#Foundation Quaking

[fives-girlfriend]

God I wish I could be on a different planet rn. @ any clone take me into your fucking arms

[againwiththeturtles]

if it weren’t for Sozin’s Comet. Maybe I could have been normal about Azula.

[fruitmouse]

the earthquake was mad funny btw. i’d been awake for one whole minute & suddenly my house was shaking and i was just like. ok 👍

[1800titz]

BEWARE THE WATER | merman/siren!Harry x reader

You’ll never forget it— the time when you suggested an outing. You were sitting around in your room with beer bottles on the off hours, you on your twin-sized mattress with your knees tucked to your chest. Skinny dipping. Like a kidhood pastime under the coat of nightfall. A fuddled proposal off your liquified tongue, spurned by the alcohol simmering your veins. You regretted it the moment it slinked from your mouth (the moment the weight of the silence lodged in the rational part of your brain, clinging through insobriety), but you doubled down. “…You’re crazy, rookie,” you remember one told you, eyes listing to the side, over the rubescent smear across the bridge of his nose. “Why not?” Curse of the North Shore, they called it. Call it. An urban legend— but the circles of their eyes shrink into the framing of white when they tell the story of men strewn across the coastline. Skins. Sapped down to the marrow, hollowed bones marred with scrapes, littered across the beach, the patch of rock shed off the cliffside. Spread all over. Eaten from the inside. A fable for grown men to chase, like a monster hiding in the coal-dark nooks under their cots. You stuck the lip of the beer bottle to your mouth and rolled your misty eyes. “Bullshit.”

preview

Your self-preservation scratches up, from beneath the surface of the sea’s hymn settling into your bones. Wrong. Dangerous. Go back. It carves a nick, like a scrape from under a layer of ice across the arctic pelagic, and fractures your mindless audacity. Your foolish gall. Leaves you blinking like you’re batting a haze of smoke off with your lashes, out on the rocks with your lantern swinging in your hand. 

It hits you all at once. Anxiety like storm surge. The sense of impending doom makes your throat tight when you swallow. Dry. What are you doing? Clotting up your lungs, waves slamming against the rocks you’ve trekked. The foundation under you quakes with the hairline fracture of your risk, and something tacky oozes in. Fear. Instinct. The consequence of your recklessness—

A moment too late. Moments. A moment too stupid, too uncalculated, too rash. Ill-advised, when you left the base and stepped out from behind the barricade of the dunes. You take slow, cautious steps back into the direction of the sand across the slippery eigengrau, shaking. Stupid, stupid— counting your steps, reaching for the stretch of land out of fingertip’s length.

(And really, there’s only so long you can dangle a filet out in front of an animal before it breaks and bites. Only so long you can lure something from the sea with a soft, fleshy silhouette over the surface of the water.)

The ocean is humming. Singing. Like it’s lapping in an echo of the word that shatters the calm of the reticence— “Soldier.”

Not quite a bark. No ire. But it’s louder than the water and makes your heart lurch to your throat when your head snaps over your shoulder. Your balance is threadbare, and the plummet of your stomach makes the string ripple. Your heel nearly slips across the jagged stone—

(Not rookie. Soldier. Shedding the moniker feels like molting a worn, second skin that’s started to crackle across the stretch of your appendages.)

Hindsight laughs at your irreparable, full fledged stupidity— you, ignoring every warning they handed out to you in the cup of their palm. 

(You were supposed to cradle them close, heed like the signs told you.)

Your unease is a vicious pulse across your throat, roaring in your ears, mottling the perfect tempo of the waves, when the lantern between your fingers sways to the craggy patch behind you, where you once stood. It casts ochreous light across the slippery tar-black of the stones. 

There’s a man in the water. Your lungs squeeze. Caught. Stuck. In stasis. 

Wet skin. Slippery, slick. Burnt orange catching on sinews, even with a patch of jagged stones between you, emphasizing your distance. 

You’ve never believed in fairy tales, not as a child. Not now. Never chased legends, and myths, imaginary friends and monsters under your bed. But something unspools inside of you. Unfurls in the pit of your belly. Instinctual. Like a sixth sense to save your skin. You still have a chance, a distance, muffled echo behind your skull hisses, you still—

But you’re glued onto the stone. Stagnant. Stalemating, with a chill stinging like shards across your veins, nausea lingering from the sharp bludgeon of being swung off kilter. 

A deer caught in headlights. 

(Game, staring across the plain at the looming predator.)

Fear tastes like heme and crushed ice. Your emotions are a farrago— terror, confusion, apprehension.

Dread. 

“You’re a soldier,” he asks— tells you, it feels like a statement— over the roaring sea, cadence honey smooth. Molasses heavy. A treacle across your ears that ghosts and melts across your earlobes. The scruff of your neck, where the peach fuzz bristles at attention. “Aren’t you?”

Your tongue feels stuck to the roof of your mouth. Bloated up in your mouth. From this distance, you can’t make out his face. Not the details— only the shape, and his gaze. Liquified tar. Glinting, coruscating like the peaks of the waves. 

Uncanny. Wrong. The echo of an urban legend— a mystical beast waiting to swallow you whole. 

You should run. Sprint across the rocks, let adrenaline aid in your coordination and pray for the best—

But you're stuck. Your brows notched, your ribcage rattling with your heart bursting behind it. Bounding, in place of your stubborn feet. 

“You— you’re not supposed to be out here,” you bluster. Ever the pedant (as if you are, mouthy, little hypocrite). Shoulders rigid like the stretch of nightfall limestone, chin high in your wavering merit. A soldier— a mask you wear as a cloak that can’t hide the quake in your fingers, and the burnt orange off the lantern jumps across the waves. 

It all feels pointless. Otiose— there is no warranted explanation when the unimaginable, unforeseen myth, blurs with reality and crumbles your expectations (your rationale) out from under you. 

His arms stretch across the stone. Lax. Languorous. The delineation of ease— and you can’t stop your eyes from roving across the breadth of his shoulders, the heft, the way the musculature there flexes when he moves. The way the water sticks to his skin. Glimmering obsidian roams you. Wanders. Strays. Drifts. Across every inch, every piece. Assessing. Contemplating. Absorbing.

“Aren’t you the sweetest thing?” he says, instead of answering you. 

The purr stuns you. Weaves across your logic, the congeries of your emotions— the fear— in ropework. Ties to an anchor, lugging you, luring you to drift further from the coastline, closer to him. Sediment from the ocean floor dredged under your feet when they nearly shuffle forward over the stone. 

The words sound wrong. Hungry. Like an omen— and the paradox of them, their tone, against your crumbling mettle, jars you back into survival-mode. Your head feels heavy. Clogged. Wading through a mist you can barely shake off—

“How did you get here?” you demand. Your teeth feel tight.

In the lack of immediate response, you know he’s staring at you. Inkblots roaming across your shape like the eyes of a carnivore over a meal. Incisors aching. It spills your resolve across your shoulders. A wave laps across your toes. He hums.

“Givin’ me a fuckin’ toothache, just looking at you,” he murmurs. A sawtooth dodge around your questions, the anger that bubbles off you in a broken defense mechanism— a vicious cat baring its teeth, swiping out with its little claws, backed into a corner. 

[general-yasur]

Egalt and his teaching methods really struck be because they directly contrast Lloyd’s teaching method

Egalt is strict, blunt, and demeaning, he isn’t going to tell you he believes in you the way Lloyd does. Lloyd is the first to pat you on the shoulder and tell you that He believes in you and you should believe in yourself.

Particularly with Arin- Egalt was actually teaching how to do the Rising Dragon technique, while Lloyd let Arin do his own thing because Arin has a Gift/Talent

Egalt would tell Arin he didn’t have enough of the foundational skills and in the next shot Lloyd is there telling Arin he can do it

You realize Lloyd hasn’t bothered to teach Arin spinjiztu and it’s probably because he thinks he doesn’t need to- Arin will just get it

Arin not getting better because he isn’t receiving the right teaching / advice fuels Lloyds fears of not being a good master and fuels Arins fears of not being fit to be a Ninja. It’s a quaking cycle

​Egalt and Lloyds methods are on opposite ends of the spectrum but both ultimately failed at helping him,, they are both out of balance you could say

Makes you wonder where Arin would be if Lloyd had taught him before. Can’t help but wonder if Lloyd being the original “gifted ninja” and the chosen one tampers with how he teaches

[someweirdoreblogger]

Burning Spice Cookie is passion ignited, albeit not in the moral side of the conscious spectrum. He is quite affectionate, actually, more than you may give him credit for.

Do not mistake it as humane, as a blind genosity. It comes not from a moral source of obligation or even gerenal priority.

Once the deranged loin-a Beast amongst monsters-the corrupted Lord himself is invested, your scent guiding freely through the droves, to shake him off your trail will prove diffcult. Burning Spice is not so kind to let prey go by unscathed, untouched by his mighty axe; His shadow stalks the trees, quaking, a deafening roar booms in the distance.

The Hunt begins.

You dare infringe upon his heart, you invade his senses, scrabble his thoughts; you really think you can simply crawl back home unscathed?

What home have you to turn too? Who would even think to take you back with the mark of a Beast weighing down your back?

Luckily, this debt can be paid. Paid solely by your own parry and peril. Burning Spice will remember your tracks better than the back of his own hand.

Once he comes, just an arrogant march away, you will know. The world itself will alert, not you, but itself to his sudden existence.

The birds will cease their music, the ground will shake and stumble; struggling to keep its foundation stable and lively. The lakes, far and wide, the sky, the kisses of clouds and weak leaves rip itself apart, dancing in the reflection below. It ripens in sheer unbalanced tension, seemingly frightened; the water will ripple like static, wavering under a wave of immense, exotic shock, and pressure.

The wind is ecstatic, nature's personal enthusiasm; it moans, groans, and sighs heavy in your ear. Desperate to be heard.

You will taste him in the air, a suffocating sulfur and ghastly spice, it threatens to choke weaker beings. Feel him fester like sparks on your crust, hair standing up stiff, dough throbbing. Tingling and blazing hot, a Beast's presence is a neigh-suffocating weight. You will never know peace until he deems you worthy of such.

Burning Spice roams triumphant, forever hungry. An immovable glare in the sky, a blinding scorch to the people's merger eyes, looking down civilization in cold indifference; The same way a god regurds his subjects. Just ants, peasy insects, building their anthills, simply hoping to piece together a safe haven for themselves in a universe far too large to tackle alone.

The Vitue of Change, The Lord of Destruction, will stand tall alone. Boundless from any chain as mortals rise, spoil and fall. A proud witness to the beginning, present, and the end, the natural tides of history sow in the seeds of devastation he leaves behind. He is a slave to his base desires, as all Cookies are; a chaotic harbinger of endless malice and merciless strife.

But he is still yet a man. A heartless monster in a man's skin. A Cookie baked in the same oven as his fellow kin, a great Beast, seeking to completely deprive himself of sheer boredom and simplicity.

All immortals carry the burden, the smooth erosion of time is not lost even to Beasts, as the ocean inevitably swipes a wet hand over the sand. He lives long and simply withstands, and he stares at the lesser mass in a bubbling, volcanic envy, hanging loose like a knot on his shoulders; the deeper things, the pleasant things. The majority of it stems from an infectious curiosity, aching hunger boiling in the depths of a Beast.

An unstoppable force suspended in a space completely at its mercy.

Burning Spice, gerenally, is an incredibly expressive person; entertainment, living life to the fullest drives his very soul off the edge of madness and carnage. His being is a godly sight to behold, and he wears this infernal arrogance in fine silks and peakish sneers. The weak tremble beneath the heel of their superiors, the Beast of Destruction is bloody pride embodied.

And this God, this Beast will strave for your worship; shall rip it from the dying, rotting hands of the torn world.

Carnal, burnt crimson in abhorrent brutality, Burning Spice is honestly an upfront sort. He won’t shy away from confrontation, solemn. He knows what he needs, what he wants, so he will steal it if one ever dares refuse it from him.

What is inevitable is virtue, Burning Spice knows this in his very jam. He does hold some semblance of responsibility and honor, albeit it won’t make him any less immorally stubborn or hot-headed. He approaches a desired interest alike how a lion stalks his prey; the same way he approaches a potential hunt, with fierce, burning determination and endless persistence.

[sonics-atelier]

𝐕𝐞𝐢𝐥 𝐎𝐟 𝐃𝐞𝐜𝐞𝐢𝐭

Unveiling ( Pun intended ) the First chapter of my A Court of Thorns and Roses Fanfiction

𝐕𝐞𝐢𝐥 𝐎𝐟 𝐃𝐞𝐜𝐞𝐢𝐭 , 𝐀𝐂𝐓 𝟏 : 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐔𝐩𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐠 - 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟏: 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐅𝐥𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐒𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐭𝐮𝐚𝐫𝐲

For @sjmvillainweek Day 1 : Villain Origin Story

Protagonists :

( more will be revealed as the story progresses )

Ianthe - Priestess of the Spring Court. Amarantha - General of Hybern. Miryam - Slave to the Black Queen. Jurian - Spy

Relationships :

( more will be revealed as the story progresses )

Ianthe x Amarantha

Miryam x Drakon

Summary :

Ianthe has spent a lifetime yearning for escape, ever since that fateful night so many years ago. Crossing paths with Hybern’s general was never her intention, but their fates are being woven by forces far beyond her control, mere marionettes in the hands of the gods.

Miryam is driven by a singular mission: to slay the Black Queen who once enslaved her, free her fellow humans, and claim her long-awaited revenge. Yet one infuriating prince stands in her way, provoking her to the point of wanting to strangle him. Drakon, however, has never encountered anyone as wild as Miryam.

Jurian traverses the vast lands of Prythian on a noble quest, working as a spy to free the oppressed and bring justice to his people. His journey takes him into the unknown, forcing him to face both literal and inner demons, unaware that enemies are closing in on him.

Now, a new threat rises in Prythian, shaking the very foundations of the land as mountains quake and tides turn under its mysterious power. As the world teeters on the brink of chaos, will our protagonists fight for what they hold dear, or will they be swallowed by the flames of this growing darkness? Discover more as their fates unfold.

The Link

Taglist : ( dm me or send me an ask if you wish to be added / removed ), @achaotichuman , @ae-neon , @aho-dapa , @umthisistheonlyusernamenottaken , @flat-neines , @merwgue , @deafeningblazecolor.

Dividers by @im4yeons <33

[aletterinthenameofsanity]

Dr. Edwin Payne (Ghostcrow Art AU)

It was the only problem that there was in their relationship, the only crack that split the earth too close to the heart, threatening the very foundations. 

(And Charles Rowland had spent over a decade giving Edwin the best foundations in the world; nothing could truly shake them, Edwin knew. No doubts could ever break Edwin, because Charles’ love for him would always bolster him stronger than any quake could ever shake.)

Monty loved Charles and Edwin in other ways. He was affectionate in bed, was an absolute delight to debate with, was open enough with them to trust them with art, the one thing that he truly loved, and was so vulnerable and open in other ways, on other topics. He clearly loved Charles and Edwin outside of that one sticking point of visiting family.

And Edwin loved him. Loved Monty in such a similar way to how he loved Charles, the feeling taking root so deep in his heart that maybe the earth would never split because the roots pulled the crust so tight to itself.

-aletterinthenameofsanity, underneath the sunrise (show me where your love lies)

I don't wanna seem the way I do

But I'm confident when I'm with you

Lately, all I feel is bad and bruised

Tired of tripping on my shoes

But when he loves me, I feel like I'm floating

When he calls me pretty, I feel like somebody

Even when we fade eventually to nothing

You will always be my favorite form of loving

-Beach Bunny, Cloud 9

@deadboy-edwin @icecreambrownies @anonymousbooknerd-universe @ashildrs

@tragedy-machine @just-existing-as-you-do-blog @orpheusetude @mj-irvine-selby

@pappelsiin @itsbitmxdinhere @rexrevri @sweet-like-h0ney-lavender @saffirez

@the-ipre @sunnylemonss @days-light @agentearthling @helltechnicality

@sethlost @catboy-cabin @secretlyafiveheadeddragon @vyther15

@anything-thats-rock-and-roll @queen-of-hobgobblers @every-moment-a-different-sound

@nix-nihili @mellxncollie @tumblerislovetumblerislife @lemurafraidofthunder

@likemmmcookies @wr0temyway0ut @thelakeswillbreakourfall

[germhammy]

“Zoom with the cast and Tom pt 2”

Jackson: okay, Xavier. You need to stop. Clearly you’re upsetting, Wednesday

Harley: take your own advice and stop making passes at me. Just because we filmed a love story together and the fans ship us, not our characters.

Pippa: yeah. She’s told you she has a girlfriend. She’s told me she liked hanging out with you but that was it. Friends. Nothing more.

Jackson: all right. I’m sorry

Mr Burton: Doug. You are out of line. You have seen how uncomfortable Xavier makes Wednesday and yet now you have made him your assistant?

Mr Johnson: so you believe her visions of some scary monster coming to get us? I am The Foundation! I can handle any —

Wednesday: Will you kindly cut ‘The Foundation’ crap? You would not last a minute in any sort of actual fighting. I am not saying the kind of wrestling you participate in is completely fake but it certainly is not actual wrestling or fighting

Xavier: oh my god! Wednesday! The Foundation is the World Heavyweight Champion!!

Wednesday: of a sports entertainment organization, Xavier. Not a sporting organization. Entertainment not sports. It’s like saying one is the champion of e-sports football penalty shooting but never having kicked a ball in their life

Xavier: Ha! You don’t even know your sports! There are no penalty kicks in football!!

Jackson: she’s talking about soccer, you moron! Wednesday, what’s your favorite teams? Bundesliga: Bayern, La Liga: Barcelona, Serie A: Milan, Ligue 1: PSG, EPL: Man City MLS: FC Dallas

Harley: Man Shitty! Leverkusen, Atlético Madrid, Juventus, Liverpool, LA Galaxy

Wednesday: Dortmund, Sevilla, Juventus, PSG, West Ham, LA Galaxy

Jackson: well damn! We can all agree on PSG. I wish I could go to a non MLS game. I did catch a Fullam match while filming London

Wednesday: I have been to a match in Romania when I was very little. I have been to a few Club América matches when visiting relatives in Mexico

Harley: I was in Paris and went to a PSG match to see Messi.

Jackson: lucky!! I tried to get tickets when Inter Miami played Dallas.

Xavier: what the hell are you guys rambling on about?

Enid: soccer. Or football as it’s called in Europe and elsewhere. Wednesday? No love for the Quakes? Or any of the Scottish leagues?

Harley: -chuckling- we can’t name all the leagues! I take it you’re Scottish and from San Jose or San Francisco?

Enid: yes.

Harley: Let’s go SHARKS!

Enid: Wait. Harley? Are you a Sharks fan?

Harley: yes. My first introduction to hockey was a Sharks game

Enid: yay!! Wednesday likes the Devils. Don’t blame her since she’s from New Jersey

[hiswordsarekisses]

“In my distress I called upon the Lord, And cried out to my God; He heard my voice from His temple, And my cry came before Him, even to His ears. Then the earth shook and trembled; The foundations of the hills also quaked and were shaken, Because He was angry. Smoke went up from His nostrils, And devouring fire from His mouth; Coals were kindled by it. He bowed the heavens also, and came down With darkness under His feet. And He rode upon a cherub, and flew; He flew upon the wings of the wind. He made darkness His secret place; His canopy around Him was dark waters And thick clouds of the skies. From the brightness before Him, His thick clouds passed with hailstones and coals of fire. The Lord thundered from heaven, And the Most High uttered His voice, Hailstones and coals of fire. He sent out His arrows and scattered the foe, Lightnings in abundance, and He vanquished them. Then the channels of the sea were seen, The foundations of the world were uncovered At Your rebuke, O Lord, At the blast of the breath of Your nostrils. He sent from above, He took me; He drew me out of many waters. He delivered me from my strong enemy, From those who hated me, For they were too strong for me. They confronted me in the day of my calamity, But the Lord was my support. He also brought me out into a broad place; He delivered me because He delighted in me.” Psalms‬ ‭18‬:‭6‬-‭19‬

[wallwriterstuff]

The Night Before Christmas ||John Price x Wife!Reader||

Warnings: Tooth-rotting fluff, suggestive themes, John Price is his own damn warning. Christmas Eve preparation by parents.

Words: 2601

Taglist: For @glitterypirateduck 's CODHOLIDAY2023 challenge. Inspired by the song "I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Clause" after a lifetime of watching my parents make Christmas magical for me...and annoyingly kissing every time they hear this song at Christmas. Thanks for that Mom and Dad.

Summary: On the night before Christmas, in John Price's house, a strange thumping is heard that is caused by his spouse. Or, when John finds out just how much of the magic in Christmas is created by his wife.

There’s a rumbling of jet engines plaguing his mind in the enveloping heat of a dry dessert. It’s almost suffocating, the way it presses on his chest, but there’s something mildly comforting about the familiarity of it. There’s a lull in the rhythm, a crack in the foundation. Soap’s laughter’s muffled but his smile’s bright, and the way Gaz’s eyes are twinkling makes him wonder what terrible joke Ghost has told now that he’s missed. Has he missed it? It’s difficult to tell here in the heat haze. He’s everywhere and nowhere, halfway between this world and somewhere new, somewhere undefined that his body knows but his mind hasn’t identified. It’s difficult to take a deep breath to try clear his head. He’s weighed down and weightless. He’s here and he’s gone. He’s lost and he’s found here among the family he’s chosen as the Earth shakes.

The boom is as garbled as trying to hear TV through static. The mortar strikes should be roaring, shattering his eardrums as much as the Earth but they’re not. He frowns, looking around. Why is no one running? Panicking? Another dull thud of what must be an enemy missile of some sort drowned out by the rumbling of those jet engines. He looks around in a daze. He can’t bring himself to feel even a twinge of fear. He just knows, instinctually, that there’s no danger here. The ground’s splitting and quaking beneath his feet but the smell of the Earth weeping for mercy through the fissures doesn’t come. Instead, it’s strong and clinical, almost like menthol. He inhales deeply, frown deepening as he gets closer to the crack in the Earth. Yeah…menthol. Another muffled thud and the gap is swallowing him whole, his team and the dessert all swirling away in a vortex of sand that the sandman retracts. He cannot sleep just yet. There’s work to be done.

Inhaling deeply, his nose stings at the strong smell of Vapo-rub. The tub still sits in his left hand while his right lingers on a small, rattling chest. Long lashes brush the apples of rosy red cheeks and his heart aches at the sight of his youngest, curled into his side in an effort to find respite from the flu that’s plagued him all week. Quietly, John clears his throat, lips smacking a bit to moisten his dry mouth. He gives himself a mental shake, removing his hand and carefully shifting himself off of the bed, old injuries aching and creaking as they always do when he’s given a moment of respite. He was barely home all of two days and he’s had the bedtime shift both nights, his children craving his attention now he’s finally, finally home. With a slight grimace, he cleans off the remnants of the foul smelling substance with a tissue from the nightstand, ensures that the nightlights are all turned on and slinks out of the room to let his son sleep.

He should find his own bed, he thinks. He can feel his own exhaustion in the marrow of his bones, a deep-seated kind of tiredness that robs him of more than just energy, but then he hears it again. The dull thud that roused him from his almost sleep is coming from downstairs, and adrenaline shoots through his veins like wildfire. It burns through that tiredness with whispers of ‘once more’, a drive to push through, fight back, obey every instinct hard-wired into his DNA that places survival above all else. He knows he locked the doors. Triple checked them like he does every night he’s home right before he put the kids to bed. Kids. You. Where are you? It’s automatic, no longer training or instinct but something more ingrained even than that, the way he searches room to room. Two fragments of his soul sleep soundly in their beds but you’re nowhere to be seen.

He's greased every hinge and secured every floorboard in this house. John knows exactly where to put his feet and how much weight to place on every individual board as he eases himself into the shadows. He greets every dark crevice like an old friend, one he knows intimately and has a depth of knowledge of that is unrivalled by any intruder in his home. The front door is closed, but the chain is off. His ears strain, that rhythmic clomping of clumsy boots making his brow furrow. Whoever it is is damn noisy, untrained even, perhaps even –

“What the bloody hell are you doin’?” he can’t help but snort, every muscles unwinding and the alarm bells in his mind fading in the face of his amusement. He settles it in his mind then and there. There’s no intruder, my wife’s just lost her marbles.

“Don’t, do that!” you hiss, hand clutched over your chest and foot raised, his boot dangling and far too big, in danger of falling onto the floorboards if you don’t take a step soon. John’s head tilts, a smirk twitching up his lips as he takes in the fake snow on the floor, the boot prints leading from the door into the living room.

“Since when did Santa wear combat boots?” he asks.

You scowl. “Since Mrs Clause had to throw her Doc’s away back in November...that’s why they’re on her Christmas list.”

He barely stifles his laughter, shoulders shaking as he rubs his finger under his nose. He knows better than to laugh at you right now as you continue to clomp towards the Christmas tree. He leans against the door frame, watching you navigate the sofa with keen eyes and folded arms. He can’t quite keep the grin from twitching his lips upwards as he drinks in the sight of you in his too big boots, Christmas pyjamas on and hair tied up, looking determined. There’s a peek of pink at the corner of your lips where your tongue pokes out in concentration as you try to keep your steps evenly spaced. That suffocating warmth is back and he recognises it for what it is now as he simply basks in the love you’ve woven into every inch of the house. It seeps into every grain of wood and is the stain lacquer finish of the laminate, holding the whole home together for him to return to. You’ve done it alone again, everything from presents to decorations and Grotto Visits. He can’t help his schedule but he wishes he’d been in on more of the magic you’ve woven that kept your little angels up until 10PM with unparalleled excitement.

“You could have asked for me to do that bit. Save you near breakin’ your neck in my boots.” He said. You sprinkle the last bit of fake snow down onto the floorboards and take a step, turning to look at him. John chuckles, crossing the room in three quick strides and scooping you up and away to the sofa. You grip him tight, the momentary shock of being airborne fading as you relax into his grip; trusting, always trusting. John won’t let you fall. He never has.

“I came up to, but you were asleep.” You teased. John huffed, kneeling before you and lifting your foot to his knee. His fingers made nimble work of the laces as he glanced up at you.

“Wasn’t,” his denial his half-hearted at best, “Was just restin’ my eyes.” He delicately slides his boot off your foot, setting it aside with much less reverence than he does your leg as he brings the other one up to untie next.

“Sure thing, cowboy.” You grin slyly. John looks up at you from under his brows, his focus half on the triple knot you’ve had to use to keep his work boots from sleeping off your feet. He chuckles a little as he picks it apart.

“Callin’ me a liar?” his query holds no bite to it. He slips the other boot free and lifts your leg, placing a delicate kiss to your calf. He feels the way your muscles tighten in response and he can’t help but smirk a little, does it again just to feel you respond to the touch of his lips on your skin.

“Liar? No. Big foot? Yes. How you walk in those things is beyond me.” You let your leg drop and shuffle forward. John’s left kneeling between your knees, his hands automatically finding purchase on your thighs, calloused thumbs caressing the smooth skin like it’s the safety on his rifle with a knowing, firm touch. A small smile creeps it’s way onto your lips, and John thinks that he could die happy this way, surrounded by you, kneeling at your altar. Hands cupping his cheeks, you gently rub your knuckles over the whiskers of his beard before leaning in to grant him the swiftest, sweetest of kisses.

Your eyes are bright, but there’s a small crease between them he smooths away with his thumb. John Price is nothing if not vigilant, and the only thing he knows better than the parts of his rifle are the planes of your body. Every minute twitch of a muscle and miniscule expression on your face is a well-read verse in the story of you. Your poetry in motion, and he won’t stand for your beauty being creased by worry and doubt.

“Stop worryin’ so much. Kids’ll be ecstatic to see Santa’s broken in.” He says.

“Broken in? John!”

“What? We don’t have a chimney so only logical explanation is that he’s shimmied the lock.” He grins up at you, letting you pull him to his feet with the most aghast expression on your face he thinks he’s ever seen. He swallows down his laughter because gods, you’re adorable and instead chooses to transfer his grip from your hands to your waist. “Joking, love, joking.” He assures you, stepping into your space and tilting your head up with his thumb and index finger. John doesn’t need to hear your forgiveness. He feels it in the way you let him chastely chase your lips until you push him back.

“We still have work to do cowboy.” You pat his chest and John huffs a bit, looking around the room. For the life of him he can’t fathom what else you could do to the place. Your shared house is cosy, decorated, loved. Fill it with anything else and he’s sure it’ll burst at the seams.

“Love, what could you possibly still have to do?” he looks down at you. You’ve got eyes like Christmas lights and are awash with the colours of them glittering on the tree, painted in stained glass colour like some Saint he knows he’s blessed to worship. The smell of fresh baked cookies and vanilla frosting is etched into your skin from your baking escapades with the kids today, soft and warm and inviting him to take a bite out of you.

“Presents. Had to hide them in the attic from certain sticky fingers. Can you get them down?” you ask.

John nods. “Alright. Anymore to be wrapped?”

“Ye of little faith. They’ve been wrapped since mid-November.” You scoff, crossing to the cookie plate and placing one in your mouth. As it melts on your tongue you hum in delight, and John frowns.

“Save one for me?”

“Sorry, Santa’s sent me for cookie quality control. Missed your chance.” There’s mirth shimmering in your eyes and cookie crumbs resting at the corner of your lips. John shakes his head as he slinks back upstairs, checking in habitually on his still sleeping angels before he pulls down the ladder to the attic. He’s got to admit he’s impressed at your tenacity. The bags are stuffed full. You’ve spoiled the little ones rotten. How you’ve done so much shopping and wrapping is beyond him, and he can’t quite figure out how you’ve managed to hide two very full bags in the attic on your own with two small children hanging off you while he was away. The Santa hat sitting nearby gives him pause. John knows he’s been a bit of a Grinch in the two days he’s been home. Something about coming home to a poorly babe and an overly prepared wife left little room for him to really get into the swing of the Christmas spirit. He endeavours to make a change.

Present bags retrieved, he slips back downstairs and pauses only to pluck a small sprig of mistletoe from the wreath at your front door. He triple checks he’s locked and chained the door once more. Force of habit. With your present bags resting in front of the tree he tugs on the Santa hat and waits patiently for you to return. There’s cookies missing and carrots with chunks eaten out of them in your efforts to make the children believe Santa really did come to see them, but he knows you can’t stand milk. He smiles slightly, knowing full well you’ll be pouring the milk back into the carton right about now.

When you return with the empty glass, you pause at the sight of him. John gives you a grin, lifting the sprig of mistletoe over his head.

“Someone’s on the nice list this year, deserved a special visit from the big man himself.” He offers you his free hand and you snicker slightly, eyes adoring and hand slipping into his. You let him pull you closer, and nothing feels better than his arm sliding around your waist. Now he’s really home. John leans in, eyes closing, and to his surprise there’s a strong smell of vanilla as you smear Christmas cookie onto his waiting lips with a giggle.

John blinks his eyes open in surprise, huffing a surprised laugh through his nose before he leans down and catches your mouth with his. He gives you no time to escape him or to clean off his mouth. It’s messy and it makes you squirm in his grip, but neither of you complain as you kiss and lick frosting away between you. His grip on you tightens, safe, inviting, hands sliding over the curves of you just to reassure himself your still here, still his. The best damn gift he ever did receive.  

When you pull back for air, John’s thumb swipes away the last little bit of frosting with a chuckle.

“Where did your mistletoe go?” you tilt your head at him and he unfurls his palm to show you. You take it from him with a hum, mischief dancing in your eyes.

“And just what are you planning on doing with that then?” He queries. Your eyebrows lift a bit.

“Think I know a better place for it.” You shrug. He feels your hands tugging at his belt, his eyes never leaving yours for a moment even as a smile twitches up his lips.

“I thought we only opened presents on Christmas morning?” he glances down to see the mistletoe hanging from his belt buckle. You giggle a bit, reaching into the bag just behind the sofa that has all your wrapping bits and pieces in . You place a sticky bow on your head and wiggle your eyebrows at him.

“I thought you were an advocate for bending the rules on occasion?” You teased, hips swaying as you slowly walk backwards towards the stairs. John chuckles, taking three quick strides towards you before he hoists you up and onto his hips. You don’t squeal. You know he won’t let you fall.

“Quick, before the kids catch Mommy kissing Santa Clause.”

“Underneath the mistletoe?”

“I believe that’s how the song goes.”

[blackbatcass]

Hey, do you have a reading list for batman: nml. I'm so afraid of it, but I think it's time for me to read it 🙂‍↕️.

YEAHHHH im so proud of you anon. nml is long & intimidating but it is also sooo worth it and is so foundational to the batman mythos.

to start, no man’s land has a few different parts which i would highly recommend reading all of. the saga goes cataclysm -> road to no man’s land volumes 1 & 2 -> no man’s land. cataclysm is 18 issues where the quake actually happens, rtnml is kinda prequel & setup, and then the brunt of the story happens in nml proper. a lot of people kinda just skip past road to no man’s land or don’t know they’re supposed to read it at all which i think ISNT the way to go lmaoo there is some very important context and stories in there.

so the problem with finding good no man’s land reading lists is that most of them are not accurate💀 like there is just so much of it that a lot of issues slip through the cracks and it’s hard to find a truly complete thorough guide. honestly my best recommendation might be to look for the omnibus trades. your library might have them, or you can always just look up the omnibuses on rco.

cataclysm is an easy simple 18 issues found here, thank you to locg:

for the rest of nml there is a list here, which looks pretty accurate from a first glance EXCEPT for the road to no man’s land list which leaves some things out, volumes 1&2 of rtnml should be this at least according to locg

this site breaks down the issues by omnibuses which is helpful.

mem @havendance has a very helpful guide to important nml issues here along with some commentary, and also has a timeline of the whole event here which is very nice to reference.

sorry for throwing a bunch of different options at you but yeah as I said nml is TRICKY to find complete lists for. I wish you sooo much luck in your journey! and if anyone has a more accurate guide please feel free to chime in lol

[czor--t]

Oftentimes i think how audacious the Stamatin brothers are. Andrei is a wanted man, yet here he is, opening a fucking bar in some rural town in the steppe - mind you - still connected to thw rest of a country.

He is contracted by one of the wealthiest families and partons of art and yet he still does not drop his extravagant lifestyle - going as far as admitting himself to seriously harming AND ALSO MURDERING people. Big Vlad says that he lets him prospair in the workshop - but is that really true? Because he does not seem to be afraid of it. And he has the Kains covering him. Hell, he has Grief quaking in his boots, which, wouldn't be as impressive if not for their respective occupations.

And Peter? He went mad after creating something that he himself fails to understand, a happy accident - so he drinks the money he gets away, wasting in his apartment. He is the sensitive spot of his brother and a hindrance to Alexander Saburov as well - and yet he does not seem vaguely concerned by it - not unless he is directly told that someone wants him dead. He is delirious and disconnected from both populations of the town and yet he seeks refuge in Kin's gatherings (as seen in Aspity's hostice)

Most of all they murdered the only other architect in town and themslves erected a tomb for him. But oh, it gets worse. They are not even trying to hide that they did it. And from Andrey's boisterous nature you'd think that he is bragging left and right but no, it is PETER FUCKING STAMATIN who reveals the murder of Farkhad was their doing. And let's not forget that in Pathologic they LEAVE AN EPITAPH THAT RIVALS EVERYTHING THAT VLAD THE YOUNGER DID IN HIS ENTIRE PLOT. "Here lies Farkhad, the most unshakable architect. We assembled this monument on the beautiful foundation. From inconsolable brothers in arms P. et A. gemini."

They are untouchable and very well aware of it.

[lioneliness-etc]

The bat fam if Bruce had them as infant babies 🥺

Dick: the sweetest cuddliest little guy but would have the most ear-splitting temper tantrums. When he is upset it feels like the foundations of the manor are Quaking.

Jason: Bruce has to read like 10 picture books to him every night to get him to fall asleep. He was perfect up until he became a toddler and just never learned how to listen to ANY rules or commands.

Tim: impossible to get him sleep. Bruce and Alfred both run ragged on sleep deprivation. Extremely adorable and extremely manipulative with it. Somehow always looked like he is scheming something…

Duke: he’s his own nightlight. Has the most normal sleep schedule of all the babies. A little hyperactive and unhinged during the daytime, but has the cutest big baby smile so he gets away with it.

Cassandra: never cries.She’s Bruce’s precious baby girl who has never done anything wrong, don’t listen to anyone who says otherwise.

Damian: the grumpiest baby alive. Came into the the world with the attitude of a fussy old man and ready to pick a fight. They all have scars from him teething. However his perpetual pouty face is so cute that people can’t help but laugh.

Stephanie: not Bruce’s baby but an absolute terror at the local playground. Play dates with the bat boys always spiral into chaos but the kids all love her so she’s always around.

Babs also comes over for plenty of play dates.

The most chaotic era is when half are toddlers and half are still babies (Dick is like 5). There are toys all over the manor and Bruce has never been happier or more exhausted in his life.

[heartstringsduet]

Last week, the second winner of the poll was the Fantasy AU. I'm not sure of the final name but it consumes my every thought lately. Calling it Bargains on here for now. thanks for tagging me @thisbuildinghasfeelings @im-overstimulated-and-im-sad and @sznofthesticks

/you are bad at bargaining./

“Please,” Carlos begs. It’s all he can do now . “Please, he can’t die tonight.”

Death reaches out and Carlos doesn’t flinch, not anymore. He’s no longer afraid. There's a cold spot where Death places a hand on him and a gray tint to TK's skin where he is touched.

/carlos tomas reyes. tyler kennedy strand. both half-empty. both half-full./

Carlos swallows around a dry mouth. So he was right to look for him after all, he was led here for a reason.

/i see you want this man's soul?/

Carlos looks at the unconscious stranger, his heart beating wildly. “Yes.”

/the only way I give it to you, is to give yours to him. do you agree?/

The wind is a force making the house groan. The ground two stories below begins to rumble and shake the foundation of the house. The air in his lung is thin, singing. If he didn’t know better, he’d think it was his father warning him. 

He thought Death would ask him for his own soul in exchange. This, he was unprepared for. Eyes on TK's still form Carlos forces the words out “What does that mean?”

/your life tied to his. his death tied to yours. do. you. agree?/

The earth quakes, his ancestors rebelling against the word he can’t form anymore. Death takes it right out of his mind once he made a decision.

Yes. 

Open tag for anyone wanting to participate <3

@paperstorm @carlos-in-glasses @cold-blooded-jelly-doughnut @birdclowns @freneticfloetry @ambiguouspenny @alrightbuckaroo @whatsintheboxmh @inkweedandlizards @welcometololaland @rmd-writes @thebumblecee @noxsoulmate @lightningboltreader @liminalmemories21 @decafdino @ladytessa74 @lemonlyman-dotcom @bonheur-cafe @carlos-tk @louis-ii-reyes-strand @orchidscript @theghostofashton @strandnreyes @reyesstrand @kiwichaeng

[sonics-atelier]

𝐕𝐞𝐢𝐥 𝐎𝐟 𝐃𝐞𝐜𝐞𝐢𝐭

Welcome to the second chapter of my ACOTAR fanfic Veil of Deceit - 𝐀𝐂𝐓 𝐈 : 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐔𝐩𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐠 - 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟐 : 𝐀 𝐜𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐲 𝐢𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐞𝐧𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡

Protagonists :

( more will be revealed as the story progresses )

Ianthe - Priestess of the Spring Court. Amarantha - General of Hybern. Miryam - Slave to the Black Queen. Jurian - Spy

Relationships :

( more will be revealed as the story progresses )

Ianthe x Amarantha

Miryam x Drakon

Summary :

Ianthe has spent a lifetime yearning for escape, ever since that fateful night so many years ago. Crossing paths with Hybern’s general was never her intention, but their fates are being woven by forces far beyond her control, mere marionettes in the hands of the gods.

Miryam is driven by a singular mission: to slay the Black Queen who once enslaved her, free her fellow humans, and claim her long-awaited revenge. Yet one infuriating prince stands in her way, provoking her to the point of wanting to strangle him. Drakon, however, has never encountered anyone as wild as Miryam.

Jurian traverses the vast lands of Prythian on a noble quest, working as a spy to free the oppressed and bring justice to his people. His journey takes him into the unknown, forcing him to face both literal and inner demons, unaware that enemies are closing in on him.

Now, a new threat rises in Prythian, shaking the very foundations of the land as mountains quake and tides turn under its mysterious power. As the world teeters on the brink of chaos, will our protagonists fight for what they hold dear, or will they be swallowed by the flames of this growing darkness? Discover more as their fates unfold.

The Link

Taglist : ( dm me or send me an ask if you wish to be added / removed ), @achaotichuman , @ae-neon , @aho-dapa , @umthisistheonlyusernamenottaken , @flat-neines , @merwgue , @deafeningblazecolor.

Dividers by @im4yeons <33