#john d burns

[johndburns]

Kev Mitchell: Scottish Mountain Rescue | Podcast

John D. Burns talks to Kev Mitchell about the vital work carried out by mountain rescue teams in the Scottish hills and gets his expert advice on keeping safe in the mountains. Kev Mitchell Everyone who walks in Scotland’s hills relies on the back up of Scottish Mountain Rescue. None of us is invincible. A simple slip can lead to a broken ankle, a minor navigational error could lead to a cold…

[good-beanswrites]

I wanted to bring up a silly ship idea. Just for fun.

03, 06, 09, 10

Was this before Kotoko attacked them? After? I dunno.

Thoughts?

YES the cringefail 20yo polycule 👏👏👏 Thank you for the request! I've seen a lot about the individual pairs, so it was really fun to think about all their dynamics together! I have a set of hcs that could work in the current canon Milgram, and then a normal au set because it's so fun thinking about them :3

Milgram-focused

The I’m-a-loner-who’s-doing-it-for-justice-don’t-TOUCH-me pair finally meet their match when confronted with the I-loved-someone-so-much-and-don’t-plan-on-stopping pair. They all go into the relationship with grand ideas of love: they think it’s all heroic acts of saving, massive gestures or love, and dramatic confessions. Over time, they realize the real heroism/romance is in the little things. 

Mahiru has her hands full with three people who neglect themselves for the sake of their work/interests, but she always loves feeding them and helping give them what they need. In turn, they can give her more affection and attention than she could ever ask for. They make sure someone is always around to spend time with her.

Each of the three is a perfect match for dealing with John’s reveal. Mahiru is calming and helps tone down Mikoto’s initial stress. Fuuta is honest and will help Mikoto finally confront his own situation and move forward. And since Kotoko can match his strength, Mikoto doesn’t need to be afraid of accidentally hurting anyone. Mikoto becomes less stressed with the overall situation as well as more accepting of himself/John.

I always love the idea that Fuuta is secretly starstruck by Kotoko and John’s strength. He’ll never admit how much he admires their ability to stand up and fight. He feels really safe around them. He’s glad to have the opportunity to fight for someone else, too – he likes to be Mahiru’s self-proclaimed protector and hero. (Even though most of the time she can stand up for herself, she still likes letting him take care of her.)

Kotoko’s experiences let her hold solid conversations with everyone. She’s similar enough to Fuuta where they share some interests (social issues, schooling, etc.) She understands hard work and burnout to earn Mikoto’s respect. She understands physical strength to earn John’s. She has a lot of people-knowledge, so she can gossip and talk about Tokyo life to Mahiru (Mappi’s doing most of the ‘gossiping,’ but Kotoko has solid additions). She's a good listener and has a good memory, so everyone feels heard by her.

They start to rub off on each other. Mahiru and Mikoto learn to be a bit tougher in standing up for herself. Fuuta, John, and Kotoko learn to take a breath before jumping right to violence. They stay very much who they are, but pick up on just a few habits that make their lives easier.

Their styles also influence one another: Fuuta gets pointers from all three about piercing his ears (though it takes him a long time to get up the nerve to do it). Mahiru helps the others dress more trendy and boost their confidence, and they teach her to worry less about her appearance and relax more. 

If they get together T1, Kotoko is shocked by the T1 verdicts. She might pull away from everyone in initial horror, but after developing a relationship ahead of time, she doesn’t follow through with her attacks. If not, then maybe in T3 when Kotoko is suffering from her guilty verdict, Mahiru and Mikoto are able to bridge the gap and develop a friendship, leading to more. Fuuta would take longer to come around, but I think seeing Kotoko got through the same pain as him, his hero instincts would kick in and he’d gradually help. 

Normal-au

Mahiru once again tries out her lovers’ interests, and gets a bunch of new hobbies. Fuuta teaches her to game, she works out with Kotoko, and she tries out photography with Mikoto. She becomes close with Fuuta’s beautician sister, and enjoys bonding over fashion and hair. She helps redye Mikoto’s hair, and give the other two pointers on style now and then. When going to nicer events, she and Mikoto have to step in and stop the others from their sneaker/hoodie combos. As the only one with a license, she’s the designated driver at all events, but doesn’t mind. 

Fuuta uses his tech skills to set up social media accounts for the others. He helps Mahiru network her flower shop, fighting anyone who leaves a bad comment/review. He helps set up a complex online portfolio for Mikoto. He and Kotoko still have a passion for justice, and he becomes the tech brains behind her vigilante operations (very Ron Stoppable - Kim Possible) It’s not necessarily healthy growth, but they’re happy with it lmao

Mikoto is the only full-time worker, the others are all still in university, and he makes sure to keep them all on track. He knows the most efficient tricks and cheats about getting papers done, pulling all-nighters, and cramming before an exam. The others have learned to spot when he’s burning himself out for others, and will stop him when he tries to take on too much. They’ll take care of him and force him to rest. While he can still get into a bit of trouble, John learns to call them first and get some help. 

Kotoko has trained herself to find people and information easily to catch criminals, but she finds use for it in much more mundane ways – she tracks down clients for Mahiru, snoops around Mikoto’s company to make sure he’s being treated right, and keeps an eye out for the people Fuuta is calling out and/or hanging out with. She goes on runs with Mahiru, and bike rides with Mikoto. Fuuta tags along sometimes to strengthen his legs for soccer. 

There’s definitely potential for them all to have their murders pre- or mid- relationship, and they help one another improve themselves and heal. I’m also a sucker for the relationship itself to cause them to change their ways and narrowly avoid the murder in the first place. (For the latter, Mahiru would ironically be the last to join the relationship, since she’d still be with her bf until the other three inspire her to break it off with him gently.)

[emilynightshade89]

Willem Dafoe Characters as Hozier songs:

Elias Grodin ~ Angel of Small Death (& Codeine Scene) / As It Was

John Letour ~ To Be Alone / Sedated

Alan Ward ~ Nina Cried Power

Rick Masters ~ Arsonist's Lullaby

Vincent Van Gogh ~ Sunlight

Vance ~ No Plan

Leonhard Seppala ~ Work Song

Bobby Peru ~ It Will Come Back

Edits made by me: Please Do NOT REPOST

[politicaldilfs]

Hawaii Governor DILFs

William F. Quinn, John A. Burns, George Ariyoshi, John D. Waiheʻe III, Ben Cayetano, Neil Abercrombie, David Ige, Josh Green

[inafieldofdaisies]

WIP Wednesday | Tagged by @thesingularityseries <3 | Tagging @socially-awkward-skeleton @direwombat @adelaidedrubman @strafethesesinners @strangefable @nightbloodbix @nightwingshero @aceghosts @madparadoxum @g0dspeeed @trench-rot @josephseedismyfather @josephslittledeputy @euryalex @sstewyhosseini @detectivelokis @purplehairsecretlair @jinfromyarikawa @shegetsburned @clicheantagonist @locustandwildhoney @fourlittleseedlings @poisonedtruth @vampireninjabunnies-blog @cassietrn @wrathfulrook and anyone with something to share this week <3

I'm dropping bits and pieces from Chapter 9, this it the final WIP post on it before I post the whole thing sometime later this week.

After taking few minutes to shake off the sleep and what remained of the awful dream, Sabrina got up, her eyes focusing on their bags by the door. She knew it was time to stop avoiding the inevitable, so she picked them up and put them on the bed, methodically pulling out clothes and folding them in a dresser at the far end of the room. When Savannah's things were neatly sorted away, she moved onto her own bag, opening the zipper and taking out garments until something made her freeze and blink in confusion. What the fuck. The lacy bralette John had picked up back in her room and joked about was now in her hands, when she had put it back into her underwear drawer. To make things worse, tucked between a pair of jeans further down into the bag was what he probably deemed as the matching panties. No way. There was only one explanation, and she laughed at the ridiculous idea, until she remembered his lack of boundaries and how he was on his own in her room for a short while. But why would you even… She thought back to what she could only describe as lust filled looks he had given her then, how he always managed to invade her personal space. Thinking I'm putting these on? Watch me burn them in the fireplace, Seed.

[John is a broody boy and misses dinner because he's conflicted af]

She was set on catching him as he came home, on not letting him sneak off without getting anwers. Even if she fell asleep on the couch, it was a better alternative than waking Savannah up with her reoccurring nightmare. As she waited she took her time to snoop around the living room, shooting another look of disgust at the portrait of Joseph. Something that kept tempting her since her arrival was a landline that was placed on a side table there. With her sister fast asleep she took the chance and picked up the receiver. Who do I even call? Sabrina didn't have many numbers memorized, aside from her ex-partner's number in Portland and her precinct's, The Spread Eagle's since Joey regularly ordered food from it for the Sheriff's Department and the one of the jail her mother was serving her time at. She knew she could depend on Leslie to believe her and get outside help, that he would go as far as finding a way to storm the County even with the lockdown Eden's Gate was enforcing. She took a deep breath and dialed his number, but the line refused to connect.

"Fuck. Why did I even think it would work?", she whispered, then set on punching in the bar's digits next. The same thing happened again, making her huff in frustration. Then another strange number that was haphazardly jotted down at the the phone itself caught her eye. "What do we have here?", she stared at it in curiosity and before she could stop herself she dialed it. Seconds passed by that put her on edge, making her question her choice as she feared who would pick up and wondered if she should hang up. Instead an automated voice finally responded, "You have one new message from September, 4th." "Voicemail, thank fuck.", she released the breath she was holding and held the receiver to her ear as the machine prompted the caller to leave a message after the tone. The voice she heard next spread goosebumps over her skin, an awful reminder of the arrest and the constant nightmare that haunted her. "After all the Atonements, all the Confessions, all that you've done for me and Eden's Gate is not enough, is it, John? I worry what has gotten into you since the Reaping had started. You ignore my calls, anytime I reach out to you I'm met with Mathias on the other side instead, telling me you're busy. It's the urges again, isn't it? You have to cast away your past, John. You need to open up your heart, you need to see that there is more love all around you. All the pain and suffering you spread will not help us in the long run. These actions will only feed the sin inside you. It will grow stronger, it will convince you to do wicked things. Those you scar too deeply, they will heal, they will become carriers of your sin. They will spread that sin to others. I've seen your death in a vision, you are destined to be slayed by your own sin. It will come back around in a new form, it's only a matter of when. I've seen you die young, I've seen you die old. The difference between the two outcomes is how much love you let into your heart. I pray that you hear these words before it's too late. I want to see you become an old man in the Paradise we prepared for. I love you brother." Joseph's voice faded away, replaced by the automated one, "Press 1 to listen to the message again. To delete the message, press 2." Sabrina put down the receiver back in its place, leaning against the table as her mind ran over what she had just heard. "What the hell…", she sighed. She doubted John had listened to the message. What worried her more was the fact Joseph seemed suspicious of his brother's behavior. "If it's so damn important, why leave it in a voicemail, Joseph?", she gritted out. Sabrina wanted to laugh at Joseph's hypocrisy masked as concern. His tone, the ultimatums, subtle guilting, all sounded way too familiar to her. He wanted John to let love into his heart, yet he was enabling him in his quest of hurting others. The Project's pointless torture he called "Confessions", was the reason he almost had died on that road that very morning, she doubted Charlie would be the last one to go after him for revenge. If Joseph wanted someone to blame, he didn't have to look far. "And Savannah is now in the middle of it all.", she bit her lip, the frustration making her restless. Joseph's warnings were a cryptic mess, hinting at someone's arrival. She had no doubt if he ever finds out about her visions, he'd declare her to be that person, convince John she would cost him his life, when she had seen him alive as disaster struck, the event his brother predicted as "The Collapse". "You're going to live, Seed. I'm going to make sure of it, then your brother will show his true face. His type always do eventually." She didn't delete the voicemail, instead retreated back to the couch and wrapped a blanket around herself. It was way past midnight when she heard the front door open and quiet footsteps carrying towards the stairs. John was either set on ignoring her completely or hadn't noticed her sitting in the dimly-lit living room.

After the realization he missed Sabrina and looking into her phone, John threw himself into Confessions even harder, convincing himself at one point he'd manage to exorcise her out of his thoughts. He found himself making Wyatt bring in Sinner after Sinner until 12 am rolled around. By then he could tell the man was exhausted and quite suspicious at the urgency he was showcasing. His people were used to him burying himself in work prior to Sabrina's arrival, but never really to that extreme, so he wrapped up the last Confession for the day reluctantly. He parted ways with Wyatt and after cleaning up and picking up his things, John got into a truck and headed back to the Ranch. On his way over he contemplated if sleeping on the couch at his office like he'd done so many times before was a better idea, but he was aching for a shower and his own bed for once. He hoped Sabrina would be asleep, that she would have taken the hint, and keep her distance. He didn't want to face her, not that night, not when no matter how much he tried to focus on the Sinners in his chair, thoughts of her poured back in little by little until he felt like he was drowning.Until the Confessions became the distraction while she turned into the main thing occupying his mind.

John parked the truck, releasing Mathias from his post for the night, the man gave him a strange look as he passed him on the way to the front door. Bennett knew his moods well after working together for years, so he left with a simple "Goodnight". He stepped inside, navigating the living room in the darkness, moonlight and memories of the layout guiding him to the stairs, to the safety of his room. "You're here.", her voice stopped him in his tracks, the one thing he had been yearning to hear the whole day, instead of Hartley's whiny voice or the Sinners' neverending screams as he released their sins. John's lack of response didn't discourage Sabrina. "I have a feeling you're ignoring me for some unknown to me reason, but I don't deal with situations like that, John.", she sighed, "You told me we'd go over the fine details of the deal, so let's talk like adults. And… Savannah waited for you at dinner." John stole a glance her way, memorizing the way her gray hair picked up the faint light from the windows as she sat on the couch. She looked almost illusory. A part of him wished she'd disappear and take the urges with her. "You gonna reply at some point or am I as good as talking to a wall here, or maybe one of the taxidermy animals? Scary fuckers." He couldn't help a smirk from emerging on his face at her undying wit, still he kept his silence, gripping the railing, while his feet remained rooted at the spot, unwilling to move. He had no idea how long he stayed like that until he heard Sabrina let out another disappointed sigh as she got up from the couch. Her footsteps nearing him, anticipation raising in him at her approach, at the unknown. What are you up to, Deputy? She simply breezed past him, her own feet hitting the first step, as she said, "Fine, play your childish games on your own, Seed. Goodnight."

He wasn't holding the railing anymore, instead grabbing her hand as she passed him and turning her around until she was facing him, one step above him, bringing them to the same eye level. John's gaze drank her in hungrily: running over the tight blank tank top that hugged her form and matching sleep pants she was wearing all in contrast to her fair skin. Her hair flowed over her shoulders in soft waves, her tattoo was peaking out under the straps, teasing him. His fingers were still wrapped around her wrist, her pulse beating against them, picking up as the seconds passed. "Sabrina.", it was the first thing he had said since entering the ranch. Her eyes narrowed in confusion, as they searched his. "So you do speak… Can we move onto full sentences next? I'm kind of on my way to bed." John's gaze shifted to her forearm, the sight of a bandage making him smile. He felt pride at the fact she had listened to him and taken care of the wound. "Okay, this is officially awkward.", Sabrina pursed her lips, the move drawing his attention to them. His free hand grabbed a piece of her hair, wrapping it around his fingers, her breath hitching as he said, "Kept you waiting again, didn't I?" She shook her head, "Nope, you're not doing this again. I have questions, John. I'm not in the mood for whatever game you're playing." He couldn't help but smile at the fire in her gaze, "Tomorrow, Deputy, we're both exhausted." "How do I know you will keep that promise? I left you a plate, you know. Even though you didn't show up." Her words held a note of disappointment while her face remained passive. "I'm sorry." "Do you mean that, or is this another act?" Sabrina wasn't holding back, her eyes shining in conviction. "I mean it, Sabrina." "Why are you avoiding me?" "Just doing us both a favor." The cryptic reply made her roll her eyes, "You're just going to keep doing this, eh? Fine, one last thing. Did you pack things for me while I was gone from the room?" John raised an eyebrow, feigning confusion while knowing full well she was talking about the lacy number he had shoved into the duffel bag, but he wasn't going to incriminate himself. Sabrina ripped her hand out of his grip, shaking her head, "Let me guess, you have no idea what I'm talking about?" "Yes.", he challenged. "You're unbeliavable. First chance I get, I'm throwing them in that fancy fireplace of yours, John." "Now that would be a shame." "I thought you didn't know what I meant? Are you getting rusty, Mr. hotshot lawyer? Losing track of your claims?", her lips curved into a triumphant smirk. "I assure you, Sabrina, nothing is rusty about me." She rolled her eyes and took a few steps up, holding the railing for security while she was still facing him, anticipating he might try to stop her from retreating again, when there was enough distance between them and no indication for anything nefarious, she turned her back, headed to her own room. As she made it on the second floor she called out, "We're talking tomorrow, Seed. I'm holding you to it." "Wouldn't expect anything else, Deputy." Good, walk away, before I do something we both regret. He waited until he heard her door close before he climbed upstairs too, preparing himself for another night where she would reign over his dreams, wearing allure like a second skin. Promising all kinds of sinful things if he just gives in. Daring him to forego Eden.

Bonus scene because I know y'all love Savannah.

"Where did he go?" To his bunker. But saying that would raise even more questions, instead she replied by simply saying, "He had some business to take care of. He's a lawyer, you know, boring adult things." Torture. Kidnapping. Murder. Running a cult. Checking crimes off his list at a rate that would make him into any lawyer's worst nightmare. Hell, he'd probably represent himself. Just boring adult things. Savannah giggled, "Does he wear an actual suit?"

[downthetubes]

Rebellion announces new Battle Action mini series - our guide to the returning strips

Battle Action, 2000AD publisher's relaunch of the title inspired by two classic British weekly comics, Battle Picture Weekly (aka Battle) and Action, is back as a five-issue miniseries

[bi-writes]

ghost is such a daddy, isn't he? ;) too bad he's such a dick. (18+)

but it's hard to find a donor. you've been single for practically your whole life, it's the whole reason you're looking to just get pregnant by yourself. you don't need a man--you can walk into a clinic and pick from their little flip book.

but none of them fit what you're looking for. too short, hairline too far back, you don't care for the look in their eyes or the occupation they chose or their descriptions of how much they like model trains and reading george orwell every christmas. they're john does in different colored suits, and they reek of entitlement and the need for perfection and lack the individuality that you crave.

not special, no--you're looking for an edge. and none of them have it.

you're glaring at your lieutenant from three hundred yards away when your eyes soften with realization. ghost is such a bastard to you; he snaps at you easily, uses his obvious stature to overpower you in the most inconvenient of situations, and he always turns his nose up at you for being even slightly less than perfection, just a smidge off your target or just below your personal record.

he demands more of everyone he commands, but you in particular he likes to pick on. you used to think it was because you were the only woman around, but that wasn't it. ghost isn't a misogynist, he's just a right asshole.

but a gorgeous one. not in the way he looks, per say, because his face isn't all that pretty. you've seen his face, glimpses of it, enough to put the puzzle together in your head. he wears mangled skin, torn apart at the seams and scarred to high hell, but ghost is more than just stitched together skin.

he's huge. large and so fucking well in charge. he takes up space, and he does it with intent. spreads his legs when he takes a seat, crosses his arms over his chest when he's standing idly by. his expressions aren't visible under the mask he wears, but it is very obvious when he isn't happy. his glare burns through the fabric, dark eyes narrowed intensely; it is impossible to not understand when ghost is less than amused by you.

he's so capable. you've seen him take apart his gun and put it back together many times. big fingers sliding over metal and fastening it back together with practiced ease. you've seen him haul over two hundred pounds of man over a railing, seen him set up his sniper rifle and shoot a target more than a thousand yards away. he's smart, and he knows what he's doing, and even in the face of uncertainty and chaos, he's oftentimes the voice of reason in the field, and it's sexy.

god, he's so fucking hot. especially when he's rolling up his sleeves, showing off one sleeve of shitty military tattoos and telling the private that's practically in tears what a fucking muppet he is for assembling his standard issue pistol without a fucking magazine loaded into it.

that's what you want.

someone resilient. capable of overcoming tragedy, of finding purpose even when there really isn't anything to live for. the drive of bettering yourself, of not fucking it up, of being able to breathe easy and get out of a corner even when the path ahead is just more of the unknown.

unable to die.

"ever thought of being a father, lieutenant?"

he laughs, bitterly, licking the pad of his thumb before rubbing at a spot on the scope of his rifle.

"fuckin' hate kids," he mutters. "loud. dirty." he grunts. "besides. bloodline dies with me. don't need anymore fuckin' rileys mucking up this place."

you bite your lip. it's not the worst reason you've ever heard. it's just too bad he's exactly the kind of baby daddy you're looking for.

"that's too bad, lieutenant," you purr, standing up. you pass by him, your hips swaying and brushing against his shoulder. it's enough of a touch that his gaze follows you as you leave, his eyes flickering to the curve of your ass as you leave. "you'd make such a good daddy."

the fuck?

it's hard to focus. you keep bending over in front of him; dropping papers, picking things up, leaning over desks just to make his face twitch under the mask. you're constantly in his line of sight, wearing the tightest fucking shirts he's ever seen. cleavage on display, definitely a violation of protocols that no one is enforcing, and it's making his head spin as you lick chocolate off your fingers and swipe it off the curve of your breast. he thinks you must be mad when you make eye contact with him and keep it as you slip two fingers into your mouth and suck.

the worst was when he was stuck in the back of a humvee with you. the back was packed, soldiers pressed together as they rode back to base. he was sweaty and exhausted, leaning his head back as the truck rattled along the dirt road. on a particularly rough bump, you bounced into his lap, ass pressed back against his pelvis. on instinct, one gloved hand caught you by the curve of your waist, and you hummed as you leaned back against him.

"sorry, lieutenant," you had cooed, in that soft, honeyed voice he hated. "am i hurting you?"

"fuck you, sergeant," he had snapped, but his growl was cut short when you arched your back a little, nestling your ass against the fucking hard rock in his pants.

"just happy to see me then?"

acckkk, a fucking fiend, you are. pressing up against him when you slip into line in front of him in the mess hall. asking him for help because your aim is off, just to look at him from over your shoulder and give him that smile. the absolute doe eyes you give him when he berates you for the hundredth time that day, just for you to mumble back, "oh...yes, of course, sir..."

ngghhh...and he's thinking about you. thinking about smoothing a hand down your back as he bends you over a desk. thinking about what it would be like if you climbed over him on his cot and sat your fat ass down onto his face. thinking about the sounds you'd make, the big, wet eyes you'd give him, how good you'd look in his bed and wearing his clothes and cumming on his cock--

"the fuck are y'doin' ta me?" he growls in your ear. you blink up at him, tilting your head back, leaning against his door.

"johnny said you were training, so i thought i'd wait for you. got something real important to talk to you about."

you smile at him innocently, ducking under his arm as you slink into his room. when he shuts the door, you spin around to face him again, giggling.

"there's something i want."

"out with it."

"something i need."

"fuckin' tolk then, yeah?"

"want a baby, lieutenant."

"yeah, right mad about tha', luv."

"want your baby."

he laughs, humorless, "be fuckin' honest."

but you are honest. you're honest when you smile wider, and you're honest when you turn around. you're honest when you bend over onto your forearms against the cot in his room, and you're honest when you shimmey your trousers just low enough, right under your ass, showing off the wet cunt you've had since watching his arms flex as he stacked boxes after breakfast.

he steps forward, leaning over, smoothing two big hands up your plush thighs before spreading your ass, watching your little hole pucker. he smirks, chuckling low.

"'f y'want t'be a riley so bad, don't need to 'ave m'baby, swee'eart," he murmurs, but the echo of his belt undoing clinks in the room anyways. you squirm a little when you hear the zipper of his pants.

"but i want it," you whine, and you slide your arms out in front of you, pressing back against him as you grip the thin sheets on his bed. "i want it!"

"shhhhh," he scolds, gripping his cock with a calloused hand and shoving it between your thighs. you moan as he wets his cock along your folds, grinding slow, getting himself nice and slick. "y'want m'baby, swee'eart? wanna 'ave my cubs? gonna be bears, love. they're gonna split y'open, got such a little cunt."

you cry out, pressing back against him.

"want it! i want it!"

ghost chuckles again, laying over you, his weight pinning you down as he laces his fingers with yours. he's so big, you can feel him heavy and throbbing between your thighs. you need it, even if it doesn't take, even if he just takes you apart right now, you need it.

"you'll make such a good mama though," he mutters, mostly to himself. "fuck...you'll get so bloody nice and fat. nnghh..." he lets go of one of your hands to smack his paw against one side of your ass, gripping it tight and jiggling it. "every part of ya. right for the taking, luvvie. oll f'me."

he reaches down between you, notching the head at your entrance before sinking in easy. you're so wet now, dripping between your thighs, and he grunts as his hips meet your ass quick.

"tits'll get so big..." he smacks his lips together before giving you a heavy thrust. "fuckin' hell...takin' y'out afta this...gonna make you a fuckin' riley today. how's tha' sound, aye?"

you gurgle a little, a line of drool dribbling down your chin. he leans over, pushing his mask up, and he licks your spit off your face, his breath hot as he starts to pick up the pace, fucking into you quick.

"want y'just like this, every day," he growls in your ear. "in m'bed...spread out for me..." he sucks on the edge of your ear, making you cry. "gonna 'ave y'for oll three meals, swee'eart--fuck--until we know it takes."

you smile, your cheek smushed into the bed and rubbing raw against the sheets as he fucks into you from behind. his big hands squeeze your own, holding onto you tight, and you push back against him, your orgasm coming unexpectedly as he babbles in your ear about your tight cunt, your pretty face, the perfect place for him to empty his cock. it makes your vision go white, but you don't feel satiated until he holds his hips against you from behind and curses as he spills inside.

so creamy, slick and soft, but he refuses to waste a single drop. he keeps his pelvis against you, wrapping a forearm around your waist and yanking you up until your back meets his chest. you giggle, dizzy and a little drunk, leaning your head back against him.

"knew you'd fuck me," you mumble, sticking your tongue out, not satisfied until he leans down and kisses you, sucking your tongue into his mouth and kissing you wet and sloppy. he laughs, his chest rumbling, and you put your hands over his, scratching along his skin as he licks into your mouth.

"tha' right, luv? why's that?"

you giggle. "because i always get what i want, simon."

next

[eilidh-eternal]

Captain Price smut? Yeahhhh, Captain Price smut.

Real estate agent reader who’s showing John Price flats in London, but the only thing he cares about are all the surfaces he can fuck you on.

18+ MDNI | f!reader | d/s dynamics | praise kink | oral f-receiving | unprotected P i V | creampie |

“This unit is just under 100 square meters, but it has the open floor plan you requested, and the kitchen has recently been remodeled; all new cabinetry, appliances and gorgeous Calcutta marble countertops. It’s an entertainers dream.”

John won’t be doing much entertaining but he thinks you’re an exquisite show spread out on those countertops you love so much, skirt hiked up around your hips and lacy thong between his teeth as he nips and teases the sensitive juncture of your hip and thigh. The scrape of his beard against your thighs only causes you to spread them wider for him, already burning, and before you can protest—complain that you’d just bought those—he’s tearing the flimsy lace from your body and growling at the sight of your glistening cunt.

“Christ sweetheart, just look at ya. Been drippin’ since we walked through the door.”

The first card of his tongue through your folds is long and languid, and the way he moans at the first taste of you is something purely primal, born of raw desire and burning need. Hands made rough by years of hard work snake beneath your thighs, seeking purchase at your hips to knead at their plush and soft skin. He pins them to the counter when he dips into your entrance and you clench around him, a moan of his own echoing yours, vibrating against the throbbing bundle of nerves pressed against his nose.

You clap a hand over your mouth to muffle what would have been a scream when he takes your puffy clit between his teeth, flicks the tip of his tongue over it until your thighs are quivering against him. You could scream when he pulls away from you, leaves you dangling from that razor thin edge to pull himself up, to brace his arms on either side of your head and pull your hand away from your face.

“No more of that, doll. Need t’ hear ya. Gotta know how thin these walls are. Don’t want any neighbors reporting us for violating the noise ordinance.” With his orders given he returns to his position between your thighs, not wasting a moment as he hooks his arms under you and drags you to the very edge of the counter to throw your legs over his shoulders and continue with his meal.

You grip the edge of the counter with such force you worry it might crack, that it might crumble in your hands just as you are in his. Every searing pass of his tongue, nip of his teeth and bristle of his beard coaxes you back towards that ledge, and every moan and gasp you give him is rewarded with a growl that reverberates from his chest and straight to your clit, sending hot sparks of pleasure licking on your arching spine.

Watching you unravel before him is John’s second favorite part of the tour, tasting your spilled essence as you writhe and clamp your thighs around his head when you cum on his tongue. Second only to the way you feel wrapped around him, the way your brows slope upwards and your mouth makes that perfect little ‘o’ when he sheathes himself to the hilt inside you.

“F-fuck, ‘s too much… I can’t-”

“You can,” he grunts with a pointed thrust, and you whine at the fullness, the stretch of his thick cock and the press of the flared tip against your cervix. “You can take it, honey. Just keep those pretty eyes on me yeah?” You focus on his face, concentrate on the lines between his brows. “Good girl.”

He sets a steady pace, one hand pressing your knee up beside your face and with the other he braces himself on the counter, bent over you to watch your eyes flutter with every drag of his cock in and out of you.

“Fuck sweetheart… ya feel fuckin’ perfect. ‘S like you were made for my cock.” It’s too much, too intense staring up into the swirling depths of ocean blue eyes when he says things like that, and you look away before you drown in them and all of his pretty words.

But John is like a rip tide; calm and collected on the surface, but swift and brutal below. He halts his movements abruptly, grips your face, thumb and forefinger pressing into your cheeks, and forces your gaze back to his. “Did I say you could look away?” A beat of silence and he cocks an impatient brow.

“No…” you squeak.

“What were my instructions?”

“Eyes on you.” It’s less whiny but it still comes out small and breathy.

“That’s right, eyes on me. Gotta be able to see ya so I can take care of ya. Gotta know it feels good, that I’m not hurtin’ ya. Understand?” You nod weakly, but his brows remain furrowed, mouth set in a hard line, and he doesn’t move.

“Y-yes sir.”

“Good girl,” he hums in approval and removes his hand from your face, drags it down the length of your body as his hips begin to roll forward again, following the valley of your breasts down to your navel, your messily bunched up skirt, and presses his thumb to your clit, tracing slow circles around it. It doesn’t take long for him to find his rhythm again, faster this time, each stroke pushing him further and further towards that simmering pool of pleasure as your silken walls begin to flutter around him.

You can feel your own orgasm building, the velvety head of his cock brushing against pleasure centers deep inside of you and his thumb working your clit to fan the flames of your lust and desire into a blazing inferno. Hot tendrils of pleasure lick up your spine, arching you into him and rocking your hips against his as you mewl and whine, desperate for your release and to ease the growing heat within your veins.

“Close… fuck, I’m close-” you can barely manage, and he shushes you sweetly.

“I know sweetheart, can feel ya- fuck… clenching around me,” he says between panting breaths. “Wanna feel ya… milkin’ me. Be a good girl… and cum for me.”

He’s relentless in his mission to see you, to feel you, cumming on his cock, hips slamming into yours at a brutal pace, the sound of skin slapping against skin mingling with each of your breathy moans in the sweetest symphony he’s ever heard. And it’s hard, so, so hard to keep your eyes open, to keep them trained on him when he’s fucking you like a man utterly consumed by the desire to see you shatter beneath him.

You don’t hold back, don’t bother trying to quiet the scream that rips from your throat when he sends you careening over that edge, falling, falling, falling into a warm, blissful oblivion. Every muscle in your abdomen pulls taught, pussy clamping down on him as your orgasm tears through you like a wildfire through a parched forest, and he chases his own release with the same rabid intensity, grunting and panting above you with wild thrusts of his hips. A raging storm of intensity that finally breaks when his balls tighten and he spills inside of you, hips stuttering with a guttural moan that rumbles like thunder in his chest.

You stay like that for a long moment, your arms limp beside you, legs quivering against cool marble with his face tucked into the side of your neck and breathing raggedly. When he finally withdraws you whimper at the loss of him, the absence of his warmth and the fullness he gave now leaves you empty and leaking your combined essence, dripping down your thighs onto the obscenely expensive counter. You open your mouth to say something, try to move back to your feet before you make a further mess, but he silences you with his tongue, lapping at your entrance to taste both of you, and the only sound that comes out is an overstimulated whine.

“I know, I know…” he murmurs into your dripping cunt. “But we’ve gotta get ya cleaned up.”

You. Not the counters—you.

When he finally deems you ‘clean’ enough, he helps you down from the counter, makes sure you’re steady on your feet before you even try putting those ridiculous heels back on. And when you leave he tucks the ruined lace of your underwear into his pocket and guides you out of the flat with a firm hand on the small of your back, all the way to your car, and insists on opening the door for you.

Before you can seat yourself he tightens his hold on you and drops down to place a kiss on your cheek, lips brushing against the shell of your ear as he whispers, “I’ll see you next week for that showing, sweetheart. Be good for me until then.”

©️Eilidh-Eternal.2024 ~ The intellectual property of Eilidh-Eternal is not permitted for reposting, transcription, translation or use with AI technologies.

[thaoworra]

The Science Fiction and Fantasy Poetry Association recently released the poems that made it to the finalist stage for consideration for the 2024 Rhysling Awards for Short and Long Speculative Poems of the year. Congratulations to all of the nominees! This will be the 46th year these awards have been conferred!

Short Poems (50 finalists)

Attn: Prime Real Estate Opportunity!, Emily Ruth Verona, Under Her Eye: A Women in Horror Poetry Collection Volume II

The Beauty of Monsters, Angela Liu, Small Wonders 1

The Blight of Kezia, Patricia Gomes, HWA Poetry Showcase X

The Day We All Died, A Little, Lisa Timpf, Radon 5

Deadweight, Jack Cooper, Propel 7

Dear Mars, Susan L. Lin, The Sprawl Mag 1.2

Dispatches from the Dragon's Den, Mary Soon Lee, Star*Line 46.2

Dr. Jekyll, West Ambrose, Thin Veil Press December

First Eclipse: Chang-O and the Jade Hare, Emily Jiang, Uncanny 53

Five of Cups Considers Forgiveness, Ali Trotta, The Deadlands 31

Gods of the Garden, Steven Withrow, Spectral Realms 19

The Goth Girls' Gun Gang, Marisca Pichette, The Dread Machine 3.2

Guiding Star, Tim Jones, Remains to be Told: Dark Tales of Aotearoa, ed. Lee Murray (Clan Destine Press)

Hallucinations Gifted to Me by Heatstroke, Morgan L. Ventura, Banshee 15

hemiplegic migraine as willing human sacrifice, Ennis Rook Bashe, Eternal Haunted Summer Winter Solstice

Hi! I am your Cortical Update!, Mahaila Smith, Star*Line 46.3

How to Make the Animal Perfect?, Linda D. Addison, Weird Tales 100

I Dreamt They Cast a Trans Girl to Give Birth to the Demon, Jennessa Hester, HAD October

Invasive, Marcie Lynn Tentchoff, Polar Starlight 9

kan-da-ka, Nadaa Hussein, Apparition Lit 23

Language as a Form of Breath, Angel Leal, Apparition Lit October

The Lantern of September, Scott Couturier, Spectral Realms 19

Let Us Dream, Myna Chang, Small Wonders 3

The Magician's Foundling, Angel Leal, Heartlines Spec 2

The Man with the Stone Flute, Joshua St. Claire, Abyss & Apex 87

Mass-Market Affair, Casey Aimer, Star*Line 46.4

Mom's Surprise, Francis W. Alexander, Tales from the Moonlit Path June

A Murder of Crows, Alicia Hilton, Ice Queen 11

No One Now Remembers, Geoffrey Landis, Fantasy and Science Fiction Nov./Dec.

orion conquers the sky, Maria Zoccula, On Spec 33.2

Pines in the Wind, Karen Greenbaum-Maya, The Beautiful Leaves (Bamboo Dart Press)

The Poet Responds to an Invitation from the AI on the Moon, T.D. Walker, Radon Journal 5

A Prayer for the Surviving, Marisca Pichette, Haven Speculative 9

Pre-Nuptial, F. J. Bergmann, The Vampiricon (Mind's Eye Publications)

The Problem of Pain, Anna Cates, Eye on the Telescope 49

The Return of the Sauceress, F. J. Bergmann, The Flying Saucer Poetry Review February

Sea Change, David C. Kopaska-Merkel and Ann K. Schwader, Scifaikuest May

Seed of Power, Linda D. Addison, The Book of Witches ed. Jonathan Strahan (Harper Collins)

Sleeping Beauties, Carina Bissett, HWA Poetry Showcase X

Solar Punks, J. D. Harlock, The Dread Machine 3.1

Song of the Last Hour, Samuel A. Betiku, The Deadlands 22

Sphinx, Mary Soon Lee, Asimov's September/October

Storm Watchers (a drabbun), Terrie Leigh Relf, Space & Time

Sunflower Astronaut, Charlie Espinosa, Strange Horizons July

Three Hearts as One, G. O. Clark, Asimov's May/June

Troy, Carolyn Clink, Polar Starlight 12

Twenty-Fifth Wedding Anniversary, John Grey, Medusa's Kitchen September

Under World, Jacqueline West, Carmina Magazine September

Walking in the Starry World, John Philip Johnson, Orion's Belt May

Whispers in Ink, Angela Yuriko Smith, Whispers from Beyond (Crystal Lake Publishing)

Long Poems (25 finalists)

Archivist of a Lost World, Gerri Leen, Eccentric Orbits 4

As the witch burns, Marisca Pichette, Fantasy 87

Brigid the Poet, Adele Gardner, Eternal Haunted Summer Summer Solstice

Coding a Demi-griot (An Olivian Measure), Armoni “Monihymn” Boone, Fiyah 26

Cradling Fish, Laura Ma, Strange Horizons May

Dream Visions, Melissa Ridley Elmes, Eccentric Orbits 4

Eight Dwarfs on Planet X, Avra Margariti, Radon Journal 3

The Giants of Kandahar, Anna Cates, Abyss & Apex 88

How to Haunt a Northern Lake, Lora Gray, Uncanny 55

Impostor Syndrome, Robert Borski, Dreams and Nightmares 124

The Incessant Rain, Rhiannon Owens, Evermore 3

Interrogation About A Monster During Sleep Paralysis, Angela Liu, Strange Horizons November

Little Brown Changeling, Lauren Scharhag, Aphelion 283

A Mere Million Miles from Earth, John C. Mannone, Altered Reality April

Pilot, Akua Lezli Hope, Black Joy Unbound eds. Stephanie Andrea Allen & Lauren Cherelle (BLF Press)

Protocol, Jamie Simpher, Small Wonders 5

Sleep Dragon, Herb Kauderer, The Book of Sleep (Written Image Press)

Slow Dreaming, Herb Kauderer, The Book of Sleep (Written Image Press)

St. Sebastian Goes To Confession, West Ambrose, Mouthfeel 1

Value Measure, Joseph Halden and Rhonda Parrish, Dreams and Nightmares 125

A Weather of My Own Making, Nnadi Samuel, Silver Blade 56

Welcoming the New Girl, Beth Cato, Penumbric October

What You Find at the Center, Elizabeth R McClellan, Haven Spec Magazine 12

The Witch Makes Her To-Do List, Theodora Goss, Uncanny 50

The Year It Changed, David C. Kopaska-Merkel, Star*Line 46.4

Voting for the Rhysling Award begins July 1; a link to the ballot will be sent with the Rhysling Anthology, as well as with the July issue of Star*Line. More information on the Rhysling Award can be found here.

[chaosandmarigolds]

what??? What do you mean you don’t wanna hear-

Too bad ok

So my favorite genre of angst is what I lovingly refer to as ‘no hope angst’ and a PRIME example is:

Desperate CPR

Now for John Price it would be post OP, probably on an Evac back to the base or safe zone- where he was trying to ignore the obvious signs of decrease for his own mental sanity. And he did that until he couldn’t anymore, where you slumped forward in your seat after a few whines of pain. His forearms would burn from the forty minutes of shocks and compressions and ultimately Simon and Johnny would’ve had to drag him back

Now for Johnny MacTavish it would be a nonnegotiable, in his brain he stoped the bleeding so therefore CPR would totally fix a bullet to the heart. It wouldn’t matter that the skin was cold to the touch, it wouldn’t matter how his teammates screamed at him to get out of the fire zone- he had to save you. He had to get this right. He would happily die beside you if it meant he didn’t have to leave you.

Kyle Garrick would know something was wrong when you started to complain of ‘heart burn’ during a briefing, really it wouldn’t have been his fault but large of a poison dosage…it was a waste of time. For all the care and love he had it didn’t matter in that moment because he knew the tasks at hand, he would’ve snapped at anyone who suggested anything different, sweat beading up and even the medic telling him it was useless.

Then we have Simon Riley, who would’ve fought for you even before the announced death. His eyes would burn with tears that were never shed and he would cringe to the sound of ribs cracking under his weight. He would’ve relented with the medics took over and he wouldn’t have slept for days until you were officially announced brain dead and…well, according to him the rest is history.

:D teehee!

[johndburns]

Harold Raeburn - The Steps of a Giant: Peter Biggar | Podcast

Peter Biggar talks to John D Burns about his new book about the father of Scottish climbing, Harold Raeburn.

[ceilidho]

prompt: price/reader bear shifter fic. PART 2. (part 1 here)

-

The urge sits right under his skin.

It’s a month out from hibernation, the torpor not quite sunk in all the way just yet. Plenty of time still to stockpile supplies, train the new rangers before his leave of absence, and chop all the firewood needed for the winter months. Plenty of time on the surface, that is—with only a month left to go, John quietly acknowledges to himself that maybe he bit off more than he could chew this time around. 

It’s exhausting work though. The new batch of recruits are fresh-faced, hardly experienced enough yet to last the season without him, but he hadn’t had much choice with Gaz taking the year off to go back to school. He’s been regularly putting in sixty to seventy hour weeks, hardly leaving him any time to cook or clean or prep for hibernation. Time goes by in a flash. He hasn’t even done a quarter of the repairs around the house that he’d wanted to finish before slipping into the winter torpor.

Hard to figure it out. He’s been putting it off without a real reason, getting lost in the forest for long swaths of time, trudging through the new snow up high in the mountains. Hardly ever in his bear form, conscious of not totally giving over to the animal, but occasionally he can’t help slipping into like tumbling down a snowbank, just losing his footing for a moment and sliding, sliding, sliding until hours have passed and he finally hears his own chuffs and feels branches crack under the weight of his paws.

He winces when he turns back, bones creaking and cracking back into place. 

John has been smelling something around town for weeks now, something sweet and delicate like sap over a branch, but work has left him too busy to start anything. Instead he stops by the grocers every other day, where the scent is strongest, to pick up miscellaneous items. Canned soup here, steaks there. He stockpiles canned and tinned goods in his den, preparing for the long winter when he’s lulled into sleep for extended periods of time, but every time he enters his den, it feels oddly bereft. Empty. Missing something.

The month or so before hibernation always leaves him feeling groggy and laconic; it makes his eyes go half-lidded and his speech descend into grunts and one-worded answers. He spends so many weeks hoarding food and blankets and firewood for the brief moments when he wakes that he can’t stop himself from eyeing even the pretty cashier like another thing to hoard.

He holds himself back, but just.

John wakes up on the couch after a particularly rough shift, groggy and out of sorts. Flecks of sleep stuck in the corners of his eyes still. He’d run into another bear (a real one) on the trail hassling a couple hikers during his shift and it’d taken a couple stressful minutes to gently guide the hikers away before dealing with the bear himself. It’s easier to deal with them in his bear skin, but he generally avoids shifting in the month leading up to hibernation for a reason. It settles him deeper into his bear, draws the sleep closer.

He’s full of cuts and bruises, his side covered in a barely healed, particularly nasty gash, the flesh knitting itself together slowly. His stomach growls. He hadn’t had a chance to cook himself any supper when he got home before collapsing on the couch—had barely eaten lunch as well. That’s part and parcel of his way of life; even during the summer, the days had been long, extending well into the twilight hours. 

And bears need food. John burns calories faster than most, an enormous amount of energy expended when shifting into his other form. He’s a familiar face at every restaurant, grocery store, and market in town for a reason, even if that reason isn’t widely known. In the summer, there was at least some time during the day to gorge himself on berries or fish from a nearby stream, but the berries and fish have long disappeared with the coming of winter. It shouldn’t come as a surprise—hunger dominates his mind during the months leading up to winter—but it’s somehow caught him off guard this year. 

His head perks up when the doorbell rings. 

It doesn’t ring again, but he can hear someone on the other side of his front door, shifting from foot to foot. John isn’t expecting anyone and doesn’t remember inviting anyone over, but he gets up anyway to answer the door. 

There’s a pretty little thing waiting for him on his front porch with a bowl of stew and homemade sourdough bread. He recognizes her from the grocery store, the sweet smelling thing always looking over at him from the till. 

“Sorry to trouble you,” she says, peeking around him. Probably trying to be inconspicuous. 

It slots something in his chest into the right place. He shifts slightly to let her peer over his shoulder into the empty house; no wife or kids scurrying behind him. It eases some of the tension in her shoulders.

“No trouble,” John says. “What’s got you on my doorstep after hours bringing over supper?”

She’s exquisitely shy, almost nervous when she steps from foot to foot before holding the food out closer to him. He takes it, if only to avoid watching her strain. In his hands, it smells entirely too good; makes his mouth water. His bear huffs in his head. John can’t remember the last time he had a home-cooked meal. Certainly not since well before his mother passed. 

“You seemed like—I saw you come home. You looked dead on your feet, so I thought…well, I’d already made soup, so it wasn’t much trouble.”

“You saw me come home?” he repeats.

“Oh, I, uh—I live next door.”

“That so?”

She flushes prettily, just the slightest deepening of the colour over her cheekbones. “Yeah. Six months now. Moved in just before the summer. Anyway, I, well…sorry if you were in the middle of supper, I wasn’t sure if—I heard from Kate that you’ve been busy, so I thought you might appreciate not having to cook.”

“That’s mighty kind of you,” he says. There’s a pause where neither of them say anything. “Can I—I have, uh, a bowl in the kitchen if you want—”

She holds up her hands at that, taking a step back. “Oh no, sorry, I don’t want to…I don’t mean to intrude. I just thought I’d…you know…friendly neighbour and all.”

“It’s no trouble, really. Come inside.”

“No, I—I really have to get going,” she insists, finally turning away from him and descending back down the stairs. “Enjoy your supper!”

He watches her turn and scurry off back to her house, glancing down back once only to give a little start when she catches him still watching her. His nose twitches when he notices that even with the tupperware stacked in his hands, the distinct sweetness that had been hovering outside his door gradually dissipates in his neighbour’s absence. 

His bear rumbles inside his chest. 

In the mountains, he ruminates on his neighbour’s small kindness. It builds in his chest like a slow burning fire when he stands in the brisk cold and stares down into the valley below. The snow squeaks under his boots on the hike back down. The ache of hunger echoes through him again; he thinks of tupperware offered to him in two soft hands. Next time, he’ll invite her in. 

He’s pleasantly surprised when she comes by again not a few days later, this time bringing along with her a pan filled with berry cobbler, tinfoil crinkling under her fingers when she hands him the entire pan. The next day, she stops by with a jar of homemade apple cider. 

It takes awhile for John to coax her inside. She brushes off his invitations to join him for supper for days before he notices the cracks in her resolve. She lingers on the porch for longer than she should, body oriented towards his house even when she says that she has to go. John considers for all of a few seconds just dragging her inside, but there’s something immensely rewarding in reeling her in slowly. A slow hunt and the promise of a meal so decadent that it leaves his tongue heavy in his mouth.

When she finally concedes, his blood roars hot, the beast in his chest thickly nuzzled under his skin, satisfied. 

She’s skittish in his house. Hardly stays for more than ten minutes the first time he succeeds in getting her in. Just long enough to take a couple bites out of the gingerbread loaf that she’d brought over and he’d cut a few slices off before retracing her steps back to the front door. John holds back the instinctive urge to follow her and trap her in with a hand flat on the door when she tries to open it. It’s better to earn her trust. 

His interest just goes up and up as she continues feeding him throughout the week. Perfect mate keeping his belly full, keeping him nourished after a hard day’s work. She keeps him company on the couch when he invites her over on the weekend, dragging her little socked feet over the carpet and snuggling up on the other side of the couch like he might reach out and grab her. He might.

Part of John can’t believe that he’s been living beside this girl for going on six months and never scented her before. It permeates his house now, baked into the walls and carpet. He wishes sometimes she’d stop by and use his bed for a nap, if only so that he could come home to a bed smelling of her; he’d wrap a firm hand around his cock with the scent of her under his nose and tug himself off with his face pressed to his pillow, imagining her trapped under him, the plush pillows of her ass turned up to let him rut between her thighs. 

Her feeding him and spending time with him is confusing though. It confuses his bear, who associates all those things with mate. It’s nature to want to keep the thing feeding him. 

So he can’t help the way his bear expects her now. When he wakes up in his bed without a smaller body tucked away in his arms, it leaves him foul-tempered, short with his men. Picking up groceries becomes more difficult than ever when he instinctively beelines to her when he walks through the automatic doors, pleasure coiling in his chest at the sight of her staring wide-eyed at him. Always a bit shy, even as it slowly melts from her like old snow. Timidity from a season ago, still frosted over but shrinking. 

He doesn’t stop himself from dragging her into his lap before passing out on the couch after a long day at work, leaving her befuddled and uncertain. His arms don’t let her up though; they keep her pinned to his chest until he wakes back up an hour later, nuzzling the bristles of his beard over the soft skin of her neck and dragging a big palm up the inside of her thigh, seeking out the warmth between her legs even half-asleep.

His hand pauses its upward trajectory when she shifts. He’s slow to come back to consciousness, but far slower to move his hand. Mate, his bear rumbles in his chest when his fingers dig into the clutch of her thighs and John hears her muffle a yip. She should be soft and pliable for him, should let him drag his hand up into the space between her legs that she’s kept hot and tender for his touch. 

John lets her pretend at sleep until he finally moves his hand away, moving to sit up and leaving her curled up on the couch. He goes off to the kitchen to put on the kettle and comes back to find her awake, stammering out an apology for falling asleep. 

“None of that,” he grumbles, setting two mugs down on the coffee table. He sits beside her before she gets the bright idea to get up and leave. 

“Sorry, I didn’t plan on staying this long. I should get back—”

“Someone waiting for you at home?” John interrupts, curt despite himself. 

The idea of her going home to someone instantly aggravates him. Even knowing for a fact that there isn’t a man living in her house doesn’t tamp down the anger. He’s scented the exterior of her house once or twice; John would’ve caught the smell of another man by now if there had ever been one living in her house. He’s held off marking her house with come or piss, but that might have to change if she keeps dangling the possibility of there being another man over his head.

It’s his fault for not marking her yet. The trees in the mountains have been marked up over the years that he’s lived in this town, deep gouges in the bark marking the forest as his territory, but he hasn’t yet rubbed his scent into his mate’s skin. It’s his fault she’s still acting like an unattached sow. 

She hesitates; risks lying to him. He can see it plain on her face. “…No.”

His face softens, eyebrows pulling together sympathetically. “I’m not such bad company, am I? Stay for a little longer—all that food’s gonna go to waste otherwise.”

“I—I guess I can.”

“Brilliant. Drink your tea, honey.”

She picks up her mug and sips it quietly while John shifts her feet into his lap and digs his thumbs into her right sole. He shushes her when she jolts and tries to sit up, digging this thumb harder into the arch of her foot. 

“Enough of that. Back down,” he scolds.

“You, but you shouldn’t—you don’t have to do that,” she stammers, trying to pull her foot away and moaning inadvertently when he digs into a sore spot. Her hand clamps down on her mouth.

“Don’t give me that, aren’t you on your feet all day? And then baking for me after a long shift? It’s the least I can do, honey.”

She’s reluctant at first, but then squeaks again he rubs his thumb over the ball of her foot. Hardly able to deny the truth. It isn’t long until her little squeaks and moans start coming out unbidden, exhaustion opening her up. He can smell her sex leaking if he breathes in deep enough. 

“Promise to stay here and wait until I fix up supper?” he murmurs, keeping his voice low. 

She hums, eyes having slid shut. Without even really moving her lips, she mumbles, “Promise.”

“Good girl.”

Sleep warm, she finally settles into his house like she belongs, like she’ll be spending the long winter here as well. Her scent is as imbued in the couch as his. It’s cinnamon sweet. 

“Why do you even…buy so much food if you aren’t gonna use it?” she asks, drowsy enough that even if he were to respond, there’s a chance she wouldn’t hear it. “You hibernating or something?”

John smiles. “Something like that.”

[brightestlulu]

my headcanons for the humans!

in order of height they are jade, jake, roxy, john-jane, dave-rose, dirk

a few notable features-

-dave has a swirl like roxy

-dirk burns easily but has tans on his shoulders from the burns that are mostly permanent,

-janes hair mimics her symbol

-jade has white hair streaks from her dogtier

-the beta kids wear bracelets for the others in their group (daves are under his sleeve)

-dirk doesnt bind

-jade has colourful socks!

and i think the rest is sorta self explanatory :D

[shibara]

Finished today my piece for Fandom Trump's Hate, which I'd been wanting to show off for ages! :D

It's made for the fic I Will Not Burn by @croik which I cannot recommend enough!

I'd read it before this project and loved it to bits (along with the other fics in this series) The mystery, the characters, Arthur and John's relationship AAAAAAaaaaaaaasagsxhhfjdbfkf Go read the thing!!!

EDIT: Had to cut this in three because tumblr was not cooperating with the final size. I'll upload the full integrated image to AO3 later and link it here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/57105613

[theambitiouswoman]

Book Recommendations 📚📒

Business and Leadership:

"Good to Great" by Jim Collins

"The Lean Startup" by Eric Ries

"Zero to One" by Peter Thiel

"Leaders Eat Last" by Simon Sinek

"Outliers: The Story of Success" by Malcolm Gladwell

Success and Personal Development:

"The 7 Habits of Highly Effective People" by Stephen R. Covey

"Mindset: The New Psychology of Success" by Carol S. Dweck

"Atomic Habits" by James Clear

"Grit: The Power of Passion and Perseverance" by Angela Duckworth

"The Power of Habit" by Charles Duhigg

Mental Health and Well-being:

"The Power of Now" by Eckhart Tolle

"Feeling Good: The New Mood Therapy" by David D. Burns

"The Gifts of Imperfection" by Brené Brown

"The Anxiety and Phobia Workbook" by Edmund J. Bourne

"The Dialectical Behavior Therapy Skills Workbook" by Matthew McKay, Jeffrey C. Wood, and Jeffrey Brantley

Goal Setting and Achievement:

"Goals!: How to Get Everything You Want—Faster Than You Ever Thought Possible" by Brian Tracy

"The 12 Week Year" by Brian P. Moran and Michael Lennington

"Drive: The Surprising Truth About What Motivates Us" by Daniel H. Pink

"The One Thing" by Gary Keller and Jay Papasan

"Smarter Faster Better" by Charles Duhigg

Relationships and Communication:

"How to Win Friends and Influence People" by Dale Carnegie

"The 5 Love Languages" by Gary Chapman

"Crucial Conversations: Tools for Talking When Stakes Are High" by Al Switzler, Joseph Grenny, and Ron McMillan

"Nonviolent Communication: A Language of Life" by Marshall B. Rosenberg

"Men Are from Mars, Women Are from Venus" by John Gray

Self-Help and Personal Growth:

"The Subtle Art of Not Giving a F*ck" by Mark Manson

"Daring Greatly" by Brené Brown

"Awaken the Giant Within" by Tony Robbins

"The Miracle Morning" by Hal Elrod

"You Are a Badass" by Jen Sincero

Science and Popular Science:

"Sapiens: A Brief History of Humankind" by Yuval Noah Harari

"The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks" by Rebecca Skloot

"Cosmos" by Carl Sagan

"A Short History of Nearly Everything" by Bill Bryson

"The Selfish Gene" by Richard Dawkins

Health and Nutrition:

"The China Study" by T. Colin Campbell and Thomas M. Campbell II

"In Defense of Food" by Michael Pollan

"Why We Sleep" by Matthew Walker

"Born to Run" by Christopher McDougall

"The Omnivore's Dilemma" by Michael Pollan

Fiction and Literature:

"To Kill a Mockingbird" by Harper Lee

"1984" by George Orwell

"The Great Gatsby" by F. Scott Fitzgerald

"The Catcher in the Rye" by J.D. Salinger

"Pride and Prejudice" by Jane Austen

[treedaddymcpuffpuff]

F*CK, KILL, MARRY — nsfw alphabet w john wick (&femreader)

[Warnings: NSFW, discussion of various sexual and kink topics that are 0% canon and 100% my fantasies opinions] gif cred: @lunaspacks & @gifpacklove

[A]ftercare

The literal king of aftercare. It does not matter what kind of sex you’re having with John—even if it’s of the slowest and sensualist variety—he’s making sure you’re clean, kissed, snuggled, and hydrated afterwards.

[B]ody Part

What part of your body does this man not consider his favorite part, is the better question? Seems like his goal in life is to get every little piece of your flesh—especially the batches you don’t like—into his mouth and hands so he can convince you how much he loves, craves, pines after all of you. Speaking of hands, of course you love his chunky, scarred, battle worn fingers. And, since that seems to be your favorite part of him, he’s happy to agree, and wiggle his digits in front of you every once in a while as a teasing reminder of just how much you like them.

[C]um

The only thing John Wick likes teasing more than you, is himself. He’s entirely too good at keeping you both up all night either cumming or just on the precipice of it, so, by the time you’re both spent, things tend to be sticky and soaked in more than just sweat and saliva.

[D]irty Secret

There’s nothing he keeps from you, really. If you’re into it, he’s into it, and vice versa. Look at those puppy dog eyes and tell me you’re gonna tell this man no if he wants to suck your toes.

[E]xperience

Might have been a bit of a whore in his younger days, when he was still trying different bad coping skills for dealing with his own self loathing. Present, John has to really have that emotional attraction for his pants to get tighter, but he absolutely knows his way around female anatomy—as evidenced by yours and his soaked sheets.

[F]avorite Position

Either his face tucked up inside your pussy so deep his hair gets wet (John Wick’s favorite activity is making you cum in his mouth), or your knees hooked over his shoulders so he can watch your eyes roll back in your head while he reaches screaming, teeth gnashing, hellishly pleasurable depths.

[G]oofy

This one very much depends on his mood, although he’s not opposed to play fights and chasing you around the house a little bit before bending you over the couch and fucking his winning prize. He’s more playful than not most of the time, always teasing and sly, grinning against your lips and nuzzling your thighs and starting tickle fights —which may just be the only sort of fight he actually loses (sometimes).

[H]air

This man is not shaving that often these days…Something(one) else is taking up his free time. Plus, he loves to see beard burn on your skin—it means you’re his. He truly does not care at all about your body hair; whether you shave or don’t, he’s still burying his face in your cunt.

[I]ntimacy

Loving and fucking go hand in hand for him; where there is no love, there is no fuck. If he’s fucking you, he’s loving you at the same time, sometimes so deeply and intensely that the emotion becomes more overwhelming than the actual sex, which is a feat of its own. Constantly saying the dirtiest, sweetest shit to you—commanding your attention again when you try to bury your head in a pillow or close your eyes for some reprieve from his attention.

[J]ack off

You’ve both made a maddening deal that you won’t cum unless you’re in the other’s presence. It gets exceedingly frustrating at times, especially when he decides to come home from a week-long contract and then edge you out of your fucking mind for a few hours before he sends you to heaven and back on his cock

[K]ink

Hide and seek — spoiler: you always lose. Topping from the bottom — whatever you’re into, he’s into. Whatever you want, he’ll give it a try with enthusiasm. He loves pleasing you, serving you, giving you everything that you ask for and then some. John Wick is a service sub at heart, even if he takes the dominant roll to prove it. Edging and overstimulating — Living a life of pain, agony, and heartbreak has made him appreciate the finer things in life, like his cock and your cunt aching so desperately it becomes painful. He can spend all day nibbling your ears, teasing you with dark promises, brushing against your little sensitive spots, and then all night kissing your swollen clit and tickling your gspot and fucking you slow and devastatingly softly. And then there’s his love for receiving edges, leaking pools of precum while you tease his cock and kiss his tummy and nibble his hipbones.

[L]ocation

Private. He wants you to himself. The thought of someone else seeing or touching you, unless it’s something you really crave, makes him want to break bones stuff. Besides some hand holding and light cheek pecks in public, he’s not one for PDA.

[M]otivation

You don’t have to try to turn John on, which is both a blessing and a curse. More than once have you purchased a pair of cute (not even that sexy underwear) that he has ripped in half so that his impatient mouth can latch onto your pussy. He also adores femininity in all its purest forms—pretty sundresses, little strappy heels and sandals, the curves and soft places on your body, your cute giggles and soft touch and adorable pouting. Even better if you’re naturally not feminine to begin with, and take on a more masculine role; he loves to bring the little lady out in you, and take care of her.

[N]o

John will get a little rough if you ask; spank you, fuck your soul into the next life, a little bit of facefucking, but all the while he’s checking in on you, making sure you’re okay, asking if you need anything, giving you little breaks. He’s just naturally so sweet to you, it’s hard for him to complete a rough session without constant reassurance from his babydoll. So, gags are a no. He wants to—likes to—hear you, and he doesn’t need something obstructing that.

[O]ral

There are two ways that this could go. 1) With Wick slurping between your squishy thighs until dawn, delaying one orgasm after another until you’re sobbing and thrashing, until he finally lets you cum with his pruned fingers fucking up inside and sore tongue on your massively swollen clit. 2) With Baba Yaga burying his face into your folds, still in the sweaty work suit and maybe even a little blood on his tie, and taking you to heaven and back until he thinks you’re wet and stretched enough—spoiler, you are both of those things as soon as you see him…as soon as he opens his mouth—to take his cock.

[P]ace

Quick, bruising fucks in the car. Weekends in his woodsy, romantic cabin where you spend more time on his dick than off. Slow tonguing on the kitchen counter. Riding him on the doorstep while he’s in his suit when he just wants to get you off one more time before he goes off on a long job.

[Q]uickie

He prefers slow and sensual and teasing, but sometimes his cock disagrees with all that. He’s a man, after all, has needs. When he gets that haunted, dark, narrowed, pussy hungry look in his eyes—you’re fucked. You don’t know this, and he might not either, but that’s the same look he gets when he’s hunting a target.

[R]isk

What is the need for it? You’re his, completely. He doesn’t require added adrenaline when you’re around—you are his high.

[S]tamina

Y/n: *slaps John Wick’s ass* trust me, this baby can go for miles. Wait no, no, John-JOhN! Listen!—

[T]oys

As familiar as he is with the world and how it runs, he himself is a bit old school. That means holding doors open and putting you on the opposite side of the sidewalk away from traffic, but it also means he prefers to get you off with himself rather than any plastics or silicones—that is until you showed him just how fun they could be. Now, he may be initially resistant to vibrators and dildos, but that doesn’t mean he’s not privy to other tools that aid in your undoing—feathers, belts, ties, rope, his gun (unloaded, of course, don’t worry).

[U]nfair

Sometimes you feel like all the stoic, broody, dark assassin does is tease you. Not that you’re complaining, as long as his tongue or his fingers or his teeth are on you.

[V]olume

John Wick is a man of focus, determination, and sheer will power—but, make no mistake, he whimpers for you just as often as he growls.

[W]ild card

John didn’t think he’d get much out of thigh riding, until he saw you completely bare grinding your soaked cunt against the tensed muscles of his leg while he remained full on suited in black. Your fingers wrapped around his tie, the thick Kevlar of his jacket, rumpling and dampening the pristine white shirt underneath, mouth open and panting, flushed and grinding, desperate to get yourself off, nipples plucked swollen and dark by his fingers.

[X]-ray

Big Wick Energy. And, surprisingly, something you love to bite and poke, a cute little permanent pudge on his lower tummy amongst the hard panes of ab and tendon and muscle.

[Y]earning

If you’re both in good health—alright, sometimes even if you’re not (see: bullet and stab wounds, period cramps, broken bones)—you’re fucking. Often and earnestly. Debauching every available surface as soon as you get through the doors of each other's dwellings. He’s spent a lifetime training to kill, honing his body into the perfect weapon, building his inhuman stamina, unsure of why he was doing all of it in the first place—until he realized it was the universe’s grand design to assist him with fucking you whenever and wherever he wants; even when you get tired and he has to use you past the point where you can’t move or speak or think. As you’ve come to learn, it doesn’t matter if you’re too cockdrunk to assist, because John can fuck for the both of you.

[Z]zzzzzz

When he’s actually done, he’s out immediately. Just one of those common manly traits you like to poke fun at him for. At least he sleeps, now.