#sunight

[lindamarieansonsnaps]

[stonerzelda]

im gona find one of those sites that prints whatevr jpeg u sendthem on random objects and get u abunch of zelda cdi merch king harkinian throw rugs and funni zelda/link mugs and shit . u deserve only the best 💕💕

💘💝✨️💕💓💖💛🧡❤️💚💙💜💗🍓🥝🫐🍇🍪🍩🍰🎂🍨🍭🌟🌺🌴💞🦄;______; CRIES YOU ARE SO FACKINGE SWEET 2 ME LETS KILL SOMEBODY‼️‼️ do you want 2 go get matchjng tattoos of this btw 👉👈

[throwing-roses-into-the-abyss]

a couple (3, to be precise) of my rosemary and lavender seeds have germinated and they are. SO TINY. I'm in love.

[ceoofyearning]

Say Yes to Heaven - Lucien

Pairing: Lucien × Reader

Summary: You find the bed empty upon waking up. Bundled in your blanket, you head out to find Lucien and demand that he warm you up.

Tags & Warnings: Fluff, suggestive but nothing explicit (if i miss anything, let me know)

Word Count: 1077

Links: Masterlist

Sunight creeps languidly through the heavy drapes, heralding the persistent call of the waking world. The day has come, and in minutes, the entire room is bathed in golden light. You’re forced to relinquish the last dregs of sleep clinging to you. You roll over expecting to find Lucien beside you, only to see that his side of the bed is empty. You run your palm over the sheets and find them still warm.

With one last stretch, you pull yourself out of the bed and onto your feet. You wrap the blanket tightly around your shoulders, not ready to give up their warm embrace just yet. The manor is deathly quiet as you pad through the hallways as if the rest of the world is as reluctant to wake too. The persistent chill of winter remains in the air, the tiles as cool as ice beneath your feet. The blanket trails on the floor behind you, and you can already imagine the legendary scolding Jurian would give you if he were to catch you. You imagine Vassa would only laugh at you, if she wasn't too busy being a bird.

Thankfully, no such altercations occur, and you find Lucien sitting in the library, busy reading what you assume are reports from Prythian. He’s lounging by the fire, clad only in his rumpled, unbuttoned tunic and plain trousers. His legs are carelessly spread, his cheek resting on his hand - the picture of relaxed nonchalance. Lucien wears finery like a fine suit of armor, his bravado like a sword secured at his hip, and it’s rare to see him so unguarded, so candid. When he spots you, all bundled up, by the door, a bemused expression makes its way across his face.

“You left,” you sniff indignantly.

His only response to your complaint is a smirk. So you pad deeper into the room until you're standing in between his legs. The smug look on his face only seems to grow at the increased proximity.

“Why?” He asks. “Did you miss me?” Lucien’s eyes trail down your body with deliberate slowness, stalling over your exposed thighs. His hand comes up to grasp the side of your hip, a movement made instinctually, naturally, as though his existence only makes sense when you’re there, with him.

You don’t deign to respond, but you let him pull you onto his lap. He wraps his arms around you, tucking you under his chin as he continues to read. You sink onto him, enjoying the heat that perpetually radiates off his body. He’s basically a sentient furnace, your love. Your hands trail beneath his shirt and he jolts the moment your cold hands make contact with his skin.

“Mother’s tits, you’re freezing.” He exclaims, wiggling in his seat.

“Because you left,” you retort, running your hands languidly over his back. Goosebumps rise in the wake of your touch. “This is your doing, miscreant.”

Lucien cackles but recovers. “Apologies, my lady,” Lucien says with exaggerated gravity, his hand over his chest. “I’m adequately chastised. I’ll be sure never to abandon you in bed again.”

“You better,” you threaten, trying to fight the smile from emerging on your lips. “Or else I’ll find someone else to warm my bed.”

Lucien stiffens, holding you tighter against him as if readying to fight off anyone who dares to draw near. With his hand on your chin, he lifts your head to meet his gaze.

“What was that?” He speaks, something dangerous lingering in the depths of his words.

You raise your brow in challenge. “I said, if you keep leaving me I’ll find-“

He shuts you up with his lips on yours, but it’s a soft fragile thing. His lips move against yours like the back and forth of a waltz. Lucien pulls you tighter into his embrace, enveloping you in the scent of sandalwood, cinnamon, and smoke. You melt against him and think that you could stay like this forever, as long as you’re with him. You want to lay here even as the world cracks and burns around you, until the both of you are covered in ivy, moss, and memory.

As if sensing the direction of your thoughts, Lucien deepens the kiss. Your lips willingly part for him and he licks into your mouth, eager for a taste. His hands are molten against your skin, kneading the pliant flesh of your hips from where your nightgown has ridden up. You can feel his chest expand as he inhales your scent as if reminding himself that you’re with him, in this moment, and there you will remain until your body gives out from the force of loving him.

Eventually, the two of you have to break the kiss. Just there, his forehead on yours, breathing the other in. Idly, you tap your finger over the freckles on his chest, parsing them like constellations in the night sky. You wonder what prophecies you’d be able to divine in the shapes they take. You press a kiss on the freckle over his beating heart, and Lucien shudders beneath your touch.

You move to the wealth of freckles spread across his cheek, over his nose, then on his chin. Lucien pretends to be preoccupied with the reports, but it’s a losing battle. There’s a ghost of a smile on his lips, and you plant a soft, chaste kiss at the upturned corner. You kiss him like he’s an object of worship, and only your heart, your body, your whole being would be a worthy sacrifice.

“Is that the only thanks I get for being your sentient, walking furnace?” He teases, brow arched, but not unkindly. “Threats and a few kisses?” Beams of sunlight hit his face like a lattice of amber, accentuating his sharp features, and setting his russet eye ablaze. And it strikes you just how damn pretty he is, scars and all.

“I’d prefer it if my sentient furnace did not walk away at all,” you retort, raising your brow in turn.

“Ungrateful,” he teases, even as he begins to trail tender kisses over your neck. “You’re lucky I adore you, dearly.”

You huff, pretending his words haven’t set you aflame in a way only he can.

“I suppose,” you begin, tapping your finger over your chin. “I could be persuaded to thank you properly if you go back to bed with me.”

Lucien glances at the report and pretends to consider it for three whole seconds, before setting it down the table with finality. He smiles, as bright as the sun, beautiful, blinding, yours.

“Let's go then,” he says, as he easily carries you back to your room.

AN:

Hello! I’m new to this fandom & I’d love to hear your thoughts. 💙

i’ve been so obsessed with Lucien recently. I made art of him and I love how people kept mentioning his freckles so here is we are. + I hate the cold and had the thought that Lucien would be the perfect person to cuddle up to in winter.

[inaliakitsune]

Sales for the Optimus Prime sticker close tonight at 8pm MST!

The 5”x5” thats perfect for your vehicles will NOT be restocked after this so dont miss your chance!

[valiantsword]

selene @underworldfcrged asked, " tell me, what are you really scared of? "

arthur pruitt had never been afforded the luxury of emotion. before begrudgingly taking place in vampire nobility he'd been king of his own kingdom, very far away. he'd been dying in the grass, miles from home, when the face of markus shimmered in the moonlight like one of the angels the christians were always spouting off about. in those moments, while he thought he was coming to an end, his thoughts were of the child that would grow up without a father. it was of the wife he'd be leaving behind and the lover they'd both taken. lancelot would ( and had ) take care of her but arthur still worried of who would care for them both.

next, as lips part to answer the question, he thinks of sonja. he thinks of the noble viktor had ordered both he and desiderius to intimidate into paying tribute only to find their beloved death dealer had been executed.

" what i can't control, " the vampire manages with a smile. he lifts a hand to cup her cheek and uses it to bring himself in for a kiss to selene's cheek. " something grave happening while i'm away and having no control to prevent it or fix it. " desiderius had wailed in anguish like his own lover had been taken by the sunight, so close was his bond with sonja. the wolves had given them berth, then. " i'm scared of not being able to say goodbye. "

[liminally-charged]

Question: Would stories in genres like hard sci fi benefit from being haunted? Not as in "spectral amorphous transparent mass globuling around", but as in "haunted abandoned psychiatry ward".

I'm gonna try to explain what I mean. When you enter haunted places - for example a hospital infamous for its mistreatment of patients that was shuttered - it's not necessarily the obvious stuff that you're frightened of. Sure, a headless nurse jumping out of a shadow might be scary to think about. And the lack of sunight through the boarded-up windows makes the place dark, which is scary; but most dark places are scary.

For me, it's the figurative "mold". The awful experiments that the doctors inflicted upon the patients, the stifled cries of those poor victims gently tended to by indifferent nurses... all of that happened in this place. It's empty now, and nothing other than abandoned medical equipment, rusty bedframes, scattered documents. But the memories of the cruelty long past sticks to the place like a bad odor. Looking around you can almost imagine what it must've been like. Your minds eye projects a vague shape onto that wheelchair in the corner, where old Ms. Pollery sat after she had been medicated again. You can almost hear the sharp clicks of the head nurses' heels as she walks down a corridor. This place remembers it all, and it aches under the weight of the misdeeds carried out within.

You don't belong here. You've stepped into a past that isn't yours to experience. You're intruding on someone elses suffering like a footstep upon a bed of rotten flowers. This place was fine before, wallowing in its own pain forever, and yet here you are poking around, stirring up painful memories... cracking the mold. And the rot beneath the wallpaper spews forth and covers you in pungent black slime, because you just couldn't help yourself pulling at the seams of the collective trauma this hospital is heir to. Anything that happens now is your own fault, and of your own design.

So anyways, that's the kind of haunting I mean. And I think that settings with an inherent focus on logic and "making sense", this would be a great counterbalance to all that sciency mumbo jumbo. I know very little about hard sci fi, this post is not an intelligent doctorate thesis. But I do know that "explaining a lot about a thing because it needs to look like it could be real" and "not explaining smack about a thing because it's unexplainable by intention" can go hand in hand.

I also don't want any scientific explanations to such hauntings. "You went through a black hole and ended up in the cruelty-dimension." I guess that's cool, but now it's less scary because I know what it is. Throw me in the deep end please. Pull a towel over my head and taze me, then spin me around until I can't tell which side is up. Waterboarding is optional.

[raxei-ra]

[katiethompson]

Emma

photography: @katiethompson​

hair/makeup: Bianca Hartkopf

[yasu19-67]

Kodak GOLD200／春来

[stephanocardona]

Baby Oystercatchers by johschermer

[beccawillowmoss]

[magicalforestfairy]

Bondegården

[artisticallytrashy]

I absolutely adore funky coloured glasses, golden rays of sunlight and the way morning frost shimmers like glitter in the fog.

[jolieslettres]

[anna-h]

It’s so much darker when light goes out than it would have been if it had never been shone.

John Steinbeck, The winter of our Discontent