Harry groggily starts to blink awake at the sound of his alarm. He quickly reaches over and taps his phone to quiet it, your quiet moan vibrating across his skin.
He smiles at the sensation, but he really has to go to work and you’re currently laying on top of him. You usually got into bed after him and since Harry typically fell asleep on his stomach, you would crawl on top of his back, kissing his shoulders as you settle on your stomach and wrapping your arms around his abdomen.
You were most affectionate when you were sleepy, always wanting a kiss, whining when Harry stopped playing with your hair, asking him to hold you. Harry thought it was adorable (he hadn’t taken you for someone who’d want a cuddle in bed) but it became sort of an inconvenience when he had to wake up before you.
“Hey,” He whispers now, “I’m gonna slide you off my back now, alright?”
The nutritionist said I should eat root vegetables, said if I could get down thirteen turnips each day I would be grounded, rooted. Said my head would not keep flying away to where the darkness lives.
The psychic told me my heart carries too much weight, said for twenty dollars she’d tell me what to do. I handed her the twenty and she said, “Stop worrying, darling, you will find a good man soon.”
The first psycho-therapist said I should spend three hours a day sitting in a dark closet with my eyes closed and my ears plugged. I tried it once but couldn’t stop thinking about how gay it was to be sitting in the closet.
The yogi told me to stretch everything but the truth, said focus on the out breath, said everyone finds happiness if they can care more about what they can give than what they get.
The pharmacist said Klonopin, Lamictal, Lithium, Xanax.
The doctor said an antipsychotic might help me forget what the trauma said.
The trauma said, “Don’t write this poem. Nobody wants to hear you cry about the grief inside your bones.”
But my bones said, “Tyler Clementi dove into the Hudson River convinced he was entirely alone.”
My bones said, “Write the poem.” To the lamplight considering the river bed, to the chandelier of your faith hanging by a thread, to everyday you cannot get out of bed, to the bullseye of your wrist, to anyone who has ever wanted to die:
I have been told sometimes the most healing thing we can do is remind ourselves over and over and over other people feel this too.
The tomorrow that has come and gone and it has not gotten better.
When you are half finished writing that letter to your mother that says “I swear to God I tried, but when I thought I’d hit bottom, it started hitting back.”
There is no bruise like the bruise loneliness kicks into your spine so let me tell you I know there are days it looks like the whole world is dancing in the streets while you break down like the doors of their looted buildings. You are not alone in wondering who will be convicted of the crime of insisting you keep loading your grief into the chamber of your shame.
You are not weak just because your heart feels so heavy. I have never met a heavy heart that wasn’t a phone booth with a red cape inside.
Some people will never understand the kind of superpower it takes for some people to just walk outside some days. I know my smile can look like the gutter of a falling house but my hands are always holding tight to the rip cord of believing a life can be rich like the soil, can make food of decay, turn wound into highway.
Pick me up in a truck with that bumper sticker that says, “It is no measure of good health to be well adjusted to a sick society.”
I have never trusted anyone with the pulled back bow of my spine the way I trusted ones who come undone at the throat screaming for their pulses to find the fight to pound. Four nights before Tyler Clementi jumped from the George Washington bridge I was sitting in a hotel room in my own town calculating exactly what I had to swallow to keep a bottle of sleeping pills down.
What I know about living is the pain is never just ours. Every time I hurt I know the wound is an echo, so I keep listening for the moment the grief becomes a window, when I can see what I couldn’t see before through the glass of my most battered dream I watched a dandelion lose its mind in the wind and when it did, it scattered a thousand seeds.
So the next time I tell you how easily I come out of my skin don’t try to put me back in. Just say, “Here we are” together at the window aching for it to all get better but knowing there is a chance our hearts may have only just skinned their knees, knowing there is a chance the worst day might still be coming
let me say right now for the record, I’m still gonna be here asking this world to dance, even if it keeps stepping on my holy feet.
You, you stay here with me, okay? You stay here with me.
Raising your bite against the bitter dark, your bright longing, your brilliant fists of loss. Friend, if the only thing we have to gain in staying is each other, my god that is plenty my god that is enough my god that is so so much for the light to give each of us at each other’s backs whispering over and over and over, “Live. Live. Live.”
“John!” Sherlock shouted, running as fast as he could over to the edge of the bridge, where the police had pulled John up from the river.
Stupid, stubborn man! Sherlock thought. John had dove into the river after their suspect, despite Sherlock’s shouts of protest. He had to play the bloody hero, didn’t he? And now, look what happened! Sherlock’s legs were shaking and he pushed everyone away, not even registering who was around him. He had to get to John. John was his partner. His lover. His better half. His John. Sherlock couldn’t lose him.
John was lying on the ground, completely soaked, and he was disturbingly pale. Sherlock tore off one of his gloves and placed the back of his hand on John’s cheek. It was ice cold. Panic shot through his veins, and Sherlock’s fingers darted to John’s neck to feel his pulse. It was alarmingly slow. Would his heart stop beating?
“John!” he shook him by the lapels of his jacket, and John’s body was as limp as a ragdoll. No no no no no no. He slapped John hard across the face, causing his head to roll to the side, and he didn’t wake up. Sherlock was breathing out of his mouth, bordering on hyperventilation. “You can’t die. Please don’t die,” his voice cracked, anguish stabbing his heart. “You can’t. You can’t!”
He opened John’s mouth with his thumb and pressed his mouth to John’s cold, unresponsive lips, thinking that his slow pulse could have been from a lack of oxygen. He never thought he would touch John’s like this. Never like this. He blew air into John’s mouth. He lifted his head, and nothing happened. Tears streaming down his face, Sherlock pressed his hands together and pushed down on John’s chest rhythmically. Please please please please please
John started coughing harshly, eyes shooting open.
Sherlock sobbed in relief. “John!” Not caring about anyone else around, or even what John would think, he wrapped his arms around him, and pulled him up by the torso into a hugging position. “John,” he buried his face into his wet jacket.
“Sher–?” John coughed. “What?” He coughed again. “What happened?”
“You jumped into the river to chase our suspect, you bloody idiot.” He held John tightly, tears spilling onto John’s already-soaked clothes.
Still catching his breath, John hugged him back. “Hey, I’m okay. Just–” he coughed “–just out of breath.”
Sherlock was shaking violently, more than John, who had to have been freezing. “I was so worried.”
Breathing hard out of his mouth, chest heaving, John said, “Well, I’m glad. I’d be insulted if you weren’t,” he joked.
He was joking at a time like this. Of course. But Sherlock didn’t find any of it funny. “I love you,” he whimpered. “I love you, and I didn’t know what I was going to do if I lost you.”
“I love you, too,” John held him, “I really do.”
Sherlock sighed shakily, lifting his head and placing rapid kisses all over his face. John stopped him by grabbing Sherlock’s face and kissing him soundly on the lips. Sherlock wrapped his arms around his neck, whimpering into his mouth. To hell with the bystanders. His John was safe, and that was all that mattered.
Send me an original prompt, or one from this post!
A/N: ‘i was wondering if you could so a finn collins imagine? like something along the lines of him surprising you with something cute or taking you a waterfall or to stargaze or something?’ Sorry took so long xxx
He felt him come up behind you, with the rush of air on your back, similar to the air that rushed from your lungs whenever you saw him, touched him, heard him. You smiled as you played oblivious to the figure behind you, continuing to stare at the night sky, swirling with dark blues and greys with explosions of white painting the night sky above you.
“Hi baby.” He grinned as he wrapped his arms around you, his kips immediately going to your neck, grinning into the skin as though it was his favourite meal. You felt the blush rise and you leant back placing your hands atop his.
“Hi there handsome.” You smirked, turning to kiss Finn’s cheek. The ‘Spacewalker’ smiled, dimples in his cheeks, as he stared at the sky with you, the pale moonlight showing his awe.
“We used to live up there.” He murmured, enjoying the steady sound of your breathing, it calmed him and made him snuggle into your neck further.
“It feels like so long ago. I don’t remember my life before Earth. It’s not worth remembering. I didn’t have you, I didn’t have freedom. I couldn’t watch the stars because I was enclosed in a cell.” He kissed your cheek, and the skin immediately went hot.
Suddenly you had an idea and Finn knew it as you grinned down at him from his place on your shoulder. He rose an eyebrow.
“What are you thinking?” He ventured cautiously, looking a bit worried as you just snickered. He snorted at your antics before you ran off, making sure Finn stayed close behind you, his breathing becoming laboured as you ran, and ran and ran. Before, you stopped spun around at a slight, very slight edge and turned, ready for Finn.
He stopped a few metres from you, the night not hiding the rapid rise and fall of his chest and the red colour in his cheeks.
“Come and get me.” You taunted as you stood on the edge, waiting, as he stepped closer, and closer, and closer, until he leaped to grab you but you ducked and span, turning to laugh as he dove headfirst into the river below.
“How’s the water?” You teased, biting your lip as all you received was a playful glare, his face now blue, and his teeth chattering, body shaking as he tried to keep himself afloat.
“That’s definitely one way to cool down I guess.” He joked, well, you thought he was joking, but is voice was quivering so much you couldn’t really tell. You felt yourself wince, feeling slightly guilty. He laughed however, that surprisingly light, cheerful laugh that made you feel as though you were floating, on top of the world. Forever. When you were with Finn, you were complete.
“Are you coming, or what? He yelled from the depths, going under for some time, just as you felt your heart rate quicken and your gaze became frantic he burst through the water surface, much closer to you.
In fact he was so close that he could grab your ankle and pull you in, which is exactly what he did.
“Finn!” You screamed as you fell, weightless before hitting the clear substance below you with a loud splash and another shout as well as an overwhelming chill.
Coming up, you gasped for breath and heard Finn cackling from a short distance away. Scowling you swam over, struggling to move through the water, swimming wasn’t a strongpoint of yours.
“Come on, we’ll lie on the bank,” He whispered starting to stroke towards the shore, swimming to you first.
“Hold on baby girl” He grinned as you rolled your eyes and gripped his saturated shirt. He paddled to shore, lying on the ground, you beside him. Still dripping of course, but neither of you cared as you curled into his side, his hand on your back and looking up at the stars that you once called home.
“I love you Finn.”
A heartbeat. Two. An intake of breath and the words that made your heart leap.
aka Imagine wanting to join the Company but they won’t allow you because you’re female. You decide to follow them until one day they see you
A/N - Okay so this one-shot is loosely based on this imagine. But I hope y’all enjoy it anyway. I actually had fun writing this one! It would have come earlier but I ended up getting into Avengers Assemble and… you know the rest. Dedicated to @hobbitfanfictions for reaching 50 followers! Well done darling.
Words - 1714 Pairing - Thorin x Reader ish Imagine GIF ain’t mine.
It all started a few months ago. You were a wanderer. A ranger. You never stayed in one place for too long. You longed for adventure! But adventure had been scarce for the last few years. That was until you came upon some extremely lost dwarves looking for a way to the Shire. They were going on an adventure - full of daring sword fights, damsels in distress and even a fire - breathing dragon. Like a good human, you led the dwarves to the hobbits home in the shire. In return, you wished to join them on their quest. And… well, that didn’t go too well.
“You? Go on a dangerous mission?!” one of them said. “But you’re a girl!” another one stated as though you didn’t already realise this. “I can fight! I won’t be a liability,” you tried to argue. You honestly thought that some of the dwarves didn’t mind your gender but the leader of the dwarves - a horribly moody man with a scowl permanently etched into his face - said no. Well, actually he said “You’re already a liability. You’re female.” So you were out of the company.
The nutritionist said I should eat root vegetables
Said if I could get down 13 turnips a day
I would be grounded,
Said my head would not keep flying away to where the darkness is.
The psychic told me my heart carries too much weight
Said for 20 dollars she’d tell me what to do
I handed her the twenty,
she said “stop worrying darling, you will find a good man soon.”
The first psychotherapist said I should spend 3 hours a day sitting in a dark closet with my eyes closed, with my ears plugged
I tried once but couldn’t stop thinking about how gay it was to be sitting in the closet
The yogi told me to stretch everything but truth,
said focus on the outbreaths,
everyone finds happiness when they can care more about what they can give than what they get
The pharmacist said klonopin, lamictil, lithium, Xanax
The doctor said an antipsychotic might help me forget what the trauma said
The trauma said don’t write this poem
Nobody wants to hear you cry about the grief inside your bones
My bones said “Tyler Clementi dove into the Hudson River convinced he was entirely alone.”
My bones said “write the poem.”
Considering the river bed.
To the chandelier of your fate hanging by a thread.
To everyday you could not get out of bed.
To the bulls eye on your wrist
To anyone who has ever wanted to die.
I have been told, sometimes, the most healing thing to do-
Is remind ourselves over and over and over
Other people feel this too
The tomorrow that has come and gone
And it has not gotten better
When you are half finished writing that letter to your mother that says “I swear to God I tried”
But when I thought I hit bottom, it started hitting back
There is no bruise like the bruise of loneliness kicks into your spine
So let me tell you I know there are days it looks like the whole world is dancing in the streets when you break down like the doors of the looted buildings
You are not alone and wondering who will be convicted of the crime of insisting you keep loading your grief into the chamber of your shame
You are not weak just because your heart feels so heavy
I have never met a heavy heart that wasn’t a phone booth with a red cape inside
Some people will never understand the kind of superpower it takes for some people to just walk outside
Some days I know my smile looks like the gutter of a falling house
But my hands are always holding tight to the ripchord of believing
A life can be rich like the soil
Can make food of decay
Can turn wound into highway
Pick me up in a truck with that bumper sticker that says
“it is no measure of good health to be well adjusted to a sick society”
I have never trusted anyone with the pulled back bow of my spine the way I trusted ones who come undone at the throat
Screaming for their pulses to find the fight to pound
Four nights before Tyler Clementi jumped from the George Washington bridge I was sitting in a hotel room in my own town
Calculating exactly what I had to swallow to keep a bottle of sleeping pills down
What I know about living is the pain is never just ours
Every time I hurt I know the wound is an echo
So I keep a listening to the moment the grief becomes a window
When I can see what I couldn’t see before,
through the glass of my most battered dream, I watched a dandelion lose its mind in the wind
and when it did, it scattered a thousand seeds.
So the next time I tell you how easily I come out of my skin, don’t try to put me back in
just say here we are together at the window aching for it to all get better
but knowing as bad as it hurts our hearts may have only just skinned their knees knowing there is a chance the worst day might still be coming
let me say right now for the record, I’m still gonna be here
asking this world to dance, even if it keeps stepping on my holy feet
you- you stay here with me, okay?
You stay here with me.
Raising your bite against the bitter dark
Your bright longing
Your brilliant fists of loss
if the only thing we have to gain in staying is each other,
my god that’s plenty
my god that’s enough
my god that is so so much for the light to give
each of us at each other’s backs whispering over and over and over
Pilsbury Castle occupies an area of high ground approximately 175 yards by 150 yards overlooking the River Dove, near the village of Pilsbury. The castle was probably originally an Iron Age fortification before being used by the Normans, and indeed the name “Pilsbury Castle” forms from the Celtic “pil”, the Saxon “bury” and the Norman “castle”, all meaning “fortified site”. In early medieval times, the site would have been located along the River Dove routeway, and would also have overlooked a key crossing point.
The Normans built a substantial motte-and-bailey castle on the site, and several theories have been forwards as to when and who did so. One theory is that the castle was built in the years following the Norman conquest of England. The area around Pilsbury was granted to Henry de Ferrers by King William; the area was devastated during the harrying of the North, and the castle may have been built in the aftermath by Henry to establish control. Henry built other castles at Tutbury and Duffield, making Pilsbury part of this set of 11th-century fortifications. An alternative suggestion is that the it was built by Robert de Ferrers or his father, around the period known as The Anarchy for, while the de Ferrers supported Stephen of England, the neighboring Earl of Chester supported Empress Matilda.
The castle itself includes a motte and two bailey enclosures, approximately 131 feet and 147 feet across respectively. It had timber defenses, ditches and additional flanking earthworks. The castle appears to have been abandoned in subsequent years, and it may be that it was destroyed after William de Ferrers’ part in the Revolt of 1173–1174, or it might have become abandoned when the land passed to the Duchy of Lancaster after the sixth Earl was dispossessed. Alternatively, it may simply have become redundant as nearby Hartington grew in importance and the village of Pilsbury became increasingly depopulated. By the twentieth century there was little to see except for a mound on a limestone outcrop and the remains of various earthworks.
See this page for a reconstruction of Pilsbury Castle.
Region of origin: Murphy, North Carolina, United States
Cherokee legend named a bridge crossing a river near what is now Murphy, North Carolina “Tlanusi-yi,” or “Leech Place” as it was supposedly home to a voracious leech the size of a house. When the leech dove into the river, the water would boil around it and shoot out in a large spout, catching people crossing the bridge off-guard and knocking them into the water where they would become the leech’s next meal.
here’s how we’ll find each other:
slipping between cloudbursts, stealing
patches of sunlight. we’ll be
r u d d e r l e s s,
picking salt spray off our skin before the
ocean knows what it’s giving up.
chasing the stars because god only knows
this world can get claustrophobic
for all us clean-cut criminals.
see, i’m the one with the firelight eyes and
you’re the one with the nebula heart.
all giggles and growls, things like
inside jokes and pinky promises, like
i never had a favourite song till i heard your laugh.
darlin’, you’re something a little mystic.
we’re relearning the language of doves and rivers,
teaching fireflies how to belong in glass walls –
t e n d e r h e a r t e d
c r u e l t i e s.
c o m m o n p l a c e
r a r i t i e s.
you and i, we could be dusky vagabonds
scavenging for the moonlight nobody else sees.
atlantic waltzes. polaroid julys, the mystic ones.
but here’s how we’ll find each other:
scattered in the roses, tattered on the thorns,
stuck together with icy lemonade and pinky promises.
your voice lilting and wilting and the
fireflies have forgotten what home feels like.
maybe we could remind them –
like wildflowers and patchy sunsets.
like the cacophonous harmony of summer girls with
blackberry-stained teeth, forest nymphs
darlin’, your laugh puts radio static to
s l e e p.