#meadows writes

[ohmeadows]

this is a meandering post as i'm slowly trying to pin down my feelings on how healing is used as a sledgehammer in fandom yet never manages to say anything; but... demanding that others write and re-write to cater to your healing needs is exhausting. the idea that healing is always soft and tender flattens the process too, which in my experience is often ugly as hell and demanding beyond compare. it takes strength and it takes delving into ugly things and sometimes it's extremely unfulfilling when you realize there's nothing left that you can do except throw dirt on it and move on.

steamrolling all healing into some tenderness and softness is... it's not to say that isn't a good part of it, but i don't think it is everything there should be. there's so much to healing, such as what is keeping the healing from happening right now to this character? is it their environment, is it who they are with, is it their loneliness, is it repressed pasts? is it themselves? if you escape the immediate zone of danger, how does your body react? what bubbles up?

one form of media critique that i keep seeing is the... "it didn't heal me personally therefore bad therefore this must happen instead" and the person is just describing a fanfic idea! that they should be writing!

in the fandoms i'm active in, healing is this... amorphous blob people keep saying they want but they can't name it or conceptualize how it'd work for those characters. "i want them happy :(" great. what is happiness to them? what would be required to get there? is being with another person truly the solution? and so on, and so on.

and beyond that, there's the reader's own process of going through the story, of finding catharsis in whichever particular genre they feel drawn to: for me, that's tragedy and doomed narratives and crawling through the trenches while having everything you believe in ripped away and questioned to the pits. that, also, isn't for everyone. i don't think everyone finds the healing i write healing in their definition, and that's fine.

i'm overthinking this from a writing perspective, in the end, thinking about the mechanics and motions necessary to get such a journey instigated and moving, if it's even one the character has interest in going on or has to be dragged through.

anyway. cents thrown into a well. there's doubtless more to say on healing but not every conflict written about in a story will be healed. there's room to sit with what that means and what the story is trying to say with that, what rooms it allows you to enter into.

[marauders-bs]

It's that Potter-Black thing

"Hol-y shit," Marlene said, stifling a laugh. "You really are your father's son, aren't you?"

"Don't make fun of the kid, Mar," Sirius said, nudging her ghostly arm with his.

"But he's in love with a Slytherin boy, Sirius. Your nephew."

"Fleamont, James, Harry," Lily said, ticking the names off on her finger. "Alphard, Reg, this Draco boy. The Potters and their Black boys, I guess."

Harry looked around. The ghost of his parents and their friends had shown up not long after his fifteenth birthday and had never left. Now he was sixteen, and Sirius had joined them.

"Wait," Harry said, Lily's words sinking in. "You were in love with Regulus?"

James put his head in his hands as the others laughed. "Ask McGonagal about us at some point, Haz," Dorcas said, a slight smile on her face. "Madam Pompfrey, too. I'm sure you'll get some great stories.'

"Especially Remus," Mary said.

"That fourth-year transition when he got so hot?"

"Ew, Marlene, don't be straight."

Harry smiled a little as his parents' friends laughed and joked together. Sure, they were all dead, and he was a little over five years away from being older than some of them, but that was okay.

[dyl-z]

177 | 178

cw: implied mental health issues

[iamgonnagetyouback]

muggle christmas ⋆˚࿔

synopsis ⭑.ᐟ muggleborn!reader who introduces the slytherin skittles to muggle christmas

warnings: none

word count: 1,104 words

requested by: by @leeny-leens ➺ here ♡

author's note: thank you so much for the request, leeny! love ya <3

navigation┆skittles masterlist┆request here 𝜗𝜚

It all started on a chilly December morning in the Slytherin common room, where you, the lone Muggleborn among a brood of purebloods, found yourself stuck in a conversation about Christmas plans.

“Father’s hosting the annual gala, of course,” Regulus drawled, looking like he’d rather jump into the Black Lake than attend. “It’s a tedious affair. Wine, polite chatter, more wine, and some distant cousin inevitably gets hexed.”

“I’ll be in France,” Barty chimed in, lounging on the emerald-green sofa. “Mother insists we spend Christmas at the villa. Snow-covered vineyards are apparently very ‘in’ this year. Never mind that I despise snow.”

Evan, sprawled on the armchair like a cat, added, “We just exchange gifts and drink until someone passes out. Classic Rosier family bonding.”

Dorcas shrugged. “I’m just here for the food.”

“What about you, sweetheart?” Pandora asked, perched cross-legged on the carpet, her eyes sparkling with curiosity as she looked at you. “What do Muggleborns do for Christmas?”

The room went quiet. All eyes turned to you. You blinked, caught off guard by the question, but then your face lit up with an enthusiasm so un-Slytherin it almost made Regulus flinch.

“Oh, it’s amazing,” you gushed, leaning forward like you were about to unveil the secrets of the universe. “We watch Christmas movies, bake cookies, drink mulled wine—”

“Mulled what?” Barty interrupted, raising a brow.

“Wine, but it’s warm and spiced! Like… liquid Christmas,” you explained.

Barty squinted. “Sounds cursed.”

“It’s delicious!” you insisted. “And then there’s plum cake, gingerbread houses, carols…”

“What’s a gingerbread house?” Pandora asked, tilting her head.

You gasped audibly, clutching your chest. “You don’t know about gingerbread houses?!”

“Why would anyone live in a house made of bread?” Regulus muttered, looking genuinely baffled.

“You don’t live in it, you eat it! It’s a house-shaped cookie! Decorated with icing and candy!”

“So it’s a building you eat?” Evan asked, pen and parchment suddenly in hand. “How structurally sound is it? Is there a charm involved?”

You stared at him. “It’s not real architecture, Evan. It’s… it’s just fun!" you said, throwing your hands up. “Fun. You’ve heard of it, right? Or do purebloods have a ‘no joy’ clause in their family crests?”

Barty let out a bark of laughter. “I like Treasure’s energy today. Keep going.”

“Sounds inefficient,” Regulus sniffed, though he didn’t look away from your animated expression.

“Oh, for Merlin’s sake,” you groaned, throwing your hands in the air. “I can’t believe this. How can you lot be so deprived? Do you even know about Christmas movies?”

“I’ve seen A Christmas Carol,” Pandora offered helpfully.

“No, no, no,” you said, shaking your head furiously. “That’s just the tip of the iceberg. There’s Home Alone, Elf, Love Actually, Grinch…”

“What’s ‘Home Alone’?” Barty asked, sounding both skeptical and intrigued.

“It’s a masterpiece!” you exclaimed, your voice echoing slightly in the cavernous common room. “A kid gets left behind when his family goes on holiday, and he outsmarts burglars with booby traps! It’s iconic.”

Regulus’s brows furrowed. “Why didn’t the parents use a locator spell?”

“It’s Muggle,” you sighed. “No magic. Just wit and… household objects.”

“Sounds dangerous,” Dorcas commented, but her interest piqued when you added, “Also, he eats a ridiculous amount of pizza.”

Pandora clapped her hands together. “Darling, you must show us all of this!”

“Show you?” you repeated, an idea already forming in your mind. “Oh, I’ll do better than that. I’ll educate you. Prepare yourselves for the most Muggle Christmas experience of your lives. I’m taking you home for the holidays.”

“Oh, treasure, you’re inviting us home?” Barty grinned mischievously. “How sweet.”

You ignored him. “PowerPoint presentation. Slides. Visual aids. You’ll see.”

Your cozy, fairy-light-strewn living room was a far cry from the grandeur of the Slytherin common room. The gang had been skeptical about “Muggle festivities,” but after hours of your enthusiastic explanations, their interest had piqued.

You stood before them with a literal PowerPoint presentation projected onto the wall.

“Slide one: Christmas Movies,” you announced, pointer in hand. “This is The Grinch. He’s green, he hates Christmas and people, and he’s iconic.”

“Relatable,” Regulus muttered, sipping mulled wine with far more sophistication than necessary.

“Slide two: Food!” you exclaimed. “Behold: mince pies, Christmas pudding, turkey with all the trimmings—”

Dorcas leaned forward. “You made all of this?”

“Some,” you admitted, “but most of it’s from the bakery down the road.”

“I love your Muggle bakeries,” Evan said under his breath, scribbling in his notebook.

“Slide three: Ugly sweaters,” you said, holding one up triumphantly. It was garishly red with a Rudolph nose that lit up.

Barty snorted. “You actually wear that?”

“Not only wear it,” you said, grinning, “but we have competitions for who wears the ugliest one.”

“This is ridiculous,” Regulus muttered, but he was watching with unnerving focus.

“Last slide!” you announced. “Mistletoe! Hang it in a doorway, and if two people stand under it…”

“They duel?” Barty asked, eyes sparkling.

“No, Barty. They kiss.”

“Oh,” he said, smirking. “Much better.”

As you launched into an enthusiastic explanation of Christmas traditions, complete with visual aids and holiday snacks, the reactions were… mixed.

“Wait, so you hang socks over a fire?” Pandora asked, horrified. “Why?”

“Stockings!” you corrected. “And Santa fills them with gifts!”

“Who’s Santa?” Evan asked, taking meticulous notes.

“A magical man who delivers presents to every child in one night,” you explained.

“That’s absurd,” Regulus muttered. “He’d need to Apparate faster than…”

“Regulus, it’s not about logic!” you exclaimed. “It’s about magic… the non-wand kind.”

Dorcas, meanwhile, was utterly focused on the food slides. “Do you have these… sugar cookies? Right now?”

Pandora was already halfway through decorating a gingerbread man. “This is delightful,” she said, adding tiny buttons with a concentrated frown.

Regulus, trying to appear disinterested, kept glancing at the screen as you explained Christmas movie plots.

“And in Elf, the main character…”

“Wait,” Barty interrupted. “You’re telling me a grown man thinks he’s an elf?”

“Yes, and it’s hilarious!” you insisted.

Regulus’s lips twitched as if suppressing a smile. “Ridiculous,” he muttered, but didn’t look away.

By the end of the evening, the room was littered with crumbs, icing, and half-decorated cookies. Evan was still taking notes, Pandora was humming a carol, and even Barty admitted he’d try mulled wine if you made it again.

Regulus lingered by the fireplace as the others left, staring at the stockings hanging there. “It’s… quaint,” he said quietly.

You grinned. “Muggle Christmas wins, admit it.”

Regulus didn’t look away from the stockings. “It’s tolerable.”

But the faintest flush on his cheeks said more than words ever could.

© iamgonnagetyouback ⋆.˚ please do not copy, translate, or repost any of my work.

[addsalwayssick]

@rosekillermicrofic || prompt: domestic || word count: 665

Barty collapsed onto the floor from Evan’s bed, fake sobbing onto the ground. “What do you mean you won’t go to Hogsmeade with me?” He gasped in between over exaggerated sobs.

Evan gave him a look from where he was sat at the desk in the corner. “You know why,” he told Barty. “I’ve got a date with that one bird.”

Barty immediately sobered up. “So she’s more important than your best friend now?” Barty asked sarcastically.

Evan sighed. “Don’t be like that.”

“Be like what?” Barty grumbled.

Evan side eyed him, turning back to his homework. “I’ll go with you next weekend,” He murmured as he wrote on his paper.

“That’s what you said last weekend,” Barty reminded him, packing his things.

“Well it just came up, Bee. She wanted to go and I couldn’t refuse,” Evan said as he pondered the next question.

“Yeah sure, break your promises to your best friend so that you can make your little girlfriend happy. Whatever, Evan,” Barty said, throwing his backpack over his shoulder.

“Where are you going?” Evan asked, turning around to look at Barty.

“To go get your girlfriend to keep you company since you obviously don’t need me anymore.” Barty said in a false cheery tone.

“Don’t say things you know aren’t true.” Evan glowered.

Barty shrugged. “You’ve shown what I mean to you as soon as you get someone you love more than me,” He smiled casually, though it was fake.

“I don’t love her more than you,” Evan said before he can stop himself.

Barty scoffed. “Whatever. See you later.” Barty started to walk towards the door.

“Barty,” Evan tried, getting up.

Barty just shook his head and stepped out of the dorm room.

Evan sat on the place where he had been, where the warmth was still there. He looks to his side, where the hoodie that Barty left was still there. Evan pulled the hoodie over his head and smelled it.

“We’ve got to break up,” Evan said, cringing internally. “It’s not working anymore.”

“What do you mean?” His girlfriend asked, her voice breaking.

“Look, you’re just not-“

“Barty. Yeah I know. I should’ve fucking seen it.” She said, her eyes filling with tears.

“Please don’t tell anyone,” Evan asked, grimacing.

“Why shouldn’t I?” She asked, cocking her head to the side.

“I haven’t told him,” Evan said softly.

She just rolled her eyes and stormed away, leaving Evan in the halls.

The rumor spread fast, like the plague. Speaking of the plague, Barty was avoiding him like it.

Or at least he was until Barty came into his dorm with red eyes. “Is it true?” He choked out.

“Is what true?” Evan asked, already fearing what’s to come.

“You know what,” Barty hissed.

“I didn’t know you were like your father,” Evan spat, fight or flight kicking in. “Constantly assuming things,”

Barty’s face hardened. “So it was a joke. Knew you were as bad as the rest of them. Tease the fucking gay kid,” Barty choked on his own bile as tears spilled down his face. “I thought you accepted me?”

Evan’s face softened. “Bee what are you talking about?”

Barty’s face sported a confused expression. “You pretending to like me?”

“Why would that make you sad?” Evan asked.

Barty furrowed his eyebrows. “Because I like you? And you’re pretending,” Barty laughed humorously. “Man I thought you were smarter than that.”

“You like me?” Evan inquired, his eyebrows shooting up. “Fuck, Barty i’m not pretending.”

“What?”

“I’m not pretending.” Evan said, getting up.

“You’re not? You like me? You’re gay? What?” Barty breathed.

Evan took him by his tie and pulled him in, pressing his lips to Barty’s. Barty immediately put his hands under Evan’s shirt.

They heard the door open and a few scoffs. They heard Pandora whisper “Gotcha,” And Dorcas say, “Fuck,” With a few coins clattering.

But the thing that made them laugh the most was, “God, you guys need to be domesticated” from Regulus.

[literaryvein-reblogs]

Word List: Meadow

beautiful words with "meadow" for your next poem/story

Meadowbrook - a dark to grayish green that is bluer and slightly lighter than marine green

Meadowed - having meadows; consisting of meadowland

Meadowfoam - any of a genus (Limnanthes) of annual herbs of the Pacific coast of North America having white or yellow flowers and including some grown for their seeds which yield an oil used chiefly as an industrial lubricant and in cosmetics

Meadowing - meadowland

Meadowland - land that is or is used for meadow

Meadowlark - any of several American songbirds (genus Sturnella) that are streaked brown above and in northernmost forms have a yellow breast marked with a black crescent

Meadowless - lacking meadows or meadowland

Meadowsweet - any of several spireas i.e., any of a genus (Spiraea) of deciduous shrubs of the rose family with small usually white or pink flowers in dense racemes, corymbs, cymes, or panicles

Meadowwink - bobolink i.e., an American migratory songbird (Dolichonyx oryzivorus) with the breeding male chiefly black

If any of these words inspire your writing, do tag me or send me a link. I'd love to read your work!

More: Word Lists

[myers-meadow]

Chance meetings: Tommy Shelby x reader

Pairing: Tommy Shelby x reader.

Summary: As you attend a wedding of the family, you meet an interesting man. He keeps popping up in your life. Maybe there's something there, something between you? AKA You share a kiss in the stables. This is firmly set in season 1.

Part two here.

Warnings: none. Safe for work.

Word count: over 2k

This is my first time writing for Tommy and the Peaky Blinders! English is not my native language, I hope I did ok! Feedback, comments and reblogs are very welcome <3. Dividers by @saradika-graphics (thank u for all u do for fandom <3)

You may not have known who John Shelby was, but when you were invited for the wedding through your best friend, you didn't hesitate to go. A wedding was a wedding, after all, and you loved them. The getting pretty, the dress, the vows, the ceremony of the mingling blood, the food, the dancing... Oh, the dancing!

You were more jaded than your sisters by far, as you were the oldest, and still unwed in your twenties, but that didn't deter you from the topic of love. When you saw the looks the couple gave each other during the ceremony, and the tension in the air was tight-strung, it was easy to deduce this wasn't a marriage of love. But it could be, you told yourself. There is all the time in the world for love to blossom. Weddings were so beautiful, and you watched as the ceremony turned into the party. Helping the other women with serving drinks and food, the time flew by.

"I just love weddings," sighed one of the Shelby's to you, a young woman, as you handed her a drink.

"Me too," you responded, politely, not expecting further conversation. The way she looked at you made you halt.

"Are you married? I see no ring." Before you could answer, she downed the drink in one go, and continued. "I am. We got married in secret. He said I looked like an angel..."

"He's lucky to have you, in secret or not," you responded.

A worried frown crossed her face. "My brothers hate him. Or; they'd rather have him not be part of the family."

"Why is that?"

She shook her head, refilled her own glass and took a good drink. "And now they're marrying John off to solve some political dispute I'm sure. They never tell us women anything, do they?"

She needed to vent, you let her speak.

"I wore the most beautiful dress... Matching white lacquered shoes... It was-" She interrupted herself to finish her drink.

As she went for the bottle, you stopped her. "Love, not so quick. Maybe have a dance, first. If your love ain't here, there's a dozen handsome men willing to stand in, I'm sure."

Her eyes turned fierce as you held onto the bottle, not handing it over to her. "You can't refuse me. Do you know who I am? I'm a Shelby."

A man stepped closer, hands in his pockets. "I thought you were a Thorne, now."

That was how you met Thomas Shelby.

Just like Ada, her brother Thomas was used to getting what he wanted. A little later on in the evening, the sun had set, you topped off his glass. He stopped you from moving on to the next empty glass, with the flick of his fingers, gesturing to the empty seat next to him. The smoke from his cigarette curled upwards, to the bare night sky.

"Sit. Join me." His words were spoken softly, but with an authoritative edge that made you do as he said, more curious than anything.

"Mr. Shelby, right?" you asked, with an eyebrow raised.

He set his glass down on the table, took the bottle of whiskey from him, plucked an empty glass from the table, and poured it neatly half full. He handed it to you. The drink was cold against your palm. "A toast. To the newlyweds." He didn't even really smile, but you clinked your glass against his and took a sip.

"To the newlyweds, may their union be one blessed with joy and laughter."

Thomas brought the cigarette to his lips, and the two of you simply sat, staring at the other. It felt like he noticed a great deal about you, from the way you wore your hair, how you fidgeted with your lace cardigan, to how you suppressed your wince at the sharpness of the drink. He was breathtaking in the flickering light of the campfire nearby, it danced over his face, highlighting the sharpness of his features. Yet his lips were plump, and you tore your eyes away before you could get any ideas.

"Cigarette?" he asked, already finding the case in his jacket pocket. He lit your cigarette for you like a gentleman and the drag you took was perhaps the first time you breathed properly in his company. "You're not a Lee I know. Are you a friend of the family? Recently married into it?"

"A friend, as of yet unmarried," you say, eyes dancing over his handsome face. Laughter sounds as the music takes a more upbeat turn. "If I'm no longer doing the whiskey rounds, I'd like to dance. It's a wedding after all. Will you join me, Mr. Shelby?"

He laughed softly, rubbing his face with his free hand. "Well, why don't we, hm?" And he stood up to follow after you.

You hadn't expected to see Thomas again, not at all. It felt like a magical night, one of few in your life. One you had to make count, somehow. That's why you dared press a kiss to the corner of his mouth, before making off to your wagon at the edge of the Lees territory. Yet you did, as you followed your brother into an unsuspecting pub in Birmingham. It was by a street with factories, and workers did their work. It smelt of burnt coal and ashes.

The pub was a welcome change in temperature, as it was cold outside. Your brother, Edwin, was here on some business or the other, and you came with him purely to have a change of scenery. Or rather, that is what you'd tell anyone who asked. Rather, as the oldest, you felt you needed to keep an eye on him, to make sure he didn't get in any trouble he couldn't handle. He was rather prone to that after dad died, but it was no matter to consider, as the two of you entered the pub. It smelled of smoke, stale drink, and of wood varnish. It was after dinner, so the pub was gradually filling up with patrons, their chatter a comforting sound.

"Thank you for coming. In here," said the man you were meeting, Arthur, and he lead you to a room to the side, shutting the door behind you. Another younger man was already seated, a toothpick pressed between his lips. Another man stood to the side, leaning against the wall, and you startled as recognition hit you.

"Mr. Shelby," you greeted, nodding. "Pleasure to run into you again."

Edwin sent you a look, one that meant 'we will discuss this later', so you immediately straightened your attitude to betray no memory of that night. Thomas sent you a fond nod, and you quickly averted your eyes to avoid staring. Yet your heart leapt in your chest - what a chance to see the intruiging man from the wedding again!

"Have a seat," Arthur said, as he sat down himself. Edwin and you took a booth seat. You nodded politely to the younger one. A barmaid, blonde, came in and set down glasses in front of each of you, and left a bottle on the table. Arthur rubbed his hands. "Let's talk business, then. About those prize horses..."

Their talk and their deal went well, but you found your mind wandering off, your gaze drawn by Thomas' chiselled features. He looked harsher today, in this light, more serious. Perhaps he was softened by the wedding, by being off the clock, last time. Yet, the weight of his gaze bore down on you as the meeting went on.

When the hands were shaken, and the deal was made, his smooth voice shook you from your thoughts.

"Let me get you a drink," he mumbled, too low for your brother who was still talking with Arthur, to hear. He lead you to the bar, where a barman with a white tea towel over his shoulder was wiping glasses clean. The young women from before tended tables. "Whiskey?"

At this point, you'd agree to anything, so you nod. He ordered for you, and he clinked his glass against yours much like that first time.

"What are we toasting to?" you asked.

He looked around, leading you to a quieter corner of the pub with a hand on the small of your back, half a smile tugging at his lips. "Those beautiful racing horses you're selling to us."

"Family business," you grimace as the whiskey burns its way down your throat. Tommy nodded, deft fingers finding the cigarette case in his jacket pocket, he offered you one, before pressing one between his own lips. The flame from the match sizzles as he struck it, and you inhale sharply.

"So, this is Birmingham." you concluded, a bit of a tease. "The factories seem busy, is it like that every day?"

He nodded, regarding you with the patience of a large cat. "Every day. I like the noise, keeps the mind silent. And you, what do you do? Sell horses?"

"I take care of the horses. Edwin sells them." You fiddled with the cigarette, tapping off the ashes. "Sometimes he lets me come along to vet if the people will take good care of them. Just based on feeling, though. I'll only see the stables when we bring them over."

Tommy put the matchbox back in his pocket, leaning forward. "You wanna see the stables? Come on, I'll show you."

In hindsight, you weren't sure what made you follow him unquestioningly - out of the pub, with as little as a wave to Edwin. Your brother grabbed your arm.

"Where d'you think you're headed, girl?"

Tommy answered for you. "I'm showing 'er the horses, so she can rest easy knowing we take good care of 'em."

A short silence fell, the authoritative stare Tommy gave Edwin hung like tension in the air. It felt like he was challenging him, and Edwin didn't protest again when Tommy led you out of the pub.

It was a bit of a walk, and Tommy kept a steady pace. You two chatted idly, about the city, about growing up Roma, about how John and his new wife were doing. Then, you arrived just outside the city, where the stables were, right next to the train tracks.

"Do the trains not startle the horses?" you question, as you look around the place. It all seemed pretty good. The smell of hay and of horse hits your nose, a familiar and comforting smell. Stepping inside of the stables, a large black horse (a Frisian?) greeted the pair of you. "What a beauty," you say breathlessly.

"Trains're only in twice a day. Horses get used to it fast. They're smart beasts." He reached out to pet the nose of the animal. "This one is Monaghan Boy. Quite the race winner."

He seemed proud and something swelled in your chest. "He's so big."

"Wanna ride him?" 

You shook your head. "Not today," you laughed, and he smiled, eyes crinkling at the corners. “I’m not winning any races today,” you joke. As you reached out your hand to let the horse smell you, another man entered the barn.

"Tommy, what are you doin' out here?" He said gruffly, before he noticed you. His voice softened. "Oh, and a young lady, hello."

"Uncle Charlie," Tommy said, jovially, "This is y/n, her and her brother are selling us some horses. She wanted to make sure they'll be well taken care off. Y/n, this is the man who takes care of the horses for us."

Charlie smiled. His face was drawn by years of hard work in the open air, and perhaps by war, you thought as you shook his hand. "Nice to meet you, Charlie. I look forward to a good partnership from now on."

"Then I'll leave you two it," he said, with another look between the two of you. Monaghan Boy neighed in agreement. He left, leaving the two of you alone again.

"What are you thinking? Up to your standards?" Tommy asked, teasing undertone resting in his deep voice. He walks closer, until he's next to you, next to the big beast. His cologne smells delightful.

You nodded. "Better than I expected, especially for the city. I mean, look at this one," you say full of awe, as Monoghan Boy allows you to slide your hand over his mane. Thomas mimicked your movement, letting his hand rest on yours, intertwining your fingers. 

You turned to him, finding him caging you in against Monaghan Boy's flank.

"Perhaps there's something else you'd rather do than ride a horse, out here?" he whispered, just before his lips touch yours.

“I can think of a thing or two,” and you wrap your arms around his neck.

[gabriels-golden-kazoo]

There was no doubt about it that Evan Rosier was beautiful. Girls whispered as he passed in the halls, boys winked at him at parties, beckoning him to the dark corners of the common rooms where they could remain undiscovered.

Yes, there was no doubt that Evan was beautiful, but he didn’t feel pretty.

He wasn’t sure when the word had become significant, it was as if the word beautiful was superficial, as if he was superficial. He supposed the meaning had started to sound different when he listened to them come from Dorcas’ mouth. The way she described Marlene, as if words could only pale in comparison, Shakespeare himself would be threatened by the pure emotion that dripped from Dorcas’ words, so much so that the word pretty made Marlene sound like the greatest treasure ever to grace the earth.

Fucking lesbians.

Evan had never felt like a treasure, as an heir he was worth something, but that was a job, his birthright.

He had never once believed that there were soulmates, someone who could mirror even the darkest most broken parts of his soul, someone who would accept every flaw, every scar, every wall that his mind put up. But watching his friends with their partners?

Watching them made him believe that someone could truly love him unconditionally, like they needed him like air, as if the sun couldn’t rise without him. He believed there was a chance, but that didn’t mean he was deserving of it. He could hope, maybe even pray, but at the end of the day he couldn’t imagine even a soul as broken as his could have once come in a matching pair.

That was until, of course, he met Barty Crouch Jr.

And by Merlin and Morgana alike did that boy make his soul sing.

[petiteredthinker]

Feeling a little better today, better than yesterday.

[ohmeadows]

28 kafhime?

kafhime, kiss as a lie.

//

A warm breath nestles against Himeko's neck, stirring her from a deep sleep. She burrows deeper in the plush hotel pillow without opening her eyes, recognizing the perfume immediately.

"You've been sleeping in for hours," Kafka murmurs against her skin. "Dreams too good?"

"Something like that." Himeko sighs, letting Kafka's mouth stray down her back, brushing away her mussed hair as she goes. "Why are you here?"

"Couldn't let you have all the fun alone."

Himeko sighs, rolling over in bed to glare up at Kafka. The power of it wilts a little. It's so easy to cling on to the anger and frustration of her when she's light-years away, when the stops between their paths crossing rack up, when the edges of her face begins fading. It's harder when she is above Himeko, her eyes softer than she likes to remember.

Space between them has this impossible quality, expanding and contracting in the blink of an eye, fast enough to make her dizzy.

"I know you don't have to be here," she says, stroking Kafka's cheek. "So what is the reason, really?"

"Firefly sent out a distress signal. I felt... Compelled." She shrugs. "Arrived just in the nick of time, so really, did you want me to stay away? Come now, I know what you want even when you don't want to say it."

Himeko hooks a finger in Kafka's leather harness, testing the strap. "If you know me so well, why don't you tell me?" It's getting harder to meet Kafka's gaze.

Kafka smiles. "You know, Elio's given me a break while he's working on some script changes. Why don't we work out what it is you want while I travel with you for a stop or two?"

"Sounds perfect." Himeko tugs at the harness, pulling Kafka down on top of her. So perfect. Too perfect.

She wants to treasure the moment, at least a little. It's all false, she knows as much, has known in her gut since she woke up. Stealing a kiss in a dream, what harm can it do, even when it's nothing but a lie?

Their lips meet and it feels so real it makes Himeko ache, wrapping her arms around Kafka to pull her closer and hold her there until she's breathless. The dream must break. The illusion must die. And she has to leave.

"I can't stay," she whispers between kisses, feeling the distant rumble of a collapsing dream fast approaching. "I can't stay... I can't..."

She screws her eyes shut tight, savoring the taste of Kafka for the precious few moments she has left before waking up.

[naffeclipse]

What if Eclipse from AP was a naga? And this took place in the deep jungle of the amazon, where photographer y/n is trying to take pictures of the wildlife?

I'm vibrating at the speed of sound over this ask while also nudging my naga au

Naga Eclipse from AP would have the tail of a Green Anaconda, with an olive green scaly color dotted with black, framed by burning-like flares of orange along the length of his slithery body. He's also decorated with orange-yellow striping on either side of his long, slipper form. His upper half is scaley with a lithe deadliness to his musculature and decorated by frills surrounding his head with brighter orange-yellow colors, almost hypnotic in their gradient hues. One eye is deep emerald green, and one is midnight blue.

Lucky you—you're out on a once-in-a-lifetime expedition to explore a jungle closed off to the public, funded by Fazco, and occupied by two researchers who will be your bunkmates for the next few weeks. You're itching to take photos of the large river, including swamps, marshes and streams, and whatever wildlife is out there.

The few locals you did meet before you left to hike the rest of the way to what would be your new, isolated home warned you of a dangerous snake—a large, mythical beast. You take note of the local folklore. You understand the truth is hidden in there somewhere, and you are well aware of the dangers and diseases you could be met with in such a harsh environment, but you're determined.

It doesn't take long for you to feel eyes watching you when you first venture out by yourself. You take beautiful pictures of freshwater fish, big and beautiful, unlike any you have ever seen. Of course, you have hundreds of snapshots of the local flora, the trees, the floating meadows, the thick vines that drape each branch and hang thickly about the ground. You almost forget that you eerily don't feel alone.

But you swear something moves in the water—the ripples stop as soon as you look. The stillness is suddenly stiff, lifeless. Even the birds have stopped chirping.

You lower your camera and carefully put it away. A trickle of fear slips into your heart. You turn away from the river's edge only to be met by a low hiss and a creature, unlike anything you witnessed in your travels, spooling itself neatly out of the water, blocking your path to the base. An incredible creature with long arms and a great, serpentine tail that seems to stretch for yards and yards. You can hardly breathe in his presence—he's otherworldly with his frills and scales and fangs.

His eyes contain a mesmerizing shine as if staring into a fire as it burns or watching the ocean as it laps up against the beach, drawing your attention, demanding you don't look away. You couldn't anyway. Half-frozen, you struggle to keep from collapsing. He beckons with a sharp talon. He hisses softly for you to come closer, mouse. He wants to see you. You try to beg no without revealing how terribly you tremble. He doesn't let you go. He insists. His eyes flash with an allure. You almost step close when he murmurs that you need to be good.

But then your sense of survival kicks adrenaline into your heart, and you turn to run—

He strikes faster than your eyes can follow. Two loops of his green and orange tail surrounded you in an instant. You're dragged to the ground, your arms pinned under his mass, and the back of your head cradled by his large palm as powerful muscles squeeze you in the slightest—a gentle rebuke for thinking you could get away. You're hyper-aware of the terrifying bulk of muscles as you lie trapped in his coils. One strong twist and your eyes could pop out of your skull, and every bone protecting your heart and lungs would crumble to shards. You gasp. An urge to kick your legs and struggle erupts in your panic; a sinking feeling tells you it would only make things worse.

He coos over you, hissing and humming in an ancient song of the jungle you have no name for. When you whimper, he shushes you and strokes your cheek. He tells you how lovely you'll be. When you talk back to him, somehow finding your tongue amid your horror, you find out his name. Eclipse. He moves you more upright, resting you on his tail so you're not petrified by how vulnerable you feel lying down, but he never loosens his scaly bindings. He hovers over you. You gaze into his stunning frills of yellow-orange and wonder how a being like him came to exist. He studies you as you study him. He grins at how you shiver when he traces your collarbone with a sharp fingertip.

You remind yourself that you can still breathe. He hasn't crushed you—yet—but you don't like how wide his smile is. Sometimes, his jaw stretches a little too long as if dislocating from his skull, ready to devour you. His eyes gleam with a ravenousness as scales twist around you, holding you close enough to smell the slick green water he had been in and deep musk.

He tells you that he'll see you again very soon—away from other humans, lest you bring him a fine gift for a meal. You can only flex your fingers, silently pleading in your heart that he won't unhook his jaw and eat you alive.

Then, he unravels himself from your limbs. But before he lets you go entirely, he leans in close, his serpentine tongue flickering close to your neck and by your hair, tasting the air around you as you muster all your strength to not scream. He inhales deeply, pleased, before he murmurs, "Sweet mouse. You are mine. Say it."

You don't understand, but you echo his command, and when he taps your chin once in what might have been a loving gesture, you force your jelly legs to solidify before you run and run, all the way back to base. You slam the door to your room behind you. You touch your ribs, your arms, still caught in the heavy sensation of his loops as if he were upon you right now.

The stories are true—there is a giant snake in this jungle, and he wants you. You're afraid to discover if Eclipse's intrigue with you is only an exotic way to satisfy his hunger.

[dyl-z]

48 | 49

Rosekiller nation this one is for you

[starrysillhoutte]

i need someone to write fics that are marauders era GIRLS centric because they all have such interesting stories and personalities but not enough recognition to make them truly “interesting” characters

[hyperfocuscentre]

Lily Evans is..

strawberry themed picnics under the sun, a light breeze brushing through auburn curls.

autumn walks in the park, swaddled in scarves, hats and gloves. Picking conkers up from the grass and shoving them into already bulging pockets.

reading under dim lights, manicured fingers tracing the pages of books and knitted blankets piled over shoulders.

cuddles with cats, soft fur tickling the palms of your hands.

[marauders-bs]

tw: alcohol use, this is a tad bit suggestive, suicide mention BUT HE'S JOKING IT'S BECAUSE THEYRE DANCING

Sirius had quite a few regrets in his life.

Leaving Regulus behind in their parents' house for a month knowing that they'd take their anger out on Reg. Almost killing the bitch boy when he was fifteen. Dating Marlene.

But he was pretty sure that introducing James and Regulus was the worst idea he could ever have had.

Take now, for instance: they're dancing together out on the floor of whatever club Barty's bartending for now. James has his hands running over Sirius's little brother, Regulus's hands on James's back and shoulders and they haven't even kissed. Sirius is pretty sure he'd go into cardiac arrest if that happened.

"Black, you look like you're about to kill yourself," Evan says, appearing with two drinks and handing one to Sirius.

"I just might," Sirius says, accepting the drink.

"You know," Dorcas says, sidling up to the two of them, "i don't think I've ever seen those two kiss. I don't think they're dating."

Sirius blinks rapidly. "I don't think I have either."

"They're not dating," Evan says, somehow taking an angry sip of his whiskey. "Regulus has told me that many, many times."

"Well, damn," Sirius says, looking away from his best friend dancing with his brother to face the floor dramatically. "I don't know whether I want them to start dating or not, if this is how they are now."

"I don't think any of us know that," Evan says, chuckling a bit as he goes to drag his sister away from the ginger bartender.

[rhaesquill]

Anyone interested in marauders in the maze runner timeline/setting? Wherein Regulus is in charge of medics in the glade while James is the newfound greenie who has too much curiousty on his plate. And literally gets wounds and all kinds of horrible scratches on his legs even though he's been in the glade for no more than a week. And James absolutely falls in love the moment Regulus tells him

"You need to start taking care of yourself or I'll have to drag your ass everywhere to keep you from getting hurt" because well James really thought it was Regulus saying that he cares but in reality Regulus is just stopping James from using all their medication in the glade.

Because I may have started writing it out of the blue.......