#「 ( thatch ; ic ) 」

[ssselthrovv]

— “Dear Mr. Whitmore, I hope this "piece of proof" is enough for you. Sure convinced me. Thanks, from both of us.”

Atlantis: The Lost Empire (2001)

[irishmansdaughter]

[cosmicxblossoms]

“Try it. Come on, I swear it won’t poison you.” [Ace to Thatch<33]

"If this does poison me or make me sick consider your late night trips to the kitchen for snacks revoked Ace." Of course he wouldn't bar him from the kitchen forever, just until he got over it if trying this did make him sick. But Ace was kind enough to share something he usually ate and as a good friend he should give it a try, grabbing a spoon to give the ghost pepper jelly a taste. The jelly did have a nice color to it and it appears to have been well made, something that Thatch always appreciated when looking at foods made on various islands they docked at. However, when the commander went to eat it he knew he immediately regretted this decision, his head pressed against the counter as he could already feel the heat from the ghost peppers. "I immediately regret this ace, why did I let you talk me into eating this?!"

[stardustedstories]

@missallanea asked: CHARACTER BUILDING QUESTIONS HOUR !! Milo, there is a timeline out there that refers to you as the King of Atlantis. Would you agree with that assessment? Are you truly a King? And if so… what qualifications do you have to lead a people you have only recently become a part of?

Milo blinks at the sudden question, turning it over in his head. There's a timeline that refers to him as the King of Atlantis? It's not the "alternate timelines exist" that throws him; it's the "King of Atlantis" part that does.

"Well, no," he says with a little laugh. "I guess I could be considered the "Royal Consort," if an official title is needed, but no, I'm not the king. Kida's the ruler of Atlantis, and I'm her husband." Something that still astounds him at times, if he's being honest with himself.

"I may consider the Atlanteans my people just as much as I did back home--more, really, at this point, but I was still an outsider, someone they welcomed into their home, allowed to learn their ways and become part of them."

He pauses for a moment, as though thinking, and then adds, bright smile on his face, "Now, if you were asking if I could be considered the Linguist of Atlantis, then I would wear that title proudly."

Atlantis was his home; the people accepted him as one of them, but he would always be second to Kida, second to any naturally-born citizen. Perhaps one day, if he lived as long as Kida had, by this point, he would know all there was to know about the culture and feel comfortable with the idea of being called "King." But for now, he's content with just being Kida's husband.

[imitormusa]

'what are u going to do stab me?'

[us-smash-archive]

@Marco when are you going to nut up and finally ask Freya to be your lady? @Thatch if those two weren't together could you see having Freya as your girlfriend?

Thatch: already answered here! X

"I don't know when are you going to show your face and ask the questions face to face?"

[ktheqw]

from the tropical north snow and ice greet a stranger no racism to be known

a calm freedom watching the sea_thatch with new eyes noises so foreign

to appreciate the difference coming to love the ways of ice and snow no longer foreign, my home

[ceilidho]

Buttermilk

It doesn't take long to settle into the rhythm of your new summer job. Or: the babysitter x single dad au

Part 3 | masterlist

-

It’s not unusual for someone to mistake you for the baby’s mama.

How could someone not, at least for a moment? When you take the baby to the grocery store, older people gush over him babbling in his stroller, eager to shower him with compliments in baby-talk or tell you how much you resemble the little tyke. After hearing the same comment for the umpteenth time, you tire of correcting people by saying you’re the babysitter only to watch their face fall, somewhat mortified and feeling as though their comment should’ve been directed to the baby’s actual mother. Which isn’t you. 

It’s less typical for someone to mistake you for John’s wife, though that does happen from time to time.

You’ve become a fixture around the neighbourhood since John hired you at the beginning of the summer, and over the weeks, the other nannies and the stay-at-home moms have started to gradually warm up to you. Before long, you’re being invited on coffee runs and playdates with some of the other women, always careful to ask for John’s permission before bringing his baby into a stranger’s house.

“Just text me the address and their names,” he requests while you stand awkwardly in front of him, John sitting on the bed to finish buttoning up his shirt and fixing his watch around his wrist. You would’ve been fine standing on the other side of the door while he finished changing, but he insisted on inviting you in.

“I will,” you promise, nodding along with his words.

“And call me if you don’t feel comfortable. I’ll come get the two of you right away if you need me.”

You swallow. Nod again.

The first time you take the baby for a playdate with a couple of the moms from the park, one catches you in the act of texting John the address of the house as he requested. “Hubby wants to know where you are, huh?”

“Oh,” you choke out, face heating up. “He’s not—”

“Not a control freak, I know. They’re all like that.” Her smile is ebullient, rolling her eyes like you’re in on a joke together when you most assuredly are not. “Why don’t you share your location with him? Mine’s the same way. Here—I’ll show you how.”

She takes your phone and tap-taps something and suddenly you see it in the notifications of your conversation with John. If you bite your lip instead of correcting her assumption about the nature of your and John’s relationship, that’s for you and you alone to know. Your rationale is that any explanation will just make things tense; it’s not like you haven’t seen it happen before. 

It’s far more concerning when John doesn’t correct those assumptions. Particularly when you’re standing right next to him. 

Like at the local water park on a particularly hot weekend, wading in the kiddy pool with the baby nestled tight against your chest in his little swim trunks and floppy hat only for an employee to ask John if his wife would like something to drink. 

“Iced coffee, love?” John asks, taking your stupefied silence as a yes. “Nothing for me, mate. Cheers.” 

Your head spins like a top on that thought until a good while later. The server hands you a glass of iced coffee with condensation already dripping down the sides and John thanks him for you, taking the baby from you and pulling you to his side. You drink your coffee quietly with your thigh flush with his under the water, gripping the glass harder when his free hand squeezes around your waist, laughing at something another parent said to him.

It’s so over for you. There’s no coming back from this. 

The sight of someone of John’s size, a bulky, military man with arms of pure steel dusted with dark hairs, cradling a tiny, chubby baby with a thatch of similar dark hair on his head and big cheeks and roly poly arms unlocks something primal in you. An old, buried need. 

In the family changing room, you stand under an ice cold shower until it breaks the fever slowly consuming you. All you can do is hope it takes. 

In the evening, you sit out on the porch with John at the back of the house until the crickets swell with song, the moon a half-crescent in the sky. A cool breeze makes your shoulders lift a little, huddling into your body to keep warm. 

It’s hard to keep your eyes on the view in front of you and off the man sitting beside you when they want so badly to be running over him. He’s changed out of his work clothes into a soft pair of sweatpants and an old threadbare shirt, the sage green fabric faded after years of being run through the washing machine. It clings to his biceps and the soft pudge of his stomach, a layer of fat over the hard muscle beneath. 

A cigarette dangles from his fingers, thick wrist perched on the arm of the adirondack chair. Every so often he lifts it to his lips for a puff, always breathing out in the opposite direction from you. Considerate of your health, at least, if not his own. 

“Cold, sweetheart?” he asks before ashing his cigarette, and your bottom lip purses when you turn your head to look at him because you thought you were doing a good job suppressing your shivers. 

You stare at him, confused. He cocks an eyebrow at your questioning stare and deliberately glances down, waiting until you notice the way your nipples are protruding through your white tank top. You forgot that you’d taken your bra off earlier for a bit of relief and hadn’t yet had a chance to put it back on. 

“Oh my god,” you squeak, crossing your arms to hide as much as possible, humiliation flooding through you. “I’m so sorry—that’s so—I-I’m so sorry.”

John makes a rough sound when he rises to his feet, knees cracking as he does. “S’alright, hun. Lemme get you something to put on.”

The screen door creaks when he goes back inside briefly to fetch something only to come back a few seconds later with a big, cotton sweater that reeks of him. It looks well loved, some remnant of his younger years, and even from a distance, you can smell the distinct smoky aroma clinging to the fabric. 

When he kneels in front of you, you nearly go cross-eyed at the realisation that even on his knees, he’s as tall as you. The bulk of his waist forces your legs to spread around him. 

“C’mon, arms up,” John commands, barely waiting until you’ve raised your arms above your head before helping guide your head and arms into the right holes. 

Dragging the sweater down the way he does forces it to rub over your nipples, sending a shock through you. If you had any less self-control, your teeth might actually chatter together. 

“There we go,” he says, fluffing out the sweater around your waist before resting his hands on the tops of your thighs, the gesture coming so naturally to him that you doubt he’s even noticed the placement of his hands. “Much better. That’ll warm you up.”

He isn't wrong. You’ve already worked up a sweat. 

Late night rain.

It comes down in buckets, a dark slate rapping hard against the window pane. A bolt of lightning flickers across the horizon off in the distance. White striations across an otherwise dark sky. About thirty seconds later, thunder rumbles. 

You peek from between the blinds, chewing your lip nervously. You’ve never driven in rain this bad, but with supper done and the dishes washed, there’s no excuse for you to stay any longer. Still, the rain comes down so heavily that despite your timidity, you briefly contemplate asking John if you can stay a little longer. At least until it lets up a bit; until your headlights won’t blind you reflecting off the puddles on the drive home. 

Someone else pulls the blinds further apart.

“There’s no way in hell you’re going out in that,” John says from behind you, practically growling his words. Daring you to contradict him. 

You glance over your shoulder to find him right there at your back, staring out the window. He’s so close that you can smell the red sauce on his flannel from dinner and make out the flecks of grey in his beard that are almost masked by the darker hairs. 

“It’s not…that bad…”

“Sweetheart, don’t piss me off,” he warns.

The blinds shuttle back together with a clatter when you finally let go of them. 

“I could—I could take the couch,” you offer. 

“Sweetheart,” John sighs, looking down at you meaningfully.

“What?” you ask, confused.

“I’m not gonna take the big, comfy bed and leave you with the couch.” When you open your mouth to protest, he cuts you off. “And don’t even try arguing. I won’t hear it.”

There’s not much you can say to dissuade him after that. The furrow of his brow lets you know he’s made up his mind; no ifs, ands, or buts. Besides, there’s a not-so-secret part of you that’s relieved that you don’t have to drive home in this weather. You’re an average driver on a good day. You don’t need your last moments before shuffling off this mortal coil to involve hydroplaning on the highway before ramming into the guardrail. 

John gives you a shirt of his to change into for after your shower, which you spend far too long in, scrubbing your body with his shower gel and quivering under the warm water. When you pull it on, you bring the collar up to your nose to smell. The same patent smoky scent, musky like ambergris and leather. Intoxicating. It makes the blood rush through your ear like a conch shell, the ocean swirling behind your eardrum. 

You hadn’t asked for underwear, content at first to keep on the same pair, but after your shower, you cringe at the thought of putting your day-old panties back on. Besides, his shirt is long enough to cover anything indecent. 

He sits on the edge of the bed when you come out, the concern on his brow melting away at the sight of you. 

“Practically a dress on you, isn’t it?” John says, voice a little wondrous. His eyes drag over you, tip to toe. 

You fiddle with the ends of it. “…Are you sure you want me to take the bed?” 

“Wouldn’t be fair. It’s yours for the night.” His lips quirk up at the corners when you frown. “Don’t worry about me—I’ve slept in worse places before.”

“Like where?” you ask dubiously.

“Tents. Abandoned buildings. Shacks. In the back of a moving van a few times. You wouldn’t believe half the places we used to make camp. Definitely no place for pretty girls like you.”

His condescending tone vaguely annoys you, but it’s hard to dig into your irritation when he thumbs the edge of the shirt you’re wearing and you realise that he’s just a few raised inches away from noticing that you don’t have any panties on. You should’ve just put your old ones back on, but it’s far too late now. 

You clear your throat instead. “We could…um…we could share.” 

You don’t know what possesses you to offer to share the bed, but the words are already gone, out of your mouth and in the air. John cocks an eyebrow.

“Unless you don’t want to,” you amend. 

“Don’t know about that, sweetheart,” he rasps. “…I snore like a bear.”

“That’s okay. I’m a pretty deep sleeper.”

John scrutinises you a bit longer, looking for any sign of hesitancy. You know he’d squash your offer in a second if he found any wariness in your gaze. 

“Alright,” he finally concedes, letting go of your shirt and slapping his thighs. “But don’t say I didn’t warn you when you wake up and can’t fall back asleep because of my snoring.”

After his shower, during which you lie on your side facing away from the bathroom door, stomach fraught with nerves as you consider the fact that he’s naked in the ensuite, you hear him come out and rummage around in the dresser for a change of clothes. You lie beside him with your stomach twisted in knots, your hands shoved under the pillow and staring resolutely at the wall. 

The appropriateness of sleeping in the same bed beside your boss isn't lost on you, but you're too far into this now.

The bed dips when he settles onto the other side, and the sudden absence of light when he switches the bedside lamp off nearly makes you cheep. 

He breathes heavily, you notice, particularly when he finally falls asleep. It’s a deep, rumbling sound—not entirely unlike a bear, though you can’t really confirm that for certain seeing as how you’ve never slept beside a bear before. 

Those are the thoughts that would signal the approach of sleep if you weren’t soon to be engulfed by it. 

Sometime in the middle of the night, you wake up to a rough hand stroking your back leisurely. There’s a hard chest under you, your cheek propped up on a pillowy pec that rises and falls with his breaths. Sleep bobs around in you like a toulouse decanter. You struggle to keep an eye open, certain that there’s something you need to tend to, but then his hand slides down your back again to curve over your rump and sleep drags you back down. 

You wake up again to your breath wafting back into your mouth, your face shoved into the crook of a man’s neck. Humid, hot. You’re lipping at the skin of his neck, little tongue darting out to lap up a bead of sweat, salty on your tongue. 

Your cunt pulses against his leg, toes curling when John drags his hand up your thigh and hitches it higher up around his waist. 

“Baby?” he groans, his voice still rusty from sleep. The sound is a rough burr up your spine. 

“Sorry,” you whisper. “Couldn’ get comfy.”

“You hot?” he asks.

The denial on the tip of your tongue slips back down your throat when he plants his foot on the bed and draws his leg up, pressing the meat of his thigh into your throbbing sex. 

“Here, lemme help you—” he groans, reaching down to ruck up your shirt, dragging it up over your breasts and helping manoeuvre your arms out of the holes. It gets tossed off the bed onto the floor. 

Now your breasts are flat on his chest, smushed against his ribcage. It registers somewhere in the back of your head as inappropriate, but sleep pushes that thought away, focusing instead on the discomfort of moving around when you just want to settle back down and go back to bed. 

It must be the heat making you act this way. 

“Shit—sorry, sweetheart,” he apologizes, shifting under you. “M’hot too.”

He plants a hand on your ass and heaves you up his chest, giving him enough room to wiggle out of his boxers. It pushes your breasts right into his face, your nipples mere inches from his mouth. When his tongue pokes out to wet his upper lip, it nicks your pebbled nipple. 

A hard length presses against your butt when you’re slid back down, the tip wet when it catches against your skin. 

“Jus’ ignore it, sweetie,” John mumbles, petting a hand down your back. 

You lie like that for a while, splayed over his body. Want simmering just under your skin. Flustered and exhausted all at once, sleep-drained; not a drop of strength in your muscles. 

The heat is just��

Scorching. Dizzying. You feel featherbrained, slipping in and out of sleep, biting off the whimpers that threaten to crawl up your throat when John tucks his hands into the crevice of your thighs to wrench them apart, spreading them around his hips again. 

Distantly, you remember that the man under you is at least twenty years your senior. Your employer at that. A man now palming your butt, sinking his fingers into the flesh and rumbling low in his throat. 

It’s wrong—flagrantly wrong. You know that you should say something, that you should get up and tell him that you’re going to sleep on the couch instead. But your tongue is too thick for your mouth. And your thoughts are a sticky paste. The pulse between your thighs empties out all the common sense from your head. 

His palms are slick on your skin. 

Your breathing grows shallow when a hard length suddenly pushes between your thighs as well. 

When the mushroomed head nudges at your opening, you flinch, heart thumping ferociously against your chest. 

“John—John—” you breathe, panicked. As if to warn him. As if he weren’t planting both feet on the bed and lifting his hips. 

As if it wasn’t his hands, warm on your waist, dragging you down onto the shaft spearing into you. 

Your blood is molten hot in your veins. Sticky hands and sticky fingers curl into his chest hair. Your head thumps against his pecs, too weak to hold it up, lipping at the damp skin of his chest. 

“It hurts—” you bleat, tears pricking at the backs of your eyes. 

“I know, baby, I know,” John pants. He draws his hips back just to press forward again, deeper this time. Filling you up more than before. “I’m sorry, baby—I can’t, it’s just…too good. Shit.”

Resolve in tatters. Shattered like his willpower, like his determination not to fuck the girl twenty years his junior sleeping beside him in his bed. 

His hips pump up into yours, bouncing you in his lap. Each thrust plunging his cock deeper into your pussy. It’d be painful if you weren’t so wet, but you’re dripping, arousal making you leak around his shaft and slickening his way. 

Sleep still rattles around in your brain, but not even the fog of sleep can shake the ever intensifying realisation that you’re fucking your boss. No two ways around it—breasts naked against his hirsute chest; pussy wet and stuffed to the hilt with a big dick. Knocked senseless by it. 

The veins of his cock drag over the viscid walls of your cunt with every thrust. He must like the involuntary noises you make because he loses his rhythm when you cry out, growling out a string of unintelligible curses. His body feels bigger like this somehow, biceps and forearms bulging where they’re wrapped around your waist, hips forcing your legs to spread wide around him, the ache sinking deep into your muscle, into your bones.  

When you look up at him, his eyes are more hooded than usual, the blue of his irises so dark that they’re almost black. 

“Such a good girl,” he grunts, big arms like steel bands around your waist, holding you tight to his chest so you have nowhere to run. “Jus’ let…jus’ let daddy come and—oh Christ, fuck, fuck…—jus’ lemme come and we’ll go back to bed, okay, sweetie?”

“I’m gonna…” you pant, trailing off when he gets a little rough, pumping harder up into you. The sound of your pussy squelching around his length makes your eyes roll back, mouth hanging open. 

“Yeah, yeah, you—you come too, baby. Jus’ need to take the edge off, both of us.”

You squeal when he reaches a hand down to dig his fingers into your butt cheek and it makes you tense up, walls tightening around his dick. One well-placed swat hard enough to make the flesh of your ass jiggle and you come, clenching up so tight that his next few thrusts are slowed by your spasming walls, forcing him to really cram his cock into your hole. 

“Christ, that’s cute,” John growls, his pupils blown out. 

It hurts to come that hard; makes your belly cramp up and everything. Whatever gibberish spills from your mouth gets lost in the aftermath. 

That’s when the temperature goes from hot to blistering. The muscles of his thighs tense, straining with his impending release. Even his grip around your waist gets tighter, his self-control steamrolled under his approaching climax, oblivious to the way you squeal and squirm when it threads the delicate needle of being too much. 

“Sorry, baby,” he apologises, voice treading gravel. “M’gonna mess your pussy up a bit—”

“Wait—wait—” you gasp, trying fruitlessly to lift yourself up, his arms keeping you pinned tight to his chest. “You’re gonna—John, you’re gonna come inside me—”

His hips thrust up hard at your words, one last rough pump that has him digging his heels into the mattress and clenching his jaw, the veins in his neck protruding. You feel it flood inside you, hot spurts of cum right up against your womb. He curses when he comes, eyelids sliding shut, lost in the sensation of emptying himself into you. 

A few last, punishing thrusts that make your teeth clack together. More heat spurting into you. A murmured oh fuck before his legs slide back down the bed, spreading out over the mattress. 

The blanket is somewhere at the foot of the bed, all scrunched up and nearly dangling off the edge. You only start to shiver when the sweat on your back finally begins to cool. 

When he pulls you off his cock, you whimper, a hot flash snaking through you. Oh Christ did he plug you up good. Stringy, viscous cum leaks from your hole, leaving a little puddle on his thigh when you slide off his chest and to the side a bit. 

“Oh baby,” he tuts softly, reaching between your legs to feel where you’re wet and a little swollen. “Sorry, sweetheart…wanna get cleaned up?”

“No…” you rasp, so dazed that you can’t even lift your cheek off his chest. 

Exhaustion has never ridden you this hard before, but considering the circumstances…—perhaps you’re lucky to be conscious at all, is all you mean. There’s not a chance of you having enough energy to do anything as rigorous as showering though. 

“Okay, baby. Little kiss?” John asks in a murmur, lifting your head up by your chin and swooping down for a kiss. Not even giving you enough time to process his words before his mouth is on yours. 

His lips glide slick against yours, tongue slipping into your mouth like he needs a good, deep kiss to ground him. A wet twisting of tongues; a thick finger stroking up your neck. He can’t stop touching you. Running a hand up your spine and curving it back down over your ass. Featherlight touches meant to calm you down. His kisses grow sticky, lingering; each one almost the last until he pulls you in for another. 

“Go back to sleep, okay?” John says, still speaking low enough to push you back under. He smooths his hand down your back again. 

You fall back asleep with a load in your belly and your head in a tizzy. The you of tomorrow is going to have a lot to contend with from the you of tonight.

[wcrldcffantasy]

"Apparently a return of true royalty~" Phoebus said as he was swinging his sword skilfully to red of the shard demons, and then hummed while letting out a breath, "And there are forces that are preventing them from coming to where they belong."

"Don't get distracted, Captain Sun God~" Jasmine was flipping and jumping like a speedy rabbit at how she was taking down monster after monster, using parkour and a lot of her weapon in the air. She landed gracefully on the ground and then stood up, some black goop from the monsters stained her face, "After all, I have a feeling their boss is nearby controlling them..."

Phoebus frowned as he was then nodding, "Right..."

It was then Phoebus saw how Sano and Hak were finishing up the fight and then placed his sword away, knowing that the battle was over with. But now they have to sniff out the rat that brought these monsters in the first place.

As that was going on, Hime watched Prince Dantè with wide eyes, her eyes suddenly sparked in gold but it was gone as soon as it came. But she nodded and soon rushed in the portal and both Amiboshi and Maria followed. Bambi was the last to go in, but let out a loud cry of pain when one of the dying shards aimed it's claws as a last act before it was killed...

"BAMBI!" Hime yelled when the buck stumbled out and fell to the ground, seeing the blackening veins appearing on the hind legs of her companion, "No, no, no, no--"

"Princess--" Amiboshi skidded to his knees and checked over the creature, his eyes softening before looking at Maria, "Lady--"

"I'm on it!" Maria was quick to place her hands above her hands over the deer's legs and tried to extract the cursed wounds and heal him, closing her eyes as her hands started to glow.

Hime hiccuped with tears as she placed Bambi's head onto her lap carefully, stroking his head as his breathing seemed to be too low and slowing, and she tried to comfort him, "Please don't go, please!"

"Considering Faith is trying to take advantage of Zen, there's no doubt that she might also try to take him out for power as soon as his uses are up," Edward hummed as he was leaning back in his chair before breathing out, "What sort of hold does she have on him?"

"Maybe the promise of finding Shirayuki and Obi's souls without going through Truth and it's Law of Equivalent Exchange...?"

Edward sat up for a moment with wide eyes as he looked to his brother, then he shook his head with a scoff, "Doubt. There's no way that woman would be stupid enough to dangle the impossible. Even if she managed to help Zen revive a few, but that's mostly because of some loopholes. Zen would have to give up something greater than himself to bring back people personally for his own gain..."

"...Unless he has a Holy person. Like a Saintess." Alphonse pointed out as he looked to the Council, "I've heard the rumours. That there is indeed a woman of that title going around Kingdoms. And Zen will be definitely interested..."

"Okay, you didn't tell me that during your solo-patrol," Edward narrowed his eyes at Alphonse, who shrugged.

"I didn't think of it important...at first," Alphonse murmured before he had a serious look on his face, "That was until I got realiable news from one of our own, they witness her revive an army from a small country before their very eyes..."

Milo hummed as he was skimming through the shelves but then glanced up at the other before turning to Wěi qí, "While I can read to my hearts content, there are just some that I cannot be allowed to touch. Which, I respect..."

It was then he sat himself down comfortably in the couch, and gestured for Wěi qí to sit by him, "So...how are you?"

Davion looked at the pictures and his eyes watered and he let out a slight sob. Gods, he has truly missed so much. The fact that he sees the kids, grown up and there are others that were tenderly loved and cared for by his two soulmates...it honestly was a sight.

And he was not in it.

He leaned against Beelzebub and took a breath, just letting out his silent cry of missing everything, and that he was glad to be alive once more. Never again will I lose anyone or lose myself...

"Let the White King try, Ed. Doing so would mean to undo the seal, and we all know that our Emperor has been eager to set us free once again." Carmen reminded the alchemist. "Investigating us would also be pointless, as the same issue would arise."

Iago seconded that, but he also admitted that they can't put anything past Zen. "So I vote we take caution, Carmen. Better to side on that and ensure that our Emperor doesn't lose Davion again." "Agreed, Iago. None of us desire to see our Emperor lose one of his loves." Carmen replied and gave a nod before the next subject came about: what else the Elric Brothers learned.

One of the other females, a dark elf, asked if Ed heard from their little spy within the walls. "Lord Typhon has pointed out that with Faith making herself comfortable by the White King's side, then we should be prepared for anything that damned Bitch throws our way."

Citalee and the others agreed before letting the brothers take their stand.

Laughing at Eric's cute and obvious crush on his nephews, Wěi qí waved as the fallen prince headed back to where the boys were. "That'll help soothe Yun's worry." He added with a soft giggle. Sometimes, he wondered if-ah, well, that would come sooner than he expected. "Ah, young love."

Letting Milo inside, he chuckled and nodded at his question. "Yun did say that you have access to the entire library." With the extracted promise that Milo would not read anything aloud lest he was told that the book he may have is safe.

Wěi qí led Milo to the area he had been in, which had their tea and snacks waiting. And yes, it had the books that he loved to read in this area.

Back with Davion, Beelzebub smiled and set his glass aside before hugging the dragon knight. "Oh Baby, that ain't wishful thinking...it's sweet." The demon king replied as he shed a few tears. "Losin' you took a toll on both of us. And the kids."

He summoned a family photo showing Davion, the five boys who were the dragon knight's sons. Stephan had grown into a confident, if not mischievous, tide dragon, Li hanging off of him and appearing just as innocent as ever. But the trio that Davion had yet to meet were none other than Onyx, Eclipse, and Ivory, who was holding their service animal, a lion who looked a LOT like a certain lion's former uncle.

Before any harm could come to Hime, a roar was heard and then what looked like black spikes appeared from the shadows, impaling the Mirror Shard Creatures. "I REALLY hate these buggers."

It was none other than Prince Dantè who whistled for his familiars to take care of the shard creatures, and then, he turned to face the group. "Use the shadows, they'll get you to the town square and to safety. Mim, Archimedes, guide Hime and her companions."

The shadow wolves barked before flanking Bambi's side, nudging him to show that they wouldn't attack while keeping the group safe. "Go. I'll meet you there!"

With Sano and the others, members of the town saw what was happening, and someone sounded the alarm. And that was when the sound of the conch shell was heard, causing the town to cheer.

Polaris and her crew arrived in the nick of time!

"Kaito, FIRE!"

A laugh that sent the town scattering only to be drowned out as the s cannons fired, the balls directly hitting the Mirror Shards. And of course, Sano's group was shielded by a certain sea dragon who sighed. "Whoopsies...Sorry!" Kaito barked at the group.

"Blithirin, Ejit..." The dragon growled before noticing Phoebus and Jasmine. "Blithirin' Nine Hells...What that lass see to send in her top four?"

[rumglazedpeaches]

Stolen from candlecoo

Rules: Make a new post and spell out your url with song titles, then tag as many people as there are letters in your url. 

R - Rise by The Glitch Mob U - Unbreakable by Aviva M - My oh My by Camila Cabello G - Guy.Exe by Superfruit L - Look what you made me do by Taylor Swift A - Arcade by Duncan Laurence Z - (Couldn't find one that started with Z so using this space as a freebie) Rockabye by Clean Bandit E - Everybody loves me by OneRepublic D - Discord by The living Tombstone P - Partners in crime by Set it off E - Enemy by Imagine Dragons A - Angels by Vicetone C - Castle by Halsey H - House of memories by Panic at the Disco E - Everything Black by Unlike Pluto S - Somewhere only we know by Keane

Tagging: @freedomsrebels

[milksuu]

ᴀ ʀᴜʟᴇ ᴏꜰ ᴀꜱʜ & ꜱᴛᴏʀᴍ ───── ♛

pairing: dark!hiccup x f!mute!reader

wc: 1.7k

tw: yandere, implied kidnapping, obsessive/possessive behavior, mention of blood/violence, mention of death

synopsis: You regretted the day they left him for dead. And you’d regret the day you ever saw him again—he’d make sure of that.

A gleam of orange blazed in the bleakness of night.

You watched from your hilltop window—the thatched roofs off the eastern slopes of Berk twisting and writhing in flames. Even from a distance, you heard the breaking moans of ceilings, the cracks and bends of collapsing wooden structures, and the piercing wails of scales met with sharp edges of iron. Despite The Red Death’s fall, dragon raids still plagued the lands.

Perhaps it was all a sign of retribution. 

You were told to stay within the safe confines of your home. Your father hadn’t wanted to risk your life, considering how precious you’d become. The next Seer in line after Gothi, gifted with spiritual wisdom, healing, and authority of officiating the next chief.

But the price to pay had been steep. 

The house was dark, not even the smallest candle lit. Nothing that would draw a glimmer of attention to the home. A creak ached the roof above, and you flitted your nose up to the rafters, drawing lines across the ceiling. Nothing but your shallow breaths filled the silent dark. 

The hearth then erupted with flame and spark, jolting you from back to neck bone. Had you any voice, a strangled scream would’ve ripped from your throat. Twisting, you had almost forgotten to breathe. A figure shrouded in shadow and leather stood beside the crackling firewood. Light and dark danced in an undulating battle across the strangers’ features.

Revealing a horrifying familiarity.

“Hope you don’t mind if I warm this place up a bit.” That voice, boy-ish in tone, lacked any hint of innocence or niceties. He stretched a gloved hand towards the licking flames, doing nothing to warm the ice coating his insides. “Couldn’t help but notice you looked a little cold and...alone.”

A snap of wood made you flinch; addressing him with quivering lips and dilated eyes. Your long-lost greeting didn’t forebode well.

Every piece of leather tightened around his body as he shifted. Turning to ensnare you within his talon like stare. When embers casted a sheen across his face, you braced against the sight. Soft features long since abandoned, reforged into a visage of cold iron. Carved and littered with scars and nicks across his furrowed brows, cheeks, and clenched jaw line.

“Well, this is kind of embarrassing. Wait, no. That’s not the word I was looking for. More like—disappointing. That sounds like a better fit. For you and everyone else here.” Hiccup stalked forward, a contraption of metal clanking and scratching against the splintering floors. Each step clanged through you, until he stood one heartbeat away. “After all these years, I’d thought you’d have a bit more to say. And you want to know something else? Every night, I dreamed about how this conversation would go. Just like how I dreamed things could be better than what they were. Funny how you can plan for things to go a certain way, but then…”

He pressed his hands at each side of your head, the glass window behind begging to crack from the pressure. His scent permeated, forcing you to swallow. Once smelling of spring honey and rolling glades, now sundered to singe your senses like bone ash and lightning storms. 

“Looks like I’m not the only one who’s a little different.” He placed a calloused finger into the dip of your clavicle. He dug and dug until your pained gasp fell deaf to his ears. Tilting his head, he curled the lip of his mouth. “So, just like Gothi, you gave up your voice. Good—great, actually. This works out better for me.” 

The smile that crept over his lips never made it up to his eyes. Not like before. Those vibrant meadows sullied into a sickly, muddled green. Thick and ichorous, and dared you stare long enough, you could never trudge your way out. Afraid of being stuck within them, your hand slipped silently into the pocket of your dress, where your fingers brushed against the hilt of a dagger. 

You drew it a mere inch before his hand captured yours, twisting until he pried it into his possession.

“Come on. We both know you were never good at fighting.” He chuckled, wagging the sharpest point between your trembling eyes. “I’ll admit it. I wasn’t either back then. That’s something we had in common…until I had to be. Guess that didn’t work out in anyone’s favor on this wet piece of rock. Now, did it?”

Your vision blurred. Screams of the village roared in your ears. Screeches of dragons pierced through the air, engulfed in smoke and fire. Having consumed so much in its wake, you felt the heat of chaos leech into the glass. Searing your back pressed against it.

“Woah. Hey, don’t cry. It’s fine. Don’t worry about it.” He swept a rough thumb over a fallen tear stain. “Not all of them will die tonight. I mean, just think about it for a second. Can’t be chief and rule over a bunch of burnt corpses. How counterintuitive would that be?” 

“As for you though…” he continued, and your heart stalled as he traced the cold metal down your flush cheek and neck, pausing just above your breastbone. “I’m only standing here, watching everything and everyone turn to ash around us, all because of you. And don't tell me you don't remember. When you mended my leg. Somehow kept me from bleeding out. Just before the entire village abandoned me.” His clouded eyes narrowed down. “Including you.”

Releasing you from his pinning weight, your legs wobbled. As if he hadn’t just snatched your foothold underneath. Terror kept your feet webbed in place, watching as he twirled your dagger in his fingers like a child's play thing. Crouching near the fire, he mindlessly poked and prodded at the stoking wood. He picked away a scrap of charred chipping, before plunging the blade into the flank of the burning log. You gazed at him, chest tight, aching. How he hadn’t flinched when the fire slicked around his hand like oil.

He dragged the smoldering stump from the hearth, creating a scorched line. When the licks of fire seeped into the house floors, he rose, one vertebra at a time. 

“If I’m being honest, I probably would’ve done the same thing.”

He unhooked a masked contraption from his belt buckle and tightened it over his face. The eye sockets were of yellow stained sea glass, and the mouth of it appeared like a muzzle of iron teeth.

“Leave something already weak, then crippled to survive on its own. Gambling on the high-stakes of death. So sure of the outcome, no one bothered to turn over a shoulder.” Hellfire rose and swelled in the reflection of his mask. “Maybe they should’ve.” 

The rapid hunger of the hearth fire blazed and curled across the floor of the home. Heat lapped towards your skin, drawing out sweat from your pores. Dense smoke began filling the wooden death chamber. You inhaled the black snowflakes, searing your lungs once they melted inside you. You slapped a hard hand over your mouth, coughing and shuddering against it. A pang of panic willed your body to move. You attempted to open the window behind you, but to your horror, it had been welded to the frame. 

Your eyes watered, hugging the wall as you traced it to the door. When the handle clattered against your pulls and tugs, a ghostly laugh floated around you. The metal was bolted shut from the outside. A bout of nausea cramped your stomach. Fear darted your eyes toward the stairs, where the flames hadn’t yet reached—but soon. Perhaps the window of your room hadn’t been tampered with. 

You darted towards the steps, and before you could place one foot up, a black beast stalked from the darkness of the second floor.

The floating embers danced hauntingly over the onyx scales, and gashes rippled in the firelight. Revealing wounds healed twice, perhaps three times over. That body of night perfectly reflected it's master’s outward appearance.

And as you drowned in those feral slits of pure abandon, it was apparent they also shared the same broken, unmendable soul. 

“Oh. You remember Toothless, don’t you?” Your face paled, backing slowly as the Nightfury slithered down the steps like black ink. A predatory growl rumbled above the snapping and collapsing wood around you. Hiccup sauntered to the dragon’s side, patting the thick of his neck, pulsing with power. Another laugh at your expense. “Looks like he remembers you.”

You fought the claw of unconsciousness raking over every part of you. Choking, straining against your hand pathetically covering your mouth.

“Since you did me a favor back then, I’m going to give you one last chance to make it up to me.” The mask muffled his voice, but the wickedness screamed, rattling your veins. “You can either choose to stay here and burn with the rest of Berk or…” he lifted a hand, hardly an invitation, but a devilish bargain. “You can choose me.”

In the thick of your pounding head and chest, you considered burning to death was the wiser option of the two. All that he was—what he’d inevitably become—held no promise of a life worth degrading yourself for. Nothing about you would be spared. And it wouldn’t be long till you dropped on hands and knees, begging for him to take your life. To end his drawn out game of torture. One he’d carefully crafted for years and years. 

Just for you, only for you.  

Still, you clung to life. A measly mortal thread. Your shaking hand lifted, painfully reaching for his fingertips. One step forward, and the world spun in wisps of red and black. Your lungs and heart throbbed, practically seizing. A calculated arm caught you, cradling you wholly, close as any lover would. 

“Good choice.” 

You heard the waning words of approval, and through the fading light of your vision, something fastened over your face. Your last conscious breath had been clean, airy—a pleasant contrast to the toxic fumes. 

Then, nothing.

[systemadministratorclu]

Right after Milo has just eaten a big bite of his.

"wHaT!?" He chokes/coughs out, the circuits on his gridsuit flickering, "I'm.....I'm EATING a PERSON!?" He looks sick. Like he's someone hearing what Soylent Green is after digging into a nice big portion of it.

He quickly remembers she's right there, and backpedals.

"I mean, your soul is absolutely delicious, thank you very much. I just.....I've always been opposed to eating people. The idea is......eugh." he shudders.

"That's right, you ungrateful shits. Whenever I make things like ice cream cones for you, you are eating part of my soul. So try to be a little bit more grateful! Ehehehehe."

[stardustedstories]

The Princes Bride Sentence Starters // Accepting

@missallanea asked: ❛ please understand, i hold you in the highest respect. ❜ / kida @ milo, you can hear the "but" coming a mile away

Mr. Whitmore had told them about another phenomenon that could potentially be linked to Atlantis, this time in New York City. Apparently, there had been sightings of moving statues? That was what one of the reports said, though another one mentioned "unholy abominations," which could amount to anything, depending on your perspective.

Because of the Atlantean crystals that had been presented to them as a gift, the members of the original expedition to Atlantis continued to survive long after they likely should have succumbed to old age. They continued to meet up, both for social events, and to investigate the leads Mr. Whitmore sent their way.

It looked like the rest of their team was busy, which meant that it was just Milo and Kida on this trip. It had been a while since Milo had been to New York City, and apparently quite a bit had changed since then.

He and Kida had been discussing where they should start looking for Mr. Whitmore's lead, and they each had different opinions on the best place to begin.

Milo glanced over at Kida at her words, very clearly hearing the unspoken 'but' at the end of her sentence.

"But?" he prompted. "You don't think we should start with talking to the person Mr. Whitmore recommended?" Milo thought they ran in the same circles, which had to mean this David Xanatos was trustworthy, right?

[imitormusa]

❝  have you even taken the time to let yourself feel it?  everything that’s been happening.  eventually,  you have to slow down and let it feel real.  ❞ ( to thatch from marco ! )

@taiixuan | CONVERSATIONAL  SENTENCE  STARTERS 

Waking up in the infirmary was never Thatch's favorite thing. It had happened a time or two in his career as a pirate but not for a long time. He was a Division Commander for the Whitebeard Pirates. He was one of the top members of a Yonko crew.

But he was only human.

He was lucky to be alive. He knew this. If the wound had been an inch to the left or even just a little deeper? He'd be dead. If someone hadn't stumbled upon the scene when they heard Thatch shout? He'd be gone. So many little moments added up for him to live but without just a single one? He wouldn't be here.

But Thatch wasn't one to sit around when there was work to be done. The day he was cleared for 'light duty', he was back to work. He was aware of his siblings watching his every move, ready to step in if need be but he ignored them as much as one could ignore hundreds of people. This had been tough on everyone, not just him and he knew this. But he had to focus on himself right now. His division was good but there were some things he had to do himself. He couldn't put off his duties forever. He didn't want to.

So here he was, sitting on the floor of the pantry with his breathing ragged and teeth clenched. One simple slip had knocked the air from his lungs and someone had gone to find Marco. In any other circumstance, Thatch would be ecstatic to see the older man but he was so. damn. tired. He loved Marco but he wasn't sure he could stand being looked at right now.

"Marco, I don't want to feel it," He sounded tired. Someone he had known for years and had considered a brother had tried to kill him. They had fought side by side for years. None of them had ever imagined anything like this happening. "I'm going to have to live with the threat of him coming back to kill me to get the fruit so can't I have a few more days? I want to focus on work. I want things to be normal again. I want Ace back but the kid is too damned stubborn to listen to any of us."

"Gods," His voice was thick with unshed tears. "All this over a damn fruit. I would've given it to him if he'd just asked..."

[us-smash-archive]

@Ace and Thatch so of either of your weren't with Deuce or Adelaide would you consider taking Freya on as your partner?

"Probably not, she's a good person and all but I like her more like a good friend or even a sister."

"Same here, Freya's a sweet woman and she deserves the best but that doesn't mean i wouldn't be a wingman for her to find that special someone."