#oakwood prompts

[oakwoodwritingprompts]

oakwood prompt #38

Your significant other has brought a bouquet of flowers to every date you'd been on.

It's a shame you never bothered learning Victorian Flower Language, or you'd have caught their warnings much sooner.

[nentuaby]

Risella screwed up her face in concentration and spoke the words of command; she felt the power flowing into her, imprinted her will upon it, visualized in her mind a mighty beast; and with a little *pop*, her Guardian sprung into existence.

A very, very little *pop*. She spent a moment gazing down in frustration at the spiky, toothy creature nestled between her ankles. "Right. You see? The spells I've managed to find in books and such work, sort of, but they never turn out how they're supposed to. Please, I need you to teach me how to do magic right."

"Hmm, yes, I see." The old wizard stroked her chin thoughtfully and gazed down at the tiny construct. "Well, yes, I'm willing."

Risella was already mustering her next argument-- "Please, I know you don't take apprentices since-- oh! You will?!"

"Mmm. Well, I'll need you to do me a service in return, of course."

Risella gulped. A wizard's price could be... Very steep indeed. But still... "Yes, of course! Ma'am, I'll do anything. I NEED this."

The old woman shook her head sternly. "Lesson one-- never, ever agree to a contract until you've heard all the terms. I'll give you that one for free."

"I'll give you the second one free too. I hope you understand I don't do THAT often. Lesson two--" She poked the miniature Guardian with her walking stick, prompting it to begin gnawing fiercely at the hard oakwood. "It is absolutely impossible to manifest a Guardian without a prepared summoning circle."

"So my price, girl... I'll teach you to do magic right, if you'll teach me to do it wrong!”

[f10werfae]

My Little Love

pairing: Boyfriend!Henry Cavill x Short!Reader

summary: they're at his parents house because she's meeting his family and one of his relatives says something about their size difference which triggers Henry's size kink (Major Dom, Loving Henry) (requested by @hallecarey1 )

Disclaimer: This story is fiction and should not be taken literally, the behaviour is simply imaginative and the content may be inappropriate

likes, comments and reblogs are appreciated♥️

Henry Masterlist, Full Masterlist, Taglist Form

︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵

“Bunny don’t worry, you look so pretty n’ gorgeous” Henry smiled smoothing back Y/n’s hair which was tamed back with a white headband. His bulging arms going around her smaller frame, pulling her flush against his chest, a squeal leaving her mouth as his fingers dipped underneath her skirt and pressed against her freshly groomed pussy.

“Stop being naughty Henry! I’m meeting the rest of your family for the first time and I don’t wanna keep them waiting” Y/n whined shoving his hands off as he laughed smugly, his hands falling to grope her ass roughly before walking over to reach for his car keys. “You ready to go love?” Henry said intertwining her smaller hand with his, watching as she applied another smooth layer of pink lip gloss skilfully, putting it into her small Hermes bag.

“What’s wrong bunny? Why you shakin’ a storm over there?” Henry frowned driving down the country road, his hand settled onto her exposed thigh, his thumb rubbing it soothingly. “Well it’s the first family gathering i’m going to, and all your aunts, uncles and cousins are gonna be there” She said smiling back up at him, her hand holding onto his tightly, playing with the multiple rings adorned on his fingers.

“Listen once we get there, I guarantee they’ll all love you like I do, well maybe not exactly like I do” Henry chuckled gripping her thigh rougher, prompting the smaller woman to laugh and press a wet kiss onto his beard covered cheek. The car falling silent once they pulled into the large house’s driveway, the front filled to the brim with an array of different vans and cars.

“Hold onto me, m’nervous” Y/n breathed out shakily, holding onto his bicep as she watched her boyfriend knock chirpily on the oakwood door.

“Henry my baby! awk Omg and my future daughter-in-law, I missed you!” Henry’s mother Marianne laughed pulling Y/n into her arms, kissing the younger woman on both cheeks, pulling her back to look at her. “You look stunning lovely, we need to do another spa day this month, bet you’re sick of looking at this face all day” Henry scoffed as his mother tugged on his chin, not even receiving a hug from his own ma.

“He’s alright I guess, I missed you too” Y/n smiled sweetly, enough to give anyone a toothache, her demeanour not faltering as she was brought straight into the living room filled to the brim with relatives. Henry’s hand on the small of her back, his fingers drumming softly.

“Awk Henry is this your wee darling! She’s such a small thing, bless her soul she’s so pretty” One of Henry’s aunts exclaimed, holding Y/n in her arms turning her side to side, everyone in the room smiling at the new arrival. “Henry you must have to be so careful with her, must break like glass with a touch of a finger” She winked at them both, causing something to spark inside Henry, the rest of the family laughing the seemingly innocent joke.

“Oh we’re far from careful aunt Luce, surprised she isn’t in pieces yet” He smirked coming up behind her, her head levelled with his chest, both his arms wrapping around her shoulders to clasp in front of her chest. “Hen! That’s so inappropriate, i’m sorry everyone” Y/n scolded, her face heating up at everyones laughs, a small gasp erupting as she felt something hitting her ass from behind.

“Ma i’m gonna go show Y/n around the house, been dying to show her my old room” Within minutes Henry had taken his woman up the stairs in the mansion, her having to jog a little to keep up with his long heavy strides. “W-wait Henry slow down” Y/n gasped as she was pushed into a random room at the end of the extended hallway, realising she was in a room surrounded by DC comics. Henry’s room.

“Sorry bunbun, can’t slow down, all their comments just got to me you know? Break like glass? Bloody laughable” Henry laughed tauntingly, his hands pushing Y/n over the edge of the bed, flipping up her skirt lewdly revealing her cotton white underwear. These were definitely new.

“Henry we can’t, they’re downstairs, what if they hear?” Y/n gasped feeling his middle finger rub up and down her slit, causing the fabric to cling to her wet pussy, a small damp stain starting to appear. “Woahoho look at this love, this is what I needed to see”

“W-what are you doing bear?” Y/n said looking back to see Henry shoving his face against her ass, feeling him take a deep inhale against her pussy. “All freshly shaved for me huh? You smell so fucking good, feel how hard you make me” Henry coaxed taking her hand, not even comparable in size to the bulge basically jumping out of his jeans. Y/n immediately felt her mouth water, remembering all the times her poor pussy had been impaled on his cock.

“I want it, need it now” Y/n said curtly scrambling to turn around and unbutton his jeans and unzip his pants. “Aren’t you eager little one?” He smiled cupping her face, pressing a soft endearing kiss onto her pouty lips, tapping her cheek softly to let her continue her plan. “Actually bunny, lay back for me, be my little starfish yeah? I’ll take care of you n’ quick” He cooed pushing her flat against his old king size bed, a small squeak leaving her as she slightly bounced on the mattress.

Pulling her dress over her head roughly, Henry smiled noticing her chest was left bare, there was a reason he bought a dress with a built in bra. “I love your tits baby, soso much, make me so fucking hard” Henry growled cupping a breast in each hand, his thumb rubbing over her slowly hardening nipples which pebbled in his hands.

“Now for this sweet pussy” Pulling her cotton panties off with one swipe, her bunched it up and shoved it under the pillow her head was on. “What if i’m too loud-“ Y/n felt Henry clamp his lips onto hers, her full lips being sucked in passionately as his tongue eagerly searched for hers. Spit dripping down her face from the corner of her mouth, a whine leaving her as she watched Henry wipe her face with her panties.

“What baby, don’t like the taste of your pussy? Tell you what I love it, love to eat it morning day and night, favourite fucking meal” He growled kissing her again, tasting remnants of her own pussy on her tongue, making him even more harder. His cock now springing out of his boxers due to being so engorged,

“Really? That’s how I feel about this cock of yours bear” Y/n whispered kissing his cheek, fisting his cock in her soft hands, her hands running up and down her nape. “i’m going to cum all over you, wan’ fuck you all night, my little love” Henry moaned humping his sensitive cock against her naked mound, her clit starting to poke out against him.

“yeah feel me fill that little pussy? God you’re my woman aren’t you” Henry nodded along with her as he slowly inched inside her, her voice whining as his thumb rubbed slow circles on her poor clit. His smile widening as he thrusted slowly and deeply, making sure to hit the deepest spots, one which he knew sent her into a frenzy.

“Henry feel so good, could keep you in me forever, you’re so big” Y/n whined, her tits bouncing rhythmically against Henry’s chest, his minty breath fanning her face as he whispered dirty filthy things ‘Gonna make you carry our baby yeah? Maybe they’ll be jus as small as you were? Been dreaming of the day i’d be able to make you a mother, mother of my babies, let everyone know you’re able to take my huge cock’

“F-fuck Henry I cant, ya know that gets me” Y/n whimpered softly, hiding her face in his neck. Henry always knew his words and slow, deep thrusts could get her cumming in minutes, and it doesn’t take him long to follow. “Wait! Mm’sensitive oh my gosh, mmmy oh my fuck” Y/n mumbled highly pitched, her hips slowly grinding against his actively thrusting hips, feeling him chase his own finish.

“Gonna fill you up bunny, right up here” Henry growled smoothing his hand up her stomach, feeling her soft skin under his fingertips, reminding him of just how lucky he was to find someone who loved him like she did. Man if only he knew how lucky she felt, finding a man like Henry to take care of her like no one else before, her big scary soft man.

“Yes yes yes wan’ it now” Y/n grunted cupping his face roughly, her tongue swiping over his lips, his tongue flicking against hers; his cum filling her to the brim. Both of them whining in satisfaction and overstimulation as they watched their mixed juices flow out onto his old superhero sheets. Fuck sake how were they going to get out of this now?

———

Taglist Tags (Form is up there^^): @luvabellee @cookielovesbook-akie @theekyliepage @cilliansangel @thoughtsofreid @kzhlvlysstuff @grxnde-dwt @p4st3lst4rs @thebaileybugle @teti-menchon0604 @uwiuwi @stormcloudss @thereisa8ella @kimhtoo17 @pandaxnienke @bookfrog242 @alina02 @alexxavicry @ggmimitf @ninasw0rld @acornacre @fdl305 @keiva1000 @spencerreidat4am @diyabhanushali1 @angelmather1 @hp-hogwartsexpress @lastwandastan @aerangi @i-beg-your-pardon-laufeyson @sparklemarysunshine @oliviah-25 @mischiefsemimanaged @nikkitc0703 @hallecarey1 @misshale21 @girl-of-multi-fandoms @mansaaay @princess-paramour @marvelgurl @mysticfalls01 @kebabgirl67 @athena-roy @tinyelfperson @madebylilly @dumb-fawkin-bitch @vrittivsanghavi @beck07990 @

[snugglywugglysocialist]

Inclement

Your bloodshot eyes dart between the stack of folders piled atop the oakwood desk, and the redhead occupying the space in front of it.

The older woman shuts the file previously splayed opened in her palm, and flings it to the opposite end of her desk, groaning in annoyance. The fine lines nestled in the corners of her eyes deepen as she narrows her gaze out the glass windows of her partition door. Casey inhales sharply, and you know she’s going to continue torturing herself over this case—just as you are—until she finds her smoking gun. You look to her, hoping she can sense your silent inquiry and begin an explanation without being prompted.

“Something is off with the M.E.” She scrapes, the tone of her voice that sickening meld of revulsion and apathy you’re so accustomed to hearing from her; you wince lightly thinking about the times you've heard it before.

“Is there?” You ask, with just enough regard to lend you plausible deniability if she hangs on the incredulous drawl of your words.

“I’ve seen thousands of lab reports, none of them have ever been this clean.” Casey says, angling her lithe body over yours to grab the folder she’d slung across the varnished surface of her desk just minutes ago.

She opens it quickly, fishing out the piece of paper in question with such ease that you’re convinced she has the whole file memorized; she holds the file open in her left hand while wordlessly imploring you to take the report from her right. She's leaning with her back against the desk now, watching your expression as you skim the document. The report takes up about half of the paper, and you’ve never seen one this short.

“Damn.” You whisper absentmindedly, your eyes still glued to the medical examiner’s poorly copied signature occupying the left hand corner of the page.

Casey purses her lips, and tips her head lightly forward with a pervaded smugness. Your gaze moves upwards to meet the redhead’s; her hazel eyes seem to blacken the longer the contact lasts. You’re the first to look away, studying the brass embellishments of her lamp with feigned curiosity as your teeth clamp down on the inside of your cheek. You hand the report back to Casey, pushing back on your heels and resting your hands on your hips.

“So, I guess we’re paying this one a visit?” You ask, almost rhetorically, as you know precisely what she’s going to say next.

“Yep.” Casey says, popping her tongue at the last syllable like she always does when she’s like this—scorned and determined.

The redhead’s agile hands move to deftly collect the scattered files and shove them into her briefcase. You allow your eyes to flutter shut for a few seconds in a brief moment of loss against the battle of exhaustion. This case has left ragged nerves in its wake, and you’re sure it’s evident in the wild-eyed looks worn by both you and the older woman. The sharp clang of her keys hitting one another forces you out of your infirmity just in time to return the knowing gaze Casey tosses your way.

Hours pass and you’re still on the road; traffic is slow and Casey’s speeding, but it’s futile to aptly close the distance between the courthouse and the medical examiners office situated in a different borough. Silence ensnared each of you long ago, only the sounds of distant cars able to penetrate the vacuum of the older woman’s car. As you fixate on Casey’s jumbled keychain, now swinging wildly from the ignition, you find yourself pondering about Casey’s thoughts more than the situation itself.

“What are you thinking?” You mumble, the timbre of your voice one of resonance; the one that always forces Casey to listen.

“Not much.” She responds faintly, and you know weariness is catching up to her.

You nod idly in response, going against your own wishes to press her until she relinquishes an honest answer. Looking away from Casey’s stoic expression, you glance at the GPS and silently praise the concept of time for tipping in your favor, and ending this miserably long car ride. Casey leans in to end the route before pulling into the crumbling parking lot of the medical examiner’s office. The redhead barely shifts into park before killing the ignition, and neither of you hesitate before jumping out of the car.

The wind sucks the air out of your lungs, and you grit your teeth in pure misery at the feeling. Casey is standing parallel to the front end of the car, looking upwards. You angle your chin down in a bootless attempt to escape the biting wind; you curse her under your breath for making you wait outside like this. Without even looking at her, you know she's gawking at the looming black rain clouds nestled in every corner of the sky. Staring at the pavement, you wonder if Casey notices your oddities as you do hers.

Casey turns suddenly on her heels, her gaze now fixed on you as it was on the storm. You face the building once you realize she’s done playing weatherman, and bolt forward in desperation. Casey walks indolently behind you, simply refusing to be bludgeoned by the squall. You finally reach the low-hanging awning of the office, and position yourself in the furthest corner of the entry porch.

You’re sighing into the side of the brick wall, and Casey laughs at your heaving state. Normally, the condescension imbued in the corner of her upturned lips would’ve infuriated you, but you shoot her a genuine half-smile as you open the door for her. Casey nods to you as she heads back, signaling for you to stay behind. You watch as she greets the woman occupying the front desk; soon after, she’s leading the redhead down a short hallway opposite the left wall.

You pace around the front foyer as you try to discern the muffled voices coming from what you believe to be the autopsy room. Your eyes rake slowly over peeling yellow paint, and the various papers pinned to a decaying cork board hung above a row of upholstered chairs. You realize that Casey’s voice is considerably deeper than that of the doctor, and you chuckle thinking about how she’s probably taller than him as well.

Not even ten minutes later, the familiar sound of Casey’s heels against the floor pulls you from your stint as an interior design critic, and you look up just as she rounds the corner. She waves a piece of paper to you tacitly, and from the way her teeth clamp into her bottom lip, you know she’s holding the real report. You wait for her to get closer before heading down the drab hallway and out the door.

You peel your eyes away from Casey’s intoxicatingly hubristic expression, and finally notice what you’d walked into. Casey stops herself from stepping out from beneath the awning, and raises her eyebrows as she looks forward. Despite your years spent in the northeast, you’ve never seen rain like this. You can see but a few feet in front of you; the rest is a complete white out.

“Fuck.” Casey says, and it’s just barely audible above the abrasive rain.

“We can’t drive home in this shit.” You say indignantly, and Casey nods in response, squinting in attempt to see through the pummeling sheets of water.

You walk back a few steps to lean against the brick wall of the office, letting your head hit against it. Casey keeps her back to you, and you exploit the opportunity to let your eyes lazily rake over her figure. Suddenly, she turns to you, looking as if she’d found some sort of absolute truth to the universe. She moves to angle her body against the building as well, and cocks her head to the left.

“I saw a hotel as we were driving in—about a block down that way. I say we go there until this passes.” Casey says, speaking rather loudly on account of the rain.

You nod in agreement regarding the older woman’s plan, still focusing on the movement of her hands as she lets them fall to her sides; she could’ve told you the sky was red, and you would’ve nodded dumbly in concurrence just the same. You watch absentmindedly as Casey shoves the report into the inside pocket of her jacket, and buttons it. Without saying anything, she’s grabbing your forearm and dragging you towards the car in a sprint.

Within seconds you’re both planted stiffly in the seats of Casey’s car, saturated from the assaulting downpour. The redhead mumbles expletives under her breath as she pulls the keys from her pocket. You let your head sink into the cold leather of your seat, trying to ignore the sudden urge to rid yourself of the drenched suit now clinging to your skin. Casey makes it to the hotel quickly in spite of the weather, and you’re relieved to see that the entrance is roofed.

She unclips her seatbelt after parking and twists to reach something in the back seat, her white button-down slipping from beneath the waistband of her slacks and revealing the line of her hip bone. You close your eyes and shake your head lightly as if doing so would suppress your thoughts about the older woman in the seat next to you. Thankfully, the valet now standing in front of the car derails your previous train of thought. Casey exits the car seconds before you, swinging open the back passenger door, and fetching a small duffel bag you’ve never seen before.

“Do you seriously have an emergency bag of clothes?” You ask, closing the car door for her.

“You don’t?” She remarks, smiling arrogantly at her own prudence.

“I knew you were insane, but this breeches a new territory of control freak.” You say, genuinely laughing at the prospect.

“You should follow my pre-planning skills; I’m not going to be the one stuck in wet clothes for hours.” She says, quelling her expression of conceit before approaching the front desk.

You signal Casey to hand you her bag as she begins speaking to the front desk clerk. She complies without thought, still speaking amiably to the man situated behind the concave desk. You stand to the side of the redhead, staring at the grain patterns in the wood veneer and static occupies the expanse of your thinking. Lethargy diseases your entire being, and you try to remember the last full-night’s worth of sleep you’ve had; just as you determine it’s been about a week since, Casey’s pushing a keycard into your hand and pulling her bag off of your shoulder.

“We shouldn’t be here more than a few hours.” She rasps quietly after taking a few steps down the corridor.

You nod indifferently, fidgeting with the plastic card in your right hand. Casey stops in front of a door abruptly, and you’re thankful that the room she scored is on the first floor. You scan the card, and fling open the white door with such vigor that it bounces off the opposing wall. Casey glares at you for the noise before slinging her bag onto a low table in the middle of the room. She looks around for a moment, and raises her brows in approval of the room. You throw yourself onto the bed petulantly, and groan out for no discernible reason.

“Didn’t know I hired a ten year old.” Casey says, looking at you with amusement.

“My mental age goes down two years with each day I don’t sleep, we’re sitting at twelve right now.” You mutter, sliding your hands down your face in attempt to stay awake.

Casey chuckles before sitting on the bed next to you and making your breath hitch. She exhales sharply before ripping off her suit jacket, and throwing it on the same table with her bag. You can see that the sun is beginning to set behind the rows of concrete buildings outside the window, and you wonder how long this storm is going to last. Neither of you speak now; the wind throws the window pane against its frame with an offensive knocking, and it’s all you can focus on. Eventually, Casey stands to grab her bag, and the idea of dry clothes is much too appealing for you to ignore.

“Do you have something I can borrow in there?” You ask quietly, and you know she’s going to give you hell.

“I do, but it would be much more enjoyable to torture you by refusing.” She responds, her voice so bereft of humor that if you didn’t know her, you’d think she was serious.

“My mental age goes down three years every hour I have this shit on.” You say, gesturing to your coldly dampened suit; Casey laughs and launches a ball of clothing directly at your head.

“And here I thought your softball career ended in high school.” You manage to say between laughs, and Casey clutches her chest in fake offense at your jab.

You try to ignore the spinning of your head as you stand and head into the bathroom. As you unfurl the folded hoodie and shorts, you stare in surprise at the college logo printed on each of them. You peel the suit from your body in haste and begin to shiver. Casey’s clothes hang off of you limply, and you force down the feeling in your gut at wearing the other woman’s sweatshirt. You drop your head downwards when you realize how the clothes smell like her despite probably being in her car for months.

You walk back into the room to see the redhead lying on the bed just as you were, her eyes hooded and jaded. You place your suit over the back of a chair positioned in the corner of the room, and approach the bed once more. Sitting down, you look at her knowingly and purse your lips in understanding. She turns her head away from your gaze and stands to grab the clothes she’d laid out for herself. You check your watch as she goes to change, and the likelihood of being forced to stay overnight in this hotel is burgeoning rapidly. Casey returns wearing a similar outfit to yours—a tattered hoodie and shorts.

“You never told me you went to Harvard.” You note dully, and Casey grins as she throws her pantsuit onto the same chair as yours.

“I guess not. I went for law school.” She responds lowly, and you fail to suppress a giggle.

“Is that funny to you?” She asks playfully, joining you on the bed.

“I’m just trying to envision you in college.” You say, and Casey scoffs at your statement.

“Why do I get the feeling we’re going to be here all night.” Casey breathes, staring blankly out the window.

“Looks like you’re sleeping on the floor, Novak.” You mutter, and her scraping laugh follows.

“It’s a queen sized bed. I’m sure we’re both capable of staying on our own side.” The redhead responds, and you exhale sharply.

The thought of being made to sleep in the same bed as the older woman—as enticing its appeal—has your head pounding. Casey shifts closer to you unknowingly, trying to get a better view out the window, and you shift to glance at her. The expanse of Casey’s neck is exposed as she cranes to the side, and you know you should look away, but you can’t. The water-blurred moonlight shines through the window and reveals the intent expression worn by the redhead; you hold your breath as you fixate on her unabashedly now.

She eventually looks back to you with a slight frown as she heeds your staring, pulling you from your trance. You move to get up to avoid having to cover for your gawking, but she grabs your wrist, keeping you planted to the bed. You snap your head back to her in shock, and she catches her tongue between her teeth for a moments before straightening her posture. Casey increases her constriction exponentially before speaking as if it were mirroring the veracity of her following words.

“What was that?” She asks rigidly, and it’s barely enough to shake you from your panicked state.

“What the fuck are you talking about?” You respond, your tone dripping with sudden animosity at the pain.

“Why the hell were you looking at me like that?” Casey grills crossly, tightening the grip on your wrist even harder, and pulling you toward her.

“Go to bed, Casey.” You say to dismiss her question, but she doesn’t relent.

You attempt to get up once more, but she keeps her hold on your wrist firm. You’re not sure if it’s the weariness or the way Casey’s glaring at you, but you choose to sit there silently; your bluff seems to work, and the older woman drops your arm irascibly. She turns away from you and runs her hands through her hair quickly, seemingly trying to process what just happened. She stands and walks a few steps forward, attaching her hands to her hips and keeping her gaze fixed at the wall.

You join her, approaching her towering figure from behind, and grazing your hand across her spine; she shutters at the feeling and leans back. Your resolve dwindled hours before now, and the consequences of your thoughts cease as a threat when Casey faces you. Her eyes are harrowing and the tattered crewneck she’s wearing hangs off of her too rightly. Your hands find her face, the tips of your fingers brushing along the contour of her cheekbones and jaw; the plaintive expression she wore just moments ago withers with each fleeting touch.

Casey’s eyes flutter close as your thumb moves gently over her full lips, and she sways into your ministrations. The older woman mumbles something under her breath when your hands move down to her waist, but you can’t quite make it out for the pounding of your heart in your ears. Within seconds, she’s on your lips with urgency, angling her hand across your chin in a silent plea to not pull away. Her tongue grazes across your teeth as she moves her hands to slide beneath your sweatshirt, and you feel as if you’re going to collapse. You’re panting when you pull away, and her look of forlornness returns until you’re pushing her towards the bed.

Casey sits on the edge, and you give her—or yourself—no time to think before perching yourself on the redhead’s lap, and attaching your lips to hers once more. She slides her hands over your chest falteringly, and her hesitation doesn’t go without notice by you. You drag your lips downward until you reach the side of her neck, and you can feel the vibration of her moans when they crack through her chest. The pressure between your thighs builds with each sound slipping past Casey’s lips, and you find it increasingly more difficult to think. As your teeth sink into the flesh bridging the gap between her neck and shoulder, her hand glides beneath your shorts.

Your head drops into the crook of her neck as she toys with you, and you begin to rock your hips into her touch. The redhead whines when she slips past the barrier of your underwear, moving along the length of you languidly. She makes several passes through your folds, lingering near your clit before she enters you slowly. Your cries of impatience bounce off the white walls of the room, and Casey croons in your ear sincerely as she pumps in and out of you. You’re on the precipice within moments at the torturously skilled digits sliding into you, and your legs tremble uncontrollably. You grip the back of Casey’s hair as she plants soft kisses across the skin of your face and neck, contrasting the vigorous pace her hand now moves with.

Your hips stutter and jerk as every part of your body snaps taught; Casey fights to keep you in position as she guides you through your orgasm, bringing her other arm around your waist and forcing you into her. Her movements slow and your body goes slack against hers, your lungs burning. You groan as she slides out of you, and she pushes her fingers past your teeth to fuck your throat with them; when she removes them, she occupies your mouth with her own, smiling slightly at the taste of you on your own lips. You break from her and force her down suddenly, the carnality with which you want her—begging and writhing beneath you—overwhelming your self-control.

Casey gasps when you tear her sweatshirt from her body, throwing it behind you to the ground before repeating the same actions with her shorts. Her pale skin flushes a deep shade of pink at the abruptness of your actions, and she shuts her thighs in humiliation. You shoot her a glare before prying her legs apart, and keeping them open with your knee. She moans when you begin to meticulously suck marks into the skin of her chest, taking your time to ensure each of them will bruise. Her back begins to arch upwards, grinding your hips together and eliciting the friction she so desperately craves. The redhead continues this action until you apply your full weight to her body, halting her actions.

“Please.” She begs against you, her trembling hands moving to grasp your waist in fervor.

“I don’t know, my wrist still hurts; you can cum on your own, can’t you?” You say wryly, and her face drops at your recommendation.

“I want you.” Casey pleads, and the uncharacteristic shame on her face amuses you immensely.

“Get yourself off and I’ll consider.” You chide, kissing her cheek softly just to piss her off even more.

You rid her of your presence, moving to sit on the edge of the bed to get a better view of her heaving body. Casey exhales petulantly as your hand swats the outside of her leg, imploring her to oblige your wishes. She peels her panties from her legs, tossing them to the floor to join her other clothes. The older woman brings her hand up to glide across her slit, and you moan at the visual alone. Your hand braces her knees apart to embarrass her as much as possible, and she begins moving in and out of herself. Your name tumbles from her lips in a bid to entice you into replacing her hand with your own. She continues fucking herself and repeating an oscillating mantra of your name and lewd expletives until she’s just about to finish.

You smack her hand away when it becomes too much for you to only watch, and you quickly begin to move through her slowly. She grabs fistfuls of the sheets when you increase your speed, keeping her right on the edge before pulling away, and attaching your mouth to her clit. Casey’s nearly screaming now, burying her spry hands in your hair and holding your head to her core. Your tongue moves across her deliberately, trying to weaken every muscle in her body with your actions. She cums hard, grasping at your neck and hair in a frenzy as you maintain your pace. Casey is cursing now, releasing words you’d never even heard her utter until this moment.

After tormenting the older woman to a point you deem sufficient, you force your mouth away from her cunt and crawl up her body. Casey is still gasping for air when you envelop her lips softly, her legs still spasming from the scourge you’d ended just seconds ago. You kiss her gently until her breathing slows, and she relaxes fully into the mattress in pure exhaustion. You chuckle at her pathetic state, and note the absence of the distress that was present in her face earlier in the day. The redhead winces as she props herself up on her arms, and raises up slowly. You bend to retrieve the clothes you’d torn off her body from the carpet.

“We’re fucked if anyone finds out about this.” She breathes, moving to take the hoodie out of your outstretched hand.

“This can’t happen again.” You respond, despite you both knowing it will.

[feyhunter78]

What about 6 or 20 (author’s choice) and young Elrond? Thank you ❤️

I went ahead and did #20, and I think it came out pretty well!!! (Also, this def has some Bridgerton inspo, and you'll see it in the dialogue) Thank you for your patience! <3 I was supposed to get lasik yesterday then last minutes the Dr came out and was like "actually nvm we have to do a different procedure, we need to reschedule." So it's been a weird day or so for me XD

The Object of All His Desires

This is prompt #20 from the list, which mean you can no longer request #20 for Elrond!

Elrond prided himself on his silver tongue. How he could spin an ordinary tale into an epic for the ages, or how he could turn a simple idea into a speech fit for a king. But when it came to you, he often found himself tripping over his words. His tongue suddenly swelling and becoming too heavy to move properly when faced with your radiance.

A perfect example would be now, as you stand before him tears in your eyes, clad only in a nightdress and robe as you stand outside his door, chest heaving, lips trembling asking him why was he ignoring you? Why was he acting so cold and callous towards you?

“Elrond please, you must tell me now. If I have done something to upset you, or I have offended you, torment me no longer and bid me to leave your sight never to cross your path again.” Your voice shook, eyes brimming with tears as you clutched at your robe for stability.

“No, you have not offended me, I bear no ill will towards you y/n, I promise you.” He said hurriedly, ushering you inside his chambers.

“But if I have not, then why have you been avoiding me? I have searched my mind and cannot find a reason.” You continued, voice filled with sorrow, as you wrapped your robe further around yourself, not meeting his eyes.

Elrond’s mind was a mess. He had been avoiding you because he could no longer contain his affections. Every moment he spent in your presence, he had to fight back the urge to blurt out his feelings in the most undignified way. But to see you so distraught, so uncertain, tore at his heart and his resolve.

“I have been battling within myself for some time, and I wished to spare you of my turmoil.” He said gently, hand twitching with the urge to reach out and comfort you. But he could not, if he did, he would find himself unable to let you go.

“We are friends, you can always come to me with your difficulties, you know this.” You said, lifting your gaze to his.

Elrond hung his head as he saw your tears, glistening like diamonds as they fell. “Of course, I do, but this particular matter is one I must solve myself.”

You took a step forward and took one of his hands in yours. “No matter is too dark or difficult that the light of friendship cannot help resolve it.”

Your voice was so gentle, so earnest, that his fingers curled around your hand, and he fell to his knees, head still hung low. “Y/N, I do not deserve this kindness, if you knew the depths of my desire, the dreams I have had you would scorn me.”

Your voice grew in strength before softening once more as you caressed his jaw. “Never, I would never scorn you. Elrond, you have a piece of my heart that no one else shall ever have, and that is not easily dissuade.”

Elrond looked up at you, oakwood eyes filled with a mix of admiration and anxiety. “I’ve never wanted anyone or anything the way I want you. It’s terrifying. And so, so beautiful.” He said, voice reverent and trembling, he pressed your hand to his lips, the warmth lingering.

“I do not know what to say.” You said breathlessly, heart pounding in your chest.

“You need not say anything, I could no longer remain quiet, my affections for you have grown too large in my heart. Y/N I merely needed you to know how much I love you.”

You sunk to your knees and cupped Elrond’s face. “I do not know what to say except that I have loved you for as long as I can remember, and I will never cease to love you.” You pressed your lips to his, pouring every ounce of affection and feeling you had into the kiss, hoping he would understand the longing you’ve carried for so long.

When you broke apart, foreheads resting against each other, he took your hands and kissed them both. “I love you, I love you, I love you.” He whispered, and you whispered it right back before connecting your lips once more.

Tag list: @nyctophilic0vitnir, @elronds-pointy-ears, @elrondscalaquendi, @dilf-superiority

[teine-mallaichte]

Day 30 @ailesswhumptober - Prompt: delirious.

After his hired mercenary collapses Markus takes him to Oakswood. continued from Whumptober day 29 - Burnout

CW: illness, fever, delirium, implied slavery, references to past trauma, themes of servitude, pain, distress.

AIless whumptober list

Echoes of a forgotten war

Eldrin master list

It had been a quiet day in Oakwood, the bitter cold keeping most of the townsfolk huddled inside the warm inns and taverns. The last thing Arfam had expected was for Markus to stagger into the guild, a delirious and barely conscious mercenary slung over his shoulder. It was not unusual for sick or injured sellswords and adventurers to turn up at the guild, nor was it out of character for Markus to bring them in. The merchant had an irritating habit of hiring escorts too green for the multi-day journeys between towns.

But it had quickly become apparent that this was not your average injury.

Arfam shook his head, quickly shifting his focus back to the task at hand, applying cool cloths to the mercenary’s fevered skin as the elf muttered and twisted seemingly entirely unaware of his surroundings. “We need to keep 'im calm,” he said, his voice steady despite the growing concern in his gut.

“Calm?” Markus echoed incredulously, his eyes wide. “He’s delirious, Arfam!”

The dwarf sighed; Markus wasn’t wrong, but there was little they could do. Neither of them were healers, and neither had much expertise in elven physiology. Arfam’s mind drifted back, memories rising like mist from a distant past. He remembered the free elves from his youth— their laughter ringing like music, their eyes bright and full of life. Now, it felt like a lifetime ago. In truth, he hadn’t seen an elf in at least thirty years—probably before this poor lad had even been born.

Since arriving in the human cities, places where no free eld would dare tread, the only elves Arfam had encountered were conscripts—broken shadows of the beings he once admired. They wore the same pointed ears and delicate features of the free elves his hometown had traded with, but their air of desperation and fear made his heart ache. The sight of them had haunted him. He’d learned quickly to avoid them. It was easier that way, but it never sat right with him.

The elf’s breaths were shallow, his skin glistening with sweat as he mumbled incoherently. “Master… I… I can do better,” he murmured, a web of frost beginning to spread from his hands over the stone floor beneath him.

Arfam exchanged a worried glance with Markus, "what you say his name was?"

“Eldrin,” Markus replied, his voice tense, "picked him up in Westport for days ago… I… I thought he was human."

Arfam nodded. “Eldrin,” he called softly, hoping to pull the mercenary back from the edge of his fevered mind. “Can you hear me?”

Eldrin’s eyes flickered open, but the once-vibrant blue-grey was now clouded by a dull silver, he gasped, each breath shaky. “Master… please…” The words slurred, tumbling from his lips. “Need to…”

Markus knelt beside them, his hands wringing nervously. “What's happening to him?"

“Affinity burnout… It’s like a sickness,” Arfam explained as he rewet the cloth, pressing it to the elf’s brow. “Causes fever, delirium… Elf affinities aren’t just magic—they’re like… a part of them. Reacts to emotions." He shot Markus a dry half-smirk that didn’t reach his eyes. “Bet they don’t teach you human-folk this stuff, do they?”

“So… he’s suffering because he pushed too hard?" the merchanat asked slowly, trying to make sense of the situation, "That’s…”

“Common for conscripts.” Arfam’s words cut in sharply, his voice low but steady. “Conditioned to push past their limits. But you—” he gave Markus a look that was almost pitying, “you went and picked up a fugitive without knowing it, didn’t you?”

"I… I thought he was just a sellsword…" Markus stammered, "A bit jumpy ye, but untill he practically summoned a blizzard he seemed… Normal."

Arfam's brow furrowed as he focused on the elf, wiping the sweat from Eldrin's brow while carefully avoiding the ice that threatened to creep up his arms. "'Normal'" The dwarf echoed glancing back at the merchant, his voice low but firm. "You need to understand what you’re dealing with 'ere. This elf… he’s not just a mercenary. He’s been trained as a weapon. Whoever his 'owner' is, they'll be looking for 'im. The nobels don't take kindly to their 'property' escaping."

Markus swallowed hard, the implications of Arfam’s words sinking in like a stone in his gut. “What do we do?”

Arfam’s eyes narrowed as he considered their options. “First, we get 'im stable. Once he’s coherent, we can figure out the rest,” he replied, his tone authoritative.

“Eldrin,” Arfam called again, leaning closer. “Can you hear me?”

"Eldrin’s eyes fluttered, his focus drifting from Arfam to the empty air, as if he were straining to see someone only he could sense. 'Master… I… I won’t fail,' he muttered, the words torn from him in a hoarse, broken whisper.

Arfam pressed a cool cloth against Eldrin’s feverish brow, meeting the dull, haunted glint in the elf’s eyes. “Focus on me, lad. Not 'im. You’re safe here.”

A beat passed, the tension thickening as Eldrin's body tensed momentarily. Finally, Eldrin’s gaze caught on Arfam’s face for a fleeting moment. "Too warm…" he murmured, his voice softer, as the frost crept up his arm once more.

The dwarf sighed as he re-dampened the cloth on Elrins forehead, "I know kid. We're got ya'."

[coastermaynia]

Coasters on Previous Years' Lists

List of coasters on the prompt lists from 2020-2023, alphabetical by park name!

Adventureland

Dragon (2021)

Monster (2022)

Outlaw (2023)

Alton Towers

Galactica (2022)

Oblivion (2021)

Smiler (2020)

Wicker Man (2023)

Blackpool Pleasure Beach

Icon (2021)

Busch Gardens Tampa

Cobra’s Curse (2022)

Iron Gwazi (2021)

Kumba (2020)

Montu (2023)

Busch Gardens Williamsburg

Alpengeist (2022)

Pantheon (2021)

Verbolten (2023)

California’s Great America

Gold Striker (2020)

RailBlazer (2023)

Canada’s Wonderland

Bat (2023)

Behemoth (2022)

Leviathan (2020)

Yukon Striker (2021)

Carowinds

Copperhead Strike (2020)

Fury 325 (2021)

Nighthawk (2022)

Cedar Point

Corkscrew (2022)

GateKeeper (2023)

Millennium Force (2020)

Steel Vengeance (2021)

Chessington World of Adventures

Dragon’s Fury (2022)

China Dinosaurs Park

Dinoconda (2021)

Dollywood

Lightning Rod (2020)

Thunderhead (2022)

Dorney Park

Steel Force (2023)

Drayton Manor

Shockwave (2022)

Efteling

Baron 1898 (2021)

Vliegende Hollander (2023)

Joris en de Draak (2022)

Energylandia

Zadra (2020)

Europa Park

blue fire (2023)

Silver Star (2022)

Wodan (2020)

Farup Sommerland

Fonix (2022)

Ferrari Land

Red Force (2021)

Fuji-Q Highland

Do-Dodonpa (2020)

Eejenika (2022)

Fujiyama (2021)

Takabisha (2023)

Fun Spot Atlanta

ArieForce One (2023)

Hansa Park

Flucht von Hovgorod (2023)

Karnan (2020)

Heide Park

Colossos (2022)

Krake (2023)

Hersheypark

Candymonium (2020)

Skyrush (2021)

Wildcat’s Revenge (2023)

Holiday Park

Expedition GeForce (2021)

Holiday World

Voyage (2020)

Indiana Beach

Steel Hawg (2021)

Islands of Adventure

Velocicoaster (2022)

Kennywood

Phantom’s Revenge (2020)

Steel Curtain (2021)

Kentucky Kingdom

T3 (2020)

Kings Dominion

Intinidator 305 (2020)

Twisted Timbers (2022)

Volcano (2023)

Kings Island

Beast (2020)

Mystic Timbers (2021)

Orion (2023)

Racer (2022)

Knott’s Berry Farm

GhostRider (2022)

HangTime (2020)

Silver Bullet (2023)

Xcelerator (2021)

Knoebels

Impulse (2022)

Phoenix (2020)

Kolmarden

Wildfire (2020)

Liseberg

Helix (2020)

Marineland

Dragon Mountain (2022)

Motiongate

Dragon Gliders (2023)

Nagashima Spa Land

Hakugei (2021)

Steel Dragon 2000 (2020)

Nanchang Sunac Land

Coaster Through the Clouds (2022)

Oakwood

Speed (2021)

Parc Asterix

Toutatis (2023)

Phantasialand

F.L.Y. (2023)

Taron (2020)

Winja’s (2022)

Plopsaland De Panne

Ride to Happiness (2023)

PortAdventura Park

Dragon Khan (2022)

Shambhala (2021)

Sea World Australia

Leviathan (2023)

Sea World Orlando

Ice Breaker (2020)

Mako (2021)

Sea World San Antonio

Texas Stingray (2021)

Silver Dollar City

Time Traveler (2020)

Silverwood

Aftershock (2023)

Six Flags Fiesta Texas

Dr. Diabolical’s Cliffhanger (2023)

Six Flags Great Adventure

El Toro (2022)

Jersey Devil (2021)

Kingda Ka (2020)

Nitro (2023)

Six Flags Great America

Maxx Force (2021)

Six Flags Magic Mountain

Full Throttle (2023)

Goliath (2020)

Twisted Colossus (2022)

X2 (2021)

Six Flags Mexico

Medusa (2021)

Six Flags New England

Wicked Cyclone (2022)

Six Flags Over Georgia

Blue Hawk (2022)

Thorpe Park

Colossus (2020)

Nemesis Inferno (2022)

Stealth (2021)

Swarm (2023)

Tobu Zoo Park

Kawasemi (2022)

Tokyo Dome City

Thunder Dolphin (2020)

Universal Studios Florida

Rip Ride Rockit (2021)

Universal Studios Japan

Flying Dinosaur (2023)

Walibi Belgium

Kondaa (2021)

Walibi Holland

Untamed (2020)

[embracetheremarkable]

mostly a drawing practice for trees

worldbuilding rambling for the under cut lol:

Usually, trees and rocks are affected by the strange magic of the world. This causes patterns in the bark of trees or surface of rocks, some varying in different patterns depending on the region, temperature, or whatever other factors there are

Generally, trees that grow in warmer or temperate climates have the swirling patterns drawn in the picture above

As for the blood drift birchwood, these are trees only seen in the Blood Drifts, an extremely dangerous location in barefield of the flat drifts district. This kind of lumber is very expensive, partially because of the rich red color the wood is. The labor required is taken into consideration, as these trees are in a location with such frigid temperatures that would make even the most heavily dressed people die within minutes. On top of that, the trees produce a red sap that releases chemicals. These chemicals will make the person feel as though theyre killing a living person, prompting most to drop the axe and leave the tree alone

The "eyes" of the tree are also made to intimidate people into leaving it alone

and then heres the bald version of the oakwood lmao

[scorchieart]

Home Sweet Homesick | AO3

Characters: Clavis Lelouch, Chevalier Michel

Genre: Angst, Comfort.

Summary: Two brothers. One month. The final autumn before Bloodstained Rose Day.

Word Count: 5.8k (grab a mug of your preferred warm beverage, friends)

A/N: It has come to my attention that I have never written a fic with these two interacting. Yes, I am shocked, too. This is a franken-fall-fic for the following challenges, many warm hugs to the awesome writers who set them up!

Prompts:

Getting warm in their sweater - Cozytober hosted by @randonauticrap

"Your hands are cold." - Pumpkins & Fireplaces 2022 hosted by @chaosangel767

Treats - Fall Fluff & Autumn Angst CCC hosted by @aquagirl1978 & @violettduchess

Warnings: Mentions of death, grief, mild descriptions of injuries and pain (no blood), mild Clavis route spoilers.

“Recent activity west constitutes a growing concern, however full-blown mobilization of troops would be premature at this juncture—”

“Yaaaawn!”

“—No significant changes to report. Although such an extended pause may suggest possibility of attack—”

“Sn-ore!”

“—Our swiftest horse and rider are prepared to head out on-call with detailed instructions, should any perturbing developments arise—”

“Some perturbing development better arise in the next five seconds before I die of boredom!”

Tent flaps crack as a sharp gust bursts in unannounced, causing the stacks of paper and envelopes piled on top of our makeshift oakwood desk to flutter longingly underneath the stones I arrested them with. Three of the four candles illuminating my side blow out instantly, but the last one manages to hold on to its wicker as the mini tempest fades out as quickly as it started. It flickers feebly before bouncing back to its previous height, as though the wind was but a slight inconvenience.

I want nothing more than to grab that candlestick and plunge it straight into the desk.

But I don’t do that. I straighten my back, brush the windswept hair out of my face, and assess the damage. Luckily I had the foresight to restopper the ink bottle, because it was rolling halfway across the table by the time I spotted it. I manage to snatch it and my quill before they tumble over the edge and lay them atop the slightly wrinkled letter I was penning. Oh well, wrinkled doesn’t mean illegible, and I would know that better than anyone. Besides, the thing will get folded and stuffed into an envelope anyway. What’s one more crease in its cap? 

I lightly tap the last word I wrote and lift my finger. No stains. Amazing how some good came from that nimble nimbus, considering all the damage its friends did to our tent. A large dollop of water trickles through a rip in the top and drops onto my hair, a casual reminder of the rainstorm that bucketed our camp this afternoon. I shake my head and peek through the still-swaying tent flaps to the citadel stationed at the bottom of the hill. 

Golden fireplaces and candelabras illuminate the dozens of windows scattered across the fortress walls. Up here they look like tiny fireflies waiting to be captured.

I would like to go down there and catch them.

But I am technically still on duty. Yes, being a scribe is a duty of mine, and one I take rather seriously, despite what some nosy naysaying ministers may claim. Despite the fact that I prefer to be buried beneath a stack of dry blankets than wet letters, next to one of those shimmering fireflies. Despite the fact that our shabby little tent is one gust away from flying off to oblivion.

I mean Obsidian.

Either? Both? Beyond?

I do not like our shabby little tent.

But it doesn’t matter what I like because Chevalier likes it. Or rather, he likes its location. High above the tallest hill, the perfect vantage point overlooking both Rhodolite and Obsidian’s movements. Close enough to the citadel to relay any new perturbing developments as soon as they occur. Far enough from the border to dispel any accusations of militaristic intent.

Were this hilltop not the size of my closet, I bet Chevalier would move here permanently.

I wish Chevalier would move here permanently.

“Though it would be ardent to begin preparations at present, for the tides may turn mere moments after this letter leaves our base—”

“Now hold on, I haven’t caught up yet!” I say, quickly picking up my quill again. Did he say “preparations for presents”? I didn’t realize we were throwing a party. Yves’s birthday was a few weeks ago, but he’s back at the castle. 

This makes no sense. And “tummies may turn”? Jin would sooner swear off women than Chevalier utter the word tummy in any context. Though mine has been spinning in circles since we started nearly two hours ago. It is long past midnight now, and I’d really like to lie down. But if Chevalier isn’t tired, neither am I.

I’ll just write down my best guess.

Like the candle, Chevalier only paused for a moment then instantly resumed his blathering as soon as the wind ceased. It doesn’t surprise me, honestly. I’ve seen my brother cut his dinner with a steak knife, stab an assassin with said knife, and chew his brisket all in the same breath. 

And people say I’m the batty one.

Keeping my head hanging low over the paper, I steal a peek at Chevalier at the other end of the tent. He twirls a red stone figurine of a soldier in his left hand as he studies the large map laid out on the table, his back towards me. Not even his hair looks disturbed by the wind, and for some reason that angers me more than his refusal to slow down enough for me to catch up.

“Stop that,” he snaps, plunking the red soldier on the map with a sharp thwack.

“Stop what? Writing for your lazy behind?” I say.

“That nettlesome tapping. It is disrupting my thoughts.” 

I unconsciously halt tapping the quill. Now do you understand what a blessing it is that I am still sane, dear reader?

“Well, you’re disrupting my process with your ugly mug,” I say, resuming the tapping, louder this time. I wish I could see his face right now. His eye is probably twitching like it does when I interrupt his reading, and that always makes it worth the mental trudge it takes to see him.

I will not be rewarded for my efforts tonight, it seems. 

“You’re welcome to pick up where I left off if my way bothers you so much,” I say.

Chevalier hums and reaches for another figurine from a box. This time he pulls out a black one.

“And what would you do then to occupy yourself?” he asks, flicking the tip of the soldier’s miniature sword with his finger. “Tap your quill? Twiddle your thumbs? Sleep? When you’ve hardly managed to catch a wink this past month?”

And whose fault is that? I want to say, but I force my lips into a tight grin instead. A gentleman does not complain when faced with adversity. He powers through with grace and dignity and an unyielding smile. 

But my cheeks are seriously starting to bear the toll of weeks upon weeks of these fake smiles. And my eyes have long since run out of tears following all those late-night jumpscares whenever I do manage to fall asleep. And my limbs are screaming from the grueling daily training rounds from dawn to dusk. Even if the days are getting shorter, they’re getting colder as well.

And I haven’t told Chevalier this, but earlier today I sprained my wrist while sword training. It really isn’t that big of a deal, to be honest. I was only squeezing in some extra swings before training officially began because a nasty nightmare woke me up too soon again. I figured I’d practice on the ancient oak tree we secured our tent to, and maybe set up a scenario where I’d “accidentally” sever the ropes and let the thing collapse on top of snoozing Chevalier, but I ended up tripping over one of the massive roots in the dark and tumbling down the hill. 

He just had to choose the tallest hill.

“You are thinking of something asinine again,” says Chevalier.

“Definitely not,” I say, turning back to the letter. He is very lucky I injured my illegible hand.

I stuff said hand into my pocket and slowly stretch my fingers one by one, starting from the thumb, but my index finger only makes it halfway up before I have to muffle a grunt from the pain. I masterfully mask it by coughing into the crook of my good arm.

Another thwack of a figure placement, and Chevalier is back to reciting his correspondence. If he is upset that I just coughed on his sweater, he doesn’t make an effort to show it.

Yes, this is Chevalier’s sweater I am wearing. My shirt is all in tatters now after a certain fall down a hill (that I cannot believe I am bringing up twice in the same sitting). And my backup shirt is currently hanging outside, still dripping with this afternoon’s downpour. Chevalier took one look at me after I returned from practice and tossed me the sweater before I could get even one foot in the tent.

How very considerate of him, forcing his exhausted and sopping younger brother to change outdoors after sunset in October so his precious maps and documents wouldn’t get drenched.

I think I’ll leave a great big sneeze in the collar next, just to show how much I appreciate his prospective.

But I’d end up inhaling more wool than medically recommended before Chevalier would ever bother to tell me to stop. 

I’m actually still in shock to even be wearing it, to tell the truth. I figured it was buried at the bottom of his closet half-eaten by moths. It had been years since I’d last seen the thing, when his grandfather gave it to him at his mother’s funeral. One of those events I figured Chevalier deemed not worth remembering.

But I remember.

I remember the way Chevalier stood in front of her grave after they buried her, pale and stiff and dry-eyed, like a flawless stone figurine. I remember how the Lord Michel walked up beside him and almost put his hand on his shoulder, but pulled away at the last second when Chevalier turned to look at him. And I remember how he looked back. How he shakily drew the folded sweater from his other arm and trembled as he presented it to his grandson, a boy not half his size. 

“She’d want you to keep warm,” he’d said. I remember how cold his words sounded that day.

I remember how cold my mother’s hand was, too.

“Ow!”

The quill clatters on the desk as I furiously rub at my temple. When I open my eyes, a black knight lays atop my letter, shimmering dully in the single candlelight.

“What was that for?” I growl.

“You misspelled ‘accommodate’.”

“What?” I push the knight aside and count the letters of the last word I wrote. Two c’s and one m stare back at me in glossy ebony ink. I glance back at Chevalier. His hand is rummaging through the box again, but his eyes never lift from the map.

I pick up the quill and start to squeeze a mini m by the first when a second figure bounces off my head.

“Stop that!” I yell.

“Start over.”

“No way, it’s just a tiny fix. And I was almost done!” I hold the nearly-filled page up to him, but he still refuses to look.

“Then you should have been more attentive.”

“Who cares? It’s just going to Leon.”

“With my signature.” He slams another figure on the map with finality.

But I’m not finished. 

“You rewrite it then.”

No response.

My seat flies back as I stand, but my cheek is pressed against the dirt before it reaches the ground. 

My wrists are trapped and suspended in the air, but this time I can’t hide my roars of pain. They’d be louder I’m sure, but the knee jabbing into my back limits the airflow into my lungs. 

My vision spins. I bite the inside of my cheek and force myself to breathe deeply through my nose. Wet, molding tent mixed with the unwashed stench of two teenage boys who haven’t bathed in weeks burns my nostrils, but years of experience taught me this is the fastest way to calm my nerves in these situations. Years and years and years of experience. My head is still going fuzzy though, and I can’t tell if it’s from the pain or the exhaustion. 

I pry my stinging eyes open and focus on the closest thing to me. The candlestick rolls a few inches away, the shape of my clenched fingers imprinted in the wax column, its flame still burning.

I must look positively feral, but no more feral than the beast pinning me down. 

“I expected more,” says Chevalier.

His fingers dig under the sleeves and into my wrists as he yanks, pulling my face a few inches off the ground. I gasp like I’ve just resurfaced from a lake, and crane my neck as far back as I can to meet his piercing stare. He’s waiting for an explanation. 

His palms are like ice, and my teeth chatter as I bite back the urge to scream.

“Your hands are c-cold.”

That’s it? One month of endless belittling, cold-shoulders, and sleeping outdoors. My fingers are brittle from writing dozens of letters. My elbows and knees bruised from constant repairs to this tent. My hand drips with searing wax from my latest failed payback attempt. And the best I can come up with is your hands are cold?

I expected more, too.

He stares a bit more, longer than he has all day, before finally releasing me. I fall back to the ground and bury my face in my collar —Chevalier’s sweater collar— heaving breaths in and out my nose until my head stops spinning. It takes me a few minutes, but I eventually push myself onto my knees and inspect the damage. I had grabbed the candlestick with my good hand without thinking, and my palm is now almost entirely covered in the waxy sticky stuff. At least it’s quickly solidifying in this cold, but I don’t dare peel it off yet. I might end up pulling off skin, too.

My injured wrist, on the other hand, looks even darker than it did this morning, with splotches of blue and purple climbing up my forearm. I hold my breath and nudge it with a finger, but to my surprise, I don’t feel any pain. In fact, I don’t feel anything, except for the sensation of frigid digits tapping my skin.

“Get that checked and be back by noon,” Chevalier calls. Another surprise, he’s not at his map but at my desk corner, chair back upright, scratching away with my quill at blinding speed.

“Noon?” I repeat. “You mean tomorrow?”

“I mean six hours from now. The numbness will wear off soon, and you’ll hassle the medics with your obnoxious blubbering if you do not hurry.” As if on cue, the first specs of dawn trickle in through the tent flaps.

“I’m not missing training,” I say. “If you’re going, so am I.”

“There is nothing more foolish than a dying man demanding poison over cure.”

“I’m not dying!” I march over and pull my good arm sleeve up to my elbow. “See? You’re just being dramatic.”

Again he refuses to look my way, instead focusing on folding the paper he was writing on into thirds. He retrieves the fallen candlestick, elegantly prepares a stamp, and, as soon as the seal cools, stacks it and the other letters I prepared onto my outstretched hand.

“You will deliver the post and return in time to memorize this new battle formation before afternoon practice commences. With the correct hand bandaged,” he warns, pushing past me to his maps. “Do not fall short of my expectations again.” He picks a red soldier from the box and resumes his planning. 

I push through the flaps before the thwack reaches my ears.

Even though the tent is meager at best, it still mostly protects us from the harsh winds that pound every night. The approach of dawn hampers the air, but a brisk rush still uncomfortably tickles down my spine as I approach the edge of the hill. The numbness in my hand starts to fade as I stare down at those jagged rocks, almost goading me to trip again, and I back up until my boot bumps the oak tree. 

Chevalier did say I have six hours.

I stuff the letters in my armpit and start climbing the tree, slowly as it is still quite dark out and my hands aren’t exactly in best form. I also try to keep quiet, in case Chevalier won’t approve of my little recess. 

Once I reach the highest branch that can support my weight, I throw my legs over the edge and lean my cheek against the trunk. It is cool and covered in morning frost; a welcoming sensation to my welting face. Not so much to my tense thighs, but if I learned one thing on this trip it is to hold on to any good happenstances because they are rare to come by. Or last long.

I pull the letters out again and straighten them. Leon’s is first, a tiny detailed rose drawn directly underneath his perfectly-penned name. That’s the code we came up with for documents that need to be read with high urgency. Chevalier likes his papers to be ordered by importance, both outgoing and incoming, and as I leaf through the rest I see he’s arranged the next one to Sariel, followed by Jin, and then to various nobles and ministers back at the capitol.

I sometimes wonder, if I wasn’t Chevalier’s shadow, could my letters top his piles?

My skin prickles with envy. He isn’t even the king, so why must everything be under his thumb? The land, the people, and now the words. Why not let these papers be picked up by autumn winds, like the golden leaves of the oak, with no drive or direction other than away from here? Embarking on a journey unknown, a glorious adventure beyond the confines of their pages, full of twists and turns and loop de loops never before scrivened by man. In the infinite realms of possibility, there exists a universe where they all land exactly where intended. But equally likely, they also may end up at the most inopportune destination.

I spread the envelopes like a hand of cards toward the Obsidianite border, a gentle wind growing from behind. 

It’s really not so different from Rhodolite. We each have rocks and grass and bushes. Storms hound us both, the rising sun does not discriminate, and we both settle at night under the same starry blanket sky. This little sample of land shows even more, with our matching fortresses and battle posts, and there’s a high hilltop mirroring our own. It even has its own matching oak tree, though while mine still brims with flittering leaves of reds and browns, theirs stands thin and bare. So bare, it is impossible to miss the dark figure seated on the top branch.

Frostbite stabbing my thighs jumpstarts my senses, and I manage to hook my leg onto a knot in the trunk before the shock sends me tumbling down. I hug the letters and straighten my shoulders, looking back at my tree twin. How long has he been there? Has he been watching me? There’s quite a bit of foliage surrounding me. Does he even know I'm here?

I tentatively stretch my free leg, both to see if he’d respond and to encourage blood flow in case I need to make a hasty exit. A minute passes with nothing, but as soon as I start to lower my leg, a shadowy appendage protrudes from the figure. 

So he can see me.

I raise my arm. This time the figure waves back almost instantly. Could I interpret that as neighborly? I don’t want to raise my voice in case Chevalier investigates. Instead I shrug my shoulders and wag my head from side to side. My neck is still sore from Chevalier’s little “rebuttal” earlier, but I hope the message is still understandable.

What do you want?

Another unresponsive minute goes by before the figure raises both arms. The first points a finger at me. The second beckons in his direction.

I look over my shoulder as though I expect someone else to be there. This can’t be serious, is he asking me to cross the border? The Obsidianite border? When we are at the cusp of war? Does this guy even know who I am?

I don’t have the time to conjure a reply before I hear my name called from below.

“Well met, Prince Clavis!”

So much for that last question. And for keeping Chevalier in the dark.

I scan my surroundings and locate a horseman at the base of the hill, waving a scarlet flag with a rose up at me. The postman has arrived.

For the first time on this trip, apart from the daily workouts, my palms pool with sweat. But this is a different kind of perspiration. Chevalier could pop out any minute, and my head whirs with what to say back to the stranger across the border before he does. Er—sign. Sorry, now’s not a good time? I’ll think about it? Can we talk later? 

Do I even want to continue this conversation? I jerk my head back toward Obsidian, but the branch is just as bare as the rest of the tree.

“Is everything alright, my prince?” the postman calls, turning the direction I’m facing. “Is something happening across the border?”

“No, no. Everything’s fit as a fiddle! Just watching the sunrise,” I say, fumbling out of the tree. No light emerges from the tent, and I quickly poke my head in to confirm Chevalier’s sleeping form settled in a chair by his desk of maps. He lets out a long snore, and I let out a long sigh of relief.

After a slow descent of the hillside (I will not fall for the same fault twice in a row), the postman and I greet each other and exchange our stacks.

“I am very glad I ran into you, Prince Clavis!” His voice is cheery, despite the fact that he no doubt traveled the entire night. He isn’t originally from the capitol, I have everyone’s names and faces memorized there, but the flag he bears is reserved only for envoys from the royal palace. He looks about my age, with modest build and eyes not yet marred by the horrors of the battlefield. If I was to hazard a guess, I would say this is his first mission this close to the border.

“You are glad?” I ask.

“Indeed! I was instructed to hand-deliver those letters to Prince Chevalier. I feared it would be a great impertinence on my part to address His Highness personally, so I attempted to leave the letters with the general. However I was shocked to hear that you two were not staying at the fort! I was told your location was classified, but I really wanted to make sure I completed my first delivery. I never would have imagined royalty sleeping in a tent mid-autumn, of all places!”

Called it, but all I say is, “You and I both, lad.”

“But this could not be more perfect! I can trust you to pass these off to Prince Chevalier, then? Master Sariel said it is extremely important that he reads his letter as soon as humanly possible.”

I see now. This could not be more perfect because he ran into Chevalier’s middle man instead of the man himself. I stretch my cheeks into that wide grin and give him a polite nod. The boy looks pleased with himself as he bows and marches to his horse, and I take advantage of his turned back to drop my smile and peek at who’s top-pile today. 

The deep purple seal pops in the faint light of dawn, rays sliding up and down the swerving curves of the embossed serpent like ethereal liquid, but it is the text on the other side of the envelope that locks my attention. Chevalier’s full name is elegantly printed in bold black. Below it, scripted in an equally flawless hand, are two roses.

My breath catches in my throat as I grip the paper tighter. The ink on the petals is slightly smudged, as though it was handed off seconds after drawn. Never before have I seen two roses, neither sent nor received, and the thought of what news they bear freezes the blood in my veins even quicker than the weather. Are we officially at war with Obsidian? Was a meeting held while we were away? Has Jade or Benitoite made a move, too? Or is it something domestic? Have the people finally started to revolt against this endless back and forth? Has something happened to the king? Has something happened to my brothers?

That last thought drives a final icicle through my chest. My eyesight blurs and my legs start to give way, but both are locked back in place as something large is shoved into my arms. It is still too dark to make out what it is, but I immediately register the residual heat it dissipates.

“And here’s the final package!” the boy says. I blink several times before I can make out the shape of the wooden crate. It is about the size of my torso, light as a practice sword, and feels like a tiny oven pressed against my chest. “It’s the other extremely important cargo piece.” He ends with a wink, mounts his horse, and departs before I have the chance to ask anything else.

My first instinct is there’s something alive in there, and I slowly lower the crate to the ground to not startle (or infuriate) it. It may be asleep, but there are no abrupt movements as I observe the box from all angles. If whatever it is was alive, it is highly suspect that it could survive the trip from the palace with only three tiny breathing holes. And the soury-sweet smell wafting out from them could not belong to a carcass.

There is no identification on the box, and I pull out the stack of letters again to solve this mystery. Sariel’s letter deadpans me with a scowl, almost like its author would, and I shuffle it to the bottom. It won’t make a difference if Chevalier reads it right this second or after I’ve figured out what’s in this crate. Each successive letter is from some general or marquess or duke, no doubt begging Chevalier for some fatuous favor because none are marked with roses, and I nearly resolve to just prying the crate open myself when a glint of pale pink catches my eye.

I grasp the final envelope in both hands and hold it up to the steadily rising sun, but my eyes are not playing tricks as the delicate figure of a cat shines back.

Why would Yves write to Chevalier?

Again, no roses adorn this letter, but I pull out my pocket knife and carefully lift the seal from the paper. I can practically hear Sariel squalling at me through the mouth of the discarded purple serpent, but I ignore it. This is a matter between brothers. Sariel could never understand.

My heart pounds in my ears as I unfold the letter to reveal Yves’s gossamer script, and I press one palm against the side of my head to steady it as I read.

Gladdest tidings, Prince Chevalier.

Thank you ever so much for taking the time out of your busy schedule to write to me. It brought me the greatest joy to receive your letter on my birthday, I could not stop myself from shaking with excitement upon reading it.

Shaking with fear sounds more like it. That answers why Yves sent this, but drops a new more important question: Why did Chevalier send Yves a letter? Surely not just to wish him a happy birthday.

While your sentiments are more than enough, I truly wished you and Prince Clavis could have been present for the celebration. It was a small affair, as usual, but it was a welcome respite from the turbulence of the court since your departure. I am sorry to say our people are not pleased that your two-day inspection of the citadel has turned into a month-long station at the border, and many nobles are demanding your return to the palace posthaste. They fear your decision to remain may anger Obsidian and incite retaliation, but they only speak their minds so freely knowing you are so far away. I have no doubt you will have received letters from them asking for your return, but I beseech your understanding of their apprehension in your responses.

I scoff, the cooled breath materializing before me. Leave it to Yves to think the best of the people’s intentions, but he hasn’t read the novels of resentment Chevalier receives each week. And he hasn’t penned the curt, cold-blooded replies. 

Then it hits me, Chevalier sent a letter to Yves that I didn’t write. The paper wrinkles as my grip tightens, and I have to squint to make out the next lines.

Ah, but I am getting off topic. I am sure you tire from talk of military and government, Sariel is currently drafting a lengthy report to you on both as I write this, so I shall make this as brief as I can. 

It will please you to hear that despite the political climate, the seasonal climate has been rather generous. The harvest has been bountiful this year, and while the people’s spirits are not at their highest, their bellies are full and they are thankful. It took some help from the other princes, but we even managed to prepare the extra set of treats you requested. I must admit, I worried I would not be able to bake and pack the lot in time for the post. I had wanted the delivery to arrive as fresh as possible, and it was only with their assistance that we prevailed. Even with their pilfering hands snatching ingredients left and right, I ask that you thank them as well when you sit down to enjoy the sweets.

The tart aroma hits my nostrils again, and I have to hold back from clawing the sides of the crate apart. I limit myself to prying off two boards from the top, and am rewarded with a waft of warmth and a cornucopia of baked goodies. My mouth waters as I stick my face through the opening, letting the heat and the smell envelope my senses. 

Home. It really is a piece of home right in front of me. So close I can touch it, smell it, taste it… but I hold off on the last one for now. What if Chevalier sent a specific numbered order? I pull my head out and rest my chin on the top as I read the last part.

And speaking of the others, it will also please you to hear that they are all well. Prince Leon and Prince Jin have placated the citizens for now, and while it is fortunate they are a team of two, I fear their efforts will not last much longer. I have spotted Prince Nokto speaking to nobles as well, and despite his age he harbors a magnetic quality that calms even the tensest of brows. Prince Licht and I have been handling paperwork in the background, and we have learned much about our kingdom and its operations in the process.

Furthermore, I know you did not ask, but father is in good health as well. Though he seldom leaves his room these days and only speaks with Sariel. I fear his spirits are lowest of all.

I have a little space left on this page, so please allow me to use it to ask of my brother. You mentioned he has not taken well to the extended stay, I hope he is at least keeping himself entertained. Even with the disquiet of complaints, the halls never felt so still in his absence. But I believe he can keep up with you, we all do. 

Lastly, I do hope you are both keeping warm. The previous postman reported the weather is much colder near the mountains where you are. It was a bout of good fortune Prince Jin managed to hand you your sweater before you left, was it not? But as you said, a decorated mantle does nothing to light the hearth, so please enjoy the treats while they are still hot.

Take care of one another, and I pray for your safe return before the first winter snow.

Yves Kloss

The hand reaching for the crate is automatic. It takes a couple chews before I realize I have bitten into an apple strudel. It takes a few more before I realize I am crying.

Hot tears stream down my cheeks and smudge Yves’s words as I hug them and the pastry to my chest. Weeks… months… years of what I could never put into words rock my body as I scream into the crate. 

I don’t want to go to war. I don’t want to hurt anyone ever again. I don’t want to keep hurting myself climbing to catch Chevalier, because I know I will never make it. I just want to go home. Home where these treats were made. Home where these treats were shared. Home where these treats never fathomed a life outside their oven.

The sun is mostly up when the final cries exit my system. My body weighs like it ran to the palace and back, and I cannot even raise an arm to shield myself from the blinding rays or the chilling winds of early morning. The only thing I can do is bury my face in the collar of my sweater. Chevalier’s sweater.

Chevalier’s sweater is warm.

I wrap my fingers around the half-eaten strudel. It is warm, too.

Warm, like Yves’s hands when he pulls them out of the oven. Warm, like Licht’s cheeks as he stands tip-toed at the edge of the table and watches his brother set them down. Warm, like Nokto’s hugs when he ambushes his brother from behind, both in thanks and in distraction. Warm, like Jin’s ears as he swipes the top pastry and it disappears into his mouth. Warm, like Leon’s laughter as he prepares to pacify the situation.

Warm, like Sariel’s gaze as he watches the scene unfold. Warm, like my mother’s kisses that linger to this day. Warm, like Chevalier’s…

A sharp crack turns my attention back up the hill. The top of the tent rips and flutters in the breeze, waiting for me to patch it up again. Chevalier must be cold.

Pain throbs in my wrist. I peel the wax off my hand. I look back and forth between the citadel and the hill. Then between the border and the sun. I have many paths before me, and a good four hours left.

I stuff the rest of the pastry in my cheeks and collect the letters, careful to reseal Yves’s the way it was and return Sariel’s to the top. I grab the crate under one arm and start back up the hill. It is a long climb, yes, but one I know I can make.

*Nudges Yves* Get in there, Evie! You're the hero of this story! And uh, you can just stay where you are, Gilbert.

Tagging:@atelieredux @queengiuliettafirstlady @violettduchess @venulus

If you would like to be added or removed from my tag list, please send me an ask or a message

[pynkhues]

hello!! for the mini fic asks I would like to request D) subtle kindnesses, Roy siblings (any dynamic of your choosing!) <3

Hello! LOOK, this is neither a mini fic, nor probably what you wanted, haha, but I hope you like it regardless. <3

-

“Can I take your bag, sir?”

It takes Connor a minute to place the voice, to find the source among the crowd of staff lurking inside the doorway and briefly, he wonders if he’s come in the servants’ entrance, which - - jeez, wouldn’t that be embarrassing? Worse than the time he used the dessert spoon instead of the soup spoon at the Carnegie Weill Gala, or maybe not, given at least the only witnesses here would be the help, but then he casts his gaze up to the oakwood staircase, the gold-dipped chandelier, the ornately framed portrait of Caroline’s grandfather, and - -

Yeah.

Okay.

Not the servants’ entrance.

He hasn’t spent that much time at this particular house – one of the older Collingwood estates, and well out of London, located low on the rolling Cornish Coast – and honestly, he’d spent his last stay here drunk enough on the wine Caroline’s brother had brought up from Veneto that he’s not sure he remembers much beyond the bathroom anyway.

The thought makes Connor pick his duffel up off the floor, take a breath, inhaling the pungent smell of camphorwood and a log fire, somewhere in a room nearby, and, weirdly enough, the slightly saccharine scent of vanilla. 

“All good, señor, I’m gonna keep this one on me,” Connor says, stepping out of the way as one of the staff scrubbing at the floor inches closer to his shoes. “Trust me, I know how good the little hands in this house are at getting into things they shouldn’t.”

The butler gives him a strained smile at that, and Connor can’t help but laugh, even as two of the maids flutter past, one carrying a fax machine, the other rolls of paper, which feels - - positive? Maybe? He watches them disappear down the passage, chest oddly tight, and clears his throat, glances up, around, at the high arched ceiling, across the staircase, searching for anyone who isn’t getting a paycheck. Finally, he figures he just may as well ask it.

“Uh, is my dad - - ”

“Connor! You’ve made it!”

It’s Caroline’s voice, bright and loud, that bounces around the foyer, and Connor barely gets a glimpse of dark hair and narrow shoulders, a black draped gown like a Dickensian widow’s, before his throat dries and he bows his head like he did as a boy in Caroline’s ever simmering presence. He adjusts his bag strap, huffs a little at himself, reminds himself he’s not fifteen anymore, before forcing himself to look up as Caroline materialises at his side in a puff of tobacco and cinnamon-infused perfume.

She offers her cheek, and without a thought, he leans in to kiss it.

“Long flight, I imagine,” she says. “Do you want a drink?”

Connor blinks in surprise, glancing sideways at the grandfather clock down the hall, barely having struck midday, and says:

“Isn’t it a little early?”

“Surely you’re still on American time,” she grins, waspish, tilting her head as she steps over one of the floor cleaners and starts down the hall, as clear an instruction as any to follow her. “And a good host couldn’t let you drink alone.”

Stay Soft, Get Eaten 5k words. Succession gen fic. Set in 1987.

Send me mini fic prompts

[cadavors]

❝ that's not the worst thing i've ever heard but it's certainly up there. ❞

      𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄 𝐈𝐒 𝐑𝐄𝐏𝐄𝐓𝐈𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 𝐁𝐄𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐃 𝐌𝐎𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐒. nails pinching at the skin around palms, not quite inflicting wounds : it kept him grounded beside the other, nestled upon an oakwood bench. so unkempt, rotted. shoulders were slouched compared to those which seemed so pristine and delicate in nature. umbers shift between 𝐌𝐄𝐌𝐎𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐒 at the distant expanse of his own mind, there echoed guttural screams etched and giving rise to repulsion. stomach churned, breath expelling from where it was once held. ❛ does it make me a bad person ? ❞

      she seemed kind, genuinely so. it would be a shame to snuff out that glimmering light. such warmth in passing smiles. alas, the woman's presence was telling. intentions evident in the way she holstered what appeared only as a 𝐁𝐋𝐀𝐃𝐄 and imminent confidence strode amidst this forsaken village. his former inquiry simmered, only brushing the surface where truth smoldered beneath a ruse of innocence. she shouldn't have come here alone.

answered prompt for @hanakokyu ! ( accepting. )

[oakwoodwritingprompts]

oakwood prompt #42

"You never answered a single letter I wrote!"

"...what letters?"

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[animar64]

The Gingerbread Question

RDP Tuesday Prompt: Day Light Savings Time The question we ask, as we set our clocks back and then forward again- how should we use  all of that saved time and how hard should we chase after the time we lose when we Spring forward? Photo A.M. MoscosoOakwood Cemetery.Beaver Dam WI USAOctober2023 But then I wonder, if I could ask any of these people sleeping at the Oakwood Cemetery what they think…