#clipper wind

[ltwilliammowett]

Running before the Wind (detail), by Montague Dawson (1890-1973)

[nylinthe]

i'm hella tired, working on something I can't share (yet). so here's a fact you didn't ask for: I draw almost everyone bald. Sometimes they're fully rendered, and I like to hide sparkles under hair layers. If I skip the bald phase I will suffer and no longer understand how hair works.

Every have the urge to completely shave your head? Just do it ✨ But be careful - once you've tasted true freedom, you may never go back.

[daguerreotyping]

Carte de visite of a French navy officer sporting meticulously manicured muttonchops, c. 1870

[listen-to-the-inner-walrus]

in other news,,

[connormoving]

straightened up my room yippeee

[ari-ana-bel-la]

What about Pierre having this bad haircut because it was his little girl doing it. And because he loves her so much, he wore it proudly everywhere.

Papa’s Haircut

The 2025 season kicked off with a buzz—quite literally—when Pierre walked into the Jeddah paddock on media day, baseball cap in hand and a brand new haircut on full display.

Well, if one could call it a “haircut.”

It was uneven. Patches too short on the side, a strangely long tuft at the back, and a slightly lopsided front that looked like someone had tried to shape a heart and then gotten distracted halfway through. And the cherry on top? Pierre was beaming like a proud man on his wedding day.

“Mate,” Lando said the moment he saw him, eyes wide, “what the hell happened to your head?”

Pierre turned toward him with a radiant smile. “My daughter did it.”

Lando blinked. “Your… daughter? Yn?”

Pierre nodded like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Yes! She wanted to be my ‘personal coiffeuse,’ and who am I to deny her dreams?”

From behind, Charles nearly choked on his drink. “You let a five-year-old give you a buzz cut?”

“She’s five and a half, actually,” Pierre corrected, “and she took it very seriously. She even asked for a towel and said, ‘Papa, you must sit very still or I’ll make you bald like Uncle Seb.’”

At that, George burst out laughing. “Poor Seb. Man’s retired and still catching strays.”

“Respectfully, you do look like you lost a bet,” Carlos chimed in as he approached, adjusting his sunglasses. “Was this filmed? Please tell me this was filmed.”

“It was,” Pierre said proudly, pulling out his phone. “Kika was on camera duty. Wait—look at this part—this is where Yn says, ‘Oops, I think the wind moved your hair.’” He pressed play.

On screen, little Yn stood on a kitchen stool, holding an electric clipper nearly the size of her arm. Her tiny brows furrowed in concentration as she buzzed a line up the back of Pierre’s head.

“Oops,” she whispered.

Kika, off-camera: “What do you mean, ‘oops’?”

Yn: “Nothing, Maman, it’s just… art is complicated.”

The group around Pierre dissolved into laughter.

“Art is complicated,” Max repeated with a smirk, crossing his arms. “She’s going to be unstoppable.”

“You’re a good sport, man,” Oscar added, shaking his head. “I don’t know if I could show up to a race looking like that.”

“Because you don’t have kids yet,” Pierre said, tapping a finger against Oscar’s chest. “When you do, and your little girl climbs into your lap with her plastic scissors and says, ‘Papa, I wanna make you pretty,’ you’ll let her do anything.”

He paused.

“Well, maybe not anything. But… hair grows back. And look at this face—” he pulled up another picture of Yn, this one with her clutching a handful of Pierre’s fallen hair with glee. “Tell me that smile isn’t worth it.”

Charles leaned over to look. “Okay, yeah, that’s a dangerous level of cute.”

“She looks exactly like you,” George added. “Like… scarily identical. Mini Pierre.”

“I know,” Pierre said softly. “Same eyes. Same smile. Same chaos energy. Kika says she’s me with glitter and pink socks.”

“And what does Kika think of the haircut?” asked Lando.

Pierre snorted. “She was horrified. But she laughed so hard, she couldn’t even be mad. Said it was a small price to pay for family bonding. Then made me promise to wear a hat on the grid walk.”

“Are you going to?” Oscar asked.

“Nope.”

That earned another round of laughter.

“Of course not,” Max said, grinning. “He’s too proud.”

“Damn right I am. I might start a trend,” Pierre declared. “Buzz cuts by children. All the rage in Milan next season.”

Charles fake-sneered. “You can keep that to yourself, mon ami.”

They were still teasing him later in the driver’s meeting. When the team officials handed out strategy folders, Pierre placed his phone on the table like a proud dad at a PTA meeting, showing off photos of Yn and the makeshift salon she’d set up in the kitchen with a towel cape and a Hello Kitty comb.

“I even gave her a tip,” he told the group. “Two scoops of gelato.”

“She undercharged you,” Lando muttered. “This haircut’s gonna haunt you in every interview.”

Pierre shrugged. “Let them ask. I’ll tell them: ‘My daughter made me look like this. What’s your excuse?’”

Max held out a fist. “Fair play, man. You win this round.”

Pierre bumped it. “Always.”

The next morning, he FaceTimed Yn before heading to the track. She answered from Nonna’s kitchen, surrounded by markers, glitter glue, and what looked like a Barbie head with a similarly questionable haircut.

“Bonjour, Papa!” she chirped, waving.

“Bonjour, ma chérie. You’re up early.”

“I made pancakes with Nonna! And then I gave Barbie a makeover like you.”

Pierre smiled. “She looks… fantastic.”

“Do you still have your haircut?”

“Of course,” he said, turning his head so she could see all the uneven angles. “Still just the way you did it.”

Yn squealed. “Yay! Did everyone love it?”

“They did,” he said. “Everyone laughed a lot.”

“Good!” She paused, growing very serious. “Do you think you’ll win the race because of my haircut?”

He laughed. “I think I might.”

“You better,” she said firmly. “Because it’s lucky hair.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“And if you win, I want a unicorn.”

“A real one?”

She tapped her chin. “No, just the toy. But with sparkles.”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

As the call ended, Pierre slipped the phone into his pocket and looked at himself in the mirror one last time. The haircut was ridiculous, sure. But the love behind it? That was real. That was everything.

He grinned—crooked hairline and all—and headed to the garage with his daughter’s voice still ringing in his ears:

“Lucky hair, Papa!”

And maybe, just maybe, it would be.

♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♥︎♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡

Authors Note: Hey loves. I hope you enjoyed reading this story. My requests are always open for you!

-💚🐍

[ilium-ilia]

Daughters with Soft Underbellies

john price x fem!reader | cowboy/outlaw x preachers daughter | masterlist

Chapter Eleven: shear

tw: none

“What?”

It’s the only word your jittery mind can think to spew as you stare at John Price, shirtless, cornering you at your most vulnerable. Caging you like livestock. Like prey. Soft candlelight illuminates his skin—the pallid flesh that rarely sees the light of day, and the sunkissed forearms that flex as he stalks forward—but you know what lies beneath this superficial layer. This human-like facade that he so strongly carries upon his shoulders, like Jesus Christ carrying the cross that would bring his own demise. 

Masks can only stretch so far. They can cover the hair, the face, the body—but it cannot cover the soul. 

It cannot cover the cerulean of his eyes or the glint that betrays what he usually suppresses. 

“I’ll only be a few minutes,” he assures. 

“What do you think you’re doing?” 

There it is—finally. Your question flies off of your tongue, half-cocked and rigid as your fingers press into your shoulders, desperately attempting to save what little shreds of dignity you’re able to cling to. You watch with parted lips as John cuts through the numbra of the room, boots hitting heavy on the floor as he approaches the vanity. Sinking into the tub, you watch him from over the rim as he retrieves the washbasin. His hands cup it from the bottom, dwarfing the bowl, as he tilts his head. 

“Laswell had to step away for a moment to sort some business downstairs, and the boys all left. While I’m waiting, I figured we could visit.” He lifts the washbasin as if toasting a drink to you. “That, and I am in desperate need of a shave, little lamb.” 

Panic rises in your throat to strangle you as he steps closer, quickly closing the gap that lies between the two of you as he approaches the tub. Your hands flail, desperately covering your breasts with one arm and your sex with the other. You are shorn. Splayed out and on display, a lamb with no voice to bleat. 

Your eyes widen far enough in your skull to cause you discomfort as you witness John sink the washbasin in your bathwater, submerging it until it is full, then retrieving it. Thick drops of water splash back down as he pours out the excess, knuckles shining with thick gloss like dew. Before he returns to the vanity, he pauses to chuckle as he stares down at the bowl, then looks at you with a glistening gaze. 

“She sure went all out for you, didn’t she?” he says as he pulls a rose petal from the bowl and presents it between his forefinger and thumb. 

Tongue stuck to the roof of your mouth, you watch in silence as John’s lips part. His fingers move between his teeth, pressing the rose petal into his mouth before humming, seemingly content with the flavor. You blink, flabbergasted as you watch his Adam’s apple bob while he swallows, consuming one of the few gifts you’ve been given in this ruthless world. 

“You have no courtesy!” you snap, the disconnect between your tongue and brain finally mending as your frustration boils over. 

“Sweetheart, I sincerely hope it hasn’t taken you this long to figure that much out,” John quips dully. 

Just as you go to disparage him again, John turns his back to you and you find your throat going uncharacteristically dry. Not even the dim candlelight can smother the divots in his skin—the long scars that wind like roads on a map, each with a dead end. They’re grotesque, and considerably out of place. Though John Price is a man to be reckoned with—a strong, wayward stranger who does not fear the barrel of a gun nor clenched fists—these marks are out of place on him. These were not earned through some unspeakable battle, some glorious fight. 

This was endured. This was scarcely survived. 

John plops himself down at the vanity where the candles illuminate every curve of his chest and the dark pavonine of his eyes. He makes quick work of the supplies laid out before him; complimentary items of a straight razor, clippers, and a shaving bar. He wets his face with your bathwater before lathering up the soap to apply to his throat and the apples of his cheeks, and you find yourself memorized by the strange ritual. 

You’re brought back in time several years as you watch John’s fingers glide along the flat side of the razor. When she was still alive, your mother would shave your father’s face for him on the front porch when the weather permitted. Neither of them would speak a word to one another for the duration of it. Simple gestures. Heavy sighs. Your mother would grip his face and move his head into the positions that were required to ensure she never nicked his skin—it was the only time you ever saw your father relent to anyone. 

It was the only time you ever saw a shepherd submit to his lamb. 

When it came to cleaning up the tender skin that lay along his throat, your mother always paused. Lips pressing together, eyes surveying the area, you always thought she was nervous. Scared to cause your father harm where the skin is thinnest; where the blood runs thickest. 

Now that you think of it, her thumb always pressed along the back of the blade, almost longingly. As if it were more than just a razor. A knife. 

A weapon. 

“Laswell is working on getting you a dedicated room here,” John says as he lets the foam sit on his skin. He looks strange, suddenly aged with the soap turning his facial hair white like the powdering of flour on sourdough bread. “Something a little long term until you’re able to get a place of your own. Or a husband. Whichever comes first.” 

It is a great feat for you to hold back the urge to roll your eyes at him. “Oh, how clever of you,” you mutter. 

“She’s also hosting us for dinner at her house tonight. Consider it a welcome to Grand Hollow party,” John continues as if you never spat at him at all. “I volunteered you to help with the food preparations. Figured you wouldn’t mind.” 

“Anything to get away from you.” 

John’s mirth is warm, and soft like worn leather. You watch him from the safety of your tub as he begins to work away at himself with a razor, ridding himself of the overgrown patches of hair that plague his throat and too high up on his cheeks. His neck contorts and his hand pulls the skin taut, leaving no room for his skin to catch; to knick. It’s hard to ignore the way rigid muscle moves beneath thick flesh—how his biceps curl and veins pop—but you force your gaze away in favor of bathing yourself. 

You decide that if you pretend that John Price isn’t here to witness you like this, then it’s not as much of a sin as it is. You are not being witnessed in some holy way—only bathing while a dog grooms himself on the other side of the room. Lathering your skin in more soap than is necessary, you pray that the suds that gather along the water’s surface is enough to shroud your body from impudent, prying eyes. 

Neither of you speak to one another as you complete your respective tasks, though you realize it’s difficult to keep your gaze where it ought to be. Wandering through wisps of steam, you watch him. He cleans up well—as much as you hate to admit it. Beard trimmed and shaped, his jawline grows rigid, and his eyes seem brighter. He is less wild; a tamed creature. 

As much as a wolf can be tamed, anyway. 

“Your gaze is heavy, Lamb,” John hums. Using the provided hand towel, he cleans his face of any remaining foam, wiping himself clean, before tossing it back onto the vanity and twisting to you. Somehow, his eyes feel sharper—enough to draw blood. “If your right eye causes you to stumble, pluck it out and throw it away.”

Baffled at his quote, you shake your head. “What? No, no I’d never,” you say as if insulted he would ever insinuate you would look at him in such a lascivious manner. Despite the humidity in the air, your mouth goes dry as he leans his elbow on the vanity, spine curling forward, body shrinking. “No I… forgive me, I know it isn’t right, but your back is very… peculiar.” 

Despite the weight of your words, John doesn’t flinch. Instead, he nods before leaning back to look in the mirror and continue grooming himself. Like an animal licking old wounds, he runs his fingers along his hair, smoothing down the inky strands before humming. 

“Yes. A gift from my father.” 

Stunned by his words, you blink as if that will change the course of the past, but it doesn’t. He’s still here in front of you, the most wounded you’ve ever seen him. He attempts to hold himself together, to not fall apart at the seams of each scar that lines his skin, but you see right through it. It’s the first time John Price has refused to look at you.

He’s never relented before, not like this. 

“Your father?” you repeat, nearly tripping on your words. 

John nods. “A belt if I was lucky. The buckle, if I wasn’t. His cigars when he was bored.” 

Each word he speaks brings about unwanted visions—a terrible make-believe reality that leaves a sour taste on your tongue. “Why would he do such a thing?” 

Finally—finally—John looks at you. His gaze is the softest you’ve ever seen, yet his lips are tight as he smiles. “Same reason your daddy did what he did to you. Some men love a silly book more than they do their own blood.”

Floorboards squeaking beneath his weight, John stands before stalking towards you. He does not bear his teeth at you, and still your heart thunders in your chest worse than summer rain or a horse galloping in haste. Once more your hands move to cover your body in an effort to conceal yourself, but John does not seem at all interested in your body. 

Gentle fingers that smell of warm wood brush against your bare shoulder before traversing down your arm. Your vision tunnels as you stare up at John, utterly helpless, bending to his whim as he removes your arm from the tub. You whine, and if he hears it he at least has the decency to ignore the sound as he takes your hand into his, thumbing over your knuckles one by one. 

“But you already know all about that, don’t you, love?” he muses, eyes picking apart the scars on your hands. “Preaching to the choir, so to speak.” 

Blinking, you look at where your hands are joined. He holds you similarly to how he did when you first met, collapsed next to their campfire, fresh tears still on your cheeks. “I don’t think our situations are comparable. Daddy never… never did anything like that to me.” 

“Maybe not,” John hums. When he releases your hand, his fingers trail back up your arm, over your shoulder, and along your collarbone. As he dips between your breasts—tracing your sternum—you nearly shriek. Instead of doing anything nefarious, he grabs your necklace. “Is that why you still hold onto this? Your silly god? Because you think that torment wasn’t as bad as it could’ve been?” 

You look down at yourself—at where his fingers hold the only memento that remains of your mother. “It’s my mama’s. It was, anyway. Consumption took her away from me when I was a kid. Daddy locked her up and never let me see her. Said she was too sick, and that I’d… only make it worse. This is all I have left of her. That’s why I keep it.” 

John drops the necklace back against your chest. “Do you think she went to heaven? That she’s up singing with the angels?” 

His question is facetious—and still you answer. “I hope so.” 

It’s not the correct answer. It’s the type of answer that would have your father bending you over his lap and spanking you bare with a spoon if he heard such a thing ever leave your mouth. But it’s not wrong—it’s the truth that burns in your heart where grief and hope coalesces into poison. Tongue wetting your lips, you look up at John, and you’re not sure if you’re comforted by the softness in his eyes or not. 

“I hope so,” you repeat. “I don’t think I could handle it if there was any other answer. If there’s nothing for her.” 

The two of you stare at one another for so long you think the world may have stopped moving. Wide eyes study you as if gauging how far he would have to spread his maw in order to fit you all in, to grind you between his molars until nothing but dust remains. Instead, he hums, and turns his back to you. 

“Enjoy your bath, Lamb. Don’t feel as if you have to rush.” He stoops downward, fingers snatching his discarded shirt before slipping his arms back through the sleeves and buttoning it up properly. “When you’re finished, come find Laswell and I downstairs. We’ll put you to work.” 

You’re hardly able to get a confirmation out of your throat before John flees through the door, shutting it tight behind you as if he suddenly cares about your privacy. Your bath suddenly falls quiet without a wolf to howl next to you. Swallowing the tears that threaten to surface and strangle you, you find your hand reaching up for your necklace. You clutch it close to your chest as you mull John’s words over in your mind. 

You suppose that—after all—the two of you are not too different. Both of you cry to the same moon in some capacity. 

The water has gone cold by the time you finish scrubbing yourself clean of all things that ail you. Dirt, grime, the rage of your father. When you pat yourself dry, you throw yourself into a new chemise before donning a sky blue dress and fixing yourself in the vanity. You appear like a whole new woman. Tidy, standing tall, and without a scab in sight. 

If you didn’t know any better, you’d say you look like your mother. 

When you arrive back downstairs, you notice a glaring disturbance in the crowd that was not present when you had cut through previously. A maid huffs over what appears to be the splintered remains of a chair and fine china while a man in ragged clothes nurses a bloody nose at the bar. The chatter has quieted to dainty whispers, and everyone’s eyes shift uncomfortably the moment you enter. Deciding to keep your mouth sewn shut, you return to the back of the hotel to find John, just as you were instructed. 

Yet you hardly arrive at the door and raise your hand to knock before you’re stopped in your tracks. Hushed tones, biting words—desperation. Chagrin bleeds through the seams of the door heavy and thick like crude oil, and just as noisome. It chokes you. Freezes you in place and pries your ears open. 

“I’m sorry, John, but I can’t help you. You’re on your own for this one.” 

“Please. I need something. Someone. Just for the trip. None of the boys or I will be able to step a foot into that bank without alerting everyone in the whole goddamn town.” 

You’ve never heard John like this before; pleading. Begging. The tone sounds odd coming from him, the man who’s never been denied anything for the entirety that you’ve known him. The man who takes what he wants because he simply won’t take no for an answer. 

“Things between Shepherd and I are already shaky as is. If I send one of my own with you, at best he’ll send their head home with you, at worst he’ll level this entire building to the ground,” Laswell says, staying steadfast in her denial. 

“Don’t you understand?” He’s almost yelling, now. Words sharp like a knife, booming just as loud as the rifle he taught you to shoot—he breaths. Exhales loud enough for you to hear it. “Kate, if we break into that bank you won’t have to worry about Shepherd anymore. None of us will! This tyranny of his in Blackpeak will be over!” 

“He’s gotten stronger since you left. His manpower? Twice than what you remember it being. If you go into that city, you’ll die there, John. You, Simon, Johnny, Kyle—you’ll be lucky to return in coffins, if at all.” 

“You know better than to underestimate me,” John snaps. 

Silence. Aching, tangible quietness. It’s enough for you to hear the very blood dragging through your veins, slow and steady, like waves upon a rocky lake shore. 

“Your days of being the hero are over, John. You and I both know that. I’ll take Lamb off your hands, but I’ve got something worth sticking around for, now. I can’t throw that all away in the name of vengeance,” Laswell says firmly. 

The integrity of the upright guides them, but the crookedness of the treacherous destroys them. 

You’ve lingered too long; listened where you shouldn’t. Swallowing, you step away from the door as if you can run from the words you’ve heard, but you’re frozen in place as they rattle in your brain like screams echoing off of cave walls. Bank. Shepherd. Blackpeak. 

Well, that’s none of your business, now is it, sweetheart? 

Before you can betray them any further, you finally muster the strength to knock on the door. Silence falls faster than rain on the other side, and then feet approach. Laswell opens the door, and you sheepishly stare at her, shame evident on your face. She does nothing more than blink at you before crossing her arms. 

“John says you’re interested in helping prepare for dinner tonight,” she says. 

Eyes glancing past her, you find him sitting at the table. He leans far back in his seat with his fingers running over his freshly trimmed beard, but he does not look at you. Disappointment radiates off of him like steam from boiled water—you’re surprised he’s not as scarlet red as burning coals. 

“Yes,” you say with a decisive nod. 

“Good. Come on, let’s get you settled.” 

John does not speak a word to you as you’re led away from the door and out the building. As you step foot back onto the streets of Grand Hollow, Laswell gives you a quick rundown of your task, but most of her words seem to flow in one ear and out the other. 

Cart… Lottie… dinner… 

Your mind spins—you can feel the very earth give way beneath your feet. There are too many people around you, too many smells. All the love of a small town has vanished but the filth remains. Beggars line several corners on the street, children peddle newspapers, women sneak men into shady buildings—Everything is grey. Terribly grey with man made structures, stone lined streets, russet brown buildings—where are the flowers? Like the ones your mother planted? You begin to think it may have been better to stay home. At least your father’s violence is predictable, and the streets smell familiar. 

“Hey, are you listening to me?” 

Laswell’s voice pulls you out of your thoughts and back into your body. You’re standing on the corner of a street with a topless carriage awaiting you. Blinking, you bring your attention to the woman before you and swallow. 

“Sorry, I…”

“I understand. Must be a lot for a country bumpkin like you to take in,” Laswell humors. Giving you a soft smile, she gestures to the carriage behind her. “My driver will take you to the house. You’ll find Lottie there, and I’m sure she’ll have plenty of work for you to do. The boys and I will be back around six for supper.” 

You nod. “Yes. Alright, that will work. Thank you so much, again. For everything.” 

Uninterested in your praises, she waves you off and motions for you to climb into the carriage. The driver does not turn to greet you, but nods when Laswell barks portarla a casa. Sighing, you settle back into the seat just as the horses begin to move forward, jostling the carriage as the wheels squeak into motion. 

Just as you turn your head to watch Laswell fade away into the crowd, something catches your eye. Parchment. Thick paper. Black ink. There, sketched into a small box, you see the unmistakable features of John’s face pinned to a wooden board. The curve of his nose, the budding apples of his cheeks, the sharp cut of his beard—the only thing missing is the hue of his eyes. That blue that contends with the sky above your head and all the paintings you’ve ever seen of the sea. He’s nestled between various other pieces of paper that jitter in the wind, and the confusion almost makes it impossible to decipher what the poster even is. 

But then, you see it. The words. Your stomach twists as you read them—over and over and over again—before the carriage takes you too far and it fades in the distance. 

WANTED: JOHN PRICE DEAD OR ALIVE FOR THE BLACKPEAK COAL MINE SLAUGHTER

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[hellenhighwater]

Do you have any suggestions for trimming claws on an adult cat who is not food motivated? She is happy to get treats but doesn’t seek them out. I tried bribing her into letting me touch her paws and it hasn’t been going anywhere. I can grab her and hold onto her with less resistance than when I first got her, but if she makes sad noises I feel guilty and let her go. I tried wrapping her in a damp towel (vet did this to my last cat, who hated the vet, and said it reduced static in their fur) and she did seem calmer. But I also had trouble getting her claws extended like that and I didn’t want to draw out the process and make it more uncomfortable. My last cats were super food motivated and had been declawed by their previous owners, so I haven’t had this problem before. Thanks!

Just take it slow and work on paw handling. Actual overgrowth to the point of heath risk will take a long time, so you don't have to rush it--work slowly on handling paws during normal petting and cuddling, then add holding paws still, then slowly build towards deploying claws while holding them. Positive reinforcement for this can be whatever your cat likes: ear rubs, catnip, a toy, whatever.

But ultimately you may not get total cooperation on this and it might wind up being a wrap-in-towel and do it quickly sort of job, and that's okay. Working on paw handling will still make it less stressful so it's not a waste of time. Weirdly, Malice doesn't like the nail clipper but she does like her nails filed, but I think she's a freak.

[peepawpriceshat]

This is an hc I personally enjoy for many reasons.

Simon has curly hair. Fine and thin blonde strands that naturally twist up into loose curls atop his head and around his ears when he hasn't had a decent haircut in a while.

Not that anyone really knew that since he spends most of his days tucked away in his mask or balaclava. He doesn't really bother much with it anyways, other than taking clippers to it when it's getting too much. If there was enough hair to noticeably make his head way too warm under the fabric hiding his face, it had to go.

And even when his balaclava comes off in the privacy of his quarters, the curls have been flattened to his head and utterly fail to hold their shape after a full day of sweat and compression.

He ignores it slightly more in the winter months, the locks just adding another layer to keep the nipping wind and cold bite of the air away from his skin.

-------------------------------------------------------

He comes out from his shower, ready for what seemed to be becoming a tradition of going down a rabbit hole of videos Soap found interesting. Last time it had been something about a large goat effigy of sorts that burned down... or was torn to bits by birds... he didn't remember.

When he flops down on the mattress and settles comfortably, he can't help but raise a brow at the man's incredulous expression.

"Tryin' to catch flies Johnny?"

Which has Soap's mouth snap shut quickly, before his eyes narrow with a familiar cheeky expression.

"Didnae ken ye had curls Lt. Ye look like a wee cherub."

The tease has a scowl tug at Simon's lips, but it lacks any bite it would usually carry. Definitely due to his comfortable warm haze from the shower, and not from the seemingly fascinated blue gaze that had glued itself to the top of his head.

And so what if he said nothing when Soaps fingers endlessly toyed with the damp strands while they lounged on the mattress. It's not like he fell asleep to the clipped sounds of some dog show compilation or the feeling of blunt fingertips smoothing across his scalp.

There definitely wasn't a particular reason he didn't cut it as short next time.

[ltwilliammowett]

Running before the Wind, by Montague Dawson (1895-1973)

[literaryvein-reblogs]

Word List: Moon

beautiful words with "moon" to try to include in your poem/story

Honeymoon - a period of unusual harmony especially following the establishment of a new relationship

Moonbeam - a ray of light from the moon

Moonbow - a rainbow formed by light from the moon

Mooncalf - a foolish or absent-minded person; simpleton

Moondust - fine dry particles of the moon's soil

Mooneye - a silvery North American freshwater bony fish (Hiodon tergisus)

Moonfaced - having a round face

Moonfish - any of various compressed often short deep-bodied silvery or yellowish marine fishes

Moonflower - a tropical American morning glory (Ipomoea alba synonym Calonyction aculeatum) with fragrant flowers

Mooniness - the quality or state of being moony; dreaminess, inattention

Moonlet - a small natural or artificial satellite

Moonless - lacking the light of the moon

Moonport - a facility for launching spacecraft to the moon

Moonquake - a seismic event on the moon

Moonrise - the rising of the moon above the horizon

Moonroof - a glass sunroof

Moonsail - a light square sail set above a skysail and carried by some clipper ships in light winds

Moonscape - the surface of the moon as seen or as depicted

Moonseed - a twining plant (Menispermum canadense) of eastern North America that has crescent-shaped seeds and black fruits

Moonset - the descent of the moon below the horizon

Moonshine - moonlight; empty talk, nonsense; intoxicating liquor

Moonshot - an extremely ambitious project or mission undertaken to achieve a monumental goal

Moonstone - a transparent or translucent feldspar of pearly or opaline luster used as a gem

Moonstruck - affected by or as if by the moon, such as: romantically sentimental, lost in fantasy or reverie, or not mentally sound

Moonwalk - to dance by gliding backwards while appearing to make forward walking motions

Moonward - toward the moon

Moonwort - a fern of the genus Botrychium (especially B. lunarium); honesty

If any of these words make their way into your next poem/story, please tag me, or send me a link. I would love to read them!

More: Word Lists ⚜ Writing Resources PDFs

[luveline]

so! we were talking about hockey!sirius a couple days ago soooooooo

i would love to request hockey!sirius flirting with a reader who is not yet his girlfriend. (bonus points if he does the lighting her cigarettes for her like i would die actually)

thank you for requesting! —hockey player!sirius asks you on a date. 1k

"Hey, you." 

You squeeze your box of cigarettes but manage to keep your flinch to yourself. "Sirius, you're like a ghost," you complain, letting your bag fall back behind you. 

"A fit one, at least?" he asks. "I've caught you, haven't I?" 

You fish your box of cigarettes from your bag guiltily. "Don't tell my coach and I'll give you one." 

"Give me two and I'll let you borrow my clipper."

"A clipper," you drawl, drawing two cigarettes from the box to pass him. "I didn't think you were rich." 

"You know, my parents are loaded." 

You put a cigarette between your lips and shove the box down the depths of your bag, your dirty little secret hidden once again. Sirius knows because he's the only other idiot sportsman at your rink stupid enough to smoke at practice. "Weird brag." 

"Well," —he bobs his head from left to right gently, inhaling sharply as he lights the end of his cigarette, breathing through it, "it would be if I spoke to them." 

"Oh, shit. Sorry." 

"Don't be sorry," he says, his cigarette held carelessly between his lips as he ushers you forward. He's much more careful about you, holding your arm in a gentle hand as he lights the end of your cigarette, and nodding encouragingly when you inhale, his eyes a stony grey where they meet yours. "I brought it up." His hand coasts briefly up to your shoulder before he takes a step back. "I like telling you things." 

You lean against the wall and Sirius leans beside you. The outside of the rink is boring, a huge parking lot full of cars going in and out. Sirius' car, a dark cherry red oldsmobile with more scratches than paint, is parked not too far from where you're standing, a dent the size of a sledgehammer head in the driver's side that wasn't there before. "What happened to the vampmobile?" you ask. 

"James. I bet you never would've guessed," he says sarcastically.  

"I wouldn't have. He's a sweetheart. I'd be much more tempted to think you did it doing doughnuts on the industrial–" 

Sirius cuts you off, flicking the tip of his cigarette with a put upon attitude, "I don't do doughnuts. You think so little of me, sweetpea." 

He says sweetpea like you're the cutest thing on earth. You nudge him mildly and stub your cigarette out on top of the square black bin, half-smoked. "I better go home."

"Working tonight?" 

"No, I finally have a night off. Got a ton of stuff I need to do, but it shouldn't take long." You lift your arms into the air and stretch your sore shoulders, angled away from him to avoid giving him a show of the world's ugliest yawn.  

"Wanna get something to eat?" 

You hurt your jaw trying to stop your yawn midway through, arms falling flat to your thighs. Sirius isn't looking at you, gaze on the vamp mobile, smoke curling like a ribbon between his fingers. He has nicely shaped hands, very boney in the sharp way but still rather inviting, when you think about it. 

"Now?" you ask. 

"Tonight. If you want to, I'll take you out." He takes another drag, eyes flaring in time with the ash. "Don't act like you don't know," he says through the exhale. 

"Know what, Black?" you ask. 

"That I'm mad for you." 

You're suddenly and deeply aware of how you look, a mess after practice, hair straggled from its styling, face without any make up. There's nothing wrong with the way you look, but when you picture someone on Sirius' arm, it's never you. You fiddle with your jacket zipper, voice low, "I didn't know that." 

"I don't believe you." He's not accusatory, simply stating a fact. Sirius stubs his cigarette out next to yours, black hair ruffled in the wind, the scent of him adrift. He smells like smoke, of course, but there's a nicer woodiness beneath it. "I'll take the way you're looking at me as a solid maybe. You can text me." 

"No, I mean. Yeah. I mean–" You stammer as Sirius laughs warmly. "I'll text you. If you really are mad for me." 

"Want me to prove it?" he asks. 

Your lips part of their own accord. You look like a deer-in-the-headlights for sure, completely stopped by the implication. Even the thought of a kiss from his has your pulse capering hard. His hands cold from the rink pressed gently to the warmer stretch of your collar, slipping into the hemline, curling behind your neck as he steps close. You can't summon the kiss itself, too close to bursting, because what would you do? Where would you put your hands? Is there a specific place? 

"Don't look so nervous," he murmurs, his eyebrows pinching ever so slightly together. "I'm not gonna jump you." 

"It's not like that, I just don't know…" 

"About us?" he asks. "That's why I'm trying to ask you on a date. You can make your mind up about us and I'll help you bulk for sectionals."

"I don't need bulking," you say. 

He laughs. "No, you're perfect. Beside your bad habit, that is. We have that in common." Sirius steps forward, pauses. "Can I kiss your cheek?" 

His asking is the last straw. You're melted like a slush curl. 

"Yeah," you say weakly. 

Sirius kisses your cheek gently, and then he tucks his face against the side of your head and gives you a hug. "Text me, yeah? If you want." He peels back to grin at you. "I have to go back in. Elite league won't win itself. Talk to you later, doll."

You watch him retreat back into the centre, not sure what you want to do first; text him, or smoke another cigarette. In the end, you decide against the cigarette. If he's really going to prove how mad he is for you, you don't want to taste like smoke. 

[seagulls-paradise]

Image: Dow, G. (1922). Flying Cloud [Illustration]. The Sailing Ships of New England. Boston: Society for the Preservation of New England Antiquities. Fig 97.

Eleanor Creesy was an American navigator who set world sailing records for the fastest passage between New York and San Francisco in 1851 and 1854. She proved to be one of the most capable navigators of her time.

Eleanor was born in 1814 and learned ship navigation from her father. When she married Captain Josiah Perkins Creesy in 1841, she became his ship’s navigator. In 1851, Eleanor’s husband became captain of a new clipper ship, the Flying Cloud, which was said to be the fastest clipper ship yet built. Eleanor Creesy put this to the test on the Flying Cloud’s maiden voyage from New York to San Francisco. She used the latest wind and current charts compiled by Matthew Fontaine Maury of the U.S. Navy to plot a new course around the dangerous waters of Cape Horn. The Flying Cloud’s voyage lasted 89 days and 21 hours, beating the previous speed record by a full week. Their arrival made headlines around the world, and Eleanor and Captain Creesy became famous. Eleanor and her husband sailed the Flying Cloud between New York and San Francisco again in 1854. This time, they beat their own record, completing the voyage in 89 days and 8 hours. This speed sailing record would remain unbeaten until 1989. Eleanor’s exceptional skill, intelligence, and courage set an example for what women could accomplish at sea.

[strangelittlestories]

For most people, the first time you touch a zombie is also the last time.

For *most* people.

Like, some of them survive? But if ever a person is going to discover their Aptitude, then your first close brush with the un-unalive is going to be when you do it.

And if you live through that, then every future encounter with a vengeful corpus will be a bit easier. Even if you haven't gotten a handle on your magic yet, your fight-or-flight instincts should kick in before the creature gets too close.

For example: a Meteorologist might find themselves protected by a small, localised thunderstorm. A Schrodinger might be suddenly armoured in thick darkness. Elementals will get a burst of wind if they're lucky, and a full fireball if they're not.

(Preppers are *probably* screwed still, as a sudden awareness of all the ritual components you'd need to exorcise the wrathful attendant spirits is not actually helpful in a crisis situation.)

Some of us, however, are Necks. Y'know. Corpse-whisperers. Spirit-speakers. Ghost-botherers. Necromancers if you're accurate. 'Pathologists' if you're fancy.

For us, the first time you touch a zombie is to feel - deep in your humors - a profound sense of kinship.

Imagine it. A bloodthirsty monstrosity has wrapped its decaying arms around you and your whole world has been reduced to a set of rotting teeth growing ever larger. And suddenly you are aware that your bond with this creature is unlike any before; that every friend you've ever loved *pales* in comparison to the spiritual connection you share with the *thing* that is *trying to eat you*.

I, personally, was trying to fend a zombie off with a pair of toenail clippers when I had my Awakening.

I'm still in touch with that particular revenant. They're a chill guy. Now.

And if you're one of the *early* wave of Necks like me ... you'll also have become aware of *why* people started crawling out of their graves. Of how they were dragged kicking and screaming from the Roads of the Spirit. How they were glued none-too-gently back into their bodies.

No wonder they were vengeful, right?

Try explaining that to your plucky band of aspirant apocalypse survivors (who, by the way, are already deeply suspicious of your sudden lucky escape and new zombie bestie).

I'm just saying, if *your* Aptitude is one that does not require you to frequently touch or interact with things that (as a rule) want to eat you? You got lucky, buddy.

Because hey? Hey! Guess what? Guess what is the first piece of advice that gets given to Aspirants who are sent out into the wastelands?

“Remember: when it comes to the unalive, don’t stick your neck out. Stick your *Neck* out.”

[androgynousgaz]

A/N: I finally wrote something! It might be short but it was funny to write because... I accidentally did this to myself. Anyways enjoy also if you don't like Trans or Gay characters/Fanfics, just pass GO and don't collect $200. Remember, THIS is all fictional.

Luther

Terry was tidying up the kitchen after lunch when he heard something drop in the bathroom where his partner was. He stopped what he was doing and walked over, finding Wyatt in the middle of braiding his hair. Everything seemed normal until Terry spotted a bit of blood on the razor, and he began searching for its source until he noticed the band-aid covering Wyatt's pinky finger.

He let out a quiet chuckle as he moved closer, wrapping his arms around Wyatt and resting his head on his shoulder with a grin. Wyatt paused briefly to glance at Terry in the mirror, offering a smile before returning to braid his hair. "What's that?" Terry chose to ask, curious about Wyatt's response. "What are you talking about? It's just a rubber band," Wyatt replied, raising an eyebrow. "Not that, silly. What’s on your pinky finger? Did you get a bad paper cut or break a nail?"

"Neither, just a minor shaving mishap." He attempted to downplay it until he realized Terry was peering into his soul through the mirror, prompting him to groan and stomp his feet. "Alright, I was attempting to trim my beard a bit, without clippers, and then I got sidetracked and accidentally... sliced a strip into my nail. It looks like a jigsaw piece and was bleeding, so I just slapped a bandaid on it before I felt queasy." He shrugs, turning in Terry's embrace to show him the back of his hand.

"At least you're okay but baby boy, if you're going to shave... Use. The. Clippers. Not that the facial razors from the feminine department don't work but if you're not paying attention, you could have cut something worse." Terry had a stoic look, cupping Wyatt's face before he kissed his forehead. "Especially as clumsy as you are, I'd suggest the clippers or a finger guard for next time."

"Fine... Fine... Fine.." he playfully rolls his eyes, accepting the kiss on his forehead. He briefly closed his eyes, enjoying the feeling of being in Terry's arms until a thought came to his mind.

"Hey T?"

"Yeah baby?"

"Did you eat my tiramisu?"

"..... I plead the fifth." Terry released his grip and dashed away, with Wyatt in pursuit. Laughter echoed down the corridor as their downstairs neighbors caught wind of the commotion and Wyatt's voice calling out. "Darling! You said you wouldn't finish it all, and I was saving that part for later!"

(My reaction when it happened...)

[neathyingenue]

What’s been going on with Silvia?

An update ft. sticky note doodles

After hearing that her dear friend the Six-Finger’d Scrimshander was living somewhere that wasn’t a house, Silvia has installed it in the guest room of her Side-Streets flat, where they’ve been getting along swimmingly.

Her professional life is going great! Ever since she and Lord Oswald J. Emerson struck a bargain—he writes silly plays, Silvia writes silly reviews, they create public beef that sells tickets and papers—the Prodigal Plebian has practically been printing itself.

Silvia’s also made a new friend, one Youthful Naturalist! She’s been lending him a hand where she can—trying to convince him to move out of his rookery, and keeping her kitchen stocked with jellied eels should he come over, and taking him wherever he wants to go in her zee-clipper.

In the meantime, she’s been growing frustrated with her lack of progress regarding her research on the Third City. If you’ve been with Silvia for a while, you’ll recall that she has been learning Yucatec Maya and chasing leads to discover if there are any pockets of Third City inhabitants untouched by colonialism where she could convince her remaining dad to move with her. (Hm? Inherently contradictory logic? What inherently contradictory logic?)

Enter the Sixth Coil and the freed captives. Several of them are from the original Third City. Silvia follows them to Venderbight, uses her broken Yucatec Maya to explain what she’s after—

They tell her: There’s no such place as you’re describing. We hang around in Venderbight, but even now, there’s nowhere untouched by the Masters, by London.

Silvia presses them—No, there has to be, maybe you just don’t want me there? Why not? Why won’t you let me in?? I promise I’m trustworthy, I won’t tell—

And she finally realizes that she sounds like a fucking conquistador.

Welp! No better cure for a crumbling belief system and self-perception than to zail as far away from your problems as possible! She and the Youthful Naturalist fuck off for a while and that’s when the Delight gets wind of them.

Speaking of wind. The Wax-Wind catches up with Silvia’s ship. Silvia gets a bad burn across the right side of her neck and shoulders.

Not to just rehash everything that happens ever in Evolution, but, uh, shit hits the fan, Silvia gets pretty traumatized. But secretly she’d glad that she’s helping the Youthful Naturalist, proud of both of them. Her search for precolonial Atlantis failed. But here’s another basket to put some eggs in. If they crack the secret to life and death, well, no one else will have to die like Silvia’s other dad, they can have all the time in the world to create their own utopia.

And the other basket of eggs is the Marvellous. She’s been so busy she’s scarcely had time to think of it [I’ve been on the lodging grind for 3+ months ;_;]. But can’t she just win and make the Masters let go of everything, set everyone free, end imperialism, or whatever? That’s how it works, right?

Oh, by the way, no one knows she’s been doing this shit. Not her father-ish figures, not her flatmate, not her partner, not her best friend, not her newspaper employees. Just her crew, and they are pretty pissed at her right now, so she’s been avoiding them.

Around this time, Silvia gets a letter from Shaw (one such father-ish figure) explaining about Nemesis and saying he might not make it back from his final revenge quest.

ALSO around this time (or maybe right after) Silvia gets what really sounds like a last will and testament from Jones (other father-ish figure).

And ALSO also around this time, Brett (Silvia’s best friend) is recovering from learning of the death of his partner.

Then Silvia forgets to be careful, and Caoimhe (her partner) sees her burns and asks what’s going on. She doesn’t buy Silvia’s story about a cooking accident she forgot to tell Caoimhe about (Silvia never cooks), and she really doesn’t appreciate that Silvia tried to lie. Caoimhe gives Silvia the chance to come clean.

So it all comes out. The Marvellous. The scientific voyages. The experimental surgeries. The multiple supernatural enemies. Caoimhe is appalled that Silvia would be taking all these risks without saying a single word—she thought the most dangerous shit Silvia was involved with was printing ill-advised articles about powerful people. Caoimhe’s extraordinarily patient and supportive, but Silvia didn’t even tell her!

The breach of trust frays at their relationship and drags Silvia further into guilt and despair, especially because Silvia’s support network is spread rather thin at the moment!

So… here we are. Silvia’s standing in the crumbling ruins of her relationships and ideals. She needs to help this 20-year-old cheat death, and then she needs to beat a bat at cards, and she’s so, so sad about everything.

This is it folks! We've hit rock bottom! Even I'm not sure how she's getting out of this one :) :) If you made it this far, thanks for reading <3

[The Six-Finger'd Scrimshander - @T6FS; Lord Oswald J. Emerson - @lord-emerson; August Shaw - @zeebreezin; Robin Jones - @viric-dreams; Brett Heroux - @thedandy-detective; Caoimhe Coledoc - @the-insouciant-scientist]