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saltbind · 2 months ago

Note

For 500 followers you should drop more femchesters/trans winchesters lore 👀

gladly <3

for reference here are some of my past posts on femchesters:

femchesters moodboard edit

femchesters headcanons

i love femchesters where sam is still a fuckin. behemoth of a woman. giant 6'5" book nerd at the bar who's so jacked she could crush your head between her thighs. played soccer before her growth spurt and spent the entirety of high school getting hounded by basketball and volleyball teams. the kind of body you have to work real hard for, and i absolutely headcanon her as being pretty flat chested too. only wears sports bras or crop tops and even then only on hunts, she doesn't bother when it's just them and they're driving or in the bunker. missy peregrym in stick it is my headcanon for sam, hands down.

deanna's a bit bigger in the bust and softer in terms of muscle mass - there's not any kind of abs showing on her since it's harder for ladies to get that kind of muscle tone. deanna is strong thick - she gets mistaken for a farm girl a lot, with her arms and shoulders. i live for mullet deanna. it's not intentional she's just shit at remembering to maintain it. i live for sharpie nails, no makeup except for like fifteen lipsticks rattling around in the glovebox, still the most gorgeous woman you've ever seen deanna. cutoff jean shorts and practical boots with lingerie underneath because she likes to feel pretty deanna. i don't have a perfect deanna in terms of fancasting, but juliette lewis in yellowjackets with darker hair would be close.

and on transchesters:

t4t sam and deanna

sam/deanna/benny posting

brand-new, a trans dean fic

trans dean fisting post

ok but very seriously i can see dean as trans femme or trans masc, though i lean trans femme for him because he's very...performative, with his masculinity, in a way that i very much relate to as a trans person. sam i can only see as trans masc because of many reasons that i've gone into before, but dean is a lot more flexible for me in terms of headcanons because his portrayal in the show could very easily lean either way depending on what you give weight to.

i bequeath to y'all some snippets of t4t sam and deanna because this isn't really a fic with a coherent arc or plot as such, but it is some writing!

Deanna only grows her hair out once.

Later, after she’s shorn it short again in the same style she’s had since she was a boy, she’ll tell herself it’s for tactical reasons. Better to keep it short, to give the monsters less to grab hold of, and she knows she can still pass just fine with her bone structure. Her tits might be small still but she’s always been pretty.

She doesn’t let herself think about the way Dad’s eyes had softened when they’d met up for the werewolf hunt. Doesn’t let herself think about the way he’d gotten drunk after, sloppy like he usually doesn't, and fumblingly told her how much she looked like Mary with her hair long like that. How she had always resembled her, but now that she was a woman –

Stop.

Does not let herself think about the way he’d leaned in. The way his breath had smelled like bourbon. The way he’d tried to angle her face with his hands, big and calloused, and the way she’d flinched from him, heart in her mouth. How she’d slept in the Impala that night, left him to sleep off the booze by himself in their double room while she white-knuckled her way through the worst night she’d had since Sam had left for Stanford with his new name and new pronouns in tow. She wishes he’d told her sooner so she could have learned about her own hidden self with him, so they could have shared in the strange joy of second puberties together, another secret unique to the two of them to close them off further from the world.

Yeah, actually, maybe that’s why he didn’t tell her.

The point is – Dad hadn’t said anything about it the next day, so it might as well not have happened. She doesn’t have to think about it. And if Dad had suggested hunting separately again over lunch, eyes bloodshot and hair greasy, then that was just fine. She was capable. She could handle herself. She had, hadn’t she? She’d pushed him away. Left his ass to brine in his drunk sweat.

She just – wishes she hadn’t had to.

Sam doesn’t particularly want to run any more credit card scams. He really doesn’t. It feels wrong when he’s studying for the LSATs, like he’s taking two steps forward and one back.

He doesn’t have great insurance, though, and he needs hormones. Top surgery. Gender marker changes and legal name changes, because credit cards are one thing but he’s not forging documentation. So, whatever. He gets his fake cards and he pays on an installment plan, gets cash advances and dimples at the staff who process the payments, implies the hell out of a rich sugar daddy taking care of his medical costs.

He came to California for Stanford, but the relative ease of transitioning was definitely a factor.

He’s never been more grateful for his height than his third year. Studying through the surgery recovery was hard, but Jess had been happy to help take care of him, and he’s partway through a group project when he realizes he’s passing. Not just passing, but stealth, because one of his group mates makes a comment about how it’s not like he knows how bad cramps can get and it dawns on him that they don’t know.

It’s weird. He doesn’t know how to feel about it.

Brady’s the one who takes him shopping for new clothes. It feels weird to abandon the flannels and band tees, but they’re all too small and shaped for a body he no longer has. He doesn’t have the money for the new stuff, not really, but Brady does. So he accepts the patterned button up shirts and the fashion advice gratefully and learns to be comfortable in colors.

He wants to call Dean a lot. More than he expected, which was – yeah, a lot. He’s never been ignorant of how co-dependent they are. They got more than their fair share of jokes about it. Flowers in the Attic. Are you sure you’re from Kansas? You act like you’re from Alabama. Dumb shit that still hit a little too close to home for him.

Every so often, he gets a text from a new unknown number. Usually it’s just a question mark. He used to just respond with ‘Tulsa’, their code for ‘okay’, but he’s been sending back other stuff too lately. What song he’s listening to, what he ate for lunch. Little things. Bits of his life. When he left he’d done damage to their relationship, and he knows that, but he misses Dean so badly sometimes. And it’s selfish, maybe, to get out of hunting and still want to have Dean in some way, to give him an invitation to share in Sam’s new life, but he’s never been a saint.

#ask box #Anonymous #samdean #sam winchester #dean winchester #transchesters #femchesters #headcanons #my writing #my post

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sunlightmurdock · 2 years ago

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The Odyssey | 0.8 | Bradley Bradshaw x Reader

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Moodboard | Recommended Listening

Synopsis: Bradley keeps a close eye on the other students, nightly dinners become a regular occurrence. Malcolm feels further away than ever. A phone call in the middle of the night causes a swift change in plans.

Warnings: enemies to lovers, power imbalance (professor / student relationship), age gap (22 / 33), will be smut, virgin reader, swearing, infidelity. 18+ minors dni

…

Bradley wakes up with the sun. All of those West Coast mornings and thin, green floral curtains in his grandmother’s house. The sun spilling through them and alerting him to the Chordettes playing downstairs on grainy vinyl. That meant his mother was cleaning. Lemon-scented disinfectant, her sitting on her knees polishing the hardwood with a rag. The effortless warmth of her voice drifting through the walls.

He exhales. Sunlight seeps through his eyelids but there’s no Chordettes album today. No lemon scent. Just a dusty room and one of his students sleeping six feet away. His eyelids flutter, blinking through the early morning light. A slow turn of his neck allows him to check the clock on the nightstand and doesn’t affront the stiffness that these cheap mattresses give him either.

It’s early. About four hours before Luke would naturally rise, anyway. Bradley hits the alarm and pushes himself upright with a soft sigh. He doesn’t have to be quiet when he’s getting out of bed, that kid could sleep through a hurricane.

They have a lot in common. Lots of similarities in the way they were raised. Bradley likes him beyond just being his professor. In different circumstances, they would be friends. But, Bradley has always kept that line in the sand clear. Until now. Until you had kissed him.

Showered and dressed, Bradley’s up before most of Verona. The soles of his shoes are quiet against the cobble. Italian leather from almost a decade ago. A gift from an old friend that have held up well. The only dress shoes he’s got.

It’s bright out. Bright enough that Bradley’s squinting through his Ray-Ban caravans already, but it’s not too hot just yet. There’s a wind that makes the loose white of his button-up billow against his tanned skin, fighting to work free from being neatly tucked into his belt.

Enzo’s out on the steps by the time Bradley gets there, which means he is late. Teaching hasn’t ever been Bradley’s passion, but it makes way for him to study and — in theory — he gets his summers off. It allows him to write.

“Good morning.” Enzo greets him with a smile. Bradley’s not much for the business side of things — he would have better luck at counting the shades of blue in the sky than he would at figuring out schmoozing. Enzo knows this, and Bradley knows that he knows this. “How’s the book coming?”

“I’m not sure,” Bradley answers with a broad shrug. He tucks the gold frames of his sunglasses into the part of his shirt. “I’m not sure I’ll have it finished by the end of summer.”

Olive-skinned and about fifteen years Bradley’s senior, Enzo looks the part of a sleazy salesman even if he’s just a curator when his lips twist up into a smile. “Something’s got you a little distracted, hm?”

The straight ahead stare, the deep, slow breaths and the unwavering tight line that his lips are pressed into; Bradley’s reaction is easily readable — and Enzo’s close enough to get hit if he keeps it up. He knows that. Towing the line is his specialty.

“Just joking. Here, let’s go in.”

Three soft-sounding steps inside and Bradley’s back where he was this morning. Ten years old and laying on his back in the twin bed in the bedroom at the front of his grandmother’s house, smelling artificial lemon.

He turns his head just a little, his eyes lingering on the mop being pushed around the tile floor, as Enzo leads him further inside.

Being published is what professors dream of. Having someone decide that their little ramblings are interesting enough to publish. Bradley’s study focuses on two things that are inherently interesting to begin with — sex, and power.

His research may be tedious every now and again but the content is always rich. His morning spins by and before he knows it, it’s time to meet you again. You’re ready for him when he gets there, tugging open the door before he has knocked.

But, you don’t look excited to see him.

Cheeks flushed, your body language suggests to him that you would have a decent future as an offensive lineman. His gaze flickers up, over your head and into your seemingly innocent hotel room. Powerless as he scans the room, you just hope he can’t figure out what it is that has you so rattled.

You had aimed to finish before he had arrived but time had gotten away from you.

“So what are we doing today?” You try.

“What are you writing?” His eyes are already on it. The open stack of lined papers, torn out of the notebook already, sitting on the vanity by the wall. Your perfume is next to it and you’ve got the stationary set that your mother got you laid out neatly next to it.

“Nothing.”

He looks down. First, at your face. Wide eyes and baited breath. Then, at your hands suddenly resting against his chest like they’ll hold him in place. His lips twitch.

“Nothing?” He repeats to you. Enjoyment seeps through his words, amusement tugs at his lips and he lifts his right foot to take one step forwards. “Mind if I take a look?”

Instantly, your fingers are curling into his shirt and you’re throwing your weight at him to keep him where he is. Bradley huffs out a sound of amusement, passing you in one swift stride as you claw at his button up to slow him down.

“Don’t, Bradley, it’s stupid — I was just messing around. I don’t want you to read it.”

His fingers brush the top page as you plead with him, tugging at his sleeve, trying to change his mind. He lifts it nonetheless and shoots you a grin, making a show of clearing his throat.

“Dear Juliet,” He pronounces, turning his attention back to the page from you.

“Bradley, please don’t.” It’s not fun anymore. You’re quiet and resigned to him doing whatever he pleases. Embarrassment teems through you.

It’s a familiar kind of crushing feeling. It’s never just feeling small, it’s never that simple. It’s being made small. Every inch that you shrink, you’re squished down further until you’re nothing.

You can see it in his face, the exact moment that he reads his initials on the paper. It had seemed too personal to use his name. Back when this had seemed like a good idea at all.

He doesn’t read on. The paper sits still in his hand as he turns his head towards you. You stare back at him, preparing yourself. Tongue poised, ready to spit whatever venom he deserves after what he says next. Eyes wide, and sad.

“I’m sorry.”

He sets the paper back down as he had found it. It’s not his to discard, it wasn’t his to read. Bradley steps forwards and wraps his hands gently around both of your biceps.

“That wasn’t cool,” He tells you quietly. Bradley knows a couple of different languages, and he’s confident that he’s speaking English now, even if you’re staring at him like he isn’t. “I didn’t realize what it was. I was just trying to mess with you. I barely read any of it.”

Silent, you blink a few times. He’s still there with his big, heavy hands anchoring around your biceps. He’s waiting for you to say something back.

Slowly, your brows draw together. Your eyes flicker over every inch of his face, looking for some fault that will give up this little act.

Suddenly, your mind is made up. This is an act. He’s not sorry, men rarely are. You straighten your back and lift your chin, if you were a cat your claws would be out and ready. “You’re such an asshole.”

The clock beside your bed, the hands don’t move, and yet it feels like you can hear something ticking. Maybe your heartbeat. He’s staring back at you, not moving, but he’s going to have to soon — it’s his turn.

“I know, honey,” Bradley’s hands open and he releases your arms, only to open his and wrap you in them. Your face presses into his chest as he rubs a hand along the small of your back. “I didn’t mean to.”

You’ve received plenty of life lessons on what it means to be a woman. Your grandmother, your mother, your aunts and cousins, teachers and friends. Not one of them prepared you for this. In your scope, apologies come in the form of jewelry or luxury vacations.

No one had ever prepared you for a man to look into your eyes and tell you that he is truly sorry.

“I just wanted to put it on paper, get it out of my head,” You mumble into his shirt, inhaling the notes of wood and warm spice in his cologne. Your hand rests against his stomach now, unclenched. Your body is soft against his. You relax out of all of that tension and let him hold you. “Make some sense of it.”

His palm hugs the base of your skull, cradling you against his shoulder. His cheek rests against the top of your head. He gives you a slow nod.

“You should finish it.” Bradley tells you.

“Yeah. Maybe later.” You hum. It’s nice, to be held by him. He strokes a hand softly over your hair.

Within this city, within the walls of the first space that you have had to yourself in three weeks, in this brown hotel room — you have let yourself be his.

Tomorrow, you’ll move on to Venice. The decision is yours, to leave him and all of this insanity right here — forever between these four walls — or to let go.

Bradley’s thumb trails the nape of your neck. He can feel you deep in thought. Just once, he would like to know what’s going on in that pretty little head of yours. “Could be our activity for today. Write it in Latin, think of it as a translation activity. I won’t check it.”

Lifting your head, you stare up at him, lips pursed in distaste. “If you don’t check it then what’s the point?”

“Confidence.” Bradley tells you. You feel his open palms trail your back until they hit your belt. Then, they skim around to rest safely on your waist. “The more you practice—“

“Yeah, yeah…” Both hands push against his chest as you wriggle out of his arms and turn. “Okay, I’m in.”

“Let’s sit outside. It’s a nice day.”

The eighth of June. The day you sat in a public garden opposite a fountain, laying on your front in the grass while Bradley sat in front of you, propped up against a tree. It turns out that when Bradley says he knows a place, it’s usually worth listening.

“What’s this place called?”

“Giusti Garden.” He tells you, working on something of his own in his lap.

“And what is it?” You ask him, trailing the end of your pencil through the dictionary. He looks up at you, his own pencil stilling for a second.

“A palace, originally.” Blinking through the lenses of his sunglasses, Bradley glances down at the page in front of him and back to your lips, pursed in concentration. “Pretty popular. Mozart, Gorthe, Ruskin— they’ve all visited this place.”

“Huh.” You hum.

This time when his gaze flickers up, you have moved. Your lips are parted, you tap the rubber at the end of your pencil against your bottom lip.

Mid-sentence and stuck, you turn your head towards him and he’s already looking at you. He read what was on that paper the first time. He reads hundreds of essays a year, he has mastered the art of clearing a page quickly.

Admittedly, he hadn’t gotten through the whole page, but he’d noticed that you had stopped halfway through a word at the bottom.

He read all about it. How confused you are. The new feelings and the difficult thoughts. Malcolm and how much he loves you. How guilty you are. How furious with yourself you are.

Selfishly, Bradley wonders if you’re writing the same thing now. All of those biting looks and harsh words — Bradley feels like he’s just starting to understand, and he likes the person behind it all.

He’s grown up enough to know that you’ve got enough people messing with your head back home. Whatever that letter helps you realize, Bradley has already decided that he isn’t going to say a word about it.

It’s still bright out by the time that your letter is signed and sealed, tucked into your bag. You straighten up, brushing off your front as Bradley collects his things behind you.

“Here.”

Lifting your head, you almost miss it. He watches your eyes land on the folded piece of paper extended towards you. Your lips quirk softly as you reach out and take it from him.

Breeze catches your hair, you comb it off of your forehead with one hand as you open up the paper with the other. Three different pencil sketches sit on the paper.

The largest is in the centre. It’s of your face and your shoulders, elbows propped up against the grass and your lips pouted slightly as you study the book before you. The lashes, the slight misshape of your polo collar, the tip of your nose. He’s got it down to a science.

The other two are just sketches. One of your face, turned to the side like it is in the drawing of you laying down. The last is of you looking at him, smiling. You don’t even remember what he had said. Neither does he. But he remembers that look.

“What’s this?”

Bradley just slips the pencil into the pocket of his jeans and starts walking, nudging his elbow into yours as he passes by. “You asked me to draw you, didn’t you?”

In truth, he assumes that it’s going to be a parting gift. Call him sentimental, but Bradley always leaves something to remember him by.

When he closes his eyes, he doesn’t remember his father’s face. He has seen it in pictures before, but never in memories. No, he remembers hugging his father’s legs, and sitting on his knee. He remembers the smell of tobacco.

The replacement dog tags. The gold chain. The shoes in the box in his mother’s wardrobe. The suit that Bradley never grew into — one day it was too big and the very next, he had already outgrown it. Those are what he has to piece together parts of his father.

When you’re old and married, maybe you’ll find the drawing and piece together the parts of Bradley that made you smile like that.

You trail behind him, white tennis shoes in the trimmed green grass. A white polo shirt tucked into lemon yellow shorts, your sunglasses sweeping your hair back off of your forehead.

In another life, he’d reach back and you would wrap your palm around his index finger. He would smile at you and you would be all kinds of giddy about this date.

But this isn’t that — it doesn’t work like that this time around. Someone could see you. Bradley knows now how you’re feeling. He knows that your fiancé is on your mind. He chose once, took Natasha’s choice in her own future from her. He won’t do the same to you.

“The dinner thing,” You call out from behind him, watching your shoes travel from grass to stone pavers as you pass by an intricately carved fountain. He turns his head and peers at you over the top of his sunglasses, looking over his shoulder. “Is that really every night?”

Before you’re even done with your question Bradley’s looking ahead once again, and you’re left looking at the plain white of his cotton tee stretched pliantly over the swell of his shoulders. “Until you all start treating each other with a little respect, I guess so.”

“All of us? — Come on, Bradley, don’t act like you don’t know who the problem is.” An incredulous scoff, barely paying attention to your own words as your eyes wander around the flowered garden. “She’s just a slut, and—“

He stops and turns. Your gaze snaps from double early tulips and their puffed yellow petals to Bradley standing before you — the look in his eyes is scolding before his mouth has even moved.

“Do you listen to a single thing that I say? — Seriously?” He asks you, brows drawn together and his lips pressed into a frown. You simply blink at him.

“What?”

“She’s a slut because she has sex with her boyfriend?” He challenges you, shaking his head. The past week, Bradley has been spoon-feeding you content about the sexual culture through the history of Rome. You nod like you understand and yet, you come out with bullshit like that.

He’s the one who challenged you. You simply answer back.

“She’s a slut because he’s not her boyfriend. They’ll both tell you that.” You tell him, defiance coursing through your veins in lieu of anything that might have helped you make a stronger argument.

“What does that make me? — You listen to my stories with a smile on your face. It’s not dirty until it’s someone you don’t like, huh?” Bradley asks. He’s right, you know that much. Bradley has indubitably slept with far more people than Robin possibly could have.

Still, maybe it’s his tone that makes you need to bite back so quickly. Hands on your hips and a scowl on your face, you stand off against him before the fountain. “What does it matter to you if I think she’s a slut?”

“It matters —“ Bradley stops and takes a deep breath. He leans in by three inches and you’re met with that familiar woody smell that just makes you want him even closer. “Use your brain. Whatever your mommy and daddy taught you back home is bullshit — you’re the odd one out.”

With that, he turns and starts away from you. He won’t leave you to walk home alone, but he will walk six paces ahead so that you’re clear with the fact that you have once again stepped on his nerves.

“I’m the odd one out for respecting my body?” You call out to him.

“Respecting it, ignoring it… same difference, right? — It’s your call, honey,” Bradley walks slowly closer until the toe of his sneaker brushes yours. He lowers his voice, calm. “But choosing not to have sex doesn’t make you better than Robin.”

“I’m not your honey.” You bite back.

“Right,” Bradley nods at you. He lifts his arms and drops them back against his sides incredulously. “But here we are.”

It’s an eleven minute walk back to the hotel. You stroll behind him, sullen like a scolded child. The letter feels heavy in your bag. He might not have called you a slut, but you’ve been put in your place nonetheless. The words would never pass your lips — but he’s right. The comparison’s right there in front of you, all around you. You’re living it.

She can’t be a slut for sleeping with one boy if you’re not for whatever you’ve got going on with Bradley.

You would hold it against her, crushing like a weight, if she told your story back to you. If she was the one with a fiancé at home and a professor who spent afternoons in her hotel room.

Still, your face is hot and you’re not ready to speak to him. Halfway across the herati patterned rug that covers most of the reception area, Bradley turns and looks at you as he tucks the arm of his sunglasses into the collar of his t-shirt.

Chin high and shoulders squared, your clear path is to walk right by him. Just as you always have when a man in your life has embarrassed you.

One step ahead, Bradley catches your wrist loosely, stopping you mid-stride. “Dinner’s in five. Remember?”

“I’m not going to dinner with you.” Your answer is simple and biting. Childish. He wouldn’t be surprised if you crossed your arms and stomped your foot.

“It’s not up for discussion. Everyone’s going.” Bradley explains. Right on time, he lifts his gaze and spots Pasquale headed towards the two of you from across the lobby. It’s not like he won’t have seen the two of you argue before.

He reaches you with a smile and stands at Bradley’s side. His bald head has caught the sun, reddened slightly with head. The smile lines beside his eyes always crease when he beams at Bradley. He stands almost an entire foot shorter. Looking up at him and grinning like a kid, even though he’s older than Bradley.

“Hi, guys!” He pats Bradley’s arm jovially and turns that wide, cheesy grin to you. “How is the revision going?”

Your eyes land on the professor and suddenly there’s something dark about them that has simply nothing to do with eye colour, and everything to do with the mood he put you in.

Pasquale lives in ignorant bliss for the two seconds that it takes you to settle your hands into the shallow pockets of your lemon shorts and narrow your eyes at the professor. “Bradley’s a self-righteous asshole.”

“But what else is new!” Pasquale tries. The laugh is forced out of him and nerves shake through it. He shoots Bradley an apologetic look. Bradley’s looking at you anyway.

“She got a C minus yesterday. Still trying to figure out if it was a fluke.” Bradley bites. Your eyes widen.

Sitting on his lap, wrapped in his arms as he told you how hard you had worked — how proud he was. His hand trailing your spine. His mouth soft against yours. Butterflies tearing through your stomach.

“I think I got too much sun today. I’m going to lie down. Enjoy dinner.” Fuck mandatory. Fuck every single student on this trip. Fuck this class, and fuck him in particular. Pasquale swallows softly as you turn on your heel and head for the stairs.

Bradley turns his chin towards the ceiling. He wants to like you, he wants you to like him. In the moments that you do, everything feels so easy. Like the breeze in early June. But when you’re hell bent on arguing with him — those are like those scorching hot summers back in California. Surrounding and heavy. Pressing in on him until he bites.

“A C… that’s not so bad. Right?” Pasquale asks quietly. Bradley turns his head and looks at him, there isn’t really an answer to give. A B is the average in his class, so no — a C really isn’t bad.

The thing about old Italian hotels is that they tend to be marketed towards guests looking to lead quiet lives — romantic getaways and such. Not young women fuelled by anger. The door slams and teaches you a quick lesson in cause and effect. The painting hung on the wall to the right of the bed wobbles in complaint, then bumps to the floor. The glass frame promptly shatters across the floor.

There’s an almost calm silence that follows. A few slow blinks, and the glass is still there. The frame is still shattered. There are pieces all across the floor. Bradley still said what he said.

The soles of your tennis shoes are thin and pliant, excellent for movement but not designed to fend off glass shards. Crossing the floor at that exact moment seems like far too much of a challenge. So, you press your back to the door and slide down it. Cupping your hands tight over your mouth, you clamp your eyes tightly shut and let it go.

The scream is muffled by your palms, but probably still enough to alarm other guests.

Your bag clatters haphazardly to the floor and you lift your face from your hands just long enough to examine the mess once again. Huffing out a sadder sound than you had intended, you push weakly to your feet once again.

Until today, Verona had been your favourite stop so far. Even with that spoiled, at least you have an en-suite here. You’re more careful with that door. You tug it closed and lock it behind you, toeing off each of your shoes as you go.

These old hotels have old water heaters too. You lean across to turn the shower on first and wriggle out of your shorts, dropping your polo onto the ground with them. Facing straight ahead, you stare into the little round mirror above the sink. It’s got molding all around it that was supposed to look gold once, but the peeling paint reveals brass underneath.

Your reflection stares back at you, sullen. It’s a portrait, just your head, shoulders and chest. Swallowing doesn’t make the thickness in your throat fade. You just blink at your reflection in the mirror. The cotton t-shirt bra hugged to your chest is modest and does it’s job — nothing more.

You’ve seen lingerie — you own lingerie. You have a white teddy with matching panties reserved especially for your wedding night. Bradley has most definitely seen lingerie.

A swift inhale is followed by a baited exhale.

The memory is so distinct, standing in a mall with your mother at the ripe age of twelve, watching her soured expression as she searched through the rack.

“Lace, lace, lace.” She had tutted. Back then, you had been more concerned about someone you knew seeing you here, shopping for your first bra. You hadn’t understood.

“Mom, just grab one. I want to go home. I don’t care what I wear.” You had whined, fidgeting on your feet and brushing awkwardly at the pleats of your dress. You’ll always remember the way that she had rounded on you, eyes wide like you had asked her to buy you a thong.

“Well you should, young lady!” Her voice always sounded scarier when you were younger, even though it had always been hushed and poised.

You have been a grown up for a while now. Lived outside of her home. Had your own bank account, car, clothes — and that voice still circles in your head.

The nightdress she had gotten you last Christmas is hanging on the back of the door. Malcolm hates it. He says it reminds him of his grandmother.

You look down at the thread scissors from your sewing kit resting on the shelf beside the sink. Anger has often led you to some of your best DIYs.

“So, we all have to be here… except not actually all of us.” Robin points out, leaning back in her seat and crossing her arms over her striped t-shirt. Elbow resting on the table, Bradley turns his head to look at her.

“She’s sick, Robin, leave her alone.” Abigail mutters from beside her, pushing her fork around the plate of roasted vegetables.

“No, but I heard Bradley say mandatory. So, mandatory for everyone except—“

“Robin.” Bradley sighs, sitting back in his seat and frowning at her. The restaurant is dimly lit, almost ten of them are cramped around a table in the corner, and after your argument today, Bradley just doesn’t want to hear it. “I don’t want to hear another damn word.”

This is what Bradley hates most about education. Half of the time a punishment for his students is more of a punishment for himself, which this dinner just so happens to be. He wants them to like you. He doesn’t want to hear the bitter comments and the arguing.

Everyone’s eager to get it wrapped up and over with. It’s still early by the time that he heads back to the hotel — everyone else decides to go out for drinks again, without you. Making the entire thing pointless.

The knock at your door startles you. You wince as the pin slips into the tip of your finger, inhaling sharply. Abandoning the project on the bed, you push yourself to your feet and walk over to the door. You already know who it is.

Bradley’s gaze flickers down at the sweat shorts and T-shirt you’re wearing first, then back up to your face.

“How was dinner?” You’re already turning away from him again, stepping onto the bed and tiptoeing back across the sheets. Bradley glances behind him, then steps inside and closes the door.

“Are you done sulking?” He rests his hands on the leather belt wrapped around his hips. Sewing needle in hand, you lift your head and stare, silent. “I’m allowed to disagree—“

“Fuck you,” This time, you don’t give him a chance to finish. You turn your head and continue to thread the new hem. “What you said was cruel and you know it, this isn’t about a disagreement.”

His gaze turns towards the ceiling, hands still sitting atop his belt.

“It was. I’m sorry.” He mutters with an exhale and a shake of his head. Bradley looks back at you finally. His brows draw together and he takes a step into the room. “What are you doing?”

“Hemming.” Your answer is short.

Briefly, Bradley presses his tongue into his cheek and considers just saying goodnight. Then, he notices exactly what it is that you’re working on.

“Did you cut that in half?” He’s already crossing the room and craning his neck to get a better look. Unluckily for him, you’re finished. He watches you look up at him through your lashes and lift the nightdress, then stand up from the bed. “Oh, you’re ignoring me now?”

The door to the bathroom swings shut behind you, the thin wood does nothing to muffle your voice. “I’m not ignoring you.”

Bradley’s attention has already waned. He’s looking at the paper on your nightstand. His drawing from earlier is uncurled and illuminated in the light of the lamp, below that is your address book — opened to a page with Malcolm’s name. Dotted around are little pink hearts, his number neatly written along the line.

“Are you snooping?”

Bradley flinches, turning back towards you with a swift inhale. He remains silent, lips parted as you march from the bathroom to the wood-framed mirror about three feet from where he’s standing.

Aware of his eyes on you, you study the new garment. It sits a few inches above your knee, just above mid-thigh. The sweetheart neckline keeps it sweet. Bradley’s eyes flicker briefly downwards in the reflection. With the window open, he can’t help but notice your nipples peaked against the light cotton blend.

“What’s this?” He asks quietly.

“I wanted a change.” You answer him.

He lifts his gaze to your face, just in time for you to turn and face him. Half an hour ago, you were talking to your fiancé — and yet, you’ve got no shame in searching for Bradley’s approval like this. Maybe you aren’t as pure as you had once thought, or as your mother would like you to be. But for now, standing in front of him, you aren’t ashamed.

Malcolm had called you today from his office. He was eating a sub that one of the interns had grabbed from him and he was telling you about his week. Numbers and figures.

You had thought of everything you could tell him. Juliet and the views of the city, sitting under the tree in that garden this afternoon. Bradley.

“I’m sorry that I said what I said.” Bradley tells you. Maybe it’s just because he’s desperate to get the conversation off of the light fabric you’re wearing, but something tells you that he means it. “It was childish, and you’re right, I was being cruel.

Barefoot, you take four short steps forwards until you’re standing right in front of him.

“I’m not saying you’re right — but I shouldn’t have called Robin a slut.” The admission comes with a small, lip-twitching smile. Bradley’s hands reach forwards and curl around your hips.

“She is annoying. I’ll give you that much.” Bradley concedes. Your mouth twists into an eager grin as you press closer and shift up onto your tiptoes. Bradley steadies your hips and follows you in until your mouth is on his. Slowly, sweetly. His hands skim along the yellow fabric experimentally. He hums as he pulls away from you. “So, what’s with this?”

“You’re right. I was ignoring my body — I like the way I look in this. I like my shape. I can still respect myself without covering up so much. Right?”

Fuck. Bradley stares at you for just a split-second too long. He wrestles with the realisation of what he has just done to himself. Sure, you listened to him for once and it was a decent lesson to learn — but his summer just got considerably harder.

“Do you like it?”

He trails his fingers lightly along the fabric, careful not to touch too hard and press it against your skin. Quietly, he hums. “Sure. It’s cute.”

Bradley’s mind is swimming as he is walking back to his room. Fine, he resolved the issue that he went up there to resolve. Now, he has presented himself with a much bigger one.

His hands press into the pockets of his jeans as he starts to contextualize how deep he actually is into this mess. He hasn’t ever thought about fucking a student before — not once. He detests the men he knows that fantasize of it. And yet, here he is, picturing his fingers bunching up that stupid nightdress.

“Hey, Bradley.” Luke grins, sprawled out across his bed in the dark, reading a magazine with a flashlight. Bradley flinches. The door shuts behind him and they’re in there together. “Natasha called from Turin! She told you that she’s going to be in Venice this weekend too, she asked you to call her back.”

…

Tags: @thedroneranger @batdanceq @cassiemitchell @himbos-on-ice @wkndwlff @bradshawsbaby @damrlova @fudge13 @xoxabs88xox @mak-32 @sihtricswife @callsignvenus @callsign-joyride @harper1666 @krismdavis @sheisanangell @thecitysgraveyard @sugarcoated-lame @kmc1989 @cherrycola27

#bradley bradshaw #bradley rooster bradshaw #miles teller #bradley bradshaw smut #rooster x you #rooster bradshaw imagine #top gun smut #the odyssey #bradley bradshaw x reader

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spoonfulofmilo · 1 year ago

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I really want to see the arthur leclerc x verstappen! male! reader since we dont have much of him

okay, if you want something driver based instead of this mafia fic, I will be writing it at some point :)

also sorry this took me so long to get out I tossed a few options here and there before deciding on this one :)

Okay I came up with this so it’s a little different to the original moodboard, but if you want something accurate to the moodboard, see here

if you want to participate in my 100 followers event, look here :)

my masterlist can be accessed here

Please keep requesting - y'all have awesome ideas we agree on a lot of stuff :) - my guidelines are here, and if you want some prompts, they are here.

also feel free to come in and start chatting to me in my asks, would love to get to know y'all better

and if you want to be added to my taglist lmk :)

Also…i know there’s all the shit going around about christian horner, i just want to say that i don’t condone his actions at all, and while I have left him in this fic, I am separating the character from the person.

also warnings: death, general mafia shittiness, homophobia, bad dad jos

arthur leclerc x male!verstappen!reader

“Ermitage will be safe for you, Y/N. It has kept Max safe for years and I trust their teachers. Professor Marko, who will teach english, Professor Horner who will teach history and public speaking, and Professor Dominicelli who is the head teacher all sing their praises of Max, and have helped your admission into the school. The school does not regularly take students mid year, however based on your prior behaviour and safety. I needed to send you here.”

Y/N scoffed at his fathers words. His ‘prior behaviour’ wasn’t all that bad. Max had been sent to this school for an arson attack that had almost resulted in the deaths of 5 people, including 3 of his dad’s own men. He was being sent to this school for running away from his bodyguards, drinking and making out with a boy. But Max was his father’s golden boy, and Y/N was the spare in case a rival gang took out Max. And he was sure that Max despised the 2 of the professors, based on his letters to Y/N. He seemed to adore Professor Horner, so maybe that would be Y/N’s respite.

As the car pulled up in front of the school and crunched on the gravel driveway, Y/N took a minute to admire it.

He smiled as he saw the young children running around near the junior school. He got out of the car, smiling as he felt the warm French sum combined with a small breeze. The car had pulled up on the other side of the driveway, in between 2 other buildings. One looked very traditional, however there had clearly been an extension or five as parts looked very modern with a lot of glass. The other building was gorgeous. The other building was very traditional, looking like one of Jos’ summer houses in Denmark, all white and clearly spacious, however it had a metal spiral staircase on the outside that led to the roof. Jos would’ve killed a builder if that had been left there at their house. It made the building look less professional, and even Y/N wasn’t sure that he liked it.

Y/N watched as 3 men came out from the doors of the building. The 2 in front, both had greying hair and stern expressions, whispering amongst each other, while making disgusted looks towards Y/N. The third looked a little younger and shorter, with grey hair, attempting to look serious and stern as he walked towards the 2 with Y/N’s big brother in tow. Y/N smiled as his brother walked out with the teachers. He looked happy and better and less like he’d just torched a building than the last time he had seen him. Max whispered something in the younger man’s ears and the mask of sterness dropped to smile at the boy.

The group reached the pair of Verstappens, and Max let his guard down a little after shaking hands with their dad to give his baby brother a big bear hug, and provide some intel.

“Who’d he catch you with, huh?”

“Liam. At least it wasn’t bloody Frederik or he’d be here to inform you that I got caught up in the crossfire of a shooting and my funeral is tomorrow.”

“It was simply a matter of time. Anyway, you will like it here. Try and steer clear of Marko, he is incredibly strict and if it was still legal he would hang you from your arms from the roof until your shoulders dislocated. You will barely see Dominicelli, he just rocks up to greet you now, and you will never see him again. Horner is also our housemaster. He’s amazing. He’ll like you. He kinda adopted me after I told him how much of an asshole dear father is.”

“Okay.” Y/N smiled tensely as he pulled himself out of his brother’s hug and turned to greet the 3 strangers.

The first one looked old, as in old enough to retire, and had a stern face, as in someone who would scold you for laughing too hard. Someone after his fathers’ own heart he presumed. He held his hand out, and the man took it, shook it once, and then dropped his hand, as if disgusted to be touching ‘someone like Y/N’. So an old homophobe then. He then turned around and started talking to Jos, and Y/n tried to eavesdrop as he met the other men.

“Lawson has been dealt with, I’m just concerned about…”

The 2nd man, held out his hand and shook Y/n’s twice which was an improvement, at least until he dropped it.

“...he sort of always showed signs but I never thought…”

Then he tried to discreetly wipe his hand on his pants.

“...The Mercedes guys were there, if they had realised who he was…”

Y/N picked it up, and looked down at the ground, slightly awkward, unsure of what to do as the final teacher approached him.

“...Hamilton is pissed, one of his men was caught in the crossfire of trying to get Y/N out…”

Professor Horner immediately engulfed him in a tight hug.

“...see the problem is I can’t explain to anyone why they were shot in a random club on a random thursday to get my son out…”

It was the first time for a long time that Y/N was getting a hug from someone older like her dad’s age. He was so shocked that he missed the next part of Jos and Helmut’s conversation and strained to hear the next part.

“...i can’t tell them my son was in there…so now it looks like i shot up a nightclub for no reason…”

Christian started reassuring him in his ears about how he was safe here and whatnot, but all Y/N was thinking was about how he was preventing him from properly eavesdropping the conversation

“...No, no one important, a lackyman, Aron or something…”

Y/N could feel his heart drop. Paul was dead? He’d known Liam was dead, Jos had used him as an example, but he hasn’t even known that Paul was at the nightclub.

“...it’s done, there’s 2 dead bodies to dispose of, which im gonna do when i get back, but just keep an eye on him please…”

Christian seemed to realise the internal struggle that Y/N was having and started hugging him tighter to make him feel better.

“...He’s gonna get everyone killed and he will only realise when he loses his brother the consequences his actions have…”

‘I KNOW WHAT CONSEQUENCES MY ACTIONS HAVE DAD, YOU KILLED MY KIND OF BOYFRIEND IN FRONT OF ME!’ Y/N wanted to scream at his dad, but that would make him realise that he was eavesdropping and why he was actually here.

Christian felt him tense and tried to sooth him into the hug.

“Alright, that’s enough, Christian, how about we head inside?”

—

Arthur could recognise the boy walking in, but he couldn’t see the father which would help if he could work out why his body was in fight and flight mode as the boy had seen him, waved and smiled at him.

A memory flashed, of a meeting him and all his brothers together in a meeting room, as their father ran them through their highest enemies. He could remember the smile of a kid his age. He remembered Lorenzo asking how a 5 year old could be a threat…he doesn’t remember the rest or why this kid is a threat, but he remembers the goofy smile, the smile that was being flashed his way now, and the eyes that held so much happiness that seemed to hold a lot more pain now.

He couldn’t remember why this kid was in the powerpoint, so he supposed it was okay and irrelevant and smiled back, before being hurried on by Lorenzo.

---

taglist: @leosxrealm, @ghostking4m

#f1 x reader #miloformula123fan #f1 fanfic #f1 x male reader #f1 fic #f2 x reader #f2 fanfic #f2 fic #f2 x male reader #arthur leclerc x reader #arthur leclerc #arthur leclerc moodboards #arthur leclerc x male reader #arthur leclerc x you #arthur leclerc x y/n

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sleepy-harper · 9 months ago

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strawberry little re2r ada wong moodboard

uwahh she is so,, strawberry,, I can imagine her getting comfy on a couch with a blanket,, maybe a book in tow,, eating a bowl of strawberries as she softly mumbles the words aloud to herself,,

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melancholicstation · 8 months ago

Note

how on earth do you write so fast please teach me 🤲

i try to tow the balance between quality and quantity but honestly once i have a fic idea if I find myself thinking about it more than once in a day: I sit down and dedicate 2 hours to moodboarding and writing. honestly what’s helped me (quickness wise) is by doing really simple planning (beginning, middle and end) while the ideas are fresh in my head and coming back to them sporadically when i have time during the week. like during a day I’ll contribute to it bit by bit in my drafts and by the end of the day it’s normally done. though i forget to edit out mistakes all the time: out of sheer laziness so that might be an unwanted product of my productivity i fear …

adore you and your fics as always 🍶

#answered asks #asks

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coffeebooksrain18 · 8 months ago

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i see you make moodboards for twilight, are you a twilight fan😍😍pleeeeaaase give me all your twilight opinions!!!

Ooooh! Never been asked about Twilight yet!

Firstly I hate Edward, Team Jacob all the way but I'm mostly a Jacob deserved better team.

Hate Edward and Hate Bella because...Jesus those tow suck. Edward is a stalker which is gross, he also believes he's better than other vamps cause he drinks animals instead of Humans even though he forgets many probably were never taught this was a option or even knew or thought it was a option.

Then there's Bella...where do I start? She's a mage bitch. She's always worried how others think of her and her looks and then instantly judge anyone she meets and how they look or act. Also she used Jake when Edward left, made him think there was a chance even though there wasn't and she knew that.

I LOVE Rose! Yeah she's a bitch too but you at least can understand why unlike Bella. All of the Cullans traumas are fleshed out and interesting and you understand why they act the way they do, except Edward. It really felt like Stef didn't want to flesh his out more or else she knew we'd HATE him.

Also I'm not a active part in the fandom, I read fics from time to time but I don't make posts lol.

Thanks for the ask Anon!

#twilight #the twilight saga #anti bella swan #anti edward cullen #pro jacob black #jacob black #anon ask #anon answered #anonymous

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malarkgirlypop · 2 years ago

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The Devil Wears a Suit and Tie

YEEHAW AND HOWDY PARTNERS, ARE YA'LL ALL SADDLED UP?

This is the AU from the moodboard I created for Cowboy Malark. I have become completely obsessed with him and I have no idea who long this is going to be. But slay, if no one else likes it, that's fine I will have him all to my self ehehe.

This based on the characters from the HBO show and the actors who portray them. No hate to anyone involved.

Tag list: @deputy-buck, @ronald-speirs, @whollyjoly, @footprintsinthesxnd, @next-autopsy, (let me know if you want to be tagged in this series x)

Malarkey rose with the sun. The sound of the early birds chirping, the crisp morning air, Malarkey always liked to be the first one awake. He often pretended he was the only person alive in the world, during these times.

He sipped his coffee, sitting on the porch overlooking the ranch. They had hectares of land sprawling over the lush green mountains. On those mountains were their livestock, roaming freely on the land. Malarkey often dreamed of being one of them, no shackles holding them back, they were free to go where they pleased, unaware of the danger that surrounded them.

Don finished the bitter drink, putting his mug in the sink. His gear was packed for today, and he was ready for it.

Today they were mustering the livestock back to the main fields for health checks, shearing, deworming, breeding and the works. It was going to be a long ride; he first had to find the stock in the miles and miles of land, and then bring them back to the ranch in one piece. It wasn’t easy work, but Don was no stranger to this operation. In fact he looked forward to it. A whole day just him, the dogs and his horse. No one could ask for a better day.

“Scout, Tiller! Let’s go!” Don called the collie and cattle dogs. They raised their heads from their slumber, slowly making their way out to Don.

“Don’t look so sleepy you two, big day today.” He spoke to the dogs who stretched their long bodies.

With the two dogs in tow, Don made his way to the barn.

“Hey, Lady!” Don spoke to the horse who nickered gently back at him. He pressed his hand into the bridge of her nose and she nuzzled against him. Him and Lady went way back. He had brought her up as a foal, when her mother died. Don had hand reared the newborn all by himself. Now they were as thick as thieves, Skip and Alex often said they were somehow so alike.

Don prepped Lady for the ride. Since it was going to be a long day, he had ensured to bring water and snacks for the dogs and him. Don had also packed for an emergency stay as well, sometimes things went wrong up in the mountains, livestock could get lost or injured as he led them back down, or it could take longer for him to find them. So he ensured he packed warm gear, a tent, his sleeping bag and everything else he could need for if he was stuck for a couple nights up in the mountain. Lady could eat the greenery and drink from the river if she needed.

Don checked all of her hooves, but he knew her shoes would be fine since he was the one who had fitted them. Along with being the musterer, he also was the ranch farrier. The men often said that Don enjoyed the company of the animals more than people. They weren’t wrong, Donald often preferred to speak to the animals quietly as he worked. He would tell them all his secrets and worries, even though they couldn’t speak back he knew they understood him. But there were some people he often preferred the company of better than the animals. His Easy men. The men who worked tirelessly alongside him on the ranch. Though they weren’t related by blood, they were his chosen family. They had come from all over the country to move into the ranch and start the business. It had been shaky at the start since they didn’t have much money but after a while it all came together. The men couldn’t be happier off in their own little paradise with their friends, doing the jobs they loved. They all had their roles and took them very seriously.

Don loaded his rifle, ensuring the safety was on before slinging it over his back. Lady was all ready for the hike and so were the dogs, restlessly playing with each other in the hay.

Don led Lady out into the field with Scout and Tiller on their heels. He glanced back at the ranch, seeing all the rooms still dark with curtains pulled. He mounted up into the worn saddle, nudging Lady in her side with a click of his tongue, she was off walking.

The walk up the mountains was peaceful. The sounds of nature were calming as Don just quietly existed. These mountains were mostly untouched by human hands, only the men from Easy venturing out into the thick woods. The trees seemed to know the men. Don had been lucky, at how all the previous musterings had gone. He believed the mountains and nature knew he meant no harm and let him pass freely. Scout and Tiller didn’t go far from him, there were predators far greater and stronger than them in these woods. The dogs knew their limits of how far they would stray before it becomes too dangerous. Hence why Don carried a gun. Mountain lions, Wolves, Coyotes, and Bears were to name a few of the predators that called the forest home. Most of the livestock survived, they were smart and knew when to move. But with the mating season coming up, the birth of new animals would cause unwanted attention. That is why the mustering would be important, getting the stock down to the fields closer to the ranch for the men to keep a watchful eye on. It would cost the men a lot of stock if they weren’t to move them.

Don breathed in letting the crisp air fill his lungs. Lady began to walk slower, stopping more frequently to try and eat. Malarkey knew the ques of his horse, she was getting tired. He dismounted with ease, putting the reigns behind her head so that she could walk around and graze in the meadow he had stopped in. He gathered the supplies he needed from Lady’s saddle bags. Sitting under the shade of the big oak tree that stood alone in the field. Scout and Tiller came to rest under the tree as well, tongues lolling from their mouths as they panted. Don poured water he had carried for them into a bowl, they lapped frantically at the water getting their fill. Don also put out the food he had brought them, Scout and Tiller almost finishing their food instantly. Don chuckled watching them scoff down the food as quickly as possible.

“Gosh you act like we don’t feed you.” He teased, patting the dogs as they ate. Don soon got to his own meal once everyone else had been looked after. Pouring himself a hot drink from the flask he had brought, and chomping into the sandwich that Lipton had made him the previous night from him to take. After eating his fill, Don leaned back against the thick trunk of the tree. Resting his hat over his eyes to shield from the warm sun that filtered through the leaves. In his head he thought about where he saw the stock last. As they had walked he kept an eye out for tracks and scat to figure out how long ago the stock had moved through there. From his findings they hadn’t been at the edge of the woods where they had moved through in a while. Most likely finding shelter up in the higher mountain ranges. As most of the predators didn’t venture up that far, due to the cold and treacherous terrain. Don knew he would have to hike further up into the mountain out of the trees and into the rocky landscape if he wanted to find the stock. He sighed removing the hat from his face, they had rested long enough, it was time to move on again.

It wasn’t long before they found the edge of the woods, the trees dispersed slowly, leaving them exposed to the cold wind. Donald zipped up the front of his thick wool lined jacket, it was worn but it did the job keeping out frigid gale. The signs of the stock were getting closer as well, Don knew he was on the right track. He had spotted fresh scat and tracks from the animals, they had been here recently. He followed his intuition, but the beasts were also predictable. Don knew all of their favorite spots up in the mountain. There were certain clearings that held fresh grass for them to graze and a couple of groups of trees for shelter. They would go where they felt most safe, Don knew exactly where that was. Scout and Tiller’s ears perked, whining lowly, they had heard the stock, so they were close.

The dogs led the way, using their strong noses and keen senses to track the animals down. Don followed behind them, Lady working hard up the hill. She was an Australian stock horse, she could run fast but only for short bursts. Lady was known for her hardy breed, endurance, sure footedness, agility, and good temperament. She was the loveliest horse they had on the ranch. Well that’s what Don said but he was biased since he raised her. The men all had their own horse, they all had stories of how they came into possession of the horse that they owned. But the men all loved their animals fiercely, they were part of the family.

The dogs Scout and Tiller were also Don’s. Scout’s mother, Winters’ dog, Poppy had given birth to the litter after Lew’s dog, Whiskey, had gotten her pregnant. They had a big litter of 10, Don had chosen the runt, which was Scout. She was a good dog, one of the best herders in the packs of mutts they had on the ranch. Don trained her tirelessly, but Collies were smart and keen herders, it was easy for her to pick up. Tiller, the cattle dog, was found on the side of the street. Some low life had dumped him on the side of the highway, left for dead. Don had made Skip turn all the way back around in a loop so he could pick him up. He had cared for all his animals with so much love, the men often teased that he had chosen all of the outcasts, the unlucky ones. Don didn't see them as that though, they were strong and resilient, fighting against all odds to survive.

Don could now hear the stock, their low moo’s echoed around the mountain. They arrived just out of sight from the herd.

“Tiller cast.” Don called to the dog, who immediately sprinited off to round up the herd. He ran around the stray cows from the group nipping at their heels to get them to move in the direction he wanted.

“Scout hold!” Don told Scout, she stood her ground at the front of the herd stopping them from moving as Tiller rounded them into a neat group. Scout darted from side to side at the front, staring down the cows that tried to move without her permission.

“Come bye, Tiller!” Don instructed the dog to go clockwise around the stock, to ensure all of the cows were in the group.

With Tiller at the back and Scout at the front, they could usher the herd down the hill. The cows knew to follow, so the dogs didn’t have to work too hard. But they were there in case one of the cows tried to stray from the group.

“Scout stand. Tiller speak up!” Don commanded the dogs. Scout eased up on her position, letting the stock move forward, as Tiller barked at the herd to get them moving. They were all experienced with this drill, even the cows knew it well. It wasn’t long before they were off down the mountains again.

The dogs ensured the herd stayed together and Don followed up the rear. It was getting later in the evening, the sun was setting quickly. It wouldn’t be safe to move in the dark, as it was easy to get lost in the thick woods. Also the low visibility increased the risk of injury from all parties, and Don wasn’t going to risk the health of his animals to get back to the ranch in one day.

There was an overflow field only about 10 minutes away from here, Don could get them all there in time in the fenced field so they could all rest safely for the night.

Scout in the front of the herd started barking, Don looked to see what was going on. It wasn’t normal for her to bark since she was a silent herding dog. Don clicked his tongue getting Lady to move a bit faster as he made his way to the front of the group. Scout growled into the thick woods with her hackles raised. There was something out there. Don was quick pulling the gun from his back and flicking off the safety. He raised it, eyes scanning the dense trees, looking for a sign of movement. Scout still stood growling and snapping at the trees, she was disturbed by whatever was out there. It wasn’t often Don encountered the predators that lurked in the forest, but he knew what he had to do to keep himself and the rest of the group safe.

Don’s ear perked as a twig snapped close by, a lot closer than he assumed the creature was. He cocked the gun, readying himself to fire.

“Please! Don’t shoot!”

#omg #this was so fun to write #learnt how to herd cattle for this #watch me now move to a farm #to show off my new skills #band of brothers #hbo war #donald malarkey #fanfic

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theoverlyenthusiasticwriter · 1 year ago

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Fenrys x Azriel Masterlist

So, for context, in all of these headcannons, Fenrys accidentally fell into Velaris while working for Maeve (pre-Aelin) and while Rhys was still under the mountain. He doesn't speak the language, so Mor uses her magic as kind of an automatic translator that doesn't work on writing or music.

*These are not in order. Some of them may also occur after Fenrys leaves Velaris and finds his way back fifty years later*