamed with a smile at the squeaky sound of your shoes and at your clumsy apologies to the waitress for coming in so close to closing hours.

"Surprise." You laughed at how you ruined your own plans. You handed him the precious package you were holding close to your body this whole time.

"What are you doing here?" Loki's eyes glanced up at you, then down at the box you were handing him. Pink wrapping paper, pink ribbon, pink bow, pink everything.

"I just told you, I wanted to surprise you." He emptied your hand so you could pull your phone out of your pocket. "Look, it's after midnight."

He blinked, with an arched brow.

"That means it's Valentine's Day." You smiled from ear to ear.

"I thought we had plans for dinner not... for now."

"Surprise!" You repeated and hopped closer to him, leaning in for a quick kiss. "I know we said no gift. I also know that if I tried to hide the gift, you'd find it. So this is the best plan I came up with!"

He set the box down on the table and attempted to search through the pocket of his black coat, but he stopped to listen to you.

You told him you knew he'd be there to eat before coming back home, so you would not lovingly scold him about not prioritizing his needs. You told him it was no bother, to drive in the middle of the night to meet with him. You told him you planned this all out with love. You also told him how proud you were for surprising him for once, well, kind of.

"I'm proud of you." You smiled when you sat down in front of him. You caught him just in time, too, he had finished his food. He politely asked the waitress for a refill of coffee. He searched his coat again and pulled a gift out of it.

The box was not wrapped up all cutesy like yours, but you could not care less.

"I know we said no presents." The waitress reappeared and placed two fortune cookies between Loki and you. She walked back to the kitchen with the empty coffee pot.

After Loki sipped his coffee, you both agreed to open your presents at the same time.

Loki carefully pulled on the ribbon and peeled the heart patterned paper off the box. He gasped when he opened it and discovered a ring. It resembled the Masonic ring he wore, but it was different. Loki's ring was plain, it suited him. But the one you got for him showed intricate details and complex craftsmanship.

"I don't need to understand it to know it's important for you." You watched his reactions closely while he studied the ring. You explained how you saw an advertisement in the newspaper about people selling vintage knickknacks. It was not too far out of town, it was set up like a yard sale. You found the ring in an old jewellery box, had it cleaned up, and saved it for this special occasion.

"I love it." He closed the box and smiled widely. "Thank you." You could feel how much this gift mattered to him and you were happy with yourself. "It's your turn."

So, you opened your present too. You frowned, confused, when you pulled out a chain that looked exactly like his.

"You like mine so much, figured you wanted your own..." You spoke at the same time. "So we can match."

You insisted on putting it on right away, but Loki decided you should wait until you both got home. The waitress came back to clean your tables and, before you left, you opened your fortune cookies.

Loki was a little superstitious about his cookies, he liked to give them time to work their magic so you did not share what the strip or paper said right away. He paid and tipped the waitress generously and headed outside.

You waved goodbye at the waitress and wished her "Happy Valentine's day!"

*~*~*

Loki hung the towel to dry on the rack, his messy half dry hair looked so different from his usual slicked back look. He looked relaxed, at peace. He came up behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist while the steam from the shower slowly dissipated.

You handed him the small necklace and he groaned in response, not wanting to leave the embrace just yet. You had waited too long with the ride home in your respective cars and the long steamy shower. You wanted your present.

He obliged, though, and carefully put the chain around your neck. He watched your reflection in the mirror with a corner smile. "You look so beautiful, my love."

You looked at yourself through the mirror too and brought your hand to touch the cold metal of the chain. It was exactly like Loki's, you'd always have a piece of him with you that way.

Loki kissed your cheek and along the side of your neck, where he focused until your brain got too fuzzy to thank him again for the Valentine's day present. He lingered on one spot, sucking a light mark on it that he soothed with gentle licks. His hands caressed your exposed chest.

"I'm guessing you love it as much as I do?" You looked at the mirror again and caught a glimpse of your man smirking against your skin and marking you up some more while his hands were groping your tits.

He grunted, now teasing your nipples until they got hard. He loved to feel you squirm against his naked body, your ass grinding on his hardening cock.

You gasped when he pinched and pulled gently on your nipples.

He had no intention of hurting you, he simply wanted to tease you. His day was long, rough, as it always seemed to be but your surprise at the restaurant put him in a much better mood. Despite wanting to enjoy your body and to explore every inch of it by peppering kisses, his body forced him to pick up the pace.

"Please..." You whispered, begging him to keep touching you.

And he did, without needing you to explain any further. His hands abandoned your breasts and travelled down.

You lost sight of them in the mirror, but your entire body felt like it melted when his fingers touched your pussy.

"So fucking wet for me." He praised you in your ear, before he switched sides and started to mark the rest of your neck with hickeys. He dipped two fingers between your folds.

Instinctively, your legs opened up for him. You gave him enough space for his hand, but also for his cock.

He pushed his cock between your legs and moaned of pleasure when your pussy lips coated him with wetness. Loki helped you close your legs just a bit, so that he could fuck your thighs.

It was not as satisfying as having him buried inside of your pussy or feeling his fingers rub your tingly clit, but this felt so good still.

It felt especially good when Loki grabbed your hips to hold you in place. He fucked himself with your thighs, grunting louder and louder with each thrust. "Fuck," he mumbled, face still in your neck. "Been thinking of your pussy all day."

You reached a hand behind you and put it on the back of his head, holding him close. "Need you inside me, baby."

"Say that again." He demanded, his eyes rolled to the back of his head when you whined loudly as the tip of his cock hit your clit.

You took a deep breath, trying to speak coherently although this seemed next to impossible when Loki was fucking you. "I need your cock so bad. I need you inside me. Please. Please!"

"Good girl." Loki stopped moving, his cock lodged between your thighs and under your wet pussy.

"Why?" You complained, tears began to pool at the corner of your eyes. You needed him to keep going so bad.

His fingers started to rub your clit instead, but it was way too slow for your liking. "Wanna know what my fortune cookie said?"

You put your hand over his, trying to make him speed up and take you closer to your orgasm, but you failed.

His strong hand just kept rubbing small, lazy circles on your sensitive clit. "Answer me. Do you want to know?"

You rolled your eyes and surrendered. "What did it say?"

He wore a proud smile on his face. When you noticed it, you chuckled. "It said to Plan for many pleasures ahead." You rolled your eyes and he insisted. "No, no, no. I'm serious! You don't believe me? You wanna see it?" He gave your pussy a gentle slap to make you quit your attitude.

It succeeded in making your brain short circuit for a second.

"I can prove it to you that this was written on the paper. It's in my coat, I'm gonna go and get it." Loki pulled away from you, his hands, and his cock, leaving your body.

You whined so loud that he laughed.

He was surprised at your reaction, but he was more so aroused at how much you wanted to feel him.

"What is it? You don't want me to go?"

"Absolutely not." You turned around, finally looking at him directly in the eye. "But we're still gonna go somewhere." You erased the distance between your bodies again only to push him out of the bathroom and in direction of the bedroom.

He walked backwards, letting you guide him with a proud smirk.

"I'd rather make the fortune cookie's wish come true."

Loki turned you around and, when you finally got near the bed, he pushed you down on it. "That's my good fucking girl."

[adiradirim]

Sephardic Jews from Thessaloniki in their traditional costumes, in the city’s old cemetery, before the war // a contemporary photo that shows where the destroyed cemetery once was, which is now Greece's largest university, built partially on top of and with land and materials (particularly tombstones) stolen from the razed site.

Thessaloniki or Salonika, once referred to as “the Jerusalem of the Balkans” due to its Ladino-speaking Jewish majority, saw roughly 96% of its Jewish population murdered during the Holocaust. This mass destruction extended to the city's Jewish cemetery, which had been the country's largest, established in the 15th century and housing hundreds of thousands of Jewish graves until its razing by city authorities who had long desired to repurpose the land and resented the inconvenience of Jewish presence. Despite its large-scale destruction during German occupation in 1942, which was initiated and carried out primarily by Thessaloniki authorities with Nazi consent and arrangement, some parts of the cemetery survived intact as late as 1947. Many tombstones were subsequently appropriated and used by city authorities and the Greek Orthodox Church. After the war, people were still carrying away Jewish gravestones each day and regularly looting the cemetery in search of valuables. The city's officials, led by their mayor, completed the cemetery's destruction and sold the tombstones to contractors for use as building materials in various projects; as such many were and are still found in various walls, roads, structures, and churches around the city. A 1992 commemorative book pictures Greek schoolgirls playing Hamlet with skulls and other bones they found in the cemetery.

“[T]he ‘rape’ of the cemetery escalated, marble flooded the market, and its price plummeted. Jewish tombstones were stacked up in mason’s yards and, with the permission of the director of antiquities of Macedonia and overseen by the metropolitan bishop and the municipality, used to pave roads, line latrines, and extend the sea walls; to construct pathways, patios, and walls in private and public spaces though out the city, in suburbs such as Panorama and Ampelokipi, and more than sixty kilometers away in beach towns in Halkidiki, where they decorated playgrounds, bars, and restaurants in hotels; to build a swimming pool – with Hebrew-letter inscription visible; to repair the St. Demetrius Church and other buildings...” Devin Naar, Jewish Salonica: Between the Ottoman Empire and Modern Greece

Most of the efforts to return found tombstones throughout the city are led by Jews, particularly Jacky Benmayor, the curator of the Jewish Museum and last Ladino speaker in Greece, who has personally recovered hundreds of tombstones including his own family's. Surviving Greek Jews never received compensation for the confiscation of the land under the destroyed cemetery, upon which now partially rests Greece's largest university, Aristotle University, which also used Jewish gravestones as building material for its long-coveted expansion finally made possible by the dispossession and annihilation of the city's Jews. In 2014, 72 years after the cemetery's destruction and appropriation, a small memorial was established on campus grounds to acknowledge the Jewish cemetery the school is built on and with; the ceremony just 10 years ago involved the first-ever acknowledgement of the atrocities and apology from a Thessaloniki mayor. The memorial has been vandalised multiple times since its establishment.

[doctorbitchcrxft]

Children Shouldn't Play With Dead Things | Supernatural Series Rewrite | Dean Winchester x Reader

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader (Eventual ? )

Warnings: canon gore, canon violence, discussing parental death, coping with grief

Word Count: 4540

A/N: Happy Juneteenth, my lovebugs!

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 You were barely clinging to consciousness in the backseat as the brothers’ bickering acted as a bizarre lullaby. Sam insisted on going to visit his mother’s grave following his father’s death, but Dean was— as always— stubbornly skeptical. You were, as usual, just along for the ride. 

When you did finally arrive at the site of Mary’s grave, Dean refused to go within a fifty-yard radius of her headstone. When you asked him why, he refused to answer. 

“Wait, (Y/N/N), look,” he said, gesturing to a tree with a perfect circle of dead grass around a grave right next to it. 

“Huh,” you replied, stooping down to the dead flowers laid on the gravestone. “What’re your thoughts?”

“I don’t know, but I think I’m gonna talk to the groundskeeper and find out.” With that, he walked away from you and over to a man who was tending the graves. You headed over to Sam and noticed he was burying John’s dogtags in the spot next to his mother’s grave.

“That’s really sweet,” you told him, and he looked up at you with teary eyes. “Hey, I know this is a bad time, but I think we got something.”

He tilted his head in confusion.

“I know, I know, weird coincidence, but come look.” You showed him over to the circle of dead grass. 

He just furrowed his brows at it as Dean walked back up to you. “Angela Mason,” Dean explained. “She was a student at the local college; funeral was three days ago.”

The three of you began to walk back to the car. “And?” Sam questioned.

“And? You saw her grave,” you said. “You don’t think that’s a little weird?”

“Maybe the groundskeeper went a little agro with the pesticide,” the brunet shrugged.

Dean shook his head. “No, I asked him. No pesticide, no chemicals. Nobody can explain it.”

“Okay, so what are you thinking?”

“I don’t know,” his brother responded. “Unholy ground, maybe?”

“Un—” Sam stopped himself, speechless.

“What? If something evil happened there, it could easily poison the ground. Remember the- the farm outside of Cedar Rapids?” Dean continued. “Could be the sign of a demonic presence. Or the Angela girl's spirit, if it's powerful enough.”

Sam nodded and turned away. 

“Well, don't get too excited, you might pull something,” Dean deadpanned.

“It's just,” Sam began, “stumbling onto a hunt? Here, of all places?”

You shrugged. “So?”

“So—” Sam turned to his brother, “—are you sure this is about a hunt, and not about something else?”

Dean was immediately on the defensive. “What else would it be about?”

Sam sighed and went to duck into the Impala. “You know, just forget about it.”

“Sam, I have no connection to this whole thing, and I think it’s worth checking out,” you protested.

“Yeah, fine,” Sam grumbled, getting into the car.

***

You and the Winchesters went to speak to the deceased’s father next. The tension in the room had been high as the brothers subtly digged at one another; their feelings on the case began to seep through into their words while they talked to the professor. Something you found interesting was the man’s ancient Greek textbook, and the fact that he taught a course on ancient Greece. 

Dean and Sam were bickering as soon as you got back to their motel room.

“I'm telling you, there's something going on here. We just haven't found it yet.”

“Dean, so far you've got a patch of dead grass and nothing.”

“Well, something turned that grave into unholy ground.”

Sam scoffed. “There's no reason for it to be unholy ground. Angela Mason was a nice girl who died in a car crash. That's not exactly vengeful spirit material. You heard her father.”

“Yeah, well, maybe Daddy doesn't know everything there is to know about his little angel, huh?” Dean suggested.

“You know what? We never should have bothered that poor man. We shouldn't even be here anymore,” Sam argued.

“Boys, quit it!” you tried, but Dean talked right over you.

“So what, Sam? What, we just bail? Without even figuring out what's going on?”

Sam’s voice softened. “I think I know what's going on here. It's the only reason I went along with you this far.”

“What are you talking about?” Dean scoffed.

“This is about Mom's grave.”

Dean glared. “That's got nothing to do with it.”

“You wouldn't step within a hundred yards of it. Look, maybe you're imagining a hunt where there isn't one so you don't have to think about Mom. Or Dad,” Sam continued.

Dean turned to look at him, his face angry. 

“You wanna take a swing?” Sam sighed. “Go ahead, if it'll make you feel better.”

Dean shook his head and grabbed his keys and jacket. “I don't need this crap.”

“Dean, where are you going?” you asked, following him.

“I'm going to go get a drink. Alone.”

Your feelings were slightly hurt, but you understood. You allowed him his space and backed off immediately. 

***

Dean called you the next morning, waking you up at around six in the morning. “Dee?” you rasped, rubbing your eyes. “Why are you up this early?” You sat up, suddenly snapping to attention. “Don’t tell me you’re still out—”

“No, (Y/N/N), I’m not,” he responded. “I’ve been working my imaginary case.”

“Dean, I never said it was imaginary. I think you’re onto something here. Don’t get snippy with me just ‘cause you’re mad at Sam,” you scolded.

He sighed. “You’re right, I’m sorry. And… I’m sorry I shut you out.”

“I get it,” you replied softly. “You needed space. That’s okay.”

He chuckled. “Thanks, Dr. Phil, but seriously. Angela’s ex-boyfriend is dead. Meet me in the room with Sam. I’ll be there in five.”

And so, you obliged, meeting him outside their motel room. When you opened the door, Sam immediately turned off the television and awkwardly looked around. 

“Hey,” he said.

You entered cautiously, glancing between Sam and the television.

“What?” he asked you and his brother.

Dean grimaced. “Awkward.”

“Where in the hell were you?” Sam questioned pointedly. 

“Well, you were right. Didn’t find much.” Dean said, glaring a little at Sam. “Except Angela's boyfriend died last night. Slit his own throat. But, you know, that's normal. Uh, let's see, what else. Oh, he was seeing Angela everywhere before he died. But you know, I'm sure that's just me transferring my own feelings.”

“Okay, I get it. I'm sorry, maybe there is something going on here,” Sam sighed.

“Maybe?” you snickered.

“Sam, I know how to do my job, despite what you might think,” Dean deadpanned.

“Did you check out the dude’s apartment?” you asked Dean.

“Pile of dead plants, just like the cemetery. Hell, dead goldfish too.”

“Great, more unholy ground,” you noted.

“Maybe. I'm still not getting that powerful angry spirit vibe from Angela.” He leaned against the dresser and held up the pink book he had in his hand. “I have been reading this, though.”

You scoffed, smiling a little. “You stole the chick’s journal?”

“Yeah. And if anything, the girl's a little too nice.” 

Sam asked, “So what do you want to do?”

“Keep digging; talk to more of her friends.”

“You get any names?” the brunet asked.

Dean smirked. “Are you kidding me? I have her bestest friend in the whole wide world.” He wiggled the diary around. 

“Okay, well, who’d you find?” you questioned.

Dean leafed through the book. “This guy Neil shows up a lot. I think he’d be a good place to start.”

“Okay. Give me, like, ten minutes,” you replied. “I just woke up when you called me.”

Dean followed you out of his and his brother’s room and back to yours.

“What’s up?” you asked, noticing he was behind you. 

“Nothin’. Just wanted to hang out with you.”

You scoffed as you closed the door behind him. “I have to change, though.”

He smirked. “Don’t stop on my account.”

“Perv.” You took your clothes and headed toward the bathroom.

“Whoa, where ya goin’?” he asked.

You turned back to him. “Dean, I just feel weird moving so fast after everything with your dad. You’re tired. I can see it. Of course, I want to be more than just friends, but I don’t think the timing is right.”

He scoffed and looked at the floor. "Don't do the same thing Sam's doing."

Your formerly understanding tone hardened. I'm not. Don't do that to me. I am the furthest thing from patronizing you right now. And it's not all about you, dude. This isn't exactly ideal conditions for a relationship. And if you're gonna get mean every time we disagree, then this is not for me."

Dean's jaw tightened, and he went to say something. However, he seemed to realize that was a bad idea. Eventually, he admitted, “I know you’re right.”

You walked back over to him and pulled his face up to look at you. “Hey, I don’t mean ‘never.’ Just… not right now. You’re still my best friend, though. That will never change.”

He relaxed into your hand and closed his eyes, sadly saying, “Yeah. You, too.”

***

You felt slightly awkward around Dean after your conversation with him. You wanted him badly, and it killed every part of you to not let yourself be close to him. However, you knew he needed time and space to recover from his father’s death.

You knew he was going to continue to struggle with that for the rest of his life just as you did with the deaths of your parents, but you also knew he would eventually find a way to cope. You just didn’t want to be more of a distraction to his healing process than hunting already was.

You could tell he was burying so much just below the surface, and it threatened to boil over at any moment. You wanted so badly to hold him and tell him everything would be okay, but you knew that would be an awful idea at that particular moment. 

You continued with the hunt as usual, though, and went to visit Angela’s best friend, Neil. He seemed a little awkward upon meeting him, but not just in the “I have trouble socializing” way. He was awkward in a way that unsettled you. What unsettled you even more was the dead plant on the table just behind him in the doorway of his home. Something interesting you’d learned from him, too, was that Angela’s boyfriend cheated on her just before her accident. 

You and the brothers walked away from Neil’s house, tossing around potential theories.

Dean began, “Well, that vengeful spirit theory's starting to make a little more sense. I mean, hell hath no fury…”

“So, if Angela got her revenge on Matt, you think it’s over?” you asked him.

“Well, there's one way to be sure.”

You got in the car and noticed Sam was looking at his brother stunned. “Burn the bones? Are you high? Angela died last week!”

“So?” Dean argued.

“So, there's not gonna be bones. There's gonna be a ripe, rotting body in the coffin.” Sam’s nose twisted in disgust.

Dean smirked. “Since when are you afraid to get dirty? Huh?”

***

When you did exhume the coffin, you and the boys were shocked to find the coffin completely empty with strange Greek lettering etched on the inside of the coffin’s lid.

Dean insisted on going to Dr. Mason’s home to confront him then and there. He figured that he would be the only person with access to an ancient Greek ritual like the one you’d found etched in Angela’s coffin. Despite yours and Sam's protesting, Dean's unbelievable stubbornness prevailed.

The older Winchester pounded on the door, incredibly agitated.

“Dean, relax,” you stated firmly. 

He didn’t look at you or give a response.

Dr. Mason opened the door and forced a smile. “You're Angie's friends, right?”

Sam began to gently say, “Dr. Mason—” when his brother cut him off harshly.

“We need to talk.”

Dr. Mason seemed surprised. You glared at Dean, hoping he would be able to feel your aggravated warning. 

You could tell the poor man was a little startled, but he still invited you inside. Dean stepped over the threshold and immediately began unfolding a paper he’d copied the Greek characters from Angela’s coffin onto. “You teach Ancient Greek. Tell me—” Dean held out the paper, “what are these?”

“I don't understand. Does this have something to do with Angela?”

“It does. Please, just humor me.”

The old man was confused. “They're part of an ancient Greek divination ritual.”

Dean’s tone never softened. “Used for necromancy, right? See, before we came over here we stopped by the library and did a little homework ourselves. Apparently they used rituals like this one for communicating with the dead. Even bringing corpses back to life. Full-on zombie action.”

Dr. Mason chuckled uncomfortably. “Yes. I mean, according to the legends. Now, what's all this about?”

He didn’t seem guilty to you, but Dean kept pushing. “I think you know.”

“Dean—” you and Sam tried, but Dean continued on.

“Look, I get it. Okay?” he spat. “There are people that I would give anything to see again. But what gives you the right?”

“Dean!” Sam scolded.

“What are you talking about?” the man stuttered out, looking between you and the brothers.

“What's dead should stay dead!” Dean growled.

“What?!”

Sam jumped in front of Dean. “Stop it!”

“What you brought back isn't even your daughter anymore. These things are vicious, they're violent, they're so nasty they rot the ground around them. I mean, come on, haven't you seen Pet Sematary?” the older brother snarled.

“You’re insane,” Dr. Mason muttered.

“Where is she?!”

Dr. Mason rushed over to his phone. “Get out of my house.”

Dean continued his pursuit. “I know you're hiding her somewhere. Where is she?!” 

You rushed in front of Dean and grabbed his jacket. “Dean! Stop it, that’s enough! Look!” You jerked him around to face the window sill with a row of plants sitting on it.

Sam turned to Dr. Mason. “We’re leaving.”

The shell-shocked professor still held the phone to his ear. “I'm calling the police.”

Dean pulled away from you and stormed toward the door.

“Sir, we're sorry. We won't bother you again,” Sam said.

You followed Dean, footsteps heavy with anger. “What the hell is wrong with you, Dean?”

“Back off,” he told you.

“Dean, he didn’t do anything! He didn’t deserve that!” you protested.

Dean huffed. “Okay, so she's not here, maybe he's keeping her somewhere else.”

“Stop it! That's enough, okay? Enough!” Sam piled on.

“Sam, I know what I'm doing,” the older brother grumbled.

“No, you don't," you responded for Sam. "At all. Dean, I don't scare easy, but man, you're scaring the crap out of me.”

The man rolled his eyes. “Don't be overdramatic, (Y/N).”

“You're lucky this turned out to be a real case. Because if it wasn't you would have just found something else to kill. You’re on edge, you’re erratic, except for when you’re hunting, ‘cause that's when you’re downright scary,” Sam stated firmly. 

“You’re tailspinning. You refuse to talk to even me about it, and you barely let me help you; let alone Sam,” you jumped back in.

“I can take care of myself, thanks,” Dean chided.

“No, you can’t,” you challenged. “And you’re the only one who thinks you should have to. You can’t handle this alone; nobody can. I couldn’t!”

Dean went to cut you off, saying, “(Y/N), if you bring my dad into this, I swear—”

“Dean, no. You’re scaring me." Your voice was still firm but had an empathetic undertone. "You’re killing yourself. I mean, I had to set boundaries with you earlier because I don’t want you to use me as a distraction. Whether you are intentionally or not, that would be what you’re doing.”

“(Y/N)—” he tried.

“No! Stop it. Quit burying your head in other shit to distract you. I’ve lost everything. I’ve lost my family. I’ve lost friends. And as much as it kills me, I’m driving a wedge between us because I don’t want to lose you. Please, Dean. Don’t make me lose you.”

Dean paused before murmuring, “We better get out of here before the cops come.”

You frowned at him.

“I hear you. Okay? I know, I'm being an ass. And I'm sorry,” he said earnestly. “But right now, we've got a fuckin’ zombie running around, and we need to figure out how to kill it.”

Sam laughed. “Our lives are weird, man.”

Dean’s tone lightened slightly. “You're telling me? Come on.”

***

Later that evening, Dean paced around his motel room while you and Sam sat at the table looking through John’s journal.

“We can't just waste it with a head shot?” Dean questioned.

“Dude. You've been watching way too many Romero flicks,” Sam quipped.

The older Winchester quirked a brow. “You're telling me there's no lore on how to smoke 'em.”

“No, he’s saying there’s too much,” you chimed in. “Every fuckin’ zombie legend has a different way to kill it.”

“Some say setting them on fire, uh, one said, where is it?” Sam paused, looking for the right page. “Right here. Feeding their hearts to wild dogs. That's my personal favorite. I mean, who knows what's real and what's myth?”

“Is there anything they all have in common?” Dean asked.

“No. But a few said silver might work,” you replied.

“Silver's a start,” he nodded.

“Yeah. But now, how are we going to find Angela?” Sam added.

“We've got to figure out the person who brought her back.”

“Any ideas?” you questioned. 

Dean considered for a moment. “I think if it's not her dad, it might be that guy Neil.”

“I agree. He had a dead plant on the table behind him in the doorway,” you chimed in.

Dean looked at you. “And you didn’t think to mention that till now?”

“Well, sorry, I’ve had more important stuff on my mind,” you replied sarcastically.

“And get this,” Dean said, picking up Angela’s pink journal. “ ‘Neil's a real shoulder to cry on, he so understands what I'm going through with Matt.’ There's more in here where that came from. It's got unrequited Duckie love written all over it.”

You giggled. “You’ve seen Pretty in Pink?”

Dean looked at you, opening and then shutting his mouth, unsure of how to respond. He went back to Neil. “Did I mention he's Professor Mason's TA? Has access to all the same books.”

You looked at Sam, who seemed pensive.

***

Your next stop was the home of Neil. The house was dark and there were no cars in the driveway. Dean picked the lock on the door, and called up the stairs, “Hello? Neil? It's your grief counselors. We've come to hug.”

You burst out laughing at Dean’s remark, and he looked down at you, smirking. He pulled out his gun and cocked it.

“Silver bullets?” you asked.

“Yeah, enough to make her rattle like a change purse.”

You started walking through the house and led the brothers over to what seemed to lead down to the basement, noticing wilted plants all along the walls. 

Dean nodded at the door to the basement. “Unless it's where he keeps his porn…”

You gave him a look and pushed the door open. “Ladies first.”

He glared at you playfully, but went down the stairs first nonetheless.

“Sure looks like a zombie pen to me,” Dean said upon seeing the dank, dark room with a thin mattress on the floor in the corner.

“Yeah. An empty one. You think Angela's going after somebody?” Sam questioned.

You walked over to a loose grate on the wall and pulled it aside. “Nah, she’s probably goin’ after Dean looking for her diary.”

“Look, smartass, she might kill someone. We gotta find her, (Y/N),” Sam remarked.

“Yeah. Alright. She, uh, she clipped Matt because he was cheating, right?” Dean jumped in. “Well, it takes two to, y’know, have hardcore sex.”

You giggled, but felt your cheeks heat up and opted for looking at the floor. 

“I don't know, it just seemed that, uh, Angela's roommate was broken up over Matt's death. I mean, like, really broken up,” Dean continued.

You sucked in air through your teeth. “Yikes.”

***

When you entered Angela’s former home, you and the brothers heard two women struggling and screaming at each other. You jumped out from behind the wall leading to the kitchen and shot at Angela, landing them squarely in the middle of her back.

Angela’s corpse convulsed and turned to face you angrily. You shot at her again, and she stuttered before running out through the kitchen window. You immediately followed her, sprinting after her for quite a while before fatigue began to catch up to you.

Her white dress became smaller and smaller before you turned to run back to the house. You met Sam and Dean back at the house’s exterior. “Fuck, that dead bitch can run.”

Dean chuckled at you. “What now, Quicksilver?”

You deadpanned at him. “Let’s go talk to Neil. After I catch my fucking breath.” ***

The best possible solution you and the brothers could come up with for killing Angela was nailing her back into her coffin. However, that required you being able to get Angela back to the cemetery. Dean said he had a plan, but you were a little skeptical. 

Neil sat in his office in the dark, seeming nervous. “What are you guys doing here?”

“You know, I've heard of people doing some pretty desperate things to get laid, but you; you take the cake,” Dean scowled.

“Okay. Who are you guys?” Neil asked.

“You might want to ask Angela that question,” Dean replied.

You could tell he knew what Dean was talking about but was trying very hard not to let that on. “What?”

“We know what you did,” you said. “The ritual? Ringing any bells?”

Neil scoffed. “You're crazy.”

“Your girlfriend's past her expiration date, and we're crazy? When someone's gone, they should stay gone. You don't mess with that kind of stuff,” Dean responded.

“Angela killed Matt. She tried to kill Lindsey,” Sam added.

“I don't know what you're talking about.”

Dean stomped over to the other side of the desk and hauled Neil up by his collar. You mentally scolded yourself for finding that attractive. “Hey! No more crap, Neil. His blood is on your hands. Now. Me and him can make this right, but you've gotta tell us where she is. Tell us!” Dean demanded.

“My house,” he rushed out. “She’s at my house.”

As Dean let him go, you followed his line of sight to dead plants beside Neil on the windowsill. “You sure about that?”

Neil nodded and looked around nervously. You nodded your head toward the closet. Dean seemed to catch on to what you were saying and subtly gave you a look. He then raised his voice slightly. “Listen. It doesn't really matter where she is. There's only one way to stop her. We've got to perform another ritual over her grave, to reverse the one that you did. We're going to need some black root, some, some scar weed, some candles... It's very complicated, but it'll get the job done. She'll be dead again in a couple hours. I think you should come with us.” Dean stared him down. “I'm serious, Neil. Leave with us. Right now.”

Neil shook his head. “No, no!”

Dean leaned into Neil and quieted down again. “Listen to me. Get out of here as soon as you can. But most of all, be cool. No sudden movements. Don't make her mad.” He nodded to you and Sam. “Let’s go.”

***

You and the brothers set up candles around Angela’s open grave, and Sam asked, “You really think this is going to work?”

Dean huffed. “No, not really. But it was the only thing I could come up with.”

You heard a noise behind you and looked to Sam, who stood and pulled his gun toward the sound. He walked hesitantly toward the sound, and you followed his retreating form till you couldn’t see him anymore.

The next time something emerged from the trees, it was Angela’s pale body, which you shot at. She stumbled back all the way to her open grave, and the last shot sent her falling back into it. Dean ran toward the grave with the metal stake he was holding and slid the last few feet on his knees. He dove into the coffin, and you kept him from completely falling in by holding his jacket. 

“Wait, no!” Angela cried as Dean plunged the metal stake through her chest and pinned her into her coffin.

You pulled Dean back up, and he looked down into the grave. “What's dead should stay dead,” he said.

You looked at him sadly, knowing what he meant by that. “Dean—”

He shook his head. “Don’t.”

You sighed and set to work reburying Angela. The whole time you buried her, you were consumed by your own thoughts surrounding what you knew Dean meant when he stabbed Angela. Sam and Dean went back and forth as they usually did about the last battles of their hunts. The brothers then wiped the dirt off their hands and moved to the car. You stood up, too, and followed them. 

Dean sighed suddenly and paused. “Sam, wait in the car, will you?” he asked, throwing the keys to his brother.

Sam seemed confused but obliged anyway and walked away from you. Once Sam was out of eyesight, Dean turned back to you. 

“What’s goin’ on?” you asked.

He looked down at his shoes, unable to meet your gaze. “I'm sorry.”

You shook your head, surprised. “Uh, for what?”

“The way I've been acting,” he continued. “It’s just… it's my fault that he's gone.”

“What are you talking about?”

Dean’s head hung low as he spoke. “I know Sam’s been thinking it; so have I. And maybe you, too. Doesn't take a genius to figure it out. Back at the hospital, I made a full recovery. It was a miracle. And five minutes later, my dad's dead, and the Colt's gone.”

You stepped toward him. “Dean—”

He looked up at you, tears in his eyes that he was trying desperately to keep at bay. “You can't tell me there's not a connection there. I don't know how the demon was involved. I don't know how the whole thing went down, exactly. But Dad's dead because of me. And that much I do know.”

“We don’t know that. Not for sure,” you protested, although you were pretty sure. You just didn’t want to affirm that for Dean and send him even further into a tailspin.

“(Y/N)—” his voice broke as he began to cry. “You, Sam, Dad... you're the most important people in my life. And now— I never should've come back, (Y/N/N). It wasn't natural. And now look what's come of it. I was dead. And I should have stayed dead.” He sniffed and tried to gain his composure. “You wanted to know how I was feeling. Well, that's it.”

You nodded, unsure of what to say. You looked up at his glassy eyes, your heart breaking.

“So tell me, what could you possibly say to make that all right?”

You bit the inside of your cheek thoughtfully and did the only thing you could think to do at the time. You wrapped your arms around his torso and pulled his head down to your shoulder. He tensed at first but eventually relaxed into you. Quiet, choked breaths wracked him, and tears began to soak your shirt. You stroked the hair at the nape of his neck and stood with him for a long while.

Series Rewrite Taglist: @polireader @brightlilith @atcamillanorrman @jrizzelle @insomnia-bookworm @procrastination20 @mrs-liebgott @djs8891 @tiggytaylor @staple-your-mouth @jesstherebel @rach5ive @strawberrykiwisdogog @bruhidkjustwannaread @mxltifxnd0m @sunshine-on-marz @big-ol-boat @mgchaser @capncrankle @chervbs @simpingdeadcharacters @nesnejwritings @stillhere197 @tearsforhan @take-it-on-the-run @iloveyou2mia @maxinehufflepuffprincess @ohgeehowdigethere @seninjakitey @berarenado @s0urw00lf @princessleahorgana @quarterhorse19 @isla-finke-blog @silverdoragon @karacaroldanvers @gayandfairycore @examishbookwyrm @star-yawnznn @real-sharena-h @fandomloverrr @metalmonki @onlyangel-444 @yu-winchester @benniwiththefanni @daisychaingirl @immagods @missmieux @yoongi-holland @littledebbieinabigworld

[illdowhatiwantthanks]

Home Again

Does anyone even read Hunger Games fanfics anymore?? I don't know, and I don't really care! I recently reread the series to get out of a reading slump, and now I'm hyperfixating again so... you guys get this which will probably turn into a multipart series because I FEEL LIKE IT, OKAY? Tl;dr: I'll do what I want.

Johanna Mason x fem!reader Warnings: Massive HUGE warnings for violence, blood, murder, etc., but also an especially HUGE warning for sexual assault, trauma in general, explicit language (let me know if I've missed anything) Word count: 2.5k

Summary: You're freshly home from winning the 73rd Hunger Games, and all you really want is for things to go back to normal for you and your brother. But now you're in the Victor's Village. And now Johanna Mason, who won the year before you, is your neighbor.

It’s not that you didn’t like the house in the Victor’s Village. It was objectively better than the cabin you and Leevee had lived in before. But at the cabin, you’d had neighbors. People who knew you, who looked after you and Leevee after the fever took your parents, even though you insisted you work in exchange for every loaf of bread, every mended pair of pants.

You took care of him as best you could, after your parents died. You dropped out of school and went to work in the lumber yards. Leevee went to school, of course, but his teachers didn’t teach him much of anything. There was something different about him, a bit off. Always had been, since he was born. The people in Seven called him slow, and maybe he was in some ways, but he was also kind and bighearted and quick to laugh and full of joy–traits hard-pressed to come by in a place like this. So everyone took to him and everyone looked out for him. They had a name for his affliction in the Capitol. But you didn’t like them naming something wrong with Leevee, as if what made him different was all there was to him. So you paid it no mind. To you, he was just your Leevee. Perfect just like he was.

It was hard to believe it'd only been three weeks since the Reaping. When your name had been called, you kept your eyes lasered in on the branches of a pine tree in the distance. You could hear Leevee calling your name from the crowd, confused about why you were on stage, and your heart felt like it was being pulled apart. But you would not cry. You wouldn’t let these Capitol people see you cry. It was not for them to see.

Your neighbor, Otta, a widow, had brought Leevee to see you before you had to leave. Only then did you let yourself cry and, even then, he hadn’t understood. He’d taken his handkerchief out of his pocket and pressed it to your face, and you told him to listen to Otta and the neighbors. That you were going away and you might not be back for a while, but that you loved him very much. Listen to Otta, you said. Keep those listening ears on, young man. And then he was gone. Or, rather, you were.

Before the Games, you hadn’t fancied your chances at winning. Sure, you were strong and, at eighteen, one of the oldest tributes. But you were very small, barely five feet tall, lithe and wiry. You could handle a saw and an ax fairly well from your time in the lumber yard, but you couldn’t imagine sawing through someone. You couldn’t imagine killing someone at all. Even worse was the thought of Leevee watching you kill someone or watching you die. You hoped Otta would cover his eyes.

The arena was the only thing in your favor during the 73rd Hunger Games. A coastal ecosystem. Not rainforest, like parts of Seven, but tall, spindly pines that bent in the wind. It wasn’t exactly like home, but you were nothing if not comfortable around trees. Your saving grace in the Games turned out to be your size. The trees were impossible but all for the smallest of the tributes–you and the youngest–to climb. The first night you spent in one of those pines, you thought you might crash to your death from all the swaying, but once you acclimated, it was like the tree was rocking you. It would have been nice if not for the cannons in the air, if not for the constant terror.

You managed to find plants to eat, to catch fish in the small river that trickled into the artificial ocean. Your Games lasted six days, and you spent most of it in the trees.

That last night… You knew you’d have to kill him. The Career from One. But he was so big–a full foot and a half taller than you and stocky to boot–and vicious. You didn’t even have a real weapon, just some river rocks and a bit of your shirt you’d been using as a sling. But One–you didn’t even like to hear his name now, didn’t like to remember it–he’d found the superior weapon. You’d woken up to your tree shaking, to the tell-tale crackling and groaning of a trunk in distress. One had an ax, and the trees here were so spindly, it’d be a matter of minutes before it toppled, especially with your weight at the top. You tried to scramble down far enough that when the tree fell, you wouldn’t die from it, but you still had a long way to go when the trunk cracked.

It was the landing that did you in. You hit the ground so hard it knocked your breath out. Knocked your brain pretty good, too, based on how blurry everything was afterward. You couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe for a few seconds, and that few seconds was all One needed. He was on top of you, and the weight of him made it even harder to catch your breath. You were faintly aware of your body fighting back, but it was like fighting back against a mountain. You screamed when he stabbed long hunting knives into either of your forearms, all the way through, pinning you to the ground, and almost passed out from the pain. This was it. This was how you'd die. You’d like to say you thought of Leevee, but all you thought of was how scared you were.

But… he wasn’t killing you. He wasn’t getting another weapon. He was… undressing? And suddenly you remembered that there were things worse than death. You screamed and screamed until your throat gave out. You didn’t care who saw you cry now, couldn’t have stopped the tears if you’d wanted to. People didn’t do this in the Games. They murdered each other. They hurt each other. They tore one another to bits. But they didn’t do this. Surely, the Capitol wouldn’t let this happen, wouldn’t let this air on TV. There was a line, surely. But as soon as you thought it, the hope left your body deflated and empty except for the man–the boy, mere months older than you–grunting above you. There was no line. Not where the Capitol was involved.

But somewhere in your pain-addled brain, you realized that he was… occupied, which meant he wasn’t keeping a close enough eye on his weapons. You screamed as you wrenched one of your arms out of the ground and pulled the knife from your other wrist. There was a moment, right at the last second, where he looked up and understood what you were doing, but it was too late by then. The last thing you remembered from the arena was plunging the knife into his neck.

When they made you watch the replay of your “victory,” you’d hardly recognized yourself. Covered in blood, lips curled up in a snarl, as if you were an animal. You hadn’t stopped at his neck. You’d stabbed him over and over and over. You’d stabbed his genitals so many times there was nothing left but a mangled, bloody mess. And then you’d passed out.

And, to be frank, you could never bring yourself to feel any remorse over it. For the others you’d killed, the ones who’d happened by your perch over the river, and died quickly from a stone to the temple–you felt awful. It tore you apart. But One? For what he had done to you, he deserved every moment of his gruesome, painful death.

Now that you were back in Seven, back with Leevee, and moved into the Victor’s Village, you knew that it would never be the same. Not with the people that knew you before. Everyone looked at you like a wounded animal, like someone to be pitied. The assault had traumatized the entire nation. Even the Capitol viewers had so disliked the “assault narrative,” that the Games Committee had put forth a blanket statement that, in the future, sexual violence would be met with a swift and immediate death. One of your old neighbors told you that you should feel proud that you made a difference in the future games, protecting future tributes. You’d gone home and vomited, as you did every night after you woke up screaming, sweating, feeling the weight of One on top of you.

Your solace these days was Leevee. You were struggling to get used to the isolation of the Victor’s Village, even though your tendency now was to isolate yourself anyway. He was so happy to have you back. He didn’t really understand where you’d gone. Otta and the others had told him you were “camping,” and that’s where you were when he saw you on the screens.

You didn’t need to work in the lumber yard anymore, so you spent long days with Leevee. Now that you had time, you were teaching him things that the instructors at school didn’t bother with, like how to read. And you’d left school so early to take care of him that you had learning to do, too. There wasn’t much of a library to speak of, in Seven, but oddly enough your house at the Victor’s Village had come stocked with books, and you were making your way through all of them.

Your favorite part of the day was your afternoon walk with Leevee. Long and leisurely. You spent a lot of time at the fountain in the center of the Victor’s houses. You gave him stones to throw in and fished them out, barefoot in the water. You had the fountain and the Village pretty much to yourself. Just Blight, who kept to himself, and Johanna, who’d won two years ago. You had known Johanna a little, at school, but you'd never spoken much, just in passing. You’d dropped out so early, there hadn’t been much time for friends.

Johanna seemed to have built some kind of improvised woodshop outside of her house, and she was out there quite a bit, but you never approached her. She didn’t seem like the kind of person who took kindly to strangers, especially since her Games, two years before yours. She’d been belligerent and hostile in the Capitol and, in retaliation, they’d killed her family. Officially, of course, they’d died of the fever. Unofficially, Snow’s roses, left on each of their deathbeds for Johanna to find when she’d returned from a day in the forest, were warning enough.

But you noticed her watching you on your walks with Leevee, when you played with him at the fountain. Felt her eyes on you and tried to ignore them. They were like everyone else’s–full of pity. And you were so tired of being pitied. Yes, it had been awful. Yes, there were nights that you jerked awake and wished One had just killed you instead of leaving you like this. But then who would Leevee have? He needed you.

One day, when you and Leevee walked past Johanna's house on the way to the fountain, you found her sitting on her porch steps, staring as usual. Her eyes were hard and direct, and you found it hard to meet them. You were tired of this. So tired.

“Leevee, go ahead to the fountain, young man. I’ll be there in a minute.”

Leevee happily ran ahead, and you whipped your head around to face Johanna, pulling yourself into as imposing a figure as you could manage in your tiny frame. Which, given that you had stabbed a man to death, was maybe more than you could hope for otherwise. 

You glared at her, finally meeting her cool eyes. “Stop looking at me like that,” you spat, your voice steady and sharp.

Johanna looked almost… amused? She stood and walked toward you, smirking. “Like what, half-pint?”

You hadn’t really expected her to engage with you at all, and you were losing confidence quickly. Johanna was taller than you, more confident than you, cooler than you, tougher than you, prettier than you. You stopped yourself. Prettier? Who cares about prettier?!

“Like you feel sorry for me! Look at me like an animal or a fucking murderer, I don’t care. Just…” You deflated slightly, shifting your eyes to the ground. “Don’t look at me like that.”

Johanna was quiet for a moment, as if she was sizing you up. You wished you could tell what she was thinking. You wanted Johanna to like you or at least tolerate you but, then, did Johanna actually like anybody?

“Okay,” she said and shrugged. You couldn’t quite believe it. Would it really be that easy? “I’ll look at you like you are.”

“Like I am?”

“Mmhm.”

You waited for her to elaborate, but she never did, instead turning and walking back toward her porch. You shook your head and went to meet Leevee by the fountain. You hoped you hadn’t fucked it up. Was this Johanna’s version of friendly? You weren’t really sure. You got the feeling you’d know if she didn’t like you.

“Hey, Y/N!”

You stopped and looked behind you to find Johanna trotting up, holding something in her hands. She handed you the object–a small sailboat carved out of wood. You looked at the boat–so smooth, so beautifully crafted–and then at Johanna, confused.

“For your brother,” she explained. “To use in the fountain. It’s made of cedar, so it’ll float.”

You were stunned speechless, watching Johanna, who kept her eyes on some fixed point in the distance and wrung her hands as if she were… nervous? Johanna, nervous? And suddenly, she didn’t seem so intimidating to you, this girl who’d orchestrated a bloodbath to win the Games. Who’d been so filled with rage and hurt by the part she’d been forced to play, only to have everyone she loved taken from her. She wasn’t scary at all, you realized. Not really. She was like you. She was a scared, angry girl who’d done what she had to do to survive.

“Anyway,” she said, eager for the moment to end. “See you never, shortstuff.” She hurried back toward her house, but you yelled after her.

“Hey, Johanna! You could go on a walk with us sometime. You know, if you wanted.”

“Why would I want to hang out with you!?” she called without turning back.

You grinned. So Johanna might take a little work. That was okay. You had time. You had nothing but time now.

You approached Leevee, who was finding nearby sticks to throw in the fountain.

“Hey, young man,” you said, beckoning him over. “Look at this! Johanna made it for you!”

And, oh, you wished she could have seen his eyes light up. You had a hunch that she was still watching, from her window or her woodshop or wherever she’d planted herself. Leevee could melt anyone’s heart, even yours. Maybe even hers.

[wtfgaylittlezooid]

The autism has officially won. Anim vs Bug Fables, lets fucking go

Victim, the mercenaries, Chosen One, and Dark Lord are all going to be in here too as well as Alan. I just haven't gotten around to drawing them yet.

Infodump under the cut

Ive been thinking about this au a normal amount.

Alan will be a more aware Deadlander Omega.

Yes Purple is kind of a hivemind. He's basically the Royal Monarch boss, but if they didn't lure in bugs to kill them. He mostly just wants to protect the abandoned Ant Settlement and keep to himself. Also despite being awakened, he cannot speak Bugnish.

Green, Red, Blue, and Yellow are all a group from the North (aka front yard) and wanted to go to Bugaria for various reasons. Red wants to be an explorer, Yellow wants to study roach technology, Blue wants to make an offering to Venus in hopes of getting her blessing, and Green wants to be with his friends. They decide to go through the Giant's Lair because "haha most people go in there with only two bugs well be fine :)" and run into Second and Alan.

Victim I'm still not entirely sure what I want to be, but he will be a cordyceps zombie, Chosen will be a murder hornet, and Dark will be a red and black mason wasp.

[julianalvarez9]

CHANGE YOUR MIND / MASON MOUNT

SUMMARY: You never really liked Mason Mount, even before he came to your club. Turns out, he's a very persuasive man, who will do everything he can to change your mind.

PAIRING: mason mount x ten hag!reader

WORD COUNT: 1.3k

WARNINGS: mason is a lovesick fool, use of ten hag as a plot device i'm so sorry

AUTHOR'S NOTE: it's been agesssss since i've posted something, so here's this! (something's that's been sitting in my drafts and i didn't dare finish for almost a month!). would reallyyyy love some feedback!

Your eyes go wide at the sight of him, resting calmly over the cap of his car, hands hiding inside his pockets. Mason looks straight out of a movie; one where the protagonist is waiting for his lover outside of their home. You try to not think about that, or about the warm feeling in your chest, as you angrily make your way towards him.

Once you reach him, you're ready to voice your concerns about his presence in your parents' home. "What are you doing here?".

The urgency in your voice only made the Englishman grin harder, if that was even possible.

He shrugs, clearly not preoccupied about the matter. "Came to see a friend, offer her a ride to work". You roll your eyes, annoyed, because obviously, this is Mason. This is the same insufferable guy you've got to know for months now, ever since he signed for Manchester United.

By looking at the watch on your wrist, and knowing your dad's entire routine, you know you two are running out of time.  "C'mon, Mount, you need to leave!", you urge, and he tilts his head in confusion. "What? Why?," as if his entire life, at least, sport related, wasn't threatened by the man about to walk out the door.

"Did you hit yourself on the way here? Did you happen to forget who I live with?".

He shrugs, again, claiming "I don't mind". A second after, "he actually likes me. More than you do, at least". It's not the first snarky remark he throws your way, but it's still too early for you to pretend he hasn't got a special capacity for getting under your skin.

"I'd like to see if he continues to like you when he sees you talking to his daughter in his front yard".

You're right about that.

Yeah, Mason is your dad's new shiny toy, awarding him with being a constant feature in the starting eleven in every United game, but you doubt he'd be alright with whatever he's trying to do. After all, he never liked any of your past boyfriends, or friends who he -somehow- recognized as undeserving of his little girl, his only daughter. "I think he will," Mason says confidently, "I'm actually a great son-in-law, you know?".

You swear it is too early in the morning to have rolled your eyes the number of times you have in his presence, during the past three minutes. You ask, hopeful that the sly remark works to get him off your back. "Has being this cocky actually helped you, in some way?".

When his smile falters, you grin. It's probably the first time he doesn't have something, anything, to hit back, and you consider it a win for your side. "It did," he answers truthfully a beat after, and now his smile is bigger than ever. "Look, you're smiling at me".

You try, hard, to stop your cheeks from going red, but the way you can't really hold his stare any longer is a win for him. He basks in this feeling, knowing himself to be able to make you nervous must be a good sign, right?

At least, he hopes so.

"Okay, stop fucking around or you'll be late," you warn, coming close enough to him to push him off the hood of his car, and towards the driver's door. You try to ignore the way your fingers burn after touching him, deciding not to acknowledge the warning signs that something had changed in the past few weeks. You don’t despise him nearly as much, but you’re not keen on the idea of him knowing about it. Yet.

Mason opens the door of his car, and gets in. You nervously watch back, to the entrance door, after seeing what time it is. 9:13 AM. Your father will be out the door, any second now.

You hope that, the next time you look to the street, the car will be gone, and any trace of the Englishman vanished, like a dream. But instead, when you turn again, the tinted window of his car is down, and he's looking mischievously at you. "Already caring for me? that's new, Ten Hag".

"Go away, Mount".

Hearing the door open, just a few seconds after seeing Mason's car disappear from your street, makes your blood turn cold. The piercing question from your father doesn't make things better. "What are you doing over there?". There’s nothing you could possibly say that will convince your father, and saying the truth isn’t a possibility right now; so, instead, you defuse the question. "Nothing, nothing. Are you ready to leave now?".

The way to Trafford Training Centre is quiet. Your father isn't one to talk much normally, but the silence squishes you until you feel like you're holding your breath. He knows, you're sure, and you’re gonna make Mason pay for it. 

That’s it, if you reach the training ground alive.

"You know, I think Mason is a good kid".

The affirmation is nowhere what you had expected your father to say, so you can’t hide the furrowed brows and defensive tone that comes along with it. "We're in first name base already? Wow, that's new".

The car stops in the red light, and your dad takes the time to turn his head in your direction. He sees your fixed gaze ahead, brows still furrowed, and his head tilts in confusion. "And he's trying really hard to get in your good graces".

"That's not true".

A beat.

"I saw him this morning".

After that, you're left waiting; either, for the disapproving voice in his tone, the yelling, or the pointing out reasons why you shouldn’t be this close to a player, much less someone like him. But instead, he’s silent. And somehow, the silence is scarier.

The air feels thick, and it’s scarily similar to how it feels when a storm is brewing. Hot, too heavy, and like the entire sky is about to fall apart. And a few minutes after, with the car finally parked, and the training center standing tall just a few meters ahead, Erik begins to talk.

“I don’t have a problem with it. Whatever it is”. In other circumstances, you’d laugh at the way he signaled with his hand when saying it, almost like dismissing the entire ordeal, as if he still, so many years after introducing other boyfriends in the past few years -not one that’s worth mentioning, though-, refused to acknowledge that his little girl is not so little anymore.

“I know I always said it’s not a good idea. And I still don’t think it is,” he remarks, but holds a finger up before you can’t argue against what he’s saying, “but, as I said, he’s a good kid. And, most importantly, he’s aware that if he breaks your heart, he won’t play anymore, so-”.

The horror in your eyes must be evident, because he starts laughing before you can tell him off because of his antics. “Dad!”.

“So, you can go out with him. Just don't break his heart, yeah?” You can’t even respond because he gets off the car then, taking his things with him before closing the car door. Yes, you come in together, but since you insist on keeping family business out of the club, Erik begins making his way in alone.  “Could really use my star player having a great season".

In the distance, you can see Mason; he’s smiling widely, with a coffee cup in his hand, and standing just by the door. He opens it, to let your dad in, and you shake your head in feign disapproval.  “Right, Mount?,” Erik calls, alluding to his previous statement; the one he can’t possibly have heard, given how far he was when he said the words. Between the three of you, you’re not the only one that knows that it’s a test, so Mason answers accordingly.

“Yes, sir, of course”.

[leaentries]

Please can we talk about Nico when his gf is having a bad body day, just feeling a little sad/insecure. (me atm)🥺

I love how your blog is for chubby girls btw💗

my heart ❤️ he would be so sad and his big ole brown puppy dog eyes would get so big

here’s a lil blurb to kick off my return to writing 🕺

also i’m writing this on my phone so the format might be slightly different…sorry😋

your mind was cloudy, the world just seemed darker today. something about the way your outfits clung to your body just didn’t seem right.

your floor was littered in different items of clothing, having tried on what seemed to be everything hanging in your closet.

tonight was the first night in a long while that nico was able to plan something nice for the two of you. making reservations at a fancy restaurant, booking a hotel room for the night, the whole nine yards. you should be happy, ecstatic that you are finally getting your boyfriend all to yourself, but, in this moment, all you wanted to do was cry.

tears threatened to spill as you stared into the mirror. the fabric of the dress hugging your body in all the ways you hated, you felt suffocated.

you choked back a sob as you violently unzipped the dress and threw it somewhere amongst the rest. sitting on the edge of your bed, clad in nothing but a bra and some panties, you looked helplessly at the tsunami of clothes. you wanted nothing more than to feel beautiful in your own skin. to feel worthy of going out with nico.

the salty drops cascaded down your face faster than you could will them away. you were lost, not knowing what to do from here. a loud knock echoed through your apartment, drawing a small, “Fuck,” from your panicked lips.

nico was here and you weren’t even close to being ready. dread filled your chest knowing how excited he is and how his beaming smile is what’s gonna greet you the second you open the door. you quickly grab the nearest oversized sweater, throwing it over your head as you make your way to the entrance.

you take a deep breathe before gripping the metal handle and carefully opening the door.

your heart melted and broke all at the same time. nico stood tall, dressed in his all black suit, the one he knew you loved, holding a bouquet of your favorite flowers. you felt a new batch of tears quickly begin to build in your vulnerable state.

you didn’t want to ruin nico’s night with something a minuscule as being insecure. you wouldn’t hurt him like that. before your tears could fall, you plastered on a small smile, letting nico walk in the apartment.

his happy features dropped slightly upon seeing your sweater, “What’s wrong, schatzi? Why aren’t you dressed?” his tone filled with worry.

you shook your head, opting to give him a little fib, “I’m just having a hard time finding something that fits tonight, Neeks.”

He smiled cheekily, taking it upon himself to place the flowers in a mason jar, “Let me put these in water first, then I will come help.” You gave him a slight nod, before returning to your cluttered room. A deep sigh left your lips, realizing that Nico is gonna see the inside of your brain that now lays upon your bedroom floor.

“Oka- Whoa.” nico’s words died in his throat as he glanced around the space.

You buried your head in your hands, embarrassed at the mess. “I know, I know! I just couldn’t find anything to wear! and i felt like i needed to try on everything and nothing worked and-” Nico cut you off.

“It’s okay, baby. I’m not judging. I think you forget I have a sister, i’m not new to this.” He walks in, eyes scanning the pile carefully. He picked up a black dress, once that just-so-happened to match his suit. “Here!” he flashed his dimples at you, “This is perfect. Put this on, f’me, schatzi, you’ll look beautiful.”

You gently took the dress, clutching it to your body.

He placed a quick kiss to your temple before walking out, “I’ll wait outside the door, just shout if you need anything.”

You stripped yourself of the sweater, pulling on the black dress. Normally, you’d admire the way the intricate details of the fabric or the way it tied gracefully in the back, but you only found yourself criticizing as you stood in the floor length mirror once more. Your eyes dragged over each spot you hated.

The way you thought your legs didn’t look quite long or skinny enough, or the way your tummy wasn’t flat. Even the way your hip-dips stood out more prominently in your opinion, it all just seemed overwhelmingly visible. Too lost in thought, you missed the door opening and a certain swiss making his way into the room.

Nico’s eyes focused on the way yours filled with disgust at your body, the way you were picking at every inch. He wasn’t oblivious to your insecurities, although he would never understand why you felt that way. In his eyes, you were the most gorgeous and genuine woman he’d ever met. You were perfect and even better, you were his.

He took his place behind you placing his hands gently on your hips. You jumped slightly startled by his sudden appearance.

“This is more than just finding an outfit, schatzi.” His eyes meet yours through the mirror, “What’s really going on?”

His soft words broke the damn that you’d been trying so hard to keep from cracking. Your head dipped down as a sob left your throat. Nico immediately moved to stand in front of you, pulling you into his chest.

His hand came up to stroke your hair softly, as you cried into his shirt, “Shh, shh. It’s okay, baby.” Nico tried his best to console you, whispering comforting words into your ears.

“C’mon, take some deep breaths for me.” He pulled your head from his chest, hands moving to cradle your face. He began to breathe slowly, encouraging you to breathe with him. One you had regained some air, you looked up at him.

“M’ sorry, Neeks.” You sniffled, “I’ve just been having a bad day and I kept putting on different outfits, but I just felt…” You trailed off, trying to find the right word. His big doe eyes bore into yours, waiting patiently for you to continue. “I just feel ugly.”

Nico felt his heart physically throb. How could his beautiful girl see herself as ugly? Doesn’t she know that he wishes he could see her for the first time, just so he could fall in love with her all over again? Nico was at a loss for words. He genuinely couldn’t grasp how someone, let alone yourself, could ever think you were ugly.

“No.”

Your eyebrows furrowed at the simple word that left the man’s mouth.

“…No?” You were confused.

“Listen to me,” He turned your bodies back to your original position, “You see these legs? These are the most gorgeous, most soft, most warm legs that I could ever want. The way they work as a perfect pillow,” His lips brushed against the shell of your ear, “Or the way that they wrap around my head.”

Your breath began to pick up as he began to list off every part of your body and the reasons why he loved them. He picked apart your insecurities and replaced them with love and desire.

“But more of all, this girl.” His eyes rose to meet yours once more, “This girl is the most beautiful and precious person that I have ever had the privilege of knowing. This girl is my girl. My pretty girl.”

You felt a new flood of tears, this time because of the vast amounts of love radiating from Nico.

“Thank you, Neeks” You felt the need to thank him, thank him for dealing with you.

“Don’t thank me. I would give up anything just for the opportunity to tell you how pretty you are.”

His hands began to untie the back of the dress, only stopping when your hands came up to hold his in place.

“What about dinner?”

He smirked at you, “Screw dinner, let’s just go to the hotel room.” You turned in his grasp as the dress slowly fell to pool at your feet. Nico tugged at his bottom lip with his teeth at the slight of your exposed skin. “Because right now I want nothing more than to spend the night between my favorite pair of legs.”

[full-of-terrors]

Letter from Dr. Stanley to Dr. Fergusson written on board HMS Erebus July 12, 1845- Awe of the Arctic Exhibit 2024 NYPL

Transcript: My Dear Fergusson, having a few moments to spare before the letter bag is finally closed, I hasten to drop you a line to say that, although within the Arctic Circle , I'm not yet frozen to death and therefore in the land of the living and very jolly. We had a fairish passage out here but had a mighty gale of Cape Farewell, which sent us flying with closed topsails and courses to Cape Desolation, where in spite of the dismal name we found comfort. There's smooth water and a moderate breeze. These islands, and in fact, the whole of this western coast of Greenland, is the most barren and uninviting I ever beheld.

Some of the land is very high and serrated and has the appearance of being volcanic. On the bare rocks, large quantities of tripe-de-roche may be gathered, but as we were not reduced like our excellent captain on a former occasion to such a means of subsistence, no one I could find tried its qualities as a nutrient. We are completely surrounded with icebergs, some of them upwards of 200 feet high. They are, however, from the extreme heat disappearing fast and by their constant disruption, almost frightening your very life out of you.

I and a boat crew had a very narrow escape the other day out shooting. I had just fired and killed an eider duck when I observed that we had drifted closer to an immense iceberg, which I had previously noticed a day or two before in a decayed condition. I said to an officer who was with me "What luck it should come down by the sun!" And then ordered the men to pull quickly from our dangerous neighbor when it fell with a crash. Most stunning and awful to witness. There never was so lucky an escape. The discharge of my two barrels had no doubt hastened its overthrow. And although we were at a distance upwards of 100 yards, quite near enough we were knocked and tossed about by its displacement in the sea in a most uncomfortable manner.

The island swarms with mosquitoes and they are now flying about the gun room in all directions. They are the largest I ever beheld but not the most stinging. We sailed tonight for Lancaster Sound and the transport to dear old England with a report of our proceedings up to this period. At this season of the year, in this latitude, as you are aware there is no darkness. The sun never dips below the horizon. The nights I have there for devoted to shooting and the day to skinning and preserving the specimens I have killed. Since our arrival I have not slept more than 2 or 3 hours in 24. Goodsir is working harder than medusas and desires kindly to be remembered to you.

We are all sanguine and getting through the barrier into Beechey straits this year. Every one of the native Eskimos say this is the most open season they ever remember. And on the strength of our prospects I and the other officers have ordered letters to be directed to us at Panama and Kotzebue. The latter place will, of course, be the first port we shall make when we get through.

I have not a single man on the list and I have not had for several days. Sir John Franklin is not like the same person. He is so much improved in appearance and energy. He is almost always the first on deck and the last to leave it in all weathers. I must conclude now, old fellow, with best wishes and kind regards to Mrs. F and the bairns.

And believe me, your very sincere friend, Stephen S. Stanley. I had intended to have written to Fortnum and Masons. Pray tell them like a good soul that we are delighted with everything they furnished us and the members of the mess unanimously declare them to be trumps and we should be sorry to return before we have consumed all their good things.