The Signs and Gates:

Aries: The space between two mountains in the distance. The sky looks different. You can hear the beating of colossal wings.

Taurus: The fault line. A cliff where there was a field two weeks prior. The soil concealed a plate of polished black stone.

Gemini: The sudden sense that the bathroom rug is covering a hole. Stepping on it would cause you to fall into the pit. You cant seem to take your eye off it.

Cancer: Now entering a town with a four digit population. The gas station is adorned with thousands of wind chimes. There is no wind.

Leo: An overgrown cemetery. Its significance is lost to time. Paupers and kings feeding the roots of young trees. 

Virgo: The sky outside is grey. The window is fogged up with rain. Light and shapes dance in the blurry patterns.

Libra: The space behind the desks at the public library. A tiny place of dust and lost pens, yet it seems so far away.

Scorpio: A statue holds a lantern over the path. Its features are rough and weathered. The lamp is still bright.

Ophiuchus: A log fallen over a river. It absolutely feels like a trap. 

Sagittarius: The staircase overlooking the ballroom. Colors feel brighter, hazier, as you move down.

Capricorn: The deepest room of an old aluminum refinery. The great steel heart. You feel bigger here somehow.

Aquarius: A colossal grey boulder now cracked open like an egg. It reveals the glittering geode inside. 

Pisces: An abandoned wolf den. 

Unfaithful (Bill Skarsgård)

Based upon: Waiting up for Bill but ending up passing out on the couch. He comes home early the next morning, only to find you asleep on the couch. He slept with another woman that night, and plans on breaking the news to you in the morning.

It had been a pleasant day; work went well, plans were made for Saturday night and she had arrived home an hour earlier than usual. She would have the house to herself for the night, due to Bill’s plans with Alexander, so she decided to order in some takeout and watch a film or two. She had made him promise to be home around midnight because they had to get up early the next morning to drive to his father’s place for the day.

It was two in the morning and he was not answering his cellphone. The sky was pitch black, lit only by the street lamps and passing cars of the people still awake, and it was pouring rain.

She leant against the wooden frame of the window at the back of their apartment which looked over the water, wearing only her white slip. Her eyes watched the rain pound against the window glass before her, the droplets hitting in rough, arrhythmic beats. The weather could not have represented the difference in how she felt between twelve and two o'clock better. She fell into the foreboding, depressing haze; waiting for the impending disaster to unravel.

She took a drag of her cigarette, then blew the wisps of smoke from her lips slowly. She had finally quit smoking just over a year ago, but the feeling of the roll-up between her lips and the smoke leisurely filling up the space around her was comforting. More than anything, it gave her something to do to keep her mind off of him.

For another half hour she leaned against the window and stared at the water below while mindlessly going through cigarettes. Once she finished one she would stub it out in Bill’s dark blue ashtray and fish another out from his stash, pick up his silver lighter, light another and return her position against the window frame. This kept her busy.

The rainfall never let up once, never slowed or never quickened it seemed, it only kept the same harsh pace. She watched as the raindrops hit the glass, stuck, then began to slip down the window slowly, only to be replaced again and again. She ran a finger down the glass, which was cool under her touch, and followed the rolling drops.

Again, her gaze fixated on the powerfully lapping waves in the water below. “Bill…” She whispered absent-mindedly, not aware she had even muttered a word.

She stubbed her last cigarette and sat down on their black leather sofa. It was clear that he was not coming home, but why, she did not know. It was too much for her to process anyways; she was tired, beginning to feel disoriented and utterly exhausted after a day in the office, so she let herself collapse against the plush, supple fabric. The second her eyes closed she fell into a deep slumber.

It was five in the morning.

Bill fit his key into the lock, turned the knob and pushed the door open slowly, as to not wake his girlfriend. The fact he could even consider her in his intoxicated state was a miracle to say the least.

He shut the door and tossed his silver keys onto the kitchen counter. He rubbed his fingers against his tried eyes and pushed his hair back; he was hammered. However, the sight of his girlfriend passed out on the living room couch sobered him up immediately.

She was sleeping on her side, head laying on the arm of the sofa and body curled into a fetal position. He knew then that she had tried to stay up for him, angry of course, but still waiting to see him. It felt like he had been stabbed in the heart; she had been waiting up for him while he was fucking some other woman.

As he stepped closer to her, footsteps light as not to wake her, he noticed the pile of smoked cigarettes in his ashtray. His thoughts drifted to how happy she was when she finally stopped, how she felt free to do whatever she pleased and gloated about how she was going to live a longer life than him. He looked at the cigarettes and felt riddled with guilt; it was all his fault.

Carefully, he pulled her unconscious body into his arms and lifted her up against his chest. He began to make his way to their bedroom.

“Baby?” She asked incoherently, barely awake.

“Sh, sleep.” He told her, entering their bedroom.

She sluggishly squirmed in his arms. “I tried waiting for you.” She said drowsily.

He gave her a sad smile. “I know, Baby.” He echoed, softly setting her down on top of their light grey sheets.

She fell back asleep as he pulled the sheets over her cold body, making her subconsciously snuggle into the newly provided warmth.

He stood and discarded his clothing onto the floor then slipped into bed beside her, turning his body to face her. His eyes went glassy and he knew he would not be able to sleep; this could be the last night he spent with her.

The faint rays of the morning sun woke her at nine o'clock.

Her eyes instantly snapped open and she turned to look at the other side of the bed; no Bill. Where had he gone? Was he not coming back?

“Shit!” He said angrily from the kitchen, having had spilled freshly brewed coffee on his hand.

She sat up and hurriedly pulled on some clothes for the day, knowing that they were going to be late to Stellan’s. After dressing in black slacks and a white button up blouse, she rushed into the kitchen, pulling on her high heels as she did so.

“We’re already late. Are you ready to leave soon?” She asked, more worried about making a bad impression on his father than what happened the previous night.

When he didn’t respond she looked up and saw his uncomfortable posture.

“Bill?” She pressed.

He ran his fingers through his light brown locks and bit his lip; this was the end.

“I fucked up.”

She shook her head. “Bill, it’s fine. Look, I would have preferred you coming home when you said you would or at least giving me a call, but it’s alright.” She explained.

Nothing she said improved his expression, he still looked downtrodden.

“Bill, don’t worry. Let’s just go to your dad’s place, okay?” She pleaded lightly.

He set down his coffee mug, gripped the counter with both hands and took a deep breath. “I slept with someone.” He revealed.

She was not ready for that.

“You what?” She asked, voice venomous.

His green eyes went glassy, knowing that she would never forgive him. It was the biggest mistake of his life, he regretted it more than anything.

“I’m sorry.” Was all he could muster.

Instantly, tears slipped from her eyes, running down her cheeks.

He expected her to yell at him, tell him how horrible he was and how she could never do what he did. He was most afraid to hear her say that she hated him.

Her reply was anything but expected.

“Why?” Her face relaxed and the word came out simply.

He held the counter tighter, “I… I don’t know.”

“You’re telling me you slept with another woman… just because?” She wondered sarcastically.


“Then we return to my original question. Why?” She repeated, eyes growing darker with hatred.

His body, always held high, looked stiff and awkward as he stood before her. She had never seen him look less pulled together.

“I…” He went silent. “I-” He stuttered.

She strode past him, grabbing her keys from the counter and headed to the front door.

“Babe!” He called, following her down the hallway.

She did not turn to face him, she simply unlocked the door and pulled it open.

“We’re done. You better be out of here before I come back.” She spat, looking over her shoulder.

The look she gave him was unlike anything he had seen before, she had loved him and he had loved her.

“Bill!” She squealed, a smile forming on her lips.

He had pressed her back against the wall the second she shut her apartment door behind them.

She flung her keys to the counter, hearing a soft ‘cling’ as they hit the granite, and met his lips. His large hand ran through her hair, curving to fit her head.

Suddenly, he reached down and began to rid her of her wool jacket, moving on to rip off her blouse.

“There’s no need to rush.” She teased playfully, grinning up at him.

But there was.

He slipped the scarf off his neck and shrugged off his coat, letting it fall to the ground before recapturing her lips.

“I’ve wanted you for so long.” He breathed, his warm breath fanning her neck; just over where he had kissed her.

He picked her up by her thighs and she slung her arms around his neck, pulling herself even closer to him. His lips hardly left hers as he took her to her bedroom, only to place her on her bed.

She slid her pants down her legs while he lifted his t-shirt over his head. Leaning back on her elbows, she watched his fingers as he unbuckled his belt, tossed it on the floor and tugged off his pants.

“And now you’re all mine.” He said deeply, lining himself up with her entrance.

He kissed her as he pushed himself inside of her, eliciting a breathy moan from her throat.

“All yours.” She promised, chest rising and falling heavily while adjusting to him.

He took her smaller hands in his large ones and pushed them further up the bed, her arms straightening as he went.

Finally, he rolled his hips against hers, causing her to clutch his hands fiercely.

“All yours.” She repeated breathlessly.

He looked down at his now girlfriend, mesmerized by how beautiful she was. He watched as she writhed with pleasure underneath him, feeling completely and wholeheartedly in love.

He needed nothing else.

It broke his heart.

After she left, Bill stood in the hallway for ten minutes, staring at the door. He could not comprehend how his world was destroyed in just a few minutes.

He wished he had never fucked the woman at the club.

Because I love those hours before the sun comes up, when you wake up for a moment and you realize you can stay in bed just a little while longer. And you’re safe. And there’s no rush. And it’s quiet. For all my hub loves. xo Pre-pancakes, so it’s v smutty. Don’t get me wrong, it’s highly emotional and descriptive, but it’s still porn. To experience the full mood of this thing, I’d recommend listening to Max Richter’s “Three Worlds” as you read.  @captainwiley @dassala @the-reason-to-sail-home @thejollypirate @businesscasualprincess @shoedonym @katie-dub @abbadons-little-witch @swanandapirate @mahstatins

+ It’s dark when she opens her eyes. Not the dark of late evening, when the stars have begun to twinkle in the sky—when the only sound to be heard is the choral chirping of insects, the darkening of doorways. No, it’s a darkness that knows it will have to fade eventually, a grey dawn that casts their bedroom in a hazy, dreamlike glow.

A nippy, quiet breeze smelling suspiciously of rain tiptoes through the open window and she catches the scent of him on the air. It’s a spicy mixture of cologne and sweat, a warm, enticing blend that clashes wonderfully with the fresh, tingling wetness of an impending storm. She can feel his rough, weathered fingers against the bare flesh of her waist. The tap, tap, tapping of his thumb against her belly. The smooth, hard metal of his ring against her stomach not unlike the steady ringing of a church bell, a far off song, a call to his side.

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Morning After: Thor imagine

The morning was cold but perfect. The storm outside took over the perfect Asgard weather. But this was your favorite weather. Rough and raw dark skies as rain harshly pummeled against the window. The thunder sounding ever few times in an almost peaceful way to you. The lightening ever so slightly slipping light in the dark room.

Even if it was freezing in the bedroom you felt nothing but warmth as you laid in the large silk bedding with the arms of a God around you.

You laid securely on top of Thor’s chest. He was a giant compared to you. He laid under you, one arm slung over your waist as his other hand rested on your thigh… right under your bum. Your fave was buried in his neck as your leg was thrown over him. Your bodies were pressed against each other as close as possible. 

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I’ll always be here when you need someone to talk to. I’ll always be here, when your plans all seem to fall through. I’ll be here to lean on, when times get tough. And I’ll still be here when the weather gets rough. I’ll be here for you when you need someone to talk with for awhile. Because when it comes to you I’d do anything, just to see you smile.

The first time he enters her, he cries.

The sudden feeling of completion overwhelms him.  It’s as though his spirit has been fragmented his whole life, without his ever really having known it, and now suddenly, with every part of her surrounding every part of him, his soul has been re-knit, restored, returned to him with all its once-gaping holes lovingly mended.  

He doesn’t try to hide it because he knows she’ll understand- and she does.  She lies beneath him, cradling his head in her hands, and when she sees the tears sparkling in his eyes, she draws his face down to hers.  She kisses his lips, tenderly, kisses each of his eyes in turn, and brings his forehead to rest against her own.

He tries to speak, but finds that he can’t… and again, she understands.  She holds her fingers to his lips, stilling him.  "I know,“ she whispers.  "I feel it, too.”

He kisses her, long and slow, and begins to move within her.


The first time they’re together after he’s returned to her, he cries.

She’s promised him, repeatedly, that this is okay, that he’s not going to hurt her, not going to hurt the baby, but still, his movements are timid, cautious.  The sight of her doubled over in pain in her living room is much too fresh in his memory.

He lies curled behind her, framing her small body with his, spooned against her, in the position they’d loved to sleep in, before, but had never used for lovemaking.  But now, with their child between them, she says it’s the best option.  And when he at last slips into her, he’s glad she can’t see his face, can’t see the tears streaming down his cheeks as he finally feels, for the first time, that he is home.

She knows, though.  She always knows.  She arches her back against him, twisting her head over her shoulder to capture his mouth with her own.  She brushes his tears away with her thumb, stroking his cheek.  He runs his hand along her body, down her shoulder, over the ridges of her ribcage, around her waist, and across her round belly.

There’s a twitch under his fingers, a sudden ripple in her skin, and he jerks his hand away in surprise.  She chuckles and takes his fingers in her own, placing them back on her belly and holding them there.  He feels their child moving against his hand and thinks, We did that.  Just by doing what we’re doing right now.  And he wonders- the way he’d felt, that first time, had he known, somehow?

She reaches behind herself and clutches at his body, impatient, and after that it’s difficult to think at all anymore.


Their first time after they’ve escaped and driven off together, he cries.

He’d believed, for months, that this would never, ever happen again, that it was impossible.  And until barely a day ago, he’d believed that he was going to die without ever knowing this bliss again.  The first long, slow slide into her welcoming warmth seems to wake something deep within him, seems to tear off the suffocating shroud that his prolonged solitude has wrapped him in.  

He’s dismayed to find that it hurts her.  He wants to stop, but she refuses.  "It’s not that unusual,“ she says.  "Many women experience some pain, the first time after… after…..”  She closes her eyes, holding her own tears in check.  He wishes she wouldn’t, wishes she would just let go, but he knows that she’s never found it easy to cry around anyone, not even him… and he’s been gone for so long.  

So instead, he allows himself to cry, and in soothing his pain, she forgets her own.  For now.


The first time he’s with her in the new house, he cries.

He remembers their first time together, in his bed in his Arlington apartment, neither of them concerned with having to go anywhere at all except to work the next morning, after which they could return, together, and make love again.  Repeat ad nauseam.

On the road, on the run, the constant question of “Where next?” had stolen all possibility of real rest from them.  They had settled down each night wondering whether tomorrow would be the day they would be caught, the day the running would finally come to an end for them, the day that all hope of escape would be dashed forever.  Lovemaking had been tense, anxious, each constantly keeping an ear out, unable to truly lose themselves in one another.  

This house represents an end to all of that… but it doesn’t truly sink in for him until he’s lying on top of her in their new bed, upstairs in their new house.  He will make love to her here tonight, they will go to sleep, and tomorrow, they will wake up together.  Tomorrow night, they’ll do the same thing… and the night after that, and the night after that, and on and on.  He’s never before in his life found the idea of an unchanging routine to be quite so beautiful.

“Only good times from here on,” he tells her, and in the moonlight shining through their bedroom window, she looks as though she would very much like to believe him.


The first time they make love after reconciling, he cries.

He had done everything she had asked of him… eventually.  He had gotten himself out of the house.  He had made the psychiatric appointments (and eventually, he’d even started going to them).  He had filled the prescriptions, had taken the pills, had gotten active again, had developed a routine.  They had returned to the FBI, and he had thrown himself into his work with just as much passion as before- but with far fewer of the foolish risks he’d been given to taking in his youth.

But without her, it had been like preparing a gourmet meal and placing it on an empty table, performing a concerto to a vacant opera house, painting a portrait and hanging it facing the wall.  He knows what she would say if she could hear his thoughts: she would remind him, yet again, that he has to do these things for himself, that doing them just for her would be unhealthy, would be missing the point.

And he has done them for himself.  But what use is it all, without her to share it with?  His life, without her in it, is a “how” without a “why.”  He knows now that she cannot be solely responsible for mending the tears in his soul- he must see to many of them on his own- but sharing it with her is what makes the pain of mending worthwhile.

They’re not as young as they once were.  Their bodies have changed, skin loosening where it was once firm, lean frames hardened and weathered by rough use… but she is more beautiful to him than she has ever been before, a treasure restored to him after a long, painful absence.

She wraps her legs around him, and he is home.  The tears are flowing freely down his cheeks, but he doesn’t care, because he knows she understands.  She always understands.

She takes his head gently in her hands and presses her forehead to his.  "I know,“ she says.  "I feel it, too.”

Etched In Ink- An Ivar Imagine

So this is what I wrote yesterday instead of attending to my responsibilities. I’ve been wanting to write this idea for a while, hope you enjoy!

TW: blood, knife play, tattooing with a needle

“Are you sure about this?”

Ivar rolls his eyes, spreading out his tools on the long, well worn table. “I have told you already, woman, I’ve seen it done many times. It does not appear all that difficult.”

You fidget nervously with the neckline of your dress, watching your lover wipe down a very long and very sharp needle. You shiver.

“Yes, but you’ve never actually done it before,” you point out, your voice laced with anxiety. “What if you make a mistake? What if you tap too hard and accidentally kill me? What if-”

Ivar cuts you off with a soft growl. “You said you wanted a tattoo. I said I wanted to be the one to give it to you. Here we are. Are you going to get up on the table or not?”

He gives you a hard look, his beautiful blue eyes burning into your skin. You sigh. You do really want a tattoo. And you trust your body with your lover implicitly. He has taken perfect and reverent care of it since you first offered it to him. So you cross the room and climb up onto the table.

“That’s my good, sweet girl,” he praises you as you lie down. He glides a hand over your face and down your neck, touch light as a feather. You can feel the familiar flush creep up your body as he expertly unties the front laces of your dress. He pushes the fabric down to reveal the skin right over your heart. One calloused finger circles the area, brushing over the top of your left breast teasingly. Shivers shoot down your spine.

“Are you going to tattoo me, or just grope me?” You ask, your voice coming out more breathy that it should. He chuckles darkly, hand covering your breast and squeezing roughly. You shoot him a glare, even though you are half tempted to forget the tattooing and make him put his hand in other places.

“What is if that you want? You never did say,” He asks, removing his hand to prepare the needle.

“A Vegvisir,” you say, and watch as his brow furrows in confusion.

“You want a compass?”

“Yes,” you nod, firm in your decision. “And I will tell you why after this infernal process is over.”

He shrugs. “Whatever you wish.” He looks at the patch of skin again. “I think I will have to lay out a pattern first, so I have something to work off of.” He reaches down to his belt and pulls out his knife. “I will just carve it lightly into your skin with this.” A smirk blooms across his face. “This at least you are well acquainted with.”

Are you ever. Ivar loves to use his knife on you when you are alone and nestled under the furs. He also loves to have it used on him in return. It’s not something you would have foreseen yourself enjoying, but Ivar has a way of drawing out the deepest and darkest parts of you and twisting them to your mutual pleasure.

“Hold still, sweet girl,” he places the blade against your skin, the coolness of the metal familiar and a little thrilling. You wince slightly as he makes the first shallow cut, his brows drawn together in concentration.

“You know, you may have to be more careful with the marks you leave on me,” you try your best to keep perfectly still. “Yesterday the new slave girl who helped me bathe asked if I’d been bitten by a wild animal.”

He continues working but his face splits into a feral grin, no doubt picturing the very red and fresh bite mark he’d left on your inner right thigh the other night. “What did you tell her?”

It’s your turn to grin. “I said yes.”

That makes him bark out a laugh, his blue eyes crinkling at the corners in the way you love. “Naughty thing,” he teases.

It doesn’t take him long to carve out the design. Before you know it he is putting down his knife and leaning forward to press his face into your chest. You suck in a breath, waiting for what you know is coming. Ivar does not wipe away blood. At least not with his hands.

The first stroke of his velvety tongue has you sighing in bliss. The warmth and wet feels wonderful on the sting of the shallow cuts. He licks in long, slow strokes, pausing every once and a while to let out a soft groan of pleasure. You melt to a languid liquid under his ministrations, your bones becoming soft and pliant and ready to bend to his complete will.

He pulls back all too soon, licking his lips like a cat who ate the cream. You watch the last of your crimson blood disappear into his mouth, unable to help but squirm as heat creeps up your spine. Ivar notices, and chides you gently with a wicked smile.

“Not yet, sweet girl,” he coos, picking up the ink and the dye. “Afterwards, if you are very good and keep very still, I will reward you. Now, I must get to work, or we will be here all night.”

You huff in frustration but attempt to calm your body. After all, you do really want this tattoo. You can be patient.

You watch him place the ready needle against your skin. A stab of fear runs trough you. It’s silly really, you’ve had his blade on you more time than you can count and you’ve never felt anything but excitement. This shouldn’t be much different. Except if he makes a mistake, you’ll have to walk around with it on your body for the rest of your life.

Ivar does not coddle you as he senses your fear, however. He simply gives you a broad wink, and taps the needle into your skin.

It hurts, but not as much as you thought it would. It feels like being stabbed with a million little tiny knives, over and over again. Painful, but not unbearable. You decide to focus on Ivar’s face, letting your eyes linger on every handsome feature. The stormy blue eyes, the sharp cheekbones, the soft, pouty lips, the strong jaw. A face you have come to love more dearly than you could have even imagined. You think of the meaning of the ink he is currently etching in to your skin and you feel your heart swell. You hope he will like the symbolism of your tattoo.

You lie on the table for what feels like forever. Ivar barely says anything, his face a mask of concentration. You’d given up trying to talk to him after he’d snapped at you to shut up and let him work. You have tried your best to keep still but you find yourself squirming more than once. Each time, Ivar had hissed through his teeth and you had quickly stilled. But you’d been here for ages. If you were on this table much longer, you’d go mad.

“There,” Ivar says finally, pulling away and removing the needle from your skin. “I think I am finished.”

“How does it look?” You ask anxiously, craning your neck to try to get a glimpse of the ink now permenantly a part of you. Ivar reaches behind him and produces a piece of reflective glass Bjorn had procured on his latest Mediterranean raid. You sit up slowly, wincing at the ache in your chest.

“See for yourself,” he hands you the glass, a self satisfied look on his face. You take it from him, taking a deep breath before looking. You let out a surprised gasp.

It’s beautiful. Pure, midnight black lines, perfectly etched. The shape is even, everything is in its proper place. You smile as you admire it. You had to say, your lover had done an amazing job.

“I love it,” you turn your gaze to Ivar, who gives you a genuine smile in return. “Thank you, Ivar. It’s beautiful.”

“I told you it would be fine,” he takes the reflective glass from you, putting it back where he took it from. “Now will you tell me why you chose a Vegvisir?”

You reach out and take his broad hand. It completely envelops yours, strong, deft fingers covering your own.

“A Vegvisir is a compass, a magical symbol made to help one find their way through rough weather,” you squeeze his hand, suddenly feeling nervous. “You are my compass, my guide through the rough weather. When I touch or see this tattoo, I will be reminded that though life will have storms, as long as I have you, I can get through them.”

You meet his eyes, and the honest surprise and almost child-like hope in them make your heart ache. You have told Ivar you love him before, but from the way he is looking at you now it seems like there was a part of him that never really believed you. Now, with your love for him permanently on your body, he maybe can finally understand and accept the depth of your emotions.

“I am your compass, your way through the storm,” he breathes, his other hand reaching out to gently brush the tender inked area. “I am on your body, in ink and blood.”

You bring the hand holding your own to your lips, kissing his weathered knuckles. “Yes, Ivar. For always.”

His hands are then cradling your face, his breath fanning across your skin as he leans in.

“My sweet girl,” he sighs, “do you even know how perfect you are?”

And then his mouth is devouring yours, tongue hot against your own as he kisses you like a man starving for it. You kiss back eagerly, though with you on the table and him seated beside it’s an awkward angle. But you do not care. You can only think, feel, and taste Ivar. He invades every one of your senses, sinking into your very flesh like the midnight ink shining on your chest. Every fibre of your being cries out for him, and you find yourself whimpering desperately against his lips.

He pulls away, his face once again in the array of arrogant confidence you are used to. “Such a good girl you were under the needle,” he purrs, and you whimper again as his hands slide down to your waist. “You stayed very still for me. I think my sweet girl deserves her reward now, don’t you?”

You can only nod, following his impatient hands as he tugs you off the table and on to his lap. His hungry mouth finds your neck, sucking greedily at the tender flesh. You wriggle against him, the ache from the tattoo being replaced with an ache of a totally different kind.

“Suppose I should get a tattoo for you now,” he groans into your neck as you dig your nails harshly into his shoulders. “Maybe you could even give it to me. Odin above, the thought of you pushing a sharp needle through my skin over and over…” he breaks off with a violent shudder.

You smirk, reaching for his knife still laying upon the table. “Why don’t you let me practice then?” You run the tip of the blade over the shell of his ear, delighting in the animalistic growl that tears from his throat.

“I am supposed to be rewarding you,” his teeth nip harshly at your pulse point. You grab a hold of his luscious hair and pull his head back so you can look into his lust glazed eyes. You trace his parted lips with the knife, and his eyes go almost completely black.

“Oh honey,” you coo, excitement and lust and passion boiling hotly in your veins, “to have you in any way is a reward to me. Now be a good boy and beg.”

Another feral growl, and his hands tighten eagerly on your waist. His head bows slightly, his eyes look down at the floor. He says nothing, but the beginning of his submission has started. It’s rare he lets you take the reins, and you feel like your need for him is about to burst out of your skin.

You grin, your new tattoo throbbing in time with your racing pulse.

This was going to be one hell of a good reward.

Happy Monday, sister wives! ❤️❤️

anonymous asked:

Idk if anyone had said this yet (literally just woke up and saw the cover) but the very first thing it made me think of was "red sky at night, sailors delight. red sky in morning, sailors take warning." Lots of my extended family sail and that's a super common phrase about what to expect in terms of how rough the weather will be. (Also *cough* nautical imagery *cough*)

When someone asked me if it was morning or night that was actually the first thing I thought of too. Not sure if it’s related, but I definitely thought of it. And we know they love a good nautical reference…..

anonymous asked:

I'm in love with the siren AU! I was wondering... Birds have tail so, can Yuuri grow a feather's tail?

Yes, Yuuri can actually grow a tail! But usually he doesn’t because… he doesn’t like it. As a siren, he would have sent a lot of time sitting on his cliff watching for ships, and having his tail out would have been irritating. So he learned how to control it and keep it “folded away” the majority of the time.

He’ll show his tail if he’s flying in a storm or rough weather, when he needs the extra ruddering to help him navigate. However, this does mean that he has markings from where his tail would normally sprout… a birdy tramp stamp.

One Week Of Christmas Drabbles: Day Two

Sirius Black x Reader

Warnings: None

Word Count: 1515

A/N: Sorry for getting this up so late, some stuff came up that made it difficult for me to find the time to write but this was is more than twice as long as the last one so I hope that that’s okay. I’m going to try and finish the rest of the drabbles before Christmas but if I can’t I’ll still write them and post them after. Sorry about that guys.

Originally posted by magicalseasons

Your eyes snapped open at the sound of the stairs creaking. In your drowsiness you anxiously wondered if it was an intruder of some kind, but came to your senses and dismissed it quickly. Usually your brother, James, would sneak down in the middle of the night for a snack, but he always woke you up on his way to the kitchen with his heavy footsteps and you would go join him. His footsteps seemed lighter this time in particular, but you shrugged it off as him probably trying to be quiet so that he didn’t have to share any of the holiday sweets your mum had made. Yeah right, as if you’re going to let him hog them all. Not on Christmas, no siree.
You threw off your covers and pushed yourself out of bed, left your room and padded down the staircase to catch up with James. But when you reach the bottom of the stairs you were met with the sight of Sirius Black, who had been staying over for Christmas the last couple of years due to his rotten family, standing by the Christmas tree with something in his hands.
He whipped around, keeping both of his hands hidden behind his back, as he stared at you like wide, startled eyes.
“What are you doing down here, it’s three in the morning?”
“I could ask you the same thing,” you teased, walking over to where he stood, hands still behind his back. “I heard you come down, figured James was going to eat all of mum’s Christmas fudge without me and followed. Your turn.”
“I-” he swallowed hard, “I was just looking is all. At the tree and the presents.”
“What’s behind your back?”
“Nothing,” he said, much too quickly.
“Is it my present?!”
“Maybe.” Sirius always got you the best Christmas presents, last year it was a pile of various chocolates, the year before some stuff from Zonko’s, you had been looking forward to seeing what he came up with this year.
“Lemme see it!” You lunged to try and grab it but he turned his body so you couldn’t. You didn’t realize how close you were to him now, but he did, oh man did he notice.
It seemed almost childish to him to have such a silly little crush on his best friend’s younger sister, but he couldn’t help the cliche butterflies that filled his stomach when you smiled at him. But now seemed like a bad time to confess his feelings to you, he’d be staying at your house for a while longer before you both went back to Hogwarts for the rest of the school year and if you didn’t feel the same Sirius wouldn’t be able to stand staying in the same house as you.
“Come ooon, I wanna open it!”
“No, you can’t open it yet, you have to wait until morning,” he said, desperately hoping that you would comply and go back to bed.
“It is the morning,” you giggled. He rolled his eyes but didn’t hand the present over. “Oh, pleeease Sirius, please let me open it.” You gripped his arm, gave him your best puppy-dog eyes, and quivered your lip. You looked so adorable that Sirius swore he would melt, and as much as he did not want you to see the present he had bought for you on a whim earlier that day, he found it impossible to say no to you. He took a deep breath and thrusted the present into your hands. Normally he would have swooned at how your face lit up like-well, like a kid on Christmas, but he was too anxious to think about how beautiful your smile was.
You carefully but still eagerly pulled the wrapping paper off of the rectangular box before popping the lid off. You didn’t know what you expected, but it certainly wasn’t a necklace. It wasn’t much, Sirius might have had rich parents but he, himself, didn’t have a ton to spend, but it was beautiful all the same. It was the outline of a star, plain and simple, but in a charming way.
“I know it’s, uh, kinda lame but in my defense I didn’t actually plan on giving it to you,” you looked up at him in confusion but he couldn’t bring himself to look at you, “I don’t know what possessed me to buy it but I saw it at the shops and I thought you would like it but I chickened out last minute because it was a stupid idea in the first place and I have a backup present and I was going to switch them, that’s why I came down here but-”
“I love it,” you said, cutting him off.
“You-” he finally met your gaze, surprised you hadn’t started laughing at him yet. The look on your face made his heart skip a beat. Your eyes shown with disbelief and amazement at the gift while you grinned at him.
“Help me put it on?” He nodded, still finding difficulty in forming words, and you gently placed the chain in his palm, your fingertips brushing against his skin, and swiftly turned around.
He hesitated a moment before stepping behind you and draping the jewelry across your neck and clasping it at your nape. You brought your hand up to play with the star as you turned around, bringing your gaze to meet Sirius’.
“Thank you, it’s gorgeous,” you told him, quietly considering how close you were.
“You really like it that much?” He asked, genuinely shocked by your reaction.
You nodded eagerly, “I love it.”
“I love…” he quickly shut his mouth. What was he doing? He got too transfixed by the way you stared into his eyes that he couldn’t even think straight. He panicked when your breath hitched and moved to take a step back, but you grabbed his arm and stopped him, raising up on your toes you press your lips against his, shortly at first before pulling back, testing the waters a little to see his reaction. After getting over the initial shock of what had just happened and regaining his ability to think straight, he quickly surged forward and reconnected your lips.
One of Sirius’ hands was placed gently on your waist, he didn’t want to scare you off so he tried to keep things soft and sweet, and the other hand cupped your jaw, tilting it up so that he could kiss you easier.
As much as you loved how gentle he was being, you needed more. His lips were intoxicating to you and you couldn’t help but ball the material of his t-shirt up in your fists and pull him closer to you, turning the kiss from one that was delicate and light to one that was passionate and almost desperate. His lips were a bit rough from the cold weather, but they felt nice against your own. They matched the rest of him, callused fingertips that rubbed at the strip of exposed skin where your shirt was raised slightly and untidy hair that tickled your face, he was a bit rough and ragged and a little messy but not at all in a bad way.
Just as Sirius’ hand moved from your waist down to your hips to pull your body closer to his, you were (unfortunately) interrupted.
“D’you really have to do that in the middle of the living room? You couldn’t at least sneak off somewhere where I won’t have to see?”
The voice startled you out of the kiss, both of you taking a step away from each other as you turned to see James standing at the foot of the stairs, an annoyed look on his face with his hair still messy from tossing and turning. You hadn’t even heard him coming downstairs.
“Uh, we were just uh-” Sirius tried to come up with a good excuse but was there really a good excuse as to why he was kissing his best mate’s sister?
James waved him off, “I don’t care what you were doing, just don’t do it in front of me. I just wanted some fudge.” He headed off toward the kitchen, mumbling to himself along the way about how “some people just don’t understand the concept of privacy.”
When he was gone you turned back to Sirius, rubbing your arm as the awkwardness of the situation set in.
“I should probably go make sure he doesn’t eat it all himself or mum won’t be too happy.”
He nodded and you turned to leave, but he grabbed your hand to pull you back to face him. He gave you one last soft kiss, pulling away a lot sooner than you would have liked.
“Merry Christmas,” he whispered when he pulled away, his face still incredibly close to yours.
“Merry Christmas,” you mumbled, then went to follow where your brother had gone.
As you he watched you walk away, Sirius couldn’t help but smile knowing that he had somehow managed to get exactly what he wanted for Christmas. You.

So I saw Thor: Ragnarok and was highly amused. But there was one thing that made me just spitting mad.

Look at Idris Elba as Heimdall in Ragnarok.

Dude still looks powerful and timeless, but he also looks like he’s roughing it. He looks weathered. And grizzled. That cloak looks like a tarpaulin he stole off of a woodpile. The bandolier looks like it was cobbled together out of several belts and pouches he had lying around. It is a big change from how he’s appeared in the other movies

with his shiny armor and coordinated outfit. In Ragnarok he looks like he’s been out in the goddamn elements struggling a little bit because–surprise–he has been.

Now kindly compare this to how Elba looked in The Dark Tower as Roland.

Look at that. He’s supposed to have been camping out in a wasteland for decades. But he looks like he just stepped off a cowboy fashion runway. His shirt is still clean and white. His clothes are mostly darker-colored, but they’re not dirty or patched. He looks bored. I’m bored looking at him.

My point is just… it’s a shame. The Dark Tower’s script was also shit, but they didn’t even get this much right, even though–as we can see from Ragnarok–they were quite capable of doing so.

Also, Elba clearly could have worn contacts (or they could’ve done CGI after the fact) to get Roland’s cold, bombardier blue eyes. I’m just saying.

so i was bored, a tad bit tired, & extremely motivated to expand my vocabulary & improve my writing, so i figured i’d share. under the cut is a LONG ASS masterpost of anything you could think of to improve vocabulary & such. there will most likely be a part two considering i have so much left to write, & i’ll definitely post that if people enjoy this one ! like/reblog as you please, i just hope this helps some people !

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It may be rough seas and stormy weather at the moment but that doesn’t mean it always will be. Storms don’t last forever. Your sun and calm seas will come. It may not be today or even next month but eventually it will come.