#i will chop off my head as an act of contrition for you

[1794]

I wish people still cared about desktop themes so I could do the randomized desc text thing I used to do Back In The Day. I feel like I could easily pull one good line from every song on stcaby

[chapelbat]

I will chop off my head as an act of contrition for you.

[cupcakefoggy]

Getting permission

I.V. League deleted scene - before he asks out Credence, Percival asks Seraphina for her blessing to date her student

By the time he was done with work that day, Graves had made his decision. The second he got in the car he pressed speed dial 3 and tapped his fingers impatiently on the steering wheel for two long dial tones before he got an answer. “Sera,” he said without preamble, “I want to ask out one of your students.”

“Hello to you too, Percy,” Seraphina said dryly. “Nice to hear from you. Yes, things are going well for me, how about you?”

“Cut the crap, Feenie.”

“Oh, that’s low.”

“You call me Percy, I’ll call you whatever the hell I want. Now. About that student. Can I hit on him or not? He’s in your accelerated program, so he’s got to be at least twenty-two.”

He could practically hear Seraphina rolling her eyes. “Seriously? Why the hell do you need my permission? He’s a nursing student, not a medieval princess whose virtue must be protected.”

Graves snorted, and then fiercely blushed, at the mental image of Credence as a princess. Then he sobered at the reality of the situation, which was about to come up very bleak: “Well see, the problem is, Sera, his clinical instructor is Gilderoy Lockhart.”

“Oh, that asshat? Why are you still letting him get in your head?” Seraphina scolded him. “He’s a decent nurse, but that’s about as much of your respect as he deserves, you know. Why would you even bother—”

“Because,” Graves cut her off, “if he thinks I’m whispering in the kid’s ear, he could make life very difficult for Credence, and I just want some—God, I don’t know, some kind of assurance that you won’t kick him out of the program for dating me.”

“Really? Is that—oh, Jesus Christ on a donkey,” Seraphina complained, and Graves could just about see her shaking her head, rubbing her temples the way she did when she was tired or pissed off. “This is a college, Graves, not the damn military. If I threw out a student every time they had something going on with a Macusa employee, the nursing shortage in Michigan would be so bad they’d have to let CNAs pass meds. Now, if you’re that worried about potential fallout, either hold off until we change around the instructors next semester, or just keep it on the down-low until then. Are we done here? Because I have applications to look over.”

“Yes, we’re done. Thank you, and I’m sorry I interrupted your work,” he said, a little contritely. He hated that he’d made her mad. But the purpose of the call had been accomplished.

“You know, for what it’s worth,” Seraphina told him, her voice softening a little, “I think it’s amazing that you actually want to date somebody.”

“Ah, come on now—Mary and Joseph, Sera, do we really have to—”

“Shut up and listen. This is me talking as your friend of twenty years now, Percy, not as your ISON liaison. What’s it been, four years?”

“Five,” he corrected her reluctantly.

“So you’ve been living like a monk for five years. Jesus, Graves, please tell me you see how that’s unhealthy.”

“I know, believe me I know.” Graves sighed heavily. “In my defense, what happened to me is not…it’s not something you just…get over. You know that.”

“I do,” she assured him quietly. “I was there with you. I remember how much pain he caused you.”

They were both quiet for a long moment, remembering that awful day. Graves cleared his throat after a good minute or so and said roughly, “Sera, please don’t. It’s in the past, I’m trying to leave it there.”

“I’m sorry,” she said softly. “But for what it’s worth…I really do think it’s a good thing, you having strong enough feelings for this kid to act on it. I’m not trying to bust your chops here, you know.”

“I know. You’re just being you, and I appreciate it.” He meant it. There was a reason that he and Seraphina had been friends as long as they had. “Listen…if you could just do me a favor, and not tell…well, anyone, but especially not Lockhart…I mean it when I say I don’t want him to know purely for Credence’s benefit. Rational or not he hates me, and if he takes it out on someone he knows I care about…”

“If you can keep a secret, so can I,” she said briskly. “Now go court your princess, Romeo. I have actual work to do.”

“You know Juliet wasn’t actually a princess, right?”

“Good-bye.”

Graves laughed as he hung up the phone. Then he sobered as the realization sunk in that…shit…now he actually had to figure out how to ask that sweet, shy little thing out without scaring him into the next century.

Well. This was certainly going to be interesting.

[coffeestainsandcashmere]

hi hi hi, please can i prompt something a lil bit angsty (because i do adore my angst). the first serious fight that theo x draco x hermione have, and maybe how they make up after? thank you.

I loved loved LOVED this prompt, and I’m sorry it took me so long to get round to it. If it’s any consolation, it’s nearly 4k words long...?

Featuring: Draco being the grandiose nobleman he was brought up to be, Theo unthinkingly going along with it, one EXTREMELY tired Hermione who is absolutely not up for surprises or grand, showy, romantic gestures, Hagrid, Fang, Firenze the centaur, and a dollop of fluff to wash the fleeting angst and misunderstandings down.

Hope you enjoy it!

___

After the longest week, with barely a moment to catch her breath, burning the candle at both ends, all Hermione wanted to do on Saturday was sleep, read up on a few more things for an upcoming Ancient Studies test, perhaps lounge in the boys’ room down in the Dungeons, and perhaps convince one of them to give her a massage. Simple, humble plans, every last one of them.  

But the universe, apparently, had other ideas, given that it had seen fit to make the busiest week of term so far culminate not in an ordinary weekend, but in Valentine’s Day.  

Wizarding and Muggle alike the world was awash with pink hearts and red roses, and Hermione wanted nothing to do with it. She never had, and she knew that both boys were unfortunately prone to grand displays of affection, and that made her anxious and snappy. She’d spent most of the previous week - in the cumulative half hour that she’d actually spent in their company - trying to hint and suggest heavily that she had no interest in grand surprises and romantic endeavours. The most romantic thing someone could do for her was respect her wishes, after all.  

Quite deliberately, she’d not made any concrete plans to see the boys that Saturday, helped by the fact that Draco had an extensive Quidditch training session scheduled and Theo had some work to catch up, but after she’d woken at her usual time anyway, and had lain there for an hour, praying for sleep that wasn’t going to return, she got up. Her mother had always said that if you can’t rest, do something productive.  

The Great Hall teemed with excitable younger years, one or two unfortunate howlers, and a plethora of Exploding Envelopes filled with glittering confetti hearts from Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes, and she turned around and left before even bothering to step inside. It wasn’t that she hated the sentiments behind Valentine’s at all, but honestly, it just felt rather cheap and the thought of it all simply… exhausted her further.  

Without pausing or returning to the Tower, she made the split-second decision just to bolt out into the grounds and found herself eventually at Hagrid’s hut. He was outside chopping wood and Fang was busy sneakily lapping tea out of the bucket-sized mug that Hagrid had set on a spare stump. The enormous hound looked up suddenly as she caught him in the act, but then gave a low, baying woof of welcome.  

“‘Allo, ‘Ermione,” Hagrid said with a grunt and a little puzzled frown as he straightened from his work. “Good te see yeh. What brings yeh down ‘ere at this time o’ day?”

She shrugged. “Got any jobs I can help with?” she asked instead and he raised an eyebrow and chuckled.  

“Don’t see yeh swinging this around…” the half-giant laughed, hefting the axe that looked like it weighed five times what she did.  

“Preferably not,” she said. “Though I’m not opposed to using magic to get it done.”

“I think I’ve got a few jobs we can do together,” he said. “Fang? Let’s go see Uncle Firenze, eh?” 

They spent the day in the Forbidden Forest with the centaurs, a rare opportunity that Hermione relished, gathering wild mushrooms that only grew in the very depths of the forest and bringing them back carefully in a covered basket for the potions storeroom, among other rare ingredients. She also spent a long time walking with Firenze, the pale centaur quizzing her about the state of the wider wizarding world now, and she in turn asking him questions about the more rigorous sides of the art of divination. The three of them, four if you counted Fang snuffling about in the undergrowth, ate a packed lunch of cheese sandwiches which Hagrid drew out of his top pocket, only slightly misshapen and squashed, and afterwards Firenze showed them some rare, early-spring berries that tasted like pomegranate but had the texture of blueberries.  

At last, her physical exhaustion matched her mental tiredness, and by the time they returned to Hagrid’s hut an hour from sunset, grubby and a little sweaty, she felt fit to fall over.  

“Thank you, Hagrid,” she said, pushing a strand of her ‘witch of the wilds’ hair out of her face, only for it to spring back again. It was so big at that point that a hippogriff chick could probably have nested atop it in perfect comfort. “I needed the distraction.”

He bowed in quiet understanding. “Any time, ‘Ermione. Yeh know that.”

She blessed him silently for not asking any more, and with a nod and a final pat on Fang’s head, she turned her steps towards the castle with no more thoughts in her head than for a long soak in a bath and an early night.  

Again, the universe apparently had other ideas.  

Pacing the entrance hall like his caged namesake, she found Draco looking breathtakingly smart in a set of charcoal grey dress robes and shiny black Oxfords. When he looked up and spotted her, his face did something complicated, the final expression settling on relief, and he came over to her in two quick strides.  

“Where the hell have you been?” he barked, scowling. “Look at the state of you!”

“Out and about in the forest,” she said tersely, hackles rising at his tone. “I didn’t know I needed to report my whereabouts to you, Draco…”

“You —” he began but he broke off and took a breath. “You don’t. Of course you don’t. But I’ve been looking everywhere for you. Theo too. He’s gone to Gryffindor Tower to ask for you again. You weren’t in the library and no one has seen you all day.”

“Why?” she asked. “It’s not like we made plans…”

Draco went still at that, his cheeks first paling and then flushing.  

“Did we?” she pressed, hand on hip, now quite certain that they had not. “Oh god, Draco, don’t tell me you’ve got something dramatic planned for Valentine’s, and you haven’t told me because you wanted to surprise me?” She pinched the brow of her nose. “Please… I told you how I feel about that kind of thing…”

When he spoke again, his voice was cold, defensive, even haughty. “Actually, yes, I do. I wanted to do something nice for you today, and I’d appreciate it if you went and washed the thestral shit off your skin and the twigs from your hair, and changed into something nice. I know you know how to dress up, Granger.”

The frayed end of her metaphorical tether slithered into sight and vanished utterly, and she gasped, “You’d ‘appreciate it’, Draco? Well, you know what I’d have appreciated? Being asked!”

“I’m asking you now,” he said petulantly.  

“No you’re not!” she shrilled back at him. “You’re demanding. This is the classic, old Draco - ‘Go and change, Granger’, ‘dress up nicely, Granger’.”

Draco balked visibly but ground his jaw. “I’m sorry,” he snarled, sounding more frustrated that contrite. “But we’re going to miss our booking, and I’d really like to make it. Please… will you go and change?”

She nearly said yes. Damn her, but she nearly said yes.  

Even after the week from hell, with tutoring sessions and tests and homework and prefect’s patrols, she nearly said yes.

But this time, Hermione Granger was going to stand up for herself.  

“No, Draco, I won’t. I’m exhausted, and all I wanted from today was to relax, have a bit of time to myself, and spend the evening in the bath and then in bed. If you’d told me instead of just assuming I’d go along with whatever grand gesture you’re pulling out of your arse, then maybe I’d think differently. But you don’t just get to order me around like I’m some pureblood debutante to decorate your arm for the evening, Draco. Goodnight.”

And with that, she stormed up the stairs, leaving an astonished and fuming Draco at the bottom, his face revolving through a series of expressions and colours.  

She passed Theo on his way back down and he almost didn’t spot her as he scuttled down the staircase looking equally and devastatingly handsome as Draco had. “Hermione?” he asked, skidding to an ungainly stop and having to grab the banister to support himself as she charged past him.  

“Ask Draco,” she said over her shoulder. “But whatever it is, I’m not going. You two should go and indulge your penchant for lavish evenings on each other.”

“Fuck. I knew it,” she heard him hiss, but to his credit, he didn’t follow her either.

Hermione fumed all evening, and even the bath did nothing to calm her down. Despite her agitation, however, she did sleep soundly, the exertions of the day robbing her brain of the ability to over think itself into ever tighter and tighter circles. Sometimes she could see how far Draco had changed in what would be a year this May, but other times he defaulted to his pureblood upbringing; to the son of a nobleman, used to having people do his bidding without question. She tried to be patient, but at times like this, it irked her more than she would have thought possible.  

The fact that this was their first major falling out - sure, they’d had little misunderstandings and had snapped at each other before now - was also a major contributing factor to the free-floating stress and anxiety coursing through her. What if he never learned to ask instead of demand? Was that the kind of person she wanted to spend her life with? And Theo had been Draco’s boyfriend before he’d been hers. Would he always just go along with what Malfoy wanted? Doubts chased each other like kneazles and bats in her brain when she woke in the early dawn, until she thought she might go mad.  

Malfoy really had been a wonderful boyfriend so far, but he was undeniably prone to bouts of showy, melodramatic romanticism. Her mind conjured images of the diamond necklace he’d gifted her for Yule, and the staggeringly expensive watch he’d gifted Theo, and she struggled to brush them away. He’d come a long way, and he’d changed a lot, but some things took their time, and she doubted whether other things would ever change.

When she stepped out of the Fat Lady’s portrait the next morning, she ground to a halt and almost walked straight back into the tower before the portrait could swing shut. She didn’t, however. She held her ground and stared at Draco who was sitting on the floor with his back against the wall, looking like he’d been there all night. The charcoal grey robes were the same, if dishevelled, the shirt open at the collar. Merlin, he really had been camped out there all night.  

He levered himself to his feet and stared at her sheepishly. “I’m sorry,” he blurted before she could open her mouth. “Hermione, I’m so sorry. I wasn’t listening to you at all, and I should have asked, and I never should have just… presumed like that. I’m so sorry, Hermione.”

She stared at him. “So you know why I’m angry.”

“I didn’t ask,” he said immediately. “And I didn’t respect you. I knew that what I was doing wasn’t the right way to treat you, to show you… but I wilfully ignored that and went ahead with it anyway. I was a giant ass and I’m sorry I hurt you.”

His handsome face looked ashen and wan, his eyes pink behind the silver of his irises. He also carried the sleepless smudges of a night spent in a draughty corridor beneath his eyes.  

Looking around, she asked, “Where’s Theo?”

“Hiding,” Draco said bashfully. “And brooding. It’s awful. Sitting here on the floor all night was actually preferable to being around him.”

Fighting a smirk at his humour, she asked, “Did the two of you go last night?” Wherever it was they’d planned to take her.  

Draco’s brows dipped into a deep scowl. “Without you? Of course not.”

At that, she did twitch her lips. “Go and change out of last night’s robes, Draco,” she said gently, well aware that that was one of the things Draco had said to her, sparking the argument off in the first place. “And take a shower while you’re at it.”  

“Hermione —” he began, taking an aborted step towards her, but he swallowed thickly and nodded. “I’ve said what I wanted to say,” he added dejectedly, and turned away to walk down the corridor with his head held in a distinctly un-Malfoy bow.  

Before he’d gone two steps, she reached out and latched her fingers around his wrist. “I’ll see you in the Great Hall in a bit for some breakfast, ok?”

With eyes wide and achingly vulnerable, Draco tried out a little smile on his worried lips. It didn’t stick, but at least it had been there. “Ok. Thank you.”

She rolled her eyes as he walked off, hands in his pockets. “Such drama,” she said as she turned to find the Fat Lady watching their exchange with avid interest.  

The Fat Lady popped another chocolate into her mouth as if it were cinema popcorn, and giggled. “Young love,” she crooned. “I’ll enjoy telling Violet all about this later on! You mark my words. You know,” the portrait added thoughtfully as Hermione started to walk away too, and the witch halted immediately.  

“Know what?” she asked, warily.  

After another chocolate and a quick giggle, the Fat Lady said, “He tried every trick he could think of to get me to let him in. I know very well who he is to you, but I very nearly had to leave my painting in frustration. He kept it up until at least two in the morning.”

“When Draco sets his sights on something, he’s very difficult to dissuade,” Hermione agreed. “Thank you for not letting him in. I wouldn’t have welcomed his presence last night. I was still too angry with him.”

The Fat Lady looked horrified and said, “As if I’d let someone in that wasn’t supposed to be here!”

“I didn’t mean it like that,” Hermione said. “But thank you all the same.”

With a soft ‘harrumph’ around another praline, the Fat Lady nodded.  

Theo was already in the hall when she entered, and she spotted him almost immediately. He was stirring his ceramic tankard of coffee listlessly with his spoon and staring into it like it held the secrets of the universe.  

“Drama queens, the both of you,” she muttered fondly to herself under her breath. Ignoring the Gryffindor table, she turned her steps towards the Slytherin one.  

Her presence there was now not such a surprise that most people ignored her approach without comment, effectively giving her the chance to sneak up on the lone Slytherin, sliding into the space on his right before he’d even realised she was there.  

“Morning,” she said in a low voice, and he nearly jumped out of his skin. The spoon clattered against the mug and coffee slopped over the sides as his fingers released it unbidden.  

“Hermione,” he breathed.  

His whole face was a question, and she laughed. “Yes, I’ve spoken to Draco, and yes, he’s still got his pretty face and both his bollocks.”

“What about his cock?” Theo joked reflexively, nervously.  

“You’ll have to find out later, won’t you?” she deadpanned without looking at him, reaching out to pour herself a mug of tea from a nearby pot.  

After a pause, in which Theo vanished the spilled coffee that had pooled around the base of his own mug, he asked, “So… how badly did we fuck up yesterday?”

She took a sip of her tea and added a splash more milk before responding. “Not going to lie, I was really annoyed with both of you for just assuming I’d be ok with being whisked off to wherever without a moment’s warning. I hate surprises, and you both know it.”

“Yeah…” Theo admitted.  

“So what were you thinking?” she almost shrilled. “That it’d be different if it came from you? That I’ll magically stop hating surprises just because they’re from you two?”

Theo half-shrugged, half-twitched, and said, “Kind of… Look, Hermione, I’m not trying to excuse us - we didn’t listen to you, and that’s the bottom line - but…” he broke off and ground his jaw for a moment.

“Just spit it out, Theo,” she said, turning and resting her elbow on the table to regard him properly.  

“We were raised in a different world from you, ok? From most witches and wizards actually. Purebloods like us are expected to behave in certain… coded ways with the women we’re… courting.”

“‘Courting’?” she snorted, unable to help herself.  

Adopting a sycophantic, over the top manner, he gestured and said, “Wooing, of whom we are seeking the favour, ingratiating ourselves… making our intentions known…”

“Shut up, you pompous prick,” she laughed and his face cracked into a tentative smile.  

He was clearly relieved to find laughter in her reaction, not anger. “So…” he continued in a more normal tone, returning his hands to the table and running his thumbnail along the grain in the wood, eyes downcast. “So… there are certain behaviours we kind of default to, and… honestly, there are certain behaviours that the women in our circles also expect of us. Big, showy, romantic gestures being one of them. You should consider yourself lucky you didn’t wake up to a room full of messenger owls all hooting imperiously and bearing enormous bunches of the rarest roses on earth or something…”

“I suppose I should,” she said, beginning to see it now from their point of view.  

“A pureblood wizard is expected to show that he can take care of the witch he intends to —” he cut off and swallowed, freckles briefly disappearing behind a rising flush. “—to court. That there’s nothing on earth he couldn't provide for her at the drop of a hat. I think we just… we just wanted to show you that we’re serious, but… we may have underestimated the calibre of the witch we’re dealing with here…”

“Maybe just a little bit,” she said dryly, and then sighed. “Did Draco really spend all night outside Gryffindor Tower?”

“Yup.”

“Big, showy, romantic gestures, huh?” she said, plucking a croissant off a nearby platter and tearing one end off. “I’m half expecting him to come in here with a single white rose in his hand,” she scoffed, looking up to find that Theo eyes were now fixed on a point just behind her. Draco had apparently arrived then.  

She saw his pale hand reaching down to the table out of the corner of her eye and when he picked up a silver spoon, she closed her eyes and laughed softly to herself. A tingle of magic nearby told her what he was doing, and sure enough, when she turned around to look up at him from her seat, Draco stood there with a single, transfigured white rose in his right hand.  

“Unbelievable,” she said, rolling her eyes again.  

Silently, Draco held it out to her and she took it. It smelled like summer evenings and she exhaled.  

“Apology accepted, Draco,” she said, glancing around. “Now sit down. You’re causing a scene.”

He slid onto the bench on her right and stared at the empty plate in front of him for a moment, hands resting elegantly on either side of it.  

She reached out and placed her palm over his, feeling the slight twitch beneath as their skin made contact. Hermione squeezed his long fingers until he looked up at her, his eyes shining and his face wracked with a complex mixture of emotions that she had no hope of deciphering.  

“Theo and I talked,” she said. “And he may have pointed out to me a certain ‘difference in upbringing’ that went some way towards explaining why you went to the lengths you did yesterday.”

“I still —” Draco began but she cut him off.  

“We’ve established already that you could have opened your lugholes a little sooner, but I feel like we’ve also moved on from that. It came from a place of love and good intention, and as such, I’d like to propose a compromise.”

At that, Theo and Draco both gave her their absolute and undivided attention and curiosity.  

Stifling a smirk, she said, “I don’t know what it is you had planned for yesterday, and frankly at this point, I don’t ever want to know. But how about we go into Hogsmeade next weekend and have dinner together. I’ll know it’s coming and what to expect, and you two can argue over who foots the bill if you want to make it a romantic gesture. Or we can split it three ways.”

“Absolutely not,” Draco said instantly and something hot flared inside her at that. “I meant splitting the payment three ways,” he added bashfully, seeing where her mind had gone instead.  

At that, the tension shattered and she tipped her head back and laughed, gripping his hand for support as she leaned almost perilously far back. Theo put his hand between her shoulder blades just in case, and half the Slytherin table began to stare at them.  

Theo leaned in close and said in her ear, “You’re causing a scene, dear Hermione.”

She squeezed Draco’s hand and let out a long, slow sigh as the laughter faded. “What am I going to do with you two?” she said, shaking her head.  

“Be patient…?” Draco all but begged, mumbling into his coffee. Where Theo took his black, Draco piled cream and sugar into his until it was barely recognisable as coffee in the first place. She smirked fondly to herself as she contemplated his ridiculously sweet tooth, and wondered if, with his penchant for apples, he also liked sour sweets. Perhaps she’d get Harry to owl her some Haribo to try out on him.  

“Hermione?” he asked, looking up at her. His skin was so pale it was like marble in the soft light of the Great Hall, and he looked eerily like the statue of a saint at a shrine in that moment, all hope and tentative expectation.  

For her answer, Hermione slid her left hand into Theo’s, and then reached up and took Draco’s chin in her right hand, turning him by his sharp and now-just-perfectly-pointed chin. His eyes were wide, gleaming, silver mirrors, fixed unyieldingly on her own.  

Hermione held him there between thumb and forefinger, and as she pressed a searing kiss against his pale lips, she felt Theo’s grip tighten on her left hand.

___

If you enjoyed, please reblog and share! I’m new to the fandom on here and appreciate all the help I can get!

___

writing masterlist | Ao3

[shirtlesssammy]

8x22: Clip Show

Then:

Cas almost gets hit on by Dean 

Now:

Lost Creek, Colorado

A couple are at a cabin in the woods, and the woman is so happy that her boyfriend finally joined her. He acts like it’s no big deal but we flash back to a memory —specifically of Supernatural season 1, episode 2: Wendigo. He’s Tommy and has some serious PTSD from the terror he experienced that night in the woods.

He thinks he hears a growl and pulls his girlfriend away from the window. He knows that a Wendigo is outside and pulls out a flare to take the unseen monster out. He crumples to the floor and then just explodes right in front of his girlfriend. Eeerp.

At the bunker, the brothers continue to find records that the Men of Letters have kept over the years. Sam’s not doing so well due to all the Trials. He’ll feel better once they finish them.

Cas shows up in the war room, and it appears that Dean and Cas didn’t follow the golden rule of not going to bed angry. Dean doesn’t even acknowledge the angel. Cas is still convalescing. He sits down to talk with Sam a bit about the trials. Dean comes back with food for Sam—well, jerky, beer, and peanut butter cups. 

Cas offers to go with Dean for more food, but still gets the cold shoulder. “I’m sorry.” “For what?” “For everything.” Classic DeanCas, lol. (Brb, off to throw myself off a cliff.) Oh wait there’s more, Dean calls out Cas with the whole bolting with the angel tablet and adds, “You didn’t trust me?” 

THESE BOYS ARE NOT IN LOVE:

Cas is contrite but Dean is not accepting his apology. Sam stays out of it all for a bit but interrupts eventually to pull Dean aside to make it clear that Cas is one of the good guys. What’s that saying? Dean’s harder on Cas because he loves him the most? Well, meh, I do like their later seasons of grumpy banter more than the divisiveness of right now.

In any event, the brothers head to a storage room. 

Sam wants to find a case that their records mentioned. He finds the box, and Dean finds a dungeon! Sam’s box contained a movie film.

They set up the movie (They even made popcorn, guys!)

It’s an old black and white film of the Men of Letters. Josie, the woman that Abaddon possessed, is filming the experiment. They have a demon captured in the very dungeon the Winchesters just discovered. They throw holy water on the demon, recite an incantation at it, and then one priest cuts his hand and presses it on the demon. It flares out, apparently gone. The film stops. It was weird (!!!) One of the priests is still alive and Sam thinks it’s a good idea to get the lowdown on what they just watched on the film. Cas wants to go too but Dean won’t hear of it. (Brb, flinging myself off another cliff. DO NOT LIKE.)

Cut to the brothers meeting with the priest. He tells them that the other priest believed that demons could be saved. He thought that they could cure the demon and they could be a normal human soul again. There were other experiments after that one attempt, and then the priest ended up dead a couple months later. Something had torn him apart. Sam tries asking about records but goes into a coughing fit, complete with blood. He heads to the bathroom while Dean continues to talk with the priest. The priest agrees to give them the other priest’s papers.

Meanwhile, Cas is on a mission to make up with Dean. He’s at a Gas ’n Sip and pulling all the essentials to make Dean like him again.

Ways to woo Dean Winchester:

Beef Jerky

Porn

TP

Beer

Protein

AND Smiting the sap who can’t provide the pie

Cas almost smites the poor attendant. Metatron interrupts. They need to talk.

He wants to talk about Heaven. It’s apparently a mess up there without the archangels. Naomi isn’t in charge as much as she’s led Cas believe. Cas blames himself for everything that’s happened in heaven. (URGH, no! —I mean, yeah, but NO). Metatron thinks they can buddy up and save the day! They can sort everything out. First, they need to shut down Heaven. Then he mentioned crepes and flies away.

At the bunker, Sam can’t find Cas. Dean doesn’t care (URGH, no!) They decide to watch the last audio recording before the priest died.

Once again, there’s a demon in chains. This time, the priest injects the demon with purified blood. He continues to do this 8 times. And the demon seems to be cured. 

They decide to try the experiment out on their own decapitated Abaddon.

Meanwhile, Cas flaps over to Metatron’s brunch location, a cute restaurant with an outdoor patio overlooking the water. It’s a perfect place to relax!

Iconic dialogue alert: 

Waitress: Cool coat.

Cas: No, it's actually quite warm.

Waitress: Cute and funny. Okay…

Metatron: I should have picked a better looking vessel.

You’re not here to accidentally flirt with the waitstaff, Castiel! Cas asks for clarification on Metatron’s quest to close the gates of Heaven. Metatron waves it away as just another godly safety switch - you’ve got one for leviathans, demons, and Heaven, of course. Metatron tells Cas that it’s time for a heavenly lock-in to work out all their feelings. And he needs Cas, the warrior, to do it. Cas owns to feeling responsibility for the current state of Heaven but recoils when he hears the first trial. He’ll need to cut out the heart of the cute waitress, the sole nephilim on earth. (Pronounced in this episode as neph-IL-im.) “What’s more important?” Metatron asks. “Her life? Or your family?”

With season 9 under my belt, I watch Dean and Sam sewing Abaddon’s head on with particular horror. Like, you took on the Mark of Cain to defeat her, Dean Bean. Which led to a whole bucket of depression and sad men. Nobody likes buckets of sad men. (JK obviously I love it or what am I even doing here?) What a spectacularly bad idea! Still, it wouldn’t be my beloved show if characters were making smart choices. Abaddon wakes up, cracks her stitched neck, and greets them with “Morning, sunshines.” 

“I can’t wait to tear out those pretty green eyes,” she says, lovingly. The Winchesters smirk, drawing her attention to her handless state. (They chopped off her hands - or maybe just left them detached.)  “I’ll stump you to death,” she says and...that’s the spirit, Abaddon! She knows about the priest and his work curing demons. In fact, she was a special dispatch straight from Hell to make an example of him. The priest led her to Josie and possessing Josie helped her dismantle the entire Men of Letters network. Yeesh. 

The phone rings. It’s Crowley! Abaddon is appalled to learn that Crowley is the King of Hell. Dean and Sam leave the room to talk to Crowley and FOR THE LOVE OF GOD BOYS they leave Abaddon alone. 

Outside, the Winchesters chat with Crowley. He directs them to some news stories, “sexts” them an address, and bids them farewell. They discover that Crowley’s been putting out hits on people the Winchesters have saved. 

While Crowley’s giving them the news, Abaddon makes like Thing from the Addams family and puppets her hands out of the loosely closed box on the table.

Her hand crawls into her mouth and pries out the demon trap bullet. It’s freedom time, mofos. 

The Winchesters return to find Abaddon gone. You FOOLS! Sam keeps his eyes on the prize, though. Crowley’s latest address is from their “witches and baked goods” case and is clearly a trap. Time to make a play to catch themselves a different demon. 

Prosperity, Indiana

The power’s out in the target’s apartment (and so are the cupcakes! yum!) Unfortunately, Jennie’s body is also out - sticking out of the oven, that is. “You were a great gal, Jennie Klein,” Dean says and...okay? Great mourning, everyone. 

Crowley calls them up again. He’s killing off everyone they’ve saved (and using the books as a reference guide) until they deliver the demon tablet to him. 

Metatron and Castiel stalk the waitress outside her place of work, Metatron goading Cas to make a choice. Urg. It’s just the bad decisions gang all around. She whirls around to confront them and saves them the trouble of introductions. “I could see your halos.” (I start to hum Beyoncé to avoid thinking about this next part.) Metatron calls her an abomination and she begs to be allowed to just live her life. (She apparently works twelve hours shifts as a waitress, for heaven’s sake. It’s not like she’s exploiting her power.) Cas looks disturbed, apologizing even as he advances on her. She throws him across the grounds like he’s nothing and then advances on Metatron. Castiel kills her from behind. Oof. 

The Winchesters race to the next location, only to discover Sarah - the art dealer Sam flirted heavily with several seasons ago. She’s staying in a seriously adorable hotel room, with actual art on display. Dean greets her like he’s just dropped by for a casual visit. OMG Dean. Sam briefs her on the plan. Devil’s traps at all the exits, shotguns, and an exorcism ready to play on loop. We learn that Sarah’s married with a kid. (Sam gets a peek at what-could-have-been.) Sarah tells him that he’s changed - he’s more confident and grown up. She misses the old haircut. Awww… 

Crowley calls and starts counting down and when he reaches zero, Sarah starts to choke. She collapses. “You son of a bitch!” Dean shouts. “Son of a witch,” Crowley clarifies - his mother taught him a few useful spells. The Winchesters start tearing apart the room to try and find a hex bag. Crowley continues his villain monologue: he’s keeping all things hell-related far away from the Winchesters - no more demons getting close enough for them to kill. 

“I think the people you save, they're how you justify your pathetic little lives. The alcoholism, the collateral damage, the pain you've caused – the ONE thing that allows you to sleep at night, the one thing is knowing that these folks are out there, still out there happy and healthy because of you, you great, big, bloody heroes!”

I mean, when Crowley’s right, he’s right. 

Sarah dies. Ugh. UGH. Crowley gives an ultimatum: they stop their quest to close Hell or people keep dying. In rage, Dean hurls the phone across the room. When it breaks, they finally find the hex bag. (Me: But okay she only stopped breathing a minute ago? Start CCR and call 911!)

Back at the bunker, Sam is Not Okay™ and does not respond well to Dean’s attempts to cheer him up. Sam, who continues to look awful and exhausted, suggests giving in to Crowley. “We’ll kick it in the ass like we always do,” Dean insists. Rousing speech, babe. 

We fade to black, with everyone we love on dark paths of one kind or another.

______________________________

I NEED Quotes:

Well, that was weird with three exclamation points.

I NEED pie.

I can't wait to tear out those pretty green eyes.

First things first – what are you wearing?

You’d better find him toot-bloody-sweet. 

I know this is insane, but insane is kind of what we do.

______________________________

Want to read more? Check out our Recap Archive! 

[lezliefaithwade]

David & Goliath

My grandfather, on my Mother's side, immigrated to Canada from Italy in the 1950's. For years I thought I was Italian until one day my Mother explained that her real father (who was Danish) had died when she was seven and that Ralph was actually my grandmother's “companion”. At seven I had no idea what a "companion" was, nor did I care. All that mattered was whether I would inherit his talent for cooking and gardening.  As a child, Italy seemed like a mythical land filled with beautiful palaces and amazing desserts.

When I finally had the opportunity to visit the land of my grandfather's birth, I made it a point to seek out all the places I'd heard about as a child. So, it was, that while I was in Florence, standing in front of the statue of David I was suddenly reminded of an episode in grade 9 when for three solid weeks I was bullied by a fellow student three times my size who I believed would destroy me.

In the Old Testament, the story goes that David, who is just a boy, takes down the 6'9" Goliath with nothing but a sling shot after King Saul, supposedly over 6' himself, is too afraid to challenge the giant on his own.

As I stood there examining the statue, I couldn't help wondering why Michelangelo had sculpted the boy to be so huge when Goliath was the giant?  At 17 feet, David stands three times larger than an average man. Is his size a metaphor for his bravery?

Growing up, I never considered whether I was brave or not until the summer before my thirteenth birthday when my parent's separation marked me (at least in my mind) as an oddity. I was the first one I knew of to come from a broken home, and to me, this was a truly embarrassing fact. I was ashamed of what I perceived to be a major failure on the part of my parents, and worried that everyone would think less of me because of it.  I wanted my family to be idyllic and though they were far from that, at least while we were all under the same roof, I could pretend. To save myself the embarrassment and shame of having to explain to kids I knew why I was no longer living at my old house on Belmont, and instead in an ugly apartment building across town, I opted to attend an all girl’s Catholic high school where no one knew me. For almost three months, I lied about where I lived. I pretended the apartment building I walked to every evening after school was where I babysat someone's kid. I never let on that my parents weren't together or that I was struggling with the reality that they were headed for divorce.

Catholic girl's schools, I soon discovered, harboured two types of young women. Those who longed for small classroom education among a female community of likeminded individuals, and those whose parents were forcing them to attend a school they hoped would reform them. Possibly attending Catholic school was a last resort ordered by the court. In any case, I was soon the target of gang terrorism brought about by answering questions in class – namely in English where I seemed to excel in understanding Shakespeare. Somewhere between The Merchant of Venice and Romeo and Juliet I became the object of abuse. Short and obnoxious, I was an easy target for a small but imposing group of girls who were significantly bigger and louder. The leader of this particular gang of delinquents was an overbearing, unusually tall girl named Susan Podansky. Susan had thick brown curly hair and a large set of yellow teeth that filled her face when she smiled. Not that her smiles were warm and generous. When Susan smiled, there was foreboding in the air.  She reminded me of the witch in Hansel and Gretel licking her chops as she prepared to eat everything in her wake. Her neck was thick, her hands were large and her voice was low. “Guess who’s going to die tonight?” she’d whisper in my ear as I scurried from Math class to Science. The whole time I was dissecting my frog I imagined my innards splayed across the grass beyond the school.

It occurs to me now, many years later and infinitely wiser, that there was nowhere for Susan and her gang to actually pommel me. The school was small and well supervised and the yard was too. Unless their aim was to be caught, there was no way they could beat me up and get away with it. At the time, this logic escaped me. Instead I cowered in classrooms, stayed late for extra help in things I was already excelling at, and volunteered for everything from library duty to bible study. If something needed to be scrubbed, painted, sorted or filed, I signed myself up.

There were rumours going around about Susan and her gang. They set fire to garbage cans. They stole from variety stores. One of them had a friend who’d been decapitated on the roller coaster at Crystal Beach. Each story was more shocking than the one before. What started out as careful avoidance, turned into full blown terror.

Ironically, I’d known Susan in grades 3 and 4 when I had attended Holy Family elementary. I was not Catholic, but the school was close to our house and my mother deemed it more convenient than the public school that was a good deal further away. My parents were never concerned about what rubbed off on us. During the day I learned about the Virgin Mary and the Holy Ghost and after school my mother played Rock and Roll albums and allowed me to read, Mad Magazine, and Creepy comics. Susan had been in my class back then. She was already bigger than the rest of us, but harmless. Once she even invited me to her house. I remember her mother was pleasant enough as she cooked something in the kitchen that smelled foreign and delicious.  Most of the kids at Holy Family were Irish or Italian, but Susan was Polish. To me that made her exotic. But then again, I was the daughter of Wasps attending a Catholic school. Everything was exotic to me. In the two years we shared a classroom at elementary school, we’d never clashed. In fact, in a childish act of solidarity, we both called Mrs. Flint, a substitute teacher, Mrs. Flintstone and were called to the office. We were equally contrite and that was the end of that. What prompted this new vitriol, aside from a seemingly innocent love for Shakespeare, I’ll never know. Whatever it was, her threatening demeanour was scary and all consuming.

At home, my mother couldn’t help but notice that I was at school later than usual. I’d enter the hallway out of breath, eat dinner, then retreat to bed. After a week of this she coaxed the truth out of me with cupcakes and before I knew what I’d said, she was on the warpath. This was exactly what I didn’t want. I’d been warned by Susan that if I snitched on her, she’d make my life even more miserable. I begged my mother to leave it alone, but she was determined. My mother had lived with an abusive step-father for a time before Ralph, and bullying wasn’t something she tolerated.

The next day I was called down to Sister Rita Mary’s office where two seats were arranged in front of her desk. I could see from half a mile away that large head of messy hair belonging to Susan. I timidly entered and sat down next to her. Sister Rita Mary smiled, “It’s come to my attention that there has been some nuisance between the two of you.”

Nuisance? Between the two of us? I could see where this was heading.

“It’s my belief that you just don’t know each other well enough, so my solution to this misunderstanding is to arrange for you to sit next to each other in all of your classes from now on.” Then, with a smile on her face she dismissed us from her office and closed the door.

Susan grinned, “This oughta be fun,” she announced. “Guess who’s gonna have a funeral?” And then she galumphed off to class.

Sitting beside Susan was excruciating. In math she broke my pencils. In English she poured ink on my assignment. But it was art class where she really crossed the line. I’d been working on a painting for several weeks and had almost completed my masterpiece when she and her gang “accidentally” spilled paint all over the canvas. “Oh, sorry!” she feigned, and then left me to absorb what had just happened while the teacher insisted I stay and clean up the mess.

Two other girls in my class – Vicki and Sarah shook their heads in disgust. “This can’t continue.” they stated. “That girl has to be stopped.”

“I agree,” I muttered as I crawled about the class on my knees cleaning tempra paint off the floor, “But how?”

That afternoon at lunchtime the three of us hunkered down at a table in the cafeteria to eat. No sooner had we settled when Susan came bounding over, knocked my tray off the table proclaiming me a moron and warning, “Better watch yourself tonight.”

I could feel my face flush and the bile rise in my mouth. I’d learned one thing from comic books, and that was how things were never what they seemed. The meek were often strong. The strong were often scared and bullies could be undermined. Before I knew it, Sarah was standing.

“What did you say?” she asked her.

For a moment I saw Susan blanch. She was shocked. This was unexpected. All she could manage to say was, “What?”

“You heard her, " Vicki demanded, also now standing. They looked like two Davids' to Susan's Goliath.

"What's wrong with the baby?" Susan taunted, "Needs other people to stand up for her?"

"No," I said rising to my feet, "I can stand up for myself."

She hesitated. Everyone was looking at us. Even the lunchroom nun was staring in disbelief.

“You'd better watch yourself.” Susan growled just low enough for my table to hear.

“Or what?” I asked

Susan just stared at me.

“Or what?” I repeated, “You’ll kill me? Beat me up? Hit me? Bury me? Why wait until tonight? Come on. Get it over with. Do it. Come on. You want to hit me? Hit me.” I was on a roll. Words were ammunition from my slingshot and I was on the attack. Next thing I knew, Vicki and Sarah chimed in.

“Yeah,” they echoed, “You wanna fight? Let’s fight.”  

Susan blinked. The cafeteria was eerily quiet. All eyes were on us.

“You’re not worth it,” Susan grunted, as she backed out of the lunchroom alone. And that, was the end of that.

For a moment, I felt 6' tall knowing that I had faced my biggest fear and somehow come out the better for it.

Vicki turned to me, "One Goliath down." she smiled. "Listen, I'm having a sleep-over this Friday. Ask your parents if you can come?"

This was the moment. If I could stand up to Susan, I would finally have the courage to say, "Just have to ask my Mom. My folks are separated."

I waited for the judgement that never came. Instead she simply said, "Cool. I'm adopted. Come by at 7:00."

[ragecndybars]

14 w blazing blade trio pls,,

Absolutely BLESSED ask Yurei

14. sitting on someone’s lap

“…Hector,” Eliwood said from behind him, sounding both amused and bewildered at once. “What exactly are you doing?”

Hector’s eyes flickered back towards him for only a second before dismissing him. “What does it look like I’m doing?” he responded gruffly, burying his chipped iron axe into the trunk of the tree in front of him.

Eliwood huffed out a laugh. “Okay,” he chuckled, “maybe I asked the wrong question. Hector, why exactly are you doing that?”

Grunting nonchalantly, Hector pried his axe from the tree and took another swing. “I’m tired and it’s wet here,” he answered, as if that made any sense. With a mighty heave, he once again wrenched his axe free, shooting a quick glance over his shoulder. “You’re tired, too,” he stated matter-of-factly. “Hold on a minute. I’m almost done.”

Raising an eyebrow, Eliwood silently watched as Hector continued chopping at the tree, embedding his axe slightly deeper into the wood each time. His eyes strayed to the side, searching for the rest of their company, but the fog was too thick to tell how close they were – or how far they’d strayed. Even Merlinus’ brightly-colored wagon was swallowed by the mist here on the Dread Isles.

They really should’ve been helping set up camp, and Hector didn’t seem to have any real reason to be chopping down a random tree, too soggy to be used for firewood, instead of lending a hand. He’d spent his entire life dealing with Ostian nobility and their tendency to be unnecessarily cryptic, though, and he’d become accustomed to just taking Hector and Uther at their word. So, with a shrug, Eliwood accepted the vague not-quite-answer and leaned against a nearby tree branch to wait.

“Y’know,” he remarked as he watched his oldest friend work, “if you’re so tired, then you should probably be resting in camp, not giving yourself more work.”

Hector grunted noncommittally. His axe cut into the tree with ease, the wood splintering and creaking around it.

Eliwood furrowed his brow. “Uh, Hector… I sure hope you know what you’re doi–”

“Timber,” Hector interrupted, and the tree came crashing down, hitting the ground with a thundering crash and a gross squelch of mud.

Eliwood made an embarrassingly high-pitched yelp, which he would deny until the end of his days, then cleared his throat. “So, did you have a reason for doing that, or…?”

Rather than respond, Hector grabbed the newly-felled tree by one of its branches and dragged it aside, placing it next to a still-standing tree. Then, with a beleaguered sigh, he practically collapsed onto its trunk, lazily discarding his battered old iron axe and propping Wolf Beil up next to him. The log was thick enough to support him in all his armor, but the poor tree’s few branches were spindly and weak, and several of them snapped off.

“I needed a place to sit,” he said simply, sagging down into a slouch. “Gods, I’m sore.”

He couldn’t help it; after a brief moment of silence, Eliwood burst out laughing, quickly slamming his palm over his mouth to contain a series of snorts and chortles.

Hector glared at him half-heartedly, though he didn’t bother sitting all the way up. “Shut up.”

“H-Hector,” Eliwood wheezed, voice muffled through the hand over his mouth, “you could’ve just sat on the ground.”

“I would’ve got a ton of mud in my armor, then,” Hector grumbled. There were already a few layers of dried mud crusted over his greaves which would be an absolute pain to wash out, and he had no intention of giving himself more laundry to do.

Finally managing to stem his flood of laughter, Eliwood stepped towards his friend, though he kept his hand up to hide his grin. “We’re setting up camp right now, Hector. You could’ve just waited a few minutes to get your tent and cot set up.”

Hector waved the idea off. “The cots and tents are gonna be drenched, if the state of Merlinus’ wagon is any indication.”

“That log isn’t exactly dry,” Eliwood pointed out.

“A bit of wet bark is better than a ton of mud or a sopping-wet sleeping pad,” Hector responded with a shrug.

Eliwood snorted. “Alright, Hector. Whatever you say.” Unfastening his sheathed rapier from his hip, he leaned it up against the log next to Hector’s axe, then squatted beside him. “Oswin is going to be cross with you, though.”

Opening one eye, Hector shot him an odd look. “Eliwood, my man, I didn’t chop down this tree so you could squat in the mud,” he said simply, opting to ignore the remark about Oswin. Sitting up just slightly, he patted the log next to him invitingly, his gauntlets clanking.

Eliwood shook his head. “Thanks, but I don’t have armor like you,” he muttered, gesturing vaguely to his tunic and trousers. “Forget wet beds – if I sit down, I’ll end up with a sopping-wet backside for my troubles. And… well, I didn’t exactly pack a change of clothes.”

For a moment, Hector just stared at him with one eye, his expression completely blank. Then, with a soft snort of his own, he closed both eyes again, leaning back against the standing tree behind him. “Fool,” he muttered fondly.

With that, he reached out, grabbed Eliwood by the collar, and yanked him forward.

With yet another surprised squeak that he would never acknowledge again, Eliwood scrambled for balance, automatically wrapping both arms around the nearest solid object – Hector – and trying to get both feet on the ground. Only when his boots were planted firmly in the mud again did he realize that he was now seated in Hector’s lap.

“Hector!” he scolded, his face going crimson, but Hector just grinned, shooting him a half-lidded sidelong glance.

“You said you didn’t want to sit on the log, didn’t you?” he drawled, wrapping an arm around Eliwood’s waist to steady him. “Well, problem solved. I mean, you don’t seem to mind.”

Suddenly aware of the fact that not only was he awkwardly perched on Hector’s lap, but he was also still clinging to Hector’s shoulders for balance, Eliwood hastily let go, instead crossing his arms firmly over his chest. “Hmph,” he grunted, turning away deliberately.

Hector laughed heartily, his arm tightening a little around Eliwood subconsciously. It didn’t escape his attention, though, that, for all his pouting, Eliwood made no attempt to remove himself from his lap.

Someone cleared their throat, and both boys startled, heads snapping up.

At the edge of the clearing, only half-visible through the milky fog, stood Lyn, looking like she wasn’t sure whether to be amused, stern, or just vaguely confused.

For a moment, they just stared up at her as she surveyed the scene, taking in the felled tree, the battered old axe, Hector’s lazy slouch, and Eliwood’s rigid posture and awkward position. Then a sort of smug grin spread across Lyn’s face and she snorted, breaking the silence.

“Let me guess,” she said. “That loud noise I heard was you cutting down a tree just so you’d have a place to sit, the first shriek I heard was Eliwood when the tree fell, and the second shriek was Eliwood again when you pulled him into your lap. I get everything right?”

Hector stifled a guffaw. “Uh. Yeah, that about covers it.”

“I do not ‘shriek’!” Eliwood shrieked, shooting them both an indignant glare, but Lyn only laughed, crossing the clearing until she was standing before them, hands on her hips.

“You two should’ve helped us set up camp,” she scolded lightly, but the grin didn’t leave her face. “Oswin and Marcus are very… not pleased with you.”

That, at least, earned a wince from them both. “Er… yes, I suppose they wouldn’t be,” Eliwood muttered, already envisioning the lecture that awaited him once he returned. ”How can a boy your age still be so irresponsible?” and “Any number of things could’ve happened to you” and ”You need to act in a manner befitting of your station, milord.”

Hector must’ve been imagining a similar lecture from Oswin, because he looked somewhat contrite for the first time in his life. “Well,” he muttered with a disgruntled shake of his head, “I guess that’s just all the more reason not to go back to camp yet.”

“Do what you want,” Lyn responded with a casual shrug, stretching her arms above her head. “Me, I’m going back to my tent. At least it’s a little warmer there.”

Eliwood made a soft, distressed noise, and she paused. “No, come sit with us!” he insisted, shifting around in Hector’s lap until he was comfortable.

Lyn huffed out a laugh. “I’m sure you two are having fun, Eliwood,” she teased, gesturing vaguely to their somewhat awkward seating arrangement, “but I don’t want to get soggy bark all over my clothes.”

Hector and Eliwood met eyes, identical expressions of childish glee on their faces.

Before Lyn could react, each boy grabbed one of her wrists and pulled, and she toppled into Hector’s lap with a surprised yelp.

“Gah! Oi, let go of me!” Immediately, she began to struggle half-heartedly, finding her balance much quicker than Eliwood had and swatting at Hector’s chest, but she was laughing all the while. “You idiot, we’re all gonna fall!”

“We will not,” Hector scoffed, adjusting his hold on Eliwood and leaning further into the log. Eliwood shifted to accommodate, and, for a moment, all three wobbled around in a tangle of limbs as they tried to find a position that was both stable and comfortable for everyone. Finally, they ended with Eliwood sitting on one of Hector’s legs, leaning against the larger boy’s chest, and Lyn perched on the other, her own legs draped over Eliwood’s lap.

Giggling helplessly, Lyn pressed her forehead to Hector’s shoulder. “Let go!” she laughed, pushing half-heartedly at Eliwood’s arm.

“We will not,” Eliwood replied in a faux-serious tone, struggling desperately to keep his expression somber, despite the grin that was trying to emerge. “There is no escape. You’re stuck here with us forever now. I hope you like listening to Hector badmouth the other Lords, because that’s all… he… e-ever–”

Before he could finish, he burst into laughter, and simply remaining seated became a challenge as each guffaw threatened to send him topping. “Th-that’s all – he ever – talks about,” he wheezed between laughs, clutching Hector’s neck for dear life to keep from falling.

Hector chuckled, and, with his ear pressed up against Hector’s collarbone, Eliwood could hear the laughter rumble in his chest. “At least I’m not so concerned about keeping my butt dry,” he ribbed, elbowing both Eliwood and Lyn in turn.

“H-hey,” Lyn giggled, “not all of us can wear full armor all the time, you fine fool!”

“You can too,” Hector replied, “you’re just cowards!”

That sent all three of them into a fit of hysterics, and they huddled even closer together, laughing like madmen. Were it not for Hector’s arms around them and the tree behind his back, they probably would’ve fallen unceremoniously into the mud below. As it was, they just clutched each other tighter, the felled tree creaking ominously underneath their weight.

[zydraholic]

the paper chase lyrics that just hit different (from someday this could all be yours vol.1)

And we'll spit shine our shoes and push down our cowlicks / And tailor our suits and suck in our stomachs / And try to ignore that we're all aboard the Titanic (the extinction)

And I'll mash my foot down on the gas of any black cat that cross my path / Than to risk it or to lay them in my lap / We keep our umbrellas down here, we toss the salt behind our ears / 'Cause the good looks weren't worth our seven years (the forest fire)

We're gonna keep a lighter to it even while it burns for you / And I'm going to heaven with or without you (the forest fire)

I'll bury a bible in these halls and I'll bury a black cat between the walls / Good luck, Godspeed, God damn you all (the forest fire)

So would you drink after me? / I've been a good boy, I'm squeaky clean / A pretty please in the motel, the snails without shells / In sickness and health, in sickness and health (the epidemic) 

So would you sleep where I sleep? / In with the bed bugs and bad beliefs / I don't mean to make it seem / Like we're salmon upstream / But are you afraid, are you afraid of me? (the epidemic)

The laying of hands, and the speakings in tongues / All invading properties, insipid entering entities / I command you to leave this body (the mass hysteria)

I beg all bumbling bees / Turn against their keepers and sting / All the honey that's running is blood due / The smoke's a joke I keep playing on you (the comet)

I'm a lightning bolt, I'm a toy that chokes / Open hands will open throats / I'm a single flashing curse that finds you in the universe (the lightning)

Your wool smells brown with burn / All shepherds eat their herd (the lightning)

The lightning rods are the fingers of God / And I'll have you pictured in my head / All of you butchered in your beds (the lightning)

'Cause God only knows how cold it's getting / And by His design, He must know we're starving (the blizzard)

The fruit is falling 'cause the tree is rotting, my dear / You were a good mare for the state / But you're no longer needed here / Go back to your coup / I will chop off my head as an act of contrition for you (the tornado)

There are bags of blood here waiting / The sheeps are with our wolves / Come to the light, the light seems safe / We have ways to make you talk / And sheeps can safely, sheeps can safely graze (the human condition)

But I am horrified that you will say it's meaningless / A cosmic joke on me / Someday this will all be yours / We're gonna get what we came for (the human condition)

[khazadspoon]

The Letter

(how many ficlets will @bean-about-townn inspire??? idk but it’ll just keep happening)

He was at sea when the news came. Miranda did not meet him at the docks as she usually did when word of the Walrus' sails reached her, and James made his way to their little house in silence. He was closer to figuring out how to free Thomas, how to become whole again. The Urca wasn't a dream any more; it was tangible, it was a goal he could reach and grasp in his hands-

Miranda was at the table when he entered. Her eyes were dry but her face pale. Her hands shook as she held the letter out to him. Barely half a page, hastily written, smudged and dampened in places.

"My dearest Miranda," it said, "I hope this letter finds you well though I loathe to write the words. Word has reached me from the Royal Hospital. Thomas was found yesterday, October 10th, dead in his cell. I am told it was suicide, he took his own life. Forgive me; there was nothing I could do. I'm sorry. Peter Ashe."

James stumbled, his hip knocked the table and his breath turned to fire in his lungs. Blackness formed, took over his vision, the fire spreading and turning to ice in his veins.

"James, James I-"

He fell to the floor. He couldn't breathe, the world had gone dark and he was breaking. Surely it was a lie, a falsehood to keep them safe, Peter was a friend and Thomas was fine-

Miranda was weeping, had come to kneel beside him to gain comfort, or maybe to give comfort. He couldn't see Herve couldn't feel her, could only feel the pieces of his broken heart shattering even more and scattering to the wind. 

He screamed. He screamed until his throat was sore and the sound was little more than a whimper.

He had left Thomas in that hell to rot. He had left, saved his own worthless hide and lied to them all. He had convinced himself that saving Thomas was within his power, that he had any control over what happened, but-

Thomas was gone.

What was there left in the world for him now?

He didn't sleep for a week, Miranda begged him to eat or sleep but he couldn't. When he closed his eyes Thomas was there; bleeding from his wrists, a rope around his neck, asking "why James, why did you leave me?"

One evening he went to the basement of the house with his pistols. The taste of cold metal, faint gunpowder and his own despair filled his mouth as he pressed the barrel to his tongue.

One movement and he would join Thomas. Just a press of the finger...

But then he thought of Miranda. What would become of her alone in this wretched place? She would be in more danger without him than with, despite his apparently cursed life. He let the pistol rest heavy in his mouth for another moment, breath coming slow and steady, before putting it to the ground beside him. He trudged up to the kitchen and found the knife Miranda used for cutting meat and sat in the doorway.

The long strands of his hair were soft in his hand, he wound the queue round his fist once and raised the knife, began to roughly chop until he had his hair in his hand. He threw it into the remains of the fire and gagged at the smell.

A small act of contrition.

In the morning Miranda shouted at him, sobbed, clutched at his back as he held her and for the first day in a week he shed no tears. He kissed the top of her head and swayed gently.

"I'll get the scissors, you- you've made a mess of the back," Miranda said through the tears.

She straightened the haggard lengths, stroking his neck and shoulders in between the snip-snip of the scissors.

Thomas had loved his hair... he would spend hours running his fingers through it, kissing it's ends and tugging it to make James moan and gasp.

But no more.

"There... somewhat respectable now, for a pirate. Shows off your earring, too," Miranda said under her breath.

Flint stayed silent. He kissed her hand, shivering with the grief he had decided to keep locked down in his chest, and set to deciding how best to enact his revenge on the world.

[solarpunk-hellscape]

Hara-kiri kids come kill yourselves Slice your throats and spurt the blood Paint a wall cloud weather cell A vortex of self Put your tongue in the mouth of the old funnel cloud, adel I have become pregnant with myself Bloated bellies distended out like corpses sweat and swell We fucked ourselves We let our thighs fall to each side of the cyclone they sell And there will be no pie graphs or charts to speak of No slogans for the repeating No silver bullet was shot No hand over heart, no X marks the spot No catchphrase for stars a-feignin’ No big letter writing campaign No fanfare fills up the room No interviews, no big kaboom The fruit is falling ‘cause the tree is rotting, my dear You were a good mare for the state But you’re no longer needed here Go back to your coup So I can chop off my head as an act of contrition for you I sleep in my clothes, 'cause nobody knows When the shit goes down, we’re gonna turn this thing around I’ll keep tying my shoes, 'cause there’s no telling when you… everybody now! We’re gonna turn this thing around I sleep in my clothes, 'cause nobody knows If it will touch down, we’re gonna turn this thing around I’ll keep tying my shoes, 'cause there’s no telling when you… everybody now!!! Everybody now!!! The whistling, winding trees, the boiling of the seas We know what you are The hum of coming trains, the connection we can’t maintain We know what you are, we know what you are

[localbats]

"I love you like a lion loves its kill / and I will touch you like a doctor, just lay still" and "you were a good mare for the state / but you're no longer needed here / go back to your coup / I will chop off my head as an act of contrition to you" both make me shiver

why does nobody appreciate john congleton he’s like a musical genius hello?

[rksin]

The fruit is falling 'cause the tree is rotting, my dear You were a good mare for the state, But you're no longer needed here Go back to your coup I will chop off my head As an act of contrition for you