I can do this. Dinner. I’ve
done it many times before. Pushing boundaries, pushing my nerves until I have
I let my hair down, free of
braids and decorations. Golden-brown waves flowed to the middle of my back, brushing
itself against the dusty purple gown. Plain except for a silver-embroidered star
on my left shoulder. Oblong silver beads, trailed down the metallic thread
creating the illusion of a shooting star.
The silky dress hugged every
curve–from the sleeves down to my knees before flaring out into a semi long
train. A fairly high, sheer neckline that revealed my collarbone and a decent
amount of cleavage.
Each step felt like its own
battle, but I made it to just outside the dining room. Their voices danced out
into the hallway, laughter and unsettling joy. I didn’t understand how they
could be so unchanged, untainted by our father’s death. By the war. How could
they not feel what I felt? The ever-growing sorrow not just for our father, but
the fallen too. Instead of trying to understand, I walked into the dining room.
Voices died down, an exchange
of odd looks around the table but one.
Cassian dropped his fork,
his jaw soon following before Azriel lifted it back up. His eyes bored into
mine, after ravaging me from head to toe.
The sun was beating down on the group as you crossed the dusty plains. The other had stopped complaining about the heat, silenced by dehydration. But you weren’t having the same problem. Instead of sweating from the heat, it was a cold sweat that had broken over you. The heat seemed to do nothing for the cold that was pulsing through your body with each step like a beacon signalling to you something was seriously wrong. But you already knew that. Your mind barely seemed competent enough to form a coherent thought, you vision blinked in and out of focus and you felt like you could pass out at any moment. You had injured yourself when you and the other gladers had first ran into the cranks. It wasn’t anything that would turn you into one of them of course, that would probably worry you less because you were immune but you had fallen during your escape and landed on the pointed end of a piece of metal sticking out in the sand. The metal had sliced deeply into your thigh and since then it had been hard to conceal from the others.
Ahead of you walked Thomas and Newt, their heads bent together in a silent conversation you couldn’t hear, and even if you could, you barely thought you could put any of it together.
“Have you been watching her too?” Newt had whispered to Thomas, his eyes briefly flicking back in your direction. You might not have told them something was wrong but they could sense it and now it was starting to show.
“Yeah, I have. Something must have happened. She’s not okay. She’s sweating.” Tommy bit his lip in worried thought, his eyes scanning the barren land in front of them; trying and failing at calculating a plan.
“We’re all sweating Tom.” Newt’s voice conveyed the roll in his eyes without Thomas even needing to see his face.
“But you know what I mean, she’s sweating different. She looks almost… cold.” His eyes fell on you too. You seemed to be stumbling behind them, relying heavily on a stick you’d picked up. Your skin was pale, too pale for having been in the blazing heat for as many days as they had been, and clammy. Thomas’ heart skipped a beat. “I don’t know what to do.”
Thomas’ vision of you slowed as you seemed to buckle under your own weight, collapsing silently into the burning sand. The heat still did not do anything to cool you down.
“(Y/N)!” Thomas yelled, at your side in a second. His eyes scanning over your body and stilling over your thigh. Despite your heavy bandaging, blood was seeping through the fabric now.
“She’s bleeding.” Newt’s eyes met with Thomas’, the other boy looking almost as pale as you were.
“(Y/N), (Y/N)?” Thomas’s voice was almost pleading and a weak smile appeared on your face, your eyes focusing on him as if seeing him for the first time as he cut at the fabric around your leg. The wound weeping as much as some of the boys surrounding you.
“It’s okay Tommy, we weren’t all gonna make it.” Your voice sounded faraway even to your own ears.
“No, no (Y/N). You’re gonna make it. We can fix this, right Newt?” The boy’s eyes pleaded and burned into Newt’s face but he received nothing but silence in return. Both their eyes returning back to yours. “You promised we were going to make it.”
Your eyes closed, a peaceful smile upturned on your face. “And you will.”
Summary: Y/N lives with boys at the bunker, and it always smells like cinnamon near her room. Dean soon discovers the heart warming reason why and also discovers the chemistry between both him and Y/N that is undeniably perfect much like apples and cinnamon.
Characters: Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester, Castiel, Reader
Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader
Warnings: NSFW, smut, fluff, major character death, blood, angst
Word Count: 6,478
Prompt: Cinnamon Candles
A/N: This was my entry for @supernatural-jackles Colors of Fall writing challenge. This is told through both Dean and the Reader’s POV I caption who it is! I hope you all enjoy it, I worked really hard on this and put a lot of thought, blood, sweat, and tears into it!
The Silmarillion - Ancient Locations/Places in First Age
Ard-galen (Sindarin. ardh “region” + celin “green”) later becoming Anfauglith, was the wide green plain that lay north of the highlands of Dorthonion (North Dorthonion was ruled by the Elf-lords Angrod and Aegnor) and south of Morgoth’s fortress of Angband in the Iron Mountains, in the First Age. It was well known in the First Age, before Morgoth turned it into a dusty plain resembling a desert north of Beleriand.
• Original picture: Mountain Landscape by Fel-X, Deviant Art
Munnar, Day 4: No journals were kept on this day for this day was a pain in the ass. Almost a month later, as I sit down to recall the series of memorable buttaches that comprised this day, my predominant impression is that of cold. How cold it was, how cold! The hotel shunted us out in an auto at 6 in the morning, claiming apocalyptic strikes and road barricades. 11 kilometers of bumpy hill-riding later, we reached a shady motel in town where we decided to rest our feet and bags. Following which, Munnar completely failed to rise to the occasion, remaining sleepy, tranquil, and pointedly strike-free for the rest of the day. I wanted to dress for travelling, so I picked the comfiest possible outfit from my greatly diminished pile of clean clothes. Then we heard rumours of a flower garden in the neighbourhood, so Mooshu had to be pressed into action with the camera.
A couple of things I was grateful for that day: my tweed blazer from Sumissura and my Unique Vintage tote which doubled up perfectly as a carry-on bag. Rarely have I worn clothing that’s been tailored to my exact measurements, and the difference is ever so surprising and pleasant. We wandered around the garden, took a mini hike to a ‘sightseeing point’, napped in the shady motel bed, and slept through 12 hours of two different buses in hills, forests, and finally the long dusty plain. My jacket became a pillow, a comforter, a blanket to hide in from the mountain blast, a window shade against the highway lights. I was a wayfarer and that jacket, my towel. We saw the stars that night as I’d never seen them. The milky way like a sheet of galactic dust stretching from hilltop to hilltop, merely an arm of the spiral faint with starlight old and new, but so immediate, tangible, the star crown of our little slice of the universe. If the ancients were obsessed with the stars, seeking patterns, prophecies and portents in them, they did so for a reason. Seldom have I felt such profound nothingness in my being as I did that night, my consciousness extinguished as the pinprick of a dying star, a dust trail dissipating dim in the nether reaches of the cosmic dark. The stars alone were worth the journey, and after them everything else felt incidental.
There were meals to hunt down, drunks to ward off, language barriers to overcome and a house to be cleaned when we got back - the fine print of daily life that weighs us all down in its infinitesimal details. Later, there are meals to cook and outfits to blog and precious nuggets of time that Moosh and I spend together before I bundle him into a taxi in a blur of tears, and eventually, as the days trickle past, I forget that night we drove through the forest, and I forget the stars. Yet in times when the world ebbs away from me, and I’m left alone in the echo chamber of my head, I think of the galaxy. I think of the night forest, and the dome of the universe arched above our heads, the wash of light dusting across it, and I think of what filled my puny little heart to bursting then. It’s stardust I think, the stardust in my bones, calling me home to the infinite.
“I had never actually had a home. Orphaned at five, I had lived the life of an academic vagabond with my uncle Lamb for the next thirteen years. In tents on a dusty plain, in caves in the hills, in the swept and garnished chambers of an empty pyramid, Quentin Lambert Beauchamp, M.S., Ph.D., F.R.A.S., etc., had set up the series of temporary camps in which he did the archaeological work that would make him famous long before a car crash ended his brother’s life and threw me into his. Not one to dither over petty details like an orphaned niece, Uncle Lamb had promptly enrolled me in a boarding school.
Not one to accept the vagaries of fate without a fight, I declined absolutely to go there. And, recognizing something in me that he had himself in abundant measure, Uncle Lamb had shrugged, and on the decision of a heartbeat, had taken me forever from the world of order and routine, of sums, clean sheets, and daily baths, to follow him into vagabondage.
The roving life had continued with Frank, though with a shift from field to universities, as the digging of a historian is usually conducted within walls. So, when the war came in 1939, it was less a disruption to me than to most.
I had moved from our latest hired flat into the junior nurses’ quarters at Pembroke Hospital, and from there to a field station in France, and back again to Pembroke before war’s end. And then, those few brief months with Frank, before we came to Scotland, seeking to find each other again. Only to lose each other once and for all, when I had walked into a stone circle, through madness, and out the other side, into the past that was my present.
someone get on a MODERN SAND SNAKES AU where the girls run this lil gang down in New Mexico, breaking bad style, & control a little drugs empire & help get people over the border or out the country. & you don’t fuck with them. & they take down assholes drug lords. & the aesthetic is all dusty plains and coyotes on warm nights & chicas raising up from open-top cars with pistols in hand.
Remember those times Timothy had been courageous enough to talk back to his employer, Handsome Jack? Yeah, he was starting to regret doing that. He had already sent men to the doppelganger’s home, just barely missing the target on his way home, and Timothy called in to let him know that. How stupid he was for doing such a thing. Not only did he let the pursuer know a little about his whereabouts, he also let him know that his shot was just a little off the mark.
Cue him runnin through the dusty dirt plains of Pandora, trying to find a good place to hide. It seemed that Jack sent another party after him and this one, they got there just in time. A stray bullet whizzes past Timothy’s head and he lets loose a yelp before tumbling to the ground. Sitting up, he shakes his head quickly and continues the run, scrambling to his feet.
Even if he did manage to get away and hide, Handsome Jack was not going to leave him be until he died. So if he got away, a faked death would be in- the feline shrieks as his world is turned upside-down and right-side-up again. A net. He was stuck in a net and his pursuers has a vehicle. Attempting to cut the rope with his claws was a failure, so was bitting through it and anything else he was trying to do. They’d caught him.
The vehicle screeches to a stop just a few feet in front of the trapped ex-Hyperion who looks over with a big sheepish smile and laughs. “Hey guys..! Long time no see..! How’re the wife, how’re the kids? Man you guys look- you look great!” Timothy laughs again all while silently saying goodbye to most everything he knows, he’s certain he will die tonight.
The pounding of her heart was not helping Stella’s current situation. Something about this area, around where the forest seemed to unnaturally spring up, like it was sewn to the otherwise dusty plains, seemed too scramble her Connection to her friends. She could still feel their powers loosely buzzing around in her head, but it felt… muted? Like there was something that wasn’t right.
Stella needed to stop panicking. The more she panicked, the more her heart raced. The more her heart raced, the more it brought back memories of her father… her Ancestor. She needed to get somewhere, somewhere in this strange outpost. Who builds a small town in a forest?