#i purged some when i moved & i guess i purged the rest this spring when i donated like 4 bags of clothes from my closet

[wickedhawtwexler]

online stores have color filters but i think they need a "boring vs not boring" filter bc like. a plain black shirt is boring, a black shirt with a cool texture or a floral design is not boring. a neon pink sweater is fun, a pale dusty rose sweater is not. ya feel me

[ceescedasticity]

@edenfalling said: how did the rivers choose their locations (and who was tributary to whom) in Belariand?

Aros: There was a lot of very detailed planning based on biome preference, level of power we were comfortable carrying constantly, choices of neighbor, and how close people wanted to stay to Lord Ulmo.

Aros: However, this was in the Spring of Arda.

Narog: Melkor's invasion — the destruction of the Lamps, the rest of the rampage — and the response to that invasion rearranged… just about everything. It's also a… sort of break in most of our memories? Who we were before that isn't quite who we were after, and sometimes it's hard to cover the gap. Aros and Esgalduin and I remember more than most, because our springs stayed… relatively stable.

Esgalduin: Relatively.

Esgalduin: Everything was rattled. Some land sank under the waves, other land rose. It was chaos. After the worst of that settled, I think the coastline was approximately what it was when the Sun rose. The river configuration wasn't, though.

Gelion: At that point the Valar decided the best way to avoid breaking anything else was withdraw to and fortify Aman and… wait for Melkor to attack them, I suppose. They invited all Maiar to join them, for safety and… consolidation purposes, I guess.

Sirion: Some did go, but like I said: we want homes which are ours. That's not a demand we could make under those circumstances.

Gelion: And Yavanna very much appreciated everyone who was willing to stay and support the life of Middle-earth.

Sirion: That lasted a long time. Angband was first built, as an outpost. That was not a comfortable neighbor to have, and I think even everyone farther removed spent a lot of time trying to purge the spreading influence to minimize corruption of plants and animals. Yavanna came by from time to time, but mostly she judged in wise to stay farther away, to reduce the chances of another earth-shattering fight breaking out.

Gelion: But Lord Ulmo sent power up from the Sea to bolster us. —That was the point at which outlets became responsible for their tributaries.

Sirion: And then, of course, the Valar decided to suppress Melkor for the sake of the Children. There was real devastation a ways east and a long ways south — they broke the continent in two. But we mostly got some sudden mountain additions, which drastically changed natural drainage patterns. In my case I was going south instead of east, and instead of three small tributaries I had eight, including Aros and Narog.

Narog: Sirion handled it pretty well but it was a hell of a field promotion.

Formithrim: The three small tributaries were Rhúmithrim and Dúmithrim and I — Harmithrim went south before — and we all ended up cut off from the Sea entirely. We couldn't really be mad about it because capturing Melkor and stomping down his servants was desperately needed, and we anticipated some collateral geography changes.

Aros: So their direct intervention wrecking Beleriand wasn't a surprise. Even if they'd moved during the Siege, I think most of the damage would have been up near Thangorodrim, but I'm sure it would have rearranged the drainage again.

[w-k-smith]

Do Not Break Faith with Us Who Die, or We Shall Not Sleep

So I heard through the grapevine Din is being haunted by the darksaber or something?

Well here’s my contribution.

I wrote and edited it all in one sitting...somehow. I actually really like it! And I hate everything I write!

Bonus points if you know what inspired the title. (The poem ���In Flanders Fields.”)

Summary: Din is possessed by the manda of slain warriors that resides in the darksaber. He is unable to distinguish between enemy and ally. The only way to heal him is to figure out how put Mandalore’s unquiet dead at peace.

Rating: T (violence, blood, possession, loss of bodily control)

Words: 1091

Half of the planet Mandalore is barren. Some people live there, in settlements and cities that have been dragged from more fertile places, but nothing grows from the grit and bedrock. Half of the planet Mandalore is a battle scar. Some of the bombs that tore away the soil and stripped the forests were dropped centuries ago. Some, less than 20 years. To most ears, silence sits where there were once marching songs and explosions.

But Din hears them. They started as whispers when he held the darksaber, now it is a constant noise, and he can’t unwrap his fingers from the hilt, and the black blade overshadows any light around it. An outside force drags Din through Keldabe. He can’t stop. He has tried. When he has channeled all his will toward regaining power over his own body, the noise has quieted. His own thoughts become clear.

He crossed paths with Bo-Katan. She sensed the danger, but was wrong about the source.

“Why are you moving like that? Are you injured? Talk to me, Mand’alor,” she said, and for once she didn’t say it sarcastically.

“Bo...” Din rasped. Forming the words he wanted to say was like pushing a starship up a hill. “Run.”

And then he slid beneath the darkness, and and the darkness slashed at her with the darksaber. Bo-Katan deflected with her vambraces just in time, She couldn’t stop Din’s free hand from grabbing her by the throat, and tossing her against the wall with the strength of more than one warrior. With the strength of dead armies who don’t know their battles are over.

Din can’t let go of the darksaber.

He knows it has nothing to do with the boxy hilt, which is just a convenient container for the energy that really makes up the weapon. He is haunted, possessed by the souls inside the blade, the manda of all the Mandalorians who died violent deaths on this planet since the darksaber became the symbol of its leadership.

“You’re our Mand’alor,” the ghosts tell him. “Direct our campaigns. Find our enemies. Lead our souls.”

Din tries to tell them he can’t, that this isn’t what Mandalore needs, that they have more undying passion and fury than one human’s body can contain. He struggles to unclench his fingers, to relax a single muscle. But his role here is not a choice.

“Rally our soldiers. Stoke our glory. Ready the warships. Sharpen the knives. Prepare our children. Avenge our dead.“

Din hears distant sounds through the cacophony. Their meaning doesn’t register until a few seconds after he hears them. He is a passenger in his own body. His feet don’t touch the ground. Blood as warm as life flows out of his nose and turns cold on his lips. When he speaks, he doesn’t know what he’s saying, but he feels his throat getting raw.

“Dank ferrik, what happened to the Mand’alor?”

“Be careful! He’s stronger than he used to be! Don’t try to face him one-on-one!”

“Where is he bleeding from?”

“He doesn’t know you, he doesn’t know who you are. I don’t think he even realizes he’s hurting anyone. Help me pin him down or stay out of the way!”

“How long has he been like this, Bo-Katan?”

“Too long, obviously. Can your Jedi magic help him or what? It’s a yes or no, Skywalker.”

“I can try. But just because this came from a lightsaber doesn’t mean it’s not Mandalorian in origin.”

Weight. Struggle. Trying to rise from the ground only for something to pound him back down again. He can’t let go of the darksaber.

“Bo, and Mr. Skywalker, sir, he’s been saying some things, and though he sounds like roaring rancor when he does -”

“Not now, Koska!”

“Please, let her speak.”

“Haven’t you heard what he’s saying, Bo? He shouted something about advancing on Cin Cerar by daybreak. Cin Cerar was an old colony that was burned to the ground 200 years ago! And then he said, follow Tarre Vizla, and then avenge the Purge. Some of the bloodiest moments in our people’s history!”

“I understand what you’re saying, but how the hell does that tell us what to do?”

Din’s eyes throb as they roll back in his skull. The world becomes darkness. The souls in the darksaber get even louder.

“The darksaber was made by a Jedi who was long, long before my time, or even my masters’. And it has been wielded mostly by Mandalorians. But it is still a lightsaber. The Force flows through it, as the Force flows through all living things, and things that were once living. Does your culture have ghost stories, Bo-Katan?”

“I - not exactly...”

“Or anything that would explain why your dead would be so restless?”

“Good grief, Skywalker, we’re Mandalorians! Do you think we give up a fight just because we’re dead? What it takes to make an army of Mandalorians -“

Din’s body bucks, and his spine folds in half. No matter what the darksaber wants him to do, he can’t go on like this. The last part of him that is still him thinks of his son. If Din dies, he knows Luke will take care of him, do his best to protect him, though the idea of never seeing his child again hurts Din’s heart in a way his own impending death doesn’t. Mandalore itself will be in Bo-Katan’s irritable but capable hands. If he has to let go to keep others safe, he can let go.

And then he hears something that lets him know he’s truly lost touch with reality. Bo-Katan is close, like she’s kneeling next to his head, and she’s singing.

Her voice is low and hesitant, but he recognizes the song. It’s a lullaby. A Mandalorian lullaby, half Mando’a and half Basic, meant to soothe an upset child back to sleep.

You can rest, verd’ika, because the battle is won. You can dream, verd’ika, because your enemies have gone away.

Verd’ika. Little soldier. A soft but ironic song, meant for a child too small to hold a blaster, much less go to war.

Koska is the first to join Bo-Katan. Then a few more pick up the song, the other Night Owls, their voices echoing in their helmets. Soon Din hears a whole crowd of people singing. Even Luke picks up the song, stumbling a little over the Mando’a pronunciation. When they reach the end, they start right over, in an unyielding loop.

Soon, the voices are louder than the souls in the darksaber. Din’s strained muscles relax. He can see out his visor again, and he’s looking up at the twilight sky over Keldabe, Concordia waxing overhead. He gasps, and stops speaking, his strained vocal chords finally getting a break. His hand trembles, then springs open all at once. The hilt of the darksaber falls away. He coughs and shakes, like his body is trying to clear itself of what invaded it. But he’s free.

The music stops.

“Din,” Bo-Katan says. Not “Mand’alor.” If he didn’t know better, he’d guess her concern was genuine. “Give us a sign, Din. Anything. You don’t even have to speak. Just let us know you’re you.”

“My son?” he croaks. It hurts to talk.

“He’s with Axe, safe and far, far away from here. He didn’t see a thing.”

“Did I - is anyone hurt?”

“A few nasty bruises here and there and one broken wrist, but that’s all. Give us a little credit.”

“Oh.” He breathes in and out, relishing the control. “I have to -”

The gentlest pressure on his shoulder. “No,” Bo-Katan says. “Lie back. You’ve done your part. Rest. You’re no use dead, Mand’alor.”

He wants to sit up, to apologize, to try to fix what damage he’s done. But the urge to collapse into himself is too great. He slips into darkness, but it’s comforting darkness, full of the dreams you dream when your enemy has gone away.

[19red]

hello, this is me trying to strong-arm my brain into stopping the constant tweaking and re-tweaking of the same stinking 3k so I can write on and get to the good parts of this project namely p and j having all the sex thank you very much

+

The day after Patrick and Jonny bang a chick together, Patrick wakes to the weight of an alien limb squashing his bladder. The alien limb belongs to a furnace-hot, tentacular mass plastered all along his back. The mass smells oddly familiar, kind of citrusy—as if it stole Jonny’s body wash.

Patrick squints his eyes open. A blade of sunlight filters through the half-drawn curtains and stabs him in the face. Right under the window, Jonny’s suitcase dribbles clothes onto the floor.

It shouldn’t be hard to put two and two together, but Patrick’s really dumb first thing in the morning. Plus, he needs to pee. Bad. Which is pretty distracting.

He paws at the tentacle swung over his waist, fingers catching on—a beaded string. Did the alien mass steal Jonny’s bracelet too? Patrick struggles to lift his head. He wants to see.

The alien mass stole Jonny’s whole arm. What--?

A growl spills in a damp, ticklish huff into the crook of Patrick’s neck as the mass coils itself closer. Something hard pokes Patrick’s ass. His nostrils fill with a waft of scent his hindbrain understands as so viscerally Jonny that recognition smacks him dizzy.

The mass is Jonny. Last night, he and Patrick banged a chick together. That thing wedged between them, growing firmer by the second? That thing is Jonny’s—

Patrick’s heart plummets straight to his dick.

It’s okay. It’s whatever. Patrick isn’t gonna freak over a physiological response. Bodies are also really dumb first thing in the morning.

“Jonny,” he says, wriggling to catch Jonny’s attention. Jonny has always been his go-to guy in a crisis. Except, in this instance, he is also the crisis itself. Jonny’s hips buck forward once, twice—Patrick stops breathing for the handful of seconds it takes Jonny’s sleep-drenched, horny-ass body to lose interest and stutter back into relative stillness.

Fuck, Patrick thinks. Visions of impending awkwardness swarm his brain. If Jonny were to wake up right now, full-mast boner pressed to Patrick’s ass, and discover the tent pitched in the front of Patrick’s sweats, he might rush to conclusions. Their ability to make direct eye contact would definitely endure permanent damage. They’d have to restructure their life with the aim of reciprocal avoidance. Patrick would have to request a trade. Jonny would probably drop out of the NHL. He’d forsake hockey and society at large and end up trampled to death by a giant moose while he hides from Patrick in the Canadian wilderness.

Fuck, Patrick thinks again. When a whole minute drips away and Jonny doesn’t stir, he thanks the hockey gods. With very little, very slow movements, he dislodges the arm pinning him to the mattress. By the times he’s free, the light slanting in from the window changed the angle of its assault to his pupils. Still careful, he slides the covers off himself, sits up, swings his legs off the bed. His feet land on the floor just as a variation in the pattern of Jonny’s breathing alerts him it’s all been for nothing. Jonny is awake. Or, like, as close to awake as Jonny manages to be coffee-free and before noon. Which is not much, thank fuck.

“It’s early,” Patrick reassures him. Jonny gets real pissy when he doesn’t get his full eight hours. Patrick doesn’t want to get stuck with Captain seriously cranky and his legitimately lethal death glare on the flight back to Chicago.

Jonny hums, lids fluttering open and back closed immediately, dark lashes kissing the top of his cheekbones. Patrick expects him to just roll over and sink back deep into snoring, the man is easy like that, instead he plumps an arm over the empty space next to him and mumbles, “Come back,” so low Patrick feels the vibration of it in his belly more than with his ears. Jonny must think Patrick’s some chick, maybe his ex or the one from last night.

“Dude,” Patrick chuckles to clear his throat. This is prime chirp material. Jonny’s such a clingy loser. “It’s just me.”

The side of Jonny’s mouth that isn’t squashed into the pillow tugs up in a smile, then his eyes tremble open, searching the space in front of them for Patrick’s, as if he knew where to find him, as if he weren’t surprised. It’s a bit like being punched but with weird, devastating gentleness. Patrick’s left breathless and dazed, a slow ache spreading below his ribs. “Sorry,” he says, legs moving on their own accord. “Sorry, gotta piss.”

Jonny flops onto his belly and sprawls across Patrick’s side of the bed. With a sigh, he hugs Patrick’s pillow to his face. “Be quick,” he whines—or maybe not. It’s muffled and Patrick is already halfway out the door so he can’t be sure. It doesn’t really matter.

***

“Where’s Tazer?” Duncs asks in lieu of good morning when Patrick shows up at breakfast almost two hours later, no captain in tow.

Patrick chomps on a hunk of strawberry toast and shrugs. Contrary to popular belief, no clause in his contract bids him constant awareness of Jonny’s whereabouts.

Duncs squints, clearly feeling entitled to a degree of eloquence involving efforts of the verbal variety and resenting their lack.

“Don’t tell me he’s sick,” Shawzy says.

The legs of Stromer’s chair screech against the floor as he scoots away from Patrick. He ends up almost in Brinsky’s lap. “It better not be catching.”

“Oh my god,” Patrick puffs the words fat with annoyance. “He’s sleeping. I mean, I guess he...” He is for sure. No chance Jonny is still waiting. If Patrick barged back into his room right now, Jonny would laugh, would tell him to stop trying to make things weird. Patrick knows this rationally. Yet some spiked grip squeezes his insides with the same vicious strength of an anaconda trying to crush itself a snack.

People can’t die from upset conscience, can they? Especially not if the upset is unquestionably misplaced, right?

“I mean,” Patrick snaps after a second, “the fuck do I know.”

Duncs eyebrows shoot halfway across his forehead.

“Whoa,” Stromer gasps.

“Wait,” Shawzy says. “Are mum and dad fighting?”

Patrick grinds his molars. Everyone’s so fucking pressed. It’s not like Jonny is a regular at team breakfasts. In fact, unless attendance is mandatory, Jonny prefers to limit the number of people upon which he inflicts the ghastly spectacle of his slow de-zombification to a minimum.

Patrick casts his mind back to the last time the two of them didn’t resort to room-service during game trips. He dredges up both no recollection of that happening in years and the stomach-sinking hunch that maybe this is weird. Maybe he should have gone back. Maybe that would have been the normal thing to do.  

“Shut up,” he says, to the voice in his head and everyone else. He grabs a pitcher of coffee and fills his cup until it brims. “Don’t talk to me. I’m waking up.”

“He’s rubbed off on you,” Shawzy appraises.

He’s more right than he’d probably care to know—nope. Patrick yanks his thoughts away before they can trip over that precipice and splat into the phantom embrace of Jonny’s body and its heft, its warmth, its neediness.

“Shut up,” he repeats, and with big emphatic motions designed to put a period on the conversation, he whips out his phone. He trusts the mindless scrolling will work its time-warping, mind-numbing magic and when he’ll look up next, all the weird will have been purged from this day.

Between sips of coffee, he pores through the stats for the last game, skims the emails in his inbox and rage-reads a review trashing the new Twilight book. He considers sending the link to Erica so he can vent about the snobby assholes who think they’re smarter than everyone else just because all the books they read are boring as fuck, but she’s probably at work already. He scrolls through his contacts. The one of the chick from last night jumps out. Her name’s Chelsea, which is pretty lucky. She was hot, Patrick recons, and thinking that feels normal. Feels safe. Feels like something Patrick would love to feel more of, thank you very much.

Hi, he types, riding the spur of the moment. This is Patrick from last night.

Stupid and risky, his inner Jonny warns. Never give your number to one night stands. Patrick ignores him and for the sake of clarity and glory, adds, The one who made you see god with his tongue.

“Look who’s joining us,” Shawzy’s voice announces just then.

Patrick’s gaze springs up, landing squarely across Jonny’s chest. Patrick knows it’s Jonny’s chest even though he doesn’t let his gaze climb up to the face attached to it for confirmation. The chest is sailing across the breakfast hall toward Patrick. Well, not toward Patrick specifically. Toward Patrick and the rest of the guys.

“Morning,” Jonny mumbles, dropping his scrambled eggs on the table and his ass between Seabs and Crow.

Patrick’s phone chimes.

well hello patrick 😜

“Slept well?” Shawzy probes, feigning innocence. Patrick’s hackles rise.

“I guess,” Jonny says.

Patrick allows himself another quick glance. Jonny looks good, which means like his usual self, which means nothing like a dude who went through the transformative experience of witnessing his best friend o-face.  It’s kind of annoying, actually. Patrick’s nerves are all fried. He’s half-convinced in the right light anybody could look at him and simply—tell. Patrick Kane got off with another dude in the room and enjoyed it. For a blink he’s fourteen and trying to fight a guy almost double his size who called him a cocksucker, that slammed him against the boards and told him not to bother standing up since everyone knows he does his best work from his knees.

His phone chimes again.

“Tell me the truth.”

totally hit me up again next time ur back here

“What?”

Patrick’s heart rate spikes. Would Jonny even be up for it?

Won’t be for the rest of the season :(, he types.

Maybe things feel weird because threeways are a novelty, maybe they just have to work up an immunity. People have threeways all the time and afterward their lives go on undisrupted. But if you’re ever in Chicago… his fingers are so clammy they smudge the screen when he hits send. He reaches for his cup.

“Did you keep our Kaner up all night?”

Patrick’s head jerks up.

“What?” Jonny says, flat.

For the first time since Patrick sneaked out on him, they make direct eye contact.

Shawzy drones on in the background, “Saw you trying to score that hot--”

It last precisely long enough for a sip of coffee to get its lanes mixed as it plunges down Patrick’s throat and somehow u-turn its way out of his body through the nostrils.

Patrick’s lungs try their best to turn inside out.

“Dude,” Shawzy says.

Stromer slaps Patrick’s back a couple of times, hard.

Duncs throws a handful of paper napkins in his general direction and winces in open disgust as Patrick snatches one mid-air and uses it to dab at the liquid leaking out of him. “Gross.”

“I’m fine, thank you,” Patrick informs them tartly between fits of coughing. Some treacherous asshole on his right is fucking cackling. He sweeps the table with an encompassing glare and catches Jonny’s eyes again, all dark with concern. The back of Patrick’s neck prickles with embarrassment. “I’m fine,” he repeats, steadier, and Jonny looks away so Patrick does too, hurriedly withdrawing like from the touch of something scalding.

He zeros in on Chelsea’s new message.

might fly in for a couple of weeks around christmas actually

Patrick latches on to the conversation, blocking out his surroundings, trying his hardest to look busy. Fuck everyone and Jonny too.

We could catch up then if you have time ;)

totally 👅🔥🍆🔥, she texts. And after a moment, say hi to porn dick from me btw

Who?

🙄

Patrick bristles. For some reason, the thought of this random stranger sitting around with her head full of pictures of Jonny’s dick makes him hitch. His chest riots with some misguided protective instinct. Jonny would be insufferably smug if he knew, no doubt about it. It’s not that big.

it is! 100% porn worthy

You don’t know what you’re talking about

???

I’m just saying, are chicks even into that? he writes, just to be an asshole but also because he’s pretty sure chicks hate porn. It’s supposed to be a feminism thing. Erica once made him a whole speech about it or whatever.

big dicks? They are

Haha

their also into porn btw this aint the middle ages AND they have way better taste in it then men

Can you prove it? he asks, hoping it sounds flirty and not confrontational. He wants this chick to bang him again but not over the head with a blunt instrument.

maybe if u stop trying to outdick ur bf with ur personality ill send you some recs

“Who are you texting?”

Patrick elbows his cup off the table and scrambles to catch it before it crashes against the floor. “Fuck,” he mutters, shaking his coffee-soaked hand.

Jonny laughs and at the sound, Patrick’s heart stumbles, then sprints up his throat. “You’re a mess,” Jonny says. He stole Stromer chair.

“Yeah, no, fuck off.”

Stromer is nowhere to be found. He and the rest of the guys must have migrated to the lobby. Patrick picks up the phone from where he abandoned it to make the save and shoves it deep into his pocket just as it pings.

Jonny quirks an eyebrow. He’s smiling.

It feels like Patrick trudged around all morning with a lead rib-cage before the universe caught the glitch. The sudden slack from gravity makes him giddy.  “Don’t be nosy.”

“I’m not!” Jonny protests, all put upon outrage. He flicks Patrick on the hand. “Just saying, team’s gonna suffer if you sprain a thumb.”

A laugh bubbles up Patrick’s chest, loud and easy, and just a little embarrassing.

For a moment, Jonny looks impossibly pleased but then he catches himself. “Everything alright, yeah?” he asks, turning bashful. His eyes drift to the small heap of crumbs he’s sweeping together with his pinkie.

Patrick nudges his thumb against the back of Jonny’s hand. “Yeah. You?”

Jonny’s lips curl up at the corners. “Of course,” he says, looking up, gaze dark and soft.

Of course, of course, of course. Jonny would never let anything happen to them. Patrick stomach flutters. “Okay,” he smiles, dimples out, and Jonny beams back. Time goes fuzzy as they stare at each other in silence—until the ping of an incoming text makes them both startle.

“Again?” Jonny bitches. A moment later, his forehead creases and he puts his serious face on, “Everything okay with your sisters?”

“Yeah, no. It’s not--” Jonny’s eyes flicks to Patrick’s mouth. Patrick hadn’t realized he’d been chewing on his bottom lip. He stops and it tingles, his own breath turning chilly enough to sting as it laps over the bite. “Just-- the chick from last night,” Patrick’s tongue says forgoing any input from his brain. It’s fine. It’s whatever.

“Oh,” Jonny says.

The world keeps rolling. Unfortunately, so does Patrick’s tongue, “Yeah. She’s cool. She was fun.”

“She was okay.”

Patrick can’t believe the understatement. “Okay? Just that? You’ve got some tough standards, man. She was--” as he searches for the right adjective, it suddenly hits him that Jonny has more experience, at least when it comes to threeways. It’s fucking unfair, but entirely possible, the mind-blowingest sex of Patrick’s life would barely chart as okay for Jonny. While he was dating Lindsay, the two of them got up to some kinky shit, Patrick’s pretty sure. Not that he spent any time thinking about it. He licks his lips. “It was hot, right?”

Jonny scoffs. What an asshole.

“Fuck you.”

“It was hot,” he grants. His cheeks are turning pink. He means it.

It feels like scoring the game-winner in the Stanley Cup final. The rush of triumph makes him cocky. “Hotter than the one you had with Lindsay?”

Jonny scoffs again, to Patrick infinite delight. “It was!” Patrick surmises.

“Lindsay’s hotter than her.”

“No way,” he is so offended on Chelsea’s behalf, he barely registers the deflection. Lindsay dumped Jonny. No matter how she looks, her insides must be rotten. Patrick hates that Jonnys is still hung up on her. He kicks Jonny’s foot to make sure he has his attention. “Maybe we should try again. Chelsea’s coming to Chicago around Christmas.”

“Is she?” Jonny kicks him back. “You two move fast.”

“She’s got family there, I think.”

“Sure,” he sounds skeptical. He admitted it was hot, why wouldn't he want a rematch? He and Patrick and some hot chick, she doesn’t even have to be Chelsea, she can be whoever. Small and blonde, like Jonny likes.

“Or we could find someone else,” Patrick says, growing more committed to the idea each second it lives in his brain. “Just go out and see what happens.”

“You think that’s smart?”

Patrick rolls his eyes. “I think you’re boring.” He goes in for the kill, “Captain serious.”

“Fuck you.”

“I’d even let you pick, I don’t care.”

“Starting to sound a bit desperate there, Kaner,” Jonny flashes his most punchable smirk, the one that’s a little lopsided and always makes Patrick squirm.

Patrick starts a mental list of ways to wipe it off his face. Maybe if he shoved two fingers up Jonny’s nose… “What?” he asks, kind of distracted.

“I’m just saying, If you want to see me naked that bad, you only have to--”

“Fuck you,” Patrick sputters. “I was being generous. Bros before hoes or whatever.”

“I’m telling Erica you said that.”

The thought is terrifying. “Don’t,” Patrick shrieks, so loud people in their proximity stop mid-munching to give them the stink eye.

It’s their cue to clear off, a pretty timely one, considering they barely make it on the bus. They’d probably be yelled at, if they weren’t Kane and Toews.

Jonny saunters past Colliton’s glare and flops down next to Seabs. Patrick takes the two seats right behind, stretching out until he’s almost horizontal.

He checks his phone. Chelsea sent him a text and a link. The texts says, one of them looks a bit like your boy. you’re welcome. The link-- Patrick slaps the phone face down on his thigh.

“You okay there, Kaner?” Jonny asks, glancing over his shoulder.

Patrick feels his ears burn redder than the Hawks home jersey. “Yeah, no. Real peachy.”

[magalidragon]

Tiny Dancer | a drabble set in the “It Is What It Is” universe

a/n: For @stilesssolo I said I would do a drabble of smol!Jon in ballet tights. 🤣 Here it is! Also I just threw his moodboard together in like ten min which is why it is trash.  But then again, so am I, just absolute Jonerys trash, lol.

————————

Dany grunted, separating back the heel of her ballet shoe from the fabric, reaching down with her knife and gouging out the shank of the shoe, releasing a triumphant cry when she yanked it out, holding it into the air like a prize. She dropped it to the floor with the rest of the detritus that accumulated when she prepped her shoes. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw her boyfriend frowning at her, over top of his book, his glasses glinting in the light coming off the fireplace in front of them both. “What?” she asked, chuckling, not stopping her destruction of the shoes.

“Aren’t those things rather expensive?”

“About 200 dragons a pair, yes.”

“And you just…destroy them?”

She folded the shoe backwards and forwards, easily moldable now that the shank was out. Once she had it the way she wanted, she picked up her darning needle and threaded it, beginning to work on the ribbons. She shrugged. “It’s a disposable product at the end of the day, these need to fit me perfectly.” She wiggled her toes out, so he could see the broken nails, bruises, and calluses that covered her small, yet strong, feet. It used to upset her, how she couldn’t wear sandals or get cute pedicures the way all her friends could, but she was proud of her feet. They showed how good at her profession she was, how athletic and strong. They were what kept her going. “Because they protect these, ultimately.”

“I guess I won’t understand.” He set his book aside, crawling onto the floor to sit with her. One of her cats, Drogon, was fussing with an end of her ribbons, batting it back and forth in his paws. Ghost eyed them all and she kept watch on him out of the corner of her other eye, lest he run off with one of her shoes again. He’d taken a liking to them.

Although she’d discovered one day that his chewing on one of the shoes had actually softened the toe box a little. It wasn’t a habit she wanted him to get into though. “You didn’t see your mom doing this?”

Jon laughed. “Yeah, I did, sometimes helped her. She would give me the shoes and have me bang them on the floor with her.”

“That’s actually genius.” Little boys were all about that loud noise and screaming. Lyanna getting a small tiny Jon to beat the shit out of her pointe shoes was actually a nice sight. She pursed her lips up, smacking a kiss to his cheek. “Baby Jon.”

His palm came over, pressing to the very tiny bump on her waist, his face soft and goofy. “Baby Dany.”

Her hand covered his, squeezing lightly. “Baby You and Me,” she said, accepting his kiss. He patted her belly gently and moved, getting to his feet. She glanced down at her bump, which had not deterred her from dancing; if anything she wanted to keep it up, to stay in shape throughout the pregnancy. It had been quite a shock, discovering that after only a year they were expecting, but it was only a matter of time.

The bell at the front of the house, a small cottage they’d located on the outskirts of Winterfell, rang—more like gonged—Ghost released his high-pitched whine, closest thing he could do as a mute. He jumped up and bounded after Jon to the door, while she remained on the floor, stretching out her legs to either side into a semi-splitz and forward bend, figuring maybe she’d prep for a workout later and get some stretching in.

At the front door there was a happy laugh, the sound of bags rustling, and a moment later Jon entered, smiling wide. “Mom came to visit.”

“I actually come bearing gifts.” Lyanna, who wasn’t quite as petite as her, nimbly stepped around the various objects on the floor, and held aloft two gift bags. She glanced at the shoes piled up that Dany had been working on, and chuckled. “Oh, I remember those days. Shoe prep. You know I used to get Jon to…”

“He told me,” she laughed, coming up and reaching for Lyanna. It was still amazing to her that this woman would be her mother-in-law one day, when she idolized her as a small girl. She poked at one of the bags, nudging into the tissue paper. “You didn’t need to bring anything.”

Lyanna patted her belly, which Dany pushed out a bit obnoxiously, since at five months she wasn’t quite as big as she’d expected to be. Doctor said itw as because she was an athlete, she might not pop until the end. “I did so have to bring something for my future grandchild. Also…” A devlish look crossed her face, her gray eyes twinkling. “I found something while cleaning out the house.”

Whatever it was, Jon was wary, his matching gray eyes narrowing. “Oh?”

“Hmm. Be a dear and get me some tea.”

“You don’t need tea, what is it?”

“Jon, get your mother some tea,” Dany chastised. He huffed, storming out of the room, throwing a censuring look over his shoulder. She stuck her tongue out at him. Once he was out of earshot, she whipped around to Lyanna. “Oh gods, what is it? What did you find?”

Lyanna grinned, hand diving into the other bag. She removed a DVD case, smirking. “Had to get this transferred from the recorded copy but it is so worth it.”

One of the things that Dany had wanted desperately to see when she’d begun dating Jon and after learning that his mother had forced him into ballet shoes when he was little, were ballet photos of him. Except, to Lyanna’s enduring disappointment in her son, when he was a teenager, Jon had gone through the house and purged it of any photo of him in ballet clothes, lest his friends or Robb might locate them and humiliate him. Lyanna was still pissed off at him for it.

“Didn’t leave me with one photo!” she raged, when Dany had asked her about it at their first dinner together. Jon hadn’t cared and calmly continued eating, saying it was for the best.

Lyanna hurried to the TV and plugged in what she needed. A moment later, the screen flickered and Dany was greeted with the greatest thing she ahd ever seen in her entire life. Except maybe the sonogram of her child. This was an exceptionally close second.

The footage was homemade, from someone’s old-fashioned camcorder, and from the front row of what she recognized was the main auditorium at the ballet academy. The curtain pulled open, the audience applauded, and then a line of little girls in pale pink leotards, tights, and tutus walked onto the stage, eagerly waving at their parents. They couldn’t be more than five. And then….teh greatest thing ever….Dany yelped, covering her mouth with her hands, tears springing to the corners of her eyes.

In both adoration, love, and because she thought she might start laughing nonstop.

A little Jon Snow, dark curls tangled on his head, in a white shirt and gray leotard tights, bringing up the rear of the line. He looked down at the camera and to her amusement, he scowled. Then he reluctantly lifted up his little hand and waved, before focusing his attention on the instructor, who Dany couldn’t see. He snapped to attention immediately and began to follow the program, little feet moving as they ran across the stage, prancing and doing plies and jumping here and there.

“Oh my gods,” she breathed, a hand on her belly and the over stilly over her mouth, watching the tiny Jon on the stage. She kept repeating it, while Lyanna giggled nonstop beside her.

“He’s so adorable! Oh, I forgot how tiny his frown was. Such a grumpy little boy I had.”

”What the bloody seven hells are you watching?!”

Lyanna paused the video, turning to glare at her son. “Your dance recital when you were five. It’s all I have of my only child doing ballet. Give your mother this much, you burned all the other pictures.”

Jon was flushed so red, Dany worried he’d stopped breathing. He closed his eyes. “Where did you find that?”

“The studio actually. I’m sure there’s more I can locate soon enough.” She picked upt he other bag, handing it to Dany, beaming. “And here’s your other gift.”

Dany giggled, almost jumping in place, so full of love and giddiness. She grabbed something soft from inside the bag and tugged it out, bursting into tears. “Fucking hormones,” she complained, wiping her eyes and holding up the little cotton onesie. She sniffed. “Oh Lyanna! It’s so sweet!”

Lyanna wiped at her own tears, hugging her tightly. “Well you’re having a little dancer.”

“A tiny dancer,” Jon read from the onesie, as Dany held it up, placing it over her belly. He chuckled. “Thanks Mom.” He pointed to the television, his image mid-leap in gray tights, intense focus on his small features frozen on the screen. “But not for that.”

“Oh hush and give your mother a kiss. I need to get back to the school.”

Dany couldn’t stop, wiping at her tears and saying thank you to Lyanna, for so many things. The onesie, the video, for producing Jon, even. They managed to get her out of the house, even with the tea Jon had made for her and put into a travel mug, like he knew she wouldn’t be long. He probably was hoping she wouldn’t stay long. He hugged her, wiping at her eyes. “Don’t cry,” he chuckled. “It’s just a silly little gift.”

She shook her head. “No, it’s everything. I just love yo so much.”

He softened, touching his forehead to hers. “I love you too.”

A few days later, at the studio, Dany finished with her workout and went over to the stereo to turn off her music, when the door opened. She glanced over to tell whomever it was she was almost done, when she saw Jon slip in. “Jon!” she exclaimed. He held two cups of coffee in his hand. She grinned, flicking off the music and rushed to him, shoes clomping on the hardwood. “You brought me tea!”

“Herbal, no caffeine.”

She flicked down the coffee collar, his writing scribbled out. <i>Baby might need this more than you.</i> She patted her belly, kissing him. “Yes, baby did need it. Thank you.”

“I have something else.” He shifted, reaching into his pocket. He pulled out an envelope, passing it over to her. “My mom isn’t always right. Contrary to her belief.”

Dany took the envelope, curious. She set the tea on the top of the piano and flicked opent he envelope, pulling out a few old photos, the glossy images spilling forth into her hands. She stared, mouth falling open, at the treasures she now held. “You didn’t destroy them!”

They were of little Jon, just like the video from the recital, only in these ones he was in a studio, very small and holding his mother’s hand, while she wore her ballet leotard and skirt, his little chubby feet and legs in tights. Another holding onto the barre. She beamed, flicking through them. They were bloody adorable. She looked up, pressing them to her heart. He smiled, sheepish. “I guess I subconsciously held onto those because I was going to fall in love with a dancer.”

She giggled. “Maybe you did.” She looked down at them again, shaking her head, still smiling. “They’re perfect. Thank you.” The photos returned to the envelope, she put them carefully into her bag, and bounced back up. “Come on, dance with me.”

Jon smirked. “I don’t dance.”

“You’re having a baby with a dancer. Guess what Jon? You dance.” She giggled. “I’ll hsow you my baby pictures of me in a tutu. I think my mother ingrained me young, just like yours.”

“Funny how that works,” he laughed. He spun her around, tugging her up to his chest, and kissed her softly. “Love you.”

“Love you too.” She took her coffee and together they clinked the lids together, before he spun her back around, dancing lazily around the studio, both of them laughing goofily.

[scribomaniac]

Something Wicca This Ways Comes Ch 11

Killian hissed as he rolled onto his back, feeling as though he’d just been hit by a freight train. Mary Margaret was here, his mind informed him as he blinked slowly and tried to right himself. Mary Margaret was here and she used magic. How was that possible?

Wait. His heart stopped. Did she say daughter? Pushing himself up off the ground faster than was advisable, Killian got to his feet just as Mary Margaret removed one of the crystals keeping Emma in her cage.

“Stop!” Liam shouted, his hands flying up to freeze the room.

Nothing happened. Mary Margaret opened her arms, a wide, watery smile on her face as she stepped forward to embrace Emma. Killian couldn’t see Emma’s face, but he saw the half step she took away from the older woman, saw how tense her shoulders were. Before Killian could move forward, before Mary Margaret’s arms closed around Emma, and before Liam could try to blow something up this time, Emma shimmered away.

“No!” Mary Margaret cried, her hands clawing at the air where Emma once stood. “No, no, no! I am not letting this happen again.” Setting her eyes on them, their hazel color burning with determination, she barked, “Scrying crystals—now!”

“I’ll try to follow her,” Tink—how long had Tink been there, standing in the corner?—said before orbing out of the attic.

“What the bloody hell is going on?” Liam asked what Killian was thinking. Their bodies were bruised, their attic trashed, Mary Margaret was rummaging through their storage like a mad-woman, and their white-lighter had just gone to find Emma with no explanation as to why. Catching Will’s eyes behind Liam’s back, Killian found his younger brother just as at a loss as he.

And of course, because things weren’t getting hectic enough around here, Nolan ran through the door. “Is she here?” He asked, wildly out of breath, as if he’d just ran a marathon. He looked at his wife who was still busy ransacking their home, and then to them. “Is she?”

Running a hand down his face, Liam growled, “I’ll ask this once more—what the bloody hell is going on?”

“I’ll explain later,” Mary Margaret snapped. “But first where are your scrying crystals. We need to act fast before she gets too far.”

Liam threw his hands up in the air and turned to pace. Killian looked at Will, who shrugged, obviously at a loss.

Shaking his head, Killian opened the chest full of their maps and crystals, “It’s all over here, love.”

Mary Margaret lunged for him. She just barely missed knocking into him as she knelt beside the chest and pulled out a map of the city and the first crystal she could get her hands on.

Looking up at Nolan, Killian found himself asking, “Did you know your wife was a witch, then?”

David swallowed. His breaths were still shallow and there was a fine sheen of sweet on his skin. Still, his eyes were clear and sharp as they bore into Killian’s. He nodded.

“Why didn’t you tell us?” Will asked.

“I gave up magic a long time ago,” Mary Margaret muttered, her eyes still steadfast on the map before her.

Will rolled his eyes, “Obviously.”

“David,” Liam snapped, his voice hard and firm. Killian had to stop himself from flinching. “What is going on?���

Shaking his head, the detective huffed out a laugh, “A lot.”

“Dammit,” Mary Margaret swore. She stood up and threw the scrying items back into the chest. “I can’t find her.”

“It’s okay, Snow,” David quickly pulled his wife into his arms and kissed the top of her head. “Tink’s on her trail right now .We won’t lose her again.” David sighed, then looked back towards the brothers. “There’s a lot we have to tell you. So,” he looked around and frowned, “is there anywhere we can sit?”

After moving their party down to the first floor, with Will scurrying off into the kitchen under the pretense of making tea, Killian and Liam found themselves sitting across from the Nolan’s in awkward silence. “Alright, we’re all comfortable now.” Liam leaned forward, staring David straight in the eye, “Start talking.”

David winced and looked at Mary Margaret. They were silent for a moment, as if having a private conversation that only they could hear, and then Mary Margaret spoke up, “I used to be a witch.” She blinked, then broke her gaze with David and turned it onto them. “I mean, I guess I still am, but I used to be a practicing one, when I was younger. Before I met David.”

Will returned carrying a tray of mugs. When he handed one to Mary Margaret she nodded her thanks and took a sip. “I was like you boys. I brewed potions, wrote spells,” she paused to wet her lips, “I vanquished demons. And then one day,” she took in a deep, shaky breath, “I killed an Innocent.”

“It was an accident,” David immediately defended, tucking Mary Margaret away under his arm. “The guy, he knew what he was doing. He knew that trap was there and still he—”

Mary Margaret placed a hand on David’s knee, silencing him. “I was trying to hunt down the Seer.”

“The Seer?” Will asked, his brows furrowed. “We haven’t heard of her—she’s not in the book, right?”

Both Liam and Killian shook their heads.

“No, no, she wouldn’t be. She’s too smart for that. The Seer’s been around for a long time—longer than almost any other demon—and she gets others to do her dirty work for her.”

Killian frowned, “So the human, was he one of her pawns?”

Mary Margaret shivered and closed her eyes, “No, worse. He was her lover.”

“Wait,” Will asked, his brows soaring up to meet his hair line. “What?”

“His name was Daniel,” Mary Margaret shook her head, as if she herself was at a loss. “And they were in love.”

“But demons can’t love,” Killian stated. He knew they couldn’t. Everyone said so. The book, Tink—hell, even some demons themselves had said it.

Mary Margaret nodded, “That’s what I thought too, but,” she covered her face with her hands and took a deep breath, “I guess there’s an exception to every rule.”

 l Emma l 

 Run, run, run, run, Emma’s mind kept chanting; a steady beat in the back of her head. But run where? She couldn’t go back to the Underworld. By now the Source must have known she’d been compromised and failure was unacceptable. She couldn’t go to her apartment—demons were surely crawling all over the place by now. She thought about go back to the manor, back to Killian, but knew that was out of the question too. His eyes . . . god, they had looked so hollow during their conversation. Her heart couldn’t stand the thought of going back to him and having to watch his heart break in real time.

And then there was also that woman. She was so small and gentle looking, with her jet black hair and kind, round face. There had been something familiar about her, something that had made Emma yearn for a home and a family that she knew never existed.

But then the woman had called Emma her daughter, had walked towards her with open arms as if she were about to embrace her, and Emma couldn’t stand it.

It was bullshit. It had to be. Her parents had abandoned her as a baby. So either that woman was lying or was a worse monster than the Source himself.

Shimmering to a stop, Emma found herself outside in a park and fell into a nearby bench. She needed a game plan. She couldn’t just keep shimmering away for the rest of her life. So she’d failed at killing the Charmed Ones—a so had a hundred other demons! She could—she could always go back and try again. Try a more direct approach this time, like shimmering into their rooms at night and cutting their throats. Or she could poison their food. Or maybe she could lock them in their house and burn it to the ground!

Or, or, but no, she realized with a strange sense of sobriety. Of course, Emma could do all those things, but she found that she really didn’t want to. She didn’t want to kill Killian or his brothers. She didn’t want to keep hurting people, to or lying. She definitely didn’t want to be the Source’s bodyguard anymore. Regardless of whether or not he’d even take her back.

So where did that leave her?

And why did she feel so crappy all of a sudden? Her muscles ached as if she was fighting off a cold, but that wasn’t possible. One of the perks of all the powers the Source had given her was that she never got sick. Wrapping her arms around herself, realizing belatedly that she was shivering, Emma tried to remember the last time she’d felt this way.

“You were eight,” a voice answered from the darkness.

Emma was on her feet, looking into the dark of the park where the lights didn’t reach. “Who’s there?” She barked, ready to defend herself. There was a pounding in her head now. It was in the back of her skull and growing louder and fiercer with every second.

Out from the shadows walked Tink, her pale skin glowing ethereally against the night. “You were eight years old the last time you felt like this,” she said again. “It was the last day of spring, the last time I could sense your presence. And the last time you could feel your humanity.”

“What?” Emma sucked in a sharp breath as the pounding in her head shifting the front of her skull. It felt like someone was trying to pry her open with an ice pick.

“That will pass, soon enough,” Tink said calmly. “Once your body purges the last of its demonic energy.”

Clutching her head now, Emma shook her head. “No—no, you’re doing this. You stupid white-lighter!” It had to be her. Emma had no idea how the semi-dead woman could be causing her pain, but that had to be it. “You’ll regret this!” Pulling on that fire that she always relied on, Emma felt her magic burn its way up to the surface, ready to do her bidding.

Instead of a golden-red fire, though, what erupted from Emma’s body was a blinding white light. Car alarms blared, the park lights sparked and then died, and the force of it propelled Emma back, slamming her body against the park bench.

Emma gasped, and the light disappeared, leaving her and the white-lighter in near darkness with only the light of the moon to illuminate their surroundings.

Chest heaving, Emma looked around wildly, trying to figure out what happened. “What—what the hell was that?”

Tink took a step closer, then another, and another after that. “That,” she said slowly, her green eyes never leaving Emma, “was your power. Your real power.”

Shaking her head, Emma tried to shimmer away but found that she couldn’t. Her body felt heavy, in fact, as if a new weight as holding her down. “No, that’s not—”

“Emma,” Tink took a seat beside her but thankfully didn’t reach out, “I want to help you. Will you let me?”

Mouth agape, Emma found herself nodding in acceptance.

 l Killian l

 All five of them—Mary Margaret, the Charmed Ones, even David—were up in the attic, each with a map in front of them and a crystal in their hands. All of them were searching with the intent to find Emma. Although really, only four of them had a chance. What, exactly, David was playing at Killian wasn’t entirely sure. He supposed the man wanted to be helpful even in a situation where he could never be.

“Maybe Tink found her,” Will said, his neck still craned to keep eye on his map. “Maybe they’re on their way back right now.”

Liam hummed dismissively. Killian had to wonder if the eldest Jones brother was even really trying. He’d listened silently to Mary Margaret’s story, his face stony and unreadable, but Killian had a feeling the man was unimpressed by it all.

Perhaps if they could just find Emma, then all of this would get properly sorted. If not for his sake, then at least for David and Mary Margaret’s. Killian looked up to watch the couple. He saw the way David’s jaw ticked with stress, how Mary Margret’s crystal shook in her hands. Firestarter or not, Emma was their child. After everything they’d been through, they deserved to find each other again.

Perhaps they’d even find their happy ending.

“Killian,” Will cracked his neck, “could you toss me a bottle of water.”

Nodding, Killian reached for a bottle from the box of supplies they’d gathered before hunkering up in the attic. As soon as his fingers curled around the plastic, he gasped and his eyes shuttered closed.

A demon stepped out of a wall of fire, locking eyes on the figures in the room. He had short brown hair and a mean glint to his eyes. His focus narrowed on Mary Margaret and with a throw of his arm, he sent an energy ball straight into her chest. Her body flew across the room, and when she hit the ground her eyes were open and lifeless. Then, before Liam could even raise his hands, the demon sent a ball of fire straight at David, killing him instantly.

Eyes snapping open, Killian yelled, “Incoming!” just as a pillar of fire appeared before them.

From the fire stepped out the male demon Killian had seen in his vision. The demon’s mouth curled into a Cheshire smile and he locked his gaze onto Mary Margaret. Know what was to come next, Killian lunged across the room and tackled the dark haired woman to the ground. Killian heard a crash behind them and then splinters of wood falling onto his back.

“Will!” He shouted, keeping both himself and Mary Margaret close to the ground, “Get Nolan out of here!”

The sound of Will’s orb was a relief to Killian’s ears. “Stay here,” he told Mary Margaret before standing to help his brother.

Liam blew the demon up again and again, but it wasn’t working, merely slowing him down. The demon’s smile widened, showing off his shockingly white teeth, as he laughed. “Oh,” he said, “This is gonna be fun.”

Will orbed back in, ready to help, but the movement caught the demon’s eye and quick as an asp, sent a wave of black and orange particles towards the youngest Jones brother. The swarm surrounded him, attacking his clothes and skin like a plague of locusts.

“Will!” Both Liam and Killian yelled. Liam tried to freeze the swarm but nothing happened. Killian grabbed an Athame from the floor and threw it at the demon, but that only made his laughter grow.

Will’s screams grew louder and louder, and Killian didn’t know what to do; how to help. Liam threw open the Book of Shadows, desperately trying to find something that could save Will.

The sound of another orb caught Killian’s attention. Spinning around, his heart jumped into his throat, hoping that Tink would know what to do. “Tink—”

But it wasn’t just Tink standing behind him. It was Tink and Emma. And Emma’s eyes were set on the demon across the room.

Eyes ablaze, Emma’s lip curled back as she yelled, “Baelfire!”

“Emma!” The demon—Baelfire—smiled, “so glad you could make it! Help me finish off these other two won’t ya? Dad will be ecstatic!”

“Go to hell!” Emma body began to glow, and for the first time since his arrival, Baelfire looked unsure. Extending out her arm and aiming her hand right at the demon, Emma shot a beam of pure white light straight into his chest. Baelfire’s chest rippled, his brows furrowed, and then he exploded into nothing.

“Will!” Liam ran over to their youngest brother, Killian not far behind. The swarm of particles was gone, but his brother’s skin was shredded and bleeding fiercely.

“Tink!” Killian yelled, and she was by his side in an instant. Placing her hands against Will’s face, they began to glow as her magic healed him. When Killian saw that his little brother’s chest still rose and fell, he let himself fall back onto his rear. “Thank god.”

“You have a lot of nerve coming back here,” Liam growled, his blue eyes locking onto Emma. He stood up, stalking towards her.

Mary Margaret was up and at her daughter’s side, “Now hold on—”

“See what you’ve done? You almost got Will killed,” he was in Emma’s face now, but she wasn’t back down. Emma stared right back at Liam with her chin held high. “I don’t care whose daughter you are, if I ever see you again I’ll—”

“Oh, will you knock it off?” Tink, having finished with Will, stood up and gave Liam’s arm a good shove, forcing him to back away from Emma. “She just saved Will—she saved all of you. Just like you saved her.”

“What?” Killian ran a hand down his face. There was a lot happening and he wasn’t sure he was following it all. “What are you talking about Tink.”

“Haven’t you lot figured it out yet?” She looked between Liam and Killian, her eyes wide and incredulous. “Emma’s the savior!”

Killian’s eyes snapped to Emma. The words short circuited his brain, and the only thought he was left with was this; bloody hell.  

[pulveremcomedesligulas]

Change of Hands

So this is a little 2.3k thing I wrote based off the lovely art from @liccy on tumblr!! When I first saw the Hyrule holding Wild picture in this post I had a lot of emotions. And while this isn't the original idea Liccy had when she made the drawing (as it was made as a sequel to this beautiful art piece by @scribbs-dibbs [who I unfortunately can’t tag, but I send them my love!]) my brain kinda ran away with this idea so I had to write it.

I totally recommend everyone go check out both of these amazing artists' works, because they are both awesome and deserve love.

Also, Liccy, thank you so much for letting me write for your beautiful art! It has been so much fun and an absolute honor.

Cross-posted on ao3

Now onto the story!!

* * * 

It was supposed to be a normal dungeon. No one had expected anything… off about it. Wild and Hyrule had even gotten permission to explore it.

It should’ve been fine.

And it was, until they got to about three quarters of the way through and were met with a figure in a dark crimson robe standing - no, floating - a few paces in front of them.

It confused them both, because they’d already beaten the mini-boss of the dungeon, and they hadn’t gotten to the point of finding the boss key yet, so reason would say that this was a normal enemy.

Except it didn’t look like any of the enemies either had ever faced before.

“Hero of Hyrule, Hero of the Wild,” said a voice from the cloaked figure. The voice had no identifiable features, sounding ethereal and ancient in a way that sent shivers down both of the heroes’ spines the with dark power it radiated. “You hold the golden power that I seek, and the divine blessing carried by those chosen of the Goddess Hylia. Surrender to me now that I may obtain these both.”

Wild didn’t miss the small gasp from Hyrule at the mention of a ‘golden power’, nor did he overlook the way Hyrule’s right hand hovered closer to his left.

But neither of them responded to the figure’s demands beyond both readying their weapons.

“You have chosen to not surrender,” the voice said. “And with this choice, your lives are now forfeit.”

…

Wild wasn’t sure how long ago their initial encounter with the cloaked figure had been. All he knew is that he and Hyrule had been running through the rooms of the dungeon (now enchanted by the figure - who had to be a sorcerer, Hyrule had said - to move and change so the map they had both worked hard to find was now useless.

Poisonous gas flooded through the chambers, settling about knee high off the ground, but still managing to seep into their bodies, slowly draining both their health and energy.

Surges of enemies they had already killed off came back to attack them, and traps they had already disarmed appeared at the worst times to add to the damage.

Wild had already had to rely on Mipha’s Grace once to heal himself, and even with doing that, he could feel his health still steadily decreasing. Hyrule was in just as bad, if not worse shape, having used a great deal of his power to get them away from the sorcerer’s initial attacks and to heal himself once when he was on death’s door.

At one point, Hyrule stumbled, and Wild was barely able to catch him in time to keep him from falling face first into the poison layer at their feet.

There was a small ledge a few feet away from where they stood, peeking up above the poison. Wild quickly moved Hyrule over to the ledge, helping his friend climb up onto the ledge and settle his back against the cavern wall.

“We need to rest,” Wild said, trying to prop Hyrule up as best as he could.

“We can’t stop,” Hyrule protested, despite his eyes sliding closed. “The sorcerer will find us.”

Wild knew he was better off than Hyrule, and he hated it. Mipha would keep healing him every time his health got too low. But she couldn’t heal Hyrule - Wild had already begged for her to, and even though Mipha was willing, her powers just didn’t work like that.

“Just a few minutes,” Wild insisted. “I’m sure I have a potion or…”

He paused as he noticed the faint flicker of golden light coming from Hyrule’s left hand.

“Uh, ‘Rule, what is that?”

Hyrule blinked his eyes open and looked in alarm to where Wild had gestured. When he realized what it was, he gave a defeated sort of chuckle and moved to take off the bracer that covered the back of his hand.

“That,” he said. “Is the ‘golden power’ the sorcerer is trying to kill us for.”

Wild stared in amazement at the flickering golden light of the complete Triforce on the back of Hyrule’s hand.

“You… You didn’t tell us,” Wild said softly.

“I couldn’t,” Hyrule answered. “I… I’ve been betrayed and hunted too many times for this. I was terrified to let anyone know… at first. I wanted to tell you all but…” Hyrule gave a weak cough before grimacing.

“Can it heal you?” Wild asked. He admittedly didn’t know much about the Triforce. He knew his Zelda had wielded its power before, but beyond that…

Hyrule shook his head. “I don’t have the energy to wield it right now. It’s flickering like this because it knows we’re in danger, but…”

He didn’t have the chance to finish before the ground began to shake around them. Behind where Hyrule sat, the wall began to crumble and give way, falling into a dark, black abyss behind them. Wild cried out in alarm as the ground beneath Hyrule began to fall away as well.

Hyrule looked up at Wild with a look of fear in his eyes right before he was sent plummeting into the abyss.

Wild barely had time to process it before he was reacting - springing forward and grabbing Hyrule’s outstretched left hand right as he fell. He held Hyrule suspended in the air above a seemingly bottomless ravine below.

“Hold on, I’ll pull you up!” Wild called, tightening his grip on Hyrule’s hand.

But the poisonous cloud had risen in with the shaking ground, and was now slowly creeping up the length of Wild’s stomach where he lay holding tightly to his friend. The gas burned his eyes, nose, and throat even as he tried to close them off against it.

“Give in, little heroes,” the voice of the sorcerer intoned behind Wild. “Give in.”

Wild could feel his health draining as the poison clouded around him. He couldn’t give in. He had to save Hyrule.

“Wild, you can’t,” Hyrule said. His voice was weak, the increased flow of poison reaching him as it tumbled off the end of the cliff. “You can’t save me now.”

“I’m not going to let you go,” Wild growled. He could feel tears coming to his eyes that weren’t from the poison. “I can’t lose you. I won’t lose anyone. Never again.”

Wild could barely see Hyrule shake his head through the tears and gas.

“I’m sorry, but this time you have to.”

Wild felt Hyrule squeeze his hand, and with it came a flood of power that Wild never expected. The power coursed up his right arm with an explosive force, tearing away Wild’s sleeve as swirls of golden light danced up the limb.

The power took Wild by surprise, and forced his hand open, releasing his hold on Hyrule.

“NO!” Wild screamed, not able to see as Hyrule fell but already feeling that piece of his heart (the ⅛ he had given to Hyrule, just as he had given the same to each of the others in his new family) shattering.

A dark chuckle sounded behind Wild and he turned his head to see the sorcerer standing there.

“It seems that there is only one life left for me to take now,” they said. “Then the golden power will be mine.”

At the mention of the golden power, Wild dropped his eyes down to stare at his hand. There, shining brightly and radiating more power than Wild could ever imagine, was the symbol of the Triforce, glowing and whole.

Hyrule had given it to him, wanting him to protect it.

And Wild would.

“Please,” he whispered to the power now flooding his veins. “Please lend me your strength.”

With a flash of brilliant light, Wild felt the power of the Triforce surge. He couldn’t help the yell that tore from his throat as he targeted the power at the sorcerer.

The sorcerer embodied darkness and all that chosen of Hylia stood against. Wild raised his hand, glowing with the divine power of the Golden Goddesses, and willed the darkness to be purged.

The light flared and an ear-splitting shriek echoed through the room as the Triforce burned away the spells and their source with a fury that threatened to overwhelm Wild. But it was over within seconds, dimming down and revealing an empty chamber exactly as it was before the sorcerer had appeared. The broken wall and floor were both repaired and there was no other sound beyond Wild’s labored breathing and the rapid beating of his heart.

Wild fell to his knees, holding his hand tightly to his chest. He’d defeated the enemy, made everything back to how it should be.

He’d won.

But it wasn’t enough. Despite the victory, Wild still felt hollow. Looking at his hand again, he couldn’t hold back the choked sob.

He hadn’t been able to save Hyrule. He’d let Hyrule fall. He couldn’t save him.

He had failed. And now… now he was alone.

Again.

He couldn’t go back to the others… not without Hyrule. He couldn’t… couldn’t face them. Not when he knew what they would say.

It was his fault. He’d let it happen.

Sure, some of them would try to reassure him with false words. Twilight and Four and Time would probably all say he did his best. Wind would offer him a hug and Sky a shoulder to cry on. Warriors would probably just give him that look of understanding that was one that seasoned soldiers all understood. And Legend…

Gods he knew he couldn’t face Legend. He’d just let Legend’s protege - the only other one from Legend’s timeline and the only one of their group that Legend had actually easily been able to open up to - fall to his death.

Just another person to add to the list of people that Wild’s failures had taken someone important from, he guessed.

Wild knew he wasn’t going to be able to go back to them. He couldn’t face the reactions they would give him. Which meant…

He was alone again.

Another sob ripped from his throat as he opened his eyes - not having realized they had been closed - and stared at the still glowing mark on his hand.

“Can’t you bring him back?” he begged. “He was your chosen protector after all. Can’t you bring him back?”

“That’s unfortunately not a power the Triforce has,” a voice said from behind Wild. The champion hero’s head flew up to see Hyrule standing there, a small smile on his face. He looked beaten up still, sporting several cuts and bruises on his face, but he was there. With a watery laugh, he continued “It can’t bring someone back from a certain death of falling off a cliff… at least not on its own. It needs a particularly determined wielder to be able do something like that.”

Wild let out some type of cry as he leapt to his feet and threw himself at Hyrule, successfully knocking the other to his ass.

“Hey, it’s okay,” Hyrule said. “I’m here.”

Wild buried his face deeper into Hyrule’s tunic, gripping it tightly like a lifeline as he sobbed.

“You were gone,” he whispered. “You… I couldn’t save you. I failed and I couldn’t… I didn’t want to be alone again.”

Another sobbed ripped from him and he tightened his grip, trying to convince himself that Hyrule was there. He wasn’t imagining this. He was there.

Wild felt tears drop down onto his head as Hyrule lifted his hands to his hair, pulling him closer.

“It’s okay,” Hyrule murmured softly. “You did what you had to, and it turned out okay. You didn’t fail. And I promise, you aren’t going to be left alone.”

Soft fingers combed through the looser strands of his hair as Wild let out a shaky breath, feeling his energy draining as he sank in Hyrule’s hold.

“You’re not alone Wild,” Hyrule said quietly. “We aren’t going to leave you alone. I swear it.”

…

After taking some time to recover, they left the dungeon pretty quickly. The others were waiting for them, worried looks on each of their faces. They had felt the surge of the Triforce’s power, and hadn’t known what to think.

Wild and Hyrule had explained as best as they could, as well as explaining that Wild was now the one who would be the protector of the Triforce from that point on.

It had been hard to explain, and Wild hadn’t wanted to admit to anyone the real reason he was still torn up.

He couldn’t admit that when he hadn’t been able to save Hyrule from falling… he felt like he had failed again. That he was alone again.

But that night as he cooked dinner for his friends, he remembered Hyrule’s words.

That he hadn’t failed.

That he wasn’t alone.

And he realized that those words were true.

He hadn’t failed.

He wasn’t alone.

Wild looked up at the others scattered around the campsite. Twilight and Warriors were in the middle of a sparring match that Wind was intently watching. Four and Time were carefully looking over the various pieces of the group’s equipment, murmuring quietly to each other and making note of the different pieces that needed repairs. Sky was leaned up against a tree, a piece of wood and his carving knife in hand as he whistled a peaceful tune. Legend had pulled Hyrule to the side and currently was fussing over the various injuries that Hyrule had.

Wild watched them, and knew that he had all pieces of his heart again, together and whole.

It was enough to bring a smile to his face.

But not enough to let Hyrule convince him to help with dinner.

They’d both had enough poison for one day, after all.

[gerbiloftriumph]

Captive Crown

(also on ao3)

Someone wanted the newly crowned King of Daventry and all his friends dead. Someone got close, once.

(warnings for the whole thing: kidnapping, bruising, starvation, nightmares, healthy dosage of angsty musing, sicfic, story-coherent vehicle for all my favorite ch2 headcanons)

~*~*~

5/7

(1: to steal)(2: to hide)(3: to seek)(4: to find)(5: to break)(6: to mend)(7: to heal, and to end)

~*~*~

For the first time in his career, Royal Guard Number Two found himself surrounded by people who wanted to be near him because of his smell, not in spite of it. His ears burned with pleasure as he beamed in the privacy of his helmet. No fuss about syrup today!

To be fair, the other guards grouped close around him since the reek of syrup was better than (and somehow more overpowering than) the reek of a week and a half of imprisonment in a goblin dungeon. Graham even smelled faintly and inexplicably of chunderblossom, just to top off all the rest of it. Still. No2 took his victories where he could find them: he just might not mention His Majesty’s Smell when he wrote all this down in his daily diary.  

No3 took a deep breath of syrupy air and pushed off from the group. “Please, Your Highness, we’re warming a bath upstairs. Won’t you follow us?”

Graham looked bewildered, and he kept rubbing his eyes with the palms of his filthy hands. “No, I can’t. I’ve got to make sure everyone is okay.”

“Sire, we’ve been over this. Everyone’s been seen to. As they were last time you checked. I promise, they’re all safe, in the guest rooms, with baths and dinner prepared. No need to check on them again.” She turned away as discreetly as possible (not that Graham was in much state to notice) for another deep breath of fresh syrup.

“You’re sure?” His eyes were bloodshot—from rubbing, from exhaustion. He looked near collapsing. “I should ch-check…” His voice, scratchy and sick sounding, was losing volume fast and they had to lean in to hear. Not ideal.

“Sire, you’ve already looked in on everyone. Twice.” No3’s voice was getting desperate and strained. “Come upstairs with us. The fire’s set, and the bath should be ready. Please.”

“But, B-Bramble’s pregnant.” A tremble started in his shoulders, and he hugged his arms close to stop it.

“We know. You’ve said.” There was a pause, then, “Sire,” she added.

“Did I check on everyone? Did they all eat? There’s enough. Right? D-did I give out everything?”

“Sire, please, if you don’t go upstairs now, I’m going to carry you, and that’s something we’ll both regret.”

He blinked, rubbed his eyes again, then finally started moving. Some ingrained habit made him walk like a royal knight on parade, a swinging stroll that hid his wavering balance—unless you knew him well enough to notice his tells. The guards followed a little distance behind, clustered around No2. They did know Graham well enough by now, and more than one wondered if they would have to catch the king if he fell—and if you could scrub that Smell out of leather. Crimson Colada was such an expensive fabric that it would be a shame to have to throw away the uniform if you couldn’t get that funk out of it.

Several guards had hauled the copper tub up to the royal rooms shortly after the captive party’s arrival. It was extra work, but after some hasty deliberation, No1 had decided it would be better for Graham to be in the comfort of his own bedroom until he’d recovered. Any other option didn’t seem appropriate for a king. Graham himself hadn’t been part of that conversation, too busy trying to stop the Hobblepots from demolishing the kitchen in one go. The tub was now filled with steamy, sudsy water, with fresh water heating over nearly every fireplace available in the castle, just in case.

They ushered Graham in, herding him toward the bath without touching him. No3 broke off at this point, claiming she was going to order tea for Graham, but probably running to one of the nearby balconies to purge her lungs. After a moment, the guards generally and silently agreed on who would be most helpful here. They shoved No2 toward Graham to help him peel off his cloak and boots. Then, apparently in the name of privacy, they too fled for the nearest window.

“No, I can take care of it,” Graham insisted when No2 reached out to help. “I’m fine. Really.”

“Are you sure?” No2 watched Graham sway. Somehow, in the firelight, he looked worse. The shadows moved across his face in a sunken sort of way, and whatever well of strength he’d been drawing from in the hall seemed to be evaporating quickly.

Graham crumpled into the rocking chair so hard that the wood creaked in protest. They froze, expecting it to break. Nothing happened. They exhaled together in relief, but Graham’s sigh carried him further: he looked like he was deflating into sleep. He choked back a cough, which seemed to rouse him, and he reached for his boot laces. “I’m f-fine. Just…give me a minute.”

No2 turned away, clicking his heels on the wood floor, and stared fixedly at the closed door. Why had they picked him for this? It wasn’t as though he could smell his own syrup smell, being mostly used to it. Which meant the other Smell was properly overpowering.

After a very long series of busy minutes, in which the king made all kinds of exhausted noises, there was a gentle series of splashes as Graham eased himself into the water. Another wet sound as he fumbled for soap. And one more thump as he accidentally dropped the soap over the edge.

A silent eternity passed before No2 cautiously said, “Do you need help now, Sire?” He couldn’t hear anything but the crackle of the fire. He wheeled around. “Um. Your Majesty? Graham? Are you okay?” Graham’s head was slumped on his chest. “Graham!” He gingerly touched Graham’s shoulder.

The king snored loudly. With no responsibilities or goals to keep him pushing forward, it seemed he’d just surrendered to the soft bubbles and the warmth and the safety. At a rather inopportune time.

“Oh. Um. I suppose you’re okay, then.” There was a long, long pause, and then a very reluctant sigh as No2 peeled off his gauntlets and dropped them on the floor, reaching for the soap and the scrubbing brush.

~*~*~

Royal Guards Numbers 1, 2, and 4 scrubbed and rinsed and toweled him off, changing the water three times. The first, because the water turned a horrible sludgy brown within a few minutes and they felt like washing dirt with dirt was kind of pointless. The second, to scrub at the caked-on muck that had been beneath the topsoil layer. The third, a shallow bath (because they were getting impatient), to sluice off any remaining slime. It took a long time to replace the musty, sour smell of damp caves with the lavender-scented soap, but they kept at it, trying to keep His Majesty’s face above water while washing it at the same time. After the third rinse, one gently supported his head while another fluffed his hair with a towel, damp curls springing up in every direction.

When they had started, they’d debated quietly for a moment if they should try to wake him: washing deadweight was difficult, and embarrasing, and not at all how anyone wanted to spend an evening. But his eyes had looked so haunted and horrible when he’d been awake that they didn’t have the heart to rouse him. And they could hardly put him to bed in this disgusting state. So, gently, they lathered and rinsed in silence, and he stubbornly slept through it all.

He did twitch under their hands if they accidentally pulled or scraped, especially when they were cleaning the shallow cuts that littered his hands (from tripping in the dark and catching himself, they guessed) or the bizarre rainbow of variously aged bruises on his lower legs (no guesses whatsoever). He mumbled half-words and fragments, but never anything sensible, and if he ever did fully wake, even for brief instances, they didn’t notice.

They fished him out of the tub and wrapped him up tight in a fresh towel while they paused for a well-needed break. They must have gone through reams of towels of every size, which were now discarded in soppy piles around the room, loosely organized from most horrible to less horrible. Most of them smelled like wet Triumph. This last towel was truly the last; between Graham and everyone else, the soap and towel supply had been demolished. The laundresses were going to murder someone.

They looked at Graham, who was slumped carelessly at the foot of the bed, a few errant curls still dripping water, and they looked at his usual nightshirt and trousers, folded neatly on the bedside table.

“No. I’m done. I’m not forcing His Highness into pants. What are you gonna do, hold them open and drop him in? There’s a limit to both his dignity and mine, and I hit mine at least an hour ago.”

“He can’t just wear a towel to bed.”

“I hear Whisper does all the time.”

“Yes, but you should know: no one cares.”

“There’s a long nightshirt in here somewhere,” No1 mused. “King Edward’s. Remember? He used to moon around the balconies in it at night, like something out of a play.”

“Yes, but he was very sick then. It was just after the queen…”

“Oh, that’s right. I’d forgotten all about it.”

“Graham’s not been king very long. Barely had time to put his own dent in the mattress. I bet that nightshirt’s still here somewhere.”

“It’ll be huge on him.”

“It’ll stay on better than a towel. Go on, go look in those chests over there.”

The nightshirt was dutifully found and dragged over his head—and, as predicted, it rather enveloped him. But it was simple, and it was perfect for their patience levels. All three guards were sweaty, hands pruned with water, and achy with the stress of the evening, but they picked up their king once more (“Last time tonight, Sire, promise!”) to put him to bed properly. All three looked at him, and then at each other with nervous smiles of relief.

If he was a little banged and bruised and scuffed up, well, that was fine: he was back safely in their protection, and the physical marks would heal. If his skin was a little hotter than expected, well, that was fine too: it was probably just the warm water and the air by the fireplace. And if he was starting to look a little more gaunt as they gently wrapped him in his sheets in his bed, it wasn’t anything to worry about: it was just a trick of the fire and candlelight.

After all, he was back and safe. Everything would be fine. What more could possibly happen?

Though, when he woke half the castle so early in the morning that it was still night, screaming in pain and terror, they knew that things weren’t quite so fine.

[kaseshipearth]

was that the boogeyman?

or, the ironstrange haunted house au where Stephen scares Tony, and things go terribly wrong.

read it on ao3.

“Hey Stephen, get a load of this guy,” Mordo whisper-yells.

Stephen looks away from the couple he’d been following, the woman with her face buried in her boyfriend’s back as they walk through the Scare Zone. “What is it?”

Mordo points to a boy near the entrance of the Scare Zone, a very handsome boy about Stephen’s age who was acting very cocky. As if venturing into the Scare Zone, where costumed team members have permission to follow and chase guests, was no big deal. Probably trying to impress the redhead girl he’s with.

Working at Universal’s Halloween Horror Nights had been an adventure so far. When Mordo had suggested they audition, Stephen never thought they’d actually be selected and be cast in the Scare Zone as opposed to one of the haunted houses. He never expected to work here, but hey, he’s got tuition and textbooks to pay for. This year’s Scare Zone was themed after The Purge films, complete with vandalized cars and loud sirens and smoke machines and pre-recorded screams. Stephen and Mordo, having similar costumes consisting of horrifying Guy Fawkes masks and chainsaw props that actually made noise (and don’t forget the fake blood of their “previous victims” scattered on their tattered clothes), often teamed up to scare guests.

But this boy... the way he seemed to brush the Scare Zone off like it was nothing... Stephen wanted to target him. Even from the backstage area he and Mordo were peeking out from, he can see it’s all a ruse. His foot is tapping rapidly, his fingers are twitching. This guy is scared to death.

Did he mention that he’s super cute and definitely Stephen’s type?

“He’s mine. Keep everyone else away,” Stephen says. Before Mordo can say anything, Stephen takes off, running through the backstage area to get closer to the entrance. He’s done this before, where he targeted a specific person and followed them throughout the entire Scare Zone. It just takes some practice.

He takes shelter behind a flaming dumpster (with synthetic fire, of course), waiting. Now, he’s close enough to hear this guy’s conversation with his friends.

“No, I’m gonna do it alone,” cute guy says. “It’ll be easy.”

“Okay, Tony, then do it,” the redhead says, giving him a shove toward the entrance. “No way in hell I’m going in there.”

“Yeah, you’re on your own, Tones,” adds a dark-skinned boy. “Pepper and I’ll be in line at the Stranger Things House.”

The cute guy—Tony—scoffs. “Fine, Rhodey, just abandon me then.”

“Okay, we’ll wait for you at the exit and then we can head to the Stranger Things House together,” Pepper suggests.

Tony shrugs. “Sounds good.”

“Good luck!” Pepper chimes as she and Rhodey saunter off.

“Jerks,” Tony says. He takes a deep breath, glancing around the Scare Zone, flinching when someone further in screams. “Okay, Tony,” he says, shaking out his nerves. “You got this, you got this.”

He most definitely does not have this, Stephen thinks, watching as Tony steps past the point of no return. Tony tries to stay away from the massive props like cars and bin fires, but he ventures very close to Stephen’s dumpster. Stephen takes this opportunity and, after Tony passes him, he quietly rises from his hiding spot and begins to follow him. A guest across the road screams, causing Tony to jump, but he keeps walking, completely unaware that he’s being followed.

Stephen has to bite his lip hard to keep from laughing.

He waits until he’s just a couple of feet behind him before he makes his move. Slowly, Stephen starts to raise his prop chainsaw and, when it’s right behind his ear, he flicks it on.

Stephen doesn’t think he’s ever seen anyone jump so high. The shriek that comes out of Tony’s mouth is not human (and it sounds very feminine). And, rather than sprinting the other direction like guests normally do when he sneaks up on them, Tony does something Stephen never expected.

Tony’s arm flies back, and he punches Stephen in the face. Right on his nose.

Instantly, Stephen knows his nose is broken. It cracked too hard to be a simple dislocation. Blinding pain surges through his face as his head flies back. Tears involuntarily spring to his eyes. But the adrenaline rush he’s just gotten... he’s never felt more alive.

Before Tony can say a word, Stephen takes off, heading toward the backstage area. He rips off his mask and examines his nose in a nearby mirror. Yikes. It’s already swollen and tender to touch, blood spilling out and soaking his jaw and neck and costume.

“What the hell happened to your nose?” Mordo demands, coming up behind him.

“I’m fine,” Stephen says. Rather than try to put his mask back on, he smears the blood up under his eyes, around to his forehead, across his cheeks.

“No you’re not! Your nose is broken!” Mordo protests.

“So? I’ve got an attractive guy to scare.” He wipes the blood off his hands and turns away. “My nose can wait!”

Stephen sneaks past his coworkers, finding an entrance a bit further into the Scare Zone. He peeks out and spots Tony immediately, running away from one of the damaged car props.

Sometimes, Stephen gets way too into his role, because he comes up with something insane on the spot. He rubs his hands on his neck, getting them bloody again. He steps out from behind the backstage entrance, walking up to Tony on wobbly legs.

“Please,” he gasps, his voice raspy. He falls to his knees, holding out a bloody hand. “They’re coming for me!”

“Oh my god!” Tony takes a few steps back, not realizing that another coworker was waiting for him. She screams in Tony’s ear, and he shrieks again and runs off. “When does this fucking end?!”

Stephen stays in character, hobbling offstage. As soon as he’s out of the guests’ line of sight, he bursts out laughing, ignoring the pain in his nose.

Only for his laughter to be cut off when he sees Mordo in front of him with their boss.

“Oh,” Stephen gulps. “Hi, Carol.”

Carol Danvers, head of all Scare Zone entertainment at Horror Nights and just barely out of grad school, stares him down, shaking her head. Despite Stephen towering a full head over her, she had the power to strike the fear of God in him. “Stephen, is that fake blood or real blood?”

Suddenly, scaring Tony is the last thing on Stephen’s mind. “It’s, um, real, ma’am.”

“And why, might I ask, are you running around the Scare Zone covered in a blood-borne pathogen?” She crosses her arms, shifting her weight to one leg. “And why aren’t you seeking medical treatment for what is clearly a broken nose?”

Stephen just wants to run away. “There’s a cute boy out there, and I wanted to scare him, and I didn’t want a broken nose to stand in the way. I’m sorry.”

Carol sighs, rolling her eyes. “Did you touch anything?

Stephen shakes his head. “No, but my Guy Fawkes mask and costume might be ruined.”

“You know we’ll have to find the guy who punched you and escort him out, right?” she asks.

His eyes go wide. “No, no, no, please don’t. I was an ass.”

“No, you were doing your job. And it’s clearly stated on your Horror Nights ticket that if you touch the team members you can be escorted out.” Stephen looks up at her, pouting. “But... I guess we can make an exception. I’m still gonna find him and make him apologize. And, I guess I have to applaud you for thinking on the spot and using your injury to your advantage. But Stephen, when I told you in training to go as extreme as you can without touching the guest, this wasn’t exactly what I had in mind. Now, go get that nose looked at.”

Later, after washing off his blood and changing, Stephen visits first aid. They’re able to get his nose to stop bleeding, and they carefully bandage it up. However, they aren’t able to set it back into place, so they tell him he needs to go to the ER. Stephen leaves first aid, stuffing handfuls of bandages and tape into his backpack, only to find Carol waiting for him.

“Follow me,” she says. He slings his bag over his shoulder, trailing behind her. She leads him toward the entrance of the park. “Look who I found asking about the guy he punched in the face.” And, standing sheepishly between two security guards, is Tony. “Don’t worry,” Carol says. “I made sure they would let him back in for the rest of the night.” The security guards step away, but they hover close by with Carol.

Stephen walks up to Tony, who looks extremely guilty. “Hi, I’m Stephen,” he says, sticking out his hand.

Tony takes his outstretched hand and shakes it, pursing his lips. “Tony. Hi.” He sighs, shoving his hands in his pockets. “Hey, I’m really sorry about punching you.”

“It’s okay,” Stephen says. “I’ve had worse.”

“Really?” Tony asks, unsure.

“No.” Tony’s head shoots up, guilt etched in his expression, but Stephen just laughs. After a moment, Tony chuckles, albeit nervously. When their laughter ceases, Stephen finds himself smiling (though with his nose being broken it hurts like hell), staring into Tony’s gorgeous, chocolate brown eyes.

“Um, are you hungry?” Tony asks. “I still feel terrible, so buying you some food is the least I can do.”

Stephen grins. “I am, but I have to go to the ER. They can only do so much for a broken nose here.”

Tony’s face falls slightly. “Oh, okay. I understand."

“But,” Stephen starts, feeling butterflies fluttering in his stomach, “if you’re a local, maybe you could make it up to me by taking me out sometime? I’m actually a pre-med student at UCLA.”

Tony’s eyes light up. “No way! I go there, too! Engineering,” he says, smiling.

“Blame the massive campus for not letting me cross paths with someone as handsome as you,” Stephen says, and then his jaw drops when he sees Tony blush. “Shit, I said that out loud, didn’t I.”

“Sure did,” Tony chuckles. “But yeah, I’d like that.” He smiles. They quickly exchange numbers, setting up a coffee date for the following Thursday.

After making sure that Stephen can get to the ER on his own, Tony says, “Well, I best be getting back to my friends. They’re probably worried sick. Again, I’m really sorry about punching you."

“It’s okay, really,” Stephen insists. “And a word of advice. When you’re going through a haunted house of any kind, don’t act so cocky before going in. It paints a massive target on your back.”

Tony chuckles. “See you next Thursday, Stephen.”

Stephen smiles wide. “See you, Tony.” He watched him walk back to the security guards, who escort him back into the park. Carol turns and winks, giving him a thumbs up, and Stephen laughs.

Going after Tony was definitely worth the nasty broken nose.

[ardent-x]

Collective Divine Feminine/Masculine Reading for the rest of the month

The cards totally proved my previous post haha! Interesting energies.

1. The overall state/energy of the Union - Queen of Cups, King of Pentacles, 10 of wands

So, indeed for many the process of merging into one has begun. Begun, tho, not completed. As I mentioned before this is a whole process of it’s own that triggers many other things. Imagine one ball trying to settle inside another ball. It has to make its way inside of it, and as it’s sort of wiggling, that causes friction and is not very pleasant. But it is the final stage! It might seem now, that this purging and misery, and frustration will never end, but trust me, it’s near the final line!

2. What’s positive in the Twin Flame/Collective ? - 10 of Pentacles, Ace of Swords, Knight of Pentacles

We are working on completing major karmic cycles. Two 10s so far. We are clearing karma with everything! Our families, our friends, soulmates, karmic partners, co-workers, work itself and money. In a sense we are cutting our cords with the material world and embarking on the journey of eternity and ascension. Not that this hasn’t always been our journey, but now it’s the stage where we really have to clear all karma left with the material/physical world. We have to leave all the baggage behind us, so that we can move freely ahead of our journey, for it is that baggage that has been slowing us down.

3. What are the challenges the Collective/Twin flames are facing? - 3 of Wands, Page of Swords, The Fool

Ah, yes. At our lowest points and most difficult moments, we still have a hard time looking into perspective and having faith. Suddenly, when it gets hard, our perspective falls down to one of an ant, and we look for all ways to “spy” and “peek” into the future, so assure and calm ourselves. But the challenge here is despite all, we do have the clarity. We do know where we are going, and we do know it’s coming, whether we are ready or not. Are we really taking a leap of faith , and walking blindly? I don’t think so. Look at the Fool. He sees what’s infront of him, he isn’t going to fall down the cliff, he has the falling start guiding him and illuminating the sky. He is walking this path ,not out of stupidity, but because he reached a feareless state of mind, after finishing the cycle of the World, and he starts his new journey with no fear! Because he knows he is safe, and guided. So, even tho it’s hard now, we have to find that visionary perspective again from within us, and hold on to it. It’s not gonna be difficult forever!

4. Divine Feminine - What is the focus/ work being done? - 4 of Pentacles, Hermit

With all these challenges, the Divine feminine is retreating back in one’s self to heal whatever there’s left to heal, to find the needed guidance and strengthen the intuition for it’s time the DF shined their light through the outside world. Many might have felt as it would be easier to just completely shut down and shut out everything and everyone, including their twin/soulmate, karmic... whoever they are dealing with. But now they are coming to the realization that this is not the way. It’s okay to shut down for awhile, for the sole purpose of rearranging stuff within us. Finding forgiveness for those who hurt us in the past, may it be a parent ,child, partner, ex-lover, or a friend. It doesn’t matter. Now the Divine Feminine is coming out of the hermit cave with a renewed sense of purpose and intuition, that will guide them through their journey. There is no more emotional confusion, there is sense of purpose! And there is heavy emphasis on the full moon in the Hermit card so ... JUST SAYIN’ lol. 

5. Divine Masculine - What is the focus/ work being done? - 7 of pentacles, Queen of Cups

I feel like the masculine is trying to accept the slow movement. For some reason. As if there are setbacks in their personal life that are keeping them back from reaching out to their divine feminine. And it feels sort of heavy and as if they almost fall in that ‘self-pity’ mode, where they feel prisoners of the outside world, and in a sense sabotaged by it. May it be work, kids, finances, family, whatever that’s outside the connection. They are starting to acknowledge strongly the presence of the divine feminine within them. Not only are they acknowledging the connection itself, but also learning how to deal with this new born feminine energy within them, because it’s emotional and it’s new to them. Just as the masculine energy is new for the feminine. 

6.Divine Feminine - Biggest challenge being faced now - Emperor, 7 of wands

Well, thats a lot of 7s in one reading. For many divine feminines , as I said, the masculine energy is finding its place to co-exist withing you, and co-exist with your feminine side. And it seems for many that’s quite challenging. I feel that even many of them are being in a state of ... well I don’t want to say resentment, because it’s a harsh word, but lets say experiencing rather negative emotions towards their masculine. Look at the cards. On the second card it’s almost like the Emperor turned his back to look on all he has swiped and killed. Ask yourself, what are you battling against? What fears are you suppressing and not willing to deal with? Because I can tell you right away, that whatever is trying to come up and come out, that’s all thanks to your masculine that’s making their way in, and pushing out everything that is blocking them. Do not resist, because resistance will make it harder and more difficult. My advice is to try and clear as much as you can and let go, untill the Blue Moon. No pressure, no rush, just do that if you CAN, but don’t be harsh on yourself. Everyone has their own pace, and that’s completely okay! Don’t drive yourselves nuts! <3

7. Divine Feminine - How to overcome those challenges? - 2 of pentacles, 10 of swords

Divine Feminine cannot pile shit up anymore. The closet is full, time to revise and make a spring clean! It’s been that constant juggle of thoughts, one step forward, one step backwards. There has been a lot of indecisiveness. The damage is done, you can’t turn back time. It’s time to step out of the knight’s garment, clean your wounds, bandage them, and make yourself a new garment that’s shinier, prettier and more durable. A garment that next time will reflect the words and not let them pierce inside. It’s important now to really, really heal everything that’s trying to come up and not resist it. As soon as we do that, we will find the balance between the two energies. See the 2 coins and the infinite symbol, and how the two coins defy gravity and never fall down? This is what we are all aiming for. The complete balance within ourselves!

8. Divine Masculine - Biggest challenge being faced now - Knight of Swords, Strength

Seems like the divine masculine is having to face one of their biggest fears. Literally face their demons! But the amazing part is that this is no longer done with fear, if that makes sense. In some way, the divine masculine is observing and examining their fears and inner demons with emotional detachment and reason. They have that inner drive to literally slay the demon that’s blocking them from moving on. It’s like they grew tired of their own ego and their own fears, and there is a sense of “NO MORE! Let us be done with this!” . DF is taking charge towards putting everything to place and finding the best and fastest way to deal with all challenges and move forward as fast as possible. Because it’s true, they have been A BIT slower than the feminine energy. But I guess that’s because they can make up for the time “lost” and accelerate before the finish line.

9. Divine Masculine - How to overcome those challenges? - 5 of cups, Knight of Cups

So , yup. Basically , time to get yo shit together and stop crying over spilled milk. It’s time to leave that energy of self-pity, and self-regret. I feel like that’s the side effect of the masculines feeling the new feminine energy within them. It’s like all of those emotions are coming out, and this is a sensation so new to them that’s almost overwhelming them. But the Divine wouldn’t give them that challenge if they didn’t believe they can pass it. And they can, and will.

What’s better is that they are willing to not dwell at all in the past, but rather start moving forward, even if it’s seems rocky, and dark and scary, and thunder-y haha. Because they are finding the light and strength within themselves, and it’s beautiful! And I think many of us are experiencing THAT energy in particular, regardless of gender or energy. They are truly becoming fearless on that journey, and there is no going back anymore. Only forward. Many of them for a moment felt lost in the present, because they were dwelling so much in the past. But that energy is being shifted, as they are finding once again their path, and this time following it no matter what.

10. Divine Feminine - What is being accomplished? - King of Swords, 6 of wands

As I will perhaps repeat myself, Divine Feminines are in the process of integrating and incorporating the masculine side within them. Balance the ego, as the massive ego and pride comes with the territory haha. You might feel this warrior being awakened within you, and feel this renewed sense of purpose in your life and strength. 

Admit it. Even though it feels hard and heavy now, admit you don’t feel hopeless as you used to before. Admit that you feel this light coming from somewhere, that even though it’s bad now, you know you will can through this somehow. You feel stronger, more powerful, invincible almost. That’s the gifts the masculine is bringing towards their feminines. 

11. Divine Masculine - What is being accomplished - Strength, Devil

For some this means that many of the masculines are recognizing their karmic partners, and finally finding the strength to cut the cords and move on from that. For others this simply means fighting addictions, obsession with materialism, and general recognition and clearance of karma. Karma can be anything and formed with anyone. Could be personal karma or with another being. 

And another scenario as well. For many this will be the final battle of the ego. Many of the masculines have been working hard on destroying that ego that’s been dictating their lives so far, but this is the final wave. The final wave of that long ago suppressed ego and desires of the ego. They might be healing issues from their childhood, experiencing resentment even and strong anger. Everything primordial is resurfacing. However, this time they are prepared. They have the tools, the intelligence and intuition to fight through it the chains of the Devil. It will be unpleasant, but highly necessary. 

12. Overall Energies for the Feminine - Star

Obviously, massive healing of the past, present and future. That’s the general theme for the feminines

13. Overall Energies for the Masculine - 8 of swords

A time of fighting through the illusions of a prison. Fighting through the self-imposed prison of their ego and censorship, again caused by the ego. 

14. Overall energy for both energies combined - TOWER

Well, isn’t it quite logical? We are in a process of building a new tower, more stable one , as we are merging into one. We are now carrying bot the divine essence of the feminine and masculine energy, and that needs to destroy the old tower. The all seeing eye in the picture sort of reassures us that everything happens for a reason, even the unpleasant things, and to remember that we are not always capable of comprehending. There will be also a lot of surprises, shocks and revelations, so be prepared for anything. Positive or negative. And, again, DO NOT RESIST! Let the tower be destroyed, as unpleasant as it may be. We all fear change at some lever, and we all don’t like it, cos it’s shaking our ground and stability. 

But we have to be brave. You cannot overcome a fear without facing it first. 

Stay awesome, collective! <3

[wandererhills]

“Master of the Heavenly Yard” English translyrics

Hi! Some weeks ago I made a long post explaining why I was kind of disillusioned with the Evillious Chronicles, and I still agree with a lot fo things I said in that post.

But I’ve been listening to MOTHeavenlyY and I’ve realized it’s kind of an amazing song, so I decided to write singable lyrics in case anyone wants to fandub it.

These are partially inspired by pricecheck’s translation of the lyrics, wich can be found here.

Chapter 1: Prologue

It's been a thousand years

And look at all of the mistakes we made

The only thing we brought were tears

“If only I...” I hear a wish

But there is nothing to be done now

For Punishment's already here

Oh, hundreds of millions of lost, wandering souls

Oh, children of malice and sin

Did we have it coming all along?

It's a fitting end to all of us?

I'm not surprised that those sons of bitches

would die believing as much

So now that all is said and done,

is there anything that we forgot

journeying together thorugh these thousand years?

I guess if I, just sit and wait

the answer won't just reveal itself

So I'll have to go searching for you

Chapter 2: The Hunt for the Deadly Sins

In the middle of a world that's been destroyed

Floats a lonely theater, high above

The spirits of the dead gathering around

So they can all worship a black box

Listening to their leader, the Gadener

giving all the souls some simple orders

These are the things that they should work towards

In order to save the world from destruction

You must go and destroy the souls that the seven demons possesed

Go and kill the source of malice, the conractors of the deadly sins

The desperate dead are starting to mobilize

The hunt for the deadly sins has now begun

Chapter 3: The Princess Sets Out

Before the princess can react

a deep sleep takes hold of her entourage

It seems that somebody has brought her “gift”

Without the one who swore he would protect the princess at all costs

There's nothing now that can stop the Gardener's troops

But on the back of a pure white mare

Sees the princess a strong, brave nun

Who helps her escape unscathed from there

To a new joruney that awaits

I am so tired of doing nothing but waiting for you

And I hate how I'm always defenceless

If I can do this on my own, without relying on others too much

I'll puff my chest with pride when I go searching for you

Chapter 4: The Heroes

Just what exactly does the word “evil” mean?

Those who are burdened with the seven deadly sins

They should have vanished when the world turned to ruin

But they all somehow manged to live

“Is a sinner's redemption an impossible act?”

A voice is now rising above all the rest

As to stop the Gardener's ambitions and plans

The heroes and the commoners

Rise their pahntom blades at once

This world's justice and evil,

let us change them all into a song

Because Punishment has already befallen us

And so it seems the time has come

for us to take a stand and fight

So the mistakes we made so long ago won't repeat

Chapter 5: BLACKBOX

The forbidden black box floating in the sky

is about to open up

It might cause divine purification

Or a complete reset

Do not forget that the souls of the normal folk

are nothing more than regular data files

Look how the springs in the black box start to go around

Just so everything spins and melts inside of it

There's no way you can avoid that vortex and all its might

For it is a part of the Gods' legacy, their program

And there is no one who could somehow stop that device

Unless we are straight up talking about a god

There is one person alone who continues to live

Only one in the whole world

She rised her gun in the air, pulled the trigger and stared

as she fired a bullet of gold

Who knows who she might be thinking of

as she gazes at the black fireworks

dancing in the sky above her head

This signs the end of an era, the era of the gods of old

Time is finally moving forward again

Chapter 6: Not Eve

Now let me tell you the story of the end

From where do you suppose I should start?

As for my name, you can call me... (x4)

Who?

Chapter 7: The End of the Capriccio

Finally she had arrived at the theater,

in the eyes of the Princess

This was not only a villain's lair,

it was also a home from long ago

It wouldn't make sense to regard the Gardener

as anything other than a puppet

The mastermind was the one in the doll

The miniature garden's girl

Oh, tell me Gear, why do you protect her?

You must certainly be aware

That the girl I am talking about is not the one you long for

If you claim you shall get in the way then

don't believe that I shall hesitate

For it is I, the princess of Lucifer

People call me the Daughter of Evil

And finally the time had arrived,

she heard the bells that announced the end

Hear a Heartbeat's Clocktower resound,

sin got carved into its hands

Regardless of what kind of person they are,

if they get in the way of my desdires

I will have them purged from this world

Come, kneel to me!

Chapter 8: Reunion

It's been a thousand years

And look at all of the mistakes we made

The only thing we brought were tears

For so long I hoped

that I would see you with my eyes again

And I haven't forgotten your name...

M A

Chapter 9: The Pure Evil

The boy who had searched for the princess

found that She was inside his sister

The witch who had absorved the seven demons

Seeking to finally become a truly perfect being

Just before she vanished, the Director Doll

Brought back to life the will of the witch

Just before being completely pulled into the black box

The Gardener had this to say to the boy:

“If you want to save the world,

you must go and kill that girl

Kill the witch who brought the nightmare

and the Daughter of Evil who fused with her”

Now that he is forced upon a final choice

Tell us boy, of your decision and its scope

Chapter 10: The Boy's Decision

“Just what does the word “evil” mean?”

Someone onced screamed

Nobody can deny, in everyone there's greed

And I won't hesitate to say that I'm the same

So both the whole world and you

are coming with me

Chapter 11: Re_Birthday Truth

Thanks to my will and my determation

came on a whim a miracle

From your hand I saw it fall

a tiny bottle

Read on a note a message you wrote

“Don't you forget to rescue me!”

I can't help but chuckle

This sounds so much like you

It's alright, don't worry 'cause

I will protect you with all my might

We don't have to fight against the world anymore

Come now, let us join our hands

and move forwards all as one

for the sake of the new world

and for yours as well!

Don't look down, direct your eyes towards the sky

The world is like the Moon reflecting on a mirror

The time has now come for you who are looking our way

from far away

to finally open your eyes and awake

[league-0f-weirdos]

Well here goes nothing? Enjoy I guess?

Once in the green valley, Clegane and his peers cheered like there was no tomorrow. Finally, a place that they could call theirs after their pilgrimage away from the Freljord! Away from the human wars, and hidden from the Watchers that hunted them for so long. Once settled, Decades passed, the small settlement now had a name and was prospering as other Yordles heard of this safe haven, and settled there aswell. With the ever growing number of civilians, of course, they'd also need people to protect them. Long before the Scouts and the Gunners existed to fill that job, came the Rangers. A small group who served as Bandle's guard, and as Bandle's suppliers. They did everthing, from chopping wood, to gathering, hunting, even locating human towns and villages to update their maps. Clegane, a rather small yordle for the time, signed up in the hopes that his peers would see him as something other than laughing stock. Sure, they had the strenght to chop a boar in one swing, but they didn't have strategy! Intelligence! All the things that made hunting oh so much easier.

In a year, Clegane swiftly rose to the Ranks, until he was regarded as the Master Ranger. Often they called him "Hunter" however, because of his strange obsession with traps and schematics, and of course, his love of the hunt. Thankfully, their smiths were rather advanced thanks to the Hearth-home's influence despite the distance, and most of these weird ideas came to fruition. While some worked, like the wrist crossbow and the spring net, others like glass bombs and a giant slingshot that could be used as a catapult were.. not as sucessful.

Despite his rank, however, he felt like the people of Bandle were safe enough under the other Rangers' rule. And with his designs, surely they could make something useful of themselves? Surely! He had faith in his brothers and sisters. Waving goodbye, he settled out with a wrist crossbow and a voulge, the only memory he would carry of them being the ones in his mind, and the ranger badge he carried close to his chest at all times.

At first he regreted it. The forest was lonely, the jovial laughter, the hammer of the smiths, the idle chat.. it rang in his ears. And they would surely accept him back with open arms. But he felt like his calling was somewhere else.. something tugged on him towards a direction. A soft tune that made his feet move restlessly towards.. something. Why? He did not know. But it wasn't something natural. And he had to know why.

Along the way, remnants of what once were the mighty Watchers were found: Carcasses of Vel'Kozes riddled with spears and stripped of their golden ornaments, dried husks of Kogs long since burst. Massive Cho'Gaths, only recognizable by their massive skeletons half-buried in the dirt. And the more he walked, the more these carcasses became common.. some even familiar.. and finally, he met his first alive Voidborn. Huge, and of course, hungry. Clegane was victorious.

He powered on, murdering every Voidborn in his way, until the dirt beneath his feet became sand. He did not remember what year it was. When was the last time he spoke to someone? Something? How long was it since he left Bandle? Had it been weeks? Months? Surely a year, at least? Such disturbing toughts would have to wait, as the ever growing horde of Voidlings never rested. He had to move on, to kill, to find his calling.. deep within the desert. The tune was stronger now. There were voices. He could almost see them.. it beckoned. It begged. It called for him.

Finally, he reached it. A city of strange pillars and ungodly statues, filled with noise. The chanting was now not an illusion from his mind, it was real, and in front of him, humans clad in purple praised statues of worm-like beasts, Cho's and Xer'Sai. What place was this? Despite his confusion, the humans welcomed him, and he was taken to their leader. A friendly talk was had. Laughter was heard from both of them. It slowly died, until a dreaded silence fell upon the city. It was as if every person there waited, holding their breaths. What would happen when a Yordle was touched by the Void? What beast would be born of such heresy? Was the aberration going to be docile towards them?

To their despair, what came out was not a disturbing creature, but instead a Yordle thirsty for blood. He had no physical changes, but mentally, he was scarred. They worshipped the Void. They  WELCOMED IT. Their leader made him gaze into it. What madman would belive that.. they were salvation?!

Clegane chopped, stabbed, cut and shot his way through the city, purging everything in his path. Even Void beasts were not safe from his aim and bloodthirst. He hacked and slashed his way until there was no more chanting in the city, nor screams, nor growls. It was silent.

But now he hungered.

He had gazed into the Void, and it awakened something primal inside him. He could not resist the call. To eat. To grow stronger. To learn, absorb, understand and use. Despite his hatred for the Void and it's Watchers, he ended up becoming a pale shade of them. Hunger was the only thing that drove him on now.

Tens of thousands of years passed, with Icathia being settled, ravaged and abandoned to decay over and over again, while Clegane killed Runeterra's invaders. He learned to track them, predict where portals would open, set traps and learn the best ways to cut them down. He studied their bodies, how they acted, and how they evolved. He learned to keep up and adapt with them. How to cook their flesh without getting poisoned by it. Fashioning new armor from their bones, plating and leather. But he was just a yordle on his feet, and no matter how many shortcuts he knew, he could not keep up with the Void's relentless invasion.

His blade was refashioned with their bones and alien metals, his crossbow's ammo carved from their teeth, his rags were thrown away and replaced with crudely made leather armor fashioned from their hides. And for all these years, he avoided talking to anyone except himself.  It was only once the Hunter’s badge fell from a pocket near his chest that he muttered the words “Bandle.. City.. Ranger.” It was like a veil was suddenly lifted from his eyes, and he could see and think clearly once more. How.. how long had it been? Bandle? He knew that name. Who where they? He knew where they lived. It was like a map was drawn on his mind, guiding his way to the settlement.

Once he reached it, he could barely belive his eyes. This.. city. It was a city now. He remembered it. Their houses and workshops, the chatter and laughter.. yet none could remember him, neither did he recognize anyone. He was a stranger in the town he saw being built.. maybe it was time to see how it grew, and enjoy talking to the new generations. Clegane settled once again, now as a part-time inventor, scrapper and smith, after all, Poppy couldn't supply a whole town. Not when she spent so much time away in Demacia! But even with all those distractions, he could still feel it gnawing on the back of his mind. Sooner or later, he would pick back his weapons and leave to hunt for Gods knew how long, trying to sate the hunger that overwhelmed him.

But for today, he tought that maybe some Tea and cake would do.

[twinflameshardcore]

End of the old Earth - September 23 - oh yes!

Of other things, there’s actually a good reason why it had been brought lately by some 'Bible followers’* that 09/23/2017 brings the end of the Earth, a catastrophe, Nibiru’s return or whatever. Guess what. Considering another planet’s alignment (with Jupiter and Virgo included) and the fall/spring equinox that day, it will be a (welcome!) ‘catastrophe’, just as 2012 was! >:))

(source: Stellarium software)

It will be the end of their old school control over our minds and bodies, end of pleasing others, end of old teachings, the mental and emotional harassment to lay low and act like a worthless zero, fearful, the end of threatening us with god’s anger, death, and destruction for sins we never made, and the scare against the Red Dragon specifically. I don’t know if the Red Dragon comes soon or in 2036 (the Fire Dragon’s year) or if it’s already here in all abusive countries making people wake up, stand up, look around, speak aloud and take action.

The Red Dragon may appear in the least expected place. The dragon is the wisdom & truth which the Catholic Church had been trying to cover and fears as they’re liars and they made up something to rule over this planet. The Red Dragon is the true Life Force, the Chi energy, independent free-thinker, vital, sexual, fiery, wise, omnipotent, and multi-talented. It depicts everything the Catholic Church (Islam & Judaism too) had been trying to tame, especially in Europe, Africa, Australia and South America between XII-XV centuries. One religion triggers the birth of another, with more dualities, stirring more conflict and wars, to fight ‘in the name of 1 exclusive god who is best then any other’. The most harmful, forced procedure is a conversion from a pure, happy spirit into a ‘dirty’ sinner, mortal who must pay cash to be ‘purged’. Conversion to any religion from a non-religious state of pure spirit is a rape performed on said spirit.

The coming of the Red Dragon means the ultimate end of lies of the Church and all organized religions in the eyes of billions of people. Not that bishops will shut up. It’s the people who will find a detachment in their hearts, minds and spirits to not give any more energy - attention, thoughts and money to, but also and against religions. Often when we dislike something we nevertheless engage into criticizing which is also giving one’s energy to that negative force which created the topic, and feeds with. Religions will die out without attention. If there’s a venue but nobody wants to perform at and watch, it gets abandoned, it loses sponsors and supporters. The only answer people can give to the Church is ‘No!’, because they should know by now where love and peace can be found - in their own hearts and in activities which make their hearts truly happy. Churches will be abandoned and forgotten. Cardinals and bishops will not be given any more grants, easy money, they will not be invited to bless a new company, street, condo, or a governor. They’ll no more decide if a person can be buried on a cemetery owned by the Church. Or if a woman should undergo abortion or not, or if a pharmacy can sell ‘abortion’ pills, or even condoms to young women and men. All this sexuality makes the Church jealous because they have formally deprived themselves of it, yet their bodies are screaming for sex because it’s a human thing to have and they’re mostly men in this ‘service to humanity’. Sex, when supported with love, trust, connection, stability means pure joy, yet it’s a process of releasing dualities which we humans were pushed into, of harmonization, balancing, and a creation of the most powerful 3rd energy in union (and unison even better!) which makes us closer to angelic beings as we used to be. Instead, priests and cardinals end up shooting movies with abused little boys grabbed from a choir then are forgiven and covered by the Vatican. I’m foreseeing that churches will be transformed into places for art, dance, music and spirit, ran and owned by non-religious, yet spiritual, artistic people to enjoy their free spirits and co-create, as these places usually have a capacity and architecture prepared to capture a lot of vibration to resonate well. How many priests will leave the Church to pretend they’re different now, to keep the money flow? :] What will the Vatican do? Move out on Mars accompanied by NASA and Elon Musk? Hey, we’ve been there. All they’re looking for are lost, buried weapons and skeletons in corridors below the surface. We’ve lost Venus, we’ve lost Mars and if changes are not made, we may lose Earth too if the oceans pollution continues. So far oceans are treated like a bag for everything, from regular cans to trashed satellites, rockets and nuclear tests. The BP’s oil spill in the Gulf of Mexico is the one to blame for the latest increase of hurricanes in that area, plus weather control which is no more needed as the ozone layer returns to its previous, healthy state but the weather control had done more damage than it was supposed to help.

The Red Dragon is the symbolical sea of living anger of pure spirits, old souls who were suppressed in their natural progression for million years. It is a consciousness of wisdom which not only opens the eyes and hearts but also stirs an angry response towards those who have abused us for so long. Religion, banks, government, husbands, wives, children, parents, employers and employees, social media owners etc etc etc = a total revolution is underway. Angelics cannot develop any further when we still need to beg for money every week, being slaves in companies where we do not do what enjoys us, paid little and demanded much, underestimated when we create art, novels, movies, music, handmade stuff and when consumers demand it almost for free. We cannot move any further in our Ascension if all these limitations, a lack of understanding and empathy exist. The split will occur because it is our wish to move on, to burn bridges while we leave the rest of the population to their own devices.

2012 was also announced as the ‘end’ year and yet it was the end - of the waiting, of old consciousness, of limitation; those who were meant to meet, they have met as promised and wished for. We recognized w/ my twin in 2012. And guess what? 2012 was the year of the Water Dragon. Mayans, Aztects respected a snake. Snake and Dragon, are very meaningful in many ancient cultures, they appear under similar names and may also be depicted alike (the Euro dragon is different to the Eastern dragon, but for instance Wikings’ dragons when used for a boat decoration were similar to snakes). It was in 2012 when it ate its tail = the snake/dragon had learnt about himself and became ready to advance to another level. And so the next cycle started then. Our eyes felt bigger and dry, colors looked more intense and shapes were sharper, reality felt closer, separation was temporarily gone.

I’m not saying that it’s all related to a dragon but myths and legends and also religions always try to slain the dragon/snake, as if symbolically to prevent the advancement of the Earth, the truth for the humans, the change of the linear time into quantum etc, the overall progress and transformation. Myths and legends were mostly made to scare people against monsters - the reason for why the fear of unknown, ugly, non-humanoid, and overall different was created. The ancient reason for racism and hatred towards minorities too. Obviously, there were also nice, and happy legends ;) We’ll welcome the Wood Dragon in 2024 (numerological 44=8) but in 2036 (56=11) we’ll have the year of the Fire Dragon again. It’s another cycle too - Water lets the Wood grow. The Wood lets the Fire burn. We’re 5 & 6 (33) with my twin thus 11 together. I only hope we won’t need to wait that long to start living together as it would make us enjoy only several years together before we die, with over 20 years in LDR. Ugh. I didn’t volunteer for such a drama. I will be 60 years old in 2036 = 60 = 3+3 ;)

When I get ready I’ll write about who Seraphim, Dragons and Draconians are, as I’ve received from my higher self to shed some new light on the topic. I carry the essence of these.

*(Genesis seems to be the only chapter left alone because this Universe was was always about genes, creation, while other chapters were altered for the purpose of the Church’s expansion and killing the remained truth, wisdom, burning wise healers, channelers, free people who only follow their heart and rebel against taking alien’s contradictory ‘rules’ into their pure spirit).

[This post is copyrighted by the author of this blog who prefers to remain anonymous. My posts must not be used for commercial purposes of any kind. Respect my work - ask first before you copy, always include a link back to my site when you quote a part of my writing!]

[megabadbunny]

#10 for fem!Nine/Rose pretty please!! I love everything you write, btw. You're a fanfic master!

asdl;kfjsdfo;aijer;elsrjaowirj; you slay me with kindness. Thank you so much!!!

***

They’re perfectly normal lips, as far as the Doctorcan tell; plumper than many, perhaps, maybe a little pinker, certainly moredistracting. Absolutely normal, gorgeous, regular, luscious, run-of-the millhuman lips. But what the Doctor can’t figure out is why she keeps feeling sodrawn to them, like Rose has her own special kind of gravity, as if Rose’smouth is a magnet for hers.

Rose raises an eyebrow in concern. “What’s wrong? HaveI got something on my face?”

No,but my face could change that is what the Doctorthinks. “Sorry, just lost in the clouds for a mo,” is what she says. “Regulardaydreamer, me.”

Rose flashes her that smile, yes, that one, the one with her tongue trapped between her teeth; itdoes nothing to lessen the Doctor’s distraction. “Thought Time Ladies were toohigh and mighty for silly things like daydreaming,” she teases. “What’s runningthrough that head of yours?”

You,just you. “Oh, nothing in particular,” the Doctor replies,tearing her gaze away and forcing herself to focus on the screen in front ofher. That’s what they’re here for, after all; that’s why they’re doing this,why she’s doing this. The TARDISisn’t going to repair herself, or at least she’s not very likely to.

The Doctor bangs the side of the screen impatiently.Its readings remain stubbornly unchanged; no surprise, since the Doctor hasn’tactually managed to do anything productive, despite her best efforts. But howcan she help it that Rose Tyler is so ridiculously distracting—how is shesupposed to think about anything else besides kissing her?

“This was a mistake,” the Doctor announces, pushingback from the console desk. “I should have known better, should have known thatbottle was full of nothing but panaceæ and snake oil. I can’trecalibrate the temporal conduits like this. The work is too delicate. I needto be able to focus on it, just really focus.We’re just gonna have to wait, is all.”

“Wait? You?” Rose laughs. “You’re gonna go mad!”

“Too late,” says the Doctor, scrubbing one hand overher face.

Plucking up the medicinal vial from where the Doctorunceremoniously dumped it in the jumpseat, Rose turns it over in her hands,searching the label. “Maybe it hasn’t kicked in yet?”

“Oh, it’s kicked in,” the Doctor says darkly.

“Okay, well, that’s good, isn’t it? We just need toget you focused on the right thing. Shove that big ol’ impressive brain ofyours into action!”

Rose heaves herself onto the jumpseat, her feetswinging over the grating. “So, how does it usually work, this hyperfocusthing?” she asks.

The Doctor doesn’t answer; she’s too busy staring atRose’s mouth again, at the perfect sweetheart shape of it, the lips that lookso, so soft, the way they purse expectantly after Rose asks a question, the waythey’re pressing together right now.

Uh oh. Rose just asked a question. The Doctor has noidea what it might have been.

“Erm,” she says.

Rose frowns. “Are you all right?”

The Doctor glances up at Rose’s eyes.

That’s a mistake. They’re every bit as entrancing asher lips.

She gulps.

“Doctor?” Rose asks, her brow furrowed in worry.Slipping off the jumpseat, she takes a cautious step the Doctor’s way, reachingone hand out to her shoulder. “Should I get you to the medbay—?”

“No!” the Doctor shouts as she springs back, makingRose jump. “I’m fine, Rose. Really! Don’t worry about daft old me.”

“Yeah, but you really seem off,” Rose argues.

“Do I?” the Doctor asks; when her eyes slide down toRose’s lips again, she slaps herself in the face. “I feel fine to me!” shesays, wincing only a little bit.

“What the hell did you do that for?” Rose demands.

“Nothing. No reason. It’s just side effects of thedrug, that’s all.”

“But you said there weren’t any side effects—”

“Well, I was wrong, wasn’t I?” the Doctor snaps.

Eyes widening, Rose plants her hands on her hips.“Funny, I didn’t see anything on the label about a side effect of being mean.”

“Yes, well, the manufacturers of this particularpharmaceutical likely never had to deal with anyone as bloody damn distractingas you,” the Doctor shoots back.

She watches as coolness settles over Rose’s face,hiding her feelings like a mask. Guilt instantly starts roiling in her guts.

“Fine,” says Rose, her voice clipped. “I guess I’lljust leave you to your delicate work,then. God knows I would hate to distractyou any further.”

Turning on her heel, Rose flounces away, disappearingdown one of the TARDIS’s many corridors. The moment she’s out of sight, theDoctor heaves a frustrated sigh.

Amake-up kiss would solve things nicely says a hopeful littlevoice in her head.

The Doctor answers that with another slap.

***

When Rose doesn’t answer her knocks at the door, theDoctor pushes it open to find her sitting on her bed, arms crossed, eyesglaring, lips turned down in a pout.

(Bet I couldkiss that pout away, the Doctor thinks, and her toes curl in her boots.)

“Well?” demands Rose. “Are you done?”

“Like I said, can’t fix it right now,” the Doctorreplies. “My brain’s gone…elsewhere. We’re stuck for a bit until the drug wearsoff. I can’t give the conduits the attention they need.”

“Why? Am I so distracting that I’m bothering you evenway back here?”

Yes,is what the Doctor thinks. A second later, she’s surprised to register thatit’s exactly what she said, too.

This time, Rose doesn’t bother to hide the hurt thatflits across her face. The Doctor half-expects another barb to be flung herway—it’s no less than what she deserves—so she’s surprised when Rose draws herknees up to her chest, like she’s trying to make herself as small as possible.

“I’m sorry,” Rose mumbles. “I’ll try to do better.”

Something seizes uncomfortably in the Doctor’s chest,creeps up to strangle her throat. The urge to reach out to Rose, to soothe herbruised feelings, battles mightily with her instincts to take advantage of thisway out. They’ve wrapped the topic up in a nice little bundle, brought thecircle to completion, and tomorrow, things will go back to normal, the way theyalways are—walls thick and strong and solidly back in place. No more thingsalmost-done or words almost-spoken or lips almost-kissed.

Theway it always is, the Doctor tells herself with an inwardsigh. The way it has to be.

Those walls are in place for a reason.

She turns to leave, to give Rose a little space andtake some time to clear her head, purge this gods-forsaken drug out of hersystem, but she finds she can’t move any further. Her feet don’t want to takeher out of Rose’s bedroom, don’t want to leave their spots on the floor.Strangely, the rest of her body doesn’t seem to, either.

The Doctor tuts impatiently. “Not your fault,” shesays, her voice gruff. (That’ll work, right? Maybe that will be good enough tosmooth things over without admitting…other things.)

Rose shrugs. “It’s okay, Doctor. I was asking too manyquestions.”

“No such thing, Rose Tyler,” says the Doctor with agrin. Rose responds with a small smile of her own and that’s no good, that’s nogood at all, because the movement draws the Doctor’s gaze down to her lips onceagain—it’s just the movement, just the motion of them, she swears.

Doesn’texplain why you were thinking of kissing her before you took that drug, her brain sayshelpfully; the Doctor tells her brain, in no uncertain terms, exactly how manyways it can sod itself.

“Doctor?” Rose asks cautiously, and the Doctor hatesthat she’s the reason for the hesitation in her voice. “Are you okay, though?Really?”

“Really,” the Doctor says with a curt nod. “Nothing alittle downtime won’t fix.”

Wordlessly, Rose scoots over on her bed, making roomfor the Doctor. When the Doctor doesn’t move, too transfixed by the sight ofRose, in a bed, creating space for her in that very same bed, Rose pats themattress next to her. Discomfited, the Doctor opens her mouth to generate someexcuse or another, but at the hopeful look in Rose’s eyes, she quickly cavesin.

Just when did she allow herself to become so easilywrapped around Rose’s finger? (More importantly, why doesn’t she mind?)

The Doctor sits stiffly on the edge of Rose’s bed, herleather jacket squeaking with every movement. She doesn’t crawl into the bednext to Rose, but she does at least angle her body toward her—seems like itwould be weird, otherwise.

“So,” says Rose, her hands fidgeting nervously. “Thedrug was a bust? You couldn’t focus on anything after all?”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” the Doctor grunts.

“But if you couldn’t focus on the conduit thing, whatdid you end up thinking about?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

Rose nods, draws her knees closer to her chest.“Sorry, I’m being nosy again.”

“Can’t really be nosy when it’s got to do with you.”

Rose’s eyes widen, and only then does the Doctor realizewhat she said.

Damn. Doublebloody damn.

“I mean,” she starts to say, but what exactly shemeans, her tongue fails to elaborate. “It’s just—see, the thing is—you werejust—”

Oh, she should go. She really, really should. Shouldhave left a long time ago. Probably shouldn’t even have come in here. Probablynever should have ever returned to Earth in the first place, probably shouldhave avoided the Milky Way altogether—

“A distraction,” Rose supplies, but she doesn’t lookupset this time. Instead, she looks…thoughtful. Like she’s figuring somethingout.

Double bloody damn, indeed.

A slow, knowing smile creeps over Rose’s face. “Sowhen you took that drug,” she says, her eyes lighting up with the promise ofmischief, “you weren’t thinking about the conduits at all.”

The Doctor shakes her head. “No.”

“You were thinking about me?” Rose asks, as if she canhardly believe it.

Clearing her throat, the Doctor adjusts her jacket, justfor the sake of giving her hands something to do. “We travel together,” shesays, looking around the room at anything but Rose. “S’only natural you’d crossmy mind every once in a while.”

“Why were you thinking about me?”

The Doctor frowns. “Reasons.”

“What were you thinking, specifically?”

Now the Doctor glares at her properly, but Rose doesn’tseem even remotely deterred. In fact, if anything, she seems even moreinterested. Positively intrigued.

“You’ve got a lot of questions, haven’t you?” shemutters. “Too many questions.”

Rose’s grin widens. “No such thing—right?”

The Doctor scowls. Grinning ear-to-ear, Rose scoots backover on the bed, until she and the Doctor sit only inches apart, nearlytouching.

“Doctor,” Rose says, her voice teasing, “What were youthinking about me?”

She knows she should answer—a lie would dobeautifully; yes, a lie is just the ticket, the perfect reset button, anexcellent method of restoring the status quo, and one sits perched on the tipof her tongue just now, just waiting—but her gaze flickers down to Rose’s lipsonce again—perfect and plump and so, so close, certainly close enough for akiss; she’s fairly certain she remembers how, even if it has been a century ortwo—and maybe Rose hasn’t just got her own gravity, she’s got her ownchronology, too, because time certainly seems to be slowing, crawling by atsuch a glacial pace that the Doctor can make out each and every nanometer ofblush that blooms across Rose’s cheeks—

Before she knows it, the Doctor has swallowed the lie.

“Huh,” says Rose softly, with the air of someone whojust figured out something very important, and panic seizes the Doctor’sthroat. Time to bail, she thinks; it’s too late to quit while she’s ahead (shefell behind a long, long time ago, practically the second one Rose Tyler setfoot on this ship) but surely it’s not too late to cut at least some of her losses. If nothing else,maybe she can salvage a shred of her dignity. She would settle for twenty,maybe fifteen percent of her dignity.

But Rose moves just a little closer still, her eyestraveling over the Doctor’s face, landing on her lips, and the Doctor suddenlyforgets what dignity even is.

(Of course she knows that Rose has feelings for her;the Doctor isn’t that daft. She’s goteyes and ears, hasn’t she? But somehow she never let herself think—or hope—thatRose might have feelings for her.)

There are a thousand reasons why the Doctor shouldn’tdo this, but all of those reasons flutter out of her head the second Rosebridges the distance between them and gently presses her lips to the Doctor’s.

Instinctively, the Doctor stiffens, every muscle inher body going as rigid as a block of concrete. But her eyes still shutterclosed, her hands fist in the bedclothes, her hearts hammer painfully againstthe walls of her ribcage. Rose is so soft, so wonderfully warm, all pressed upagainst her shoulder as she tilts her head for a better angle. And her lips—well,the Doctor doesn’t like to wax poetical (she much prefers prose, she does), buther lips are the stuff dreams are made of, all tender and sweet and silky-smoothand just the littlest bit wet when they part at the end. The Doctor doesn’tbelieve in heaven, but if she did, she would believe it felt like this.

Rose pulls back with her eyes closed and cheeks pink.Gaze cast shyly downward, she asks in a quiet voice, “Was that okay?”

Playing for time, the Doctor licks her lips. (Horriblyineffective strategy, because she tastes Rose there, and that just makes herwant more.)

“I mean, for the hyperfocus thing,” Rose sayscarefully. “Like, did it help with that?”

Rose is giving her another out, the Doctor realizes.She can play this all off as drug-addled nonsense, if she so chooses. It’sanother chance to go back to normal, to pretend nothing ever happened, toreturn to life as she knew it before—a little sad at times, perhaps, isolatedand alone behind her walls, but safe. Resolutely, blessedly safe.

The Doctor’s eyes stray back down to Rose’s lips. Thisis it. Take that lifeline. Take thatchance—

She tilts Rose’s chin upward and presses a kiss to hermouth; it’s short and firm but it’s sweet and it leaves absolutely no room fordoubt.

“Oh, Rose Tyler,” she murmurs when they part, herthumb stroking Rose’s jawline. “Not even a little bit.”

Rose’s lips curl up in a smile; it might be one of themost beautiful things the Doctor has ever seen.

***

send me a [femslash] kiss prompt!

more fic

[percontaion-points]

Daredevil/Punisher Fanfics (10/30/21)

Only Daredevil/Punisher fanfics. New stuff is marked with a [NEW] before it.

Daredevil

Better Natures by etirabys Description: “Work with me here, Frank,” Karen snapped. “Make some sense here. Talk to me. We can’t figure out what our next move is until you explain why you’re so disgusted at the thought of my being attracted to you — an attraction which, by the way, I’ve never let interfere with our work or our friendship —“ “I’m not disgusted,” Frank said in a strained, calm voice. “You have ghastly taste, but I’m not disgusted. No. It’s just the feeling of having carried a torch for miles and miles in the dark and... having the sun come up.” Words: 37,579 Timeline: Post season 2, but it gets pretty AU-y with the zombies and shit... Pairing: Karen/Frank Minor Matt/Elecktra at the end Rating: Explicit Warnings: Graphic violence and depictions of gore, but I find that it's pretty standard zombie stuff... Frank kills some people, and so does Karen, but it's all in line with the show Graphic sex Mentions of rape

United We Purge by Jenye Description: "Just remember all the good the purge does." -- Evil runs Hell's Kitchen, but one night out of the year that evil is legal. || Kastle Purge!AU Words: 4926 Timeline: It's a Purge AU Pairing: Karen/Frank Rating: Mature Warnings: It's violent and bloody, but I wouldn't say that the violence level is any different than it is on the show. (And if I'd seen the Purge movie, I'd guess that it was the same level of violence, too.)

Songs About Daughters by homesickblues and StellarRequiem Description: She has two entirely different minds about this. Before, she hadn’t even given any thought to having a baby. Maybe when she was younger – dreamier – but when her life picked up in the city, she barely had time to spare a thought towards any of that. Her compass never really pointed in one direction. Not even when Frank, quite literally, bulldozed his way into her life. But now the concept of “future” and “family” glares back at her from the tiny piece of plastic she just peed on, and she can’t help but bury her head in her hands. Because the other mind she has about the scenario is Frank. __ Karen discovers she's pregnant, and it changes nothing, and everything. Words: 18,064 Timeline: Post season 2 Pairing: Karen/Frank Rating: Teen Warnings: There's some violence, but it's pretty tame in comparison to the show. You'll probably cry a bit, but in like... a good way

Fire Meet Gasoline by xenowhore Description: And then, insanely, it was nearing midnight and Karen was standing in Frank Castle’s bathroom looking at herself in the chipped mirror. She was wearing one of his old t-shirts and nothing else (it nearly came down to her knees) her blouse and pantyhose folded neatly on the counter, hair undone and falling in thick waves around her shoulders. She’d have raccoon eyes in the morning, no makeup remover here - soap was too harsh for her sensitive skin - but somehow she didn’t care. She didn’t care that her legs were so startlingly pale, that she didn’t have a toothbrush. These things seemed trivial when she considered that in moments, she’d be sliding between sheets that cradled a killer every night. Words: 9415 Timeline: Post season 2 Pairing: Karen/Frank Rating: Mature Warnings: Graphic sex

you're like a commotion, all because of me by whenzombiesattack Description: (You’re dead to me. You’re dead to me. You’re dead to me.) He finally fucked up. Words: 3160 Timeline: Post season 2 Pairing: Frank/Karen Rating: Teen Warnings: Mild violence

It's All Over but the Crying by angel_deux Description: Frank Castle went to sleep in 2077, the day the bombs fell. When he wakes up, his family is gone, and he has to learn to survive in the world that evolved from the ashes. Words: 14,507 Timeline: It's a Fallout AU Pairing: Frank/Karen, minor Frank/Maria Rating: Teen Warnings: There's a lot of violence, and we're with Frank as he watches as some guys kill Maria. Karen also kills some guy, too.

Blood and Bone by Skasis Description: Frank Castle is a boxer at the top of his game. Laconic and anti-social, he has a reputation for being an incredibly-tough interview. Karen Page is a sports reporter trying to prove herself in a male-dominated field. She's done playing games--trying to be the "Cool Girl" who caters to the male fantasy--and now she's on a mission to take no shit. "For a while, the fact that an interview with Castle lasting longer than 5 minutes even existed was big news. Splashed all over the message boards—circulated among boxing and Castle fans alike. The very concept that someone actually got the man to sit down for more than a breath of time and give multiple-sentence answers to a question—it was huge. Massive. It was the only thing Castle fans could talk about. Until three months later, when Frank Castle disappeared. Then that was the news. It was the only news." Words: 96,872 Timeline: Boxer/Sports reporter AU Paring: Frank/Karen Rating: Explicit Warnings: Graphic sex, it's a little bloody with the boxing and everything, Karen's dad is an a-hole This is really really long

Into the Woods by Skasis Description: Frank is a logger living a life of isolation up in the mountains of Seward, Alaska. Running from his grief, he has retreated so far into himself that he couldn't find his way out if he tried. Karen is an author who has rented the cabin down the way from Frank’s in order to get away and write her next novel in solitude. Having suffered severe writer's block, she's hoping that the quietude of Alaska will help her find her muse. After years of falling apart, the universe has decided that it's time for these two to fall together. "Frank watched her, with her head thrown back, fascinated. It had been a minute since he’d made anyone other than Curtis and David laugh. He was surprised at how easily it was coming to him—how relatively effortless it was to talk to Karen. He supposed, in part, it was because of her profession; he was sure that someone who spent most of their time studying people and writing dialogue would be a great conversationalist. But it also felt like he was dusting off the parts of him that used to be really good at this—the parts of him that were capable of making Maria laugh; were comfortable joking around. The parts that, while creaky and unused, were still there." Words: 84333 Timeline: It's a writer/mountain man AU Pairing: Frank/Karen Rating: Explicit Warnings: Sex, the constant talk of Frank's dead family made me cry

Office Space by Skasis Description: Dr. Frank Castle is a notoriously misanthropic physics professor, and he has the Rate My Professor reviews to prove it. Dr. Karen Page is a young, idealistic journalism professor who sees the humanity in everyone. When the Liberal Arts building floods, they are forced to share an office. He's all order and precision and logic. She’s all chaos and curiosity and emotion. But eventually, that line they drew right down the middle of the office starts to blur. Words: 48845 Timeline: University professors AU Pairing: Karen/Frank Rating: Explicit Warnings: Graphic Sex

I'm in the Ruins Too, I know the Wreckage So Well by theshipsfirstmate Description: A Kastle fic that weaves through the events of Daredevil season 3. Because of COURSE he was there. "Maybe it’s insane, that she thinks of Frank as the angel on her shoulder; but there was already a devil on her other one when they met. " Words: 7806 Timeline: It's season 3 of Daredevil, but where Frank is there the entire time Pairing: Frank/Karen Rating: Mature Warnings: Mild sex, violence but it's mostly just a recap of what happened on the show

breath of ash, bone of dust by qqueenofhades Description: Frank shrugs, almost diffidently, as if to say he’s glad to hear it, and he still isn’t used to anyone welcoming the sight. Maybe there are some, people who are old and ready to rest and who have lived a good life, who sit up and wait for him, on the nights he chooses to venture out of the underworld and take them personally in hand. But as they stand there face to face, him dark and rugged and grim and Karen pink-cheeked, flushed, blossoms trailing from a frozen tree and grass rising from the barren ground, the contrast could not be more striking. Winter and spring, death and life, hell and heaven. Then leaf subsides to leaf, and so Eden sank to grief. Kastle Hades/Persephone AU. Words: 25683 Timeline: It's a Hades/Persephone AU that's semi canon compliant Pairing: Frank/Karen Rating: Mature Warnings: Mild sex, there's two very intense death scenes that might be difficult to read (one is the death of a young pre-teen)

Seasons by CharmingProcrastinator Description: Karen had come back after a week away for a Women in Media conference in Chicago to find that Mrs. Sterner’s name on the mailbox next to hers had been replaced by an “F. Castle”, who evidently moved in while she was away. To her, he was only disembodied grunts and moans. They were bound to bump into each other, eventually. She had no idea how she was gonna manage to act like a normal human being when they did and not make a quip about maybe considering gagging his gaggle of girls, or make some passive aggressive request that he keep it down a bit when others were trying to sleep. Words: 21029 Timeline: It's kind of an AU, I guess? Almost the same but without the superhero nonsense Pairing: Karen/Frank, minor mentions of Elektra/Matt, and Marci/Foggy Rating: Mature Warnings: Talk of sex, but the actual act is glossed over (boo)

carrying by the restlessbrook Description: “Did you know that you’re pregnant?” Or, Karen will go to any lengths to protect her small family. Words: 69,676 Timeline: Post Punisher 2 and Daredevil 3 Pairing: Frank/Karen, minor Foggy/Marci Rating: Mature Warnings: There's the heavy implicaton of sex, but never actually on the page. There's a lot of violence, but it's like on both shows.

The Reporter by Underneath Description: Force Recon missions keep Marines isolated, entrenched for long periods in covert locations. They rarely received visitors, and in Frank’s long experience, the visitors were almost never civilians, let alone gorgeous blondes with mile long legs and sky blue eyes. Frank was trying not to stare. They all were. Well, everyone except Bill, who’s face had just split into a shit-eating grin. Words: 42645 Timeline: Slightly AU Pairing: Frank/Karen Rating: Explicit Warnings: Graphic sex, violence like on the show

a crooked love in a straight line down by HeartonFire Description: Frank Castle is a newly-divorced History teacher at the local high school. Karen Page is the single mom of a seventeen-year-old honor student on his debate team. Their paths cross too many times for it to be coincidence, and neither of them can deny the attraction they feel. But things can never be that simple, especially when Karen's ex comes back into the picture and threatens to upend the life she's built for herself. Words: 22908 Timeline: Teacher/student's mother AU (lol did you think that I was going to say student/teacher?) Pairing: Frank/Karen Rating: Explicit Warnings: Sex, mentions of Karen's rough background

you were a fire caught by therestlessbrook Description: They’re both hunters - but of a different sort. (Or that daemon AU no one asked for.) Words: 26110 Timeline: Everything is exactly the same, but everybody in this has a sort of soul-bound animal called a daemon Pairing: Frank/Karen Rating: Explicit Warnings: The story goes over things that happened in the show so it's quite violent and bloody. There's also some sex, but it seemed kind of... skimmed over.

1NEW1 Those Who Mourn by UnkindOfRavens Description: He wanted to live in her, bask in her goodness every second of every day, and then maybe he wouldn’t forget what it was to be part of the world. Maybe then he could cobble together enough of himself to feel solid. Maybe he’d remember how to live, then. Words: 2252 Timeline: The tags call it "canon-adjacent" Pairing: Frank/Karen Rating: Explicit Warnings: Graphic Sex

[20straveling]

Marie Kondo Runs the World

Spring Cleaning:

On the wings of Marie Kondo, many people have soared or crashed in the name of the KonMarie method. This high-volume spring cleaning has become the latest hit, inspiring the instagram teens, YouTube millennials, and even the odd mom or two to get started with full-fledged, “purge it all” cleaning.

The basic breakdown, for those that don’t live off of Netflix like the rest of us (good for you, enjoy that nature!), is the idea that all thing within your home should bring you joy and have a place. If they do not bring you joy or have a place, you thank them for their time with you and donate them or throw them away. Marie Kondo breaks up this cleaning into sub-categories of cleaning, to make things more manageable: clothing, books, papers, miscellaneous, and sentimental items.

I, although a lover of all things hoarding and cleaning (shows, and personally), did not immediately partake in this fad, and here’s why:

My brain, although much like the average brain, cannot clean in the way that she does — all at once, and huge decisions at a time. Although cleaning seems easy enough: “I’ve had this shirt for two decades, doesn’t fit, and I don’t wear it - I throw it away!” my brain sees the shirt differently: “this was my mom’s college shirt, and even though it has holes, I like having this piece of her with me (my mother isn’t dead, I’m just overly-sentimental — my “memories” box(es) are a nightmare).

When I clean, the little bits of trash has to be re-examined at the bottom of the bins because it might be a movie ticket that got smooshed or a graduation envelope that lost it’s card. The movie ticket I’ll keep, the envelope I’d trash. I’m very bad at blindly throwing things away — and for good reason! Just this weekend I was going to donate a bag, and I checked all the pockets real quick, even though I hadn’t used this bag in months, and a necklace I had been looking for had fallen into one of the side pockets! Had I donated that bag without checking, just in case, I would have lost a very important necklace.

Now, cleaning is very important for a happy home. And I am very aware of this. In the past three weeks (yes, it took me three weeks to clean less than 1k square feet of my apartment because I have THAT much stuff, and I’m tired all the time — turtle vs. the hare here, it still got done!) I was able to clear and organize and clean every room in my apartment.

This process, although yes, inspired by Marie Kondo, was done in what I dub the “Poudrier” method (or probably how most slightly crazy people clean). Because, as my mother terrifyingly knows, I do not clean in little bits, I clean in large messes.

Part One, Week One:

The panic. I absolutely hate to see everything out and disorganized and messy. Oh yes, the messy horder woman hates to see the disaster of her own making. Why? Because that is direct evidence of every time I’ve said “maybe I’ll want/need/use that” not becoming what I thought I’d want/need/use it for. And my little creative brain gets a little sad that the creativity didn’t happen. But that’s a discussion for another time - because we’re working on that too over here.

Part Two:

Jump in! My clothing, the part I hate the most because laundry happens more often than me cleaning my shower (yea, I’m resolving to work on that, because EW, that was gross this weekend) came first. I rounded up every article of clothing in my house, with the exception of winter scarves, hats, and gloves, and piled it onto my bed. I then went through each bin, box, bag, and pile of clothing until I had only what I knew I wore often, or would give second try left. The rest (4 trash bags full, not including shoes) were added to the donation corner of the dining room. The remaining clothes were stored, if winter items, hung up, if work items, or folded and put away, if casual wear. Amazing start!

Well, then life got in the way, and week one came and went with no progress further.

Part Three, Week Two:

The kitchen/dining room. Oh, how I dread my kitchen and dining room. And here’s why: they’re a shared space, with absolute minimal storage room. We have two above-fridge-height cabinets, two normal cabinets (where the top shelf is too high), and one row of under-counter cabinets that are ridiculously deep and impractical. We fight this disaster by having an armoire converted to cabinet space, and a couple of shelving units for pantry storage, but ho-hum that’s just messy looking! But we sorted through all of it, getting rid of platers and pieces that we don’t need, organizing the food so it makes sense, and converted our front entry closet (two feet from the kitchen) into a half pantry/half closet kinda thing. It’ll work for now.

Now, that was exhausting and there was other cleaning between all that, like the “guest” bathroom, and some more tidying in my own room, but, as we all could guess, I got tired of dealing with it, so we move on!

Part Four, Five, and Six, in Week Three:

Now, this last bit is 80% fueled by anger and 20% fueled by seeing the finish line. Although I live in a disaster of my own making, that doens’t mean it doesn’t exhaust me and stress me out every second I have this mess out. At the start of week three, I was so fed up with my own mess and the amount of time I’d wasted not getting it done that I decided to just dive in, take smaller breaks, and really get it finished with.

It took me a whole week to:

- do laundry and put it away

- clean out the living room and reorganize our large room-divider-shelf-unit-thing

- organize and sort through our paper pile that I’d been avoiding

- tidy and move the remainder of the kitchen items

- decided, preemptively, what furniture we’d be donating when we move

- organize and catalogue the storage boxes and what’s in them around the house

- take out trash/recycling

- load up the remainder of the donations into the car to be dropped off

- tidy up the last of bits laying around the house

KEEP IN MIND

We are in week four now (?) and I’m. Not. Done.

As terrifying and disappointing as that sounds, I happen to feel leagues better than I did when I started, my house looks so much more clean (although some areas, like storage, you can’t tell from visiting), and I’m actually somewhat looking forward to continuing this cleanse. Now, some of you (thanks for sticking to the end of this post) may be disappointed in my for not doing this all in a week, or even in two weeks! But let me tell you: this was the purge of all purges, and I’d don’t plan on having to get rid of this much stuff again for a very, very long time. This was the purge that wasn’t even supposed to happen until I moved again in December, but I bumped up the timeline because “spring cleaning” is an annual thing, and Marie Kondo was taking over the internet.

But, I know there’s more to be done - like window edges or baseboard dusting, but I’m hoping that now the majority of my life is in relative order, it’ll be easier to maintain the cleanliness for the remainder of my living spaces.

In other news: I repotted and fertilized my plants this weekend, and immediately vacuumed up afterwards (did this inside, on my couch, over my shag carpet - because apparently I really hate being rational). I’m becoming obsessed with plants and I may actually write about that next!

Happy cleaning!

<3 M