#coorie

[susantbraithwaite]

Between the Lines: Hawthorn, Hope, and Storytelling

Hiya, Here in the northern hemisphere, autumn has painted our surroundings with its rich palette of golds, reds, and oranges. The days are growing colder, and the nights are drawing in faster, and I coorie ever deeper into my heavy knit cardigan… It’s hard not to reflect on summer’s sunnier, vibrant moments. Today, for Cee’s FOTD, I bring you a bloom from summers past – the gentle and serene…

[paperstreetdolls]

As much as we love summer there is no denying the seasons are changing and we’re here for it! Packaging up a few of our wee DIY autumn star garland kits this week for customers starting to get their autumnal decor on…🍁💛 #autumndecor #falldecorating #seasonaldecor #changingseasons #diykit #cosynights #fireplacedecor #fireplacemantel #mantledecor #livingroomdecoration #stardecor #diygarland #walldecorations #diycraft #slowmade #cosydecor #garlands #craftkit #candlelights #twinklylights (at Glasgow, United Kingdom) https://www.instagram.com/p/Cho927FKVe_/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

[verecunda]

And far away, as Frodo put on the Ring and claimed it for his own, even in Sammath Naur the very heart of his realm, the Power in Barad-dûr was shaken, and the Tower trembled from its foundations to its proud and bitter crown. The Dark Lord was suddenly aware of him, and his Eye piercing all shadows looked across the plain to the door that he had made; and the magnitude of his own folly was revealed to him in a blinding flash, and all the devices of his enemies were at last laid bare. Then his wrath blazed in consuming flame, but his fear rose like a vast black smoke to choke him. For he knew his deadly peril and the thread upon which his doom now hung. From all his policies and webs of fear and treachery, from all his stratagems and wars his mind shook free; and throughout his realm a tremor ran, his slaves quailed, and his armies halted, and his captains suddenly steerless, bereft of will, wavered and despaired. For they were forgotten. The whole mind and purpose of the Power that wielded them was now bent with overwhelming force upon the Mountain. At his summons, wheeling with a rending cry, in a last desperate race there flew, faster than the winds, the Nazgûl, the Ringwraiths, and with a storm of wings they hurtled southwards to Mount Doom.

[jupitersflytrap]

in one of those phases where i listen to all my demos and go "why did i think these were bad this is a straight up banger" but unfortunately will not be able to act on this creative impulse as i'm fully booked tomorrow trying to read rob roy in one sitting.

[thewolfisawake]

"His Majesty, Balmoral Sitheach, I presume?" Upon approaching the Unseelie ruler, Sivel lowered his head in a reserved, but respectful greeting. The wings at his back giving a small flutter-- an intermittent buzz that indicated caution. This fae...if that was indeed what he was, felt...off, in some manner. The Vasyrus couldn't quite put his finger on how, but it was enough to have him paying especially close attention.

Though...ultimately, that mystery wasn't the reason why he was here, and thus, had to be put aside for the time being.

"Forgive my sudden approach. My name is Sivel Eszenra Vasyri. Luminary, or king, of the realm Brinnela's Vasyri. If you have a moment, I came here to discuss a...meeting, that you will be attending. I believe you were warned of it not long ago?"

His words are purposely kept somewhat vague, in case anyone else might be listening in that shouldn't be. The look in his eyes, however; leveling Balmoral with a pointed, unwavering stare that oh so briefly flicks to the Unseelie king's head, then back to his eyes. A silent indication of the mysterious voice that would have filled his mind but a few minute prior.

"Unfortunately, if that would be something you are interested in, we have little time...but I felt as though meeting with you prior would still be for the best."

[Soon, We will be calling you to Us. You, leaders of the realms and species. Deities, and those of exceptional power and influence. Make yourselves prepared for when We summon you, and do not resist. Conduct yourselves with propriety while in Our presence, for We shall scant tolerate any frivolous wasting of Our time. Take this to be your one due warning, and We shall avail Ourselves of your presence thusly.]

It had been some time since an invasion of his headspace. Less like the surprisingly gentle draw of the Returning and more of the haze of days long past. It even spoke of obligation, of what he must do as an authority far beyond where he could gaze. How nostalgic, he thought mirthlessly. Though this lot were more authoritarian weren't they?

While the king would have liked to have passed this as some ploy, he found it far too strange of a ruse. Its timing while impromptu was falling in line with the inkling of something extrinsic that flickered to his sense. While he didn't think they were the same...it did hold a similarity in being something wholly unseen to the Unseelie. And that was both cause for concern and unacceptable for him.

As if to further his suspicion, Balmoral received an urgent request from a dignitary unfamiliar to any they were in accord with. If this were another attempt...well, he would have to commend them for the unorthodox this time. He sent to allow them through as he overlooked the other correspondence that weighed in as well.

To the new voice, he caught Balmoral's attention. Oh? Perhaps it was simply the choice of delegate but was it wrong to consider maybe it was a ploy? Nevertheless, it was past the time to go back.

"The presumption is correct. Though it must be quite a party fir it t' be such short notice. Even more so t' send a king as an envoy," Balmoral remarked. Coorie, nestled like her namesake, gave a nudge along the back of his ear. The occasion buzzing caught her attention. Hm, "but let's gaun and have a blether then, Luminary."

He's not going to waste time if it was ticking towards the unknown, "Fir wit reason you and yer friends are involving the Unseelie? Utmost importance implies we're in the same boat. But nary few minutes back ah didnae ken fuck all about you lot."

[bookishluna]

Trying the Gideon Method to Manage My WIPs

Hello and welcome to my little explanation of a knitting productivity I am planning to give a go in the coming months! While my February was great for getting my WIPs down from 8 to 5, I find that I still need a bit of motivation and focus. I would like to make something very clear, I actually learned about this in one of my knitting zoom groups that I am a part of where these two blog posts were…

[parjuuzwoonn5]

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[nvlv9uyhfqf]

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[branmer]

this is so deeply embarassing i cannot believe a scottish journalist wrote this. but it's extremely funny that all the people she quotes are english ppl who moved up to scotland to live a more 'simple' existance because they think this is some fairytale country or some shit

[colombonow]

Who is afraid of the release of former SP Lakshman Coory?

Who is afraid of the release of former SP Lakshman Coory?

Yesterday, the judgment in the case related to the killing of Jeyaraj FernandoPulle by using a bomber in 2008 was announced. Gampaha No. (01) High Court Judge Sahan Mapa Bandara announced the verdict in that case and acquitted the suspects. Accordingly, the Former Gampaha Superintendent of Police Lakshman coory, who was imprisoned without bail for 13 years, was acquitted and released. Although…

[yeyinde]

coorie | John "Soap" MacTavish x f!Reader

He pants against your mouth, and you can feel the stretch of his grin—a languorous, satiated smile like the sunrise in the winter. All dark, endlessly so, and then suddenly— Johnny feels like dusk. The first breach of the morning over the lands; a sleepy haze of light eating into the tenebrose that shrouds everything around you. A steak of ochre, gold, in a world of darkness; the varicoloured smear of pastel clouds breaking over the horizon. 

Being with him is a little bit like cupping the sun in the palm of your hand. 

warnings: soft!Soap, super soft smut, fluff, domestic bliss, two idiots being drunk off of each other; female gendered anatomy, female!reader; very little substance just pure fluff

word count: 4k

notes: coorie is a cuddle in Scots and that's the cutest thing to me. we just have cwtsh. also, you can't look me in the eye and tell me this man ISN'T the little spoon.

The scent of wych elm and smoked cedar fill the back of your throat when you breathe in. The cloying richness tickles your nose; the heft of it is familiar, heady. Your head—fuzzy and thick from sleep—swims with the visceral sense of comfort that settles deep in your lungs when you pull it in. You know this smell. 

(Have a piece of it tucked under your pillow.

Did you see where my shirt went? The one I got from Aubin? I went runnin' in it this mornin', hen. Can't find it anywhere.

Maybe it's in the wash. 

Aye, maybe. 

You shoved it under the one he used, tucked it there for those nights that never seemed to end; when you always found yourself missing him the most.

Your secret to keep.)

You're caught in the middle of sleep and wakefulness; a purgatory where the world does not yet exist outside of the soft sheets dragging over your skin. Torn between the dream you were having that is still within reach (the taste of alder on your tongue, a hand across your pulse), and the cognisance that seeps inside: the birds outside of the window chittering, the cars driving across wet cobblestone, honking in the distance. 

And then—

There is a weight on you that—like the smell— doesn't belong. 

You'd gone to bed alone. Have done so for months now. The only company you keep is just the shirt, whose enticing scent has long since faded. 

You feel it, now. 

A weight. A presence. Something notches on your shoulder, a blunt pressure digging into your neck—a heaviness securing you to the bed, locked over your chest, and across your thighs. 

Your blankets could never be so firm, so warm. 

The dream slips into the recesses of your mind when your eyes crack open. A little sliver. The world bathed in bright gold. 

A rasp of something gritty and sharp scratches over the soft flesh below your shoulder, above the swell of your breast. The graze of it makes you smile. Makes you lull your head to the side until your nose meets wry curls that tickle your lips. 

You breathe him in. Sweat. Aged wood. 

He must have snuck in sometime during the night. 

(Finally, finally—)

The world resumes in pieces. The top of his brown hair under your eyes, his face nestled into the crook of your neck, soft plumes of humid breath on your throat, his grip over your ribs. Thighs tangled together. 

Like this, with your head dazed and spooled with the gossamer of somnolence, you can't begin to know where he ends and you begin. You merge together. A mess of limbs, heavy and thick with the scent of sleep. Warm milk. Honey. 

Johnny sleeps like a child. Always grasping out, reaching for you. He clings to you; body wrapping around yours as if he was trying to merge atoms. 

He might be. Johnny is a cuddler. The kind that sticks to you like glue, and refuses to let go. 

A slow, languid smile curls on your lips. Your arm laid on the pillow he's supposed to be using lifts, and falls gently to the top of his head. Nails rake through the coarse hair, scratching his scalp. His shorn sides are a little longer than you remember it, tufts of hair the same length as your fingernail. He'll need a haircut. 

You follow the trail of his mohawk, sliding down the nape of his neck, the knob of his spine. Real. Solid. 

You'll never tell him, but when he's gone, you often dream of him at night. The sweetness of it carries into the morning where it's ground into pain when you remember he's gone. When your fingers slide through the sheets in search of the man who isn't there, and meet the cold, barren emptiness across from you. 

He never sleeps in his spot, anyway. Always somehow wrapped around you instead. 

But this—

Waking up to the smell of him thick in your nose, the taste of him on your fingertips—it's the closest to heaven you think you'll ever get. 

At your touch, Johnny moans, low and rough. The sound drenched in sleep, and needy. A heat—soft, fluttering—spumes in your belly. The weight of his knee pressing into your hip bone makes you take a sharp, deep breath. 

It's been too long since his skin touched yours. Since the heat of him seeped to your marrow. 

Your nails dance down his spine, relishing the feel of his hard muscles under your palm. Johnny makes another noise—a soft husk, full of sleepy longing—and it goes straight to your core. His body flexes, coiling over you. He snuggles in deeper, as if that was even possible. But you know Johnny. 

Any gap, any space, between your bodies will be sought after and conquered. 

His nose pushes into your pulse point, stubble chafing your skin. The weight of him is solid. Comforting. Johnny's hand curls around your ribs. You melt into his embrace. Soft, gummy. He's sickly sweet—your gruff military man.

His knee stretches when he moves, his hip nudging into you. 

He's naked. You feel the thickness of him twitching against your side. Wetness leaks, dampens your skin. 

You burrow your face into his crown, and catch the scent of gunfire and polymer that clings to the tips of his cropped hair. 

He didn't even shower. Stripped down, sleepy and jetlagged, and slipped into your bed. 

Nails rove over his broad shoulders until you're locked into some parody of a hug. You feel the heft of his bicep beneath your hands. The weight of his burning flesh over your body. Clad in only panties and a loose top, you feel the fever billowing inside of you. 

There is something intimate about waking up next to someone nude. A stark thing that settles in your ribs, clotting in the brackets between them. 

The flavour of vulnerability. Touches of domesticity. It leaks into your marrow, bringing with it something soft and tender. 

Illicit. 

It brims up. Buoying to the surface. A low-grade fever itching under your skin. The blunt press of his hard, leaking cock on your skin is nothing short of enticing. 

Your thighs part as much as they're able to with his weight on you, hand slipping out from under the pillow. You take a moment to run your fingers over his forearm, nestled snugly under your breasts. The weight of him makes your chest flutter. Heart seizing when he squeezes you tight to him. 

The coarse hair of his thigh on your navel feels good under your palm. Muscular. He told you once when he brought you to a football game that he used to play. Still does when he has the time. A group of his old schoolmates on a rare Saturday when everyone is around. 

You can feel it in the thick bulk of him. Years of practice, training. 

But now—

It's in the way. 

His thigh is too thick for you to slip your hand over. 

Your core throbs. The sticky press of his hard cock against you does little to abate the ache growing inside. 

A huff spills from your lips. His hair flutters. Another noise spills from deep within his chest when you push at his leg, trying to slip it down lower so you can sink your fingers into your aching pussy. 

It doesn't work. He tucks himself closer to you, and rocks his hips into yours. 

A wry twist of your lips. At least someone is getting off. 

You try again, wriggling. 

He moves, pulls his hand out from where it's caught between the bed and your chest, running his warm, rough palm over your skin.

The movement makes you pause, hand falling still on his knee. You went to bed late last night, having stayed up watching trashy television until the early hours. He must have snuck in sometime after. 

Your eyes skirt to the clock on the wall. It's barely mid-morning. 

He needs sleep. 

Did you wake him—?

He dips under the hem of your cropped sleep shirt, and cups your breast in his palm. 

"Johnny—," you breathe, just barely a whisper.

He groans low. Flashes fan over your collarbones. "Couldn't wait for me?" 

His accent is thick in the morning, groggy and flooded with sleep. You shiver, hips lifting slightly off the bed. You're stopped, of course, by the weight of him. 

"You took too long," you murmur, panting into his hair. 

He grumbles; the noise reverberates through his chest. "Sorry, bonnie. Got my girl all worked up. Needy for it."

His fingers brush over your nipple. The flash of pleasure makes your toes curl, his name leaves your mouth in a breathless plea. 

"I know, I know…" he husks into your neck. "I'll take care'a ya, bonnie." 

"Wanna make you feel good—"

"Nah, dove. Just be a good girl for me, aye?"

"Johnny—"

His fingers rub your nipple until your peak hardens, pinched softly between his thumb and forefinger. His cock presses into you—little cants of his hip that make you burn for it. 

It's been so long. 

Your nails dig into the meat of his shoulder. "Please, baby, I can't take it—"

His laugh huff across your neck. "Needy little thing."

His thigh slides off your waist before you can snap something back, lips pressing to your pulse. It makes your breath catch when you feel the graze of his warm mouth, his tongue; it laves over your skin, carrying the flash of teeth. A tease, a nip. Between the burn from the stubble, and the soft bites to your skin, your neck will soon be a mosaic of his devotion. 

Your thighs part, desperation pooling inside of you with each brush of his warm, calloused fingers over your nipple. You want it, ache for it—

"Fuck, bonnie." His hips rut into you, cock so hard you think it might bruise your flesh. It leaks prespend over your skin until you're tacky with it. 

Your mouth waters. You wonder if he'll taste of the beach—

Your head lulls, nose nuzzling his crown. "Wanna taste you later, baby. Missed having your cock in my mouth—"

"Steamin' Jesus, bonnie—," it's bitten off in a moan. A desperate rut. His fingers spasm over your breast. "Cannae say shite like that when I haven't had this pretty mouth in months —"

"You should learn to be quicker with the missions then." 

His teeth sink into your neck, and you sputter, thighs snapping shut to stem the deep ache.

Johnny's tongue snakes out, laving over the indents left behind by his teeth. "I come home to you as quickly as I can, bonnie."

Your voice is barely a whisper. "I know." 

He groans into your neck when he moves, his hand slipping out from under his body, and resting on the pillow. His head raises, your eyes meet. Golden honey, rich and thick and full of want, gazes at you from under heavy lids. 

His smile feels like the dawning sun curving over the horizon. A flash of teeth. His forehead drops, presses to yours. Noses brushing. You breathe in him. 

"Hey," he murmurs against your lips, the barest touch. "I missed ya, hen." 

Your hands curl over his shoulders, knees parting to let him closer. A smile, soft and gentle, pulls on the corners of your mouth. "Hiya. Missed you, too."

He ruts into the seam of your thighs, heavy cock sliding over your clothed cunt. "God, bonnie. Thought about ya always. Couldn't get you outta my head." 

"You say that every time you come home."

His head ducks down, muzzling his stubble against your cheek. You feel the press of teeth under your jaw. "An' I mean it every time."

"I'm already gonna fuck you, babe. No need to try and charm me into it," you taunt, nails raking softly down is back. A tickle. A tease. His hips jerk into yours, a groan slipping from his lips. 

"Charm? Oh, bonnie—," his voice is rich caramel, thick and sweet in your ear. "I'm just fuckin' crazy for ya, cariño."

You huff. "Cariño? That's new." 

"Sí, mi corazón." 

Your brows raise. "I love how even when speaking a completely different language, you still sound incredibly Scottish."

"Aye," he nips your chin again. "You can take the Scot out of Scotland, but you can't—"

Your mouth presses to his, catching teeth. "Just shut up and fuck me, already, Johnny."

His mouth captures yours, tongue delving into it with a groan. He tastes of thistle. Your breath comes out in sharp pants against his cheek. 

Your hand slides down his arms, reaching under to tug at your panties. When he feels you move, he laughs low in his throat, lips clumsily glued to yours. 

"Gonna pull 'em to the side for me? That desperate, mi reina?"

"Very," you breathe, eyes lidded and heavy. "I only had my fingers, you know." 

He looks good like this—bathed in the gentle sunlight, sunkissed from his adventure in Mexico—and leaning over you, eyes hungry. Right where he belongs. 

"Yeah?" He rasps, swallowing thickly. His hand follows the path set by your own, fingers curling under your knee. "Was it good, bonnie? Did you fuck yourself senseless and think of me?"

"It was good," you whine, back arching when his cock brushes your wet cunt. The head taps against your clit. "But it wasn't you." 

"Gotta give my girl a proper pounding then, aye?"

"Yes," you hiss, eyes fluttering when he takes his cock in hand, and thrusts it through your drenched folds. "I want it, Johnny."

"Push 'em to the side, bonnie. I need to be in your cunt, now."

Whimpering, your fingers hook on the gusset of your damp panties, pulling them back. Opening yourself for him, and desperate for it. 

"Wanna fuck you proper later on," he rasps, his cock nudging against your cunt. "But I can't wait, dove. Fuck, the things you do to me—"

You're not wet enough for it to be seamless, but it's been months since you felt him split you apart, and the burn, the sting, of him stretching you open all over again makes your toes curl. It rides the edge of indelible pain and pleasure; an amalgam of being both excruciatingly good and too much all at the same time. Overwhelming. Perfect.

Your legs hook on his thighs when he nudges the head of his cock inside of you, opening yourself wider for him to take. 

He breathes out your name on a shuddered rasp that makes your cunt clench, pulsing with the delirious ache of having him within you once more. Hair dampened with sweat, his upper lip is slick when he presses his mouth to you; you taste salt on your tongue when he licks into your mouth. Your hands roam his back when he pushes in deep, flushed against you. 

"Gonna move, coriño;" he slurs into your mouth, eyes fluttering shut. "Can you take it?"

"Give it to me, Johnny."

Before Johnny, you'd never known fucking could be so intense when it's slow; just languid rolls of his hips, his mouth fixed on yours, devouring you. It's not rushed: he isn't fucking you as hard as he can. It's—

Tender. Sweet. 

Johnny fills you deep, the head of his cock nudging something inside of you that has your nails digging into his shoulders, whimpering against his mouth. The slow drag of his cock sliding out of you has your walls singing from the blunt pressure. The torturously deep thrust back in, hips jerking lazily into yours. It all pools together, an endless coil of pleasure that makes you moan, that has you panting into his ear, begging him for more. 

The equinox of it all comes when he rests his forehead back on yours, noses pushed together. There is no space between you—face to face, chest to chest—and he ruts into you like this, his eyes molten suns, nearly blinding, as they gaze at you. 

Johnny makes you melt. Makes your veins pool with liquid bliss, your core tightening with each sharp thrust against your gummy walls, and every slow drag out until only the tip remains. He hits deep, fills you completely, and it's good—it's so good —but it's this you can't get enough of. 

The way he covers your whole body with his, tucked into every corner and crevasse until all you can see and feel is him. He shares your breath; each exhale is his inhale. Eyes fixed on you; dark lashes fluttering when you tighten around him. 

These moments with Johnny make your head spin—a realm carved out where only the two of you exist; where you meld together and become one entity feasting off of the other. 

His cock, heavy and fat inside of your pussy. Your hands running along his back. His mouth sealing over yours, panting deep and ragged until all you can taste and smell is him. Until all you can see is the caramel depths that gaze at you—love in liquid; flecks of affection in gold. His pupils blown wide from pleasure, nearly eclipsing the stunning brecciated hazel. His lids lower, cresting in euphoria.

He's close—you can feel it in the way his thighs tense, his back trembles; in the sloppy way he fucks into you, mouthing along your lips. Lost in a white haze of pleasure, and too drunk on the way you tighten around him to notice. 

Your nails dig into his shoulder blades when his thrusts become choppy, harder. Legs spread wider to take him, ankles crossing over his tailbone. You melt into the sweat-slicked sheets, body liquifying with each snap of his hips. 

His chin rakes over your cheek, stubble grating against the skin. He murmurs apologies into your ear, tongue dipping out to taste the mess he made of you. 

"M'so fuckin' close, hen," he slurs into your temple, the bulk of his upper torso sliding over you. You're trapped under him, forehead pressed into the column of his throat as he bends your knees to your chest. "Fuck—!"

The light catches on the gold chain around his neck. The cross swinging like a pendulum between you. It draws your eye, and fills your chest with a deep spume of inexorable affection. Something so mundane, but so him; a little thing he always carries, keeps with him. A little piece of familiarity after months of loneliness. 

Seeing it outside of just a bittersweet dream brings tears to your eyes. 

You missed him. The heavy cedar scent, the way he kisses you like he can't get enough of the taste, how he clings to you at night, glueing himself to you in a futile effort to merge together into one being, his stupid haircut—

"Fuck," you choke, head full of nothing but him. "I missed you so much—"

"Me, too, hen," he groans into your crown, fucking deep into you. "Fuck, bonnie. I need you to cum for me. Need to feel you cumming on my cock—"

His words congeal inside your core, pleasure rippling from the base of your spine to the tips of your fingers that you bury inside his flesh. The thick heft of him makes you dizzy, makes you feel that tight coil pulling taut with each sloppy thrust he makes against it. 

His body sags into you, head burrowing into your neck. The grind of his pelvis against your clit as you spasm around him, clenching tight as he works you up toward nirvana, rutting deep, and breathing heavy into your collarbones. Glued, once more, to you. 

Johnny holds you steady, firm. His whole body cresting over yours, and keeping you locked to bed. Under him. Sheltered from harm. From the ugliness he keeps at bay. 

My hero, you once whispered to him playfully in a pub when you first met. Coy and teasing and high of the confidence that comes with a gorgeous man looking at you like you hung the stars in the sky. You feel it, now, nestled deep inside of your chest. Your hero, finally home. 

It's the soft chants of your name, the choked-out confessional about how much he missed you, thought of you all the way on the opposite side of the globe, and now that he has you, it feels like heaven. How you have Nirvana nestled between your soft thighs, and he can't get enough of it. Of you. He's drunk off the taste. 

It's a slow ascent with Johnny. Never rushed, never hurried. He takes you like he's savouring you, like he'll never have the chance to again. 

(On your first date, he took you hiking.

And years later, it still feels like you're climbing a mountain.)

A slow, lazy incline. A soft, feathery descent. 

"M'goin' crazy fer ya, cariño—," he pushes in deep, the head of his cock kissing your cervix. His voice is shattered, broken. The fractures in his words, the hard roll of his hips pressing down on your clit, all push you over the edge. Head full of that white pleasure that dances in front of your eyes like little galaxies in the cosmos. 

The pulse of your cunt around him makes his hips grind into yours, cock twitching as he spills himself inside of you. A low moan slips from his reddened lips, and he stifles it when he catches your mouth, sharing it with you. 

(It tastes of sugared milk and cinnamon.)

He stays like that for a moment, hips rocking against you as rides himself through, your pussy clenching around him, milking him for everything—every drop. 

Thistle heavy on your tongue, his moan nestled in your throat—it feels a bit like waking up again. A yawning crest into wakefulness. A slow roll into cognisance. 

He pants against your mouth, and you can feel the stretch of his grin—a languorous, satiated smile like the sunrise in the winter. All dark, endlessly so, and then suddenly—

Johnny feels like dusk. The first breach of the morning over the lands; a sleepy haze of light eating into the tenebrose that shrouds everything around you. A steak of ochre, gold, in a world of darkness; the varicoloured smear of pastel clouds breaking over the horizon. 

Being with him is a little bit like cupping the sun in the palm of your hand. 

His eyes slide open—a slow, shuddering roll—and you see morning dew in the whites; golden rays in the hazel. There are shadows, proof of a hard-earned victory, but he is not the type to let it linger. 

(You're not the type to let him.)

Sleepy, dazed from pleasure, he grins again. Nose pressed to yours, heart thundering against your chest. 

"M'not leavin' again for a while, now," he breathes into your lips, nose sliding across yours. He nuzzles his cheek your raw flesh, already scratched from his stubble. His voice is naked bliss when murmurs: "and I intend to stay inside this pretty cunt all day."

You huff, head listing as you let him smother your cheek and neck in affectionate kisses, nips. "You need a shower. You smell like Price. And sweat."

Teeth to your pulse. "And sex. Your sweet pussy—"

"You need a haircut."

"Thought you wanted me to grow it out."

You pretend to consider, hands sliding from his back to the nape of his neck. "I want something to pull."

"You can." 

"It's too short." 

He's shaking his head, temple knocking into your chin. "Nah, you can still pull. You can steer me later when my face is buried in your—"

"Is that why you came home?" You tease, curling a lock of his hair around your fingers. "Surely there were pretty girls in Mexico."

His head lifts. Rising suns, molten honey, meet yours. "Nah, got the prettiest hen squeezing my cock right now."

"God," you huff, walls fluttering around him with each gentle movement he makes. "You're incorrigible." 

"M'a man starved. Kept away from my girl for too long." 

His words are teasing, but his eyes—

Your breath catches, and stutters in your chest. "Johnny."

"Can't get enough of ya, hen." He confesses, words muttered into your chin. "Don't plan on lettin' you go. Ever."

"You won't ever need to." 

His smile feels like coming home. "You can bet on that."

His hand reaches under the pillow, eyes playful. "Now, about you stealin' my shirts…"

Your cheeks heat when he pulls it out. "How did that get there?"

"You're a cheeky little thing, ain't you?"

You place your hand on his chest, lashes fluttering. Coy. Kittenish. "I just miss you sometimes, is all." 

His eyes are pockets of slate, chiselled deep with a heart-wrenching affection that blisters through you. "Oh, hen."

Open, raw. He descends on you, mouth catching yours. Kissing him is always intense, always—

He pulls away. A flash of teeth. A smirk. 

"But stop taking my good ones at least."

[undercoverpena]

WELCOME to PART TWO of a fic rec celebration ✨ so the beginning/end of last month, i did a post about being kind to creators and at the end of this month i wanted to shout about some of the writing work i love.

it's been a while since i've read cod, so this list is some of my absolute favourites i still think about and loveeee.

remember, if you can be anything, be kind.

this celebration is part two (call of duty)

KEY: smut = smut* | s = series | wip = work in progress | os = one shot

be sure to check out each fics warnings and tags at the top before reading. *if a series warns smut is coming up, I'll include this here too

CALL OF DUTY

SIMON 'GHOST' RILEY

the little things by @halfmoth-halfman | s

riptide by @yeyinde | s smut

sea swallow me @yeyinde | os smut

the ghost of you by @floralpascal | os smut

reasons why ghost likes his medic by @ghostaholics | os

camera ready by @ghostaholics | os smut

the trouble that follows by @ghostaholics | os smut

cigarettes out the window by @moondirti | os smut

SOAP MACTAVISH

infinity in the palm of your hand by @yeyinde | os s

coorie by @yeyinde | os smut

red fox by @charnelhouse | os s smut

charcoal by @moondirti | os smut

JOHN PRICE

designer dress by @halfmoth-halfman | s wip

gem amra kheli by @guyfieriii | os

genesis by @moondirti | os smut

neighbours by @soapskneebrace | s wip smut

[jupitersflytrap]

idk what i would do without scots words in my vocabulary. like there is no equivalent to coorie. what am i meant to say when i'm cooried in. or when it's dreich. or when i'm drookit. these are questions that the english still can't answer.

[sirenjose]

Norton's Humming + Research into 19th Century Mining Songs

Video: Norton/Hunter Norton’s backstory trailer, but audio edited so only the background noise and Norton’s humming are heard.

There are a few more notes besides the 6 we hear him humming most of the time if you listen closely. But then it repeats.

Is this an original song or no?

It does have a similar feel as the theme for the theme of The Shining: https://youtu.be/g_nsZ8yt1KA?feature=shared

And the theme for The Shining is apparently based on Dies Irae or “Days of Wrath. And it’s curious that this actually appears in quite a few movies apparently: https://youtu.be/0hL1m4hGBVY?feature=shared

Since I’m talking about Norton’s humming/song again, even though I haven’t been successful finding any songs that match up exactly, I might as well share some of my findings, as there’s a number of interesting mining songs (I tried to focus on songs from the 19th century):

- Collier’s Rant: one of the oldest mining songs (maybe written 1650). It originates in the Northeast of England/Northumberland, and so its in their dialect (Geordie). Based on how mine disasters have been happening for a long time and how miners viewed the pit with suspicion. It was part folk lore, fright, and superstition that people believed many disasters were caused by the devil and his henchmen who lived at the bottom of every pit. (*Side Note: "mara" in the song means workmate)

- Blackleg Miner: 19th century song relating to miner unions/strikes. Originally also from Northumberland. It depicted violence against strikebreakers by unionized strikers. It may have originated from the miners’ lockout of 1844? Regarding the term “blackleg”, this referred to strikebreakers, as they returned covered in coal dust which gave away that they had been working while others were on strike.

- Miners’ Lullaby: about how miners brought tins of morphine with them, enough to kill a man, in case they were trapped underground so they could at least have a peaceful death

- Gresford – Miner’s Hymn: honors the mining disaster in 1934 in North Wales

- Miner’s Lifeguard: for the Welsh Sliding Scale dispute in 1898?

- Others: In the Days of ’49, California As It Is, Coorie Doon, Byker Hill, Which Side are you On, Farewell to the Monty, Farewell to the Rhondda, Joe Bowers, the Blantyre Explosion, Trimdon Grange Mining Disaster

[ask-thearchivists]

YOU GOT ARCHIVIST BABY PICS?! Please show! I bet they're so charming

The Collector: Yeah! I kept them on me because I would use it to embarrass them. I got the pictures from each of my other siblings.

The Collector: This is a picture of my sister, Coordinator. She used to bite and chew things. Charmer used to tell me about how apparently she used to chew through all the teething toys Caretaker gave her.

The Collector: This is a picture of my brother Charmer as a baby being held by the Coordinator when she was a toddler. Renny thought it would be cute to have a picture of them together but Coori's face is so funny! She looks like she wants to leave him on a desolate moon. Coori told me Char-Char spent the first 1000 years always sticking her tongue out.

The Collector: This is from right after Curie and Carti were born. Renny was only expecting one baby so Curie had to wear xyr hat until xe could make an outfit for her. They wouldn't smile unless they were close to each other. Carti also hated being held by anyone but Caretaker.

[sprout-fics]

So first off I wanted to thank you bre being the reason I've decided to just headfirst into COD and reignite my genuine love for the games. I played the original mw games as a kid and now I'm planning to hopefully play the remakes soon. And I also wanted to ask if you had any recommendations for good Ghost and/or Soap X reader/oc fics to read? I'm working my way slowly through yours now.

Hi anon this took so long but I have so so many recs it's hard to remember them all.

So first I'll suggest the series that made me write for Ghost in the first place, which include:

Ghosts and Mirages by @stararch4ngelqueen

Ghost and Red by @charnelhouse

Sink or Swim by @yeyinde

Cigarettes Out The Window by @moondirti

Helen and Simon by @mvtthewmurdvck

Then for Soap we have:

Coorie by @yeyinde

Squid and Soap by @mvtthewmurdvck

People Say This Brain Was Infected by Devils by @day0walker

His Wistful Yearning by @halcyone-of-the-sea

I think, if I had to choose, those are my all time faves, but I also have so many writer recs for CoD in general

@guyfieriii with her Professor Price series, @halfmoth-halfman and her Mob Price AU, @soapskneebrace and their Neighbors Price fic, @writeforfandoms and her shifter AU, @papever-decervicatus and her Cat Mouse Den König fic, and so many others I'm probably forgetting but absolutely deserve all the kudos. If anyone else has any suggestions to add to the list PLEASE feel free. There's so so many talented writers in this fandom that I adore immensely