#this song's for queue

[tiangouaway]

Fortune's Hand Series - Gold Cards

Slaughtering Dragonewt, Chipper Skipper, Prudent General

Imperator of Magic, Starbright Deity, Reverend Adjudicator

Mind Splitter, Vampire of Calamity, Deathbringer

[deprivedmusicaljunkie]

- andrew hozier byrne, born 17 march 1990

[misterradio]

🍪🐜🐜🐜🐜🐜🐜🐜🐜🐜🐜🐜🐜

my coogie

[expectiations]

David Tennant and Alex Kingston giving us the 14 and River content we deserve.

[abbotjack]

when would jack stutter, have to catch his breath? whether it be something he sees, hears, smells. what makes him take pause?

Jack Abbot doesn’t stutter for effect. He doesn’t lose his words in arguments or get flustered in tension. He was trained—trained—to speak clearly through chaos. To radio for medevac while pressure-wrapping a wound with one hand. To give the date, time, and morphine dose to a nineteen-year-old he was holding together by sheer will while bullets cracked overhead. Words, for Jack, have always been tools. Precise. Tactical. Controlled.

So when Jack stutters, it’s never performance. It’s never dramatics. It’s malfunction. It means something short-circuited so violently inside him that all his practiced scripts—the field medic instincts, the ER attending cadence, the gallows humor—all of it collapses under the weight of something real.

It’s not trauma that makes him pause. He’s acclimated to that. It’s gentleness. It’s earnestness. It's the things no one ever trained him to survive.

It starts small.

You’re in his kitchen one morning, still in sleep clothes. No makeup. You open the fridge and mutter, “We need more eggs.” Not he needs. Not you need. We.

Jack freezes.

Just for a second. Just long enough that the corner of the coffee filter burns.

Because he’s spent years learning how to survive alone. Alone is safe. Alone is math he can do. But we? We is dangerous. We has loss baked into it.

So when you say something that sounds like permanence without even realizing it, Jack looks down at the mug in his hand like he forgot how it got there.

“You okay?” you ask, still rummaging.

“Yeah, I just—” He exhales, blinks. “I—uh, it’s—fine.”

It’s not the word he’s fumbling over. It’s the feeling.

Then it escalates.

You wear his sweatshirt to the grocery store and complain about the sleeves being too long. You say it in passing—no agenda, no performance. Just an offhanded “How the hell do your arms fit in this thing?”

Jack laughs. He nods. He goes quiet.

And later, when you’re brushing your teeth, he stands in the doorway, arms crossed, watching you like he’s never seen anything more disarming.

“You know you, uh—” He pauses. Swallows. “You look good in that.”

And that stutter? It’s not nerves. It’s not lust. It’s ache. It’s how dare you look like home in my clothes when I never thought I’d have one again. It’s him tasting the fact that someone might love him with the lights on. With the ghosts still in the room.

But the worst of it—the deepest malfunction—is when you touch the part of him he hides.

It’s a Tuesday. You’re lying in bed. Jack’s out of the shower, towel around his waist, residual steam curling off his shoulders. You’re half asleep when he climbs in, careful, always careful. The prosthetic is off. His right leg ends below the knee, the skin there pale, uneven in tone, scarred in a way that doesn’t fade with time.

You don’t flinch. You never have.

You roll over, press your face into his chest, and—without thinking—run your hand down his thigh and stop at the point where flesh becomes absence. Where history lives in muscle memory.

He draws in a sharp breath—sudden, ragged—like it knocked the wind out of him.

“Sorry,” you whisper, pulling back.

But he grabs your wrist. Not to stop you. To ground himself. To hold the moment in place.

“No, I—” His voice cracks. The words don’t follow. “It’s not—I just—” He blinks fast, jaw twitching. “I wasn’t—expecting that.”

Because what you touched wasn’t just skin. It was the thing he’s ashamed of needing love through. The thing people look at and get polite. The thing strangers pretend not to notice. The thing he never believed could be part of desire. And you just touched it like it was his. Like it was safe.

That’s when Jack stutters.

When you make the part of him he’s spent years compartmentalizing feel not just accepted—but wanted.

But maybe the most dangerous kind of stutter—the kind that ruins him—isn’t even about touch.

It’s when you fight.

Not over something petty. Something real. Something that threatens the fragile trust he’s learning to build. Maybe you accuse him of shutting you out again. Of pulling back every time things get too close. And you’re right. You’re so right it guts him.

He raises his voice. Snaps something defensive. His default. Control the room. Win the logic. Out-talk the fear.

But then you say it.

“Jack, you don’t have to be perfect to be loved.”

And that sentence? That sentence breaks him.

Not because of what it is.

Because of what it isn’t.

It isn’t a demand. It isn’t a plea. It’s grace. Unconditional. Unflinching. And it makes no goddamn sense to a man who’s only ever been valued for what he can fix, what he can endure, what he can sacrifice.

So he stares at you.

“You don’t—” His voice falters. “You don’t know what you’re saying.”

“I do,” you whisper.

And he stutters. He turns away. Rubs his jaw. Blinks hard.

Because he wants to believe you. More than anything. But his nervous system doesn’t know how to file that truth under anything but threat.

He says, “I just—” and never finishes.

Because he can’t.

Because it’s too much.

Because your love is louder than his guilt, and that is a sound Jack Abbot doesn’t know how to live through.

That’s when he stutters.

When you say something that unravels the wire he’s been holding himself together with since the war. Since the job started asking more than he had to give and he gave it anyway.

When you look at him like he is not a burden. Like he is allowed to stay.

That’s what makes Jack Abbot forget how to speak.

Not blood.

Not death.

But the unbearable mercy of being loved anyway.

[themoon-andtosaturn]

madrid n2

[feza-creations]

WHEN THE SUN IS FALLING

SHOULD I CHASE IT?

[itwaslegendary]

“taylor has changed so much why is she bringing her boyfriend on stage :/“

no actually this same taylor swift mouthed “hi taylor” on SNL while talking about people asking her if she’s “dating the werewolf from twilight” and she used to namedrop people on songs, she has not changed at all

[tiangouaway]

Story Archive Headers • Summer

[hanafubukki]

“What’s this? What’s this? A little kitten and a student in my dorm?”

A ghostly figure floats over curiously.

“What’s this? How strange? I never expected another in this dorm again.”

The ghostly figure hummed.

“Asleep on Halloween week? So vulnerable? You’re asking for a spook!”

The figure laughed as he brought blankets over.

“It wouldn’t be gentlemanly of me to wake a sleeping underclassman.”

The black-speckled ghost laid the blanket over you.

It was cold now.

He can’t have you catching a cold! It’s Halloween soon!

Lighting flames in the fire place. The glow glints over his silver strands.

He’ll take care of his underclassman. Let them rest.

Halloween will be here soon. They can have fun then!

For now though…

The ghost of the past’s eyes glow orange.

He had some business to take care of.

It wasn’t gentlemanly to break into someone’s home.

Time to show these miscreants fear.

By none other than him.

The King of Halloween.

[smittenskitten]

Wei Shao: Don't think I will be seduced by your beauty

Xiao Qiao: ok

Wei Shao: 😳😳

[metamorphesque]

"Song of Autumn", Charles Baudelaire (translated by William Aggeler)

[iavender-haze]

so scarlet it was... maroon

one thousand followers special

[daily-kittyuri-archived]

Lara Jean after getting Kitty to write an unaddressed letter of her love for Yuri and bring it to Korea

[afolksongs]

x x x x

[stagtorccio]

SUMMER LOVIN' natalie scatorccio x martinez!reader (gn) request: i NEED more nat x martinez!r summary: travis skips out on hunting. you're next in the line-up. what could go wrong? warnings: none this one is actually normal word count: 1k author's note: wasn't gonna drink tonight but i miss smiley nat

𓃢𓃦𐂂 ── .✦

The forest’s alive with the thick hum of summer– mosquitoes, cicadas, the low chatter of wind through endless green. 

You keep pace behind Natalie, sweat clinging under your arms and down your spine, shirt plastered to your back, rifle slung carelessly over your shoulder. 

She doesn’t talk much on hunts. Today she’d started with a grunt and a muttered, “your brother’s being a dick again.” You’d nodded, grabbed your pack, and followed her into the trees like it was instinctual.

By now, it kind of is.

It’s been months since the plane crashed. Months since your dad died. Months since this, months since that. You’ve fallen into mind-numbing routine to stave off the ache in your chest you wake with every morning.

Halfway up the slope, she pauses to wipe the sweat from her brow with the hem of her shirt, exposing a flash of stomach and bruised hipbone. You don’t mean to stare, but you do. 

She catches you, like a snare hooks a rabbit. 

“Hey, eyes up here,” she snaps, and you flinch– but then she grins slow and crooked, words melting into a breathless laugh, low and from the chest. 

“Chill out,” Natalie mumbles, smacking your shoulder with the back of her hand. “I’m fucking with you.”

You grin back, shake your head, breath catching in the humid air between your bodies. 

“Right.”

She looks at you a second longer than she should– eyes narrowed like she’s trying to read smudged writing. 

You feel the faint prickle of embarrassment at the back of your neck– but then she turns, muttering something like “come on,” and starts walking again, boots crunching dry pine needles, leaving the smell of her sweat and the bite of her smirk lingering in the air like heat off a match head.

You follow, rifle heavy in your hands now, drumming pulse louder than the cicadas’ song.

You don’t talk, but your footsteps fall in sync. Natalie ducks under a low branch, and you copy her, the movement almost choreographed. She glances back, catches you doing it, and for a moment there’s a glimmer of mischief in her eyes– a childishly amused quirk to her lips.

She stops at a clearing, throws her pack down, and flops into the grass without ceremony. You hesitate at the edge, but she pats the space beside her without looking up. 

“Sit,” she says, eyes on her boots. “We’re not catching shit in this heat anyway.”

You drop beside her, elbows brushing, warmth between you that has nothing to do with summer.

Her fingers pluck absently at the grass. You turn your head to look at her, but she keeps her eyes on the trees now, lashes dark with sweat. You say nothing. Just wait.

After a minute, she flops back onto the grass with a groan, hands over her face like the sun’s personally out to get her– which might be a valid concern, given the burn already blossoming across the bridge of her nose. 

“God, your brother’s a total dick. Like, Olympic-level. Takes home the gold.”

You snort, toss a pinecone at her thigh. “He’s not that bad.”

Natalie peeks through her fingers, grinning. “Please. If I had a dollar for every time he looked at me like I kicked his fucking dog, I could buy us a plane out of here.”

“He’s just awkward,” you argue, lying down beside her. “Has a weird way of showing he cares.”

“Yeah, well, if that’s him caring, I’d hate to see him not give a shit.” 

She turns her head toward you, one brow raised. “Is it like, genetic? The whole broody, emotionally unavailable thing?”

“Rude,” you mutter, grinning. “I’m a goddamn delight.”

Natalie hums, unconvinced. “Mm. Jury’s out.”

You bump her with your elbow. “Y’know, you and Travis might actually have something in common.”

She groans. “Please don’t say hunting.”

“I was gonna say being insufferable assholes, but sure, let’s go with hunting.”

That earns you a shove to the shoulder, light but pointed. “You’re such a little bitch.”

You grin wider. “Takes one to know one.”

Her lips twitch, that familiar smirk creeping in like the sun breaking through clouds. “Wow. Sick burn. You rehearse that one, or–?”

“Shut up,” you laugh.

And then, she’s looking at you again, really looking. The kind of look that makes the air tighten between your ribs. Eyes soft, half-lidded, flicking to your mouth, then back up like she’s asking a question. 

You don’t move. You don’t have to, because she grabs the front of your shirt and tugs you in, easy and unceremonious, and kisses you.

It’s messy– teeth bump, her nose smashes into yours a bit, but it doesn’t matter. Her lips are warm and a little chapped and it feels like something that’s been trying to happen for a long, long time.

She pulls back just barely, breath mixing with yours. “You really think I’m a total dick?” she murmurs, a grin playing at the corner of her mouth. “Kinda hurts.”

You snort. “Only sometimes.”

She kisses you again, firmer this time, like she’s trying to prove something.

“You’ve got a type, huh?” you say, voice low, teasing. “Broody, stunted, kind of an asshole—”

“Shut up,” she laughs, shoving you back onto the grass. “You’re projecting.”

“Maybe—” you grin, leaning up on your elbows— “you’re just a freak, Scatorccio.”

She straddles your thigh without thinking about it– just drops there, lazy and unbothered, her hands bracing against your chest. 

“Okay, Freud,” she says, biting back a smile. “What’s your type, then?”

You look up at her, the sun a halo behind her head, wild tangles of her hair lit gold, green light flickering through the trees like the whole forest is holding its breath for her.

“You,” you say, simple.

She snorts, rolling her eyes. “Terrible choice.”

You shrug. “More of an acquired taste.”

That gets a laugh– real and sharp, breaking open her face in a way that makes you ache. She leans down again, lips brushing your jaw, your cheek, then finally your mouth. Softer now. Sweeter.

For the first time in months, the weight in your chest doesn’t feel so heavy.