no offense but wuthering heights has the best final line of any book ever in the history of human sentience
i lingered round them, under that benign sky; watched the moths fluttering among the heath, and hare-bells; listened to the soft wind breathing through the grass; and wondered how any one could ever imagine unquiet slumbers, for the sleepers in that quiet earth.
i literally ascend to a higher plane of existence reading this, i feel it in my bones. i want to carve this entire book on the back of my skull but this line especially.
Cold morning grass, plucking fruit from damp branches, herbal teas in vintage cups, the first Christmas song on the radio, driving in the rain, heavy pillows, matches.
Pilled wool blankets, broken cinnamon sticks, hot cider steam that seeps into your cheeks, decaying branches that wake in a coat of crystal frost, stargazing in the frigid air.
Oatmeal cookies, tea light candles, thrifted sweaters, early sunsets, mismatched mugs, leaves in the pool, board games, a full moon.
A fluffy loaf of bread, lacing your boots, a vintage thermos, gloomy lights, smoking chimneys, Pinterest recipes, flooding gutters, live music.
A burning log that falls and sends sparks into the sky as it impacts with the dirt, your first bite into a crisp apple, gingersnaps, mini pumpkins, breakfast waffles, rumbling thunder.
Wrapping up in an oversized flannel, the first snow, stray cats in the night, hot chocolate, fallen trees, county fairs.
Collecting pinecones, warm breasted birds that procrastinate their departure, dark red leaves, classic fall movies, burning incense.
Picking an apple from a mound of colors, melting butter on a fresh baked muffin, wool socks, extra blankets on your bed, storm sirens.
Cinnamon sprinkled in the top of your latte foam, shiny copper mugs, boot imprints in the mud, caramel sauce, rain that only dries by the fireside, hot flakey biscuits that burn the roof of your mouth.
Wind blowing through tall dying grasses, peanut butter cookies, the sound of migrating geese, farmers markets, harvest festivals, a breeze that blows out your candle.
Fog that mutes your perception, wood carved trinkets, warm donuts, hearty stews, spinning vinyl, coat buttons, dusty bookshelves, lampposts.
Vintage ovens cooking autumnal pies, whipped cream on the tip of your nose, dogs wearing sweaters, scones, leaf piles, misty rivers.
John, frustrated with his place, with his restraints, with his own damned pride, finds himself walking out on the moors in the early morning hours. It is quiet in that way that only the moors can be: peaceful, but busy with the murmur of late frogs and early birds, the buzz of bees, the song of the wind through the long grasses.
Beyond the hills, the trees, the horizon, the sun rises.
John ducks his head into the cover of his collar and walks, the hem of his coat dragging wet through the morning dew. The house behind him is sleeping, but for the first scullery maids and stable boys, and John imagines that he can leave behind the disaster he’s made in his heart as easily as he does his overbearing mother, his newly engaged and unbearably delighted sister, and the oily slick memory of Lord Mycroft Holmes, looming out of the darkness of the safe and familiar rooms of home.
If he is to be unhappy now, it will be only of his own making.
Yet John remembers the softness around those pale eyes just yesterday, the confession in them as he passed Clara Bingley into Harriet’s waiting arms, and cannot now suppress the seedling of hope growing beneath his breast.
And then, a hush.
Through the fog, through the grey-green-violet fields, through the first weak strains of sunrise, there is a miracle with hair wild and shirt open, coming across the moor toward him: Sherlock Holmes.
He is now as John had for so long not been able to imagine him to be – soft-edged and warm-cheeked, looking over John with such wonder and longing, as if he can scarcely believe him to be real.
If John had been able to see this truth in him from the very beginning, he might have saved them all a great deal of pain. But what’s done is done, and it has been Mr Holmes’ goodness of heart that has slowly begun to repair the damage left in John’s wake, and John can see him now for who he truly is.
Mr Holmes stands in front of him. John swallows. “I couldn’t sleep,” he offers in explanation. Niceties and social rules hardly seem to apply to a meeting on the moors at sunrise.
“Nor I,” Mr Holmes says quietly. “My brother…”
“Yes, he was here.” John offers a shy smile to soften the blow.
Mr Holmes’ neck and cheeks are flushed against the chill of the morning, and the colour deepens with embarrassment. “However can I make amends for such behavior?”
John would lower his own eyes in shame but finds he cannot tear them away. “After what you’ve done to protect us from Ms Morstan, and I suspect for Harriet, it is I who should be making amends.”
“You must know,” Mr Holmes chokes out, suddenly overcome, “Surely you must know it was all for you.” John does know. John does, and he nods, and Mr Holmes says, quickly, breathlessly, as if he might lose his nerve, “You are too generous to trifle with me. You spoke with my brother last night, and it has taught me to hope as I’d scarcely allowed myself before. If your feelings are still what they were last April, tell me so at once. My affections and wishes have not changed – but one word from you will silence me forever.”
John looks up into Sherlock’s eyes, willing him to see there how John’s feelings have changed, and says nothing.
After the longest moments of John’s life, Sherlock begins again. “If, however, your feelings have changed…” His lips are trembling as he pauses, collecting his courage. John holds his breath. “I would have to tell you. You have bewitched me, body and soul, and I love – I love – I love you. I never wish to be parted from you from this day on.”
Oh, but to hear it said, to hear it confirmed, to hear that it is still, after everything, still true: John’s chest is full to bursting, an ache of light and adoration that stills the flurry of John’s thoughts and soothes the very deepest places in his soul.
He steps forward, takes Sherlock’s hand. Sherlock, unblinking, lets him.
“Well then,” John whispers, bringing Sherlock’s knuckles to his lips. I shall never be parted from you from this day on, he breathes over them, and Sherlock’s chest hitches as if he has heard the words said aloud. “Your hands are cold.”
John closes his hands around Sherlock’s fingers, holding them close, holding them with promise, and Sherlock leans in, resting his forehead against John’s, letting himself be held, letting himself give in.
Somewhere in the distance, the sunrise crests over a ridge, and warms the first tentative breath of a kiss.
“I’m exhausted,” you muttered, dropping to the floor at Dean’s feet. “I had a long, crazy day.” You leaned back against the chair he was sitting in and rested your head on his knee.
Dean put his hands on your shoulders, slowly kneading the thick knots across your back and up into your neck. You felt yourself slowly relaxing as his sure hands found every aching spot on your sore and overworked body, working at the tense muscles. After a few minutes, he slipped off of his chair onto the floor behind you, his arms sliding around your waist to pull you close, your back resting against his chest, your hands resting on his upper thighs, completely relaxed.
You closed your eyes and laid your head on his shoulder, feeling content for the first time all day. He had a way of calming you, of making you feel better just with a touch, just his presence, all without saying a word.
Dean’s lips roamed over your neck and shoulders, his kisses soft, light, like a whisper of wind blowing through blades of grass, his touch gentle as his hands caressed you. He slid a hand up your neck, his fingers resting lightly on either side of your throat, tipping your head back, bringing your lips to his, kissing you with a barely restrained hunger.
Let me just start by saying I love your Tom Holland Imagines 😍 I was wondering if you could do a road trip imagine with Tom and Harrison and the readers best friend where Tom and reader are dating and Haz and Reader’s best friend are dating? Thanks!
The rocking of the truck and the light music from inside keeps you in a perpetual state of light sleep. Tom shifts in his makeshift seat at the back of the ford truck to rest his head against the dewy window. He wipes a section to see (Y/F/N)’s and Harrison’s fingers are intertwined and rest against the beige leather seat. He smiles and looks at you, listening to the faded sounds of the James Bay cd as well as the bristling of wind going through tall grasses and bushes.
You’re more awake now, choosing to stare behind at the road you’ve travelled as your hand cuts through and glides with the wind. The back of Tom’s hand gently pushes at your knee which bends over his to get your attention. “Hey,” he says lovingly. You smile tiredly, “Hey.” He pulls a finger up to the window and drags his finger through the condensation to write ‘I love you’. You grin at him and add ‘ILY2′ to the condensation.
His hand reaches out to you and you take it, linking his fingers with yours. You carefully move in the rear end of the truck so you’re sitting beside him with your face in his neck. “Look at them,” you mumble, “We were right to set them up. They’re almost as cute as us.” He presses a kiss to the your temple and mumbles ‘never’. You walk your fingers up his chest to rest against his cheek and turn his head towards you. A gentle smile graces his face as he leans in to kiss you with shut eyes.
The truck pulls over into a large field almost an hour later. You and Harrison set up the tents as Tom and (Y/F/N) go to collect scrap wood from the forest beside the open area. “Thank you,” Harrison half-whispers sincerely. You can only ask him, “For what?” “Introducing (Y/F/N) and I. I think… I think I love her. No, I know I do,” he tells you. You smile sweetly and loudly whisper, “No problem,” back to him.
While snuggling up with Tom that night, you tell him about your conversation with his best friend. Tom pulls you closer by the arm around your waist and tells you that he knew that already. ‘I can see it in his eyes,’ he tells you. You cuddle further into your boyfriend’s side and brush his hair away from his face. “I love you,” you tell him. “I love you, too.”
I generally try not to. the feelings of adoration and adulation that rise up within me when I consider his emerald visage are almost too powerful to withstand. they rend my physicality asunder. at one point in my life, it became so bad that I felt I had to go…. away…. I had to seek answers, in the spiritual places of the world…. I went to my local supermarket. there was a man there with no eyebrows. I knew at once he was a soothsayer, because when I asked him where the milk was, he pointed me to aisle 5 - which is where the milk would be housed, indeed. in the future. it was, at that time, in aisle 7. the eyebrowless man was a genius, and I knew it. I asked him; I said, “I have travelled for many moons and many suns, and then I also popped to the shops and here you are. tell me, wise one, for I sense your almighty power: how do I move on from my deep and profound attachment to that verdant creature of gritty and fertile beauty??” the soothsayer looked at me in the eye, and he said, “listen… listen… to the sound of the fridges. hear how they hum. is it not alike to a mosquito’s hum, in a swamp?” I nodded, though I was sorely confused. then he said, “listen… listen… to the sound of the wind through the pasta noodles in aisle 18. is it not alike to the sound of the wind through the grasses of a swamp?” once again, I nodded. the pasta noodles were, at that time, in aisle 7. I respected his genius. “listen…” he said, once more. “listen… to the sound of swirling, gelatinous desserts being shaken in aisle 3. is it not alike to the sound of gas bubbles rising from the fetid waters of a swamp?” I nodded, though my mind was yet clouded by uncertainty. the desserts were, at that time, in aisle 7. aisle 7 was a mess. “I don’t understand,” I said aloud. the eyebrowless man raised his above-eye-skin. “He is with us,” he said. “He is all around. He is in the fridges and the desserts and the pasta noodles. His swamp sounds live with us, always.” I fell to my knees. “where,” I said. “where did you get such wisdom? how did you corrode away the foolishness in your soul so completely that it seems as though it has been done with bleach or some shit? what happened, to make you… thus?” The eyebrowless man shook his head. “I must know,” I begged. He turned to me, with eyes like the gooseberries spilling out over the floor in aisle 7. “well,” he said. “some-”
“I lingered round them, under that benign sky: watched the moths fluttering among the heath and harebells, listened to the soft wind breathing through the grass, and wondered how any one could ever imagine unquiet slumbers for the sleepers in that quiet earth.” -Emily
// Haworth, West Yorkshire | GarettPhotography
Grog and Keyleth take a moment to unwind, and Keyleth learns some new tricks.
There’s something electric about running like this. The four-part rhythm of her paws against the packed earth, the wind through the ruff of her collar––it’s like racing the storm front, like skimming the waves as though outrunning the ocean itself. She exists somewhere outside her body when she runs like this, sheds the weight of her crown and her office and her future and herself until all that’s left is the pounding of her feet and the rush of the wind, carrying her along, weightless.
What she’s trying to say is that it’s pretty fucking great.
She skids to a stop miles from anywhere, sides heaving as she catches her breath, and moments later Grog appears through the tall grass, footfalls like thunder. He doesn’t slow, just grins wide and wild and chargers her with a roar, and she braces herself, and they go over in a whirlwind of bared teeth and tangled limbs. Back and forth they wrestle among the tall grasses until Keyleth pins him down, teeth at his throat, and he yields with a laugh. Only then does she roll off him and shiver back into her own skin, sprawled flat on her back and laughing loud enough to fill the empty sky far, far above. Grog sits up, legs splayed in front of him and grins, breathing heavy.
pure laughter. yellow roses. winds through soft grass. sun beams through white clouds. holding hands for the first time. fields of wild flowers. shy glances and the girl you like. sweet scents of honey and strawberries. bright smiles. & early morning bird song
ORIGINAL IMAGINE: Imagine you are living in the late 1800’s and your parents pass away due to a tragic accident. Leaving you an orphan, you are sent to a miserable orphanage. Then, a mysterious and harsh man named Loki visits the orphanage and takes you on as his ward. He brings you to his crumbling mansion in the English countryside, where you face his cruel intentions, and eventually discover that you care for him much more than you’d like to admit.
NOTES: This is another short chapter, but I promise the upcoming one’s will be much longer! Hope you enjoy, and please comment, like & share. I always love to hear your opinions ♥︎
“I was certain that you would have went back to bed.” stated my master once I met up with him at the stables. He held the reins of his horse Dorian, who was directly at his side, ready to be mounted. I looked up at him through the veil of black netting that partially covered my face. “It was indeed what I desired, but I thought it’d be best to concur with your wishes, master.” I teased, with an overemphasized bow. He chuckled. “You will not regret coming with me, I promise you. Now, up you get.” He gestured towards Dorian.
Lucy can only watch in horror as Natsu bolts towards the tree line, murderous gaze locked on the ranger slinking out of the shadows, cloaked in earthy tones. It’s no surprise they didn’t notice him earlier. Fiore’s Rangers have always been stealthy, practically ghosts. No one sees them until it’s too late and there’s no running away. She’s never known them to attack like this before, however, and she’s stunned unable to move as she watches Natsu rush towards the stranger, his teeth bared threateningly.
Only it isn’t a stranger, it’s Jellal. She can’t see their face, but she knows. Those blue feathers leave no room for uncertainty. Jellal is the only one that uses blue feathers on his arrows, dying them carefully. It started as a joke, Laxus always used to call him a bluebird, the birds the same shade as Jellal’s hair. Jellal never liked the name, but adopted it as his own eventually, turning the mocking joke into something powerful.
She stares at the ranger, so sure that it’s her friend, but he doesn’t even look her way, eyes on Natsu, and she’s struck by the startling thought that he doesn’t know it’s her. All he sees is two strangers—and a Berserk at that. She’d forgotten how much people in Fiore despise people like Natsu, shoved it to the back of her mind and ignored it, hoping her family would be different. She was terrified of what they might do, but she wasn’t expecting a reaction like this.
“Natsu!” she calls after him, hoping to gain his attention. “Natsu, stop!” He doesn’t hear her, Lucy’s voice lost to the wind whipping around her, her own magic stealing away her voice. Hissing in frustration, she struggles to her feet, her sore arm wobbling beneath her, still stiff from being bled out days earlier. She ignores the linger twinges of pain, knowing there are more important things to focus on, and shoves herself upwards, biting back a wince.
Her eyes widen in horror as she realizes she’s too late. Jellal rushes forward, cowl pulled low over his face, his eyes barely visible as they glint in the light, so dark they’re nearly black. So quickly that Lucy almost doesn’t notice, Jellal slips a knife into his palm, coiling like a snake prepared to strike, poised as he waits for Natsu to come in close, hoping for a quick fight.
Her breath catches in her throat, the blades glinting in the light, and Lucy calls out to them one more time, begging them to stop, but they don’t hear her. She has to stop them, she knows, or they’ll kill each other. All Jellal sees is a Berserk, a monster that could rip him apart, and Natsu’s anger has been sparked, Jellal making the mistake of nearly killing the two of them. She’s learned that Natsu won’t forgive that.
This won’t be like her fight with Natsu so long ago. There’s no way to simply turn off this anger boiling beneath his skin, and Jellal is stronger than her. Lucy couldn’t kill Natsu, couldn’t overpower him, but Jellal could. It would cost him his life, but she thinks Jellal could do it.
They collide halfway across the small field, a small pocket in the forest, a steam bubbling as it winds through the tall grass. The trees tower over them, shading much of the clearing, the chill of winter curling through the air. Everything goes horrifyingly quiet for a moment, not a sound for what must be miles.
omg congrats on the 300 followers!!! That's awesome! Following with your theme of chocochicks (adorable!!) would you maybe be able to write or headcanon something about little Prompto and Papa Cor, please? I love imagining Prompto and Papa Cor.
Thank you, my dear! So as I started writing this it went into a tangent of now I’m not sure if this was the type of fic you were looking for but this is what came out. Hope you like it!
“The mission is
over. No need to get attached to it,
Cor couldn’t help it. Curiosity got the
best of him. What started off as an
intelligence gathering mission evolved into something more. He was enlisted for his stealth and fighting
prowess. Upon his return though, he
added kidnapper to his resume. None had
anticipated that Cor would return with a child in his arms. A child whom scientists were more than happy
to confiscate once they learned how it was grown in a lab, in the same facility
where experimentation with magitek technology occurred. Seeing the hunger in the scientists’ eyes,
Cor was weary about relinquishing the baby to those who only saw him as nothing
more than a laboratory specimen, but he had no say in the matter. Clarus reassured Cor that no harm would
befall the infant, however they had to learn what they could about their enemy
especially if it would help them get a step ahead of Niflheim.
the days passed, Cor could not help but to dwell on what happened in the
scientists’ care. Was the baby
healthy? Was he being tortured? Hell, the scientists wouldn’t even
acknowledge the baby as a human, but rather kept referring to the boy as
“it.” In his eyes, that made them no better
than those damned Niffs.
days became weeks. Then weeks turned
into months. Before long it had been
years since that day he had snuck into the magitek facility yet he still
wondered about the boy. He should be
eight-years-old now. Whatever had become
He hasn’t said a word in weeks. It was spring and he’d sit outside all day in this spot where there used to be a set of stone steps lodged into this tiny hill. There was this one tree there but it was standing crooked; its roots were exposed on the one side, looking like a giant spider’s web. No one really knew why but the tree getting almost ripped out caused the steps to crumble. Down they went, like a tower collapsing, exposing these ugly dents and cracks in the earth, filled with tiny ants, their sleek backs glinting in the sunlight.
Sometimes I’d walk over and sit near him; there’d be times I’d fill all this silence with all the words I had in me, talk until my throat would feel scratchy and my lungs tired; other times I’d stay silent and listen to the wind moving his light green tunic, feel all the weight and warmth of his knee pressing against mine, watch the complicated dance of the black straps of his sandal winding themselves around a silent ankle.
Sometimes I’d just watch from afar. The tree’s shadow will move, lazy and heavy across the ground, and at some point in the day, it would fall over Loki and swallow him whole; and in that absence of him the constant humming of the bugs moving their airy wings so fast you can’t even see them flying past, and that soft rush of wind moving through the grass and that delightful flutter of a leaf falling from a branch and twirling in the air, I’d hear them all so loud in my head, so clear, and wait with baited breath for that shadow to move again, to catch a glimpse of a pale elbow, of that black hair that sweep of darkness has turned cool and silky.
The shadow would shift and the light would embrace him and I’d know he’d wish to follow that long, whispering shadow everywhere.
Loss had a way of sealing his lips, of bringing silence to where there were once words. He grieved for his brother Helblindi the same way, and then he grieved for our mother. It was a different kind of silence, though; for Helblindi his silence was filled with longing for the brother he’d never met, only heard about from stories and letters sent to Asgard smelling of frost and written in blue ink; for our mother, Loki’s silence was filled with guilt.
Loki’s silence lasted for four weeks, filling my mind with lonely images of beady ants marching in a row, fine knuckles blazing red from the sunlight, and the almost inaudible flutter of light green fabric.
Then, Loki asked me for cherries. We were sitting out there under that tree, following the journey of the sun across all that white light, with the wind moving over our knees and the backs of our hands and I haven’t even noticed that spot in the corner of my eye getting darker and darker as the day traveled on. When I turned my head to look at Loki sitting to my left, that’s when I noticed he was sitting in that column of darkness, and I was sitting in the light still. I could feel how cool it was, that shadow, how damp and drafty; it was inching closer to me and my right arm and leg felt like they were on fire.
And I remembered mother taking us both to the orchard come spring. She’d let me eat as many cherries as I wanted, but would always watch Loki and tell him to stop whenever she’d think he’d had enough.
And I thought: the cherries remind him of her. And I thought of the way she’d offer her palms to us and they’d be filled with wine colored cherries, and they’d catch the light and it would look like she was holding a beautiful fantasy there in her hands.
And when the memories faded away like soft morning fog, I told Loki yes, and hadn’t noticed that the shadow had moved slow and quiet and swallowed us both.
I took Loki to the orchard that day. We walked for a while, our shoulders touching, the hills all around us with their dusty colors, the sun warming the back of our necks, the golden ornaments stitched to the fabric covering Loki’s shoulders catching the light and casting bright glittery spots on the grass and on my arms.
In the orchard, the air was cooler and smelled sweet. Loki’s tunic was painted with shadows. The trees were short, and the grass felt cold and it felt like we were moving through a shallow stream, leading all the way into the heart of some forest. The branches were hanging low, the weight of the cherries pulling them downwards, and it was so easy to reach up and pick them, one only had to choose those he liked best, but none of them had any blemish so choosing was easier or harder, it depended on the way you chose to look at it.
I watched Loki reaching with his fingers; they were pale and thin and they were gentle when he picked the cherries. The shadows of the branches sketched a pattern over his upturned face, slashing a black line over his lips and splitting them right in the middle.
All the cherries I picked, I picked for him. I was not hungry, but I wanted him to eat and fill his heart with joy. We picked until our hands were full and then we lay on the grass.
I offered Loki my palm full of cherries and watched him take one. He ripped the stem out, split it right down the middle and took out the pit. There was red there under his fingernails and he put one half into his mouth and then the other, his eyes never leaving mine. When his teeth crushed that soft flesh, the sweet juice soaked through the cracks in his lips and tainted them dark burgundy.
The sun traveled high in the sky and Loki’s mouth got redder and redder. Whenever I’d feel his fingers brushing my palm I’d reach over to where we placed all the cherries we’d picked and fill it again and watch him bite and chew and swallow and his fingers would reach in and remove those dark pits and his teeth would flash white, and I’d watch his tongue now the bright color of blood moving in his mouth, lapping all that sweetness up.
How hadn’t I noticed the light in his eyes slowly but steadily, dimming?
How hadn’t I noticed the rise and fall of his chest becoming so gentle, barely able to lift the light fabric of that tunic with each one of his breaths?
He was looking at me and drifting away, mouth red, eyes glassy and the shadows were moving over his skin, soft and light, as thin as those cherry stems and I never realized mother would watch Loki for a reason. She’d count the cherries. She’d tell him to stop at a certain number. I never knew why. Loki never knew why, until he did, and me getting to eat all I wanted would make him cry when we were small because he couldn’t do the same.
We didn’t know she was only looking after him. Cherries are poisonous for his kind; only a certain amount is allowed for consumption. Mother knew how many he was allowed to have. I didn’t.
I still stand outside and watch that crooked tree standing there by the steps. At noon, I wait for the shadow to shift. I wait to see the pale elbow, that pale green tunic. I wait, and my ears are filled with sound.
Shigeo watched the last leaf fall from the tree, the tree he always sat under, there was a bench there and it was pretty convenient. He looked straight up at the way the branches splayed out across the sky, sometimes he thought of them as protective hands other times he thought of them as begging, both Shigeo understood.
“Hey Kageyama-kun,” Hanazawa’s voice called.
Shigeo drew his eyes down to Hanazawa bleach blonde hair and the other’s blindingly bright visage, Hanazawa smiled down at him with soft kindness.
“Hello,” Shigeo replied, squinting as he stared up at Hanazawa.
The sun shone blindingly down upon them, unburdened by the clouds in the starkly clear sky. Hanazawa took a seat beside him, coat rustling as the other moved, he watched the other’s profile and tried to think of anyone else that he could share these kinds of silences with. The kinds of silences where you can hear the wind rush through bushes, grass and the branches of the tress above them, the kinds of silences that you just sink into and wrap you in a warm and gentle sensation.