#HAVE YOU EVER SEEN THE SHEPHERD

[ghosts-and-blue-sweaters]

Also Merry Christmas!! (Almost)

WOO MERRY CHRISTMAS!!! HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO JESUS WHOOPEE!!!

[grandwretch]

sorry i am so incredibly pissed off i just saw someone say that german shepherds shouldn't exist bc theyre too dangerous. like. god youre all so fucking stupid. i literally live w three of them and theyve never maliciously hurt a human in their lives. and you know why? bc we don't train them to and they're treated w the respect any living being should be. like genuinely you sound like the idiots who think bully breeds are just born as pit fighters. and if your version of acab includes innocent animals being eradicated then i think you should be the one who is put down, actually.

[thelaisydazy]

Firefighter!Simon Riley x Reader - Routine

It’s 5AM. Bloody five in the goddamn morning. The sun isn’t up and you’re barely awake as you unlock the bakery door, but a hulking shape startles you awake as you notice the man and German Shepherd standing outside. The man stares down at you as the dog wags its tail. He’s blond, almost freakishly so with the darkest eyes you’ve ever seen. You can’t see the rest of his face thanks to the black privacy mask with the lower portion of a skull painted on it. He’s wearing a pair of dark jeans tucked into sturdy boots and a black hoodie.

“G’morning,” he says, tilting his head as he watches you wipe a hand down your tired face. He doesn’t even apologize for scaring you. 

You hold the door open for him and his dog. He’s a regular from the firehouse just down the street. You'd think you would have gotten used to him lurking around the front door, yet every morning you go through the same thing. 

“We have danishes and turnovers today,” you say, leading him over towards the freshly stocked counter. The bakery smelled of fresh bread and sugary pastries, it made your stomach grumble, reminding you that you hadn’t eaten yet. Before you can slip behind the counter, his dog nudges your elbow. You turned with a smile, rubbing both your hands on his ears before walking behind the counter. “What’ll it be then?”

“Danish,” the firefighter said, his gaze never leaving you. You reached into the case and pulled out a pair of danishes, one cherry and one cheese. You never bothered asking him what flavors he preferred, he never seemed to care what he had. You also grabbed a couple of dog treats from a jar near the register. 

He reached for his wallet but you swatted his hand away when he tried to hand you a few dollars. Your boss insisted that keeping the local first responders fed was more important than profit. You walked around the counter again, watching as the firefighter met you by a little table near the front window. You place the pastries down, slipping a treat to the dog before sitting across from him. 

You both sit quietly while you eat the cheese danish. He doesn’t touch his, never does. He always just sits with you while you eat and takes his breakfast to go. It’s odd, but he never complains, and surely if he had a problem with it he’d say something. 

“You know..” you start. “I know Riley’s name.” You gesture to the dog, who was currently resting his head in your lap. “But you still haven’t told me your’s.”

“Simon.” His voice is blunt, that same flat tone he always used. 

“Simon..” you say back. “I like it.” 

You have no idea what hearing you say his name does to him. It sets his heart racing. His mouth waters. He swears, he’d die just to hear you say it again.

---

The brain rot is so real. I just wanna eat him up.

[s0fter-sin]

thinking about the way ghost doesn't hesitate to start killing shadows when graves betrays them but soap only takes one hostage

you can almost hear the voice in his head telling him it doesn't have to be this way; they can still talk it out

"i'm calling shepherd"

his first instinct when confronted with betrayal is to play it by the books: to go up the chain. that goes against everything we've seen him do. he bucks authority at every chance except for the one time he's confronted with the barrels of his allies' guns

he wants a peaceful resolution; for the first time we've ever seen, he doesn't want violence to be the answer. there has to be another fix, a solution that doesn't end with him killing the same men he's been working with; his friends

nothing's happened yet

it doesn't have to go this way

but ghost has been betrayed before. he knows the way this ends; either with him six feet under or his enemy

he doesn't hesitate

it's only when they knock alejandro out that soap shoots; when they spill the first blood and cross a line they can never come back from

only when ghost orders him to run and he has to cover his retreat

and somewhere along the line, between civilians’ screams and taunting voices, between his shaking breath and ghost steady in his ear, that naivety is stripped away; his trust turned to teeth that he uses to sink into throats of men he'd have given his life for

"be careful who you trust, sergeant; people you know can hurt you the most"

he's learned the price of trust

just like ghost did

but unlike ghost, he has someone to guide him through the aftermath

"good advice, It"

[inkskinned]

it isn't really complicated, but i still can't tell my grandma about it. my girlfriend is also my boyfriend and i'm her girlboyfriend and there are a lot of days this feels like smoothing sheets over a good mattress. it feels like getting a cup of good hot chocolate. we paint our nails lesbian flag pink, and i watch her eyelashes make shadows on her cheeks. she wants to kiss me because i am really good at baking, and i want to kiss her because when i am freaked out about how i spilled coffee, she just hands me extra napkins and helps me clean. he is so handsome i want to eat my fist. they once just winked at me and i couldn't talk for like the next fifteen minutes.

i haven't seen the L word and i was raised catholic. my earliest experiences with queer relationships were through harrowing conversations and hushed questions and blood on the ground. i didn't like boys soon enough. what, are you gay? asked to a 6th grader, almost like a demand.

when she is asleep next to me and i can feel the dreams run up and down her body, i pretend we are both somewhere in the stars. i like to picture a future full of fruit trees, and writing him poetry. sometimes she wakes up, has a whole conversation with me, goes back to sleep, and utterly forgets that we ever even spoke. she is always kind to me, even in that liminal half-there ghost. i like the croaked, raw way her voice sounds in the very-early morning, the way she always seems surprised i'm still here, and home.

on the internet, there are a lot of people who would be annoyed by both of us, and how labels must be pruned into orchids. a box has to hold and define the insides. people must be organized.

we went on a date last night, and the host said, oh, table for 2 nice ladies? neither of us are ladies, but also we are very much 2 nice ladies. i have been wearing her sweater nonstop. he has frequently been forced into wearing my taylor swift official merch quarter-zip because i was worried about him catching a chill, and you simply cannot be cool in an official taylor swift quarter-zip. do not worry: they listen to better music than i do, and their voice sounds like leaves falling.

i wear the skirts and makeup and i am better with spackle and know how to drive stick. recently someone commented on my work - you're just a man trying to reappropriate lesbian spaces. sometimes i feel like she is a clementine to me, and sometimes i feel like he is a german shepherd and sometimes i feel they are a bird. i like watching his hands over a guitar. can i write this poem, even? how can you be a lesbian if you're sometimes with a man? or you are the man?

how can i, huh. you know, our first date lasted 3 days. we'd been flirting for over a year before i finally asked her out. i'd already written her into poetry. she'd already written me into songs.

last night, in the late night, when they woke up again, confused about where they were, they said - oh, thank god. this is your arm. there's just something so precious to me about the specifics, the denotation that the arm was (thank god!) mine. i really liked that definition. i liked the obvious relief because i understand it.

i say yeah, i have a partner. i mean - oh. thank god. it's your arm.

[headspace-hotel]

you know how people say "cats domesticated themselves?" I find this statement irksome because as i've been studying plants and particularly weeds, a theory has slowly been forming in my head about domestication that makes a lot more sense than other theories.

Basically, I think everything domesticated itself. Or rather, domestication involves adaptation and active participation on both sides.

Evidence for this is found in studying weed and crop plants—truth be told, most weeds are or were also crops.

Amaranthus, the genus that gives us the most costly USA agricultural weeds? All edible and healthy, and several members of the genus are domesticated. They were staple crops for Mesoamerican empires.

Kudzu, the vine so aggressive in the USA it turns trees into looming kudzu monoliths? It's been bred and cultivated by humans since the Neolithic in its native range, in China it was one of the main sources of fiber for cloth for MILLENNIA to the point that the Zhou dynasty had a whole government office of kudzu affairs. Kudzu roots are edible and they can be as tall as a human and weighing over 200 pounds, you can make them into flour, make noodles out of the flour, you can process them down into a starch and use it just like potato or tapioca starch and make all sorts of sauces and confections and stuff out of it. In Japan it was used for clothes too, if you see pictures of clothes worn by a samurai that's probably kudzu! It has loads of unresearched phytochemicals that probably have medicinal use, it's good for making paper, a researcher even made a biodegradable alternative to plastic out of it

Yellow Nutsedge is a food crop, Purslane is a food crop, at least some species of morning-glories are food crops, crabgrass is a food crop, Nettles are food AND fiber, Milkweed is food and fiber too, Broadleaf Plantain is food and medicinal, Dandelion is food and medicinal AND great companion plant (they used to sell them in seed catalogues around the 1890's or so!) and have y'all ever seen queen-anne's-lace along the side of the road? THATS CARROTS. That's the wild ancestor of carrots! (ofc don't eat anything you aren't 1000% sure you can identify)

Simply put. A weed is a plant that has co-evolved with humans. And most of them are Like That because they co-evolved with us. And honestly I reckon that many plants were domesticated in the first place because they liked to grow in disturbed environments near human settlements and agricultural fields.

Now thinking about this in terms of animals...when our domestic species were first domesticated, there weren't fences, there wasn't "inside" or any controlled environment to bring animals into, and if you tried to overpower or coerce any of those species, they would 100% just kill you. It makes a lot more sense if the humans were just following herds around, and it gradually developed into protecting those herds from predators and tending to them more intentionally until we were kind of just part of the herds ourselves.

a lot of people are familiar with Biblical stories and metaphors about shepherds...it's clear those guys were basically living with sheep 24/7. They were assimilated to the sheep lifestyle.

this theory kinda suggests that we've lost the ability to domesticate new animal species to some extent because domestication has never really involved removing an animal from its natural environment. Feeding wild animals and trying to socialize them to humans isn't in line with the mutualistic nature of domestication because it's trying to change the animal to our whims, and usually decreases the fitness of the animal rather than increases it. And domestication probably takes a long long time to reach the level where an animal can be a "pet" instead of a more distant form of domestication where the association is not as close.

EXCEPT. Animals that adapt to our environment are prime candidates for domestication. This actually checks out because rats and mice are some of the most recently domesticated animals, iirc. Basically, pest animals are the most likely to be domesticated because they've already started evolving into a relationship with us. Just like weeds.

An interesting side note is how both animals and plants can de-domesticate and become "weeds/pests" again. Like "weedy rice" is becoming a problem in some crops where rice has evolved into a weed. And with animals, there's pigeons who were domesticated by us and now their habitat is cities because they co-evolved with us.

[homunculus-argument]

Random character dynamic: A ruler of a massive, mighty empire, and his pet wizard who foretells the future for him. The emperor has absolute, unwavering trust in the wizard's abilities, and never makes a desicion before consulting the wizard first. The emperor's wizard is of no noble birth nor formally educated, and the way they'll casually break courtly etiquette and speak like a peasant instead of a scholar is used to highlight their power - this is a true wizard, with powers natural born, not someone raised and trained to act like one.

Everyone knows the story of how the emperor encountered his wizard. The emperor's party was on a hunting trip in a distant region, and while going out to pursue some unusual game, they encountered a shepherd who warned them to not go this way, a storm will rise and kill the whole party. The emperor and his party ignored this warning and went after the beast they were hunting. A horrible storm came down on them and killed the whole party, save for the emperor.

As the sole survivor of this calamity that appeared out of nowhere, that nobody could have seen coming, the emperor suddenly remembered the shepherd, and realised that hold on, that strange hermit had foreseen this. Had we heeded their warning and not pursued the game, there would have been no storm. So he goes back to the village, finds the shepherd and goes holy shit are you a fucking wizard. And since only a true wizard would deny being a wizard, the emperor takes them with him.

Most of the things the emperor consults the wizard for are matters of common sense, that the wizard learns to weave into flattery - saying that the emperor's utterly idiotic idea would be a masterful move in any other time and place, but there is wisdom in knowing when to bide his time. Other members of the court and clergy start slipping the wizard requests of things that they should herd the emperor into doing, or not doing.

When the wizard admits to the other advisors that they don't actually have any kind of power of divination, they're told that the court already knows. This is how it has always been. The line of the emperors knows that the rulers who heed the warnings of their royal wizards tend to prosper, and the ones who ignore their sages or neglect to have one at all will fail.

This has been the case ever since the one emperor whose wizard had warned him to not let his wife drink so much while pregnant, or his heir's reign would be fated to be disastrous. The emperor ignored the warning and 30 years later, the aforementioned heir struggled to rule before being assasinated by his cousin, who took over the throne and whose line has ruled ever since, adamantly drilling it into every new generation to not ignore their wizards.

One might not be able to convince an emperor about things like "local peasants know how to predict the weather patterns of where they live" or "fetal alcohol syndrome is bad for your child", but they sure can believe in fate, and those with the power of divination.

[reikiajakoiranruohoja]

One thing that eternally baffles me with people calling dog sports abusive, is how the offered alternative assumes that a dog is happiest when it is not doing anything.

Putting aside PETA and its anti-pet stance, most critique I have seen comes from people saying the dogs are forced to perform for humans and therefore its exploiting them.

But even a cursory understanding of dog breeds tells you this mentality is not only flawed but also ignorant of the needs of the animal.

For one, you cannot force a dog to do things most dog sports require. If a greyhound doesn't want to run, it won't. If a husky doesn't want to pull a sled, it won't. Have you ever seen a dog in a situation it doesn't like? Most of us have to drag our dogs to the vet and then try our best to mitigate the dog's displeasure towards the vet.

A dog who wants to do something like running or fetching will do it regardless of your opinion. That is why most of dog training is directing this want so the dog isn't destroying things or hurting people.

The breed or breed mix also affects things. If you get a chihuahua, the experience with that dog is completely different from a border collie or a husky. Heck, even closely related breeds like German shepherds and Belgian malinois are vastly different in their temperament and mentality. There is this call for ignorance and naivete in posts decrying dog sports, where breed doesn't exist and any kind of activity outside the home is harmful to the dog. Admitting that dogs have been bred for jobs is to admit that human contact is not always negative for animals and that is a bridge too far for many of these people. It also means that jobs such as ratting, hunting, protection and such are blissfully ignored or assumed to be forced by humans. This means that when a pampered terrier does maul the family guinea pig, the owner gets blamed for abusing the animals. Posts that tell you dog sports are evil are not made with the dogs in mind, they are made solely for an ideology that benefits humans who do not have to live with the animal in question and so can sit on their constructed high horse.

[ghostaholics]

fuck it i'm thinking about grump x sunshine trope and a neighbor au with ghost where he's known for being the building's loner-tenant, this brute bear of a man that keeps to himself.

nobody's ever seen him smile or caught a glimpse of the entirety of his face because he always wears a black surgical mask when he's going to and from his flat; nobody's ever had a full-length conversation with him, because true to his callsign, he's in and out of the building with as much silence and stealth as a ghost. the other residents gossip about him: the water-cooler talk usually goes along the lines of them trying to piece together his story, who he is, what he looks like, whether they should be worried about the fact that he lives there (because there's nothing wrong with being a recluse but he does give off slightly terrifying vibes due to his size and demeanor). the rumor mill’s churning out these outlandish ideas about his private life and they kind of make assumptions based on little things they’ve noticed about him since he’s started living there.

enter in his new neighbor who's never met him, but was advised on her move-in day that he doesn't interact much with the other residents, basically a light debrief on how he can come off as cold and aloof and while some people have made attempts in the past to greet him, they’ve been dissuaded by his general standoffishness and avoidance of any social interaction.

anyways, simon wakes up at odd times throughout the night because he's got the most fucked sleeping schedule from deployment; he can start his day anywhere from 4am, 6pm, and so forth but on one particular morning, he's up at 3:30am, ready to go out for a jog of all things at this hour and then in the hall, he runs into his cute neighbor who's holding this also equally cute german shepherd puppy in her arms; his reaction consists of slowly blinks and a blank expression because he doesn’t quite know what to make of the sight in front of him

and she's staring back at simon with wide, frightened eyes not because she finds him intimidating or anything of that nature (honestly she doesn’t really give two shites about what the others say about him) but because the landlord has a severe and well-known, no-pets policy so she's been sneaking the puppy outside to use the bathroom in creative ways (one of them being at a time where she's certain none of the other tenants are awake) – she's basically been caught red-handed and fuck she's not sure if he's the type to snitch so all she can really say is:

❝ You didn't see anything. ❞

to which he deadpans,

❝... Sure. ❞

because he’s really just trying to mind his own business and not get involved, ducks his head before shouldering past her in the corridor to get outside – he tells himself he can’t bring himself to care about this new development

however, she's not entirely confident that he's going to make good on his word, so she bakes these cookies (special recipe of hers that she’s hopeful will win him over), leaves them in front of his door as a bribe with a card that says please don’t get me evicted ♡ on the inside, which seemed like an excellent plan in theory until he shows up the next day with an empty plate, a very real, very genuine request for more, and a serious demand to see the german shepherd that’s trying to squirm its way out the door to greet simon

edit: love thy neighbor masterlist

[almostfoxglove]

AN END TO DROUGHT

written for @perotovar's offering of Frith

RATING: Explicit (18+) | PAIRING: Javier Peña x f!Reader GOD: Freyr God of fertility, harvests, and peace WORD COUNT: 5.4k CW: Smut (f!oral, m!oral, unprotected piv, creampie).

SUMMARY: The future of your family's homestead hangs in the balance as Javier Peña comes home in the middle of a drought.

read on ao3 | almostfoxglove masterlist

For two fortnights you’ve seen no rainfall. Not a single, silver drop. The orchard, rich with the stunted globes of pale apples not yet fully formed, withers browner every day. Leaves crisp and folded in prayer, the last-ditch desperation of dying fronds. You spend hours hauling well water to the rows of cropland on which your livelihood relies, but it isn’t enough. Each morning you wake to the sun rising phoenix-like on the horizon, hotter and more accusing than the day before.

You speak to the trees, the fledgling stone fruit, apologizing when there is no more water your body can carry, when the well runs dry. 

Six generations your family has raised apples like they raised their kin. 

Now it will die in this drought with you as its shepherd.

Hopeless in your waking, back throbbing, shoulders sore, you rise from your bed at the crack of a new dawn to the fragrance coaxed every Sunday by your mother’s slender hands. She is fragile now in that child-like way, skin thin and veins sapphire blue, hearing going, but sturdy, still, for you. Doesn’t matter that you’ve been grown for decades now, solely responsible for the farm and her mounting care—your mother bakes a pair of her grain-kissed boules every week without fail.

“There you are,” she says, when you are just two steps away. These days she cannot hear your footsteps on the stairs.

“Sit, now,” you say softly, slipping your hand over hers to take the bread knife, and with a soft tsk your mother surrenders before settling at the breakfast table.

You break bread together: salted butter swept glistening over the delicate crumb and sturdy crust, spoons of preserves canned the year before. Cinnamon and cloves, honey and stewed apples, wild pickled blueberries. It takes so long to notice the change in the air, but when you do it’s obvious—you aren’t sweating in the way you have for weeks. The house, once sweltering, has cooled ever so slightly. When you gaze out the windows into the orchard, the sky is no longer the blue you’ve come to resent, but a wash of cotton batting. 

Clouds. 

Your mother, thin wire glasses low on her nose, grins at your expression. 

“He’s home,” she says.

“Who?”

Her smirk is the same as you remember it being when you were a girl. “The Peña boy,” she says, lifting her bread slice to her mouth. “Weather always fixes itself when he comes ‘round.”

You hum beneath your breath. You can picture him only vaguely—lean and liquid, little more than a silhouette in the distance on the other side of the fence that cages your family’s property from his. His father you know better, see often. Spiced apple cider traded for horse manure or Chucho’s brawn. Twice this past winter he fixed your fence after a furious storm and asked for nothing but a loaf of your mother’s bread in return.

Javier you’ve not glimpsed in a decade give or take, if you’re remembering right. Moved somewhere south for duty’s dauntless call.

In the lullaby of easy silence, you finish your meal, rinse the dishes, and walk out into the fields with the second loaf in hand where overhead the sky is performing a miracle befitting the gods: letting out the first tender, forgiving drops of rain. Your body brightens as you watch it freckle and darken the starving, yellowed earth. 

A caw, something of a laugh, shocks loose from your chest—delight, pure in its relief.

Tracing the aisles of death-bed apple trees, you sweep your fingertips along their trunks. Water pools in the green spades turned to spoons for liquid crystal. The precipitation for which you’ve longed and begged and prayed: here, at last, to save the grange.

The rain picks up. Forceful in its abundance, peppering the sandy earth. Soon your boots stick as you walk between trees, dirt becoming mud, so you shield the boule beneath the leaf of your buttoned shirt.

At the end of the orchard, the log fence stands and the grass grows tall and clover-riddled, purple thistles starved yellow in the heat. You stride towards the fence, far beyond which the Peña house stands white and shingled, framed by the umbrellas of old oak trees that border the meadows in which their herd of equines laze back and forth, grateful as you for the merciful change in weather. It is beautiful here, though it’s easy to forget when all the season brings is wilting. 

You hear him before you see him: a quiet, clicking tongue. 

Then a mare picks up her cantor, spurred forth by Javier—indeed returned, wide in the shoulders and dark hair slicked by rain, out forty feet or so—tanned skin made gold around his eyes by yellow aviators, periwinkle shirt undone a button too low. More handsome than you remember, but it’s been a long time. 

Your mother was right: it seems he brought the rain home with him.

As you come to a stop near the fence, tall grass clinging to your calves, his head turns slowly in your direction. Jaw working over something—gum, if you had to guess. You lift your free hand, show him your open palm, and he takes a last look at the horse before sauntering your way.

Like you, he’s undisturbed by the rain. No shelter-seekers here; you’re grateful enough to bathe in any storm. Come hell or high water—isn’t that how the saying goes? You’d swim any flash flood after all this unending dearth, drink any tidal wave.

“Heard you were home,” you call out over the pebbling downpour, watching his broad hand rake through his hair. 

Much more handsome than you remember, the nearer he strides. Unhurried, Javier lifts his sunglasses off to slip into his shirt pocket and even from some way off you don’t miss the path of his brown eyes as he takes you in. Against your better judgment, the hungry stripe of his gaze flips something low in your stomach, something needy. 

He stops just shy of his side of the fence, no more than an arm’s length away, as the splatter of kind weather kicks up the earth’s perfume. 

“This morning,” he admits, his voice all gravel and mead. Low and heady, a little sweet. Not shy—his eyes drop again, this time to your stomach where you’re holding the bread beneath your shirt. Sort of useless now—the rain’s too strong to save it—so you draw it out, flashing him by accident a glimpse of your bare stomach where his gaze stays pinned. 

Then, bread rising in your hand, seeded crust glistening as it speckles wet, his eyes at last leave you to follow it. “Ma thinks you brought the rain,” you say, not bothering to hide your smirk.

The corner of his mouth pulls into his cheek. “That so?”

You shrug, loaf held like a waitress’ tray not yet offered. “Accordin’ to her.”

To your surprise you see in his eyes what appears to be timidity—perhaps bashful to be given credit for the sudden end to the wrecking drought he’s no doubt heard about. With a sweep of your arm, you present the bread in your outstretched hand and one dark brow rises high on his head. 

“Before it’s drenched,” you insist, and Javier takes it, smile lopsided and pretty. 

Above the chuffing sound of a horse grazing on the trampled grass, the sky splits like a seam and sunlight cuts through the cloud’s white cover, throwing down a ribbon of yellow that licks the stables. 

Javier tilts the bread in his hands, inspecting the ear, the crust. Flashes those dark eyes back at you, exacting and tender at the same time.

“Our way of saying thanks,” you say, already stepping backward, toward the apple trees. “Neighbor.”

The rain doesn’t stop for three days—just long enough to wash the ash of long-snuffed forest fires from the orchard’s leaves. When the sun returns whole and yolk-gold to the sky, it brings heat of a kinder type. Warm for the growing things but barbless in its licking flame. You swear in just three nights the orchard lifts itself from its stupor—broadens, stretches, unfurls new leaves. 

Your mother bakes like she’s got an army to feed and doesn’t wait till Sunday to do it. 

“Take them, take them,” she insists, as fragile in stature as she is adamant in tone. Such a small, hunched little thing. “Least we can do.”

“Ma,” you sigh, powerless to her persistence, how she rests the arched handle of a basket in your hand for you to take. “You don’t seriously think he—”

She tuts softly, shoos you with one pallid hand before re-knotting the bow of her apron behind her back. “Just be grateful,” she says. “S’only right.”

Might as well be a girl again because here you are, obedient. Carrying the basket of seeded bread across the grass, between reborn apple trees, the fragrant orchard rows that days ago seemed doomed to die. Your heart thuds, surrendering itself to gratitude. Suppose it doesn’t hurt anything to take the Peñas bread.

Javier’s out in the pasture cleaving a rotten log from a sunken fence panel with an axe. White t-shirt translucent and clinging to the muscle that banks his back, he heaves the blade down with a biting crack and a grunt. Your footsteps give you away—he straightens as you hop the fence between your properties and land on his side, halting his rhythmic swinging.

As he turns, face halved by the shadow of an oak looming overhead, eyes squinting to make you out in the light, Javier cocks an eyebrow, dimple winking in his cheek.

“Neighbor,” he says, unabashed, now, in his lingering gaze. Dark curls cling to his temples and forehead, licked by sweat, across which he wipes the back of his forearm before setting the axe down against the fence.

Growing up on adjoining farms never sowed friendship between you—you’d estimate you’ve exchanged no more than a couple hundred words in damn near four decades—but there is in Javier a certain familiarity. A sense of him fitting into the landscape, reliable as an oak always looming in the distance. As constant as these valleys and hills, as the house beyond his muscled shoulder. Never something to acquaint yourself with, but something to rely upon.

Peculiar to stand before him now—twice in the same week—exchanging words.

You hold out the basket, linen cloth folded neatly over the boules. Javier, eyeing you suspiciously, takes one cautious step toward you with his hands on his narrow hips, peering down at your offering. His eyes flicker beyond you to your house and though you don’t look back you’d bet the whole season’s harvest that your mother is standing on the porch, watching. Guaranteeing you hand off the gift as she’s asked, like you aren’t well past grown.

Amused, he hums low and quiet. “For me?” he muses, knowing the answer, and when you roll your eyes he only smirks. Pleased, maybe teasing you.

You squint at him—glistening, all sinew and bated breath. Your mother’s mind may be failing in that drawn out, terrible way—hearing fading, her logic a little swimmy—but standing this close to Javier you can’t blame the woman for mistaking him for a god. 

“Just take it,” you say, betrayed by the curl of your lips. “She won’t let me back in the house ‘till you do.”

This time as he slips the gift from your hand to his, Javier sweeps his fingertips against your open palm, sending a sparkle of heat up the length of your arm. You watch him peel the frond of cloth back, unveiling the golden tithe as you drop your arm at your side. When he inhales slow and deep you can smell it too, that redolent unfurling of warmth. Hypnotic, despite its familiarity. Hypnotic, too, is the breadth of his chest as he takes that long, indulgent breath, thin fabric slick to his damp, lithe form. 

“She really think I brought the rain?” he asks, frowning a little. Watching you like he knows you’re watching him. Each of you sizing the other up, scrambling to build opinions of someone who’s only ever been a figure across the lush trees and grass. 

Did you once lose a kite to one of their oak trees? You think you might remember a young, rawboned Javier climbing a web of gnarled branches to fish it free, delivering it safely to where you waited on your side of the fence. Yes, you can see it now—that lazy, one-sided smile on his boyish face, the sun-bleached kite, and the relief of its homecoming to your trembling hand. 

Three decades older he is no less honest in the way he awaits your reaction.

“Or she’s messing with me,” you admit. “I never know anymore.”

His scoff triggers yours—a brief, quiet chuckle in the remains of a salvaged summer. Javier shrugs and yes, you think he catches the way your eyes skirt briefly to his shoulders because his jaw ticks, cheeks hollowing as he sucks his tongue against his front teeth. He turns his head in the direction of their house, sees no sign of Chucho, same as you. A low hm sound rattles from his chest.

You’d swear the sun flares a little hotter when he returns his gaze to you.

“If it rains again,” Javier says, his voice swooping to a deeper shade. “What will you bring me?”

You cross your arms. “I think you can count on the bread indefinitely.”

“Don’t mean her—I mean you.”

Traitorous, your heart: how it speeds, skips a note or two in its once steady pattern. “I don’t think you brought the rain,” you tell him. “Just timing.”

When he narrows his eyes, his crow’s feet swallow them. Mustache quirking, pink tongue darting over his bottom lip. “Call it hypothetical,” he says, and you’re not sure if you were standing quite this close just a moment before, if one of you has moved and if so, which. 

Hunger rarely devours you in any of its forms. A life spent in service of harvests leaves little excess to spend. Yet it stirs unmistakably, low and begging, at the sound of Javier’s gruff voice and the graceful way he pins your eyes to his mouth with every tiny movement of his lips. He doesn’t have to smile for you to feel him smirking—a fact alone that feels somehow mythic in its dominion, its quiet, unassuming power. All of him marble-sleek and solid, the image of virile beauty. It almost feels like a shame to think you’ve seldom stood this close before.

You jut your chin to the sky—that blue untouched by a single cloud—and shake your head. “It’s not going to rain,” you say, steadfast in your certainty. “Not anytime soon.”

“And if it does.” He doesn’t say it like a question—rather, an inevitability—which is to say you hear his real meaning: and when it does.

Head shaking, cheeks set aflame, you once more roll your eyes, this time turning back to return to your side of the fence. Over your shoulder you call out, “If it rains this week, I’ll bring whatever you like.”

For six days there’s nothing but sun. You watch the apples blush on their branches, those first pinkish stripes that promise a red and sugared fruit. Autumn will bring spices and cider, days and weeks and months of fermentation, of watching fruit turn liquid and then to gold. This stretch of summer is make or break for the harvest to come: the right weather now can mean perfection or a crying shame.

All week you watch Javier at such a distance he appears as only a tiny, charcoal figure roaming the fields, hauling lumber and picking up the far-off slack.

Yet often when you do, you think his head looks to be already angled in your direction. Impossible to know for sure in the blazing light and with so much land between you, but you’d take that bet. You’re pretty sure he’s watching you too.

You’re sure, also, that you’re right about the weather. At the dawn of the seventh day the skies look no less blemished than they have all week. Doesn’t look at all like it’s going to rain.  To your surprise, you’re a little disappointed, but the feeling passes.

You push out into the orchards, tend to the lifelong task of keeping everything verdant and alive. Sweet is the air at this early, fragile hour in which the birds are just now waking, filling the world with their jubilee. Sky pink at the horizon, white overhead, you spend the morning gloating to no one but the trees—you were right, and Javier was wrong. He’s going to lose.

Lose what, you aren’t sure, but when midday breaks golden and ripe, Javier appears in the tall grass, hand steadied on the neck of a tobiano as he and the creature walk between gated pastures, and his face turns in your direction, catches you drinking icy cider on the porch while you catch your breath between tasks. 

This time when he catches your gaze, he lifts his free hand, forefinger spearing up at the sky. Too far to call out to each other, you have no way of asking what the gesture is for, so you step down from the croaking porch into the crabgrass and look up.

There hang, above you, newborn wisps. Clouds ashy at their bellies.

But clouds are just clouds. They aren’t rain.

The reckoning comes an hour later. 

You dismiss the first, shy drop. A fluke, a fleeting blip of your imagination. Then the second: clear and wet on your forearm. Then a third. Soon it’s unavoidable—above you gray has gathered like dust bunnies beneath a couch, the bright summer shaded by the weather’s impossible will—and the rain that falls is not a patter, not a whisper, but a stony fist fight. The kind of rain that comes sweeping and determined, that has something to prove. 

It’s like autumn has taken the stage two months too early. Childlike in its eagerness to command your attention—a downpour harsh and giving. 

You emerge at the end of an arbored aisle to see Javier cut stoic against the shaded sky just shy of the boundary between your properties, chest wide and proud, just as drenched by the onslaught of rain but not fazed in the slightest. Too cavalier to smile but its essence hangs in the air between you, silver as any raindrop, unmistakable in meaning. He nods in the direction of a stable not far from the first shelter of elder oaks and without a word or invitation lopes off toward it, so fluid in his lazy strides, legs a little bowed and no small bit solid, hugged tight by denim that might as well be painted on.

You are following before your mind can think to.

You are hopping the fence.

You are dashing for the shadowed stable after him.

Breathless, hair kelped to your cheeks, clothes more water than textile, you cannot at first make out the stable’s interior, eyes not yet adjusted to the shift in light, ears booming with its cacophony. “Okay,” you say to the darkness in which Javier must be standing, blinking fast, wiping the rain from your eyes. “You got really fuckin’ lucky. What do you want?”

Embers warm in your chest—the first fronds of new wanting. You know what you hope he’ll say.

A flash of movement as your eyes adapt: Javier’s tanned arms reaching for you. His broad hands frame your face and you are not yet surefooted as he, swept up in his sudden, steady embrace. You hear yourself laugh over the barrage outside, silenced only by the blackness in his eyes—all that warmth and brown swallowed by his pupils. Your hands cuff his wrists, holding him to holding you without hesitation. 

It should be awkward, this first real meeting of your bodies. How Javier steps up to press the length of his torso to yours, sly in the subtle turn of his lips as he breathes one quiet word: You. But it isn’t. He slots his lips to yours like kissing you is just another step in his languid stride, graceful and planned, his arms dragging you against his steady frame. The softness of his mouth a welcome surprise. Dizzy on the first swipe of his begging tongue, you’re entirely unaware of Javier walking you backward until your shoulder blades hit the stable wall.

What a gift it is to be kissed and kiss with one’s whole body. Javier licks hotly into your mouth, sucking sweetly on your tongue or bottom lip depending on his whim, hands holding you flush to the fire of him. When he moves to your jaw, the soft flesh of your ear, you are a candle never before lit, touched a thousand times wrongly and made finally right.

Javier mumbles something lost under the bellowing tempest. Every raindrop riots on the sheeted roof. 

“What?” you pant, eyelids heavy with lust. Your shirt hangs open, as does his, both unbuttoned though you’d not noticed their undoing. Now visible in the gray light is the bronze of his freckled chest, the dark hair drawn from his navel to the waistband of his jeans.

You’d stare, but Javier then laps at the hollows of your neck, drinks rain from the dip in your collarbone, and you hum softly, entranced by his touch, eyes fluttering closed. He moves his lips closer to your ear. “Perfect,” he repeats, before his mouth is lost once more to the curve of your shoulder, the slope of your chest.

Meanwhile the path of your hands draws a symphony from him: low grunts and breathy huffs and, when your fingertips trace the hair on his stomach to graze his jeans, an earthy moan sweeter than any rainfall after any summer. 

Javier cants his hips against yours like he’s making a promise.

How sublime, the wet ask of his tongue down your stomach as he falls to his knees. 

Though he—after catching your eye, fingers frozen over the fly of your shorts until you nod—is the one to strip the layers from you first, you aren’t certain which of you is the one who’s praying, only that the reverence hangs heavy as a heatwave in the humid air.

Your head falls back against the stable wall. All but the roar of the storm is lost beyond your panting bodies as Javier kneels at the altar of you, shelves one of your legs on his shoulders, and laps hungrily from your aching heat. The pledge of his mouth sucks the air from you—your hands fly to the laurel of his hair, bathed locks slipping between your fingers as you clench and throb and tug, hardly conscious of the whimpers you let out in the wake of his tending.

Dutiful, he brings you gasping to the brink of some new chasm. Tongue expert in its tracing, circling, slipping, driving. Lifts his face to smirk just before you fall, dark stache glossy with your need and eyes blown black, and perhaps you’d be annoyed if Javier looked arrogant at all, but his confidence appears to you only assured. Resolute in his wanting. As if the world would have to come to a sudden, gasping end for his concentration to falter at all.

“Like that?” Javier asks, perhaps as winded as you. Genuine, you think, in his asking, though he must know.

You’re not sure if you remember how to nod or speak, but your hips buck on their own accord, desperate for him to see this through. 

“Yeah,” he rasps, his thick fingers squeezing your hips. “Think you do.”

Then his grin vanishes as he resumes and all at once you are tumbling, swept away in a landslide and earthquake at the same time as he slips two fingers into you, coaxing a rush of pleasure into his mouth. You might cry out his name, but the sound is lost to the din of the deluge.

When next you catch your breath, Javier is standing, denim wet and straining against the swell of his length. Hesitation is no longer a word you know or hold, already greedy for his taste, so you urge your mouth to his and lap the taste of yourself from his tongue, fingers busy with freeing him, the slick peeling of his jeans. You fall without realizing you’re falling, sunken to the ground with Javier’s cock heavy and throbbing in your hand. 

He might whine when your tongue flickers sweetly against his weeping head—but there’s no mistaking the desperate groan dug loose from the earth of Javier’s chest as you bring the whole of him into the furnace of your mouth, wet and tight and willing. Your moan sends a shiver through his body, then Javier’s hand shoots out fast as a gunshot, palm slamming into the wall to keep himself from toppling. 

“Shit—” he gasps, and you look up at him through dewy lashes to find his eyes have closed, lips swollen and jaw hanging open. 

Again, you hum. Make a game of the stroke and slide and swallowing that makes him quiver until it’s too good, too good, too close baby and he pulls you off him, drool slugging down your chin. His cock aching, surely, when you nuzzle your cheek against it, tempted to take it in your throat again. But you smile as he plummets to meet you on the ground, then swoon when he lays you out on the topsoil not yet drenched by the rain. 

“Wanna feel you first,” Javier murmurs, petting the hair back from your face, lapping the spit from your chin with his tongue before he unites it with yours. Lips plush, more tender than you expect amidst his fervor, the kind of kissing you can’t help but lose yourself to. You think you’d kiss him the rest of the day, through any night. Brows pinching when he pulls away, cupping the blaze of your burning cheeks with the palm of his hand, thumb swept across your upper lip as he gazes down at you with adoration.

“Need to fill you,” he groans. “Don’t I, hm? Dime, baby.”

Thighs spread to make room for him in the bowl of your hips, you pull him over you by the shoulders until he blankets you, covering all but a sliver of the rain-rich sky visible through the stable’s entrance, and the oak tree’s canopy lashing in the fevered gale.

Is his shirt below you now, somehow? You think it must be—spread carefully to protect your needy flesh.

“Yes,” you breathe, as Javier kneels between your legs, fisting the base of his cock. “Yes, yes.”

A grin, but not of ego—he is only pleased. Pious in his watching the way breath shudders in your chest. Javier nods, brow dented low and serious, curls black with water and plastered to his face, and pumps himself once, then takes your ankles in his hands. Sets them flat on the ground, bending both your knees to frame him. Hands butterflied and wide, tracing the slant of your thighs to the bend of your hips like all of a sudden he has all the time in the world. 

Maybe you do. It almost feels like you do. 

Like this might not be a spell that breaks with the end of the rain.

“I’ve got you,” he says.

“I know,” you breathe.

With both hands Javier lifts your hips from the ground and pulls you toward him until your core presses against the underside of his cock. He hmphs, transfixed by this silken meeting, and thrusts his hips once, gently, rubbing himself between your folds. You whimper at the friction, cunt fluttering, begging. 

Javier clicks his tongue as you claw at his forearms, hips pitching in his hold to ask for more, and this time there is perhaps a drop of pride in his cunning gaze. Glad to be the one you stir for, the one you choose.

“Needs me, hm?” he coos.

You paint the air between you with his name.

“I know,” he murmurs, guiding himself to you now, nudging his tip against your clit once, twice, then notching.

Then rhapsody. The urging in and dragging out, the sweet perfection of Javier inside you, taking space that now seems like it was made for him from the start. “Fuck,” you hear yourself say, more breath than voice, and Javier grits his teeth as he feeds his cock to you slowly, throbbing and whole.

“So soft,” he grunts, resolve slipping—his hips snap against yours on the next thrust and you yelp from the bliss of it. Teeth bared above you, Javier yanks you flush against his slender hips, buried to the hilt as he tries to catch his breath. “Shit, baby.”

Thighs clamping around his waist, you writhe, plant your palms on his sternum, desperate for more. 

“Javi,” you plea, and in a flash Javier spreads his hands over your hamstrings, pins your thighs to your stomach, and bends over you, fucking you into the ground.

Your teeth bump when he moves to kiss you, then he tilts his head and it’s all saccharine again: his tongue lapping sweetly into your mouth, mustache scraping against your cupid’s bow. Like this, the angle is exquisite. So deep it’s like he’s everywhere, stretching you out and stringing you taut and Javier must feel it too because he starts to grind, the thatch of dark hair at the base of his stomach rubbing against your clit as he grazes his teeth along the underside of your jaw.

“That’s it,” he mumbles. “Damelo, baby, quiero sentirte.”

You shatter, or bloom, you can’t totally decide. Exaltation in a single moment, your whole body electric in its trembling, clenching, gasping. Javier falters only when your body comes down from its high, emboldened to move again. Folded as you are, you can only whine and moan and sparkle as he once more takes up a rhythm. Smooth and hot as cider on a cold night, his cock glistening with your need as he pulls out and presses in, patient again.

“Perfect,” he prays.

It’s possible that this is heaven.

You don’t know when it stopped, but the skies have quieted. A lick of sunlight casts into the stables and falls over the expanse of Javier’s back and shoulders as he rocks into you again and again and again. Hand weaving into the curls at the nape of his neck, you hold him to you as his pace begins to stutter.

Javier licks the column of your throat, purring against your neck, “Lo quieres, baby? Hm?”

“Yes,” you tell him, one arm winding around his shoulders. “Deep.”

He kisses you once, then pulls back just enough to watch your face, his own lust-tense and sneering as his high builds and climbs. You swipe your thumb across his bottom lip, tell him to let go, and he is beautiful—lit copper and gold by summer’s warmth as he drops his forehead to yours.

Perfect in his promise, Javier offers all to you, fills you wholly, his body tense and then unraveling. His weight drops onto you properly as he paints your cunt with his seed. When you grunt he lifts just enough to free your legs without leaving your heat, and you lock your ankles over the small of his back.

Javier nuzzles his nose to yours.

You aren’t sure how long you stay like that, but when you’re standing again, his hands guides your weakened legs back into your shorts. You button each other’s shirts instead of your own. 

Outside the stables, the earth sings petrichor, grateful for the fleeting flood. Across the fence beyond the tall grass your orchard sparkles, glittered with rain as you stand beneath the oak tree gazing out in gratitude. Javier’s hand ghosts over your spine and you feel a rash of goosebumps break out as if he’s once more touched your skin. 

His breath is warm against your hair, the apple of your cheek. “Don’t wait for rain next time,” he whispers, then slinks off regal and graceful as a wildcat, clicking his tongue to call out the horses to the pastures now marbled with loam.

It doesn’t rain again for weeks, but you go to him anyway, hopping the fence that cradles your homes to seek his arms.

moodboard by @perotovar & dividers by @saradika-graphics

tag list & some mutuals:

@thethirstwivesclub @la-vie-est-une-fleur29 @hediondoamor-blog @tuquoquebrute @thundermartini

@littlemisspascal @luxurychristmaspudding @tonysopranosrobe @evolnoomym @jessthebaker

@burntheedges @studioghibelli @la-eterna-enamorada29 @goodgirlwannabe @guiltyasdave

@spacelatinos4life @sweetpascal @biggetywitch @wannab-urs @pedgito

@jolapeno @pastelpinkflowerlife @ak-vintage @rav3n-pascal22 @sixhours

[luveline]

You are such an awesome writer 🥹 I love seeing you show up on my timeline!

I'm not sure if you are taking requests rn and totally ignore this and I'm so sorry if you are not and sorry to bug you.

I am so obsessed with bombshell bau reader with our boy Spence. I was thinking like maybe established relationship this time where the team goes out to the bar again only this time her and Spence are actually together so she's just really cute and even more cling. Maybe her and Emily or one of/all of the other BAU girls are being wild goofy drunk girl and reader is extra flirty with Spence but not at all smooth and Spencer is just like “you're a menace” ? But like in a sweet adoring way 😂?

Again no pressure at all and I hope you are feeling better from the rude requests and enjoying your time off school, lots of love xxx

thank you love, and thanks for your request!! ♡ drunk!reader

The last time you'd been to this bar in particular, you and Spencer were strictly friends. He was still styling his hair straight and wearing sweater vests, and the idea of being your boyfriend was a fantasy. A brilliant, never-going-to-happen work of fiction. 

“My boyfriend is the prettiest man alive ever in the history of planet Earth!” you declare, climbing up on one knee in the booth beside him, your cherry spritzer tipping over the glass’ rim. It races down your naked arm to your elbow and drips from there to his thigh. “Have you seen him?” 

“Sure, I've seen him,” Morgan says, rolling his eyes. 

You wrap your arms around Spencer's head from the side and kiss his forehead. You shift as you do, forcing your lips up into his hair, leaving behind an accidental raspberry smear of lipgloss. “Then what's the problem?” you ask. 

“I don't know,” Morgan says. 

“I know what it is,” Emily says. 

“Me too. Rhymes with indoctrination,” JJ laughs. 

You put your glass down hard on the table, arm still held proudly behind Spencer's neck. A lot has changed since the last time you were here, but the way he looks up at you hasn't budged. He has a sick, all encompassing crush on you, and seeing you now turns it into a dizziness he can't shake, almost like he's had a few too many drinks with you. Your eyes are glassy, grounded but wet, and your eyelashes pinch together in the corners as you bring your gaze down to his. “It's love,” you say. 

Everybody laughs. Spencer just keeps watching you watch him, his palm to the small of your back to prevent a fall. 

“It's love!” Penelope echoes, shepherded by Hotch, too many drinks between them both. “My favourite lovebirds! I brought your drink, beautiful.”

“Thank you, gorgeous.” You take it eagerly. Spritzer sloshes over the bumps of your fingers. 

“Sit down,” Spencer suggests. 

You give him brief googly eyes and sit down. The booth is a three sided square, with you and Spencer on one arm, Rossi, JJ and Emily against the back, and now Morgan, Penelope and Hotch opposite. It's a full troupe tonight, a rarity, and you and Penelope decided early on that the best way to celebrate would be to drink whatever you liked and in egregious quantities. 

Hotch is perhaps doing the same. Spencer can't tell. But all in all, everyone's having a good night, especially you. 

“Did you hear that? He's so nice to me,” you say to no one in particular, your fitted blouse sparkling in the light as you lean back, your hand finding his thigh. “Spencer, what's on your pants?” 

“Oh, I wonder?” 

“You're not blaming me, are you?” Your voice is as stickying as you can make it, and drunk as a skunk you may be, but you maintain your talent for flirting. 

“Did I say that?” 

“Because that wouldn't be very, gentlemanly of you…” You lean in too close. Your talent remains. Your subtlety suffers a different fate. 

He leans in like he might kiss you and says, “You're a menace.” 

“What's that supposed to mean?” 

In front of all your friends and coworkers. “It means I'm cutting you off,” he says, sliding his hand between you and your glass. 

More laughter. You throw hurt looks at them all and Spencer picks up your cherry spritzer. You're baffled, but a smile dripping in sickly sweet love spreads over your lips as he drinks it. “Fine, I'll share,” you say. 

“Thank you,” he says, putting it out of your reach as he leans in to kiss you, cherry lingering on his lips. 

You kiss him back gently, and then a little harder. He eases you away. Arms snuck once again around him, you squeeze until his ribs cry out in protest and make yourself comfortable on his shoulder.

“You're not mad at me, are you?” he asks, head angled down to offer a tender smile. 

“I love you so much I've decided not to care.” You lift your head. “You're too nice to be mad at you,” you whisper. “And I love you.” 

“Yeah, you've mentioned that.” He rubs your arm. He's so in love with you, he doesn't think to blush at his part in your PDA. 

[woso-dreamzzz]

Natalia V

Hardersson x Daughter!Reader

Natalia Guijarro (OC) x Hardersson!Reader

Part of The Big Adeventures Universe

Summary: Talia finally does it

It's not a big diamond but it's not exactly small either.

It's understated, Magda supposes. The picture of it looks kind of blurry but she can tell it's beautiful.

It's the most nervous Magda's ever seen Natalia. Talia's always had this confidence, a slight arrogance that followed her every move but she's withdrawn a little now, almost nervous as she displays a photo of the ring.

"It's not ready yet," She says," I'm getting shaped to fit her finger properly."

For once, Magda is speechless in Natalia Guijarro's company. You've been with her for a few years now so Magda is used to Talia's presence. She'd even go as far as to say Talia is part of the family.

But this would make it official.

"Talia," Pernille says, clutching Magda's hand and looking close to tears," Really?"

"I..." Talia's throat bobs. "I love your daughter with all my heart and I want to spend the rest of my life with her. As my wife." Her eyes dance between Magda and Pernille. "Do I have your permission?"

Pernille nods but that was a given. Pernille has always loved Talia, always been so sure that Talia was good for you.

Magda's the challenge though and all three of them know it.

You're Magda's little girl, the little baby she had once held in her arms and wept over. She's always been trying to hold onto that part of you, the tiny child that complained about wearing her Chelsea shirt and got stolen from her every time she went to camp.

Magda stands and Talia almost folds into herself as she stares up at the older woman.

"You want to marry my daughter?"

"Yes."

"Good," Magda says, holding her hand out for Talia to shake," Because I can't think of anyone I would want to marry my daughter apart from you."

Talia picks up the ring with Magda on the breakfast run she promised you, opening and closing the case anxiously.

"She's going to say yes," Magda says.

"You don't know that."

"I do. She's crazy for you."

"She could do better."

Magda hums. "No, she couldn't."

The ring feels heavy in Talia's pocket for the weeks after she picks it up, waiting for the right time to get down on one knee to propose to you.

There's been so many opportunities but she just hasn't take it yet.

Patri's been calling her a coward, telling her that everyone already knows what you're going to say so it's not nearly as tense at Talia thinks it's going to be.

But, still, the ring goes everywhere with her and none of the chances are nearly perfect enough for this moment.

Snow falls heavily in Sweden, beating against the window as you sit in front of Pernille like you did when you were little, letting her pull it back into an elaborate braid.

There's groans from outside the front door and the scraping of shovels.

Pernille sighs. "I keep telling your Morsa to shovel the driveway after it's finished snowing. I don't know why she always insists on doing it whilst it's happening."

"I can't believe she's gotten Talia out there with her. She hates the snow."

Pernille laughs a little bit, twisting a strand of your hair neatly. "You know those two. Always competing."

"I don't think Morsa understands she's not as fit as she used to be."

"Don't tell her that. Magda thinks she's just as fit as she always was. She pretends that she doesn't get back pain."

You giggle a little bit and Pernille ties off your braid.

The front door opens and neither Magda nor Talia stops to say hello as they stalk from the front garden to the back garden, dragging in a big box through the house.

Pernille sighs, drawing the curtains closed, a hint of a smile on her face.

"What was that?"

She shrugs, lying straight to your face," I don't know. Magda must have ordered something for the garden again."

The sound of drills and hammers sound in the backyard and you turn to go look but Pernille shepherds you upstairs.

"I left you something on your bed," She tells you," Do you mind changing into it? I put some shoes there too."

You frown. "I'm an adult now. I don't need you buying me clothes."

"Humour me, princesse, and go change."

It's a simple dress which makes you frown.

Pernille usually buys you things like jackets and jumpers to keep you warm. A dress is different but not unwelcome.

It's nice. It fits well and the shoes are comfortable too.

You glance at yourself in the mirror, checking the fit. With the way Pernille's done your hair, you look beautiful.

You can't help the small smile that appears on your face.

You don't really get dressed up a lot, happy in your comfortable tracksuit bottoms and an oversized shirt but this outfit makes you feel a little bit giddy as you head down the stairs to show Pernille.

She's not there though and you duck into several rooms in confusion but she's nowhere to be found.

The curtains looking into the back garden have been drawn back though and you spot Talia standing under a wooden arch that definitely wasn't there this morning.

You step outside, the snow falling softly as you walk up the path to her.

She sucks in a stuttered breath as you approach.

"You...You look beautiful."

You glance down bashfully. "What are you doing out here? You hate the cold."

Talia laughs a little nervously, hands behind her back. "I was waiting for you."

"You could have been waiting a while."

"I would have waited however long it took."

You glance around. "What's going on?"

"Oh, god...I...I had a speech but I think I've forgotten it all."

You frown. "Talia, I'm confused."

"I promise I had a speech. When I remember it, I'll definitely tell you but...As of right now, all I can do is this."

Talia gets down on one knee.

"Will you marry me?"

[gallierhouse]

I’ve been thinking about why Armand tells Louis about his past. Right before the “Amadeo” scene, Louis calls Armand’s apology (the Romeo and Juliet scene, the flowers, the walk through the Louvre) “vintage Lioncourt,” as in, sweetness and apology and intimacy deployed at an opportune moment to generate sympathy after a show of power (knocking out the coven at the dinner table, dressing Claudia up in the “baby doll” dress as punishment). Armand tells Louis he’s not Lestat, Louis asks Armand who he is. Then Armand shows Louis the painting, The Adoration of the Shepherds With a Donor. Right before he tells Louis about his past, his voice starts to waver, he pauses, looks unsure, presses on. He didn’t have to tell Louis all that. If it was merely an apology, merely a play for sympathy and a calculated move to bond them as a couple, there wouldn’t have been a real need to tell Louis everything. He could’ve merely told Louis about how the coven came to Rome and burned Marius, could’ve merely told him about how he occasionally “donated,” could’ve told him the tiniest fragment and it would’ve been enough to garner whatever sympathy or forgiveness Louis thinks he wants. Instead Armand tells him everything. The ship captain, the brothel, how the abuse was so bad he can’t even remember his name, how Marius saved him, how he worshipped Marius, how Marius still trafficked him, how the coven burned Marius and kidnapped him and sent him to Paris. It elicits obvious sympathy and compassion in Louis; the ploy has worked. But it’s not really a ploy, it’s Armand asking Louis to paint him. He’s asking for recognition. He’s saying I don’t know who I am, but this is why I don’t know who I am, and I need you to tell me who to be. (“Who am I, Louis? Am I my history I have endured? Am I the job I do not want? No one has painted me in over 400 years.”) The last time someone painted him he was a donation. Currency, an object, a belonging. Then he was a leader, trapped in a job he didn’t want, then Lestat liberated and destroyed him, and gave him a new job. No one has painted him in over 400 years. Who is he now? Is he Lestat’s replacement? Is he Lestat’s antithesis? Is he the subject or the distraction? Would Louis have him? It’s clear that both of them decide on something when Louis calls Armand “Arun,” and Armand calls Louis “maitre” in return, and it’s in that moment both of them have painted each other into roles they’ll grow to resent. But I really do think that the little museum tour they went on, while clearly an apology, but also a move towards commitment, was also Armand asking Louis to paint him, point blank. Tell him who to be. Decide and he’ll be that person. He’ll be whatever Louis paints. He’ll be whatever Louis photographs. He’ll be what Louis decides. In some ways it’s the grandest of all romantic gestures. In many others it’s disturbing enough that it probably prompted the beginnings of psychiatric science as we know it today. But still romantic. Romance, wrapped up with power and control and the most domineering submission you’ve ever seen. But the photo Louis actually takes of Armand — the closest he gets to making literal the painting — isn’t actually of Armand. It’s of the dream of Lestat. Yet it’s this photo that finally allows Louis to dismiss the dream, so that he and Armand can paint each other properly, and make demands of each other they’ll both grow to resent. Painting each other and trapping each other in the same strokes. Funny they collect art.

[shelbgrey]

Hey Pookie so there is this very sexy man named Mark Sloan and I was wondering if you could write some beautiful Fluffy/Smutty dating Headcanons for him PLZ

Dating Mark Sloan headcanons

Paring: Mark Sloan x Shepherd!Reader

Summary: headcanons about Mark Sloan dating Derek's little sister -SMUT warning!

💚MasterList ML2 💚Dating Mood board

You guys started fake dating... That's how it all started. He wanted to make Addison Jelouse and you just want to get back at her for hurting your brother Derek.

You had 10 rules to this plan:

NO Sex - you

Never break rule #1 - you

Be on Mark's services/work in plastics if needed -Mark

Go on dates at least twice a month to make the act look real - Mark

No kissing or touching - if you have to just kiss forehead/cheek and don't touch anything below the waist - you

No sex with nurses, Mark - it'll blow the cover - you

Be nice to my friends(I don't care if you hate interns) - you

Trust each other - mark

Don't play favorites in the hospital - includes not helping with most surgeries/patients - you

Don't fall in love with each other - you

Derek hates it at first, even during the time you guys were faking it all. “stay away from my sister” Derek snapped at mark.

“too late... We're already together”

Derek and Mark got into a fight... That ended with black eyes, bruises, and Mark needing stitches on his face.

“I'm sorry this happened” you mumbled softly as you stitched his jaw for him. He stared at you with those blue eyes you love so much. “don't worry about it”

“maybe we should stop this whole thing” you suggested, Mark shook his head. “no, we got this. Rule #8, remember?” but really he was already falling so hard for you and he wanted to keep you close as long as possible.

Spoil alert you guys broke rule #10 and fell hard for each other. Well he fell first, but you fell harder. “I want this for real... No more fake shit, I love you”

After that ordeal you figured you owed Derek an explanation. Derek never found out about the fake dating, but you need to tell him where your feeling stand. “you love him, don't you?” Derek asks.

“I do... And I trust him” you say.

“if he hurts you... Cheats on you, I'll kill him” simply Derek said and you guys moved on with your lives.

Once you guys start dating for real he faithful and his heart now belongs to you.

Even Derek gave him credit for that. During the few months of you guys actually dating, deek would keep an eye on him. A hot nurse would walk by and Mark wouldn't even look at her.

You see a different side to Mark. He stops looking at any other woman. He just looks at you.

His sweeter, gentler side is only reserved for you.

Callie is your biggest supporter. Always hyping your relationship up. Mark might go to her for relationship advice. Callie might even be a referee during arguments.

Callie is definitely your best friend. You, Mark, and her the hospital's main trio.

Double dates with Callie and Arizona or Derek and Meredith.

He needs physical contact all the time. Rather it be cuddling on bed or on the couch or holding hands in the hospital.

He's a big cuddler. Sometimes he'll just wrap his arms around you and pull you to his chest without saying anything.

He's so flirty with you. No matter how many years you've been together, he still thinks you're the sexiest, most beautiful thing he's ever seen.

Like I said, he flirts with you so much. Some times he'll come up behind you while your working and whispere suggestive comment in your ear or grab your ass.

“stop it! We're at work” you quietly scolded him after his gabered your ass. “I can't help it... You have a nice ass”

You steal his leather jacket all the time, even though it looks big on you he thinks it's hot as hell on you. Now and days the only time he sees that jacket is if your wearing it.

Dirty jokes all the time. If you hear something remotely dirty you'll whisper, “that's what she said”

If he's had a hard day, he either needs one of two things. A rough fuck or he needs to curl up beside you and cuddle.

The way he kisses you makes your heart race. He holds your face in his hands and you honestly feel like you and him are the only things that matter in the world.

But he is a rough kisser, but mostly he's a passionate kisser. He pours all his love and emotions into it, he makes sure your the only one on this earth he wants to love.

He's soft with you when it comes to holding you and give affection. He's so gentle and delicate and you can tell through the way he brushes your hair from your face or the way he nuzzles his face into your neck that he just absolutely adores you.

Your is Angel and he feels so unworthy of you. He's so lucky to have you in his life and he doesn't want to screw it up.

Mark's not the jelouse type and neither are you. Dispite his man-whore past you both have a lot of trust in your relationship, but if you be-friend Jackson I think Mark would get jelouse.

Mark hates the way Jackson looks at you, Mark knows he likes you. But your completely oblivious to it because all you see is Mark.

Doggie parents at the beginning of your relationship. You brought home a rotwiler puppy home without him knowing one time.

That dog is your protector rather or not Mark is there or not. He also gets jealous of Mark and will nuzzle his way between you too if your hugging or kissing.

Sometimes you guys will get home so late from the hospital you'll just want to set on the couch and watch TV because your both sleep deprived.

You guys really don't know why or how you got into it, but you found a Chanel that shows re-runs of American Ninja Warrior and old WWE matches. You guys just stated watching them all the time.

He calls you Angel

You guys play wrestle all the time. Sometimes he'll just let you win because he loves seeing you being so happy about.

He steals the covers all the time and if you get cold you'll cuddle closer to him to get warm. He's relized this, so he'll intentionally steal the covers just to have extra cuddle time.

You get upset if he makes the interns that are on his service get him coffee or get his dry cleaning. “they aren't your servants, Mark” you say, taking the money back from the intern.

If you want Mark to do that stuff himself, you have to threaten to do it yourself. “I'll get it, I'm going that way anyway” you say and mark will quickly stop you. “no, no, I'll do it... You don't have to do that crap for me”

You guys don't fight often, but if you do it's usually a couple of days of the silent treatment. Both of you are too stubborn to say sorry or admit your wrong too.

Watching old Universal monster movies, your favorite is The Bride of Frankenstein. You even got him to dress up at the two monsters with you on Halloween one time.

If your sick he'll drop everything and take care of you, he doesn't care if he catches whatever you have he wants you comfortable and cared for.

His apartment getting the 'girlfriend touch', everything is just cleaner and more organized when you start living with him. “where's my belt?” Mark asked looking all over the bedroom floor where it used to be.

“in your dresser where it's supposed to be... And if I step on it one more time it's going in the trash”

✨Passenger princess✨

If you have a Stanley or a water bottle, whatever you drink out of, Mark will probably be drinking out of it too. You guys kiss and have sex all the time, so he doesn't care if he drinks after you.

NSFW headcanons:

He’s an expert at foreplay. He’ll spend as much time as he can trying to get you hot and bothered or worked up.

He has a tendency to grip the headboard when he's close to cumming.

He has this mischievous kind of charm to him and he uses it to his advantage when it comes to getting your attention. He knows all your ticks and can easily get your riled up.

Mark loves bitting your neck just to hear you moan. When you finally give in to him, he'll lay you down on the couch or bed and start pealing your clothes off to reveal your chest.

He's definitely the dominant person in bed and your not complaining, he'll get rough and pound hard enough were the bed starts rocking.

The sex maybe rough, but Mark isn't not big on insults. He refuses to degrade you and will only use sweet words.

If you’re struggling to take him in or taking long to adjust, he’ll whisper reassurances that you’re doing a good job while rubbing his hands on your back and thighs.

He prefers missionary, growling in your ear while his hands grip yours above your head.

Mark also loves watching your face while you bounce up and down his dick. He loves the expressions you make when he thrusts up into you when you least expect it.

Mark just likes to lay back and just watch you ride him, he loves the feeling of your thighs and ass in his hands.

He's a soft/mean Dom, it just depends on his mood. But no matter what he always makes sure your comfortable. He loves to take control in the bed but would never push you.

He loves the sounds you make. The moaning, the begging, everything.

Loves eating you out,your legs around his head. He loves your legs in general and loves leaving kisses on the insides of your thighs. He'd rather pleasure you for hours than receive.

He has big chocking kink, he won't be too rough about but he loves wrapping his fingers around your neck and feeling your pulse when he's ramming into you.

He love getting head. I feel like he’d like having you on your knees. Plus, feeling your lips around him pushes him closer to cumming in your mouth.

Bondeg kink, handcuffs, his ties, belts, he'll tie you up with anything if your comfortable with it.

There's also a tone of jealous sex. If he sees Alex shamelessly flirting with you expected to be tied to bed as fucks your brains out. If he sees Jackson touch you in a way thats reserved only for him you’re pinned against the wall.

There has been a couple of times Derek has walked in on you while you both are getting it on in one of the on-call rooms, it's safe to day Derek has lernd to knock.

“Mark, he literally saw it” you gasped from under mark.

He kissed your neck. “I was too busy to notice”

This man is amazing when it comes to aftercare. He knows exactly what you need. After your both cleaned up, he'll pull you to his chest to cuddle.

[headspace-hotel]

some times i see people talking about the Earth and climate change saying things like "now i know it is difficult to deal with utter hopelessness, terror, and visiting the thoughts of death"

and it's like wow I am so deeply sorry about the suffering. but...concern. Concern. Tell me, am I missing something important? Why do I feel a sense of hope for our planet? Am I a lonely fool? Have I been consumed by naïveté and misguided optimism?

That would be weird. It feels weird. It feels like I would be well suited to despair. My natural temperament is Mortal Terror making my body crushed for a thousand years at the bottom of the deepest trenches of the ocean. I've thought before "I can't live any more. This exceeds the tensile strength of the human spirit."

And then? After irreversible catastrophic failure of the soul, there is...what?

We try to imagine the future where we fight to save our home and it is very painful. The resistance feels so small and the machine of death feels so vast. But something's missing.

Everyone else is missing—the plants, trees, bugs, beasts, and creatures. Hello? Are the other humans seeing this? Nature wants you to know that she is not a princess in a tower. Look! Look at the chaos moving through every cell! Iterating! Adapting! Becoming! Thriving! Watch the pollinators tirelessly at work, observe the mycorrhizal network in the forest floor distributing the rich fruits of decay and photosynthesis for every inhabitant! Pay attention! We belong here too. They feed and shelter us, give us the very air we breathe, and in return we plant and propagate, cull, thin, and burn, shape, trample, till, shepherd and sprout seeds. Our species can look toward the future, to the world of our descendants. We can call every plant and animal by name and teach our children to use and care for them responsibly. We can feel this anger, pain, and grief on behalf of the family of Life, OUR family, and we can love the smallest beetle and the humblest moss.

Look at it! This thing is nothing like me, it does not benefit me, it has no use or purpose for me, but LOOK at it! Look at its intricate structure! Look at the marvelousness of its behaviors and biological functions! Look at its uniqueness throughout the whole universe! Look at it, and see its infinite value!

I saved a baby tree from the scorching hot gravel of a parking lot. I watched it grow and thrive in the hands of its caretaker. Many more followed, trees and herbs and flowers, rescued and carefully placed in cups and old tubs that once held yogurt and sour cream. This is so strange, I thought. They're everywhere, offering themselves for free, and no one thinks to take them. Everyone thinks transplanting a tree is hard and that nothing grows on the edge of the pavement but weeds. But it's so easy??? This is weird. Plant Nurseries Hate Her: Get Free Plants With This One Weird Trick.

I protected an old barren garden patch where nothing had thrived from being mowed and weed-whacked, and transplanted little plants that I found. I marveled at the bees that came. Chicory bloomed, then asters and goldenrod. I shed actual tears over a spicebush swallowtail. I ordered some milkweed from the internet, and the monarchs came for them. Less then twenty-five bucks for a divine experience like this. Wow, everyone else really needs to know!

I started volunteering at a nature center, and was allowed to transplant flowers where they sprouted in inopportune locations. I collected tons of seeds all fall and winter long.

There is much, much more, all of it bigger than I ever would have imagined. But this spring there were more birds, in number and in species, than I'd ever seen in my back yard before. Chickadees, swallows, finches, nuthatches, jays, cardinals, warblers, sparrows, woodpeckers of every kind...I remembered just a couple years prior when all I ever saw out there was a couple grackles or starlings or robins, with the occasional sparrow. Those birds come in flocks rather than couples now. And then the bumblebee arrived. An American bumblebee, endangered now, a queen. For a few days she was always out there, would fly out and buzz around me when I came out to tend to my now-innumerable plants. It's nesting time for them. She chose this place I was creating. She saw that this place would take care of her.

A week ago, I discovered wild strawberries growing in my Mamaw's driveway. I found lyreleaf sage growing beside a gravel road. I've become a master of transplanting; I took several of each home. Yesterday, I saw a tiny, metallic blue bee, an Osmia mason bee. Today, I saw an oriole and a strange, very fancy fly. I see something new almost every day. Every day I am being irreversibly changed as a person. How did I ever fail to see how much this matters?

I said I feel hope...do I feel it? I don't think it's a feeling, I think it's a practice. It's being part of our communities and our ecosystems. Nature's interconnectedness is both reality and example: to survive, we take care of one another. And when one member of the community helps another thrive, it creates a cascade that increases the thriving of all. Just by existing, you help us all survive.

You can only take care of so many plants before you have to give some away. You can only hold so much knowledge before you have to give it away. I gave seeds to a dozen different flowers to my next-door neighbor and she invited me inside and wouldn't let me leave without food, and we talked about plants and trees. A family friend lets me have goats' milk and heirloom vegetables in exchange for help around the farm, and I listen to him talk about trees, bugs, and soil and learn so much I feel like I'm about to explode from knowledge.

Being a caretaker is unavoidably a community-oriented, community-forming thing. You can't grow plants all by yourself. Your garden will make too many tomatoes. Share them. Your milkweed will make hundreds and hundreds of seeds. Spread them. Wild blackberries invite you to take and eat. Your lonely retired neighbor invites you to talk and keep her company. Once you grow delicious fruits or little oak trees, you always have a reason to greet someone and say, "Look, it is a gift!"

We're not alone. We are not separate. We take care of each other. Every species, every individual. A single action of caretaking creates a cascade effect of thriving. A single unapologetic love for a creature creates a blossom of curiosity and fascination in everyone surrounding. It's so powerful.

As my chemical romance says "I am not afraid to keep on living"

[shotmrmiller]

Stalker!Price holy shit-

There would be no escape from him. You'd need to somehow become legally dead or delete your info from gov't databases, change your name, and change your appearance but even that might not be enough. No one is untouchable after all, especially if you're being stalked by John Price of all people

And the scene where he pops out from the darkness in Shepherd's office? He could very easily get into your house pop out of the darkness there too when the time is right

it'd be impossible. see he's got 3 other hounds who've been trained to sniff out anyone that goes into hiding. if he himself cannot find you, his dogs will. and they won't be muzzled.

bork!

ik that him talking to shepherd was for cinematic purposes but if you've ever seen road to perdition, that's how the ending shouldve been. a quick, silent in, a couple of shots ring out and then he leaves without a WORD.

BOSS.

honestly, he prob would've forgotten you if you'd given him your legal name but you just had to go and make yourself interesting. everyone loves him, see? he's the one kids look up to, the one the older ladies flirt with at the grocery store.

so why didn't you?

he approached you with the same charm and grace that has fooled even the wisest of men. but here you had to come with your intuition— the inner compass that pointed away from the danger.

smart little sheep you are. now he's simply gotta have a taste.