#dryadologist

meme links?? in THIS economy?

" i'm not saying that you haven't. " she can feel it now. that tension in her shoulders. that urge to shut the conversation down, or give him a small slice of the truth that might shield him from what lurks behind it. she studies him for a moment while her heart and mind wage an invisible war. that serious, calm expression on his face. the way the sunlight can't even begin to capture the perfection of him, only making him more luminous in the sunrise. memories rise to the surface. the night of the attack at the diner. countless weeks spent sitting in the attic, scouring through countless ancient texts. late-night teas, the scent of old books and sweet apples and whatever shampoo he uses...

THE ROOM FELT HEAVY. typically flynn didn't make a habit of drinking on his own. he'd even brag that he never really had the option to. with a bustling campus and a charming smile he found that it wasn't very difficult to round up a couple of drinking buddies. but the campus was starting to naturally thin out as the semester came to a close. plus he wasn't giving his usual happy to receive company energy. he'd been compared to a golden retriever in that respect a time or two.

he knew the voice without needing to turn around. he gave a one shoulder shrug before lifting the drink back to his lips. part of him wonders how the bloody hell the professor found out his actual birthday. it wasn't as if the identification he carried on him was real or accurate. but he stopped questioning wendell a long while ago.

jude knows how she must look to him: crouched over something one moment and standing right up in the next, dagger in hand and a probably ( definitely ) crazed look in her eyes. the dirt on her dress from the knee area down wasn't going to help her case either; she considers telling him a lie, but with the way he was regarding her, she might as well tell him the truth. "i'm foraging." some of the truth. and never mind the first inquiry.

because saying she was looking for blusher mushrooms would make him think she was suicidal or murderous — both of which were true to a certain extent, but she couldn't have him asking any more questions. "didn't know this was still private land. sorry."

it’s not a lot. Just weird it happened twice

✦         THE CREATURES ‘ACROSS THE POND’ HAD A WOEFUL  tendency to drink cups of straight doodoo juice, it seemed;  he had sampled their ‘breakfast tea’ or, whatever the hell that nonsense had been, and it was an under-brewed, pale imitation of proper tea.  teddy couldn't blame wendell one bit for wanting an alternative; hell, he considered it an act of charity, even.  free this man from the terror grip of tetley tea bags!

“dunks run it is, then,”  said teddy, swiftly followed by:  “for the novelty of it, or are you just really craving a munchkin?”

it could be both — how long would wendell stay in the states?  how many chances would he get to indulge in these things before being dragged back to some backwater town with a fucking ridiculous name, populated mostly by union jack-wearing layabouts with more opinions on football teams than teeth?  

when the other approaches, arthur is a shadow of his former self—small, tucked with knees to chest and arms latched across legs, gaze down. his helm is cracked in two and discarded where the mud takes the pieces. blood stains the metal. and seeing it now across his face—the bright red stain matts damp hair to skin. rain beat against it in harsh pelts but does not wash away the wound.

the wide of his eyes gleam, the golden color bright and fast-moving. he shivers beneath cloak and armor—abandoned, like a hurt dog. who knows how long he has sat in the dark, in the rain, the puddle pinkish beneath him, the gash angry. his breath comes in heaving gasps. he doesn't notice wendell approach until a hand is outstretched before him. an offer for help.

his gaze is slow to register. tight-lipped, arthur raises his head to meet the man's emerald stare. oh wendell. strange, unruly wendell. wendell wouldn't know not to help, not to notice. arthur looks stricken, pallor and sick. blood trickles pink where the rainwater touches it. a mark welts against his cheek.

the sand in his eyes twists and turns. this man before him—who was he to offer him anything ?? ignore the poor little demon, the others would say. it's just the duke's toy, breaking again. arthur shakes with something other than pain and cold. barely contained, he rattles like a wildfire trapped in a cage. his pupils widen, hands warm, muscles tense where he looks to be holding something back. the taste of power bathes his tongue, violent and annoyed. why restrain ?? they hurt you didn't they ?? burn it all down.

fingers tighten until the knuckles blanch. after a long moment, his lips part, voice cracking where he admits himself, foolish and desperate, hoarse against the rain.

II Minor Details About The Muse– Ask Meme

𝒲𝐸𝒩𝒟𝐸𝐿𝐿 𝒫𝐼𝒞𝒦𝐸𝒟 ❝ 22. and got mess it up by gracie abrams ❞