#eaves writes

[crowcrowcrowthing]

Here, friends. Have another snippet from the inadvertent piss kink diary Tom fic 💛

Primal Fluids by @cindle-writes and crowthing

“Something’s still not right.” Tom furrowed his brow with a frustrated look on his face. “The ritual is not working nearly as well as my calculations have predicted. I think we may need to change a few things, and I need to witness the process from start to finish, including how you draw the runes.”

Harry’s stomach dropped. “The process?”

“Yes.” Tom prowled close enough that Harry could feel the cold radiating off his body. “I want to see precisely what you are doing.”

“You mean… you want me to… right here?”

Tom came even closer and he smoothed his hand over Harry’s cheek. “Yes. Wouldn’t you enjoy that, Harry? I’d venture to guess you’ve thought about doing this with me before.”

Harry most certainly had not, but Tom seemed so pleased by the sentiment, and Harry really didn’t want to hurt his feelings. Since Harry had just relieved himself, he didn’t need to go anymore, but he’d slugged down so much tea at lunch that it wouldn’t take too long. Still, he hoped this was a joke, that Tom would shake his head, laugh, and offer some other, more brilliant solution.

Silence lingered until Harry realized Tom was dead serious. “Like, on your leg, you mean?”

“Is that what you’ve been envisioning?” Tom’s voice dropped to something low and silky as though he was pleased by the question.

💛💛💛 comedy of errors beloved

[mythosphere]

Garnet Eaves was not a mechanic nor a radio man or a telegraphist by any definition of his own, which was what really mattered. He defined himself most often as a poet, a creative, a man of sensitivity and romance, a great lover of the classics. He was twenty-one years old, so life hadn’t had the chance to beat this out of him just yet.

[rosella-writes]

Ok returning to simp for Solas/Cassandra. Would love to see "Malapert - Clever in manners of speech." from the Words prompts :3

THANK YOUUUU this one is just a study in banter, again. For @dadrunkwriting

Pairing: Solas x Cassandra Rating: Gen Words: 777

~~~

Solas is entirely too clever, and that is dangerous in an apostate. 

Cassandra allows him to remain, at Leliana’s urging. The Left Hand always did have a soft heart for mages, and Cassandra practises caution where before she had wielded prejudice. She owes Regalyan that, at least. 

As she questions him about what they have both come to call the Breach, his words are slippery. He lives in the realm of ‘perhaps’ and ‘one presumes’ — nothing he suggests has finality besides his confidence in his own intelligence. She wrinkles her nose and grits her teeth and bears it. 

Mages. 

~~~

Cassandra passes between homes in Haven, her boots crunching in the snow, when she hears the Herald’s disgruntled tones paired with Solas’s infuriatingly calm one. She had meant to attend to Adan’s missive in person — why he sends them when the chantry is a few steps away, she will never know — but something in Solas’s voice halts her in her steps. As she leans against the wood of the cabin, she hears indignation in his words. 

“I am an apostate surrounded by Chantry forces in the middle of a mage rebellion. Cassandra has been accommodating, but you understand my caution.”

Water drips from the eaves above her into Cassandra’s hair, but she does not move. She is as frozen as the snow beneath her feet. 

“Cassandra trusts you,” the Herald says. “She wouldn’t let anyone put you into a Circle against your will.”

Wouldn’t she? Cassandra is a Seeker of Truth, an overseer of Templars, a bastion against corruption — it is her duty to stand against the dangers of unfettered magic, like what scars the sky. She allowed Avexis to be taken back to the White Spire, who now haunts the grounds at Haven, a Tranquil brand scarring her face. A brief imagining of such a sunburst brand on Solas’s forehead flashes behind Cassandra’s eyelids until she blinks it away. 

Solas sounds unimpressed when he drawls, “Thank you. I appreciate the thought.”

Cassandra rolls her shoulders, discomfited, then turns on her heel to return to the Chantry. Adan’s request can wait. 

~~~

The Herald and Solas argue, and their voices carry on the wind. Cassandra catches parts of it as she leaves Flissa’s pub — something to do with spirits. She hears most clearly Solas’s strident voice, then the undercurrent of the Herald’s low prodding. 

“When I asked if you were with anyone, I meant other people,” the Herald pushes.

Solas snorts. “Ah. People, as opposed to spirits. We are flesh and blood, so we are real.”

Cassandra shrugs within her gambeson, settling her armour more comfortably on her shoulders. She should move on, towards more pressing matters. But instead she leans against the low fence nearby, pretending to stare up at the Breach, but really sees only unfocused green light. Falling snow, dry with cold, peppers her cheeks. She tells herself that Solas’s answers to the Herald’s questions, no matter his assistance thus far, could determine possible guilt. 

“Is Cassandra defined by her cheekbones and not her faith?” Solas asks. Cassandra flushes at the mention of her name, and raises a hand to her cheek. They are not so sharp. “Varric by his chest hair and not his wit?”

The Herald scoffs. “They’re not defined by their bodies, but they do have bodies. You need one to be a person.”

“A demon possessing a corpse has a body,” Solas retorts.

“A living body.”

“A demon possesses a living mage to become an abomination.”

The Herald has become angry, from the sound of the response. “They didn’t make that body. They just took it over.”

Cassandra can hear the sneer in Solas’s voice. “Technically your mother created your body, with some help from your father, one assumes.”

Cassandra leans forward on the fence, her fingers laced together as she braces her elbows, and hangs her head with an embarrassed ahem given to no one but herself. 

“You’ve thought about this.”

The sneer in Solas’s voice has deepened. “On occasion, yes.”

She cannot tell if he is foolish, clever, sly, or all at once. It is foolish to so openly argue this, especially as Templars gather. Solas must be feeling cornered, pinned into a prey animal’s trap on all sides. And yet he argues. 

She does not hear what they argue over next, as the direction of the wind changes — all she catches is Solas chuckling, “It’s fortunate Cassandra is not within earshot.”

With a huff, she pushes away from the fence. The snow creaks beneath her boots as she strides towards the gates — there’s a training dummy with her name on it, and her sword itches to cut into it.

[katiefratie]

Lime (leo time) 🪧 it's crazy how much I love this guy I've technically only in game interacted with once in a flashback dream and finding put he has a whole deal with Clara too!!! That bitch gets around!!! Like there is literally a part of georgie going "I knew he couldn't really be an evil pirate *clara* is making him do all that stuff!" But bbg thats not the whole story! A girl can dream though..... I can't wait to a have a solo talk on the ship later its gonna be rough

[clvric]

y’know, maybe i will move alt eav to her own blog?? feature some characters from swan song on there too

[pluviophile-imagines]

Hello all can I perhaps interest u in some ayato in Peak Condition

[luveline]

i NEED anything with glasses reid or munch reid i’m literally frothing at the mouth 🙏

ty for ur request :D fem!reader

"Emily," you say weakly. "What is that?" 

Emily looks up from her desk, clearly desperate for a distraction, the lip of her coffee mug against painted lips. "What's what?" 

"That." You point. You feel sick to your stomach. "That right there." 

"Oh," Emily says happily. "You finally noticed. Yeah, Spence forgot to renew his contact prescription. He has to wear glasses for two weeks." 

Spencer stands by the photocopier with a perturbed frown, clicking a button, then another. His brow is furrowed and his hair is falling into his eyes. He has the stupidest, dorkiest, prettiest face, and practically every expression he makes has you weak in the knees.

"That long?" you ask. 

Derek looks up in concern at your pained tone, following the line of your eyes. When he realises what it is that's hurt you so, he skirts around the desk to shake your shoulder. "You could always tell him how you feel. I'm sure he'd keep the lenses forever if he knew you liked them." 

"I don't like them," you say. You sound faraway to your own ears. You hate them. They're gonna be your demise. 

Spencer runs a fingertip across the photocopier's screen, in his own world as the machine finally begins to chug out whatever it is he'd been wanting a duplicate of. The frames of his glasses sit snug on his nose. You can tell from even this distance that the lenses make his eyes look a tiny bit smaller. You could probably point out a misplaced freckle if he asked you to.

"Don't be cruel, he looks cute," Emily teases. 

Spencer collects his papers, shuffling them into a straight line as he makes his way back to the bullpen. You pretend to take interest in Emily's things. She sips her coffee too nonchalantly. Derek doesn't even bother pretending. 

"What?" Spencer asks, swift to spot your suspicious behaviours. "Is it the glasses?" 

You wince. "Of course not. You look… you look really nice, Spence." 

"You know he used to wear 'em every day?" Derek asks.

You would've died. "Before I joined?" 

"For a few years," Spencer says, looking you over. "You're unhappy. Is something wrong?" 

He looks to Derek and Emily for confirmation. Emily stutters for an answer while Derek laughs in the background, "She– you know. She just– She missed breakfast!" 

Spencer pushes his glasses up his nose by the leg and drops his copies onto the desk. "I have dried apricot in my bag. Two seconds." 

He bends over his chair to retrieve his bag from under the desk. Your eyes blow wide at his position, the sudden demonstration of well-fitted pants. Derek's laugh echoes up to the eaves. 

"And he has that twenty four seven," Emily says against the rim of her coffee. 

You scrunch your eyes closed and tilt your head back. After a few seconds, a hand touches your elbow gently, a hesitance that comes with only one member of the BAU. "You okay?" Spencer asks. 

"I'm okay. Headache," you lie. 

Spencer presses the apricot into your hands. "Maybe you should see an optician. You know they can tell if you have a brain tumour from one photo of your sclera?" He smiles morbidly, his glasses slipping down his nose. "They measure the size of your optic disk. It takes less than a minute. I can give you the name of my doctor, if you want. She's nice. Not as nice as you." 

Your throat is so dry you can't form words to answer him. He doesn't judge your rigid nodding. 

"I'll write down the number for you. And, Y/N?" 

"Yeah?" you choke out. 

"You look really nice today, too." 

Emily has to kick you in the leg to bring you back to earth. Stupid Spencer. Stupid lovely glasses. 

[kaneda18]

Crows, Dreams and Poets

Two crows idling on a rooftop, Chatting about their Tengu dreams. Below the eaves, Two poets ponder the ramblings. ||| Two crows idling in mulberry branches, Chatting about their Tengu dreams. Under the leaves, Two poets try to translate. ||| Two versions. Rooftops and Mulberry trees oh my. Artwork found here.

[anechomirrored]

I finally know what it is to be a writer that makes playlists for their stories/writing. I am dancing around my kitchen to dance covers miraculously not spilling my tea and I feel like a queen.

[wilbursoot-updates]

Lovejoy, The Twisted New British Boy Band

Wilbur is mentioned in this article!

It was a December night, and as finals’ hush fell across campus, we fled north to the Aragon Ballroom for their Twisted Xmas. Little did we know just how sick and twisted it would be. (Although there was no punk-Christmas music played, thank God). We went for Lovejoy, an up-and-coming band in the pop-punk scene whom we had found by misremembering the name of Grouplove.

Under the Ballroom’s eaves, nestled in a crowd of teenage girls and their mothers, we caught sight of a woman’s lock screen next to me: “I’m nothing without you” scrawled in gothic handwriting. We weren’t sure what we had gotten ourselves into. Were we joining some kind of cult? Something that might continue to fill us with stories and motivation long after the concert, long after the holidays, through this winter and into the coming years? Then, lead singer Wilbur Soot, a teenage girl’s dream, stepped on stage with tousled hair. His toothy smile put me at ease and his mellifluous British accent calmed and enthralled us as the music came on.

While Soot was the center of the show, what’s a boy band without its boys? Bassist Ash Kabosu stood to Soot’s left, rocking shoulder-length hair and dark shades, in front of drummer Mark Boardman. Lead guitarist Joe Goldsmith flanked Soot to his right, performing in front of Alan Osmundson, the band’s touring trumpeter and keyboard player (who’s also an MIT Aerospace Engineering grad).

Lovejoy opened with a rolling drum beat, a groovy bass line, and an upbeat guitar melody. “Concrete” displayed all their charms. Soot counted his friends into the jam session before recalling a perhaps-fictional night out at 3 a.m. Someone, barely described, is making quite a commotion over Soot’s late-night kiss, enough that both our charming British boy and the bar’s bouncer is upset. Is this just a jealous fan? A long-term girlfriend? Someone a little too invested in that lovely accent? Soot recommends they “sleep on the concrete.” This tall, lanky boy, thin enough to be blown over by a small gust of wind, has a naughty streak in him! Soot’s music plays into emo and punk tendencies, writing about the dark sides of relationships and fighting the system, yet nastiness also comes from within him, giving him power and control.

And yet, somehow all the twisting only adds to this British boy’s allure. Soot’s songwriting is unconventional. It does not hold individual lines of lyrics like many other artists but instead rambles like prose, where one line is only understood by the context of the three lines before and after. With every song, the band publishes a short story. These short stories are just as much musical and emotional as they are lyrical. You would be forgiven for not knowing the names of “Concrete” or “It’s Golden Hour Somewhere” while they played. The refrains are so much less punctuated in his style, and it is hard to hear Soot sing those words over the sound of the entire crowd. Those of us at the concert experienced his stories collectively, uniting in these twisted and tousled emotions. Maybe this is a cult. We chose to join it by buying a hoodie, and they rewarded us with a trading card. What a great souvenir for my night with Wilbur the Hero.

[landwriter]

Desperate Measures | Dream/Hob | 1.2K | G v silly and fluffy, literally 90% air, dream attempts a romantic gesture, hob is a sap and forgetful, human au, part text fic

for @domaystic drabbles, Day 6: Under the Same Umbrella

---

Dream woke up to 26 texts from Hob. He put on his glasses and began his morning read. It’d replaced Times for him. The editorial quality, he thought, was far superior.

Hob (7:19 am) heading out, gave you a wee forehead kiss and you didn’t even stir. sleeping bloody beauty. love you disgustingly much x

Hob (7:26 am) couldn’t find my umbrella anywhere can you take a look if it’s not too much of a bother? feel like i’ve gone mad

Hob (7:30 am) christ it’s bucketing down!! standing under the eaves just to tell you how much it’s bucketing down

plants will be happy at least so will my goth boyfriend ;) hope your writing goes well today love. extra atmosphere!!

Hob (8:42 am) nevermind don’t look for it remembered that i left it in my office told johanna she can use it since i’m at the archives all day anyway glad i’m not the only one who’d forget their own head if it wasn’t screwed on :) :) :)

Hob (10:11 am) you should’ve seen the look lisa gave me when i showed up had to dry myself off in the men’s w half a forest of paper towels there goes my carbon offset from walking i said christ you’re probably still in bed asleep warm dry!! lucky bastard

wish i could come back already and drip puddles all over you

Hob (10:37 am) if this keeps up i’m going to look like mr darcy in the rain on your doorstep tonight don’t worry i promise not to propose marriage while insulting you xx although i do love you most ardently

...elizabeth

Dream smiled, read them all again, contemplated, and then sent his reply.

Dream (11:01 am) Sir, I appreciate the struggle you have been through

Hob replied moments later.

?? you sound like a customer service agent wait you’re quoting the film you can’t reject me if i’ve not proposed to you!! yet!!!

Dream snorted. 'and I am very sorry I have caused you pain' went the line. They’d watched it last weekend. Hob had cried, and Dream had privately decided that if Hob proposed, he’d say yes. Even if it was poorly done. It wouldn’t be, though. Not if Hob was doing it. He sent a second text.

...and I am very sorry you were drenched by rain.

Then he got out of bed and shuffled into the kitchen. His phone buzzed anew as he made tea and toast. He smiled at the sound. On their first date, Hob had warned Dream that he had a bad habit of annoying boyfriends over text. Dream, on his first date in six years, had wondered what it might be like to be so effusively charming that you could have enough boyfriends to form habits around them at all. He hadn’t known what to say, and Hob had ducked his head, grimacing a little, and said, “Just tell me to piss off, please, if I do? I know I can be a bit much.”

Dream believed it, because the man was telling him about his habits with boyfriends after one date. Not that he minded. And three months in, Dream had yet to tell him to piss off.

Turns out, a bit much was exactly what he’d wanted. Needed, in truth. Someone to tether him to the real world. His phone had become a modern-day lodestone in his pocket, a comforting pull of Hob-ness that would always point him back to life whenever he’d emerge, blinking and disoriented, out of the mire of his work. Work that he loved - creating worlds out of nothing, writing stories that would change people - but, coming on the age of thirty with nothing to show for it but recurring wrist strain and an upmarket flat that never had any guests, work that had also made him spend so much time apart from the rest of humanity that he was sometimes unsure how to rejoin it.

The tipping point had been when his eldest sister had found out that he hadn’t spoken to anyone else in between two of their regular dinners. Which were monthly. It had been mortifying. She’d smiled sadly, which was excruciating enough, and then gotten the gleam of a plan in her eyes, which had been far worse. “I’m setting you up,” she’d said. “I know just the guy. We go way back. I think you’ll like him.”

He had. Now, when his phone buzzed, he found himself frowning if it wasn’t Hob. (An exceedingly rare occasion.) But this time it was, of course. Four short messages sent one after the other:

hahahaha ok fine that was v good enjoy your day x

Five hours later, not even the curtain of rain awaiting him outside could douse the anticipation in his belly. An idea, he knew, was a powerful thing. Dream didn’t have an umbrella - Hob always shared with him, and would’ve apologetically nicked his if he had - so he would make the first leg of the journey as Hob did. He intended to go and get something nice, but once in the cold downpour, his resolve failed him almost at once, and he ducked into the first shop that had umbrellas in the window.

“Hiya,” said the girl at the counter without looking up from her phone.

Dream ignored her, blinking the rain out of his eyes, belatedly registering all the merchandise had a unifying theme and that he’d made a terrible mistake, borne of sheer desperation.

“Would you happen to have any other umbrellas? In black?” he asked. Hidden behind the counter, perhaps. If only you knew to ask.

The girl looked at him with an air of disbelieving reproval only accessible to teenagers and the very elderly. “You could try Boots, you know. It’s just down the street.”

Dream looked out the window. Rain torrented down. Commuters hurried past with their sensibly coloured umbrellas. From places exactly like Boots.

“Or we’ve got rain ponchos,” she added. It sounded like a threat.

“Nevermind,” said Dream quickly. “I’ll take it.”

“Enjoy your visit in London, sir,” she called out as he left.

He stepped outside and flicked open the umbrella with slightly more force than necessary.

Dream waited a few paces outside the archives, wanting to surprise Hob properly. Two separate pairs of tourists had thought he was their London Ghost Tours guide, and he was beginning to regret not holding out for longer, drenching be damned. Then Hob emerged, striding out and immediately stopping to pull out his phone. He was smiling at it. Dream smiled too, in anticipation.

A moment later his own phone buzzed loudly in his coat pocket, and Hob looked up in surprise.

“Oh my god,” he said. Then he said it again.

“I heard you needed an umbrella,” said Dream. He’d had the line already, since he got the idea. It had been very dashing and romantic in his head. It was somewhat undermined by the dreadful costuming choice that had been forced upon him.

Hob looked between Dream and the umbrella, bafflement melting into a happy laugh. He ducked underneath, pecking Dream on the lips. “I’m not sure I needed one quite this badly. Did you rob some poor tourist?”

“Unhappily, I paid for this.”

“Oh no,” said Hob, pulling away and pretending to inspect him for injury. “My poor darling. Your dignity.”

Dream sniffed. “I will recover.”

“Here,” said Hob. “I’ll carry it for you. You’ll only be guilty by association, then.”

They began walking, a bobbing Union Jack in a sea of blacks and greys. After the chief sin of ugliness, it was also a little small for two grown men, but Dream found he didn’t resent that at all, as Hob tucked him tightly into his side to keep them both dry. People gave them a wide berth. Tourists could never be trusted with umbrellas.

“You’ve rescued me, you know,” said Hob, nuzzling into his cheek.

“It wouldn’t do to have you dripping puddles all over the floors,” said Dream.

“Even if I looked terribly handsome, all wet and ardent?”

Dream bit his lip and smiled a little. “Perhaps you can be wet and ardent in the shower. Instead.”

Hob laughed again. It was Dream’s favourite sound. “Much warmer than the rain anyway. Deal.” Rain drummed down on their private nylon ceiling. “I was thinking chicken tikka masala for dinner?”

And so they made their way home, and although the rain never let up, Dream was so content and warm that he might’ve sworn they were walking in the sun.

[caffinated-and-sleepy]

Part 1

Thranduil with a human SO

Meeting Thranduil

- Realistically I don’t think Thranduil would ever let himself get close to a new other half that’s human

- Thranduil would never be ready to watch his significant other die again especially that quickly, after all 50 years is a blink of an eye for an elf

- Throwing what is realistic out the window let’s say he does find a human significant other

- Even then you have to be a VERY intriguing human to catch his eye

- Most likely you met him when he and his guard stopped at Lake Town on the way to Erebor

- He was entranced by how you treated him like a normal person

- It was strange, most mortals trembled before his 7ft tall frame

- Not you, you simply welcomed him to the Inn and left to help clean the bar

- Of course Thranduil didn’t intend to sit at the bar at all considering he could easily drink wine that didn’t taste like piss in Mirkwood

- But he convinces himself he’s just being a good King by going down and checking on his soldiers

- Of course his soldiers were doing well, many of them where testing out how many ales they could hold down they found it was 74 pints

- You were now in front of the bar sweeping and humming a low melody under your breath

- He goes to grab your attention and moves besides you, only for you to crash into him

- Thranduil catches you by the hand and for a minute the two of you simply looked like you were dancing

- “Are you alright?”

- You blush with a sweet smile on your face (me writing this: do it, write the line. NOOOO I CAN’T. Don’t be a wuss do it! IT’S SO GENERIC. DO IT. )

- “Looks like I fell for you.” (I’m sorry) Thranduil is beyond taken aback and processes what you said after he fully pulls you up.

- His response is a strange look and “I’m glad your alright.” and he disappears to his room.

- You don’t see him the next morning either since he and his soldier left for Erebor when dawn broke

- Little did you know the King of Mirkwood had trouble sleeping that night

- When they came back through Lake Town Thranduil was exhausted

- Lacking sleep and arguing with pig-headed dwarves can do a lot to an elf

- After checking back into the inn he finds you working again and decided to once more check on his soldiers

- After glancing over all of them he turns his eyes towards you, he then proceeds to listen in on your conversation with the owner’s nephew; Thaine

- “I don’t get why you’re still here? You could be at home by now.” The boy looked to be turning into a man (18ish)

- You shrugged “I like listening to the elves, Síndarian sounds beautiful! It runs off the tongue with such elegance and it brings about a sense of calm.

- The boy replies “That’s great y/n but I don’t think you should be in the commons alone and I need to head home soon. Mother said to be home before midnight.”

- Looking at the boy you sighed and said “Alright, just let me pack up and tell the customers.”

- Before you say anything to the other elves Thranduil butts in after leaving his eavesdropping corner (I sWeAr I wAs DrOpPiNg No EaVeS sIr!)

- “I can watch over both her and my own men if she wishes to stay.” He looks to you with the slight raise of his eyebrows.

- Looking to Thaine you immediately reply “Absolutely fine with me!” With a wide smile right after.

- Shaking his head with a shrug Thain says goodbye and walks out

- Finally alone with the king you opt to break the silence

- “You do not have to stay if you do not wish to. I wouldn’t want to keep you from your bed.” You almost looked guilty as if second guessing taking Thranduil’s offer

- Thranduil was now also surprised at how genuine you seemed, you a mere mortal was just worried he wasn’t getting enough sleep

- His face betrays him as he shows some sense of curiosity and amusement “It is quite alright, I do not usually sleep much until we arrive back at Mirkwood. I find that sleeping on rocks throw out ones back.”

- You couldn’t help but let out an audible gasp and let slip “So the rumor is true? The dwarves sleep on rocks?!”

- At this point he couldn’t tell if the human was dumb or dense, but he instead went with uneducated

- For the rest of the night you asked questions about the race of dwarves and elves

- The soldiers silently questioned why the King took an interest in a human, but they kept quiet

- Thranduil did his best to answer your questions, at one point he even smirked instead of giving you a blank stare

- The next day Thranduil felt a bit disappointed when leaving, you were the most intriguing human he had met in a while.

- Although something Thranduil didn’t say was that the dwarves didn’t actually sleep on rocks he is just a diva who missed his ultra plush bed in Mirkwood

Why is it kinda giving gen z reader? Nah but I swear it’s like a tradition to randomly post a Thranduil Imagine every few months, my Tolkien Curse. Anyways I hope you enjoyed and please comment, repost and like!

[jgrills]

!?(･_･,? ♡

tw: fluff, rooftop date ^^, and exhausted reader.

the reader can also see his border!

but otherwise, no warnings really.

sorry for not writing lately!! I haven't had a bunch of motivation.

make sure to take a break, eat some food, plenty of rest, don't forget to drink water!!

Take care of yourself!!

It had been a long week for you, your professors seemed to want to drown you in assignments and homework. You haven't had a blink of sleep since.. Monday.

You were at your desk, the sight of ruined markers, cluttered papers, and sticky notes ruining your mood even more, full of all sorts of marked papers, good, bad, and neutral. The calming music your friends recommend only aggravates you more, your computer screen illuminating your figure. You groan, rubbing your eyes, refusing to acknowledge the 16 pages left of the assignment.

You don't even remember the last time you saw Hobie, you've been so busy drowning in assignments, that you miss several calls from Hobie, or your friends.

You close your computer, put the papers in a messy stack, put the markers somewhere random, and flop on the bed, you can't even sleep.

You start to drift off, getting under the covers and putting your head on the pillow, closing your eyes.

knock knock

"Are you serious.." You groan, slinging the covers off of you, and walking to the door. You open the door, looking around.

You don't see anybody.

"Hello?" You rub your eyes, then look down, you see a cd with a note on it.

"Hi! I know you've been stressed with exam prep, but please go to the roof!!" -Miles Morales

"P.S: It's worth it!"

You go back in your room, getting a comfortable outfit on, lacing up your shoes, and putting your room key in your pant pocket.

"Okay, let's go" You close the door, not forgetting to grab your bag, setting an OUT note by your door, locking it, and walking to the elevator.

The emptiness of the hallway eaves you with a sort of calming sensation, the closed doors, the many numbers, and the floor seems paranormal. You thought the elevator was more closer to your room, you look down at your phone.

1 message from 🌻

🌻: Did you get the note? (˘ŏ_ŏ)

[ ]: Yeah, I'm coming.

🌻: Okay, enjoy! ᕕ( ᐛ )ᕗ

You close the message, and put on some music, pressing the RF button, and watching as the doors closed. You feel the elevator rise, looking out of the windows and seeing all the bright lights, the moving cars, and the traffic lights turning different colors.

This was way more interesting than your apartment room view.

The elevator dings, the doors opening, you check your phone again.

[ ]: Miles are you sure? There's no one up here"

🌻: Look to your left.

You look towards your left, seeing Hobie taking off his mask, holding two lunchboxes, sitting by the edge of the roof, his border full of !?'s and a light pink color.

[ ] Thank you!

🌻: Your welcome! ٩(ˊᗜˋ*)و ♡

You put your phone away, walking towards him "Hey Hobie" you say, going over and sitting down beside him. "What's up? I got Miles' note to come up here."

Hobie waves you off playfully, "Hey, I wanted you to come up because I knew you needed a load off your shoulders" He hands you a lunchbox, with a fork on top.

"Thank you" You cheered, opening the latch of the light brown box, unrevealing the small white bow, revealing a small cake with your favorite fruits, colors, and designs on it, the small confetti wrap cradling the cake is adorned with several designs of hand-drawn hearts on it, the cake fits perfectly on the confection, and the size of the box, showing how much thought was put into this gift.

You look to the top of the inside of the box, the top reveals a red heart-folded piece of paper with tape on it, you take the clear tape off slowly, not wanting to mess up anything. Unfolding it, it reveals a note from Hobie:

"Love you" it's written in many different writing materials, mixed with Hobie's messy yet perfect writing.

"You're so sweet, did you get one for yourself?" You tease, putting the lunchbox in your lap.

"Of course, I can't have you eating mine" He teases back, nudging you while picking up his fork, taking a bite of his cake, some icing smearing by his mouth.

"Whatever" You roll your eyes, eating some of yours, the sweetness of the pastry hitting your taste buds, and you hum in satisfaction, chewing the treat and looking down at the city.

You see Hobie's fork approaching your cake, you try to swat his hand away, but it's too late, he's already eating your pastry.

"Hobie!" You exclaim, reaching your fork to his pastry, but you're interrupted when he shoves a fork full of his pastry in your mouth, then tak it back out after you eat it.

You cover your mouth, not knowing how to react after tasting his pastries' flavor, it was a mix of his and your favorite flavors.

"Wow, that's good" you mutter, still embracing the flavors of the pastry.

"I know right? Yours is good also" He says, taking a few more bites from your cake.

After this moment, the brown lunchboxes sit nearby, the confetti wrapping swaying softly in the breeze. You and Hobie both relax, stealing kisses, hugging, making jokes, and just taking comfort in each other's presence.

"I know I don't say it enough, but I'm proud of you, even with all this exam prep you're doing, you never gave up, and I love you," He says, his head in your lap as you run your hands on his wicks.

"Fuck" You check your phone, going to the assignment page, a late notice greeting you as soon as you open the app.

"What happened?"

"My work was due at 11:59..." You groan, tilting your head back, closing your eyes.

"Still love you"

"You're not making this any better."

@chessbox

and many thanks to @adorefavv for the lunchbox cake idea + more details !!

-have a fluffy blanket and a warm drink.

[bomberqueen17]

deep in the obsession

ok so IDK how much I've talked about my Special Interest in the Bronze Age on here. At one point (like nanowrimo of 2003 or so) I was trying to write a novel set in the British Isles Bronze Age and I researched as much as I could and there just wasn't much information and I wrote some stuff anyway but it petered out. And ever since then I've kept checking back on various avenues of research and every time there's a new find I'd read as much as I could find about it. And then they discovered the remains of a pile-dwelling settlement in the Fens in England and they've finally just now published the results of that? Well of course I've been obsessively reading about it. (I had actually emailed the Cambridge Archaeology Unit a couple of months ago to ask where I could find the publications, so the timing was good.)

I mean the long and short of it is, they've got a site exposed by modern quarrying activity, which consists of five remaining buildings, which burned down and collapsed into the river channel with all their contents in the 9th century BC; the inhabitants escaped with very few of their possessions, and the rest of the assembly of the items they used in their daily lives are largely present, very well-preserved; whole sets of pots and woodworking tools, as well as textiles and textile-processing materials, foodstuffs, wooden tools, and enough building materials to almost entirely reconstruct their dwellings; a enormous wealth of information about their diets, their ways of living, even some feel for their aesthetic sensibilities. The circumstances of the buildings' collapse even means we know how they laid out their living spaces.

So I am going to infodump about what I've pulled out of these rather dense and dry reports (I have zero complaints, they're perfectly appropriately-written), so buckle up.

Firstly, if you want to read these yourself, the publications are open access PDFs hosted on the Cambridge Archaeology Unit's website here.

There are also a fantastic series of blog posts both from during the excavation and from during the initial analytical "post-ex" phase on the site's website, which I devoured while waiting for the final reports.

I admit I was first drawn to the whole thing, when I first saw stories about it, because of the mystery. It seems to have been a whole settlement, a village maybe, and it all burned down at once, and no humans seem to have died in it, but everyone left everything behind, even leaving a dog in one of the buildings, and some penned little lambs in a couple of them-- what caused this? Were they attacked? Were they forced out of it? It had a palisade around it as if for defense, did they build it because they were afraid, and rightfully so?? Why did they not come back to try to salvage anything? The water would have been shallow, surely they could at least get their axe-heads and things back.

But the thing that has sustained my interest now is that it appears to have been an unexceptional village after all. There's no evidence that these were elite people living here. There weren't any unambiguous weapons found-- part of a broken sword, in what was obviously a recycle bin (a wooden bucket), waiting along with some broken chisels and a bent axe and part of a broken bronze bucket for a trip back to the nearest metalworker. Some spears, but likely used for hunting, stored outside the houses all together leaned up against the palisade under an overhanging roof eave. Axes, but the sheer quantity of woodworking in the site means they were very obviously woodworking tools, and weapons only by technicality.

Other contemporaneous sites are preserved so incompletely that there are always "was this a place people dwelled or was it a ceremonial gathering place" kinds of questions. Artifacts are found either discarded in middens, broken, or deposited in hoards, "ceremonially?". But all this stuff is in-context, in the house, which burned down and collapsed straight down. This was the kitchen area, obviously; all the houses had most of their pots in the same approximate spot, caches of grain in the same area. This corner is where we find stuff they were working on-- one house has probably a loom, and tons of textile-related stuff scattered around it. (There's only evidence for a loom in one or maybe two of the buildings, but there are spindle whorls and bobbins of thread in three; several spinners providing one weaver, as is common throughout history.)

Some of the pots had been broken before the fire, and some of them had been partially discarded and partially kept, like for example a well-shaped broken bit of rim was being used as a scoop or something, while the little unusable shards had gotten chucked into the river where they threw their trash; the archaeologists could reunite fragments to prove this, and could derive the information that these shards would all be associated with the same house; they weren't shared, they were using the broken pot in the same house where they'd used it before it was broken; they seem to have cooked their meals separately, and kept separate inventory of basic household necessities. But the extra stuff seems to have been stored in the communal storage shed, so they could all get to it.

There's a large but incomplete sheet of bark that in places has a second sheet adhered to it with moss in between, which was likely bedding.

There are textiles, not just woven ones but also weft-twined ones made from lime bast cord-- mats, or hats, or capes. There's a knotted fishing net that was rolled up and in a pile with other things in an area that seems to have been a storage shed of sorts. (Near the "recycle bin" full of broken metal.) There's a collection of prepared fiber, ready to be made into cordage or spun into thread, and it's all prepared the same way in standard-sized bundles-- tantalizingly, regular enough as if for trade, stored in that storage shed next to a nested set of new pots-- like somebody had bought or made them and they weren't put to use yet, OR someone had made extra they intended to trade offsite for stuff they couldn't make themselves.

The whole sets of pots are broadly the same among households-- similar numbers of large vs. small, coarse vs. fine. They all resemble one another, though some are better-made than others-- as if several people made them, but under the guidance of one experienced worker.

Several pots and wooden containers have food residues. Hauntingly, there's a ceramic pot that was still half-full of porridge, with a wooden spatula/spoon still stuck in it. The porridge was made of ground wheat cooked in a liquid containing animal fats from a ruminant-- either sheep/goat or red deer-- possibly an early example of frumenty.

Enough of the structural timbers remain from the buildings, many with markings on them from where other structural elements were touching them and alternately exposed/protected them from fire so it is possible to reconstruct shapes and connections in more detail than if they were unburnt ruins, that the buildings can be nearly completely reconstructed, which is novel because most buildings of this era are known only from footprints/post holes. Almost no material survived from the walls, but because of these ghost "protection marks" it's possible to know that the walls existed, how wide they were, that they were attached in a particular spot, that they were made of a series of small uprights-- and to then surmise that some of the fragments of "wattle", woven panels, must have come from the walls in some cases. And it's possible to reconstruct the innovative, never-elsewhere-seen sprung floor system of bowed joists that kept the floors securely above the water below.

Anyway, I've devoured Vol I and am most of the way through scouring Vol II for interesting tidbits.

Yes of course I want to write a novel with this as the setting but I also am just completely fascinated.

[chericarlisle]

you come home for summer break from college and meet your dad’s best friend carlisle cullen for the first time at family dinner and mans is 🤤🥵😍

Just a Summer Thing || c.c

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: carlisle cullen x human female reader

(𝐫𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐝)

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 2.6k

𝐚/𝐧: i haven’t been on tumblr in about two years. y’all i literally couldn’t even navigate this new format of the app, so needless to say my writing is rusty and my formatting is shit. i’ve literally never seen some of these requests in my inbox until now i’m so sorry 😭

for the sake of this story we are just gonna pretend that carlisle doesn’t light up like a bottle of glitter in the sun.

For many, the most exciting part of graduating is the freedom that comes with the college experience; however, after almost a year of no privacy and very loud neighbors, you begin to miss home. Suddenly graduating high school is not the most exciting part, but rather it is coming back home from college for summer break. 

Finals week had kicked everyone’s asses and after celebrating such a survival, many college students- yourself included- eagerly packed up their 290 sq ft. rooms to return to much larger ones. 

You and your roommate, Mel, had helped each other pack up the first day that finals were over. Mel had become a pretty good friend over the past year, but she unfortunately had to live on the opposite coast. It seemed that things always worked out that way for you for just about anything. 

Your parents had finally divorced when you were sixteen which sent one parent to the west coast and the other to the east. The same could be said about a package of jeans that you had ordered; each one coincidentally ended up on the opposite sides of the United States. 

Since your mother was taking a sojourn around the world, you were going to stay with your dad in Forks for the summer. He had recently moved to the new city after receiving a job offer from the city’s barren hospital. The job came with great pay, but most importantly a wonderful modernist house resting on the eaves of the forest. The exact words being from the realtor who had so eagerly sold your father on the house. Despite the fact that the house was a lavish build in the middle of nowhere, it was only fair that your father finally lived happily. The man had been living in an unhappy marriage for so many years; it was something that you all could attest to. 

You had stayed at his house a few times before in the fall and winter, yet you hoped that summer would vanish the melancholy atmosphere of Forks. If it wasn’t raining, then it was snowing and vice versa. It seemed that there was always something falling from the sky in Forks almost year-round. 

Your hopes for a glowing summer at your father’s were assured when you arrived at his house surrounded by not a single cloud. It was about a six hour drive before you arrived in the town, and you noticed that the sun does in fact shine in Forks after all. 

“(Y/n), you made it!” Your father came running out of the front door, although it was impossible to not notice him since more than half his house was made of glass. 

You put the car in park and stepped out to meet the man in an embrace. His usual cologne was overpowered by the smell of the hospital disinfectant that lingered on his white lab coat. “Dad! It’s been too long.” 

He nodded in agreement before offering to help you unload your car. The upside of living in a dorm room that was about the size of a large bathroom is that one can’t accumulate too many boxes. You popped the trunk to reveal about six medium sized boxes that consisted simply of clothes and dorm room decor. 

Your dad chuckled at your down sizing, “That’s all you got, kiddo? Wow, college really has changed you! Where’s my girl that moved in with a gazillion boxes?” 

“I could say the same about you, Dad. Living in this giant fishbowl and all, I would’ve thought that you’d have more furniture.” You jested at him as the two of you began to pick up the few boxes. 

He set down a box and placed his hands on his hips, “Well how would you know that? You haven’t even stepped inside yet!”

Closing the trunk you jokingly shook your head, “Like I said, fishbowl.” 

Your dad helped you unpack your meager amount of belongings. He made the bed with the new mattress while you hung up your clothing in the empty closet. Even though you had visited last year when he had first moved in, this house and its furniture still felt foreign. The newly constructed home aroma still lingered in the air.

“So Dad, how’s work?” Mindlessly rearranging the hangers, you decided to organize the closet for the second time. 

“It’s going pretty well actually,” He smoothed out the plush comforter before continuing, “I’ve gotten close with some of the other doctors and I was actually thinking of inviting them and their families over tomorrow for a barbecue.” 

You hummed a response while continuing to sort the hanging clothes, for you were not opposed to the idea of a barbecue. It had been so long since you’d had any good food that wasn’t from the dining halls. 

“You know you were right, (y/n). The sun does actually shine in Forks!” Your dad chuckled once more before excusing himself to go make phone calls to his friends from the hospital. 

—-

The next day, despite that there was a small chance for rain, Mother Nature held out and it seemed to be for the better. There would be plenty of time for rain in the months that occurred after August.

Your dad had opened up the pool because what’s a barbecue without a pool party? Slipping on a yellow sundress over a swimsuit, you went downstairs to help with the food preparation. The kitchen counters were covered in various packages of bread as well as hamburgers and hotdogs waiting to be grilled. Everyone was set to arrive around one o’clock, and it was currently two hours before then. The time crunch was apparent as your dad ran around the kitchen frantically trying to man the stovetop and the ovens. Between the combined work of both you and your dad, lunch was prepped right as the visitors began walking in.

Last night, your dad had told you that he was inviting a few coworkers and their families, but you had no idea that it would turn out to be so many people. The backyard was brimming with young kids running around the pool while their parents socialized over drinks in the vast plot of grass. While your dad grilled the main course for lunch, he had you welcome everyone at the front door. Most of them were doctors, but a few were nurses. Regardless, they all came with either spouses, kids, or both. 

Except one doctor stood out very much, for he came alone. You were not only stunned by his lack of family, but also how perfectly styled his light blonde hair was. His hair somehow managed to contrast his flawless skin that seemed even paler. Not a single strand fell forward and covered his golden eyes that crinkled as he wore a polite smile. One hand sturdily held a case of beer, presumably for the party, while the other reached out to greet you. 

“Hello, you must be (y/n). I’m Carlisle Cullen. Your dad talks about you a lot at the hospital.” The man squeezed your hand gently in a friendly manner before letting his own drop to the side. 

“Wow, I just got here and I’ve already got a reputation. Hope he says good things about me.” You reached out to take the case of beer from him, but he insisted on carrying it himself like a gentleman. Most of the guests had just thrown their things at you, so this was a nice change of treatment. 

“Only good things, of course.” He nodded.

You gestured Dr. Cullen to come inside and he followed behind you, waving to the couple of guests that were mingling indoors. 

“So Dr. Cullen, are you the one who hired my dad? Your name sounds vaguely familiar.” The two of you were nearing the backyard, and your dad waved you both over through the screen door.

“Your father had an impressive resume and we desperately needed that kind of help around the hospital. And please, call me Carlisle.” He turned around to smile at you before making his way over to your dad who wore the grin of a five year old standing in a candy store. The two seemed to be talking a mile a minute as if they had not just seen each other at work. It was apparent that Dr. Cullen was your dad’s closest confidant in the hospital. 

Sitting on one of the lounge chairs, you began to feel the rays of the sun harshly beaming down like a spotlight. The heat was becoming unbearable, so you slipped off the yellow sundress to reveal a teal bikini that was a gift from Mel. Everyone was either preoccupied with their friends or family and couldn’t have cared less, except one man who stood by your father at the grill. 

Dr. Cullen, an untouched beer in hand, was walking over towards you. A smirk painted his lips, but you knew behind those sunglasses there was a playful glimmer in his eyes. Your father was so preoccupied with his role as grill master that he didn’t even notice that the doctor had walked off. 

“Now, Dr. Cullen, why aren’t you out there socializing with your peers?” You playfully pulled down your sunglasses to peer at the man who had leisurely taken a seat on the lounge chair beside you.

“Well, Ms. (y/l/n), I see these people every day,” He gestures to the mass of people surrounding the yard, “but it’s not every day that I get to talk to you.” 

You stifled a giggle at his poor attempt to flirt, “Do you get many girls with that line, Doc?”

He shook his head, laughing at his own poorly planned pick-up line. “Apparently, I’ve been out of practice for a while, sweetheart.” 

Leaning the back of the lounge up, you turned to sit and face him. The chairs were positioned so closely that your knees hit his, yet neither of you moved. Barely leaning in, your lips ghosted against the shell of his ear. The smell of mint clouded your senses being so close to the man who was as still as a statue. 

“We’ll see about that.” Breathlessly, the words left your lips as you leaned further to grab his untouched beer and take a confident swig. 

You leaned back to see that his face was not shocked, but rather smug. If he had been stunned by your receptiveness, then it surely wasn’t obvious now as he seemed unphased. It was more obvious that a challenge had been accepted.  

Just as he was about to continue the banter, your dad hurriedly ran over to the both of you. He was covered in one of those cheesy grilling aprons and desperately waving around the tongs in his hand. “Hey, would you guys mind grabbing some paper plates and cups? We ran out, but there should be some in the closet upstairs. I’ve got just about a million more burgers to cook.” 

You looked at Dr. Cullen who just shrugged in return. Agreeing to help, you both stood and began to walk back to the house. Your father, pleased with the answer, ran off to continue to man the grill and the line that was beginning to form. 

Dr. Cullen seemed to trail behind aimlessly, so you grabbed his hand without second thought. Once you were inside, you eagerly led him up the stairs and to the hallway where the closet was. 

Just like everything else in this house, the hallway closet was unnecessarily elaborate in its design. It was no towel closet, but more like the size of a whole bathroom itself. You walked in once the barn door slid open and Dr. Cullen flicked on the lights. 

For a man who lived by himself, your father stored a lot in the closet that would make you think he had a family of ten living with him. You scanned the endless shelves as did Dr. Cullen, but the plates and cups appeared on your side first.

“Found ‘em.” Of course the supplies had to be on the very top shelf which appeared to be closer to the sky than you. It wasn’t until you were on tippy toes trying to reach the items that you were aware of leaving your sundress downstairs by the pool. 

And it wasn’t until Dr. Cullen stepped behind you, that you were aware of how chills racked your body.

“Need some help there?” A cold hand rested on your bare waist as you turned your head ever so slightly to be met with Dr. Cullen who tauntingly looked down at your lips. Without shame, he continued to admire your pillowy soft lips before you gave in. 

Fruitless attempts to get the supplies were damned as you threw your arms around his neck to deepen the kiss. You pulled him down as he pulled you closer; neither of you wanting to let go. His one hand on your neck slid up to cup your jaw, slightly turning your head to expose your neck. For a brief moment, his lips disconnected from yours, but only to make their way further down. The man slowly moved his free hand from your waist to delicately brush your hair off your shoulder. His lips connected with your neck as he kissed a slow line down to your collarbone. 

“God, Dr. Cullen,” You threaded your fingers through his hair as he mercilessly continued on, “You don’t seem that out of practice to me.” 

For a split second he stopped his maneuvers only to correct you once more, “Please, call me Carlisle.”  

So overcome with pleasure, his name breathlessly rolled off your lips and you only pulled yourself closer to him. Moving your hands from his hair, you began to blindly fiddle with the buttons on his shirt as he continued to nip at the sweet spot where your shoulder met your neck. His skilled fingers began to play with the strings of your bikini top that held it together.

He murmured while trying to slow his movements, “Sweetheart, I don’t think I can stop, but I don’t want to do this here.” His efforts to stop were becoming forgotten as he took in the sweet smell of your perfume that painted your skin and tempted him more. “You deserve something thoughtful, not a heated moment in a closet.” 

You quickly pulled back and he seemed shocked, for he mistook your adoration for insult. His eyes scanned your face for any inkling of meaning before your lips reconnected with his in a hurried passion which instantly cleared his confusion. 

Meanwhile, downstairs, your dad noticed the absence of paper plates and cups. He didn’t come to think of where you might have run off with them, but he instead took initiative to find them himself. Not a single thing could’ve prepared the man for the sight that he would see once he made it to the top of the stairs and down the hall. 

Without a care in the world, your dad slid open the heavy barn door to not only find the missing supplies, but to also find his daughter pressed up against the shelves and lip locked to Dr. Cullen. The faint sound of someone uttering their shock caused you and Carlisle to separate. Your father stood in the doorway frozen in shock before Carlisle instinctively jumped in front of you to cover any indecencies. 

After what felt like the longest minute of your life, your dad awkwardly cleared his throat before speaking. “I’ll uh just grab some paper plates next door.” 

As your father scrambled off, Carlisle turned around to plant a kiss on your forehead, "Like I said, we can do this somewhere else."

a/n: i haven't posted on tumblr in so long this feels so weird 😭 please like and repost! REQUESTS ARE CLOSED (these are ones from years ago lol)

[clvric]

        ❝ Quite frankly; I grow tired of morons who claim that “nobody            needs to die” & that “everyone can be saved”... As someone            who has been on the front lines of saving the galaxy; I can            say for certain that it’s simply not true.

           People are going to die. People will refuse to change. & a            hard lesson you need to learn is that not everybody deserves            to be saved. Not everybody deserves to live. & you have zero            control as to who gets to be on either side.

           Believe me, I used to have the naive idea that I needed to            preserve life due to my class of magic, I’m a healer, after all.            It took a few years for me to realize that in order to appreciate            life; you must also accept death & it’s inevitability. Some natural,            some aren’t.

           As for those who you want to... “Save”. You have to ask yourself            the question... ���How severe are their actions & do they deserve            a second chance?”. If “severe” isn’t even the word to describe the            outcome of their actions; then the answer is “no”. ❞