#the woods at three mile creek

[thegeorgiatennantblog]

Oh my god I love this!

(for reference: Anna's baking post)

[nastasya--filippovna]

took a day off from excruciating studies and did some quick studies of my ocs

I know they're awful and they look nothing like themselves but if you know how bad I am at digital art you'd say this was a real step up (I'm much much better at traditional art)

Sylvia (I used that picture of Billie Piper from city of tiny lights as a pose reference)

Raven

More Sylvia

And the one I'm really proud of (click for better quality and flip your phone around 😜)

[fightingalgth8rs]

CHAPTER FRIGGIN' TWENTY! Woohoo let's go! I've made it this far and I survived!

@reloha @do-angels-dream-of-starry-seas @helpits4am @ivankaramazov07 @turtleneck-crowley I'd love to hear your comments on this. (especially @reloha I've missed your feedback honestly! <3)

[nastasya--filippovna]

Oh My Goodomens!!! This is brilliant! I thought I'd never see this day this is surreal! Thanks so much babe I am absolutely chuffed! Actual art of my OCs! I can't believe it! You're incredible @aq2003

hi @nastasya--filippovna i drew ur ocs

[hauntedhowlett-writes]

ANIMAL INSTINCT

PAIRING: logan howlett x vampire mutant!female reader

RATING: explicit | WORD COUNT: 2.3k

SUMMARY:

after helping you out by letting you feed from him, logan asks you to return the favor.

part two of bloodthirsty

AUTHOR’S NOTE:

thank you for all the love on bloodthirsty! here’s a nice and smutty second part. big thank you to @guiltyasdave for reading this over for me 💕

TAGS/WARNINGS:

explicit sexual content (18+ mdni), x-men (2000) logan howlett, able bodied reader, vampire mutant!reader, no use of y/n, single POV - reader, primal play (chase/capture), gratuitous use of growling/roaring, light fighting, mentions of blood, biting, rough sex, semi-public sex (in the woods), oral - f receiving, unprotected p in v, multiple orgasms, creampie, dirty talk, blade play (the claws come out).

Logan finds you in an empty hallway one afternoon, about two weeks after your encounter in the kitchen. You made the mistake of making eye contact, leaving you unable to turn and pretend you didn't see him like you've been doing since that night. 

"You avoiding me or something?" he says, hint of a smile on his lips. 

"No," you reply quickly. "What makes you think that?"

"Haven't seen you around much lately."

"Just busy."

"Right." He looks away for a moment, hands on his hips. "Look, I got a proposition for you."

"I don't--"

"I got this issue--," he continues, ignoring your response "--where it gets to be too much, you know? And I helped you out so--"

"What are you talking about?" you interrupt.

His voice drops a bit lower. "We're predators, right? And I don't know about you but sometimes my prey drive can be...too much, if you catch my drift."

"Okay..."

"And I got two words for you - quid pro quo."

You blink at him. "Logan, that's three words."

"I thought pro quo was one word."

"Why would you think that?"

"We're getting off topic," he says, waving his hands. “Think you can help a guy out?"

"Help you...how, exactly?"

You agree to meet Logan at the edge of the dense forest that surrounds the X Mansion at nightfall and as you walk through the grounds blanketed in darkness, your senses begin to feel more alive. Anticipation courses through you and the further you venture from the mansion, the darker the night becomes.

Logan is already there when you arrive, tension rolling off of him in waves. He gives you a tight smile.

"Took you long enough," he says. You roll your eyes.

"I'm still here, aren't I?" You gesture to the forest. "So, what now?"

"You run," Logan replies. "I hunt."

The deep timbre of his voice sends a shiver down your spine. What he's asking for goes against your nature but some deep part of you is eager to please. 

You take off through the trees, running as fast as your legs will carry you across the soft forest floor. With your enhanced speed, it's not long before you're miles from the manicured mansion grounds, surrounded by gnarled roots and a thick canopy of leaves that blocks nearly all light from the moon.

You slow to a stop, catching your breath. The snap of a branch is the only warning you get before Logan's heavy weight barrels into you, sending you both tumbling to the ground with him coming out on top, smiling down at you, a wild glint to his eyes.

"Gotta do better than that, bub," he says. He stands up, holding a hand out to help you to your feet. "I'll give you a head start this time."

"I don't need a head start," you grumble. "I'm faster than you."

He laughs. "We'll see about that."

You start running, his laughter ringing in your ears. Your path is less direct this time, weaving through the trees and doubling back to leave your scent in more places and crossing a small creek with the hopes that the running water helps to cover your tracks. You grow comfortable enough in your lead that you begin to slow down, keeping yourself attuned to the sounds of the forest and any changes that might indicate Logan has found you.

The trees break into a vast clearing, tall grass swaying in the breeze. Moonlight trickles past the branches, stripes of faint light illuminating the floor. You take a moment to appreciate the tranquility of it, but the calm is short lived when you catch movement at the corner of your eye.

Logan steps through the trees. He's removed his shirt, thick muscle glimmering with sweat, his chest heaving with labored breath. Your mouth goes dry at the sight and for a moment you really do understand what it's like to be prey, faced with something so deadly it's almost hypnotizing, impossible to look away even when you’re in danger. He stalks closer and you feel frozen in place, unable to move a muscle.

"Found you," he growls. 

Your survival instinct kicks into gear and you attempt to run away, sprinting across the glade with renewed vigor. If you can make it back into the forest you know you could shake him loose again, but staying in the clearing makes you a clear target. 

Logan roars, the sound loud enough to shake the branches of nearby trees. You risk a glance over your shoulder and are met with the sight of the man on all fours, running towards you with single minded determination. He rapidly closes the distance with impressive speed, wrapping his arms around you and taking you down to the ground for the second time that night.

You grapple with him, landing a kick to his chest that gives you the chance to crawl out from beneath him. He reaches a hand out for your ankle and drags you back toward him, using his weight to hold you in place. You wiggle an arm free and strike at his face, though he dodges and your fingernails scrape against his neck, leaving red gashes in their wake that heal in the blink of an eye. He pins your arm to the ground above your head.

"No more runnin’,” he says, a command that shoots straight to your core. You know he’s not talking about just tonight, but rather how you’ve been avoiding him. 

But how were you supposed to face him when the only thoughts you had of him since then were about how sweet he tasted, how good he felt, how much you wanted more, more, more that you couldn’t possibly ask him to give?

Your inner turmoil is lost when his lips slam against yours in a kiss that’s hot and hungry, stealing your breath with its ferociousness. His teeth sink into your bottom lip and you gasp at the sharp sting of pain that lights up your nerves. There’s nothing gentle about it, but you’re not gentle creatures and the beasts that pace and snarl beneath your ribcage have finally broken free.

Logan breaks the kiss to stare down at you with wild eyes. Blood, your blood, stains his lips and his tongue darts out to lick it away with a satisfied hum. He leans in close, burying his face in your neck, inhaling deeply, mouth open against your skin with the threat of sharp teeth over your racing pulse.

“Can’t hide it,” he says. “Not when I can smell it on you, sweetheart.”

“Smell what?” 

“How much you want it.” He nips at the juncture between your neck and shoulder, making you hiss. “How much you want me.”

Heavy hands find the hem of your shirt, shoving it up your chest until it’s bunched beneath your armpits. He pulls down your bra to expose your breasts and your nipples tighten at the sudden burst of cold air against your skin but his mouth is on you in an instant, warm tongue tracing the taut buds. Your back arches at the sensation and you dig your fingers into his thick hair, pulling at the strands. He hums with pleasure as he switches to your other breast, giving it the same maddening attention.

His palm slides down your belly, fingers dipping beneath the elastic of your leggings and finding your needy center, swirling through the mess you’ve already made in your underwear. You can feel the smug grin on Logan’s face before he even lifts his head to look at you.

“That’s what I thought.” He withdraws his hand, holding it up to his face. In the moonlight you catch a glimpse of the strands of slick stretching between his index and middle finger before he sticks them in his mouth with a groan, licking them clean. “Fuck, you taste better than I imagined.”

The metallic sound of his claws unsheathing reaches your ears and your pulse jumps as he drags the blunt side of a single blade up the inside of your thigh. The tip catches on the fabric covering your pussy and with one quick move of his wrist he slices through your pants. His claw disappears and he reaches down with both hands to tear the fabric further.

Logan settles on his belly with his head between your thighs, your legs propped up on his broad shoulders. He kisses your pussy over the soaked fabric of your underwear but

spares you any further teasing, grabbing your panties in a tight fist and pulling roughly until the elastic snaps against your skin and he holds the torn fabric in his fist. He tosses them aside and buries his face in your cunt, devouring you like a man on a mission. His tongue alternates circling your sensitive clit and dipping into your dripping entrance, expertly tracing every inch of you. You’re so lost to the pleasure that you don’t notice him getting to his knees until he’s lifting your hips, hands gripping your ass tightly to keep your lower body suspended in the air and his mouth sealed to your cunt.

“Fuck!” you cry out, muscles growing tense as your orgasm builds. It hits you like a tidal wave, coursing through your veins as you shout his name like a prayer. His hold remains tight as he works you through it until you grow boneless in the aftermath.

He lowers you slowly back to the ground and you fight to catch your breath while he quickly removes his belt and shoves his jeans down enough to free his cock. You watch him take himself in hand, a brief slide of his fist over his impressive length before he runs the glistening head through your sensitive folds, bumping your clit and making you shiver.

Logan’s gaze remains fixed to yours as he presses forward, breaching your tight entrance. Your body accepts him greedily, the slight sting and stretch barely a thought when all you can focus on is how full he makes you feel.

His lips find yours for a messy kiss while he begins to thrust, a slow drag of his cock from your body followed by a sharp snap of his hips that punches the air from your lungs. You cling to his shoulders, clawing at his skin. The scent of his blood invades your senses and your teeth begin to ache at the memory of his taste. 

Your teeth catch on his lip and he hisses but doesn’t pull away. Copper blooms across your taste buds and you can’t help the desperate moan that escapes into the kiss.

“Come on, baby,” Logan says. “Take a bite.”

You rest a palm on the back of his head, urging him closer, lifting your head and kissing his neck, licking the salty taste of him from over his fluttering pulse. You open your mouth, sinking your teeth into skin and muscle and vein until warm blood spills into your mouth. The combination of his blood on your tongue and his cock spreading you open sends you over the edge.

Above you, Logan growls, a deep rumble you can feel down to your marrow, some ancient part of you preening with excitement. He holds himself still as you clench around him. Your orgasm slowly subsides and you find the strength to unclench your tense jaw from his neck, gently licking at the blood that spills from the deep impressions of your teeth.

Logan sits up, cock slipping from your body and leaving you achingly empty. His hands grip your hips, forcefully turning your lax body over and hiking your ass into the air. He spreads your cheeks and the vulnerable position has your whole body growing hot.

“Hope you didn’t think we were done,” he tells you as he positions himself behind you, thrusting his length back into your body and setting a brutal pace that has you crying out into the night. 

One hand holds your hip with bruising force while the other settles on your shoulder, pulling you into every delicious snap of his hips. Your mind goes blissfully blank with the overwhelming pleasure building up inside of you for the third time.

He folds forward, his chest pressed to your back and his pace growing sloppy as he nears his own release. A hand curls around yours, a moment of intimacy that leaves you reeling.

Logan roars, hips slamming into a final time, dragging your last orgasm from you as his cock pulses with his release inside of you. A sharp pain on your hip makes you gasp and you notice his claws have extended from the hand wrapped around yours, sinking into the dirt.

“Shit,” he pants, sitting up after a moment. The loss of his heat makes you shiver. “I nicked you.”

You slowly move yourself into a seated position, muscles feeling like jelly, and inspect the area that the pain came from. Your leggings have a new slice in the fabric and the material is sticky with blood but to your surprise, there’s no wound to be found.

“You heal that quick?” Logan asks. You shake your head.

“Not usually.” You run your fingers over smooth skin. “Must have been your blood.”

“You think so?”

You shrug. “Just a guess. Never fed from someone with advanced healing factor.”

“You sayin’ I’m your first?” he asks with a smirk. You can’t help the laugh that escapes and his smirk stretches into a grin. Logan stands, fixing his pants and holding a hand out to help you up. 

“How am I supposed to get back into the mansion like this?” you ask, gesturing to your destroyed leggings. 

“Guess I didn’t think that through,” he admits. “Give me a few minutes and I can be back with some new clothes.”

“How are you going to get into my room?”

He turns to look at you, continuing to walk backwards.

“I’m a man of many talents.”

With a wink, he disappears through the trees. You sigh.

What have you gotten yourself into?

Thank you for reading!

LINKS

all masterlists | logan howlett masterlist | support for palestine

[bitterrfruit]

price….. in a.. a.. cowboy hat

girl... you have no idea what you have done to me with this ask. Cowboy Price!?? I had so much fun with this, I might even do a part 2! I'm sorry this took me so long - I really hope you like it!!! ♡

18+ mdni - cw: chasing, spanking - 3.2k words

John Price owns the ranch that neighbours your father's. You've got a habit of climbing the fence between them, snooping around Mr Price's property and leaving traces of your misbehaviour behind. This time, he catches you.

Here’s part 2!

Daddy had warned you about wandering onto Mr Price’s property. The lichen-coated fence that separated his land and your father’s spanned miles; carving through tall dry grass, through woods of oak and pine trees, over a bumbling shallow creek. It was easy enough to climb over, but there was one little gap in the barrier, where the splintering planks had fallen from their fastenings. Tucked under a towering cottonwood tree, hidden by the grass, it was easy to wander through as if it were more of your own land on the other side.

Mr Price was a reticent man. An arguably shadowy figure, who you might occasionally see on horseback up on the hilltops of his ranch, tan cattleman hat bowed as he surveyed his acreage. You had met him, once or twice, as a girl. Then, he was in his early twenties, tall and aloof. Eldest of three sons, all three of whom had enlisted and served, sent to fight a war whose nature you were oblivious to in your innocence. He had been absent for years, and once his father was taken by whatever cancer he chose not to treat, John was the only one of the three to return.

His father you had known, vaguely, only as a man that your father despised with an unwavering passion. Some daft rivalry, dating back long before you were born. Whatever enmity existed between old men had not quite been passed on to the last remaining son, it seemed – where there might have been out-and-out conflict, existed only cold disinterest.

Thus explained your intrigue. You found yourself strangely captivated by him, in a nosy sort of way, once he had finally come home. Suddenly bearded and jaded, no longer the bright-faced young man you had distantly remembered, he had picked up where his father had left off. He lived alone, as far as you were aware, in his inherited six-bedroom farmhouse, atop a five-thousand-acre piece of natural splendour. Don’t bother the man, daddy would tell you, he’s not our friend.

But you had always been at the mercy of your impish curiosity. You couldn’t help it. It was an impulse, a compulsion, to stick your fingers where they didn’t belong. You would habitually explore his acres when you came home from college. You’d peek into his empty old shacks, pet his mooing cattle, pick handfuls of wildflowers from his unkempt fields.

Sometimes you’d sneak into his stables. You’d coo at his horses, stroke their velvet snouts, feed them the flowers you had plucked with a smile. They had grown to like you, his sweet horses, you wished you could know their names. They probably liked you more than him, no doubt, the mysterious little neighbour that would sneak in at dusk and feed them treats.

But your most regular habit – one that had gotten you into trouble before – was your proclivity for picking bunches of glossy red cherries from his rows of fruiting cherry trees. The orchard was under-loved and weedy, but those glimmering little baubles of ruby were just too delightful to let fall to the grass and rot.

He had caught you, once, while your arms were stretched far above you, reaching among the droopy branches and floppy leaves to pick the brightest sun-ripened cherries. You had heard him yelling;

“Hey! I see you in there, missy!”

Lips stained red, slick with sweet juice, you gave him a puckish grin before you ran off like a rabbit and hopped back over the fence.

“There’ll be trouble next time I catch you over here, little lady,” he had roared after you, watching you clamber over the oaken planks, “You hear me?”

It didn’t stop you, of course, whatever threat he threw at you. If anything, it emboldened you. Now you meandered down the rows of cherry trees like they belonged to you, picking the prettiest ones, popping them behind your teeth and meticulously nibbling the flesh from the pit, spitting them into the grass as you moved onto the next.

You left a trail wherever you ventured. Little wet pits and green tooth-pick stalks in piles around the place; in stables, along pathways, among the cows. Sometimes you’d leave juicy red fingerprints on doorframes, on the planks of the fence, on horse snouts – perfectly incriminating.

Today was no different. You wandered in scuffing sandals along an old dirt road, green sprigs of grass almost covering it entirely. Some old route that settlers may have followed state to state, spotted occasionally with two-hundred-year-old milestones, ignored just enough to have been spared from crumbling to dust.

Shaded by a cottonwood, humming to yourself, you created a little tipi with your cherry stalks on the flat top of a mile marker. Balanced them carefully as you licked the fruity flesh from your teeth. And when a gentle breeze blew it over, scattering your creation, you leaned over the stone to pick them from the dry gravel around its base.

One, two, three, four…

At the familiar rumble of a truck trundling over dirt, you straighten your spine, palms resting on the edge of the milestone as you look over your shoulder. A dusty Chevy square-body had already coasted to a stop behind you, red paint faded and matte after a decade or two of proper use and neglect.

There he was, the enigmatic man, hanging his elbow out of the open window. Mr Price squinted through the glare of the afternoon sun, crow’s-feet pinching, eyes barely shaded by the cattleman he wore even inside his truck. Your throat bobbed with a swallow as you caught his eye; the flitter of adrenaline buzzed in your chest, toeing the line between nerves and excitement.

With a disapproving suck of his teeth, he grumbled at you, “What’d I tell you about catching you back here?”

Plucking the short skirt of your cotton dress downward, to cover where it had ridden up, you spun around to face him demurely.

“You said there’d be trouble,” you answered with a simper, shyly scratching the back of one hand with the fingernails of the other.

“Mhm,” he grunted in agreement, tapping the metal door with his palm. He flicked his head in gesture for you to make your way around to the passenger side. “Get in.”

A crease pulled between your brows as you frowned at him. “What for?”

“I’m takin’ you back to your daddy,” he barked, irate and impatient, “I’ve got some words for him, too.”

You absently kicked the rocky dirt with the heel of your sandal, pouting at him. “What words would those be?”

With a snort, he rocked his head to peer out of his windshield, then back to you. “To keep a fuckin’ handle on his daughter.”

“Don’t think there’s anything you could tell him that he hasn’t already tried,” you mumbled, attempting to subtly flick the handful of cherry stalks you had collected to the ground.

He chuckled at that, breathy and hoarse, a hint of frustration in his throat. “I believe that,” he scoffed, “c’mon. In. Don’t make me ask again.”

You chewed on your lip, squinting in challenge as you stood up straight. “Or what?”

Glowering at you for a moment, his nostrils flared in frustration, as he seemed to swallow what must have been an inappropriate retort. Instead, his arm retracted through his window, and following the thud of the handle he swung open the door with his forearm.

With a hop he landed in the dirt, dust rising from under his well-worn leather boots. You hadn’t seen him up close in as long as you could remember, and Christ, how he towered over you. It may well have been the looming shadow of his sizzling anger that made him seem so daunting, so delightfully thrilling. You felt the shiver of gooseflesh tingle down the nape of your neck as you tilted your head to look up at him, sheepishly watching his steady approach.

“You’ll be in more trouble than I will if you lay a hand on me,” you spat, with a faint curl in your lips, almost daring.

He gazed down the bridge of his nose at you, wearing a snide and thin smirk, curled under his dense beard. But as his gaze raked you up and down, his sneer shifted quickly into a pout of disapproval, eyes caught on your chest.

“Care to explain this?” He queried severely, wide hand reaching for you; you leaned back further against the milestone behind you as if it might evade him. With his fingers he pinched the cream linen of your blouse, and for a moment you feared he was peering down the gap - brazenly inspecting your bare breasts underneath.

But, no, he instead curled the fabric between his fingers to show you the bright red stain dribbled down the front of your dress.

Oops. Your gut reaction was to giggle, yet unsure whether to admit guilt or feign ignorance.

As you parted your lips to speak, his judging hand suddenly moved to your face; a hold of your chin with a thumb and hooked finger. Piercing glare glued to your lips, his eyes sunk into a defeated ire, shadowed under the brim of his cattleman.

Your tongue writhed behind your teeth, heart thumping in your throat; as he tilted your head up and to the side. He used his other thumb to wipe your bottom lip, pointedly slowly, from the corner to the centre.

“You’re a little thief,” he gritted, dropping your head and peering at the red smear of juice on the pad of his thumb. “Aren’t you.”

Were you scared of him? It was hard to distinguish your fluttering heartrate between terror and thrill – perhaps a touch of both. Because you didn’t know him. You couldn’t trust him. You had no basis to assume he wouldn’t club you with a closed fist and throw you in the back of his pickup. But you felt the tingle his touch left behind on your lip. You got stuck on his pinched blue eyes, the glare of the sun reflecting off your dress illuminating them like they glowed from within.

“No I’m not,” you muttered, readjusting your dress after he left creases in the low neckline.

“And a liar?” He scoffed, as he grabbed one of your wrists – lifting your hand to reveal the sticky burgundy juice under your fingernails, red drips dried in your palm. “You’re covered in evidence, missy.”

Snatching your hand from him, you crossed your arms in petulance. “It’s not stealing if you don’t use it.”

“The fuck it isn’t,” he snapped, hooking his hands onto his hips. “Now get in the goddamn truck.”

“I can walk home,” you grumbled, “you’re not the boss of me.”

Huffing in anger, he leaned forward – looming over you with a domineering lour. “While you’re trespassing on my property – yes I am.”

Glaring up at him from under your brow, you nibble at the inside of your lip as you pouted at him. “What’re you gonna do if I don’t go with you. Kidnap me?”

He tilted his head, shrugged his shoulders. “I’ve got some rope in the truck,” he gruffly warned, “you gonna make me use it?”

Did you imagine the glint in his eye? Did you make up the lascivious quip in his tone? Whether or not it was dreamt, it plucked a coy smirk in your lips.

He was daring you, wasn’t he? Goading you to challenge him.

So with a glistening smile you reached for his cattleman hat – plucked it from his head, and swiftly placed it on your own. Too big to sit properly, you perched it on the back of your head so that you could still see out from under the brim.

“Hey!” He barked, lunging to snatch it back from you – but you bolted, kicking off your sandals, ducking under his arm and sprinting across the dirt road. Through the field of grass and dry wildflowers, you bounded like a deer. “Fuck’s sake.”

Holding his hat in place, you peeked over your shoulder in your escape, and he was swiftly in pursuit.

“God dammit, girl, you get back here!” He roared – already closing the distance. You hadn’t expected a man as bulky as him to sprint as fast as he was, charging after you like a grizzly.

You only giggled, leaping over fallen logs and stray planks of wood, weaving between the tall white oaks that littered his prairies.

“If you get so much as a dent in that hat I’ll fuckin’–”

“You’ll what?” You squealed through a grin, holding the skirt of your short dress in a fist against your hips, to allow your legs to sprint in full stride.

You heard him grunt, close to a growl, as he encroached on you. “You’ll be in big fuckin’ trouble!”

Breathless, panting, you failed to think of any witty response as you dashed towards one of the many stables on his expansive property – this one devoid of horses or livestock, simply a storage building for stacks of haybales and racks of tools. You’d perused it before. He might have found more discarded cherry pits in there.

He was behind you already, as you barrelled through the ajar stable door, stumbling into the centre of the dishevelled space. Illuminated only by the cracks of glowing sunlight that broke through gaps in the plywood boards, you stood amongst dust and scattered hay. You turned and faced the entrance, watching in anticipation as he steamed in after you.

Face burning red in fury and exasperation, he jabbed two angry fingers in your direction. “Give me the hat,” he ordered, throaty and severely – no longer joking.

But stubborn as you were, overly enjoying the needless chase, you were not going to capitulate that easily. You stood poised to dash, and with hunched shoulders, he prepared to hound after you.

“I like it,” you puffed, exhilarated, purposefully impudent. You pinched the brim, pulling it down with a disingenuous hat-tip. “It probably looks better on me.”

“Even if it does,” he chided through teeth, out of breath, “it’s not yours.”

You snickered girlishly, pursing your lips. “Maybe it should be.”

“Give it to me.” He thundered, hand outstretched, your heart flipped in your ribs at the sudden eruption of stern rage.

So you spun on the ball of your bare foot, before flitting hastily towards the rickety ladder that led up to the hayloft. Clambering up it like a spider, the old wood and rusted nails squealed in dispute of being used for likely the first time in decades.

But he was blindingly rapid in his chase, and before you made it even halfway up the ladder, his heaving forearm scooped around your waist, hooking you by the stomach.

“C’mere,” he growled through a clenched jaw, as he peeled you from the ladder; hoisting you like a small animal, holding your back to his chest with a constricting arm, leaving your feet dangling high off the ground.

You writhed and kicked, bucking like a goat, still holding his hat tightly to your head to prevent him from snatching it back from you. “Let go of me!” You squeaked, still giggling.

“No,” he snarled, “I’m taking my fuckin’ hat back, and then I’m taking you back to your daddy so he can knock some goddamn sense into you.”

You whinged, clutching his thick forearm in an effort to loosen his grip; nails digging into his bronzed and hairy skin, corded with veins bulged from the exertion of keeping you contained. His body burned like a furnace, pectorals stiffening underneath you as he flexed them, while he hauled you towards the exit.

“It’s just a hat,” you whined, “you’ve probably got heaps of them.”

Your obstinance was aimless – no particular interest in the hat, and no true understanding of why you fought so desperately to keep it. Maybe you just wanted to see how far you could push him. Wanted to see what would happen.

“It was my father’s,” he griped, anger approaching a boiling point as you continued to squirm around in his grip.

You groaned in dispute, still holding the leather cattleman tightly to your head. “Well he won’t be needing it, will he?”

That was a step over the line.

You knew it immediately, quick to bite your tongue after the words spat from your lips.

And his retaliation was sudden and severe; dragging you closer to the exit, he tossed you unceremoniously, almost tumbling down with you into the pile of block-shaped haybales that sat by the stable door. You landed face-down against the bale, winded, a squeak jumping from your chest with the impact; and his hat toppled from your head, rolling out of reach.

He kneeled beside you, with his forearm weighing against your lower back - you were flustered and confused by his haste. Skirt hitched up by the fall, he suddenly swung his free hand down with an open palm, smacking against the bare skin of your ass with a thunderous whack.

“Ah!” You squealed, a shriek, followed quickly by a breathless whine that slipped from your lungs outside of your control. The explosive clap rang in your ears, echoing within the bowels of the stables, loud and shrill. And the sting was sharp, hot and prickling like a brand, no doubt the raised outline of his hand was quick to form in your shivering skin.

A silence followed, pregnant and heavy, and you dared not move nor breathe too loudly – you inhaled and exhaled with trembling breaths, lips parted and wet, eyes wide as you stared into the packed hay.

He was dead quiet, too. Panting throatily, he kept you in place; grip of you not easing, though he stayed utterly still. You thought he might apologise, might express some remorse, might beg for you not to tell your father what he did. But he was silent. Like he had even surprised himself.

You tilted your head slowly, peering at him doe-eyed over your shoulder. “I’m sorry,” you whimpered, close to a whisper, dripping with pleading humiliation.

“For what?” He growled; his glower potently intimidating, a glimmer of voracity in his shadowy eyes, strained like he was suppressing greater hunger.

With a whine you turned your head back, facing ahead into the shack wall, you spoke quietly and nervously. “For taking your hat.”

Followed another swing of his arm, wide hand colliding with your rear in another deafening crack, forcing a laboured squeak from your chest. But there was something more than pain in your throat, wasn’t there? A whisper of thrill, a yelp of delight in your subsequent gasp.

And he must have heard it, took it as encouragement; as you felt the hand of his arm that pinned you down curl into a fist, balling the fabric of your dress tightly in his palm – lifting up the hem even further, you felt the cool air of the stable bite at your stinging skin as your ass was entirely exposed.

“Yeah?” He rumbled, gritting teeth, huffing like a beast. “What else?”

[p1nkcanoe]

mushy may has so many good prompts but also u could consider feral mountain fuckin swiss up against a tree in the forest idk

mushy may is always fantastic, but unfortunately i can never commit to a month's worth of prompts, so i'll take your second suggestion for a ride.

1.2k words of feral, unglamoured murder ghoul mountain and swiss who just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.

tw: murder ghouls, blood, minor injury

The summer night is far too quiet for the chase that is happening. It seems that while Swiss runs for his life, that even the crickets have gone to hide and the birds have abandoned their nests. Far from the inner grounds of the abbey there is nothing out here except for himself and the beast silently prowling the earth. 

Swiss isn’t normally this loud, this clumsy, but every long stride he takes as he weaves through the trees feels wrong, like this is new land instead of miles and miles of trails and hills that he knows by heart and feel alone. He’s been running for an hour and the muscles in his thighs feel like jelly, his lungs like smoldering ashes, but he can’t stop now. The earth ghoul is always right on his heels. Before the moment that his toes hit the dirt, Mountain is already three steps ahead of him. 

The sky had opened up in the morning to release a heavy blanket of rain that turned the ground to mush and thickened the air. Swiss is covered up to his neck in mud. His heart beats out of his chest in such a rapid pattern that he fears the vibrations are echoing throughout the forest and not just pounding in his ears. It’s so loud that he can’t even hear the coo of the creek as he approaches it, the one that he’s waded through a million times and more, and the sound that his bare feet make as he tears through the surface is deafening. For the first time since he tore through the iron fence gate to escape the gardens, he hears the earth ghoul make a sound. He laughs. 

Swiss realizes far too late that the creeping current of the creek is his bane. He continues to run and the water grapples at his ankles, wraps around his shins, and in barely a foot of water, he trips, landing hands first in an uneven bed of water stones and algae. The pain that shoots up both of his arms is immediate, and a gash in the meat of his palm begins to stain the water pink. He’s fucked. He’s already dead, he’s decided. As a last attempt at saving his borrowed vessel he sucks in a breath and makes a last attempt to run for it. 

He gets further than he expected he would considering he’s leaving a trail of breadcrumbs to follow as the blood continues to drip from his fingertips and swirl within his senses, overwhelming and rich, but that little ounce of hope dissolved altogether when he feels the crunch of scorched earth beneath his feet and realizes in a terrible flash of petrification that Mountain had purposefully been herding him since the moment he found him, not chasing him. 

In his fits of panic, Swiss had led himself right into Mountain’s den. 

A clearing in the woods, a nearly perfect circle of nothing but the remains of his victims, animals and unfortunate siblings alike. It stinks of the lingering stain of death and decay, and the ground is rough no matter where he tiptoes, still etched with the scars from when he pulled himself up from a crack in the core so many years ago. 

Swiss has been here before, but he was a hunter then. They’d worked alongside each other on the frigid night of a new moon and carried out the bloodiest hunt and sacrifice that Swiss had ever seen in the mortal plane. That was the first time he’d ever experienced Mountain’s earthen form up close, and he wasn’t sure he ever wanted to see it again. While the soft summer breeze swirls around him and whispers terrible things in his ear, he fears he’s about to see it for the second and last time. 

Trapped in the center of the circle, he blinks and shifts into his shadow form and in an instant disappears into the pitch black of the night. It won’t be enough to save him, but it should at least confuse the murderous beast for a moment while he plans his next move. 

A twig snapping to his right sends his neck swiveling in its direction only to be met with the towering form of his hunter. Mountain, nearly eight feet tall and enhanced within his natural form, molded somewhere between humanoid and a bone-dry, deer-like megafauna. Equally as bone chilling to his core. He reeks of iron and gore and evidence of an unfortunate, slaughtered sibling caught out past curfew stains his chin and drips down the planes of his chest in deep shades of crimson. That poor soul… they never stood a chance. 

The creature stalks forward on elongated limbs that are nothing but stretched skin and lean sinew, creeping far too precisely to be searching blindly for the ghoul who has disappeared into the night. He can’t see you, Swiss assures himself. He’s camouflaged and blended seamlessly into everything around him. Mountain is simply searching him out… But what Swiss doesn’t know is that his fear and adrenaline have betrayed him, and through the darkness of the void his golden eyes glow bright, cutting through the nothingness with the light of a thousand suns. 

Mountain comes closer, huffing through the empty nasal sockets of the buck’s skull that has contorted his bones and taken the place of his handsome face. Swiss glides out of his way and watches in horror as Mountain tracks his every move down to the twitching of his fingers. Fuck–

“Mountain,” Swiss calls out, inching backwards and tripping over discarded skeletons. His voice booms through the space between them and falls onto deaf ears. Mountain bends forward at the waist, unsheathes his blade-like claws, and prepares to strike. He tries again, one last time, voice desperate to be heard. 

“Mountain– hear me, please–!” 

The earth beast rushes forward and grapples the multi ghoul precisely by his neck, lugging his body backwards until his spine meets the rough, uneven texture of tree bark, and he gasps out in pain. Feet flailing, he’s been lifted from the ground. 

“Mountain!” 

The earth beast crowds him, smothering his much smaller body with his own and covering him in the stinking remains of his last victim. Clearly human, the scent is distinctly sweet and sends Swiss’ head in a swirl. Mountain growls and snarls, digging his fingers unforgivingly into his flesh and contorting Swiss’ limbs in directions that he’s sure will break them, but yet they do not break. They ache and his muscles burn beneath his skin as they’re pushed to their limits, but the other ghoul does not tear, does not maim like he watched him tear and maim the terrified Sister of Sin in this very circle. Instead, he realizes in horror that the creature is maneuvering his body. Scenting him. Testing his vessel for something entirely different. 

He feels as his spider-like fingers trace the trembling planes of his flesh down to the waistband of his pants, and it’s at the same moment that he feels the strange shape of the earth beast’s cock throbbing hotly against his stomach. 

He isn’t here to feed on his flesh. He’s here for something entirely different. He’s chased him here to breed.

this was supposed to be so much longer and i had like another 1.5k words of smut but couldnt figure out how to end it, so lmk if you want the rest and i might get back to it.... toodles

[shadyufo]

Cryptids & Creatures of Folklore Drawtober Day 20 — The Crosswick Monster

In May of 1882, two young boys named Ed and Joe Lynch were fishing in a creek in the woods of a small village called Crosswicks near Waynesville, Ohio when they were attacked by a terrifying creature. It was described as snake-like (and also lizard or salamander-like) but had four legs and used the rear two legs to run. It was black and white with large yellow spots, had a long forked tongue, and was about thirty feet in length.

The creature snatched up one of the boys and tried to drag him into the hollow of an enormous gum tree but the boys' screams attracted the attention of three men who had been working nearby. When the creature saw the men approaching it dropped the boy and disappeared into the tree. The men left with the children to get medical attention for the badly injured boy but they later returned with a group of sixty men, dogs, clubs, and axes to cut down the tree.

As the tree started to come down, the creature made its escape. Many of the men and dogs were too terrified to pursue it but those that did witnessed it running as fast as a racehorse on its two hind legs and using its long tail for balance. It leapt over but knocked down a rail fence, then ran on for about a mile until it disappeared into a cave in a hillside.

Special thanks to @glarnboudin for suggesting this beastie! I'd never heard of it before but it's a delightfully terrifying tale. I'm always stoked to learn about new cryptids <3

[gripefroot]

Fire Night

For once, his timing is impeccable. 

Not that you’d ever turned him away, of course, or even said anything temptingly snarky when he showed up while you were digging out mud from a creek bank and covered in leeches, or once, before dawn when you’d been passed out cold and therefore screamed like a banshee when he tapped on your bedroom window. 

But this. You could get used to this. 

Kiln nights can be a challenge, taking days to properly prepare and execute. Chopping wood for fuel, repairing the stone oven a quarter-mile from your cottage where it was safe to keep the blazes going for days on end to fire your pottery. Carrying the glazed pieces from the cottage to the kiln. Building the fire. Keeping it going through a night and a day and a night on very, very little sleep; because rest doesn’t compare to getting paid. 

Repairing the stone oven remains your job. But Law has spent all afternoon with a wheelbarrow bringing loads of wood to dump near the oven. He’d doffed his shirt almost immediately, already tanning in the sweltering summer sun. Kiln nights are miserable if the weather is too cold; but summer makes sitting close to the oven all night tending the fire miserable, too. 

Every crack sealed, you sit up from the grass and rub mud from your hands. 

Not exactly the hands of a lover, but he’d never minded. 

“Is this enough?” Law asks. His sixteenth load of wood. Not that you’d been counting. Or watched his backside when he’d walked away for more each time. Sweat glistens on his face as he wipes his brow with his forearm, eyes bright as he looks you up and down. As if laying belly-down on the grass and elbow-deep in mud is exactly what he admires most in a woman.  

“Yes,” you admit. 

“Finally.”

“But,” you say. His shoulders deflate by a centimeter. “I need to bring down the items to go in the oven,” you tell him, amusement bubbling up. It seems obvious to you. 

“How many?” Law wanders over to crouch beside you, his nearness making your heart jump a little. Without a word he licks his thumb and drags it across your cheekbone. The mud must have splattered you at some point. 

“All of them.”

“All?”

“All,” you tell him ruefully. “It’s less work to do it in one big batch.”

Law’s expression is nothing short of incredulous. “All,” he repeats. You give into the temptation to laugh, nearly blocking out his next grumble: “You have five shelves in your house. All of them?” 

“You can keep asking, but I’m not going to change my mind,” you tease. “Why did you think I was so happy to see you this morning that I jumped on you?” 

He purses his lips, making a show of rubbing his backside where he’d landed after said jump. “Slave labor,” Law says. 

“It’s not slavery if you’re willing,” you say. 

“Keep that logic to yourself.” He tugs on a clump of your hair. “Fine. I’ll get all of your pots and things. But I’m cheating.” 

“I’m surprised it took you this long to cheat.” 

Law stands, brushing dirt and feathery bits from trees off of his jeans. “How could I have cheated when you keep sneaking looks at me like I’m a three-tier cake you’re going to eat tonight?” he asks, brows raised. 

“I was subtle!” you protest. The air goes funny and shimmery, echoing his laugh as he disappears from the glade in the blink of an eye. A thump draws your attention: one of your galoshes for mud-digging appears right where he’d been standing. “He’s taking that back, too,” you say, to no one in particular, and stand to wash your hands in the creek. 

Embers rush into the dusky sky to promptly fade, spinning back down to the earth. They’re snuffed beneath your feet, or your knees, or Law’s feet, or his knees. The oven barely fits all the pots, nestled together as close as is reasonably safe, before you’d sealed it with a final brick and more mud to keep the heat inside. Law works the bellows, blue and white flames spurting out of the top to chase the embers. 

“Hot enough?” he asks. His face is red, glistening in the glow from the oven. 

Carefully you pick your way to the oven as close as you can bear, leaning over to peer inside the chimney. “It’s glowing,” you say. “It’s enough for now, but we’ll have to bring it back up in thirty minutes or so.”

Law blew out a breath, sitting on his haunches. He’d worked hard all day alongside you, and it shows. It shows in his tired eyes. It shows in his strained smile. But any smile from him is a treasure. 

“Thirty minutes,” he repeats. “What should we do while we wait?” 

“Rest, probably,” you tell him. 

“I want to know if I’ve earned anything from you.” His eyes hone in on yours. 

“Don’t tell me, Law,” you say, walking around the oven in his direction, “that you only broke your back on my behalf today for something as small as a kiss.”

“I’m hoping for more than a kiss.” As soon as you reach him, his arm snakes out to wind around your thigh, holding you close. His face by your knee is a beautiful sight, orange in the reflection of the fire with deep shadows from the lengthening night around. His hand strokes up your thigh, you run your fingers through his thick, damp hair. 

“I have an idea,” you say softly. “Let’s take a quick dip in the river and then come back.”

Law’s brow arches. “Yeah?” 

“Yeah. Let’s set up my bedroll far enough away from the oven that we aren’t sweating.”

He breaks out into a grin. “We’ll sweat.”

“Yes, but not from heat, if you catch my drift.” 

“I do.” His fingers find the waistband of your pants. “I do catch your drift.” 

No one from town ever comes this far up the river at night. They don’t need to. So you strip off your shirt and pants by the bank, wading in stark-naked. The cool water hits your skin with a hiss, goosebumps pebbling across your body. Once up to your hips, you turn, trailing your fingers through the water to splash your front. 

“Aren’t you coming?” you call back. Law is mid-doff at the riverbank, jeans partway down his knees. He’s staring. With a laugh you crook a finger to get him to hurry up. It jolts him into action, tugging his jeans the rest of the way off. Then the air shimmers, and a second later his body is pressed up against yours in the middle of the river. 

“I’m coming, all right.” The words are muttered in your ear before his teeth sink into your shoulder. It only makes you shiver more, torn between the chilly water and Law’s heated body. The only problem is your front is cold and your back is hot. So you spin, trading sensations. His hands land on your hips, his half-smile visible in the night. 

“Well,” you say, lifting your arms out of the water. Droplets fall back, plunk-plunk-plunking into the stream while you wrap your arms around his neck. “While I’m here…” 

Little washing is accomplished. It cools you off, and rinses some sweat from his body and yours, but other than that? It’s forgotten in a tender, long-anticipated kiss that makes you hot all over again. He must be more impatient at the delay than he’d acted, because his long fingers waste no time digging into your rear end beneath the water, a low groan sounding in his throat. 

That groan makes your skin skitter in anticipation, heat blooming deep inside. He’s slick from the water, and warm and solid. When his tongue is at the seam of your lips, you let him in with a gasp, tasting pine and man. Traipsing around the woods all day has made him delicious. More delicious than usual. The sensual way he kisses reminds you of his tongue elsewhere; stroking deep and slow while his hands coast up your spine. 

“Law,” you choke out when his mouth goes to your throat to bite down hard enough to make you shiver. “Oh, Law. We can’t do this in a river.”

“Why not?” The question is a rumble in his chest, vibrating against yours. One hand on your rear, his other comes up to cup a breast, squeezing with your nipple pinned between his thumb and index finger.

Why not? Why not what? What had you asked? It had seemed so important then…but now, putty in his hands, you can’t remember what it is or why you’d cared. 

Down his chest, tracing the muscles. Your hand finds his erection, slipping beneath it to seize the sack. He grunts, thrusting forward as you laugh, and laugh, and laugh. He likes it. Especially now. Law pulls away, his eyelids lowered but not far enough for you not to see the sparkling stars reflected in the dark depths. 

“Someone’s greedy,” he says. 

“You started it,” you tease back. 

His lips tighten in a line. But he’s not grumpy about it. Not really. Especially when your fingers curl around the base of his cock, giving a tug that makes him sway. 

“Alright,” he grumbles. “Alright. You win.” 

Law bends over, hoisting you up and out of the river until you’re pistoned on his shoulder, the bone digging into your belly. Your shriek of surprise echoes down the river. Hopefully no one comes running. 

One sloshing step after another to the bank. Then out, clothes forgotten as he strides to the oven. Drips of water patter onto the ground. His free hand strokes up the back of your thigh, then gives your rear a whack that makes you squirm. 

“Not nice,” you huff. He’s too tall for you to reach his backside to retaliate. Not nice, and not fair. 

Despite his manhandling, Law sets you down gently, holding you up until he’s sure that your legs are bearing your weight. Then, grinning, he finds your bedroll in a pack of supplies that you’d brought that morning. The night air is not kind to wet skin. You wrap your arms around yourself, shivering. And then you inch closer to the oven, radiating heat even from ten feet away. 

He shakes out the bedroll, laying it down. He’s never been a shy man. Not with his body, at least. But the sight of him standing fully nude and fully erect in the orange glow of the oven…your cheeks warm. His teeth gleam in the darkness. 

“I’ll warm you up,” he says, offering a hand. 

Too chilly to play coy, you bound across the space between you and him to encase yourself in his open arms. A clumsy kiss lasts all of two seconds before he bends at the knee, cradling you to carry you down, down, down. 

It’s practice or skill or instinctual; your legs cradling him as he nudges his hips into meet yours. The clumsy kiss lengthens, lips parting to drink each other in, with his hands everywhere. On your jaw, on your breasts, on your hips. Then, finally, with a jolt that drags a moan from your throat, his fingers dip between your legs. 

His breath is hot on your ear, your fingernails digging into his back for all you’re worth. “I missed this,” he sighed, catching your earlobe in his teeth. 

“Me - too.” The words are a gasp. His fingers slide sleekly against your sex; flaring up desire that already burns. “Law,” you breathe, hands moving up to plunge into his messy hair. “Oh, Law.” 

“Like I said. Greedy.” His chuckle is low and dangerous. “But I am too. Makes me crazy, y’know? Knowing you want me so bad. Knowing you’re here when I’m at sea and all I have to do is change my course, and in a matter of days I can be right here, inside you, where I need to be…”

Dizzy, you scarcely notice when his fingers pull away to be replaced by his cock. He’s slow to enter, rocking against you with his lips fastened to your neck. Each tiny thrust drives a groan out of him, and a gasp out of you. Tucking your knees higher, you reach down to hold onto him; to drag him in further - 

But he growls, grabbing your wrist in his. “No,” Law said roughly. Half inside of you, he pulls away, glaring down at you. “I’ll be moving at my own pace.” 

If his stubbornness didn’t guarantee your pleasure, you’d fight back. Nip back at him the way he nips at your fingers as if in reminder. He threads his fingers through yours, pressing your hand into the ground. Then he starts to move again, inch by inch; slow enough that your core twitches for more. You want to be full, he can fill you, but why does Law have to be such a tease? 

“That’s better,” he purrs, as if reading your emotion in your face. He smirks ear to ear, eyes never moving from yours as he pushes into you. 

“I like to touch you,” you say. 

“So do I.” 

“I wish you’d let me.” 

“Maybe I’ll let you later.” Pain in the rear as he was, Law tilts his body off of yours to wriggle his arm out, and yours, to properly pin down your opposite hand above your head, too. If his fingers weren’t so blasted long he might not get away with it, but he manages to hold you with one hand. The other, he trails down your cheek, your neck, and to your breast, which he cups. 

“I like to touch you,” he breathes. His nose brushes against yours, a tender display that makes your heart squeeze. “Thanks for letting me.” 

You stick your tongue out. He laughs. 

“That’s how I know you like being right where you are,” Law says. “You resort to being petty. You know I’m gonna make it worth your while, right?”

Yes. You do. 

“There we go.” His voice lowers to a whisper. “I can see it in your eyes, you know. The way you ache.” He draws his hips back, thrusting deeper inside. Your back arches against him, but his grip on your hands never lessens. Instead he bends over to match your angle, tongue against your lips. 

How he manages to have so much self-control boggles your mind. He’d wanted this all day just as much as you, yet he holds himself back. How? How? 

“Law.” It’s little more than a whimper. “Please.” 

“I know. I’ve got you.” This time the words are strained. Was he breaking at last? By the jerk in his hips that finally, finally seats him fully inside of you, you think he might. 

Law doesn’t tease anymore. He doesn’t coax, he doesn’t seduce. No. His mouth is hot on yours, every pant of breath filling your mouth as you kiss him, kiss him, use every ounce of your strength that’s available to welcome him inside. The ground is uneven against your back; the oven crackles, wind rushes through the tree branches above…

And the deep heat uncoils between your legs, building with each skillful thrust until he feels larger and thicker than ever. The only noise you can make is a long, drawn out “O - o - o - oh” that he must recognize, because he doesn’t slow, doesn’t change. Heartbeats later the pleasure rakes through your body in a single, cresting wave; starting and ending where he’s joined with you. 

“Good girl.” The words crack from his mouth, his tone deep. “I knew you could do it.” 

A few more, slowing thrusts send shooting stars through your veins, gasping for air while your heart batters in your chest. Then, finally, he stops, buried deep inside while his hands loosen on your wrists. 

“There.” Law grins. “Not so bad to let me do my thing?” 

“Well!” Your cheeks are hot, and his are red. “I’ve never been a man but I’m not convinced that takes too much skill. Just humping, really.” 

He stares. Humor tickles, making your lips twitch. 

“Just humping?” he repeats. 

“Now, if you’d licked me first,” you shrug, pretending angelic innocence as his expression darkens. “Or done more with your hands…” 

“You’re impossible, you know that?”

“Impossible! I’m simply stating that you can exhibit your skill in so many other ways.” 

It works. Law’s jaw clenches, a growl between his bared teeth. He throws himself back onto his haunches, leaving you bare and a little cold, until he grabs your ankle to pull you towards him. 

“Just humping,” he mutters. The last thing you see are his narrowed eyes, the challenge sizzling in them. In a single moment, he flips you onto your belly, the scratchiness of the bedroll far too pleasurable on your nipples than should be allowed. You plant your palms on the ground to hoist yourself up, but his hand pushes down on your spine. “Just humping,” he says again. 

“Just humping,” you say. Smugly you glance over your shoulder, just in time to see him rise to his knees. He pulls your hips up with him, tracing around the flesh of your buttocks with a growing smile. He meets your eyes in a brief, stunning moment. 

“You menace,” Law says. “You wanted this.” 

“A lady never tells.” Stretching out like a cat, you push yourself against him with a pretend yawn. His intake of breath is audible, the strangled noise like music to your ears. 

He can be in control all he wants, but it doesn’t change his weaknesses. And you happen to be acquainted with his weaknesses. Intimately. 

Law starts slow again, but picks up faster, holding onto you for the ride while the bedroll scrapes against your skin. With nothing to hold onto, you make fists instead, letting the pleasure drive everything else from your mind. All that matters is him and you and you and him, and how perfect he feels and how wonderful you feel and how much better everything is when he’s here…

It could have been an hour later, or three, dozing off naked and side-by-side beneath the sky while the embers burst like fireworks against the inky blackness. He lays on his back, you curled against him, his fingers tracing lazy patterns down your back. Sleep swarms, but you brush it away. 

It’s Fire Night, after all. 

“Our clothes are still at the river,” you mumble blearily. 

“Oops.” He doesn’t sound even a little repentant. 

“I don’t want to add more wood to the fire nude. What if I get burned?” 

Law sighs, then with a groan pushes himself to an elbow. Facing the glow of the oven, his features blur handsomely with a smile just for you. You smile back, tracing the line of facial hair down his chin. Fondly he pats your rear. 

“I’ll get the clothes,” he says. “But then you have to add the wood.” 

If he feels like he won, then that’s fine with you. Because this false competition only makes it easier to make excuses, easier to be sweet, and easier to pretend like it isn’t love.

[offender42085]

Post 1298

Pedro A Bravo, Florida inmate 148701, born 1993, incarceration intake August 2014 at age 20, sentenced to life

Murder, False Imprisonment, Poisoning of Food/Water, Obstruction, Providing False Information to LEO in a Capital Case

When Christian Aguilar was reported missing on September 20, 2012, the police got in touch with the last person who had seen him, Pedro Bravo. In the interview, he claimed that he had been feeling suicidal, about which he went to talk to Christian. While they were talking, he mentioned that they had a few disagreements and that a random hitchhiker was also in the vehicle with them for some part of their ride. Pedro was asked to take the authorities through the exact route that he and Christian had taken the day before he disappeared. Pedro was then reportedly taken into custody for 72 hours to ensure that he was not a harm to himself.

The police interrogated Pedro for the second time to determine if his claims in the first one were true or fabricated. They noticed that his account of events had changed, as he even claimed that the disagreement with Christian had gotten physical after dropping off the hitchhiker that day. After four days had passed into the sudden vanishing of Christian, the authorities decided to dig deeper into the relationship between the 18-year-old and Pedro. They soon learned that before Christian, Erika Friman was in a relationship with Pedro. The three of them had gone to the same high school in Doral, Florida. Erika and Pedro broke up in 2012, during their senior year, before the former went to Santa Fe Community College.

Christian and Erika began dating soon after starting their college. However, since the three were friends in high school, the couple decided to keep their relationship a secret from Pedro. Unfortunately, it wasn’t a secret for long, as he learned about their romance through mutual friends. Enraged, he felt betrayed by Christian and allegedly devised a plan to get revenge on him. Reportedly, Pedro’s mental health was already in decline, but when Erika left him, it deteriorated even further. Using this as an excuse, he called up Christian and asked for his support in September 2012. Learning about these clear motives, the investigators delved deep into the matter to dig out evidence against Pedro.

Taking into account his lack of worry for his friend, the officers booked Pedro under “failure to render aid” and obtained a search warrant for his car. While executing the search, the investigators found dirt and limestone traces in the undercarriage and sent it for further testing. Aside from that, they got their hands on a Gatorade bottle and a roll of duct tape. The results mentioned that the residue was actually from Levy County in Gainesville. A further search of Pedro’s residence also led to the discovery of a receipt for the purchase of a shovel.

Moreover, a look into Pedro’s journal revealed his obsession with getting back with Erika and unfurled his elaborate plan to do that “by making Christian disappear.” He was swiftly arrested on September 24, 2012, and charged with first-degree murder of Christian Aguilar on September 28. As the investigation carried on in full swing, a discovery stunned everyone. Around 2:30 pm on October 12, a few hunters in pursuit of jasmine vines inside the wooded area of the Gulf Hammock Hunting Club in Levy County got distracted by a peculiar decomposing smell and stumbled upon a body that was buried partially into the ground.

Following the discovery 8 miles off State Road 24 on Parker Boulevard near Otter Creek, the authorities arrived at the spot. The skeletal remains and the clothes matched the description of Christian’s attire on the day of his disappearance. The authorities also recovered duct tape from where the 18-year-old’s remains were found, and analysts confirmed it to be an exact match to the one they had obtained from Pedro’s car.

While looking for a motive behind the heinous act, the authorities reportedly received another set of reports, which stated that traces of sedatives such as acetaminophen and diphenhydramine were detected on the Gatorade bottle taken from Pedro’s car. He, however, said he got the poison to harm himself. The police further confirmed that the then-20-year-old’s phone was pinged in the parking lot of Walmart on North West 13th Street for about hours on the night of Christian’s death. There were also surveillance pictures of Pedro buying a shovel, tape, knife, etc.

Furthermore, there were reports that the fluid taken for the test from Christian’s lungs indicated strangulation. As per the authorities, Pedro’s obsession with Erika Friman was so intense that it motivated him to map out a plan to take the life of his friend. They stated that he poisoned and strangled Christian around the Wal-Mart and later moved his remains to the woods, where he proceeded to dig a shallow grave and bury it into the ground, enough to hide it from the world. Taking all the evidence into account, the authorities expressed belief that Pedro had killed Christian in an act of premeditation. The former, however, said he wasn’t guilty.

Pedro Bravo went to trial for the first-degree murder of Christian Aguilar on August 5, 2014. Aside from presenting the evidence obtained from the spot where the 18-year-old’s remains were found and Pedro’s car, the prosecutors invited several witnesses onto the stand who testified that Pedro was obsessed with his ex-girlfriend Erika and had an issue with her relationship with Christian. When Erika was asked to testify, she referred to Pedro as “a sociopath, or a sick person” and said: “It was sickening, almost, just because we knew him for so long and Christian was his friend.”

She added, “This was a person we knew. This was intentional, it makes it all so much worse… A lot of it was his obsession for me, and how he wanted me back, and how he wanted to be with me.” In a shocking testimony, Pedro’s former prison mate stated that Pedro confessed to him about strangulating Christian with a moving strap in 13 minutes. After enough deliberation, Bravo was convicted of first-degree murder, false imprisonment, poisoning, tampering with physical evidence, and many other charges.

Pedro was sentenced to life in prison without the possibility of parole on August 15, 2014. Despite the verdict, he insisted upon his innocence.

4l

[thegeorgiatennantblog]

if you don't make Billie and Sylvia fall for each other i will start writing fix-it fics and then don't blame me if i'm out there writing smut about your ocs. i'm warning you those fics are gonna be filthy. better make them canon right now.

Hiya Nonnie!

As much as I adore your enthusiasm for my fic (I'm absofuckinglutely chuffed and doing a little dance rn) I'm sorry to inform you that the plot hath already been written and hence cannot be changed. So, whether they do end up together or not, well, you'll have to wait and find out won't you ;P

[nastasya--filippovna]

Ciao, Bonjour, こんにちは, Namaste, Shalom, Hàlo, Hola, 你好, Salam, Hujambo, Привет and such like.

I can't believe that I have been on this Tumblr blog for almost a year now but I haven't made an introductory post.

Here goes nothing!

My name is Meena (well that's my chosen name but I'm gonna make it legal too {soon I promise})  

I have just officially exited my teens, but tbh I don't feel any different from when I was ten. I am neurodivergent (AuDHD), ace, lesbian and genderfluid (She/They) AND a Virgo. South Asian Queer Socialist and proud to be it. I'm doing law school and I probably should be studying rn but here I am goofing off on Tumblr. You'll see me going crazy about my hyperfixations which are basically a bunch of gay shows , film, art and music. You put Timothee Chalamet, Rooney Mara, Florence Pugh, David Tennant and Michael Sheen in anything and I'll watch it. I also love space. The cosmos I mean.

🌞˚..✭°・ .゜🌎༘⋆₊ ⊹★🔭๋࣭ ⭑⋆｡˚🌌˚..✭°🌔🌜・ .゜🪐 ˚

I'm also running my sideblog @thegeorgiatennantblog (check in for pure Georgia Tennant awesomeness) and I am a co-admin with The Marvellous @sakuranova07 for @fightingalgth8rs

I also write a bit sometimes. I'm working on two Original Fiction pieces of mine if anyone wants to read ¯\_ (ツ)_/¯

Summary:

Something happened in Little River 25 years ago. Nothing has been the same ever since. For years the town has tried to bury the memory of the horror. But when bodies start turning up in the town not only do long unburied secrets start turning up but also the harrowing realization that something sinister lurks within Little River DI Sylvia McFarlane has the chance to uncover both the mystery of the case before her and that of her own shadowy past.

Notes:

Thanks to @sakuranova07 on Tumblr who came up with the idea and a LOT of other people who kept egging me, at last BEHOLD, I have written THE detective story casting THE Georgia Tennant as a detective as she investigates crimes in her little hometown tinged with an element of the supernatural. This is an original piece of fiction and the characters are my ocs. The actors have merely been casted for the roles (bcs it is fun, helps visualize the story and also bcs who doesn't wanna see Georgia play a kooky detective).

Warnings:

Graphic Depictions of Violence (I mean it is a murder mystery) Scary scenes with supernatural events No on-screen s3x Off-screen or implied abuse, SA, SH, domestic violence, Transphobia, etc. (Nothing graphic or explicit) Strong Language: A-word, B-word, C-word, D-word, F-word and well basically all of them Not suitable for audiences under 15

A story of love, loss, death, coming of age, and found families. Coming soon.

Warnings:

Graphic Depictions of Violence No on-screen s3x Strong Language Drug abuse Domestic Violence (not explicit) Implied Child Abuse Might not be suitable for audiences younger than 15

So that's it for now!

🍭🍬 Sláinte M-fckers! 🍭🍬

[fightingalgth8rs]

Quick question for all those who are reading The Woods at Three Mile Creek (my detective Georgia AU thingy!):

Someone (I'm not gonna name names) said that I'd written in too much sexual tension btw Sylvia and Billie.

GUys I really want to know this!

[whitepolaris]

Stranger in the Night: Beast of Bray Road

It's something that cannot be, and yet, there it stands. The paradox quickly overwhelms any rational mind.

A quick drubbing of two heavy feet on the pavement behind you, an impossible movement of hairy limbs to one side, and suddenly two lemon eyes fearlessly search your own with uncanny, brazen mockery. You're transfixed, chilled, and completely bewildered. Once those lemon eyes have transfixed you with their cogent stare for a few eternal moments, the creature's head snaps away; fangs glinting, leaving you dazed as its hulking from leaps into the brambles or hurdles a stone fence to drop twenty feet onto a creek bed. After a parting glimpse of matted dark fur, all you want is to be anywhere else. As your foot jams on the accelerator or you stumble into a run, willing your legs to hightail it in the opposite direction, you are desperately grateful to have survived this unholy meeting of strangers in the night.

After the night really is stranger if you live in Walworth County or Jefferson County.

The dark hours, the witching hours, are when the creature dubbed the Beast of Bray Road most often shows itself. This enigmatic "thing," as most witnesses tend to call it, was named after a country lane east of Elkhorn, a small town squarely in the center of Walworth County, where it was seen by the first witnesses to go public. Over the past six decades, it has shocked as many as three dozen area residents with its sudden, sporadic appearances.

The first known sighting was in 1936, when a security watchman at a convent and home for the developmentally disabled in Jefferson County made an unsettling discovery one night as the clock neared midnight. Straining to see in the shadows, Mark Schackelman thought he made out something digging in an old Native American burial mound behind the main building. Thinking it must be a dog, he trained his flashlight on the animal. With a shock, he realized that it was not a dog but a man-size, shaggy creature with pointed ears and three long claws on each hand. Years later, he told his son, Joseph, he considered it to be a "demon from hell."

Other sightings occurred throughout the '60s, '70s, and '80s in Jefferson and Walworth counties, with puzzled and frightened witnesses sometimes calling local police in an effort to find out what exactly they had seen. Unbeknownst to one another, surrounding communities whispered for years about a creature known by the local names Bluff Monster or the Eddy.

The whisperings became public for the first time in December 1991, when rumors began to circulate around Elkhorn. People claimed that a shaggy, manlike wolf-headed creature was haunting the cornfields and woods around Bray Road, a country byway several miles long and lined with farms owned by the same families for decades. Eyewitnesses were calling this creature a werewolf.

Jon Fredrickson, the county's animal control officer, used the "W" word on the manila file folder in which he stored all the queries trickling into his office. One story was from witness Lori Endrizzi, who saw the "manimal" kneeling by the side of the road and holding what looked like roadkill in its paws. Fredrickson speculated that perhaps the witness were saying a "deformed coyote." But Endrizzi insisted that if werewolves existed, this creature would be one.

As other witnesses began to speak up, it became apparent that the hairy phenomenon was not limited to Bray Road. In fact, the sightings went back decades and crossed county lines, meaning either that a reproducing family of such creatures existed or that the "thing" was very long-lived and able to travel great distances.

The witnesses, with one or two exceptions, seemed trustworthy. Most were reluctant, and many felt fear when recalling their encounters. There was no single "type" of witness either. The witnesses were male and female, children and the elderly, white-collar and blue-collar, and local folks as well as those just passing through. Almost all said something like, "I Know what I saw, and nothing is going to change that."

This descriptions were similar: height between five and seven feet; hairy shaggy and often extremely wild; coloration dark brown, sometimes gray or silver streaks or tips. Those who had a good look usually reported the creatures being like a wolf or German shepherd, with pointy ears, although some have claimed the head was apelike. The creature was sometimes seen standing on two feet, other times being on all fours. The most compelling characteristic, however, was its aggressive stare.

One witness, Williams Bay businessman Marvin Kirschnik, who came forward in 2003, was able to corroborate the other sightings with one of his own in 1981. HIs was unusual in that it had happened in broad daylight. Driving along Highway 11 near Bray Road one August afternoon, Kirschnik became aware of a creature staring at him from behind a fallen tree. He pulled over and scrutinized the creature from the window of his van for a good minute, he estimated, as it returned his gaze. Finally, totally unnerved by its stare and by his inability to identify the beast, Kirschnik sped off. But he made a drawing of it as soon as he got home. Its resemblance to the descriptions of other witnesses is remarkable, although Kirschnik's drawing was made then years before the newspaper story broke.

Does the Beast still prowl? Stories keep rolling in. However, most of the recent sightings have been in places other places than Bray Road, which hasn't had one since the early '90s. A woman saw the creature in Washington County in the summer of 2003, and in May 2004, a Madison man saw a strange dog-ape beast prowling a sidewalk about one a.m. in a dimly lit residential area. Some Illinois have also reported seeing it in four different places in recent months.

One woman who regularly saw what she called the Bluff Monster while growing up in southern Jefferson County gave a description that makes the Beast sound more like Bigfoot than Wolfman. There have been other witnesses who felt that the creature bore Yeti-like traits. A professional couple from Kenosha both saw a seven-foot-tall, almost classic Sasquatch-type creature hurl a bridge rail into Honey Lake in eastern Walworth County. Some cryptozoologists-those who study unknown animals-have speculated that the Beast may indeed be a smaller species of Bigfoot.

Of course, there have been sightings of various bipedal canines around the world and elsewhere in the United States, including the Michigan Dog Man flap in the mid-1980s. But the Beast of Bray Road remains unique for the number of sightings and the worldwide attention it has received. As to the true nature of the Beast, probably only time and perhaps a video or a lucky capture will solve the mystery to everyone's satisfaction.

[morbidology]

James Byrd Jr., a divorced father of three and former salesman, was renowned for his infectious positivity and sociable nature. Whether it was a lively gathering or a mundane day, James infused life into every moment. Often, he could be spotted singing and dancing while tending to his lawn. “He was the funniest person you’d ever want to mee,” recollected Flora Bartee, a neighbour of James’ parents. “Everyone around here knew him. There was no ingrained hatred or anything like that,” recollected his sister, Clara Taylor.

Despite a turbulent past that included a six-year prison stint for theft and parole violation, James was determined to redeem himself upon his release in 1996. Settling into an apartment at the Pineview public housing project in Jasper, Texas, he seemed to be on an upward trajectory. However, an arm injury sustained years prior and a seizure disorder rendered him unable to work, relying solely on disability benefits. To supplement his income, he took up lawn-mowing gigs around town.

On the 7th of June, he attended his niece’s bridal shower at his parents’ home in Jasper. Before leaving, he gave his older sister, Stella Brumley, a big hug and she reminded him to get ready for Father’s Day. It was family tradition that all eight of the siblings would gather for the Sunday service at their parents’ church. “I got my suit in the cleaners. I’m going to be ready,” he reassured his sister and headed down the driveway, ready to walk home.

As he walked down the dirt road, three men pulled up alongside him in their truck. They were: 31-year-old Lawrence Russel Brewer of Sulphur Springs, 23-year-old Shawn Allen Berry of Jasper and 23-year-old John William King, also of Jasper. All three men had served time in prison and had ties to the Ku Klux Klan or the Aryan Brotherhood.

The Aryan Brotherhood got its start on the West Coast in the 1960s. It boasts of members throughout prisons in the United States and exhibits an intense hatred of African Americans and Jews. They considered prison ripe recruiting grounds for the organization. The Aryan Brotherhood has ties to the Aryan Nation, an Idaho-based paramilitary organization that advocates racial violence and white supremacy.

James jumped into the truck bed and the men first of all drove to a convenience store east of Jasper. There are a number of different versions of events as to what happened next in regards to who was driving the vehicle and who decided James’ fate. What is known, however, is that the men drove James up to a small clearing in the woods on Huff Creek Road. Here, James was dragged from the truck and severely beaten, urinated on and defecated on.

During the beating, John reportedly said: “We’re starting The turner Diaries early.” The Turner Diaries was written in 1978 by William Pierce, the head of the National Alliance, one of the largest and most organized neo-Nazi groups within the United States. It is kind of like a bible for right-wing extremists and calls for the violent overthrow of the Federal government as well as the systematic killing of Jews and people of colour.

Following the brutal beating, James was spray painted on the face and then chained by his ankles to the pickup truck, a symbolic remnant of slavery. The men then drove the truck, dragging James behind it. The three men didn’t stop driving as James’s flesh ripped from his body as they weaved from one side of the road to the other side.

They didn’t stop after they came around a sharp turn and James’s body bounced into a ditch at the side of the road, hitting the ragged end of a concrete culvert just below his arm. They didn’t stop when the impact ripped James’s arm, shoulder, neck and head from the rest of his body. They continued to drive for a further mile with just half of James’s body. They finally stopped the truck after three miles, when they ran out of paved road.

After investigators arrived at the church where James’s mutilated body was found, they set up the task of identifying him and retrieving the rest of his body. It wouldn’t be long until his other remains were discovered. His head, neck, and right arm were recovered along the road leading up to the church. There were smears of blood running along the road as well as James’ dentures and pieces of flesh that had ripped from his body here and there. Along the bloody trail, investigators found James’ tennis shoes, shirt, wallet and keys.

The trail of James’ life coming to a cruel end was clear. His blood was smeared along more than two miles of country road.

The three killers were quickly identified and apprehended. They all stood separately and were convicted. Brewer was executed in 2011, following by King in 2019. Berry was sentenced to life in prison and will be eligible for parole in 2038.

[sweater-daddiesdumbdork]

My girl cruised three miles with me today, no pictures because we were just enjoying it and I forgot to snap some.

But Tika had incredible recall and alerted me to anyone coming up behind me on the trail. She chased a partridge into the woods and waded a creek to cool off from the sunshine.

Then she ate dinner and now is snoring next to me. Happy tired dog makes me thrilled.