st press

Temerarious

Adjective

[tem-uh-rair-ee-uh s] 

1. reckless; rash.

Origin:
Temerarious comes from Latin temerarius, “rash,” from temere, “rashly, heedlessly.”

“So, on a pleasant weekend in March, one crew member and three fellow hardy fools – a truly temerarious team – set off across the ice.”
Rare Look Inside Caves; St. Paul Pioneer Press (Minnesota); Apr 27, 2008.

Mass

MSR || On-The-Run || Angst || Easter Ficlet because I was having feelings


Mulder doesn’t stir when he feels her slip out of the motel bed, her footsteps Scully-soft to the the grimy little bathroom and the door eased shut. He’s not sure if she wants him to be awake, they haven’t said much since she turned hard off the freeway at 3am, and rolled to a stop in the parking lot. Something in her eyes told him not to ask, not to question why they were choosing to ignore their “no big cities rule” for Pittsburgh, of all places, and so he’d got the bags while she got the key, the grimy sun setting heavily behind her bleached out hair on the washed out walkway.

Afternoon sunshine stares through the blinds but he’s still lying still, trying to breathe sleepily when Scully emerges on a wave of her still familiar shower soap, and pauses at the foot of the bed. Mulder can feel her thinking, and holds his breath through her indecision, relief spreading from his lungs to his heart as Scully’s small hand wraps around his ankle.

‘Mulder?’ His morning breaks on her first word and he smiles at the thought though she is serious, stood in a worn but respectable floral dress she’d picked up last week in Goodwill, his only suit hanging from one finger. ‘Mulder, will you-’

‘Yes.’ He tells her. No questions, he would do anything for her. 

Scully watches him dress with a distant look in her eye, the still unfamiliar blonde of her hair a veil over one eye, and for a second he imagines marrying her, throwing aside fake names and false security for one moment of unity in the eyes of her God. But he was too selfish, choosing to have this runaway love in dark corners and forgotten towns, for as long as they can stay ahead of danger instead of that one true moment. He wonders if Scully shares that regret.

He looks for it in her eyes when she steps close to straighten his tie, but finds a peace there he had thought lost forever, just barely glossing over the tears he pretends not to hear her crying in the shower, but there nonetheless. She takes his hand and walks them into the late Friday sunshine.

Keep reading

Of Bros and Babes

Here is a little Ron/Harry brOTP fic for your enjoyment. I love these two so much, and I just need more of their friendship (especially in their adult/after the war life) Special shout-out to @callieskye for her editing prowess!

Ron Weasley was enjoying one his favorite thing in the world- a Saturday morning lie in. This particular one did not qualify as his best because his lovely wife was not curled up next to him. She had left him early in order to help her mum shop for furniture. Apparently, muggle furniture was crafty and could only be got at oddly early hours of the day. He let out a sigh, missing Hermione but determined to rest-it had been a hell of a week. He and Harry had just wrapped up a rather nasty case; he didn’t know what had been worse: all the nights away from home or the entire day of paperwork they had to do when they got back.  He flexed his hand, still sore from the miles of parchment. Speaking of sore…Rolling over to stretch his back, Ron could not contain the grin that bunched his cheeks as he recalled exactly how said back had become sore. It never ceased to amaze him that she craved him every bit as much as he craved her. I hate being gone, but Merlin, how I love coming home!

Ron snuggled down into the warmth of the blankets-if he were really lucky this is exactly where Hermione would find him when she returned. Sleep was rapidly approaching when it was arrested by the shape of a great horned stag which spoke with Harry’s voice.

“Ron! Come quick! Need you! My place! Don’t tell Hermione!”

Keep reading

youtube

Oh Honey, I Don’t Share: Sebastian Stan.

MASTER LIST. <– FOR MORE OF MY WORK.

Tag List: @paranoid-borderline-insane, @xxdisappearwithoutatracexx.

If you’d like to be added to a tag list, please send me an ask or message saying what you would like to be tagged in! ie: One shots, stories, Marvel, Supernatural, The Walking Dead etc.

Warnings: Orgasm denial, dom!reader, sub!seb, dirty talk, jealousy, possessiveness, masturbation, teasing, begging, oral sex (Sebastian receiving). Semi-public blowjob. He has to try to be quiet. And no touching!! Praise. Needy Sebastian (like wow so needy). Semi role reversal, but not really.

Keep reading

Q - Let’s talk about some specific songs that you’ve written: the incredibly infectious ‘Clint Eastwood’, I ain’t happy I’m feeling glad/I got sunshine in a bag…

D.A. - You’re asking me to discuss 2 things I’m not particularly comfortable with. Which are : what you meant by what you said, and two, what do you think your contribution had been? Although you haven’t asked the second one, that will come. But you’re asking the first difficult question. Well… What do you think it means?

Q - You’re not getting away with that… I have no idea, but it makes me feel good.

D.A, - Yeah… The funny thing is, on this last world bloody tour we did with Gorillaz, I definitely got the sense that people were singing ‘I ain’t happy, I’m feeling sad’. I’d never sing that. That’s just not me. The truth is, people just like a catchy tune. It’s so different what I was actually saying : I’m not happy, but I’m glad… that… whatever it is I’ve got in my bag (laughs). I’m not sad, but I’m not happy. I’m glad. The mood of the thing is entirely different if you take it… but I could hear 20 000 people a night in America singing 'I’m feeling sad… yeah!’ I suppose it doesn’t matter because the overall mood is the same. If you’ve noticed, I haven’t answered your question.

Q - You have kind of.

D.A. - Kind of. Yeah.

—  Damon Albarn in The Art Of Noise (Daniel Rachel, St. Martin’s Griffin Press, 2013)
2

Djuna Barnes (June 12, 1892 – June 18, 1982) 

American writer and artist best known for her novel Nightwood (1936), a cult classic of lesbian fiction and an important work of modernist literature. (Wikipedia)

From our stacks: Dust jacket details from Ryder By Djuna Barnes. With Illustrations by the Author. New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1979.