#laurel reads

[sherwoodflorists]

now how in the world did he come to this conclusion

[emevergreen]

choosing a book a month to focus on finishing so the line up so far is:

January: Something that may shock and discredit you by Daniel M Lavery

February: The Raven Tower by Ann Leckie

March: Stone Butch Blues by Leslie Feinberg

i think I'm going to aim for memoir followed by fiction as a pattern since I have so many memoirs/autobiographies to get to.

[retiredtothesaltonsea]

mitski's response to the tweet asking people to put away their phones during her shows

[sulasnsleep]

"don't yell at me for walking on eggshells you placed in this house"

—not my fault, why are you so quiet || laurelled

[cupcraft]

Wow so the people thst spend their internet career discoursing and shit talking and vaguring people....also shit talk and vague each other 😨??? Like it's so funny to me.

[roostercrowned]

it's time the people's voices were heard

[theromaboo]

The Sixth Day of Julius Caesar

I once heard someone attributing Julius Caesar's illness (which might've been epilepsy or mini strokes or something else or maybe it wasn't a specific chronic illness at all. It's controversial right now) to wearing a laurel wreath, and I don't really understand how that works.

During Caesar's time, a laurel wreath would've most likely been made out of the plant Laurus nobilis, you know, bay leaves. Caesar might've gotten a stomachache if he ate a significant amount of them, but I am yet to read any sources that mention Caesar eating straight laurel!

Laurel wreaths could also be made out of a plant called Prunus laurocerasus (though I don't know if it was used for laurel wreaths in ancient Rome. I can't find anything about that). Its common name is cherry laurel, and it is toxic. I've read that you can irritate your skin if you touch it too much, but you'll have to eat it if you want to get the really bad effects.

I don't think Caesar was out here constantly eating all of his laurel wreaths. I'd assume that if he was, people would've made fun of him for it and therefore it would be mentioned somewhere.

I think the reason someone came up with this idea is because it's ironic. Caesar apparently liked his privilege of wearing a laurel wreath at all times because it hid his thinning hair (Suetonius, Life of Julius Caesar, 45.2). It'll be so ironic if his illness was caused by it. However, without any evidence of Caesar eating laurel wreaths made out of cherry laurel, this is an incredibly weak theory.

[franollie]

i was not expecting to latch onto talaurel as much as i am but something about them…i can’t explain it

[landhinlove]

this sly mf with the green and the laurels

[sherwoodflorists]

helena having to use the mud outside of the church as a substitute for ash wednesday because of the sign posted saying that masks weren't allowed.... ohhh the symbolism oh huntress year one the series that you are

[smalltownfae]

“But just now an intelligent and I must admit, very attractive young woman had just chosen Lord Golden’s companionship over mine.

‘There’s no accounting for tastes,’ I told Whitecap, who was looking after his departing mistress with an aggrieved air.”

*****

“‘Good. And now we must all try to get what rest we can before tomorrow’s hunt. Good night,Tom.’

‘Good night, Lord Golden, huntswoman Laurel.’

After a moment or two of silence, I realized something. I had been expecting Laurel to leave so that I could secure the door behind her. I had wanted to tell the Fool about the basket and the dead rabbit, but Laurel and Lord Golden were waiting for me to leave. She was studying a tapestry on a wall with an intensity it did not merit, while Lord Golden contentedly contemplated the gleaming fall of Laurel’s hair.

I wondered if I should lock the outer door for them, then decided that would be an oafish act. If lord golden wanted it locked, he would do it. ‘Good night,’ I repeated, trying to sound sleepy and not awkward. I took a candle and went to my own chamber, shutting the connecting door gently behind me. I undressed and got into bed, refusing to let my mind wander beyond that closed door. I felt no envy, I told myself, only the sharper bite of my loneliness in contrast to what they might be sharing.”

*******

“I turned and found the Fool regarding me sleepily. He lay on his side in his bed, his chin propped on his fist. He looked weary, but insufferably pleased about something. The effect made him look years younger.

‘I didn’t expect to see you in your bed this morning,’ I greeted him, and then, ‘How did you get in? I latched that door last night.’

‘Did you? Interesting. But you can scarcely be more surprised to see me in my own bed than I am to see you in yours.’

*****

“Was my friend honestly losing his heart to her? I considered her silent profile as she rode alongside me. He could do far worse. She was healthy and young and a good hunter.”

- Fool’s Errand (Tawny Man #1) by Robin Hobb

Presented with no comment

[nguyenfinity]

[frisbees this at you] gay people

bonus:

[pinkcannibal]

You don’t have to write this if you don’t want to!!

Could I request student x teacher relationship with marilyn and reader? Marilyn drives reader back to campus but notices that reader has had a bad day so she pulls up to a secluded area to check if she’s okay, but reader isn’t the best with her emotions, so when marilyn makes eye contact with her, reader just lunges forwards capturing her lips with her own. And reader didn’t expect marilyn to kiss back, so when she does, mari climbs out of her seat and onto readers lap (doesn’t matter who’s on top of who) and there’s just smut from there?

a/n of course! ty for the request! this is actually very similar to a scene in my fic skdksd but fuck it we ball. usual needed disclaimer; reader is a student and 20.

-

title: my girl

pairings: marilyn thornhill x fem!reader

tw/warnings: heavy smut, car sex, dumbification, soft!dom marilyn thornhill, bottom!reader, riding, fingering, typical canon marilyn manipulation (very slightly)

summary: your mind has been empty, spacey and dazed all day. until miss thornhill fills it with something else, something tender and all consuming.

word count: 1800

requests: open!

The radio of Marilyn’s buggy plays this familiar song, dreamy and soft it lulls between the gentle silence between the two of you.

You can’t place it, the song, it feels a little far away with how spacey you’ve been today, how fuzzy your brain has been after the all nighter of studying you pulled and how you’ve been a little untethered with stress lately.  

You thought coffee would help from the Weathervane. It didn’t. But all your sleepiness melted away when you ran into Miss Thornhill outside the café and you smiled when she offered to drive you back to Nevermore. When you got into her car she reached behind to her back seat and offered you an old hoodie that was sitting amongst some plants she had picked up. You took it eagerly, sighing in comfort as her scent encased you and Marilyn huffed on this tender laugh, endeared at the sight.  

You don’t realise your hazy mood is back again until you're shifting down in the passenger seat, pulling the neckline of her hoodie up and breathing in the scent for comfort.  

Marilyn squeezes to your hand in your lap, making you look up softly. You watch her send a quick worried look to you from her gaze on the road, warm brown eyes making you hold tighter to her hand.  

“You’ve been awfully quiet, honey.” She says, “Are you okay?” 

You soften at her concern, how sometimes you swear her voice could make you do anything she wanted, anything she asked – if your heart rate picks up at the mere thought, you ignore it, instead humming and furrowing your brows to yourself.  

“Oh,“ You breathe out, plastering on a reassuring smile as she quickly glances to you again. “M’sorry, yeah, just really um, spacey today.” 

You’re holding back what you really want to say, that for a moment in time you want to give her all of your control, because lately you’ve been so busy and stressed and out of it that for just a second, you wish you didn’t have to keep thinking for yourself. That she would do it for you. But you don’t know how to convey that at all, where do you begin?  

Hey, Mari, can you kiss me until I forget my own name and mark me until I’m yours?  

Miss Thornhill frowns at you, instantly picking up that you aren’t fully telling her the truth.

You blush a little at her knowing head tilt, and before you know it she’s peeling off to a secluded area adjacent to the road from Jericho to Nevermore. Now, you realise that it’s softly raining, so out of it you hadn’t realised the windscreen is dotted in heavy rain and slightly foggy; how the trees around you sway from the windy weather.  

Marilyn puts the car in park, unbuckling and turning to you slightly in her seat. When her finger and thumb come up to your chin to hold, you feel your cheeks warm, throat closing up tightly at her comforting but stern gaze.  

“Don’t lie to me, baby.” She softly murmurs, and you feel your chest deflate in need at her tone. Baby. You wonder if your eyes are shining back with the desperation you can feel in your belly.  

You love it when she calls you that, it’s the most gentle yet slightly degrading sensation that you always, always chase.

“You were quiet this morning too,” Marilyn continues, making you blush in shame as she worriedly fixes her glasses. “Is everything okay?” 

You part your lips to answer, because Miss Thornhill is being understanding and kind and so loving but words are hard right now, and her thumb is just at your lip rubbing soothingly and it’s like your brain goes dumb, filled with nothing but her and how she makes you feel and how the rain against the windscreen and the storm is making everything slightly dark; making her hazel eyes so alluring that you’re powerless to wanting her.  

You try and answer her, you do, but all that leaves your lips is a helpless whine because you feel so floaty because of her it’s hard to breathe.  

So you dart forwards, straining against your seat belt for her lips and Marilyn makes this little noise of surprise at the back of her throat, but still kisses you back softly and you melt – hand coming up to the juncture of her neck to hold onto and deepen the kiss.  

“Sweetie,” She breathes out against your lips, voice a little breathless and husky at how you don’t give her a second until your diving back in for more. And this tiny, high-pitched moan leaves you when Marilyn allows you to kiss deeper, taste her tongue and bite gently to her lower lip.  

“Baby, slow down, I-” She groans, eye lids fluttering shut as your lips find the tendon of her neck and she tugs a little at the hair she fists just below the back of your neck, making you strain against your seat belt to be closer.  

Miss Thornhill huffs on this endearing laugh at your action, how you whine petulantly at being so far away from her. She takes pity on you, unclipping your belt as you basically fall into her, instantly moving across the centre console and straddling her lap.  

It’s a little awkward and hard, but Marilyn easily settles you in her hold. Her hands come to your hips to hold you steadily and you suddenly feel so safe and turned on and needy for her attention and touch – you tighten your thighs around her to be as close as you can be, bucking a little, and don’t miss how the action has the other woman’s eyes darkening.  

Here, this close, you can feel the buttons of her blue jumpsuit press into the plane of your sternum; how her chest presses into yours. “Come here,” Marilyn murmurs gently, placing her hand at your jawline and bringing you into a deep kiss, one that has you gasping into her mouth and shutting your eyes in relief. You reach up, hands curling around her shoulders and to the back of her neck. 

You know this is her way of saying I’ve got you, let go.  

So, you do.  

Her other hand, warm and soft, glides under the hem of your skirt and to your inner thigh and you’re burning, feeling yourself throb in time with your heartbeat.  

“Need you,” You moan against her lips, this desperate thing that bubbles up from the warmth of your lower stomach. You pull back, shuffling impossibly closer to get her hand where you need her. Your lips part, throat bobbing in desperation as your eyes water. “P-Please, Mari, I need...” 

Miss Thornhill’s eyes soften beneath her glasses, this faux sympathetic look that has you lightheaded.  

“Oh, honey,” She says, thumb rubbing deep, hypnotising circles at your inner thigh, her fingers gliding higher and higher to where you need her. You whimper at her tone.  

“You’re so spacey and dumb for me.” She coos, a little mocking but still so loving and you wonder how she can see right through you, give you exactly what you need. You whimper, heat swarming your core as you flush red at her words. “Can you tell me what you need? Use your words, baby.” 

Oh god. You swallow thickly, bashfully shifting on her lap and Marilyn tilts her head at you, eyes almost black, endeared at how desperate you are in her hold. You can’t look at her without blushing in embarrassment, so you instead rest your forehead where her shoulder meets her neck, squeezing your eyes shut as you gasp out.  

“Your...your fingers. Please, I-” Your stomach flips, slurring pathetically around the words. “I wanna ride you, Mari.” You breathe out, and you think you actually feel some part of you fall and sink inside of yourself, because you feel Miss Thornhill groan softly at the words, you feel it travel down from your head to your chest to your thighs.  

The rain is still so heavy, fogging up the glass of the car. The radio is still playing that song, almost silent, but now that you’re so awake with clarity at her touch, you realise what it is. My Girl, by the Temptations. And suddenly your heart is in your throat. 

Then, her fingers are under your skirt, dipping into the waistband of your underwear and now with her touch gliding up through your wetness and to your clit, you feel how wet you are, practically gushing onto the pads of her fingers and you moan, sinking onto two of them right down to the knuckle.  

You feel full, so full and instantly loved and this relief of handing over your burden to her floods you, so much so you whine into the crook of her neck and rock against her fingers. Muttering; “More, harder, faster, please please please-”  

You hear Marilyn let out these small hitches of breath, that fall into husky moans as she watches you take her fingers, curling into you and hitting exactly where you need her. It’s overwhelming, and it becomes almost too much when Miss Thornhill, breathless and groaning, says next to your ear that: “You’re so good, sweet girl. So good for me. Look at you.” She coos, voice so sweet and in awe of you atop her fingers.

“Oh, fuck,” She swears, because you fist her red hair in your hands and tug making her hiss, and you feel yourself near your peak at Marilyn swearing.  

“Come for me baby,” The other woman says, desperate and a little needy. “Please, god, come on my fingers.” She pleads, and it explodes behind your eyes so suddenly that you stutter on a cry, hand flying out to catch yourself on the foggy window as you gush onto her fingers and moan loudly into her neck.  

And the rain falls, and you hear through the crackle of the static radio: “I’ve got sunshine...on a cloudy day...when it’s cold outside, I’ve got the month of May. My girl, my girl, my girl- and you pant into Marilyn’s neck, burrowing so close into her gentle hold.

So in love, so at ease, that you never, ever want to leave. 

[lesbianlotties]

for the record, i do not think that even in a no-crash au Lottie and Laura Lee would necessarily have kids, BUT i do think that you have to commit to the bit and they should name their kids Leo and Lucy