#;this is your captain speaking (about the mun)

[antvnger]

Soooooooo since I was only around in the movie for like 30 minutes or so, I missed loads of like actual important information that would’ve been nice to know beforehand.

The short answer rant is this: What. A. Shit show.

Like…like hell, I don’t even know where to start with all of this. It gave me a headache.

Brace yourselves, gang, I’m not holding back.

First of all, apparently sitting down and having an actual conversation about the Accords was a little too much to do for them? Like they started to but nothing came out of it. A stand still. I would think something that big would make them sort through it all until they came to some kind of collective agreement, but I guess not? 🤷🏻‍♂️

Secondly, both sides made mistakes. Big time. Both thought they were doing right, and I definitely get that, but both sides could’ve done better at what they were doing. I guess retrospect’s 20/20 but yeah.

Also, I really can’t stand Ross. Not the clean shaven Ross but the one with the mustache and the high and mighty, sourpuss attitude. Like what a creep.

The real bad guys here? The government.

How the hell did the Avengers just learn about the Accords 3 days before they’re supposed to be ratified? Shouldn’t that have been like breaking news from the moment somebody breathed about it?

And Ross being like “you’ll retire” if the Avengers decide to go against the Accords? As if he could actually do anything about it. I mean, who the hell does this guy think he is? Thanos?

Also what is it with baseball caps and sunglasses as disguises? I know I pulled the same stunt but it wasn’t my idea. I said no and got outvoted.

And look, I think Wanda’s great, but she wasn’t a kid at the time this all went down. I appreciate Cap wanting to protect her since she was like the newbie, but she messed up. That was really bad. I don’t know what she could’ve done to fix it, but maybe at the very least the Avengers could have issued a public apology.

I think Steve has serious Bucky issues and I genuinely don’t understand.

And Vision saying the whole world started having more enhanced since/because Tony said he’s Iron Man is bullshit. Last I checked, and Ant Mun backed me up here, all the big bads that have shown up in our world happened because of things NOT related to Tony! What, just because they called the move Captain America Civil War, they’re gonna make Tony the bad guy or something? Bullshit.

ALSO! When T’Challa was fighting Bucky and the UN chopper just started shooting at them both, thank goodness T’Challa was wearing Vibranium or that would have caused a plethora of other problems. Funny how the Avengers get fingers pointed at them over collateral damage for the sake of the mission when that chopper was literally doing THE SAME THING.

WHY DIDNT STEVE JUST EXPLAIN TO TONY TEN MINUTES INTO THE MOVIE THAT BUCKY WASNT BUCKY AND HAD NO CONTROL WHEN THE WINTER SOLDIER SHIT HAPPENED?!

Oh don’t worry. I’m getting to Siberia, hold your horses.

I’m not really sure on the timeframe here, but I’m think the Accords weren’t actually ratified yet when the whole airport fight happened soooooooo I don’t think Creepy Ross had any real power yet to tell Tony what to do.

I’m not going to touch on the lady who lost her son because I can’t even fathom that kind of grief. And I don’t want to. Ever. And I know grief makes you do things so I don’t know. My heart just hurts for her. I hate Tony got the brunt of that but still.

Speaking of grief making you do things? Zemo. I know who he is now, and I really can’t stand the guy. I hate he lost loved ones, and I hurt for him in that department. But when he decided to go all batshit psycho over it, some sympathy’s lost. Like he went through some hella trouble to make the Avengers unravel.

Siberia…*sigh* Siberia was really hard to watch. Like it was painful. It was…frightening. I almost wish I didn’t watch it. I had an idea what was going to happen because of what Tony shared but to see it for myself…

*sigh* This whole movie is a testament to honesty, trust, and open communication. Or rather what could happen with a lack there of. Ya know, me hearing about the Avengers before I joined them and seeing them on tv for interviews and stuff, I thought they were tight. An actual, close knit team. Maybe a found-family. But sooooooo much could’ve been avoided if they had just acted like that.

If they’d just sat down and talked it over. They could have an arguing match over it all if necessary, hell friends and families do that. If they had really trusted each other and let each other in on things instead of keeping each other out and building up secrets and agendas. Too many bosses and not enough coworkers.

It hurt, Iron Mun. It hurt to watch. Those are my friends and…there were times it felt like I didn’t even recognize them.

And then watching me show up felt so surreal. They got that whole interaction with the rest of “Team Cap” down to a T. I remember being so excited to be called up by one of the OG Avengers, one of my heroes, feeling honored and ready to do more and help people and do what’s right. Make a bigger difference than I already was. But God, I had no idea. I had no fricking clue.

In the end, Civil War was just like any other war. A mess. Both sides made mistakes, everything could’ve been done better, and nobody came out unscathed. In fact, everything ended up worse because of it.

@stxrksarc

[mane--attraction]

Ah yes, my very late "year in review post" whoops lol (MINORS DNI)

I posted 25 times in 2022

That's 13 more posts than 2021!

18 posts created (72%)

7 posts reblogged (28%)

Blogs I reblogged the most:

@umbral-archives

@westanthewaterman

@weirdlyhornyforegos

I tagged 25 of my posts in 2022

#gender neutral reader - 9 posts

#mun speaks - 8 posts

#lemon - 8 posts

#x reader - 8 posts

#minors dni - 6 posts

#gn reader - 4 posts

#murdock x reader - 4 posts

#lemonish - 3 posts

#darkiplier x reader - 3 posts

#mun answers - 3 posts

Longest Tag: 130 characters

#okay after thinking about it you may have mentioned the idea as a fic at one point (cuz i know it was brought up for rp) but still

My Top Posts in 2022:

#5

Murderplier/Murdoch spicy headcanons - MINORS DNI

A/N I’ve been holding onto these since... May 5th? Damn lol forgot about them until literally today when I’m making this post. >:P Under read more just in case. 

CW: knifes, murder mention, blood mention, gender neutral but there is a period mention (if I need more warnings, let me know)

(read more at the link below)

58 notes - Posted July 21, 2022

#4

A/N: I wrote this at 3am don't look at me

MINORS DNI

Murdock has a habit.

(read more at the link below)

58 notes - Posted November 8, 2022

#3

"Perhaps you are tired of me repeating myself over..."

One spank. You yelp with a jolt.

"...and over..."

Another spank, another cry from you. You swear that slap was harder.

"...and over again," he growls into your ear as he gives one more and you hiss in pain, even as a shudder runs down your spine.

(read more at the link below)

79 notes - Posted February 1, 2022

#2

Technically

(A/N: This has been languishing for a while cuz despite being a drabble I got stuck really quickly; I couldn’t figure out how to make what I wrote mesh with the idea of “someone comes to the door” without it feeling unnecessary. Ah well, another time, mayhaps. Anyway, enjoy~)

(minors dni)

~~~~~

Technically, the head engineer should bunk near the engines, in case of an issue. Technically, in addition to being closer to the bridge, the captain's quarters only have room for one.

(read more at the link below)

147 notes - Posted September 2, 2022

My #1 post of 2022

How they would react to you tying yourself up in ribbon as a gift for them: Actor and Dark

(click the link below to view the headcanons)

157 notes - Posted January 5, 2022

~~~

(posts edited down for length and also to hide most of the naughty stuff lol. also for some reason this recap post removed the read more from everything so the entire post was slapped in there)

What a year! I know I'm (very) late with posting this, but I only refound this recap thing in the last few days of 2022 and then I got busy. My most popular post was the one towards the beginning of the year, and I actually reblogged stuff to this blog that wasn't just that one gifset! Whodathunk! The top five has a pretty good range, which I'm happy about. Thank you to everyone in particular who reblogged stuff and added tags, I appreciate those notes the most. And also those asks, hehe. I live for the yelling at me in my inbox and the tags. Who knows what this year will bring~~ >:3

Get your Tumblr 2022 Year in Review →

[thesinglethreat]

𝑂𝑁𝐿𝑌𝐷𝐴𝑁𝐶𝐸𝑆 : an independent portrayal of 𝑱𝑬𝑨𝑵 𝑱𝑶𝑹𝑫𝑨𝑵 from tcb's 𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑐𝑜𝑢𝑙𝑑 𝑏𝑒 𝑜𝑛 𝑏𝑟𝑜𝑎𝑑𝑤𝑎𝑦. a study in being the go - to dance captain, pushing your body to its absolute limits, having delusional dreams, and living life one eight count at a time.

this blog is ship exclusive with @santafeilure.

dossier. promo. inbox memes. memes for bre. blogs.

activity. all of my blogs are on a medium / medium-low activity basis. i'm a teacher, so in the months of august - may, my spoons are limited due to work and some chronic illnesses / conditions i have. please be patient with me. ♡

following. due to some anxieties i have, i rarely follow first. i usually reserve that for friends or people who my friends have vouched, so please do not take offense if i don't follow first.

with that being said, i review everyone that chooses to follow me, that includes extensively reading their rules and about their character. i reserve the right to not follow back or even soft block a following to protect my space. i will not follow back and will likely block if there are no rules or mun information present or if the mun is under the age of 21.

ship exclusive. i am ship exclusive with bre out of my own comfort and preference. this means none of my muses are open for romantic shipping. however, i love every other kind of dynamic, so bring them on! all i ask is that you respect the exclusivity. any ship-based content will be deleted and repeated offenses will result in blocking.

content warning. there will be presence of spicy content on here from time to time. any sort of spice will be tagged according to the level of it. suggestive // will be used for mild material. spicy // will be used for more graphic descriptions. any other triggers will be labelled as trigger // accordingly.

banned. i don't want to gatekeep, but please do not interact if you use the following banned face claims: lea michele, armie hammer, blake jenner, bob morley, eliza taylor, amber heard, johnny depp _aka people with a recorded history of being abusive / violent / damaging.

do not follow if you write portrayals of real life people or events or if you write child predators such as william afton or peter pan from the twisted childhood universe.

this blog does not support trump supporters / maga - heads, racism, antisemitism, bigotry, pedophilia, islamophobia, homophobia, transphobia, sexual assault, domestic violence, hate, harrassment, etc. it's also important to note that i won't always publicly speak on real world events on my blog. i want this to be a safe creative space, and if you ever want to know my stance or opinion on an issue, i'm happy to have a conversation. however, i want to keep my content as laid back as possible.

reblog from the source. if you see something i reblog that you like, then go for it! however, all i ask is that you reblog from the source, if it is available. even when it's not, i try to go into the notes and reblog it from someone who reblogged it months and months ago. please exercise this courtesy as well.

unfollowing protocols. when i unfollow a blog, i tend to softblock them. i mean no ill will in doing so, and you are welcome to do the same if you wish to unfollow me. like i said, i want to curate an enriching dash, so i tend to do clean outs now and again based on who's shown interest in me & my muses.

credits. most graphics are made by me unless otherwise specified. my coloring psd is from @pinkinnards. i currently use galaxy syrup!

[mothflamed]

tags. 

[warhornofgondor]

𝚃𝚆𝙴𝙻𝚅𝙴 𝙿𝙴𝙾𝙿𝙻𝙴 𝙸'𝙳 𝙻𝙸𝙺𝙴 𝚃𝙾 𝙺𝙽𝙾𝚆 𝙱𝙴𝚃𝚃𝙴𝚁

tagged by: @emcads 

tagging:  @dunadaneth, @honorhearted, @enastrcs @storiedocs, @athellas, @abrazimir, @yarniingtales

ONE ( ALIAS / NAME ):  tish

TWO ( BIRTHDAY ): july 8th

THREE ( ZODIAC SIGN ):  cancer

FOUR ( HEIGHT ): 5′6″

FIVE ( HOBBIES ):   i love hiking with my husband and just going on adventures. i am an avid reader and like to various crafts. i belong to an american revolution reenacting company where i portray a soldier. also, i am a ham radio operator.

SEVEN ( FAVOURITE BOOKS ): the nightrunner series by lynn flewelling is my favorite series, followed by lord of the rings by tolkien, codex alera by jim butcher, and the jack absolute series by cc humphries

EIGHT ( LAST SONG LISTENED TO ):  rox in the box by the decemberists

NINE ( LAST SHOW WATCHED ): amc’s turn via netflix (i don’t have a tv so...)

TEN ( INSPIRATION FOR MUSE ): i love boromir. there is so much that isn’t mentioned in the books, and he gets a lot of hate. i’m just trying to do him justice and fill in the blank spaces that tolkien gave.

ELEVEN ( MEANING BEHIND YOUR URL ): the horn of gondor is by his side on every journey and every battle. it is an icon for him and his role in the fellowship.

[cindybermcn]

tag drop because my tags are wonky right now

[the-atlesian-general]

Tags

[slippinmickeys]

The Earl (12/13)

If you’d like to read on AO3, you may do so here. 

CHAPTER TWELVE

Scully looked about the cottage around her with a critical eye. With what she had on hand, there had to be something she could do or use to escape this place.

The windows were a non-starter; they were too small to fit through. It would have to be the door. It was locked from the outside -- the door itself, ancient and made of oak; she could pound at it for days and never get through. She briefly considered using leverage to perhaps lift it off its hinges, but it was set tightly and even if she could put together some kind of lever and fulcrum, it had nowhere to go. The lock itself was also old, made of iron. Even with the strength of a blacksmith she wouldn’t be able to smash it, either.

A blacksmith, she thought. A smith doesn’t make things with strength only -- he heats the metal to make it malleable enough to work with. Perhaps if she could heat the iron of the lock -- it was an old, simple one, with few pins -- just enough to soften it, a swift, strong kick could break the mechanism…

She had firewood enough for a blaze, but no coal, the fuel of the smith. Wood would not burn hot enough, nor steady or strong enough to do what she needed it to do. On top of that, she had no way of directing the heat.

She wandered into the scullery of the kitchen, assessing its contents.

The lye could be helpful, she thought. Concentrated lye mixed with water would make a fairly corrosive solution, but even if she applied it to the door or lock, it would take far more time than she had to damage or weaken either enough to break through them. The kerosene was a thought, but would burn out quickly and she had no desire to breathe either smoke or fumes -- particularly since she couldn’t open the windows for fresh air.

She paced the cottage, thinking, eventually grabbing an apple from the table and shining it on the grungy front of her frock. She took a bite, chewing contemplatively.

She had the items in the kitchen. She had a few books, the clothes she wore. The bed, two chairs from the main sitting room and a small, sturdy side table that sat between them, upon which she’d deposited the many hair pins that had fallen out of her coiffure when Spender hacked it off. She fingered one in her hand.

Aluminum, she thought. Something was pinging in the back of her mind. Aluminum would react with lye if water were added -- the reaction of which would rapidly create an evolution of hydrogen gas. It would be highly exothermic and the hydrogen itself would ignite and burn at an extremely high temperature. It probably wouldn’t burn long, but if she were able to build up enough pressure and direct the reaction exactly where she wanted it…

She rushed into the scullery and pulled up the large glass vinegar bottle, setting it on the ancient kitchen table. The bottle was sturdy and large, with a long narrow neck and thick cork that fit tightly enough in the opening that she struggled to get it off. It could work, she thought.

Scully dragged the heavy end table from the living space over to the door. It was about one foot too low. She brought over several of the books and stacked them so that they leaned against the door. She brought over the bottle and set it on the table, then leaned it against the books, facing the narrow bottle opening at the lock. It was a bit too high. She took another bite of apple. Only one thing to be done.

She opened the top book and, apologizing -- out loud, to a book -- she tore about ten pages out. Then another ten. She tried lining up the bottle again. A few more centimeters should do it. She ripped out another thirty pages of the book, the thought alone making her sick to her stomach, and again lined up the bottle. Perfect. The neck and mouth of the bottle were positioned directly at the lock’s keyhole. Now she needed to secure it there.

Looking down at the bottom of the dirty, too-long hem of her borrowed frock -- which was filthy and torn in two places, she leaned down and grabbed onto it. And pulled. Once she got a finger through one of the tears, the rest was easy -- she yanked and ripped and was able to tear off the whole of the hem in one long, grimy strip. She put the strip of fabric over the top of the bottle and down under the table. If she pulled and knotted it well, it should secure the bottle in place. If it even worked, the pressure that built up inside the bottle would force its way out of the neck and mouth -- eventually blowing out the cork and acting as a kind of concentrated torch. If it burned for even ten to twenty seconds, it would do so at an incredible heat. The iron of the pins in the lock would soften, at least a little, and -- if she were lucky -- one or two swift and immediate kicks and the lock would fail.

If her knowledge of science was correct.

She remembered a dialogue she’d had with Mulder only a few weeks before when he lamented the lack of common sense and intelligence in their society at large:

“Yes, but you’ve had all the education English society offers it’s young gentlemen ,” she had said.

“Yes, where I was taught to suss out the inflections of our dear language,” he replied, looking at her levelly. “You were denied an education.”

“All young ladies are denied an education,” she crossed her arms over her chest.

“A practice I don’t intend to continue should we be blessed with daughters,” he had mumbled, moving to her and nuzzling her neck to distract her from her anger.  

She’d had to educate herself, and she had done so. Now she needed to see if she was as smart as she hoped.

XxXxXxXxXxX

The house was in utter chaos. Through the night and into the next day, it had been searched high and low for the missing footman to no avail. He was the last person to have seen Duane Barry -- who had been about to tell them where Scully was being held -- alive, and he’d up and disappeared like a sneeze in the wind. No one had seen him coming or going, and the bed where the man had slept was perfectly made, the corners pulled tight. He had left no possessions to speak of -- nothing to direct anyone to where he might have gone.  

Mulder felt flayed. His chest laid bare and cracked open, his heart torn out, and all that was left was an aching chasm of gristle and bone and sinew.

Byers was in his study going over maps of the estate and surrounding areas with the land steward when Mulder wandered in. The two men were leaning over an older drawn map discussing the property lines and ownership of nearby estates -- they were all certain that Scully was being kept somewhere nearby. Mulder flopped onto a divan in the corner of the room doing his best not to give in completely to despair.  

Headly appeared in the study doorway.

“Lord Wexford,” he said, bowing deferentially. “Someone to see you, my lord.” He nodded his head toward the house’s main door.

Mulder excused himself from Byers and the steward and made his way toward the door, the dull sound of talking increasing in volume and urgency as he approached.

“I know this isn’t my house, but I say we don’t let the brigand in until he states his business!” Mr. Frohike all but shouted.

“Sir, all you need know of my business is that it is not yours,” a voice gruffed from the doorway. Mulder recognized the grumble and felt the faintest flame of hope reignite in his chest.

“Did I hear there’s a brigand at the door?” Mulder said loudly, causing the amassed people therein (Mr. Frohike, Mr. Langly, two footmen, and the two figures standing outside) to quiet instantly and turn toward his voice. “Walter,” he said, and the gathered retinue parted for him as the Red Sea did for Moses.

The taller figure in the doorway gave a half smile and reached forward to shake Mulder’s hand. “My lord.” He nodded at Mulder and looked to the other man who stood in the doorway, a long leather greatcoat hanging from wiry, muscular shoulders, his hair cropped close to his head. “My associate and I need to speak with you. Urgently.”

Mulder’s smile faded and, with an apologetic look to Frohike, gestured for the newcomers to follow him through the house and into Byers’ study, where the baronet was standing, looking fairly startled by the appearance of the newcomers. He quickly dismissed his steward.

When Frohike and Langly came into the study after them and stood on either side of their titled business associate with crossed arms and suspicious looks, Captain Walter Skinner, whose acquaintance with Mulder went back some way, looked at him warily.

“Lord Wexford, the information we came to share with you is on a manner of some… delicacy.”

“In reference to the matter I wrote to you of?” Mulder asked, referring to his inquiry of CBG Spender. Captain Skinner nodded. “They know all,” Mulder finished, nodding at Langly to close the door.

Skinner squared his jaw, digesting this, and then nodded toward his companion. “This is John Doggett, he is an associate of mine at Bow Street.”

“My lord,” Doggett said shortly.

“Rumor is sweeping through Town that the Countess of Wexford has been kidnapped for ransom,” Skinner said, looking at Mulder through small wire glasses.

“How I wish the rumors weren’t true,” Mulder said.

Skinner nodded, as though he had suspected as much. “When we heard, we knew we could not delay. We have information on this man, this CGB Spender.”

Heads raised and all eyes in the room sharpened.

“As I explained in my letter, ‘Spender’ is merely an alias.”

“Carl Gerhardt Bush, Jack Colquitt, Raul Bloodworth,” piped up Doggett, “the list is long. But the name we came across most recently drew our attention.”

Doggett looked to Skinner, who took over explanation:

“Does the name Alec Fitzsimmons mean anything to you?”

Mulder shook his head.

“Fitzsimmons runs an import business out of Lewisham. On the books, it’s nothing very interesting as far as what the man trades in-“  

“Off the books, however-“ Doggett cut in. Mulder looked to the former Captain.

“Munitions,” Skinner said, “we have reason to suspect he is running powder and munitions to Bonaparte.” Mulder saw Frohike raise his brows. “But that’s another matter,” he went on, “the import business itself was established some thirty years ago, but has recently taken on a silent partner. A partner by the name of CGB Spender,” Skinner went on. “And when we paid a visit to the offices of the Fitzsimmons Trading Company, a likeness of its founders was hanging on the wall.”

Skinner nodded to Doggett, who pulled a rolled up piece of canvas from inside his coat. He unfurled it and spread it out on Byers’ large desk, which was still covered in the maps and pages from Byers’ conversation with the Ashford Park land steward.

The painting showed several gentlemen, all but one in the picture standing. The seated gentleman was-

“Spender,” Mulder said, pointing his finger at the man’s face.

“Also goes by the name of Alec Fitzsimmons,” Skinner said. “The man is as crooked as they come. Likely trying to hide money from the Crown, using multiple aliases in multiple businesses. But you must again look at the portrait, sir.” He gestured to one of the standing gentlemen on the edge of the canvas. Mulder inhaled in surprise.

“My father,” he said. Though the man was younger than Mulder had ever seen him, it was unmistakably the Eighth Earl of Wexford.

“Did you know they had a connection, my lord?” Doggett asked.

“I do now,” Mulder said, and handed over the old envelope marked with an X.

Skinner and Doggett both read it and exchanged a look.

“So what of this man?” Mulder asked, impatience catching up with him.

“Alec Fitzsimmons owns a house on Wimpole Street,” Skinner said, “a large one, with an equally impressive entourage of household staff.”

“Did you recently hire anyone on at Wexford House in Town?” Doggett asked.

“That would be a question better put to my butler,” Mulder said.

“I did ask it of your butler, sir,” Doggett said, “And he told me one of your footmen fell ill very recently and he was forced to hire on someone new. A servant by the name of Alexander Krycek, who had come with excellent references and who traveled with you here to Ashford Park.”

Dread began to purl through Mulder’s chest.

“Before he was hired on at your London House,” Skinner began, “he had worked for the previous three years as head footman in the household of Alec Fitzsimmons.”

Mulder’s fists clenched so hard his knuckles popped.

“Is he currently below stairs?” Doggett asked, resting his hand upon the wooden handle of a pistol that hung from his belt.

“He is not,” Mulder answered, his voice like iced steel.

“We believe he poisoned your footman Samuel in order to secure the position and assist this Spender in abducting your wife.”

Mulder grabbed onto the edge of Byers’ mahogany desk and actually lifted one side of the leviathan, so fueled by rage that he had the strength of ten men. He slammed it back down.

“That is, ah-” Skinner started, looking at Mulder with trepidation, “not the only coincidence we found when we looked into your staff and the staff of Alec Fitzsimmons.”

Mulder felt his knees go weak under him.

XxXxXxXxXxX

Scully had filled the bottom of the glass bottle with lye and put in every hair pin she could find -- a considerable amount, given the length and thickness of her former tresses. All that needed to be done now was to pour in the water and quickly secure the cork. Once that was done, she would need to hurry behind the stone wall of the bedroom and hope that not only did her plan work, but that it didn’t backfire and blow her to smithereens in the process.  

In theory, the reaction should start as soon as water hit the two substances at the bottom of the bottle. Hydrogen would form quickly and the pressure would build even more so -- and if she resecured the cork tightly in order to trap that pressure, in almost no time at all, a fire of the hottest flame would be forcibly directed at the door’s lock.

She rolled some of the pages she’d torn out of the book into a kind of funnel and placed it in the top of the bottle which was secured tightly to the table below it. She picked up the pail of water with shaking hands. She poured.

She immediately heard the bubbling of the reaction. As soon as the bucket was empty, she dropped it and slammed the cork home, giving it one solid hit with her fist. Then she ran as fast as her legs would carry her into the bedroom and ducked down.

It happened even more swiftly than she thought it would. She heard the pop of the cork and then a low ominous hissing. She peeked around the wall. There were no flames that she could see (invisible flame! she thought, extraordinary! ), but there was a black shadow of charring creeping up the side of the oaken door and already the metal of the lock had an orangish glow.

Her stomach leapt into her throat. It had worked! As soon as the hissing sound ended, she ran at the door and slammed it  for all she was worth. The latch gave a little and she kicked it again. It flew open with a dull, muffled thud, and Scully stepped out into the blazing sunlight.

XxXxXxXxXxX

“I beg your pardon?” Mulder said, lowering himself into the nearest chair.

Skinner and his man Doggett shared a look.

“There is yet another member of your staff that once worked for Fitzsimmons.”

“Who is he?”

“Not he, sir,” Doggett said, “but she. The Countess’s lady’s maid, Prudence.”

“But… but Prudence has worked in our household for several years,” Mulder said, “before I even ascended to the Earldom.”

Skinner exchanged another look with Doggett and raised the envelope with the large, black X -- the accusation against Mulder’s father of an illegitimate child. “And now I believe we may know why,” he said.

Mulder felt the blood drain from his face, and he gestured weakly for Skinner to go on.

“When we spoke with your Housekeeper, we learned that Prudence was hired by the Eighth Earl himself. According to her, the girl had been raised at the country estate of Alec Fitzsimmons, an orphan that the Fitzsimmons estate took on as a charity case. She worked in the household as a child, and when she came of age, it was said she was promised a position at Henwick Priory -- one, should she perform her duties well, she would keep until she reached the age of five and forty, at which point there was set aside a small pension. An odd arrangement, which we could not figure out -- until we saw this.” Mulder looked to the envelope in his hand.

“I know my finances back to front,” Mulder said, “and I know nothing of this arrangement.”

“Mrs. Paxton said that the girl’s wages are paid, as any other maid’s would be, from the household account. The pension, however, is held in a private trust set up by your father.”

“Prudence is my sister,” he said breathlessly.

“I now believe so, yes,” said Skinner, his face set in a grim line. “And we should talk to her. This very minute.”

XxX

Prudence was summoned into Byers’ office and entered, eyes swinging around at the men assembled around her. She swallowed nervously and curtsied, looking to Mulder with apprehension.

“Is there word of the Countess, my lord?” she said hopefully.

“No,” Mulder answered, but did not -- could not -- go on. He was busy looking at her. He’d never noticed that her eyes were the same hazel-green as his own, that her hair was the exact shade. He found himself unable to speak.

“Prudence,” said Skinner from the other side of the room. She looked to him. “My name is Walter Skinner. I’m an investigator on Bow Street and I’ve been hired by Lord Wexford.”

“To find the Countess? I’ll help in any way I can,” she said earnestly.

Skinner merely nodded, not correcting her. “Thank you,” he said. “You have been working for Lord Wexford for several years, is that correct?”

“Yes, sir,” she said, “I was hired as a maid at Henwick Priory when I turned seventeen.”

“Have you been happy working there?”

“Oh, very,” she said, for the first time giving a hesitant smile. “Lord Wexford is a kind and generous employer. I feel I have distinguished myself, such as a woman of my standing can. I was thrilled to be selected by Mrs. Paxton -- that’s Lord Wexford’s housekeeper -- to be the new Countess’s lady’s maid. Several of the other girls were hatefully envious, I can tell you. But I very much enjoy my job.”

“And where were you before you were hired at Henwick Priory?” Doggett asked.

“At an estate not far from here, in fact,” Prudence said, “I was an orphan, you see, and I was taken on as a charity case. When I came of age, I was told that the charity that had arranged my employment as a child had another opportunity lined up at the Priory. With guaranteed employment and a pension! I could not pass it up.”

“Did you know the footman Alexander before he was hired at Wexford House?” Skinner inquired.

A look of distaste crossed her features. “I did not,” she said shortly. “It’s… it’s not my place to say,” she darted eyes quickly to Mulder, “but something about the man has never sat right with me.”

From the corner of his eye, Mulder saw Frohike shift on his feet.

“Is Prudence your given name?” Skinner said.

“It is my middle name,” she explained, “there was an older scullery maid by the name of Samantha already working on the Fitzsimmons estate when I arrived.” Byers inhaled sharply. “I went by Prudence for the sake of simplicity.”

“What-” Mulder finally spoke, “what is the name of the estate where you were raised?”

“It is a small estate called Harwood Hall,” she said.

“And what of the gentleman who employed you there?” Skinner asked her.

“Mr. Fitzsimmons?” she asked. “I do not know him well. We were told to keep out of the way, and he lived mostly in Town.”

“This Harwood Hall,” Mulder said, rising from his seat, “you say it is nearby?”

“Not ten miles from here,” Prudence said, “by the sea.”

[trickstercaptain]

MUN AND MUSE QUESTIONS

list 5 of your muse’s favourite sensations.

physical contact, whether that’s skin-on-skin, hot breaths, sensual contact with another human being or just plain physical touch and being held. Jack finds more comfort in being held than being the one to hold but he likes both.

walking barefoot across sand warmed up by the sun

the sea. i’ll try to be more specific but just all of it: the feeling of being enveloped by the water and holding his breath for as long as possible (and testing that to its limit), the sublime mysteriousness of the ocean’s depths, the power of the currents and the waves against his ship as he’s driving her through a storm, the comfort of knowing the sea is always there. constant, reassuring, nurturing.

the feel of the Pearl under his fingertips when he’s in command at the helm

watching a sunset light up his cabin through his stern windows

do they have any pet peeves?

so many things. Jack is very easily annoyed lmao. but one that really sticks in the mind at the moment is passivity. Jack would much rather surround himself with people who speak their minds to the point of coming into conflict with and challenging him, than people who have no independent thought whatsoever and will blindly accept and follow what they’re told. this is what makes his captaining style interesting, because he expects his orders to be followed when it counts, and he expects his authority to be respected, but he is very open-minded to criticism and other opinions different to his own ( even if, on the surface, it appears like he’s annoyed by it ). if you cannot hold your own or give as good as you get from Jack during an exchange with him, it’s amazing how quickly he will lose interest.

their comfort read? (could be a book, magazine, comics, etc)

in his younger years it is clearly Captain Ward’s My Lyfe Amonge the Pyrates as he references it too many times in TPOF for him not to have an emotional attachment to it. he even says that he would read it as a child and dream of finding all of the treasure in it and becoming famous one day, so the book is heavily associated with that driving ambition he had when he was younger to make something of himself and prove to everyone else around him that he wasn’t worthless. but he loses that book between the events of TPOF and the mutiny and, in his older years, he’s not as much into reading as he used to be, so a comfort read would just become whatever he could get his hands on at the time.

if the book they are reading turns out to be shit, do they push through just for the sake of finishing it, or do they move on and find something else?

Jack will absolutely ditch it if he’s not invested. it’s probably rare for him to encounter a book that he finds a slog to read as, particularly in his younger years, he’s an avid reader and has a real thirst to know things, and he tends to be picky about what he’ll pick up to read anyway, but if it doesn’t hold his attention he will quickly discard it in favour of something else. that tends to go for most things in his life: if he’s not interested or motivated by what he’s doing, he’ll stop doing it.

their comfort tv show / film

he’s not really big on TV in his modern verse, and even when it comes to films I don’t think he’d consider anything a comfort film? comfort doesn’t really enter the equation where that form of media is concerned  ( books are the solace from his youth, nothing else ). his favourite films are the indiana jones ones, however.

a song that is currently stuck in their head? (or multiple)

well, we all know the song that is normally stuck in Jack’s head

the next three questions are for you. do you have anything special in common with your character.

more than i’d ever care to admit dfkgjdfgd lmao. okay so on the surface we are actually very different, to the point where we are complete opposites in many ways. but in terms of how we deal ( or don’t ) with things? deep-rooted things in our psychology? things that have happened to us in our lives? it’s not quite that we have stuff in common, since Jack’s world is so vastly different to mine, but that i can draw on my own experiences to relate to Jack in a way that I don’t with any other muse.

what brings you the most joy about writing this character, right now?

oh, just everything. Jack is incredibly dear to my heart and as a character he is just a joy to write. his irreverence, his defiance in the face of authority and convention, his wit, his provocative personality. it’s such a great cocktail for interesting interactions and I always just find him a lot of fun to write, because he’s the perfect example of a character with a balance of humour and angst that gives me the best of both worlds.

who would win in a fight, you or them?

nOT ME. despite never willingly seeking out a fight, Jack is more than capable in any of his verses.

any advice from your muse?

ohhh so much. but what I tend to take from his character is how he doesn’t care what the vast majority of people think of him. it’s a very liberating way to live your life imo.

tagged by:  @lighthouseborn <3 tagging:  @piraticalwit, @dissociaticn / @thecodekeeper, @cllgood / @imbricare ( pick a muse of your choice! <3 ), @iniziare & anyone else who would like to do this!

[noonegetsleftbehind]

Mistletoe

(someone shoved Albert there next to Chris, totally not the mun)

send me ‘ mistletoe ’ for my muse’s response to being underneath mistletoe with your muse. specify whether it’s accidental or on purpose. - Still Accepting

It wasn't a big Christmas party, but it was enough of his friends and fellow team members of S.T.A.R.S that he had convinced himself he would go. He'd told himself he'd only stay for just a little while before he went home to make some hot chocolate for Claire. In fact, he'd been about to start to head out, deciding to wish Captain Wesker a Merry Christmas before he left.

Making his way towards his Captain, he happened to glance up under the other man and spotted mistletoe. Had that been there this whole time? His mouth started to go dry and he debated very carefully what his next words and actions would be. If they were alone, he'd have no issue, but they were still within sight of others.

Making up his mind, he approached. "Captain. I wanted to wish you a Merry Christmas before I head home. But..." He glances up at the plant and back to Wesker, a slight smirk on his face as he closed the distance between the two of them and placed a seemingly platonic kiss to the other man's cheek. However, his lips lingered there long enough to speak in a murmur just loud enough for only Wesker to hear. "A kiss under the mistletoe... I could be persuaded to redo that one in private, of course."

[nitewrighter]

Hiya mun, sorry to ask for one, but could you please write a short ficlet of either any of the ow cast or your ow fankids spending time with their pets, if they have any?

I need to write more Spiderbyte Parent Content. And of course I should write more Smol Marti content.

Also Camille Saint-Saen’s “Aquarium” lives in my mind rent free.

-----

It was the sixth night in two weeks that Marti’s gasping had woken them up. Widowmaker had learned to tune her ears to Marti, and despite how quiet she was in daylight hours, Widowmaker had become aware of the small girl’s shuffling around the house. She felt Marti’s large, deep brown eyes on her, peeking out from around walls and doorways. Marti talked to Sombra in Spanish, but had shrunken back when McCree tried to speak to her, clutching close to Sombra’s legs. At six years old, the top of Marti’s head came up to about Sombra’s hip, but Widowmaker had to listen for her so she didn’t trip over her. Marti had spent the first week in their apartment curled up on a blow-up mattress in Sombra’s study--a space that was more or less rendered walk-in-closet size by Sombra’s multiple monitors and servers---while Symmetra and Torbjorn took out a wall of their apartment to expand into a new room for her. She slept in the pink glow of Sombra’s monitors as she worked, to the faint tapping of keyboards and clicking of a mouse and the warbling of screens projected by Sombra’s own augmentations. Widowmaker wanted to tell Marti how much she understood her, how much she understood the instinct to make yourself smaller, how much comfort lied simply in being in Sombra’s presence as she delved her digital rabbit holes.... but Marti was still wary with her, still distant. It was Sombra who had found Marti that bloody night. Sombra who held her hand and walked her to safety. Sombra who held her on the dropship ride back to Gibraltar, stroking her fingers over Marti’s black hair. Sombra who spoke gentle comforting words to her that she, as a crisis orphan, never got the chance to hear herself. Sombra the guardian. Sombra the godmother.

Widowmaker and Sombra had painted Marti’s room together, a pale orchid pink (Sombra had managed to get Marti to pick out the color swatch) and they had sat on the floor together, puzzling over the parts of a twin-sized captain’s bed and a small desk. Once furniture was all assembled and the scent of drying paint faded enough, Marti moved in, hesitantly, skeptically brushing her hand over the quilted magenta Official Meka bunny-printed comforter and pillowcase that D.Va had donated. Sombra tried to decorate the room with little mementos of Dorado--One wall had a short banner of purple papel picado etched out with floral, star, and sun designs, as well as one in the center of the banner that had Marti’s own name, ‘MARTINA’ in ornate letters hanging over Marti’s bed. The opposite wall had a mulberry-colored macrame wall hanging that Sombra had gotten in a Dorado marketplace. There was a small framed photo of Marti and Soledad on the bookshelf headboard of Marti’s bed. Overall, the room was a cozier, more toned-down adaptation of the hot-pink glitter-addled ‘princess’ rooms that Sombra and Widowmaker never had in their own childhoods--Sombra by virtue of being crammed into an orphanage, and Widowmaker by virtue of her own parents’ brutally avant-garde tastes. Finally, Marti sat on the bed, looking up between Sombra and Widowmaker.

“...Is it okay?” Sombra had asked.

Marti gave a short polite nod and Sombra smiled. Marti gently nudged Sombra’s arm, prompting Sombra to bend down so Marti could whisper in her ear. After a beat Sombra huffed, smiled, brushed a thumb over Marti’s cheek and said, “Para esto estamos,” softly before drawing herself back up to her height. “She said thank you,” Sombra said to Widowmaker.

“I gathered,” Widowmaker said, but felt the distance in the politeness.

And now Marti was waking them up again with her gasps--high pitched sounds with how small she was, creaking with sobs that were suppressed by hyperventilation. Pretty and brittle like thin tree branches whipping in an autumn wind. 

Sombra broke out from Widowmaker’s arms, stumbling, clumsy with sleepiness, and quickly paced into Marti’s room. Widowmaker propped up some pillows in their bed and sat up, resting her bare forearms on her sheet-covered knees as she waited. In the other room, Sombra was talking low and quick in Spanish to Marti, and Widowmaker made out the sound of Sombra demonstratively breathing slow and deep, trying to get Marti to sync her own breaths to her. Those high pitched breaths slowed. Widowmaker pressed her fingertips into the skin of her arm, her lean dancer’s muscles not yielding against her own grip. I should be in there, she thought, I should be helping her. One more person who lost everything to Talon. One more person who lost everything to a fight that had nothing to do with her. But I’m a stranger.

----

“...there has to be more we can do,” Widowmaker said the next morning as she gently eased a fried egg onto a slice of fresh baked baguette smeared with avocado.

“She’s got her first vid conference with that doctor that Ziegler looked up for us next Wednesday,” said Sombra, flicking through a few pink screens at the table, sipping her coffee,  “I checked her out. It’s solid.”

“Mm,” Widowmaker set a plate in front of Sombra.

“And I think we know better than anybody, stuff like this isn’t cut and dry,”  said Sombra, biting into the toast and pulling away quickly to avoid getting egg yolk on her chin as she , “She’s going to be dealing with this for a long time.”

Widowmaker was silent, easing her own fried egg onto her own avocado-smeared baguette slice. She listened to the slight warbles of Sombra’s screens as she cracked pepper over the sunny yellow yolk, then brought her chin up with some resolve. “So we make new memories,” she said.

“Mm?” Sombra glanced up from her screens.

“For me, it was looking up Gérard’s photos, it was... rebuilding, but for her... she’s stuck in a strange place with this--this fear bouncing around in her and so little experience in the world. So we make new memories. We let her see that, even though this thing happened to her, that this world is... is... bright. And... and good.” The words felt a little alien in Widowmaker’s throat and her shoulders were bunched up as she set the plate aside. Widowmaker had spent so long in such a dark place that all the defenses and instincts she had built up in that darkness were completely discombobulated by her own desire to let Marti know safety and happiness. She felt Sombra’s eyes on her, bright and studying.

“So... a day out?” said Sombra, opening up another screen.

A shuffling of bare feet on linoleum came from down the hall and both Sombra and Widowmaker glanced up as Marti entered the kitchen and clambered up into a chair that was just a little too big for her, but she was a little too big for a booster seat.

“How do you like your eggs?” said Widowmaker looking over her shoulder at Marti, “Um...” she gave an uncertain glance at Sombra and then pivoted, pointing at the frying pan with her spatula. “Huevos?”

“Fritos?” Sombra said to Marti, gesturing with her thumb at Widowmaker before pointing at her own plate.

Marti nodded.

“Same thing for her,” said Sombra, looking at Widowmaker.

Widowmaker quickly sliced off another bit of baguette, smeared some avocado over it, and cracked salt, pepper and little squeeze of lemon juice over the avocado, then quickly fried the egg to golden yolk and lacy-browned-edges perfection. Sombra was talking to Marti in Spanish as Widowmaker worked but Widowmaker only made out about 75% of it. Something about Sombra’s computers and... Luz nocturna... night light?

Marti gave a furious, stiff-lipped shake of her head and craned over to whisper something with an unusual amount of forcefulness into Sombra’s ear. Sombra’s shoulders slumped and she said something conceding in Spanish. Sombra gave a “welp” glance over to Widowmaker and Widowmaker understood immediately. Marti didn’t get her hyperventilating nightmares back when she was sleeping in the glow of Sombra’s computers in the study, but she had refused Sombra’s suggestion of a night light. It was all Widowmaker could do to bring Marti’s plate over and take a seat at the table with her own breakfast.

Marti bit into her avocado toast sullenly, not making eye contact with either of them, though her eyes widened as she chewed and she dug into her food with a reassuring eagerness. Widowmaker smiled a little. I’m good at that, at least, she thought, then cleared her throat awkwardly. “I... was thinking... we could all have a day out. Do something fun.”

Marti looked up from her plate, then over at Sombra. Sombra half-translated and Marti seemed thoughtful.

“We could...” Widowmaker gave a flailing, ‘help me’ glance over at Sombra, “We could...um...”

Sombra quickly flicked a pink screen into existence and rapidly scrolled down. “Go to the aquarium!” she blurted out.

“Yes,” Widowmaker latched onto that, “The aquarium.”

“Aquarium?” Marti repeated the word, the latin roots providing a stumbling middle ground for her.

“It’s... educational!” Sombra eked out the words hesitantly and gave a glance to Widowmaker. She smiled at Marti, “I think you should be able to see there’s more to Gibraltar than the watchpoint.”

Marti gave a bewildered glance between them. At that point there was a strange rapport that arced between the three of them, sharp and swift like lightning, all of them fumbling in the dark trying to figure out what it was that families did. Happy families. They had to do things, didn’t they? And aquariums existed, didn’t they? Sombra was looking at her screens. There were children in the promotional pictures--this was a thing kids did, right? Marti gave a hesitant nod and Sombra gave a grin to Widowmaker.

----

“Gibraltar’s artificial reef started as an initiative in 1973, sinking ships in the mediterranean sea to give wildlife structures to colonize and breed in,” a primly dressed tour guide was standing in front of a massive tank that featured fake pier beams and what appeared to be the ragged front half of a fishing boat covered in coral, barnacles, and seaweed. Some skates and fish lazily drifted about the tank, and a few finicky crabs were crawling around the wreck and the rocks. “Overwatch’s ‘Ecowatch’ division’s efforts to mitigate the environmental impacts of the Omnic Crisis, as well as new sunken wreckage from the conflict itself, resulted in an unprecedented explosion of biodiverse marine life!”

Marti was swaying a little where she held Sombra’s hand, not really listening to a tour guide whose words she only understood a little bit. Widowmaker gave an uncertain glance to her own bluish nailbeds. She had gotten a lot of color back in her recovery, but she was still wary, for both hers and Sombra’s sake. Getting here had been easy enough, just Sombra ‘borrowing’ the Watchpoint’s crappy old truck (pretty much anyone who might object was off on a mission), and a short drive from there, and of course Sombra had hacked them tickets, but now Widowmaker became acutely aware of just how strange the situation was now that Marti was in their lives. In any other situation, civilian life would be a mask--her presence here would be merely idling time away before or after a mission, but now she was coming to terms with the fact that people were here and this was their lives, this was their normal lives, and now, though her own life was still far from normal, this was her life too. She and Sombra were both dressed to blend in, of course, Sombra parting her hair and wearing a sleeveless turtleneck to cover up her neural implants, and Widowmaker wearing large coral-framed glasses to distract from the yellowness of her own eyes. Marti stood out more than either of them in a magenta and white sundress and chunky black velcro sandals. Widowmaker smiled a little. The looseness of the sundress and the thickness of the sandals’ straps against her feet seemed to emphasize Marti’s small size, and Marti had doggedly wrangled her thick, wavy black hair into two uneven pigtails that swayed about her bare brown shoulders every time she turned her head. It lent a certain wildness to her appearance that Widowmaker couldn’t help but admire. At the core of all that timidity was a furious, stubborn survival instinct, and it simultaneously filled Widowmaker’s heart with love and compassion, and broke it, for all her desire to have Marti look to her like she looked to Sombra.

But Marti wasn’t looking at either of them, now, those big brown doe eyes were nearly black with blue-white highlights by the light of the aquarium tanks as she stared into a tank of moon jellies, transfixed by the drifting, alien forms. Widowmaker wondered if she was reading too far into Marti’s apparent fascination with the cnidarians’ utter indifference to each other. Marti was still hesitant to interact with the other kids on the watchpoint, which was fair, considering her shakily growing grasp on English and the fact that she was two years older than Rei and four years older than the twins. They were able to watch holo-programs together, at least, but actually playing was a bit awkward. But then Widowmaker’s train of thought was interrupted as Marti lead Sombra along again and Widowmaker trailed along with them. Marti’s silence seemed at home here, the conversations of the crowd only a low murmur and most people resigned to just stare at the fish in the different tanks as they drifted by. Marti made an audible gasping noise as they entered the tropical fish section, yanking Sombra along to point at the more brightly colored fish. 

“...I like this,” Sombra said, as Marti squatted in front of a tank where several leafy sea dragons wove through a mass of seaweed and seagrass, “It’s so easy to forget sometimes, you know? That there’s a world outside the fight.”

“That there’s a world outside that ‘eye?’” Widowmaker glanced over at her and Sombra quickly tensed and looked around, scanning the crowd.

“Sorry--” Widowmaker started.

“No--it’s fine...” Sombra shook her head a little, her eyes fixing on Marti, “Now I have one more person it can target... as if there weren’t enough monsters in the dark already.”

The word ‘dark’ caught Widowmaker. “What you were saying to her earlier... she doesn’t want a night light?”

“She said they’re for babies,” Sombra huffed, putting her hands on her hips, “But if her own stubbornness is just going to keep her hyperventilating like that...”

“It’s awfully dark in here, non?” Widowmaker mused.

“Well, yeah, ‘flash photography bothers the fish’ and all, but most of the light comes from the tanks anyway---” Sombra started and then caught herself and then looked at Widowmaker, “...what web are you spinning now?” she said, a smile pulling at her lips, but Widowmaker just smiled in turn.

The afternoon trailed on in that strange suspension of time one only gets in aquariums, the tension between wanting to see everything, yet being able to stare into the blue forever and the minutes slipping by like so many bluefin tuna. Marti served as the major marker of how much time was passing, going from brisk little jogs, to a more steady pace matching Widow and Sombra’s, to tiredly trailing a couple of steps behind them. . They rested on a bench against the acrylic glass walls of the aquarium’s shark tunnel, watching as rays and a massive angelshark drifted overhead, the ribbons of water-refracted light shimmering across the floor. Marti first leaned against the glass, staring up between Sombra and widowmaker,  then slowly, ever so slowly, thick lashes drooped over her eyes and her head nodded down slightly. The glass of the tunnel squeaked under the bare skin of her shoulders as she drifted to the side, her cheek smooshing against Widowmaker’s shoulder as her weight slumped against her.

Widowmaker froze at the contact, glanced down at Marti with wide eyes, then her eyes flicked over to Sombra, whose face scrunched up with a stifled giggle. Widowmaker just gently brushed a stray strand of hair from Marti’s face. It wouldn’t be cut and dry--it wasn’t for her, and it wouldn’t be for Marti... but she could be here. She and Sombra would both be here.

-----

“So...? What do you think?” said Sombra as Marti’s eyes flicked between different fish tanks at the pet store. A few days had passed since the aquarium.

“Are you sure?” Marti looked over her shoulder at both Sombra and Widow, her words were halting, her accent thick in her consonants, but she was getting more confident, she wasn’t grabbing Sombra to whisper in her ear as often.

“It’s a big responsibility, but we can all help,” said Widowmaker, bending down to Marti’s level, “We’ll read all the books, and work together to make sure it’s very happy with us.”

Marti pressed her lips together tight and gave a short little nod with a very serious, “Hm!” and Widowmaker smiled at her determination. 

“So... which one?” said Sombra, as Marti turned back towards the fish tanks.

Marti surveyed each of the tanks very seriously, her brow furrowed. Several minutes of dead silence passed before Marti pointed to one nearly-black betta with purple-blue undertones and said, “I like this one.”

Both Widowmaker and Sombra stooped down next to Marty to look into the tank. The betta flared its fins at all three of their faces looking through the glass and Widowmaker softly snorted through her nostrils. 

“Why this one?” said Sombra.

“He’s pretty, and um--a little scary,” said Marti.

“Scary?” said Widowmaker.

“He’s a guard fish,” Marti said very firmly.

“Oh, a guard fish, of course,” said Widowmaker.

-----

Another two weeks had passed when Sombra stirred in Widowmaker’s arms in the middle of the night and she slipped out of bed.

“Sombra?” Widowmaker sat up in bed.

“I’ll just be right back,” Sombra whispered.

Curious, Widowmaker slid out of bed after her and trailed behind her down the hall. Sombra was at the frame of Marti’s door, peering in. Marti’s breaths were steady and barely audible amid the sound of a fish tank filter. Sometimes they could hear Marti talking to the fish, which she named Nochito, 

Nochito stood stark against the bright green plants in his tank on Marti’s desk. The faint blue-green glow of the fish tank itself made the pink of the room look more purple in the night. 

“...I keep waking up thinking she might...” Sombra trailed off and Widowmaker gently draped an arm around her shoulder.

“We’ll be here if it happens,” said Widowmaker, gently kissing Sombra on the corner of her jaw. 

“Yeah...” Sombra said, putting her hand over Widowmaker’s, “Yeah, we will, won’t we?”

They watched Marti sleep for another few minutes, her black hair splashed across her pillow in dark whorls. Sombra’s eyes flicked back to the faint light of the fish tank.

“Gotta say, guard fish is way cooler than night light,” said Sombra with a wry grin at Widowmaker. 

“It suits her,” Widowmaker said with a gentle smile.

“She’s a fighter, too,” said Sombra.

[secondbcrnpiracy]

I posted 387 times in 2021

41 posts created (11%)

346 posts reblogged (89%)

For every post I created, I reblogged 8.4 posts.

I added 297 tags in 2021

#thedragcnbrother - 76 posts

#thedragonclone - 60 posts

#devilish first mate (harry) - 52 posts

#tinypaintedthings - 30 posts

#ashortdropandasuddenstop - 19 posts

#out of hooks (mun speaks) - 14 posts

#always a tale to tell (starters/memes) - 14 posts

#a beast in human masquerade (lycan/werewolf au) - 13 posts

#harry hook - 11 posts

#his captain and queen of the sea (uma) - 8 posts

Longest Tag: 140 characters

#he would probably be the god of young pirates or those that rebel against society's 'standards' and maybe also madness and battle unsure tho

My Top Posts in 2021

#5

If the news is about Mal and Ben’s wedding

I will forgive the meh if we get a flashback of while Mal is basically having a girl’s night that is semi peaceful before the wedding than we transition to Ben’s night and it’s all the boys in all their chaotic glory. Just pure chaos!

.. oh and maybe Harry looking miserable in a tux and looking extra miserable at how nice everything is: last wedding I was at, we had canons and gun fire! ... No one got hurt... maybe.

20 notes • Posted 2021-03-06 04:49:39 GMT

#4

When Harry CASUALLY says stuff in a thread that could/would kill him and treats it like nothing or just a normal Friday. 

I, like others of the fandom hc that people don’t die on the Isle and if they do, they just kind of revive. So when Harry casually says stuff like: eh murder me. It is like: get all these VKs therapy and love

and arrest Beast for his bs of being okay with keeping kids on the Isle.

21 notes • Posted 2021-06-11 07:13:19 GMT

#3

.... Anyway

Harry, Gil and Uma are take all or have none.

And I don’t need any bs of: the characters are off doing their own thing when all looks like they’ll be there except these two.

Harry wouldn’t leave Uma for all the treasure in Auradon (see D3. Missing Uma feels like an understatement) and while Gil may adventure with Jay, he’d be there to with everyone to attend and-

gaaah

27 notes • Posted 2021-03-13 01:38:13 GMT

#2

@thedragonclone​ continued from here

“Surprised ye didnae wake the camp with yer yelling.” Harry had watched the other Lost Boy come back and leave without even noticing Harry was watching. The expression was enough to show that he was the one that had been arguing with someone, what he didn’t expect entirely was Devrim coming back. 

“Farley and ye were arguing~” The pirate grins at the boy.. oh he knew. Harry couldn’t exactly sleep anyway. “First fight. Now what was it about~ And when exactly were ye gonnae tell us that ye can talk?”

43 notes • Posted 2021-05-20 00:11:57 GMT

#1

Soooo

These guys birthed Harry

No you can’t change my mind

80 notes • Posted 2021-04-29 20:42:12 GMT

Get your Tumblr 2021 Year in Review →

[just-kaeya]

An old, wornout piece of paper is nailed and posted on the front board of Angel's Share. Even though you're sure you've never seen it before, it looks so tattered that Lord Barbatos could blow just a single gust of wind and it would simply wither into dust.

You inspect closer and see an image of what appears to be some sort of blob with an eyepatch. Below it, these words are written:

Behold, the Cavalry Captain of Mondstadt! Ask Now or Forever Hold Your Peace!

1. Shall thee weep, thou shall acquire assistance. How and how thou must be sensible in thee spectacle of kin.

(... Which you presume means 'You can ask for advice, but be considerate others with similar dilemmas.' Make sure to use trigger warnings. Mun is not very comfortable with topics relating to suicide and death so perhaps refrain from speaking about that.)

2. Prithee spare the eyes of the innocent. Perchance thou must insist, go forth with caution.

('Please spare the innocent from sin. If you are planning to, you can be a little daring.' No extremely explicit asks. But, a little spice might slide~)

3. I hereby bestow thee the ability to disclose thine judgment. Prithee I asketh that thine dwell in peace.

('Discussion is allowed. Just don't be rude when giving your opinion.' You can have an opinion without insulting someone, no?)

4. Fixed recital may serve as displeasing. Mine writ confine on mine selection.

('Don't repeat the same words over. In other words, don't spam. I choose what to respond to.')

[warhornofgondor]

𝐀𝐁𝐎𝐔𝐓  𝐓𝐇𝐄  𝐌𝐔𝐍!

ABOUT THE MUN:  FILL THIS OUT  &  TAG A FEW MUNS.  

REPOST, DON’T REBLOG.

NAME:  tish  NICKNAME: ^that is my nickname PRONOUNS: she/her  AGE: 31  FAVOURITE ANIMAL: hedgehogs, seahorses, cats PETS: one grey tiger cat named Hindy HOW LONG HAVE YOU BEEN IN THIS FANDOM?: I’ve been RPing in the Tolkien fandom for about six years TATTOOS/PIERCINGS: just one hole in each ear STAR SIGN: cancer WHY DID YOU CHOOSE THIS SPECIFIC CHARACTER(S)?: when I started thinking about joining this community I looked at which characters were missing and Boromir was one of them. So I did some thinking and some research and here I am.

TAGGED BY : @lcrdjohn​

TAGGING : @dunadaneth​, @amdirfiren​, @westcalled​, @folkiisms​, @therapardalis​

[hardcore-otaku]

📺🌐💕

(These 3 are for both nuggie and Leviachan 3c)

Ehh? You want mun's answers too?

📺 Favorite anime

💜 Trigun. Hands down. InuYasha introduced me to anime, but Trigun made me love anime

🎮 The Magical Ruri Hanai: Demon Girl. Next question.

🌐 Languages you can speak and/or are learning. Which are you fluent in?

💜 English is my native tongue, I'd like to say I'm almost fluent in Spanish but I'm not that confident in that 😅

🎮   (*ﾟｰﾟ*) yeah mun, what language do I speak?  ¬‿¬  

"When demons speak to humans, they use Enchorian - language both demons an angels speak. Demons also understand Aramaic, Bellsybabble, and can switch to any language that the human can understand if needed."

....That's an article for exorcism...

Listen, it makes sense and it's now my headcanon.

...I feel like that's cheating...

Are you sassing me?

...I feel like I've deserved the right to.

Hmph. Moving on...

💕 Two top fave fictional characters

💜 Yeesh okay ahh, this is actually a really difficult question and I can guarantee my answers will always change. Buutttt I'm going to go with Uncle Iroh and Captain Jack Sparrow

🎮 Easy. Henry and Ruri-chan. Also, really? Captain Jack Sparrow? You could choose from ANY FICTIONAL CHARACTER and you choose him?

See, you going with those two, I feel like that's cheating. Also, I know, but he's-

Please spare me, I've heard this before. And what, you want me to pick out my top two that exist in your human world?

(◕‿◕✿ )

Tch. You're so predictable. Okay, top two in your world: Koro Sensei from Assassination Classroom and Lucia Nanami from Mermaid Melody Pichi Pichi Pitch.

....final answer?

I don't know, you tell me.

....you're still mad about last night, aren't you?

(╬≖_≖)  

(⌒_⌒; )

[levi-ackerman-rp]

Mun! Can I get a HC where Levi is sick and how he is? How does he react? Does he ask for help? Who does he let help him? How do they help him? Sorry about all the questions!! Thank you :)

Mun speaks://

Firstly! HUGE apologies in the delay in getting this out... I am well aware you asked for this around 16 hours ago... I have no excuse, except I get easily distracted.

Hope this is okay for you Anon!

HC REQUEST – SICK LEVI. – ANON.

I'M NOT SICK.

• Levi is a lot of things. He is loyal, hardworking, resilient and incredibly, ridiculously fucking stubborn.

• And this stubbornness is amplified dramatically when the captain comes down with any kind of sickness.

• He will power through practically anything. A cold? So what? The flu? Who cares? Emptying his guts every five minutes? I’ll live.

• You can always tell when Levi is starting to get sick, because you can physically see it. He is not himself. He is even quieter than usual, completely unfocused.

• “Levi?” “Hm?” “Did you hear me?” “Hm.” “What did I say?” “... What?”

• He also becomes grumpier than usual, more irritable.

• “Stop breathing so loudly.” “Don’t look at me, your face offends me.” “Stop shouting!”

• And he isn’t whiny about it either... he’s deadly serious.

• Levi doesn’t get much sleep as it is, but when he is sick, he barely gets any. His cough will keep him awake, his fever will make him unbearably hot, making him restless, the constant need to throw up making sleep completely impossible. There have been a handful of times, after a particularly restless night, where he had dozed off during a meeting. Resting his head against the knuckles of his hand or rarely on his folded arms.

• Nobody dared wake him. Not until the end of the meeting anyway.

• The only person, who was even allowed to offer help to Levi when he was like this. Was his s/o. You.

• He would refuse at first. When you would go to him and ask him if he was alright, or if he needed anything he would dismiss you.

• “I’m fine, idiot, stop worrying.” “I’m not a child, stop patronising me.”

• But when it hit him really hard, you were all he wanted.

• He would allow you to run him a bath and would take the medicine you offered.

• “If it will shut you up, fine.”

• He never admitted it, but he really did appreciate the things you did. How you took care of him, knowing full well he wouldn’t take care of himself.

• He liked when you would place a cold, wet cloth on his forehead to help regulate his temperature, or dab softly at his neck to help cool him.

• He liked when you would rub his back soothingly and whisper softly to him. He liked resting his head in your lap as your fingers carded through his hair, relaxing him to the point where he would finally fall asleep.

• When he had the chills, he loved spooning you, stealing your body heat. His arms would wrap tightly around you, his body shivering against yours for a few minutes until he finally warmed up. He always held you a little tighter those nights.

• He categorically would not let you in the bathroom with him while he was being sick though. But once he had brushed his teeth and rinsed his mouth (often several times) he liked that you always greeted him with a cool glass of water and a warm hug.

• When he was exceptionally delirious, whether it be from a fever or the drugs Hanji had given you, he would often mumble to you, muttering out his thanks and apologies for being a burden in equal measures. He was always groggy, unbelievably tired when this happened, and usually he was quite bad. He wouldn’t respond this way with just a cold or a flu, it would have to be something much worse. But it had happened once or twice.

• He always denied it ever happened the next day.

• Levi hated being sick. He hated that he was vulnerable. He didn’t get sick often, but when he did, he got it bad.

• But he loved that he had you there to help him through it.

~~~~~~~~

Thank you for the request! I hope you like it, Anon.