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reasonsforhope · 4 months

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In the Willamette Valley of Oregon, the long study of a butterfly once thought extinct has led to a chain reaction of conservation in a long-cultivated region.

The conservation work, along with helping other species, has been so successful that the Fender’s blue butterfly is slated to be downlisted from Endangered to Threatened on the Endangered Species List—only the second time an insect has made such a recovery.

[Note: "the second time" is as of the article publication in November 2022.]

To live out its nectar-drinking existence in the upland prairie ecosystem in northwest Oregon, Fender’s blue relies on the help of other species, including humans, but also ants, and a particular species of lupine.

After Fender’s blue was rediscovered in the 1980s, 50 years after being declared extinct, scientists realized that the net had to be cast wide to ensure its continued survival; work which is now restoring these upland ecosystems to their pre-colonial state, welcoming indigenous knowledge back onto the land, and spreading the Kincaid lupine around the Willamette Valley.

First collected in 1929 [more like "first formally documented by Western scientists"], Fender’s blue disappeared for decades. By the time it was rediscovered only 3,400 or so were estimated to exist, while much of the Willamette Valley that was its home had been turned over to farming on the lowland prairie, and grazing on the slopes and buttes.

Pictured: Female and male Fender’s blue butterflies.

Now its numbers have quadrupled, largely due to a recovery plan enacted by the Fish and Wildlife Service that targeted the revival at scale of Kincaid’s lupine, a perennial flower of equal rarity. Grown en-masse by inmates of correctional facility programs that teach green-thumb skills for when they rejoin society, these finicky flowers have also exploded in numbers.

[Note: Okay, I looked it up, and this is NOT a new kind of shitty greenwashing prison labor. This is in partnership with the Sustainability in Prisons Project, which honestly sounds like pretty good/genuine organization/program to me. These programs specifically offer incarcerated people college credits and professional training/certifications, and many of the courses are written and/or taught by incarcerated individuals, in addition to the substantial mental health benefits (see x, x, x) associated with contact with nature.]

The lupines needed the kind of upland prairie that’s now hard to find in the valley where they once flourished because of the native Kalapuya people’s regular cultural burning of the meadows.

While it sounds counterintuitive to burn a meadow to increase numbers of flowers and butterflies, grasses and forbs [a.k.a. herbs] become too dense in the absence of such disturbances, while their fine soil building eventually creates ideal terrain for woody shrubs, trees, and thus the end of the grassland altogether.

Fender’s blue caterpillars produce a little bit of nectar, which nearby ants eat. This has led over evolutionary time to a co-dependent relationship, where the ants actively protect the caterpillars. High grasses and woody shrubs however prevent the ants from finding the caterpillars, who are then preyed on by other insects.

Now the Confederated Tribes of Grand Ronde are being welcomed back onto these prairie landscapes to apply their [traditional burning practices], after the FWS discovered that actively managing the grasslands by removing invasive species and keeping the grass short allowed the lupines to flourish.

By restoring the lupines with sweat and fire, the butterflies have returned. There are now more than 10,000 found on the buttes of the Willamette Valley."

-via Good News Network, November 28, 2022

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drabblesandimagines · 1 month

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Scoot On Over

Leon Kennedy x female reader, established relationship, fluff with a tiny bit of suggestive spice at the end

Leon threw himself down onto the mattress with a relieved sigh – a cliché, but there was nothing like sleeping in your own bed after being away. It had been a mixture of questionable motel beds, a couple of nights in the backseat of the car, another night of no sleep at all and he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t on the brink of exhaustion, running on adrenaline until he made it back home to you that evening.

He rubs his cheek against your pillow, inhaling the scent of your perfume and allows himself to close his eyes. Now, he just needs you in his arms for a perfect’s night sleep…

“Leon?”

Nothing – again. You’d worry he had stopped breathing entirely if he wasn’t letting out soft snores from where his face was pressed against your pillow. He’d been away on a mission for two long weeks and had arrived home early evening, duffel bag in hand, covered in fading bruises, kisses and wandering hands tinged with weariness despite his obvious excitement to be back home with you.

You made small talk as you’d made a light dinner – get him fed and then you could both have an early night. He didn’t like to talk much about his missions had entailed – he wanted to keep the two things as separate in his brain as he could – but he knew if he needed to talk about something, you’d be there and that was enough.

You’d sent him up to bed first whilst you finished up in the kitchen – you liked to start off each morning with a clean slate in there and it would only take you ten minutes tops to sort, you’d assured him, a cheeky pat to his backside as you encouraged him up the stairs.

He’d changed into a pair of plaid PJ bottoms and a plain white tee, so he must’ve brushed his teeth and then just… collapsed? You place a hand on the broad expanse of his back, giving him a light shake. “Sweetheart?”

The problem is, Leon is broad and tall and currently, somehow, taking up the whole of your double bed. You can’t even see a reasonable space you could try and curl up into against his side and be remotely comfortable, the way his limbs are spread out like a starfish.

“Leon,” you place another hand on his back and give a more vigorous shake. “I just need you to scooch on up a bit, sweetheart.”

Nothing.

You change tact and try and lift an arm, maybe you can get him to roll with a little encouragement, or he’ll wake up? Surely as an agent he’s a light sleeper anyway, what if you were an enemy or any sort of threat?

His arm is deadweight, all muscle - even if you try and lift it with both hands, embarrassingly, you can’t get it even an inch or so off the mattress.

You try and push it inwards so it’ll sit tight against his body, but it just won’t move.

“Leon?” You grab hold of his shoulder and shake it with all of your strength.

“Yeah, baby?” He mumbles.

A sign of life – hallelujah. “Can you move along a bit for me?”

“Sure.”

He doesn’t move.

“Just need you to scooch up a bit for me, handsome.” “Mm-hm…” And he snuggles his face further into your pillow, an adorable smile on his face as he does.

With a sigh, you try and wedge yourself into the space in defeat – maybe he’ll subconsciously feel you and lift his arm up for a cuddle, and then you’d be able to fit a little more comfortably? He did prefer to sleep with an arm wrapped around you, keeping you pressed close up against him, legs tangled together.

After trying out various positions in the hopes of coaxing him into a spoon, a few more vigorous shakes and, finally, a more than playful smack to his backside that achieved no more than a mumble – not proud of that one, but needs must - you admit defeat, kneel down beside the bed and stare at his slumbering face in thought.

He must be utterly exhausted and, despite the frustration of not being able to cuddle up against him after so many nights apart, it is flattering, you suppose, that he must feel safe within your company to allow himself to relax so completely and be out like a literal light.

You lean down to pick up his neglected pillow and press a kiss to his forehead, and grab the throw from the end of the bed – looks like it’s a night on the couch.

Leon wakes up slowly as light filters in through the curtains. His body had been aching from his time away, but it seems a night in his bed has set him right. He stretches his arms out, expecting for a hand to brush up against your warmth but is dismayed when he finds the bed empty.

He turns and sits up, cautiously, rubbing the back of his head with a loud yawn and takes in his surroundings, wondering if you’ve just nipped to the en-suite, but the door to it is ever so slightly ajar.

Your phone is plugged in on the bedside table, charging, which is odd – although not glued to the thing, it's strange for you not to have taken it with you if you’d gone downstairs to make breakfast…

There’s a sickening feeling in his stomach when he realizes he doesn’t remember you coming to bed at all, that he had been waiting for you to come join him and…

Hazy memories of you calling out to him?

Fuck.

He jumps up to his feet, dashes out the bedroom and takes the stairs down two at a time, trying to think. He’d left his gun in his duffel bag, hadn’t even taken it up with him, left it by the door when he arrived home last night. Had he been drugged? He had felt exhausted, but he’d put that down to the poor sleep over the last while. Could someone have followed him home last night, drugged him somehow, a tranquilizer, waited for him to be out for the count to swoop in and…?

His heart stops as he sees you lying on your side on the couch, the throw from the bed now twisted around your legs, arms wrapped around his pillow.

Safe and sound, and fast asleep.

He exhales, calming himself for a moment with a chuckle, before kneeling down besides you and tilting his head, awkwardly, so he can kiss you up the lips.

The sensation is enough for you to stir, blinking up at him with a dozy smile.

“Morning.”

“I don’t recall us having a fight last night, sweetheart.” He grins at his joke, but it’s one that falls flat.

“A fight?” You repeat, confused.

“You know, when couples fight, one of them ends up sleeping on the couch...”

“Oh, yeah,” you yawn, sitting up with the slightest wince. “You wouldn’t let me in the bed.”

“Huh?”

“When I came up to bed you were dead to the world, literally star-fished. I tried to get you to scoot up a little so I could get in but it was impossible, so I slept down here.”

“Seriously?”

“Mm-hm, you must’ve been exhausted.” You nod, shuffling around to place your feet flat on the ground. “Lemme make us some coffee… Ow!” You hiss as you stand, placing a hand on the small of your back.

Leon is quick to his feet, eyes wide in alarm. “What’s the matter?”

“I’m okay, it’s just my back,” you rub at the sore spot, the muscles feeling tender. It had been fine last night… “Maybe the couch isn’t the best for sleeping on.”

You take another step forward, intent on heading to the kitchen, but there’s no hiding the wince from Leon’s gaze. “Oh, baby…”

“It’ll be fine, I just need to walk it off.”

“Uh-uh, come on,” and those muscular arms that were so impossible to move last night are suddenly scooping you up and holding you against his chest as he heads back towards the stairs. “Let’s get you to bed. It’s still early and a couple of hours on a proper, supportive mattress might work wonders.”

You wrap your arms around his neck in turn. “Oh, I know your game, Kennedy.”

“And what’s that?” He replies, nonchalantly as he begins to ascend the stairs, careful not to knock your legs against the banister.

“The other activity you like to conduct in bed, the one that’s not sleeping? I just…” You tense in his arms, looking a little hesitant. “I don’t know if my back’s gonna play ball...”

Leon reaches the top of the landing and smirks, “Trust me - stretches work wonders for back pain, sweetheart.”

He strides into the bedroom and kicks the door closed with his foot.

It doesn’t open again until late afternoon. -- AN: Inspired by my boyfriend actually star-fishing me outta the bed and me having to sleep on the couch x

Masterlist . Requests welcome . Ko-fi

Comments, reblogs and likes make my whole day x

#ghostdogwrites #leon kennedy x reader #leon kennedy x you #leon kennedy fluff #leon kennedy mild spice

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hanasnx · 12 days

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" DOUBLE BUBBLE DISCO QUEEN " — katsuki bakugou.

MINORS DNI 18+ ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 .ᐟ WARNINGS: fem bratty pink!reader ノ pussy whipped bakugou ノ established relationship ノ explicit sexual content ノ p in v ノ degradation: f receiving ノ reader has pink hair and pink style.

KATSUKI BAKUGOU didn’t know what to make of you at first. He’d never admit you were intimidating, but your commitment to one color made him nauseous. Pink was everything he saw you sport, as if you couldn’t have a style outside of it. Even your hair sprouted from your scalp in a soft pink shade. Regardless of his initial apprehension, somehow he was roped into a relationship with you. Now he carries your many bags, opens doors for you, holds your hand when you start yapping too much. You annoy him, and yet he sticks with you.

He’s come to respect you, and even like you a little bit. Not that you give him any choice. He can’t be fooled by your soft appearance, you’re just as domineering as he is. You’re spoiled rotten, and high maintenance as hell. It’s taken him loads of tries to get it right, to treat you exactly how you believe you deserve to. It’s difficult—next to impossible—but you make it worth it, don’t you?

When you spread those legs, all pretty and eager for him, things go quiet. For once, things go his way. Katsuki’s never considered himself to be a pussy-driven guy until he met you. Suddenly, he’s letting you bully him into all kinds of things just for a glimpse of that kitty. He’d feel shame if his mouth wasn’t watering right now staring down at those drippy lips, open and waiting for him.

“C’mon, Katsu. Wanna feel you.” you whine with a coy smile to your lips, impatient and brows upturned. Just as you wiggle your hips enticingly, mean and callused hands envelope them, pinning your ass to the mattress.

Gripping the base, he feeds himself into your hole, sniffing out the give until you moan just from the stretch, and he sighs with goddamn relief. As if he’s finally getting payback for everything you throw at him. You’re a damn bitch, and you know he thinks so, but getting this tight cunt gives you a blank slate. After he’s good and fucked his fill, he’ll be ready to take your attitude again. For now, he keeps a palm over that smart mouth of yours, just so you don’t ruin the moment.

“Mmf—“ he grunts, scooping an arm under your knee to pick your leg up, giving himself a little more room inside you. “Even this princess pussy’s a brat…Clenching down on me.” he speaks through his teeth, rutting in and out to hollow out a space for himself. “You’re more trouble than you’re worth, you know that?” A bold-faced lie, but you take it anyway, nodding to him. Anything to get him to keep going, anything to get him to make you loosen up so he can fuck you for real. His palm over your mouth remains, and you smell his sweet scent of sweat.

“Running me ‘round, dangling this cunt in front of me knowing I’ll do whatever for it. Tch, you’re so damn annoying.” His words in your ear sends a powerful shudder down your spine, fluttering your eyelashes. You slick, lubing up his entry as he keeps pushing in and in. Even without seeing his face, breathing hard through your nose over his third pinky knuckle, you can feel him grin next to you. You know it's wolfish just from the sound of his reply, “You like hearing that shit, huh?” His husky voice grates your ears and you whimper pitifully under his weight.

His hips increase their fervor, getting excited over the new room in your hole, setting an immediate bruising pace just to be a jerk.

“For someone so spoiled, struttin’ ‘round like you can buy anything you want with daddy’s money, you sure like gettin’ called out on it.” That's what he's here for.

@HANASNX 2024 | do not copy, plagiarize, or steal.

#[🃏]#ch: katsuki #indy: drabbles #katsuki bakugou drabble #katsuki bakugou smut #katsuki bakugou x reader #katsuki bakugou x fem reader #bakugou katsuki smut #bakugou katsuki x reader #bakugou smut #bakugou x reader #katsuki smut #katsuki x reader #bakugo katsuki x reader #bakugo katsuki smut #bakugo smut #bakugo x reader #katsuki bakugou x you #reader insert

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rederiswrites · 1 month

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You can train your tastes. You can choose what you see beauty in.

Lemme go further, actually. You are constantly doing so--or letting others do it for you.

Nearly two decades ago, when we were planning our wedding, I made a very firm decision not to look at any wedding planning magazines or anything with marketing material for wedding products. I wanted our wedding to be uniquely us, and I also wanted not to be bombarded by product advertisement and beautiful photo shoots of very expensive weddings. Consequently, maybe we wasted a little bit of time reinventing the wheel, but we had a wedding we were very happy with that only cost perhaps four thousand dollars at most, probably not that much, spread out over our finances and those of both our families. Our guests went home with live potted plants that we'd paid pennies for at end of season, our florist had a great time getting to design a bouquet that tested her skills because I didn't have any preconceived ideas, my dress was utterly unique--and I really do feel that those magazines would have had a corrosive effect on all that.

When we moved to this property three years ago, I spent a LOT of time looking at images online, trying to form a coherent vision for a property that was at the time a fairly blank slate. I found myself scrolling through a lot of Russian dacha Instagrams, of all things, and they unlocked something for me. Seeing the same homey make-do decorations and techniques I grew up around a continent away, the same plywood cutout old ladies and tractor tire flower planters, somehow chewed through that last binding cord of classism, and suddenly I saw the art in it. The expression of a desire to embellish and beautify, even when you have very little, even when all you can afford is things the more well-to-do consider trash. I saw the exuberance of human love for beauty in a brilliant flower bed planted next to a collapsing shed--it didn't need to be perfect to be worthwhile. They didn't wait til everything was pristine to start enjoying things. And now I earnestly and unironically covet my own version of the tractor-tire Christmas tree at the farm down the road.

We've spent centuries now idolizing the manicured estates and quaint country retreats of the European wealthy elites. We've turned thousands of miles of living ecosystem into grass deserts in service of this vision. We need to start deliberately retraining our tastes. Seek out images of a different idea of beauty and peace. I'm not telling you what it'll be. I'm telling you this is not involuntary. You can participate. You can look at the many beautiful examples of native xeriscaping for arid climates, or photos of chaotic tangles of wildflowers, tamed by narrow paths, a bench under an arbor overwhelmed with wisteria. Maybe instead of trying to get lawn to grown under your mature trees, you'd actually get far more joy out of a patch of dirt. A hammock. A firepit ringed with log sections for seats.

You can free yourself from harmful conventions of taste and beauty, and you do it through imagining something better.

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ayeforscotland · 1 month

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The BBC went out of their way to spread misinformation about Scotland’s hate crime laws.

They did this deliberately alongside right-wing billionaires Elon Musk and JK Rowling whipping their fans into a frenzy over it.

They apologise now, but the damage has been done. A sizeable portion of online discourse for the past few weeks has been on Scotland becoming a police state with a lot of Islamophobia directed towards Scotland’s first minister.

Scotland’s media should be absolutely gutted. It need a complete clean slate. There are far too many people with ulterior motives running the show.

#ayeforscotland #scottish politics #british politics #uk politics #scotland

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clementinegreye · 2 months

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the sweetest sin of all

aaron hotchner x fem!bau!reader ||

summary: in the midst of investigating a serial killer who chooses victims based on the seven deadly sins, aaron hotchner finds himself entangled in more than just the case (inspired by hozier's new song 'too sweet'):

word count: 3.4k

warnings: heavy tension, hurt comfort, crossing professional boundaries and general talks of CM violence and murder (nothing graphic):

a/n: hi! i wrote this entire thing for a friend, but maybe you might enjoy it too! this is my first piece of writing on this new blog so if you like feel free to like, reblog or even just let me know! and hopefully if it goes well there'll be more soon!

a/n update: it went well, here's part two!)

From the dim lighting of the office it was almost impossible to tell the exact lateness of the night. His watch consistently ticking, remained a steady rhythm. He ran a hand across his face, his tie undone and lying, long discarded on his desk. The first few buttons of his shirt undone, unbuttoned and an almost vulnerable step away from his usual armour. Papers containing violence were spread haphazardly and with chaos across his desk. A nearly forgotten glass of strong neat whiskey sat in place of his usual bitter coffee.

His team had been on the case for nearly a week, and Hotch felt they were no closer to catching the Unsub. The whole team was feeling the pressure. The profile told him they were dealing with a moral enforcer, a highly organised, violent offender with a clear mission. It should have been easy for them but bodies seemed to be continuously appearing and everyone was feeling uneasy and frustrated.

He was drowning in the details of this case, the Unsub's pattern ever-present in his mind. He thought of the remaining sins - envy, wrath, and lust - and something burned deep within his chest. It was a dangerous game they played, one where the stakes were higher than any case he'd ever worked on.

Being head of the team he felt the responsibility more vehemently than the rest, and he was doing something he’d promised the team he wouldn’t. He was letting it get to him.

There’d been four victims so far, each killed to match one of the seven deadly sins. So far his victims had been; gluttony - an overzealous upscale restaurant critic who binged food that he slated publicly, greed - a high-profile stock broker with the inability to control his obsession with obtaining more of his client's money, sloth - a wealthy trust fund baby who squandered their university scholarship out of laziness and pride - a wealthy woman with a shopping addiction who frequented beauty salons and had an intense social media presence flaunting herself.

Each victim came from a different geographical area of the city and Garcia hadn’t been able to uncover any crossover between their lives where it might have been somewhere they could have met the Unsub. There were no leads and the team felt at a loss.

Knowing the Unsub was three victims away from the end of his mission, Hotch knew they were close to losing him if they didn’t catch a break soon. He’d sent the team home to get some sleep and told them to be ready bright and early the next day. Yet Hotch couldn't bring himself to leave the office, hoping the crime scene photos might uncover something he'd missed. He thought everyone had listened to his orders until he was drawn away from the graphic images in front of him by a gentle knock at the door.

"Come in." He croaked harshly, the hours of not speaking catching up to his vocal chords.

It was her. Of course, it was her.

She always had a way of pulling him from the edge, of grounding him when the world became too much. In the chaos and uncertainty of their work, she was his constant, his unwavering beacon of light. She was his solace, his calm in the storm, and in that moment, he allowed himself to get lost in her.

She was like honey, dripping out and pooling where flies could get stuck on the intoxication and drown. He could feel it, the danger she could be. If he’d been a man less controlled he could see how she could be his every downfall and triumph. In her, he saw a reflection of all his desires and fears. She was every strength and weakness. In the moment, he couldn't help but want to drown in the intoxicating allure of her, his deadly and dangerous, yet irresistibly sweet sin.

‘I’m heading home for the night…’ Her voice trailed off in a quiet hush to match the silence of the office.

The creases in his forehead from pouring over crime scenes and endless theories seemed to smooth out. He breathed out hours' worth of tension in a single breath, allowing the corners of his mouth to turn upwards so quickly that unless she’d been a profiler paying attention she might not have noticed. The way his body language shifted was subtle enough to the untrained eye, but not to her. He couldn’t conceal himself in his controlled, cold-edged front as well as he usually could when she was around.

"I gave those orders hours ago." He mused, leaning back in his chair, the breath of a sigh dying on his lips.

She gently shook her head, a soft laugh escaping her. "I thought you might be used to me defying your orders by now, Hotch. You should take your own advice, didn’t you promise to stop working so late," she replied, a glint in her eyes that held an irresistible challenge. Their playful banter was a welcome change from the dark seriousness that he’d been so consumed by moments ago.

She smiled, her eyes sparkling with mischief waiting for his retort.

"I didn’t promise anything." He huffed.

She didn’t wait for an invitation, she didn’t need to. Crossing the threshold of his office and making her way to the imposing desk of the Unit Chief.

She’d not seen her boss look so troubled by a case in a long time. Her gaze was drawn to him as his elbows leaned against the desk, his usually impeccable suit dishevelled. She noted the way the top buttons of his shirt were undone, revealing a hint of the man beneath the stoic FBI Unit Chief. It was a stark contrast to the man who was always put together, always in control. Yet, in that moment, he looked anything but. Not yet unravelled, but on the edge of it.

She moved further into the office, she was not someone who second-guessed her decisions. She walked with confidence, and perched herself on the edge of his desk, letting her legs dangle over the edge her black work trousers tight across her thighs. She rested her hand on the desk, dangerously close to her Hotch’s, mere centimetres.

His gaze shifted from the papers in front of him and followed the contours of her face, lingering a moment too long on her lips. He swallowed hard, his mind flickering with thoughts he'd held at bay for far too long. But he was Unit Chief, and professionalism might as well have been his middle name. He lightly shook his head, feeling the back of his eyes burn from the focus he’d had all day.

Hotch wasn’t one to open up, he was always controlled but around her, there was a tug at the stitches of his personality.

‘I have a bad feeling about this case.’ He hummed, the night breeze catching against the window. He could smell her perfume, mixing with the scent of burnt coffee and paper. He dare not think about it too long.

He reached across his desk and grabbed his near-forgotten whiskey, downing it in one drag. He bent towards where her legs were hanging over his desk, motioning for her to lift them. She drew them up towards her chest and he opened the drawer beneath her pulling an expensive-looking bottle from it and refilling the glass, this time handing it to her. Their fingers grazed slightly with the exchange. His warm, hers icy cold - meeting to form the perfect temperature.

‘We have no leads. I always trust the profile, but this case… We’ve got nothing.’ His eyes watched her as she swirled the liquid around the glass, her eyes watching it splash against the sides. He sighed in defeat, rubbing his eyes with both of his hands before leaning his head back, a deep exhale exiting his thin lips.

‘We’ll get him.’ She said confidently, something shifted in her tone. It was like a dagger's sharp edge, certainty dripping off it like blood. He almost believed her, but she could see the already dim light dissipating from his dark eyes. She felt sympathy pooling in the tips of her fingers. If she didn’t hadn’t been holding their shared glass she might have reached out and touched him so that it could bleed from her into him, so that he would feel less alone.

She leaned back slightly, her eyes searching his. It was unclear what she was searching for in them. He couldn’t read her entirely, even with all his years of profiling. When she smiled, he felt his heart catch in his throat. It was like looking directly at the sun. Burning and bright hot.

‘You should follow your own orders… And for once so should I. Go home. Get some rest.’ She downed the liquid with a swift tip of her head. Hotch watched the curve of her neck as she moved and the way she licked her lips catching a fallen drop of liquor. She laid the glass down on the desk, allowing her hand to brush over his. His skin crackled with electricity.

She moved with grace as she climbed down from his desk. That one moment shared more intimate than she’d expected it to feel, with their proximity, the lateness of the hour and the unusually undone Aaron sitting at his desk.

His eyes followed her every movement, skin stinging as if he’d been burned. She was halfway to the door before he heard himself call out to her. It almost didn’t sound like his own voice.

‘Wait. Don’t go yet. Come here.’ His voice was firm like it always was, but there was a depth to it that she hadn’t heard before. One she’d always longed for. His eyes glinted with dark hues as he watched her turn from the door. He almost breathed out in relief.

She had an unreadable expression. One that set the blood in his veins on fire. She lowered her head, and with it, her eyes darkened. He stood from his desk, making his way over to her with steps that felt dreamlike. Their eyes met with an energy never shared before and once in front of her he reached out, gently tucking a strand of her hair behind her ear so that he had an unobscured view of her whole face. The same face that had the power to completely undo him.

Her eyes widened slightly as if surprised by his gentle touch, but at the same time, there was a knowing in them as if she’d been waiting for it all along. She remained still, and his heart pounded in his chest as he looked into his eyes, an unspoken conversation passing between them. It felt like any words would have made the moment less intimate.

His hand lingered against her cheek, the warmth radiating from his touch was a stark contrast to the cold, sterile environment of his office. Her skin felt like it was burning under him. The silence between them was palpable, filled with the yet unspoken words and emotions that threatened to bubble to the surface. Hotch, usually so controlled in his feelings suddenly felt so unsteady. His heart beat suspiciously with the feeling that perhaps he’d crossed a line.

‘How do you know?’ He whispered, eyes scanning hers as if he were a detective trying to uncover the evidence that gave her certainty. In the light of the office, she looked like she’d been hand carved, art that he’d been lucky enough to be in the presence of. He traced his thumb over her lips, eyes heavy with a mixture of desire and something else she couldn't quite place. It was a dangerous gesture, one that could endanger his whole career.

'I trust you, and that’s all I need to know that we’ll get him.' she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper, eyes glazed with a devotion that almost made him groan. The conviction of her words pierced his wavering confidence. He’d gone from feeling almost hopeless to buzzing with determination.

He let his hand fall away from her face, but the warmth lingered, an almost promise that what she’d been sure she’d felt moments ago had indeed been real. Reality swarmed his brain, aware of the situation he’d almost found himself in. He straightened up, posture contrasting his relatively dishevelled exterior.

"You’re right, you should follow my orders. Go home, get some rest. I told the team we’d start fresh in the morning," he instructed, a softness in his voice that was rarely displayed. But she didn’t move, and he didn’t either.

He watched her eyes for any sign of discomfort, the tension in the room was palpable, an electrifying current that Hotch didn’t dare to break. Silence blanketed them, only broken by the ticking of his watch. It was a solitary reminder of the passing time, yet the urgency of their case had fallen to the back of his mind.

‘Close the door.’ She instructed, using the same authority that Hotch usually spoke with. The change in dynamic almost made him falter, but with a small smirk, he moved towards the door. He’d been aware of the power imbalance he held in his position but with the tone of her voice, there was a subtle shift in the air between them. She moved back towards his desk with certainty. Moving his name tag so she could perch to face the dark space of the office.

Their eyes met across the room. She tilted her head to the side, examining his body language. As he locked the door behind him, the air seemed to constrict around them, the room becoming a world of its own where only they existed. The only sound in the room was the soft click of the lock and their breathing. It echoed throughout the office, bouncing off the walls and settling into their bones. The tension escalated, but it was different now, charged with an anticipation that neither of them could ignore.

He might have been unit chief, but right here, right now, she was in charge. The line between professional and personal blurred dangerously as their eyes locked, a promise of something more hanging in the balance. The air was charged now, they were poised, daring each other to make the first move. They both knew that they were on the precipice of something dangerous, something that could have dire consequences professionally.

Yet, the pull was too strong to ignore, and for the first time, Hotch allowed himself to teeter on the edge, his resolve tested by the powerful undercurrent of desire that crackled between them. Tonight, they were not just colleagues, they were two individuals drawn together by an irresistible force. In the room, the undeniable chemistry that had been simmering under the surface for far too long had nowhere to hide.

On the desk, she rested each hand palm down to the side of her thighs and opened her legs wider to create space for his body to fit. She moved her head in a motion for him to step forward. Hotch couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe, pupils were blown wide from more than just the darkness of the room. How long had he craved something so forbidden, how long had he denied himself the idea that this could ever happen?

As he moved closer to her, he couldn't help but think about the deadly sin of lust, a strong passion or longing that was deemed sinful. Here he was, teetering on the edge of crossing professional boundaries, something he’d never done. The balance of energy in the room was no longer solely from the stress of the case, it was about them - about her. He could have tried to argue that it was, but no jury in the state would believe him. If this were a trial, he was about to be found guilty.

The Unsub's deadly pattern echoed in his mind - the three sins he’d yet to kill for; envy, jealousy over another's life or possessions, wrath, a violent anger driven by hatred, and finally, lust, a powerful desire that can become all-consuming, much like the craving he was experiencing in that very moment. Looking upon her he felt envious of anyone who had ever been allowed to touch her, he felt wrath for anyone who had ever wronged or hurt her, and most of all he felt lust. He definitely felt lust, his desire for her taking over all his senses.

Was he caught between duty and desire? No, he had no doubt in his mind. The sheer intensity of her shared gaze and the way she was beckoning him forward smashed the boundaries of their relationship. He’d never seen her in this light, never dared to allow himself to think of her like this. But now she was in front of him how could he ever deny himself something so sweet?

Hotch had always been a man of control, a man who kept his emotions in check. But in this room, with the charged atmosphere heavy between them, he felt his resolve wavering. He was caught in the powerful current of the desire for her that he’d managed to keep at bay. He didn’t want to be in control anymore.

He closed the distance between them, fitting himself between her legs, his hands landing on her hips as he looked down at her, a soft smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

She brought one hand off the desk to hold the waistband of his suit trousers, tugging lightly.

“Are you finally going to kiss me, Agent Hotchner?” She asked, voice dripping with honey. Sweetness laced with danger that hit him right in the chest like a bullet.

She was an intoxicating mix of all seven, a deadly sin in her own right. She was his lust, his unending desire. She was his gluttony, the one he wanted to consume endlessly. She was his greed, the one he wanted all for himself. She was his sloth, his reason for inertia. She was his wrath, the one who could ignite a fire in him like no other. She was his envy, the one he admired and coveted. And she was his pride, the one who made him feel like he was on top of the world.

‘You will be the ruin of me.’ He breathed, his eyes almost black. He looked down at her taking in the sight of her flushed cheeks and the way her eyes sparkled with a mixture of mischief and satisfaction. He was entirely wrapped around her finger. Tonight, he decided, he would willingly drown in this sweet sin, consequences be damned.

‘That is entirely my intention.’ She chuckled and he groaned, a guttural sound that felt foreign to him.

"Only if you promise not to tell the team," he murmured, a playful undertone to his voice.

As he leaned down to capture her lips with his, he knew without a doubt that this was a deadly sin he was willing to commit. It was both sweet and intense, a perfect reflection of their now complicated relationship.

Her lips tasted of the whiskey they'd shared, sweet with a hint of burn that left him wanting more. She tasted like a curse, sickeningly sweet as if to cause him decay. He deepened the kiss, pulling her impossibly closer. He was standing on the cliff of the unknown, and he was more than willing to jump and fall headfirst.

As he pulled away, he couldn't help but study her face. He’d come face to face with endless serial killers, and been in the presence of pure evil. But he’d never been so close to something so dangerous. She was a temptation he couldn't resist. Sweeter than any apple in the Garden of Eden. He traced the contours of her face with his fingers, his gaze never leaving hers.

He could still taste her on the back of his tongue, sugar and shared whiskey burning. He’d never been so certain that he’d been willing to trade his control for the intoxicating sweetness that was her. She was a forbidden fruit that was too alluring to resist, and Aaron Hotchner had no more resistance left in him. Not now he’d tasted something so delicious.

After all, wasn't life about balancing the deadly sins and virtues? Tonight, he chose to sin.

(you can now read part two here!)

#aaron hotchner #aaron hotchner x reader #criminal minds #criminal minds x reader #criminal minds imagine #aaron hotchner x you #criminal minds fic #hotch x reader #aaron hotchner fic #aaron hotchner fanfic #aaron hotchner fanfiction #criminal minds hotch

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heliads · 4 months

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boy; girl; dragon

Hiccup only needs two things. He knows he can rely on both forever.

masterlist

There is a boy, and he has a girl. And also a dragon.

The order matters. He had the girl first, even if he didn’t know it yet. She didn’t say a word to him about the feeling beating against the bars of her ribs like a dove in a cage, not until he did first. The dragon helped things along, surprisingly. Usually, fire-breathing reptiles can only complicate a situation, but when two young people are soaring through the sky with only the billowing light of the sun and stars around them to bear witness to the truths they have to tell, secrets end up not so secret anymore. Hiccup told you he loved you. You said the same.

The dragon watched, and listened, and waited. It, of course, had known the whole time. Almost everyone did. Tact is a rare occurrence among the Vikings, but the people of Berk could tell that interference in the story of you and him, him and you, would not bode well. You and Hiccup were something different, something special. You didn’t need anyone but each other. And the dragon.

Loving a Viking is dangerous. Loving Hiccup was so far along the line of adventure and risk that even your first kiss felt like throwing off your armor to embrace a knife in your chest. If this was pain, though, it was the loveliest anguish you had ever experienced in your entire life. Falling in love with Hiccup was brilliant, like dragonfire; exhilarating, like tumbling in freefall; unfailing, like the son of a chieftain knowing that he would send his entire village to keep you safe from harm or die trying. Staying in love with him was soft torchlight, quiet mornings, wispy clouds around your temples when he took you up to see the stars. Easy. Perfect. And yours, all yours.

The two of you are together now, sitting side by side on the edge of a cliff. Most of Berk is rocky with occasional splashes of slate blue or chestnut wood to break up the monotonous grey, but tenacious patches of grass have managed to crawl up to the top of the cliffside here, providing you with a threadbare emerald blanket on which you can rest your legs.

A cool wind whistles through the air, toying with your hair and clothes before plunging off the edge of the rock face. You watch it go, taking a few errant leaves with it, and consider the drop down to the sea below you.

“If I fell right now,” you say to Hiccup, “off the side, you would catch me.”

“I would catch you,” he affirms. “Dragon or no dragon.”

“What if I fell too fast and you couldn’t reach me in time?” You ask.

He takes your hand, voice soft and gentle in the early morning. You’ve heard him louder and more assertive when directing the villagers, but you like him best like this, when Hiccup’s peace is only ever meant for you. There is an entirely different young man who exists only when he’s alone with you, a Hiccup that no one will ever know as well as you do. It is a delight to keep the secret of this second, inner boy. It’s a treasure that will only ever be claimed by you, a sparkling spread of gold and jewels captive to one person and one person alone. Not even blood relations can claim that sort of glory.

“There is nowhere you could go that I would not follow,” Hiccup asserts. “Not off the cliff. Not into the sky. I would follow you past the sun, or a hundred thousand lengths in the sea. I would search the world to find you, if I had to, and I would bring you back with me. Always. Do you believe me?”

“I do,” you whisper. “Always.”

“Always,” he repeats, and presses a kiss to your temple.

This is loving Hiccup, then. Always. Always the guarantee of a heart beating in tandem with yours. Always the confidence that you will not be alone in this world of yours, even as it seems to stretch out forever, even as it looms to hide a hundred friends or a thousand enemies. If the odds are with you or against you, you will have Hiccup to guide you through the trials and tribulations of this life of yours. It is written in the stars, and it is sworn by the one you love. No promise could be greater.

The two of you will descend into legend, into myth, into folklore. Never in the world have any two people loved each other more, and never will they again. Every young pair thinks that they could have this, a love to last a lifetime, but you and Hiccup will do them one better and last a thousand more. You could love him in every universe, every incarnation of yourselves, and Hiccup has already promised to be by your side no matter who you two were. Gods, maybe. Heroes or villains. Ordinary lives or glorious ones. All of them will feature the two of you together. Always.

A shadow briefly blots out the sun overhead, a pair of jet-black wings soaring through the early morning skies. As it loops and wheels towards the two of you, its shade flickers across the trees, dappling them with night’s fury even as the sun climbs higher into the sky. It occurs to you that you’d like every day to start and end like this one, for each one of your hours to be filled with this sort of blissful joy. You don’t need riches, you don’t need a legacy. All you need is right here before you. A boy and a girl. And also a dragon.

disney tag list: @blondsauduun, @lovesanimals0000, @mayfieldss, @eclliipsed, @avadakadabra93

also tagging @hope92100 bc HICCUP

all tags list: @wordsarelife

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 26 days

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Winter's King 22

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon, cheating, violence, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: You are a maid to the Duke of Debray, a lord of the Summer Kingdom. That is, until the king of Winter appears with his particular air of coldness. (Medieval AU)

Characters: Geralt of Rivia

Note: this week isn't going great but we're hoping.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

You peer up at the silhouettes of the vultures perched on the peaks of the castle. Your return is met by a clear sky as the snows recede to crawling clouds across the slate expanse. The king lets you down outside the stables before he walks the horse within.

You stand just inside the doorway, outside the gathering winds that whistle through the passes and hidden crevices of the mountain. You hug yourself, shivering endlessly as you struggle to chase the cold from your bones. Once the chill creeps in it is near impossible to expel.

King Geralt’s rocky voice carries through the stable as he speaks to Roach. You glance over as another mount huffs and gives an impatient whinny. You slip further inside, letting the door shut completely. You trod along the edge of the aisle and turn down the next row. There you find Daisy’s speckled nose.

“Oh, girl,” you greet her softly and untangle a mat in her mane, “there you are.”

She sniffs you as you pet her neck. She nuzzles the collar of your cloak and you feel along the thick tendons beneath her fine hair. There is comfort in her familiarity. You long to stay there with the horses. You belong more than you do in the king’s chambers.

“Treasure...” he calls for you as you still and keep your hand on Daisy. He speaks your name next as you hear his footfalls march down the next row, harrying faster with each step. The door swings in then clatters back against the frame as Daisy knicks. “Little maid?”

You pat Daisy’s nose and retreat. You shuffle to the front and turn to follow the wall, “your highness.”

King Geralt backs out of the doorway and it snaps shut with the wind. His eyes blaze a moment before they dim. He pushes his gloves over his hair, stray strands puffing out around his hairline.

“There you are. I worried you might have blown away,” he steadies his timbre. Was he truly afraid? Did he think you would try to escape?

“Apologies, I was checking on Sir Bryce’s mount,” you explain.

“Bryce, yes,” he reaches for you and takes your hand, “he has kept you safe, has he?”

You nod, “he is a good man.”

The king’s cheek ticks, “he is my man. He only does as I bid. I commanded him to see after you. Me.”

You take a breath and bow your head, “certainly, I know so, your highness. Thank you for your protection.”

“Do you see, so long as you are close to me, you won’t need to fear,” he girds.

For so long as he keeps you close, you will only be afraid. You will fear him, you will fear his courtiers and his enemies, and you will fear the day he no long wants you near. Every flame must burn itself out and every flame will singe those who get too close.

“Yes, your highness,” you answer and look up at him again, his eyes glimmering, “Geralt.”

Your voice shakes, with more than just the cold, and you let the shiver spread through you. The king brings a hand to your chin and brushes his leather glove against your cheek. He draws you into him, holding you again his chest.

“I forget, my summer treasure, the cold is new to you,” he embraces you and bends to speak against your hat, “we must warm you before an ague might creep in.”

He lets you free reluctantly and grips your hand instead. He takes you out of the stable and towards the rear entrance of the castle. You slip in the snow, keeping you footing only for his hold on you. He stops and turns to you, tugging you near as your feet kick through the powder.

He sweeps you up in his arms without effort. He is strong and holds you across his body, cradling you as he stalks to the door. You wriggle as angles to hook two fingers through the loop and hauls open the door around you. He sidles inside and turns you, bidding you to pull the door shut. You obey and close you both in dim unlit corridor.

“Thank you, your highness,” you pat his chest lightly, “will you let me down?”

“I don’t mind. You are hardly a burden,” he grits. “Having you in my arms has me feeling much lighter.”

You drag your hand to his shoulder and squeeze through the layers, “but what if someone should happen upon us?”

He’s quiet. He keeps you aloft, shifting one way then the other, peering up and down the darkness.

“And what if they did?” He asks.

It’s your turn to be silent.

“I am king, what should they do, treasure?”

You fidget and pull your hand away from him.

“You speak true, your highness. You are the king, you may do as you will.”

He sighs and his chest heaves against you. He clicks his tongue and slowly shifts you down until your feet meet the floor. As he straightens, he drags his touch over your figure, his hand delving between cloak and dress.

“You fret very much,” he rebukes, “though I suppose caution is wise.”

“I think of you, of your reputation as king,” you assure him, “I wouldn’t want to tarnish your name. I serve the crown and I wouldn’t bring shame to it.”

“Shame?” He snarls, “never.”

He hooks his arm around you and spreads his hand across the back of your head. He pulls you into him and kisses your forehead as you tremble. He holds you like that for a moment before he parts.

“We must warm you,” he proclaims, “this way, treasure.”

He nudges you along with him. You follow his footsteps down the corridor, towards the lantern light that light the main ways. He takes you through the castle without pause, not tarrying for soldier or lord alike, though few appear in the halls. It is much too cold to leave their hearths.

You climb upward and he leads you to the winding tower. He let you up ahead of him as he holds the door. He touches your lower back through the cloak.

“You will wait for me. I have some matters to attend to,” he says, “it shouldn’t be very long at all.” He trails up your back, sending a flash of heat through you, “sit close to the hearth.”

“Yes, your highness,” you dip your head and press on, ascending as you lift the hem of your cloak and dress over your feet.

The lower door shuts only as the hinges at the top whine at your entrance. You close the chamber door and look around the space. The hearth burns still, fed by servants at intervals, and the lantern on the table shines through the steel slats that shade its flame.

You remove the cloak and hang it from an iron hook. You sit in the chair and strip off the hat, mittens, boots, and stockings; You leave the damp layers nears the hearth and lower yourself before the flames. You close your eyes and hang your head forward. You could sleep then and there.

Your peace doesn’t last very long. You raise your head as you hear someone on the stairs. You stand, readying yourself to face the king, but instead are met by a pair of pinch-faced maids. The resident servants carry steaming vessels and cross to the tub stood to the other side of the bed. They pour the water into the thick wooden walls and retreat without a word.

You spin and fold your arms. You’re taken back to the day it was you and Merinda filling a tub. Before everything became so muddled. A simple existence where you knew exactly what was expected of you.

Your heart rents when you think of your estranged companion. Merinda would know what to say. She could ease your fears, she always knew how. Ever since she came Debray, she always kept you from worry. Without her, you are lost. You only wish you’d realised then all she was to you. You were more than just maids, you were friends.

You stare at the cinders beneath the licking flames. You don’t look again as the servants come upon their second trip, and a third, and a fourth... anon and anon until the chamber thickens with the steam of the tub. You daren’t remind yourself again how much you’ve lost; how much you didn’t even know you had to lose.

You’re left in silence, facing the fire. The winds batter the tower from outside and the shuttered windows rattle. Heavy steps come up the winding staircase and you know without looking who enters behind you. The king’s sigh confirms your assumption.

“The water will ease the cold,” he says as the door shuts, “and the aches of the road.”

You shift so your stand sideways to him, “thank you, your highness.” You swallow and cough out the lump in your throat, “Geralt.”

He hums at your correction. You stand still as he moves around the chamber. He unbuckles his cloak and hangs it next to the one he gifted you. Then he nears to remove his gloves and boots, lining them up before the burning fireplace. As he stands straight, he faces you.

“You should bathe. The water is hot,” he says.

“Thank you,” you nod and reach behind your nape to untie the single lace of your dress, “so I should.”

You whisk away from him, pacing towards the tub as your hands clash clumsily. The thought of undressing before him makes you numb. You stop as the steam plume around you and drop your arms. You can’t get a grasp on the fabric. You grip the edge of the tub and stare into the water.

“You needn’t be meek,” you hear the subtle creak of his leather coat as he removes it. You peek over as he drapes it over a wooden chair. “The cold is dangerous for summerborn, you shouldn’t let it get too deep.”

You can't. You're trying to find the will. You think of all you've done. Faced the Duke and his clan, travelled to the capital, the to hinterlands, you've done it all without doubt, but the layers of fabric are too heavy a task.

You flinch as you feel a tickle along your side. You push away from the tub, dropping your arms as he king bends behind you. He raises the hem of your dress and the air is crushed from your chest. You serve, you obey, and the king’s will is plain.

You lift your arms as he strips the dress up your body and over your head. He swipes it towards the bed as your shift rumples at your hips, the unhemmed edge along your thighs. He steps even closer as he curls his fingers around the undyed linen.

You keep your arms up as he guides the fabric higher. He keeps his thumbs hooked in the cloth and turns his hands so his fingertips brush your shape. Bumps bristle over your skin and have you even colder than before. You quake as the linen blinds you for just a moment and in another, you're naked.

Your shift flaps through the air to land on your dress. The king's breath wisps out through his tight chest and he frames your hips with his large hands. He's shaking too.

He draws away slowly and you feel a rustle against you. You stand frozen as he undresses at your back. Don’t look, you can’t look. If you look, it’s real. If you look, it’s over. His clothes pile at his feet as he shifts you gasp as he presses his hot body flush to yours.

He brings his hands up your arms and along your neck. He frames your head and kisses your crown, his thumb toying with a shank of your uneven hair. You bite down as he urges you closer to the tub.

You move without without resistance, one leg over the edge then the other. He follows, thick legs plunging into the roiling water. He keeps you snug to him as he lowers himself, easing you atop him. You rest over him and his need makes itself known between you. You stare at the stone wall and steel yourself, the water adding fire to the ice inside of you.

He exhales as he relaxes under you, letting his hands crawl over your stomach and hips, feeling every inch of you. From the crook of your neck to your thighs. He smears water over your face as he touches your cheeks and traces your jaw. He quivers as snarling breaths escape him.

“This is how it should be, treasure,” he wraps his hands around yours and folds your arms, resting his clutches over your chest. “I suppose you’ve never heard the tale of Cerill and Wynifred.”

You stare at his knuckles, the hair that trims his rough flesh, the grip in his paled joints.

“Never,” you assure him.

“Cerill was a warrior. A loyal soldier. A man who served his king with all his being. He was knighted on a battlefield. Once a stablehand, then a hero. The king, Fazon, he had a wife, Wynifred. A queen who was kind and sweet. They were ill-matched for every misfortune he aimed at her, rather than its true crux,” he regales you as his voice fills the chamber, wafting with the steam.

“But she was obedient. She lived by her vows. For years. But she was mortal as any woman might be and the cruelty of her husband weakened her. And Lord Cerill was valiant and strong and gentle. Everything her husband was not. How could she restrain herself from the comfort he offered? Neither meant to betray their king but some things, some forces, are strong than those writ by men and their quills.”

You listen, certain of the purpose of his telling. You are not legendary lovers, you are not lost to wives’ tales and children’s stories, you are here, you are alive, and there is nothing fantastical about any of it. He might believe whatever but you haven’t that luxury. He will not hear the doubts, you will feel them.

“And what happened to them?” You ask with foreboding. There are stories similar in the summerlands; of pages and their masters’ wives or daughters.

“Yes, well, we know of them because they were found out, I suppose. They knew they would not evade the king’s vengeance but they refused to bend to it. So, they fled into the forest and found a sacred root. That plant is meant for the sickly, to ease their end. They consumed it together and died in each others’ arms. Just as they were found.”

You lay in silence. The forbidden love hardly tweaks at your heart, but more, you tremble to think of the king’s wrath. Of how a king might wrought his temper upon any and all. Even a wife, even a knight. It is no romantic tragedy; it is a lesson in the power of men.

“Apologies it is not a happier conclusion,” he says.

“The stories are never very happy,” you murmur. Or the truth.

He hums as squeezes your hands. The water is still as you lie in his mercy. This cannot last. Just as in his story, there will only be pain.

As if to confirm your unspoken dread, a knock sounds on the door. The king jerks, the water sloshing around him as he sits you up with him.

“Geralt, King of Rivia and the Hinterlands,” the growl cuts through meanly, “come rule your people!”

#geralt of rivia #dark geralt #dark!geralt #geralt of rivia x reader #the witcher #winter's king #fic #dark fic #dark!fic #series #au #medieval au

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see-arcane · 8 months

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The Harkers have got me fucked up. Not just from how much they're going through. Not just from how well they know each other.

But in how much is not being said. How much that appears to have been missed.

Mina has just made their friends swear to euthanize her. In front of Jonathan, who she knows cannot/will not make said promise aloud, though she tries to fish it out. A funeral service, yes, but no more than that. She takes the wins she can, relying on the others for the sacrificial slaughter while she pries what she thinks is some mote of acceptance of the Worst Case Scenario in Potentia from Jonathan. Perhaps she's read the vampiric vow of his journal by now. Perhaps not. Perhaps she already suspects either way and wants desperately not to see him damn himself, damn both of them, to avoid raising a killing hand to her.

She is going into the dark. What kind, she does not know yet. But she knows--thinks she knows--she has taken some measure to save her soul and Jonathan's. God's will be done. (Piety trembles in her heart, a fear trying frantically to still look like faith.)

Jonathan, meanwhile, is in Hell.

As it was in the castle, there are some miseries too deep to dwell on for him to stomach writing them down. Hence his tapping Jack to record it all. But the silence from him here, bar the dodge of the promise that goes against his private vow, bar the reading of the burial service, sinks deeper than any horror he suffered from the Count in person. What can he be thinking now?

I made this all possible. I opened the door to England for him. Showed him how to spread his poison. Failed to strike a killing blow when I had the chance. Slept frozen and useless beside her as he drank and made her drink. Lost him by inches in Piccadilly. Now I am here, listening to her claim so sunnily that any man of old would murder his woman to save her from the enemy's touch, as if asking for a trifle. All the while I sit contemplating a hellish betrayal, holding my heart over her wishes, over sanity, humanity, Heaven and Hell. Contemplating worse.

(The kukri is very sharp by now. In time it will have so fine an edge that no one would feel its cut before their head toppled off. Be they in a coffin or a friend with their back turned. Sickly, he finds the thought cold and placid in his mind. Is he not already damned for what he's allowed? Is he not already slated for the Count's collection? He knows whose blood it was on the monster's lips on that final dawn in Transylvania. And when he dies...)

I imagine he has to stop himself from making a mirrored request to the others right there. Has to stop himself from handing Mina the Bible and asking her to read it out for him. If she is lost, he is lost. It is not merely undeath that he would follow her into--whatever she is, wherever she goes, so must he be, so must he go.

Read it for me now, darling. You laid it all out so eloquently. I am already lost but for the wait for the grave. Come everyone, while we're here. Two funerals. Two sets of oaths. I can perhaps save you half the work, if I fall neatly enough on the kukri. Pry it from my heart and take my head when the time comes.

But he bites his tongue. Does not touch his pen. Does not risk heaping another weight on his love who is already crushed beneath existential terrors that are being thrust on her by the actions of others. She does not know what he is planning, even if she suspects it by half.

What she knows: Jonathan cannot raise a hand to her. (He would have me as a monster than not exist at all.)

What he prays she never will: Jonathan will be anything she is. (Mortal. Monster. Dead.)

One last secret to keep.

All the way to the grave.

#I'm fine I'm great I'm having a lovely time #mina harker #jonathan harker #holiest love #dracula #re: dracula #dracula daily

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reasonsforhope · 10 months

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Donald Trump charged in Georgia for efforts to overturn the 2020 election

Link here, because WaPo's security measures stop Tumblr previews. Non-paywall link here.

"Former president Donald Trump and 18 others were criminally charged in Georgia on Monday in connection with efforts to overturn Joe Biden’s 2020 victory in the state, according to an indictment made public late Monday night [on August 14, 2023].

Trump was charged with 13 counts, including violating the state’s racketeering act, soliciting a public officer to violate their oath, conspiring to impersonate a public officer, conspiring to commit forgery in the first degree and conspiring to file false documents.

The Recap

The historic indictment, the fourth to implicate the former president, follows a 2½-year investigation by Fulton County District Attorney Fani T. Willis (D). The probe was launched after audio leaked from a January 2021 phone call during which Trump urged Georgia Secretary of State Brad Raffensperger (R) to question the validity of thousands of ballots, especially in the heavily Democratic Atlanta area, and said he wanted to “find” the votes to erase his 2020 loss in the state.

Willis’s investigation quickly expanded to other alleged efforts by Trumpor his supporters, including trying to thwart the electoral college process, harassing election workers, spreading false information about the voting process in Georgia and compromising election equipment in a rural county. Trump has long decried the Georgia investigation as a “political witch hunt,” defending his calls to Raffensperger and others as “perfect.”

The Details

“Trump and the other Defendants charged in this Indictment refused to accept that Trump lost, and they knowingly and willfully joined a conspiracy to unlawfully change the outcome of the election in favor of Trump,” the indictment states.

A total of 41 charges are brought against 19 defendants in the 98-page indictment. Not all face the same counts, but all have been charged with violating the Georgia Racketeer Influenced and Corrupt Organizations Act. Willis said she has given those charged until Aug. 25 to surrender.

Among those charged are Rudy Giuliani, the former New York mayor who served as Trump’s personal attorney after the election; Trump’s former White House chief of staff Mark Meadows; and several Trump advisers, including attorneys John Eastman, Sidney Powell and Kenneth Chesebro...

Prosecutors brought charges around five subject areas: false statements by Trump allies, including Giuliani, to the Georgia legislature; the breach of voting data in Coffee County; calls Trump made to state officials, including Raffensperger, seeking to overturn Biden’s victory; the harassment of election workers; and the creation of a slate of alternate electors to undermine the legitimate vote. Those charged in the case were implicated in certain parts of what prosecutors presented as a larger enterprise to undermine the election."

-via The Washington Post, August 14, 2023

#trump #donald trump #trump indictment #fani willis #district attorney #united states #us politics #good news #2020 election #january 6 #georgia #fulton county #criminal justice #racketeering #rudy giuliani #sidney powell #john eastman #fuck trump

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halcyone-of-the-sea · 1 year

Note

HAL, HEAR ME OUT !!! ghost coming home to wis wife on Easter, he thought he wouldnt manage to come back home in time, but Price dismisses him earlier, so he decides to surprise her by making a egg hunt for her, something she always said she liked to do when she was little, I KNOW THIS IS A SPECIFIC REQUEST, FEEL FREE TO DENY DEARIE, i just really love easter loool (and simon too)

love ur works, hal ❤

A Good Man

Pairing: Simon 'Ghost' Riley x F!Reader

Synopsis: If such a thing as a good man existed, Simon Riley knew he was not it.

Word Count: 3.1k

Warnings: Self-deprecating thoughts, allusions to Simon's past & trauma, delving into his psyche, angst, but a lot of fluff, Simon's POV

A/N: I knew I had to get this out before Easter actually came around so here it is early, Anon! This was an adorable request. Enjoy and have a happy holiday! <3

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*

If such a thing as a good man existed, Simon Riley knew he was not it.

Skin shredded; showing every tear and rip with a thinly veiled sense of pride along with a detailed description of every bullet wound and burn. Rope tears along the forearms and red stab marks over the visible spine of his back. Tattoos that depict skeletons and war. He couldn’t tell you every life he had ended, but he could name names until his tongue went black and fell off; though he spared you the details.

Simon Riley was a devil incarnate. Dead-eyed and robust of body. Muscles wound with promised death and the trigger finger to prove it. His life was measured in an hourglass, the sand cascading down like the blood from his knife after a kill; it would stop flowing, one day – abrupt and final. Simon Riley was a demon, a monster. Simon Riley was a Ghost.

A ghost with an impeccable memory and a deep love for the woman currently on the living room couch.

The man blinks, slate eyes taking in the steady rise and fall of your chest with a slow melting of his shoulders. He had a doubt that you had planned to fall asleep with the Tv on – or the floor lamp, for that matter.

Its golden light slipped over your form, and he traced the flow of it as the voice of the news anchor went in one ear and out the other. Gradually, a hand slipped to the balaclava over his head as your lips let loose a grumble, nose nuzzling the feather pillow.

Simon often found himself watching you sleep when he was home; how your face would lose all tension in those brief intermissions between oblivion and awakeness. When his own nights were restless, it helped to know that at least someone was at ease, especially if it was you. The fabric slips from his tired visage, the mess of blonde locks atop his head sticking this way and that; layered with the gleam of grease. As the black face-paint stains his sockets and spreads with a swipe of a stiff palm, the ever-constant cloud over his head peels back but for a brief moment of peace.

His bag was still in the foyer, holding three months of dirty clothes and gear hostage in its zipped space; stained, and bloodied. The man himself wasn’t much better.

It had been a long few months.

Hooking the balaclava onto the belt of his cargo pants, Simon bends down on an achy knee, a grunt in his throat sounding off like a boar. Scarred fingers go to brush your cheek, though no words exit his mouth, no whispers of adoration. Just a glimmer in his eyes, a release of that furrowed line in the center of his forehead that seemed permanent these days.

Staring, the faint twitch of his lips is the only tell at all that he was content at all, feeling your skin as a feather would slide over water. He takes down a breath.

There were few instances that Simon fully remembers from his childhood – most displaced in the back of his mind with a barbed wire fence and a door with no keyhole – though there is one he refuses to lock away. His mother. He can’t help it, and before he can stop himself the words are spilling directly from his heart to his mouth.

Hell, he really must be tired.

“She’d of loved you, Sweetheart.” It’s like he’s startled by his own voice, head pulling back and walls going back up, but that delicate glimpse was enough.

A gravel voice and manchester accent bleed together to form some piece of the puzzle that was his pure adoration for you; small cardboard cuts and divots that had been given over to create a picture. Simon Riley was a ghost, yes, the Ghost, but he was never that when he was home.

He was just Simon to you.

Blue eyes study the small smile that blesses your face when the man runs his fingers into your hair and attentively separates knots; your body unconsciously molding to his touch. With a kiss on your forehead, Simon chooses to not wake you. It’s late, the man reasons, and he knows how hard it is for you to sleep when he’s gone. Almost as hard as it is for him when he can’t feel your weight on the opposite side of the thin mattress he’s cursed with in the barracks.

Against his better judgment, he’d learned to love your contact; your presence next to him and the way you fit into his arms.

As gently as he’s able, the black ink of his tattooed arm slips under your shoulders, pushing between the cushion and your limp body to lie still. The other hooks around your knees, and with a pause to make sure you weren't going to wake up, Simon lifts you as easily as a piece of paper. Your weight lays comfortingly against his chest, shallow breath hitting his neck and he thinks for a moment just how it was possible to love something more than you can love anyone else that came before.

“Simon…” Your voice brings goosebumps to his forearms, his fingers tightening over the shirt he now recognizes as his own clothing you. A smirk runs over his face.

Lips caress his pulse, a nose taking in his scent of canvas and sweat; a tinge of barely restrained corruption, a soul more damaged than a window shattered into a million pieces.

How can you stand it? How could your body instinctively lay into him and give redemption willingly?

Simon grips you ever closer, using his own body heat to lull you back to oblivion. He didn’t have an answer – probably never would – but that didn’t mean he wasn’t forever grateful.

But he was a stiff man; a stoic one.

He slips through the bedroom door, navigating in the dark as if his eyes had built-in night vision, and hums out, “it’s me. Go on – back to sleep now, Love.”

Air communes with a soft grunt, and Simon watches from the side of his vision as your lids flicker open and closed. As desperate as the fight is, it’s over fairly quickly when he lowers you to the sheets, cupping your head and setting in on the pillow.

Soft fingers wrap his lower arm, and with trapped breath, Simon watches your lips connect to the pale skin of his wrist before your form once more goes slack; ever the stubborn one to greet him even half-gone. Weak mumbles stuck forming ‘welcome home’ and ‘love you’ on a lead tongue garble to nothingness like a gargoyle’s stone speech.

“Hmm.” The Lieutenant smirks as the area tingles, preening like a bird. There are many things to say to you, but he settles with a mumbled, “Don’t hog the sheets. Gotta go take care of the mess first, copy?”

You don’t answer, of course. With a delicate pet on your head, Simon exits the room silently to take a shower and organize his gear; closing the door behind him only halfway so he can still keep an eye on you as he passes. Ever the neat partner, he wouldn’t go to sleep until all were in their proper places – clothes in the washer, knives and various licensed weapons in the nightstand, and paperwork in the office.

There was a sanctity in this. A way to get rid of the lingering adrenaline of being on Base or in the field – deterioration of the mind but in such a way it would be described as a boil to a simmer.

All of it is uneventful.

He enters the kitchen with only a white towel around his waist sometime later, flicking on the lights and running his fingers through his damp hair before bee-lining to the fridge. If there needed to be a list made of the things he loved the most, it would be fairly short – only three.

One, you, two, the adrenaline rush of a good deployment, and, finally, your food.

Simon would listen to Johnny’s rambling for days if it ended with an excellent heaping plate of whatever you cooked for supper.

Opening the fridge, the man’s eyes widen, shimmering with azure glass.

“Fuckin’ hell, Sunshine,” he breathes to himself, hand reaching inside the box with fervor, “you’ve been busy, then, eh…? Bloody feast in ‘ere.”

The Lieutenant drags out a heaping plate of steak and potatoes – a side of greens covered in plastic and a sticky note on top.

‘Save for Simon.’

The food didn’t look older than a day or two…did you save him some of your meals every once and a while just in case he would show up?

He grunts, re-reading your chicken scratch with a swelling of his chest and a foreign heat on his cheeks. Simon moves to the oven, preheating it and placing a cooling rack on a metal pan over parchment paper. Damned if the man would mess up your masterpiece; he’d reheat it properly.

With minimal noise, he waits for the meat to be done and settles on placing the potatoes in the microwave with the greens for time's sake. Standing in the kitchen, his eyes gradually fall closed, their weight heavy. But his ears perk at the faint pitter-patter of bare feet.

The sneaking arms around his waist don’t startle him, and with a sigh on his lips, Simon feels you melt into the curve of his open skin. A head connecting with his spine.

“Thought I brought you back to bed?” He whispers, flesh melding to you like hot iron, a scarred hand resting over the one that’s on his abdomen.

Your nose nestles into the burns over his back, and even if you couldn’t see it – the sudden sweep of vulnerability is nearly heard. You lay a kiss and think no more of it, but Simon shivers with beautiful agony; eyes gazing off.

“...Erm,” you groan, fingers tracing the build of his ribs, “needed to hold you.” Your breath stills – half-asleep. “You’re…here?”

Simon chuckles, hearing it echo off the walls.

“I’m ‘ere, Love. Few more bloody cuts,” he breathes, “but I’m here.”

“Good. Missed you.” A second of kisses and distant blue eyes. Muffled yawns into his flesh. “Didn’t think you’d be back in time for Easter.”

Simon twists, aware of the delicate fold of his towel, and lifts your fatigued form onto the counter, settling you down so you don’t fall sideways. He blinks down at you, cupping your cheek when your neck gets too heavy to hold up. Your lids rapidly move, your nose scrunched at the overhead light and the man knows you’re only awake because he’s home.

He utters out to you, faces close, “The Old Man let me off early,” and lays a peck to your forehead, holding his lips there for a long second. Mutters into your skin, “prickly bastard’s been antsy – hasn’t had a good drink in weeks. Was about ready to strangle someone.”

She’s warm.

His body slots itself between your legs, one arm around your back and the other placed on the counter. Simon’s forehead falls to your shoulder, and with a groan of satisfaction, he feels your fingers go through his locks; itching at his scalp dreamily.

“...Dunno whether to thank him or send ‘em to a therapist.” You whisper, kissing his neck, unable to keep your hands off each other for a mere second.

“Better to place money on the both.” His grumbled words are barely heard. “I’ve got two weeks ‘fore they need me back.”

A soft hum is all he gets before the timer goes off and he takes down a breath, forcing himself to peel back from you and grab his supper.

By the time the both of you are in bed, he’d nearly forgotten about your comment, and as he stroked your hair and felt you bring him closer under the covers, he remembers. He’d asked Price to give him two weeks on account of the holiday you’d loved so much – Easter – and had used the Captain's deteriorating attitude as a pry. It had been easy enough, the two had known each other for a long time. They knew their breaking points.

Sometimes living around a handful of other men formed unbreakable bonds of brotherhood, and while that was true for 141, it was also a pain in the ass. People long for home at the end of it – a soft touch and sweet kisses. There’s only so long you can go with yelling orders into the same faces and playing Poker in a shitty safehouse.

Simon never thought he’d be worthy of it, a home, but here he is regardless and here he would stay. And he knew Easter was your favorite time of the year, and he also knew that Easter was…tomorrow. His dead eyes widened.

The plan formed quickly, his strategic mind helping as it always does, and as he snuck out of bed and laid his lips to yours in a tiny kiss, a shirt was tossed on along with boxers. You never heard the door to the garage door opening, just snuggled back up to the pillow and an old t-shirt he’d placed in his spot instead; inhaling his calming scent.

—

When the sun had risen an hour ago and Simon had finished with heavy fingers. Groaning, the back of a hand meets a forehead, trying to swipe away sleepiness as one would a fly. But he says nothing, feet hitting the floor as he enters the kitchen, an object held in his palm that was quickly stashed in the breadbox.

This was childish, he knew, not at all like the deadly Lieutenant of TF-141. Like Ghost. The boys would tease him relentlessly if they found out.

“Simon…?” Your voice draws him back, and with a look over his shoulders, he finds you wrapped in the comforter like a mouse. “What are you doing out here?”

The lie comes easily.

“Fixin’ breakfast.” Your eyes flicker to the open breadbox, eyebrows furrowing. A smirk grows and you walk over with a laugh living in your expression.

“I don’t even trust you to toast bread, Love, go sit down. You’ve been stuck on rations for too long.” Simon only steps back, gazing over your head and seeing your hand pause. “I’ll make us some…”

He watches as he loves to do, memorizing the parting of your lips and the recognition lighting like a shy fire. The man smiles then, and it is a delicate thing; an expression not tainted with sarcasm or deception.

Your hand delves into the box and pulls out a plastic egg softly as if it would snap in two.

It’s cheap, made of thin plastic and fading in colors of the shade of pastel pink. Chipping. There’s nothing inside of it, just a bare piece of holiday joy that never meant too much to anyone beyond children. But with how you’re staring up at him, Simon thinks all the searching in the bins from the garage was worth it.

“What’s this?” Your voice wraps him close, and your hand holds the object close. Simon shrugs, digging deep into your vision.

“I’ve the faintest idea, Sunshine.” The giggle flies to his cold heart and he pulls you to his chest to still the raging of it. “My guess,” he raises a stiff brow, “intruder broke in, yeah?”

“Did this intruder have ears and a pink nose?” You ask, noses brushing. “A hop in his step, maybe?”

“Hell if I know,” Simon grunts, eyes flickering away before he can break before you. “Best get my gun just in case – you’ll ‘ave to find the rest ‘o the bastard things, though.”

You kiss him then, and he captures the back of your head, holding you to him as if you’d disappear if he let go. He doesn't know what you did to possess him so, to make his thoughts be only of you even when he’s halfway around the world. Were you an angel? A shred of light made physical? Perhaps an embodiment of all the good in the universe?

Simon had no answer, as he usually did when it came to you, and you sighed into him, whispering redemption to his soul.

You said you loved him, and he said it back with every ounce of him that was untouched by death. And then you pulled from him with a laugh that could throw away darkness and disappeared with promises of finding the remaining eggs. Like a loyal hound of hell, Simon followed, pulling on the comforter to slow you down so you don’t trip. He would always follow.

The vision of a good life starts with a view of the present. Who you choose to care about; how you make meaning of nothing but a shared morning and a memory of youth. Simon does not remember much of his childhood. Most of the memories are displaced in the back of his mind with a barbed wire fence and a door with no keyhole. Cast away.

Coated in fear and lies.

Some days he asks how he can still call himself Simon Riley – it’s the name of a dead man, after all…and then he looks at your beaming face, and his question is answered as fast as it was thought up.

You deserve Simon Riley, not Ghost. Not a devil incarnate or Dead-eyed. A demon, or a monster. If there was even a shred of purity left in him, that was what he knew beyond doubt.

Simon Riley was selfish, he admitted, and he was loathed to leave you…so here he would stay. Hiding easter eggs and giving veiled hints when you were close to one near the planted flowers in the backyard. There was a simplicity that the man bathed in – the blatant enjoyment of a plain life.

With a chuckle in the back of his throat, Simon pushes off the back porch and makes a comment about how you were closer to the dead bird you had buried in the garden bed than an egg. A flick of your middle finger leaves him smirking, and he splays a hand over your back, angling your body farther north. The kiss left on his stubbled cheek makes him warmer than he wants to admit; cold eyes soften.

If such a thing as a good man existed, Simon Riley knew he was not it…but he was trying to be damn near close. Until then, the ring he had bought would stay in his office.

TAGS:

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scribble-dribble-writes · 6 months

Text

Headsets and what nots

Pairing: Alex Walter x female reader

<<< >>>

And it was maddening. To be around him. Alex Walter had that magnetic pull that the only one oblivious to it was himself. He commanded the presence of everyone around him by his silence and through his gentleness. All the words he spoke were kind, he never raised his voice. He was ready to step in and help and you couldn’t help but observe him.

It started off as a bet you made with yourself, to prove to your conscience that no one as good as him could exist because everyone at some point was bound to mess up. But not him. What had started as a game now became an obsessive chore, to crave for that vindication of being right which he made it more frustrating. He never slipped up. No unnecessary advances, the perfect combination of jokes, just the right level of touches. He kept his slate clean and you were a private investigator on the verge of going mad.

Alex led the gaming club so he was busy with new members and setting up servers or the basic orchestration of the event. Whereas you as a newly joined member was privy to the gossip and the love ridden sighs. The boys were here to play and the girls, well they were here for Alex Walter.

Everyone knew of this, except him. It was as though he was oblivious to it, impervious rather to all the attention he received. His attention was under his control. Who he gave it to, how he let the world know who his people were. You didn’t have to fight for his gaze, you had to earn it.

You kept your head down, university was supposed to be a new start. All you wanted was a friend and that was all. Locking yourself up in your dorm room only made your lonely life even lonelier and trying to meet up with people in your class did not go well either. Parties were not your scene so the only best place to be was here. In the back of this internet cafe, building cities in this virtual world along with people you only knew through avatars and usernames.

Here, you could just be, without a history.

You had forgotten to bring your headphones so you enabled the chat function and started to play the game with the people who were waiting in the game lobby. All you could hear from time to time was Alex’s name popping up often that he spent his time solving queries rather than playing.

You had one class in common with him and often passed by him in university grounds. Your eyes would meet occasionally and that was it. Apart from being far off acquaintances, you had never spent time in real time.

You were working your way through a level when out of the blue your character was attacked, making you lose the level. You thumped the desk with your fist at the disappointment when you noticed the chat. All the other players were stating it would have been easier if you were able to hear them as you had missed out on their warning.

You sunk into your seat contemplating if playing another round was worth it when someone tapped you on your shoulder.

“You can use my headset, I noticed you didn’t have one.”, you heard him.

Alex stood next to you, his face held a serene expression with a lopsided grin.

“I’ll be fine. I don’t want to be a bother.”, you let him know, a smile spreading across your face.

But he didn’t argue with you or make a scene of his lovely gesture. It was just between him and you. He held the headset apart as he fixed it over your head gently. You had to look away because he was so close. His eyes focusing on the work at hand as you sat there frozen feeling the warm soft touch on his fingertips against your cheek. He pulled down the microscope and your lips parted in surprise because his thumb grazed the edge of your bottom lip. You couldn’t help but look into his eyes and when his gaze fell on you for a second, it was as though the world had stopped and it did as he paused to look at you.

He reached out to swipe your bangs to the side as he fixed them from falling across your forehead, you were certain your heart had given out because you couldn’t even open your mouth to thank him.

“Perfect.”, he said as his eye glimmered with mischief but before you could say anything he got up to plug the wire into the port and the noise of your teammate’s chatter flooded in.

With that he walked away, and now you were back to square one, you couldn’t find a flaw in him.

Alex never quite liked his position as the person who ran the club cause it was a lot more effort than he had realised.

But now as he stood at the main table, supervising the other members, he was free to sneak glimpses of you.

The bright smile after you win, the frustration creasing your eyebrows when you lost, his fingers still tingled from the bold move he had somehow managed to pull, to feel the soft touch of your skin. He would have never done this with Jackie but with you, he felt like himself. Confident and certain in what he wanted. His heart didn’t beat against his chest, it instead covered him with a sense of comfort.

There was something about you he couldn’t quite place, something that made it impossible for him to look at anyone else.

#alex walter #Alex Walter x you #Alex Walter x reader #my life with the walter boys

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