#this is post dog rolling in dead mole

[georgecostanxa]

covered in grass seeds

[tehriel]

I saw your post about taking writing requests and wanted to try my hand! If it doesn't vibe with you and you don't want to do this request, that's ok!! My request: Phantom x gn!reader where it's a rainy, stormy day at the ministry and not much is happening so Phantom and reader find something or more than one thing to do to entertain themselves throughout the day? Thank you so much if you do decide to do this!! Wishing you a good day/night <3

I got you friend~

Made Phantom chaotic bored and seeking attention.

Was a fun write~

It went very spicy, so over 18 please my friends and the mature-rated is below the line but the explicit is on AO3

Reader is afab non-binary, body bits do be described in the explicit, if that gives the ick, completely understandable

Hope you enjoy it c:

The wind was an unhappy banshee. Less of an ominous howl against the windows of the ministry and more of an “AAHHHHAAAHHHH EEEEEEEEE,” followed by dog whistling. Rain threw itself at the ornate roofing. The sky was straight up, slapping the cathedral, and it stood proudly at the top of its hill, flipping off the storm clouds with the inverted cross atop its steeple.

Phantom sighed loudly and rolled onto his stomach, eating a face full of antique ministry rug. He was very close to the open fireplace. Ghouls loved a fireplace—it wasn’t that they were feline, more that cats were demonic.

“You good bud?” You placed your warm mug down to ask.

You didn’t get an answer, so your eyes left the page of your book to see he’s raised a thumb. His Switch had run out of battery only ten minutes ago. The ministry may have been defiant to the last—but power lines were only ever looking for a reason to go down.

“What am I doing with my life?” His voice was muffled on the carpet.

Ten minutes and he’d already hit an existential crisis. It might be a record. “You and I are ghouls doing very important house-sitting while everyone else is on tour.” You scanned for your reading spot and wriggled into your nook of the leather couch, finding it.

“What do I dooooo?”

You put your finger on your spot, “At least one of your guitars isn’t electric; play some Wonderwall or something—dudes love playing Wonderwall.”

He rolled to the side, and his big calf eyes had gone dull. “Come on, you know I love Wonderwall—so rude.”

You smirked into your book; you did know that.

He harrumphed, stood up, and sauntered toward his den.

What a creature. You knocked down five pages before you heard the beginnings of Wonderwall—he’d be content for hours. But he wasn’t. He strummed quietly for a while, then he sang—then sang it again loudly. Whatever he was looking for, it wasn’t a wonderwall.

Despite all this, you got lost in your salacious book, and your tail lazily batted the couch.

‘Tucker tucker tucker tuck’. They were ghoulish, skittering, sock-covered footsteps on floorboards. You didn’t look up—he tracked down the hallway and back again. His steps caught speed, and then you heard him slide against the polished floor. “New record!” You heard him cheer at some point.

You were determined to read this book to the disgustingly raunchy finish.

“Hey, _____.”

“What’s up, amore mio?”

He didn’t say anything.

You sighed, tracked your spot in your book and looked up from it again. “Love?”

Phantom looked you dead in the eye, sitting on the coffee table. His light grey skin was speckled with cute moles. His noir haircut let it flick in any way it pleased.

 He bit into a banana, skin on, halfway up the shaft. 

He chewed it.

You blinked and went back to your book.

You heard him gag.

You wouldn’t laugh—you saw what he was doing then. Your sweet puppy-eyed ghoul was looking for attention. You would usually indulge, but perhaps your devilish nature was showing tonight.

“______, come dance in the rain with me~” he jumped up after a while.

Thunder shook the defiant building. “I don’t think that’s rain; I think it’s a power wash setting,” you murmured to your pages.

“Sounds fun~”

“Sounds wet.”

“No, you sound wet,” he said childishly.

“Do I?” You wouldn’t crack a smile, “While it is that kind of book, Amore, I’m nowhere near the good stuff yet.”

His eyes narrowed on the cover as if he’d named it his rival. “Can’t be that good…” he muttered, and you heard him walk behind your couch to pry.

You skipped back to some pages you’d read the night before that had… left a lasting impact.

There was some time before all he said was, “I see.” But his voice was not alright, so he pulled away quickly.

“You good, Tom?”

There came only grumbling as he disappeared.

Things eventually began heating up in your book; you got a fair way in before you heard ‘tick….tick…..tick’ behind you on the stained glass window. You begrudgingly pulled yourself from your smutty dream world to look over and through the pane. 

Phantom was out there in the rain throwing small rocks. He saw you look, and you watched him spin in it and splash in a puddle. He was right; it did look fun. You couldn’t be tempted. You didn’t negotiate with terrorists. You did watch him for a while, his black tail streaming behind him as he ran. Phantom knew he was cute. Endearing dork. Sometimes, you just wished he’d tell you what he actually wanted, not what he thought you wanted—it seemed he was all too used to ignoring his own needs and feelings. He was a bit of a hopeless case.

You loved him. 

You turned back to your book—whatever he wanted, he could ask for himself.

It was some time before you saw him again. You heard him drip back into the room, then some wet rustling and the slap of wet fabric landing on the coffee table.

You glanced to see his back was bare, silhouetted and sat by the fire as the world had grown darker, dripping wet from the rain. His hair was weighed down and stuck to the back of his neck as it trickled down his back. So that’s how he would do it?

Then the little shit shook himself out, sending water spray everywhere.

“Eh! Phanta!” You squealed.

“Oh, sorry, ______,” he grinned apologetically over his shoulder, his sharp teeth glinting.

Your eyes narrowed. He did have a pretty back; it was speckled with freckles and had cut shoulder blades. He wore his black uniform pants low. You might have wanted to run your fingers against that defined spine of his. But this was a taunt.

Using a degree of willpower, you shifted your gaze back to your book, and whatever happened in the pages only got hotter—well, that was unhelpful.

You felt his weight against the couch as he came to drip beside you. Your nose crinkled from the wetness of it, but you relaxed anyway. Then you felt his big, wet head rest on your shoulder. Dark eyes trailed your book while black claws grazed your thigh.

He was a ghoul that needed a lot of care and attention. You knew this. It was very hard not to give in to it.

After a lengthy admission of feelings, the too-perfect male heartthrob was getting on his knees before the geeky boy who had helped him overcome his academic failures. You swallowed. You knew Phantom was reading too. His tail flickered against the couch. You turned the page. His claws at your thigh dragged rougher.

“_______,” he whispered softly.

“You okay, my love?”

He didn’t answer. 

You found the point in the book that you were up to, pointed to it, looked over, and drowned into the dark depths of his eyes. 

His brows were knitted.

You knew what he wanted—he only had to ask.

He looked down and shook his head, “I’m good.” He stood and walked away.

You sighed, watching him return to his den. Did he not think you wanted him? When he appeared again, you would crumble for him—he was only torturing both of you at this point.

That time never seemed to come. You finished one of the raunchiest sex scenes of your life, and you looked up to find he was nowhere to be seen. There was only the angry rapping of rain against the church’s facade. You placed your bookmark in your book—so this was his next ploy, then? You would have to go find him?

You tracked the phantom puddles like ectoplasm towards his den. Your eyes adjusted to the darkness of his room. His den was a cacophony of stolen gems from an abandoned Halloween store in town. It smelled like licorice all sorts, and caramel apples on Halloween night. He was on his gothic four-post bed with its red and black velvet lashings. Guy just wanted to be Legosi’s Dracula. 

His back was to the door, bare spine curled, the point of his tail hidden and likely in his hands.

It looked like he finally died of boredom.

“Phantom?”

He huffed.

“There something you wanted?”

He didn’t say anything.

It was like approaching Howl in his castle while he moped. The bed dipped as you came to sit beside him. “What do you need?” You prompted again.

You watched his wet, saggy head shake.

Ah, darling. “You want me to go?”

His head finally shifted to look at you. Of all the puppy eyes. He whispered your name, his chest rising as his breath deepened.

“Phantom,” your brows drew. You were going to give in—he had to know you wanted him, and still… he had to trust you would catch him if he took that leap. You shook your head and began standing; he’d given you no answer.

“Stay.” He caught your wrist and shoved you to the mattress hard. You heard his heart leap at what he had just done. His eyes went a little wide. 

You looked up at him, just as surprised as him at what he had done.

“Uh… sorry…” his brows drew. “I’m… not sure what I’m doing with myself. I feel like I’m going crazy.”

“You did try to eat a banana with the skin on,” you nodded up at him.

“I don’t think that was too far outside the realms of normal for me.”

“Yeah, you’re probably right,” you chuckled. “You feel like telling me what you want yet? You know you just have to ask, right?”

He hummed and hid his face in the crook of your neck, hair still damp against your cheek.

“Tom?” You ran a hand over his nape.

“I want you,” he muttered. 

“What do you want to do with me, Amore?”

His only reply was to graze your neck with his teeth—suppose that’s all you would get. The book had left you feeling hot and sensitive; you swallowed, and he drew a soft noise from your chest.

The lightning tattooed the image of his body looming yours against your eyelids.

“Did you not think I wanted you?” You ran your claws down his back, making him shiver against you.

He huffed. “My brain is not always my friend,” he admitted and licked at your throat.

You traced fingertips down his abdominals and lower. “What is it saying now?”

He searched your eyes; it seemed he was deliberating whether or not to say something. “That you’re too kind for your own good… that you would do this with me out of pity.”

“Pity, hm?” Your heart hurt for him. “Think your brain underestimates how fucking selfish I am,” your smile twisted to show your teeth. “I sent the sisters fucking home to the convent so you’d only look at me.” You growled, and your tail flickered against his calf.

His pointed ears turned violently red. “Oh.” His body heated against yours.

“I’m not usually so territorial,” you clawed softly at his back. You weren’t with the other ghouls in your pack. “I want you to tell me…”

“I want to taste you, and I want you to…” You saw the labour of his breath in his shoulders over you. “Cum on my cock.” He withdrew from your throat to find your eyes. His had darkened to pitch, “I need it _______.”

Finally. 

[mememan93]

Hey! I’m in a hug sksw mood lately, any spare headcanons or anything? Sorry to bug you lol

don't apologize!!!!!!! I love getting asks!! (i'm gonna mix headcannons and theories here)

- So after the events of Sksw, Link and zelda really like music and instruments, link tries to build new ones, zelda learns as many as possible

-one of the things link builds becomes the spirit flute from spirit tracks, and another the ocarina of time (since its hinted at in hyrule historia that it might be made of timeshift stones)

- If link tried, he'd be a good blacksmith, since he's got a good attention to detail with his woodcarvings

-i've mentioned this in another post, but that was a long time ago, so the scattershot? Gondo upgrades the catapult part, but link carves the new base to look like his loftwing

-speaking of the loftwing, link has separation anxiety

- when told to go to therapy, Ghirahim just gets a therapy dog, the people who want him to see someone arent happy abt it, but they can't hate the dog

-(theory) the old one in the beginning of the game says that zelda got to the surface wrong, meaning Hylia's original plan was for Link, Zelda, and Fi to explore together as friends

-(theory) SPEAKING of hylia's plan, i see a lot of stuff on youtube from zelda theorists about the time paradox in sksw, heres my take: Hylias plan is what happened in the past, nothing else until you alter it. like the fruit of life, it would be pretty dumb for hylia to plan for the dragon to almost die, right? hence why its not there at the beginning of the game

- (headcannon) the gerudo exist in sksw and ride those big snail-crab dudes in lanayru (the electric ones that roll at u)

-so when the statue of the goddess falls to the ground, there is still the secret area of remlits that fall with it, introducing remits to the surface. the bird population drops dramatically (THEY ARE F L Y I N G CATS)

-(Idea if they ever made zeldas story playable) how about mental dungeons??? like to unlock her powers, she goes through both the ones in sws, but also some mental ones to recover memories of hylia, also alongside impa, Hylia is the guide character in that game. (i know this contradicts my hylia is dead headcannon but hey game design man)

-Along with a sword, I think Zelda would use crossbows and lances, they have to teach other weapons besides swords in the academy, right?

-Karane's favorite species on the surface is the kiwkis, pipit's is the Parellas, Groose likes the tiny birds, Cawlin likes the mogmas, Stritch. well. yeah, and fledge likes the robots

-(ghirahim lives au) Ghirahim hates Yuga. he just does. his favorite of the following zelda villains is vaati, with zant not too far behind

-nobody tells zelda or ghirahim about the lumpy pumpkin chandelier. Pumm gives link the stink eye and they are just bewildered

-in lorule skyward sword, skyloft is an underground city, big moles replace loftwings, the surface is still called the surface, now with a different meaning.

-I like the ghirahim is lorules master sword theory because its funny and cool, but it would be like 100x funnier if ghirahim was just teleporting between lorule and hyrule during sws cause sws ravio was calling on him

EDIT: how could I forget!

-Ghirahim just keeps showing up and people get tired of telling him to leave so he just hangs out

[agentrouka-blog]

Tyrion and Tysha murder mystery hints - first mention in the text

This thing just keeps tugging at me, and this recent thread made me ambitious to examine it in more detail. So I’ll look at hints for an even darker edge to the story of Tyrion and Tysha in the parts of the text that actually mention her.

Since I have limited time, I’ll do several posts. This one is about how we learn about Tysha in A Game of Thrones.

We head into AGOT, Tyrion VI via a chapter transition from AGOT, Jon V, where Jon talks Maester Aemon into choosing Samwell as his assistant. In the presence of his current assistant Chett, who - it is revealed later in the ASOS Prologue - murdered a girl he liked for rejecting him.

Chett gave a nasty laugh. “I’ve seen what happens to soft lordlings when they’re put to work. Set them to churning butter and their hands blister and bleed. Give them an axe to split logs, and they cut off their own foot.”

“I know one thing Sam could do better than anyone.”

“Yes?” Maester Aemon prompted.

Jon glanced warily at Chett, standing beside the door, his boils red and angry. “He could help you,” he said quickly. “He can do sums, and he knows how to read and write. I know Chett can’t read, and Clydas has weak eyes. Sam read every book in his father’s library. He’d be good with the ravens too. Animals seem to like him. Ghost took to him straight off. There’s a lot he could do, besides fighting. The Night’s Watch needs every man. Why kill one, to no end? Make use of him instead.”

Maester Aemon closed his eyes, and for a brief moment Jon was afraid that he had gone to sleep. Finally he said, “Maester Luwin taught you well, Jon Snow. Your mind is as deft as your blade, it would seem.”

“Does that mean …?”

“It means I shall think on what you have said,” the maester told him firmly. “And now, I believe I am ready to sleep. Chett, show our young brother to the door.”

(AGOT, Jon V)

The chapter is followed by AGOT, Tyrion VI, where Tyrion and Bronn rest on the high road after being kicked out of the Gates of the Moon, after he won his trial by combat:

They had taken shelter beneath a copse of aspens just off the high road. Tyrion was gathering dead-wood while their horses took water from a mountain stream. He stooped to pick up a splintered branch and examined it critically. “Will this do? I am not practiced at starting fires. Morrec did that for me.” 

The entire conversation between Jon, Aemon and Chett sets up Tyrion. A lordling, bad with manual labor, but smart and a reader. Yet we know he is no Samwell Tarly in his sensibilities, and the last sentence is dedicated to Chett.

Chett...

The only women Chett had ever known were the whores he’d bought in Mole’s Town. When he’d been younger, the village girls took one look at his face, with its boils and its wen, and turned away sickened. The worst was that slattern Bessa. She’d spread her legs for every boy in Hag’s Mire so he’d figured why not him too? He even spent a morning picking wildflowers when he heard she liked them, but she’d just laughed in his face and told him she’d crawl in a bed with his father’s leeches before she’d crawl in one with him. She stopped laughing when he put his knife in her. That was sweet, the look on her face, so he pulled the knife out and put it in her again. When they caught him down near Sevenstreams, old Lord Walder Frey hadn’t even bothered to come himself to do the judging. He’d sent one of his bastards, that Walder Rivers, and the next thing Chett had known he was walking to the Wall with that foul-smelling black devil Yoren. To pay for his one sweet moment, they took his whole life.

But now he meant to take it back, and Craster’s women too. That twisted old wildling has the right of it. If you want a woman to wife you take her, and none of this giving her flowers so that maybe she don’t notice your bloody boils. Chett didn’t mean to make that mistake again.

Like Tyrion, Chett is rejected by others for his appearance, has a violent father and a lot of resentment that comes out in the shape of murdering “slatterns”. He also mixes it up with the idea of marriage. Like Tyrion, the cold night reminds Chett of the girl in his past.

He could see Bessa’s face floating before him. It wasn’t the knife I wanted to put in you, he wanted to tell her. I picked you flowers, wild roses and tansy and goldencups, it took me all morning. His heart was thumping like a drum, so loud he feared it might wake the camp. Ice caked his beard all around his mouth. Where did that come from, with Bessa? Whenever he’d thought of her before, it had only been to remember the way she’d looked, dying. What was wrong with him?

Chett killed her in a rage, but the truth is layered and haunts him.

But back to Tyrion.

Tyrion VI emphasizes Tyrion’s cleverness as he converses with Bronn, explaining his strategy in the Vale for how to steal Bronn from Cat’s service and make use of his practical talents, and his strategy for their travels in the Mountains of the Moon. Tyrion talks, Bronn listens and agrees to serve him.

The point is, Tyrion is very observant and smart. Reader, trust Tyrion’s judgent and words, is the message. Then we get more personal.

As they light a fire and eat a goat, Tyrion remembers his goaler Mord who treated him cruelly in the sky cells.

(Mord, btw, translates to murder in many a germanic/Scandinvian language.)

“And yet you gave the turnkey a purse of gold,” Bronn said.

“A Lannister always pays his debts.”

Even Mord had scarcely believed it when Tyrion tossed him the leather purse. The gaoler’s eyes had gone big as boiled eggs as he yanked open the drawstring and beheld the glint of gold. “I kept the silver,” Tyrion had told him with a crooked smile, “but you were promised the gold, and there it is.” It was more than a man like Mord could hope to earn in a lifetime of abusing prisoners. “And remember what I said, this is only a taste. If you ever grow tired of Lady Arryn’s service, present yourself at Casterly Rock, and I’ll pay you the rest of what I owe you.” With golden dragons spilling out of both hands, Mord had fallen to his knees and promised that he would do just that.

The image of coins spilling from hands is picked up later.

Tyrion was hoping to lure in the mountain clans, but they take their time showing up, so he tries to be even more conspicuous.

Tyrion chuckled. “Then we ought to sing and send them fleeing in terror.” He began to whistle a tune.

He chooses the “terrible” tune himself. It leads straight to his memory:

“Myrish. ‘The Seasons of My Love.’ Sweet and sad, if you understand the words. The first girl I ever bedded used to sing it, and I’ve never been able to put it out of my head.” Tyrion gazed up at the sky. It was a clear cold night and the stars shone down upon the mountains as bright and merciless as truth. “I met her on a night like this,” he heard himself saying. “Jaime and I were riding back from Lannisport when we heard a scream, and she came running out into the road with two men dogging her heels, shouting threats.

Myrish, as in the Myrish lens. The object Lysa sends Catelyn, which has a false bottom hiding the real message in a secret language, a message of murder and conspiracy. A secret language, a foreign language, like Mord.

"A lens is an instrument to help us see."     (AGOT, Catelyn II)

Bright and merciless as truth.

My brother unsheathed his sword and went after them, while I dismounted to protect the girl. She was scarcely a year older than I was, dark-haired, slender, with a face that would break your heart. It certainly broke mine. Lowborn, half-starved, unwashed … yet lovely. They’d torn the rags she was wearing half off her back, so I wrapped her in my cloak while Jaime chased the men into the woods. By the time he came trotting back, I’d gotten a name out of her, and a story. She was a crofter’s child, orphaned when her father died of fever, on her way to … well, nowhere, really.

Where Tysha went will become a theme. @une-nuit-pour-se-souvenir examines that beautifully here.

But even right here, the tone is ominous, and GRRM goes out of his way to emphasize it with the ellipses.

We get the story of Jaime chasing after the outlaws and Tyrion and Tysha falling into bed at an inn after drinking, eating and talking, and the story of their marriage, and its end.

Tyrion was surprised at how desolate it made him feel to say it, even after all these years. Perhaps he was just tired. “That was the end of my marriage.” He sat up and stared at the dying fire, blinking at the light.

“He sent the girl away?”

“He did better than that,” Tyrion said. “First he made my brother tell me the truth. The girl was a whore, you see. Jaime arranged the whole affair, the road, the outlaws, all of it. He thought it was time I had a woman. He paid double for a maiden, knowing it would be my first time.

NOTHING about this makes sense, which is ridiculous when you consider we were just hammered over the head with how smart Tyrion is supposed to be.

Since when is Jaime prone to setting up complex schemes? Why would feel the need to push Tyrion to have sex at thirteen, and why would be ever do it this way? Why would be hire him a virgin for his first time? We don’t question it because GRRM has told us not to question the smartiepants. But as we later learn, that was all. not. true. So maybe other things aren’t true, either.

“After Jaime had made his confession, to drive home the lesson, Lord Tywin brought my wife in and gave her to his guards. They paid her fair enough. A silver for each man, how many whores command that high a price? He sat me down in the corner of the barracks and bade me watch, and at the end she had so many silvers the coins were slipping through her fingers and rolling on the floor, she …” The smoke was stinging his eyes. Tyrion cleared his throat and turned away from the fire, to gaze out into darkness. “Lord Tywin had me go last,” he said in a quiet voice. “And he gave me a gold coin to pay her, because I was a Lannister, and worth more.”

The parallels to his memory of Mord are striking. Silver and gold, coins spilling from hands, a “price” beyond expectation... and a promise of something very sinister at the next meeting.

After a time he heard the noise again, the rasp of steel on stone as Bronn sharpened his sword. “Thirteen or thirty or three, I would have killed the man who did that to me.”

1) Nice how Bronn makes it about Tyrion’s pain. Tysha’s pain does not exist to them. And so the reader is also drawn away from it. Poor Tyrion.

2) Another reference to killing. It foreshadows Tyrion’s murder of Tywin over this very matter, of course, but at the same time...

Tyrion gestured impatiently with the bow. “Tysha. What did you do with her, after my little lesson?”

“I don’t recall.”

“Try harder. Did you have her killed?”

His father pursed his lips. “There was no reason for that, she’d learned her place … and had been well paid for her day’s work, I seem to recall. I suppose the steward sent her on her way. I never thought to inquire.”

“On her way where?”

“Wherever whores go.”

Tyrion’s finger clenched.  (ASOS, Tyrion XI)

I don’t think it can be emphasized enough that this happens right after he murders Shae. Shae the whore.

“Did you ever like it?” He cupped her cheek, remembering all the times he had done this before. All the times he’d slid his hands around her waist, squeezed her small firm breasts, stroked her short dark hair, touched her lips, her cheeks, her ears. All the times he had opened her with a finger to probe her secret sweetness and make her moan. “Did you ever like my touch?”

“More than anything,” she said, “my giant of Lannister.”

That was the worst thing you could have said, sweetling.

Tyrion slid a hand under his father’s chain, and twisted. The links tightened, digging into her neck. “For hands of gold are always cold, but a woman’s hands are warm,” he said. He gave cold hands another twist as the warm ones beat away his tears.

And just before he asks him about Tysha, Tywin assures him he was meant to be sent to the Wall. Whether or not that’s a lie, we’re looking at another Chett parallel. Murdering a “slattern”, facing life at the Wall.

We close Tyrion’s memory of Tysha:

Tyrion swung around to face him. “You may get that chance one day.  Remember what I told you. A Lannister always pays his debts.” He yawned. “I think I will try and sleep. Wake me if we’re about to die.”

He rolled himself up in the shadowskin and shut his eyes. The ground was stony and cold, but after a time Tyrion Lannister did sleep. He dreamt of the sky cell. This time he was the gaoler, not the prisoner, big, with a strap in his hand, and he was hitting his father, driving him back, toward the abyss …

Like Chett, his thoughts return to the girl. He turns into the goaler, Mord, his rage comes through, his capability of great violence. In ASOS, his lashing out at Tywin is preceeded by directing his violence toward the “whore” who allegedly betrayed him. Which is preceeded by a truth about Tysha.

“Thank you?” Tyrion’s voice was choked. “He gave her to his guards. A barracks full of guards. He made me … watch.” Aye, and more than watch. I took her too … my wife …

“I never knew he would do that. You must believe me.”

“Oh, must I?” Tyrion snarled. “Why should I believe you about anything, ever? She was my wife!”

“Tyrion—”

He hit him. It was a slap, backhanded, but he put all his strength into it, all his fear, all his rage, all his pain. Jaime was squatting, unbalanced. The blow sent him tumbling backward to the floor. “I … I suppose I earned that.”

“Oh, you’ve earned more than that, Jaime. You and my sweet sister and our loving father, yes, I can’t begin to tell you what you’ve earned. But you’ll have it, that I swear to you. A Lannister always pays his debts.” Tyrion waddled away, almost stumbling over the turnkey again in his haste. Before he had gone a dozen yards, he bumped up against an iron gate that closed the passage. Oh, gods. It was all he could do not to scream.

(ASOS, Tyrion XI)

The turnkey here is interesting. Once again, Tysha’s memory is associated with a cell and the presence of a turnkey. In his anguished memory, Tyrion almost stumbles over him. The last turnkey was Mord.

So, just looking at Tysha’s first mention, there are so many ominous connections. Murder murder murder.

The chapter ends with Tyrion meeting and “hiring” the mountain clans. How? To avenge himself on Lysa Arryn, he promises them the entire Vale. Really driving home that “a Lannister pays his debts” is all about disproportionate retribution.

A few chapter later, to create some distance to this dark tale, Tyrion meets Shae and sets up to re-create his entire Tysha trauma. The two are intertwined, so why should their ends not be?

That’s fodder for a different post, though.

[tw-anchor]

37. Nothing Good

Anchor

Stiles Stilinski x Original Character

Episode: 3x13; Anchors

Word Count: 6,537

Warning(s): Mature language, canon violence + gore, hallucinations, nightmares

Author’s Note: I’m sorry for my absence. My grandma died, so I haven’t really had the motivation to write. However, I’m back with Season 3B and I’m so excited because I freaking love this season. I hope you all enjoy! Make sure to tell me what you think, reblog, and like!

Masterlink in Pinned Post!

"Okay, so, you go like this," Stiles instructed Olivia, a nimble string of blue yarn twisted between his fingertips. He flipped one bit of the yarn over the other and made a loop, quickly tying it into a knot.

Olivia copied him, rolling her own yarn, a deep emerald green, into a knot.

"Now you slip the needle in like so," Stiles demonstrated with Olivia following his movements. "Good and then you do this," he slipped the yarn through the fingers of his other hand and looped it through his first loop. "No, not like that. Like this..."

Olivia sighed in frustration. "Why do I even have to learn how to crochet, Stiles?"

"Because I know how to crochet."

"Why do you know how to crochet?"

"Because it keeps my hands busy," Stiles informed her as he kept working at his yarn. "Plus, you know we have to get these mittens ready for Cornelius before winter comes otherwise his toes will get cold."

Olivia turned away from Stiles, where he was sitting on his couch, and looked out the window. Out in the backyard, sat the T-Rex that had imprinted on Stiles like a baby duck, knocking around a soccer ball with his tail. Cornelius was gentle for his species, but when Olivia told Stiles that he should get a pet, she had expected him to pick out a dog so Sirius could have a friend to play with.

Unfortunately, all Cornelius wanted to do with Sirius was eat him.

"Don't let them in."

Olivia turned back to Stiles. "What?"

"Don't let them in. Don't let them in!"

Before Olivia could even begin deciphering Stiles' words, the doorbell rung.

Giving Stiles a bewildered look, Olivia stood from the couch and wandered into the Stilinski's foyer in order to answer the door. She was pleased to see that it was Allison.

"Al, come on in," she said happily.

"Thanks, Liv," Allison grinned back at her. "Do you mind if Kate comes in, too?"

Dark storm clouds rolled in over the horizon as Allison walked into the house, revealing Kate Argent behind her. The older blonde smirked evilly at Olivia as lighting crackled just a few hundred feet in front of the house, followed quickly by a deep roll of thunder.

"Goody," Kate wrinkled her nose in delight. "Another Hale."

Heart racing, Olivia quickly slammed the door in Kate's face. She stumbled away from the door, pivoting so she could run and tell Stiles about Kate, when the door rang once again.

"Don't let them in, Olivia!"

For whatever reason, Olivia didn't listen to Stiles. She turned back to the door, as if forgetting about Kate's presence behind it, and opened it. This time, it wasn't Kate at the door, but, instead, Scott. Crimson red eyes gleamed at her while the true alpha waited to be let into the house, a dribble of thick blood falling from his lips.

"Hi, Liv," Scott greeted her innocently; when he went to wave at her, she saw that his sharp claws had replaced his blunt nails and his palms were covered in more blood.

Olivia stared at him wide-eyed, her eyes darting behind him. On the sidewalk leading up to the Stilinski's house, laid Kate Argent. She was dead; her throat had been ripped out, along with most of her intestines. Her blue eyes were wide open and glazed over, staring at Olivia as if she was still alive and begging the anchoram to help her.

"Scott, what did you do?"

Thwack!

Scott didn't get to answer her; an arrow sank into his chest from behind Olivia. Scott roared, his werewolf features blinking into appearance. She felt like she was moving in slow motion as she turned and spotted Allison, her crossbow gripped tightly in her grasp, pointing the tip of a new arrow straight at Scott.

"Get away from him, Olivia," Allison commanded, voice controlled and calm. "he's a monster."

"Olivia!"

Olivia's head whipped toward the living room, where she heard Stiles scream. She wanted to go to him, to run and get him out of there, but she couldn't. It was like her feet were glued into place.

Scott's growl caught her attention. He leapt at Allison, but didn't get far. Practiced and precise, Allison let go of her arrow; as soon as the sharp tip impaled itself into Scott's forehead, Olivia was passing out.

...

She woke at once when the bed jostled violently and Stiles sat up from his pillow, panting frantically. She rubbed her eyes and blinked for a few seconds, trying to clear the blurriness in her vision, and rolled over to his side of the bed.

"Stiles?" she murmured quietly, worriedly, as she reached for him. Even though she couldn't see his face, she could feel the dampness of his sweat on the bare skin of his pale back. "Are you okay?"

When he didn't answer right away, still trying to catch his breath, she sat up and curled her arm around his waist. His skin was clammy and his face was pale, the usual redness underneath his mole-speckled cheeks absent.

"Sweetcheeks?"

Stiles sighed shakily. "Yeah," he grabbed her free hand and brought it to his mouth, kissing her knuckles gently. "I was just dreaming."

Olivia frowned. "What kind of dream?"

Stiles hesitated as he grimaced, the paleness of his skin stark against the pinkness of his lips. "It was weird," he said finally. "It was like a dream within a dream."

"A bad dream," she assumed.

He let out another shaky breath. "Yeah."

Olivia frowned and leaned forward slightly, kissing his shoulder blade. "I'm sorry."

"Not your fault," Stiles said quietly as he turned toward her. His eyes narrowed at her suddenly, confused. "Wait a second...Livvy, what are you doing here?"

Olivia furrowed her eyes, ready to remind him that this was the bed they shared. It was then that their door creaked open. Stiles was immediately distracted by it, his body stiffening as he nervously glowered at the door.

He let go of her hand and then slipped out of her hold, stumbling off the bed.

"Stiles, where are you going?" now he was confusing Olivia.

"I'm just gonna close the door."

"You should leave it. Come back to bed, Stiles."

"No, no," Stiles brushed off her concern. "I should close it."

"Stiles, don't worry about it."

Stiles kept walking toward the door. "What if someone comes in?"

Olivia shook her head. "Like who? Sweetcheeks, you need sleep."

"No," Stiles denied her vehemently. "What if they get in?"

"What if who gets in? Stiles, just leave it. Please, you're scaring me!" he kept walking. "Stiles, no! Stiles, please don't go in there! Stiles, don't, please!"

He wasn't listening to her and it was maddening. He couldn't go through that door. He couldn't!

"Stiles, don't!" she begged loudly. "Stiles, wake up. Wake up!"

"STILES!"

Olivia's mouth clamped shut, teeth snapping together roughly, when Sirius yipped nervously, rousing her from her nightmare. She inhaled deeply when the hinges of her door quietly squealed open and Lydia rushed into the room

"Something's wrong," she breathed as Lydia crawled into bed with her. She didn't dare look at her cousin's concerned green eyes, she kept her own peeled to the ceiling. "Something's wrong with Stiles, Scott, and Allison."

Olivia wasn't a psychic, she couldn't see the future. However, some part of her, some anchor part of her, knew that something was going on with three of her packmates. Her nightmare had freaked her out to her core, but it was just telling her something that she already knew. Something that she had known for two weeks. Dying, and subsequently coming back to life, had affected Stiles, Scott, and Allison more than they let on.

Their three tethers—Scott's had changed to a deep red, Stiles' stayed his beautiful caramel-whiskey the same color of his eyes, while Allison's glowed a comforting pink—seemed like they were always pulsing. She didn't specifically know what was going on with Scott, but she did know more about the effects on Stiles and Allison. And with the dream she had, more was coming to light.

Seeing Stiles struggle broke Olivia's heart to the core. He was constantly having nightmare after nightmare, and what's more, was his sleep paralysis. She had never gone through sleep paralysis herself, but she had done some research after that first night that Stiles experienced it. It was supposed to be horrible and terrifying, knowing that you're awake but you can't physically move your body. It left Stiles tired and traumatized, though he tried his best not to show it.

Allison, like Stiles, was having terrible visions—just without the sleep paralysis. She would blink and suddenly she'd be in a different place. And what haunted her the most was her aunt, Kate Argent. Allison had told Olivia and Lydia that Kate would appear out of nowhere, stalking, or taunting Allison until she grabbed her nearest weapon to fight back. It was terrifying for her, and the person who would come face-to-face with whatever weapon Allison kept stashed close to her.

And Scott was afraid of himself, his alpha self. While not nearly as terrifying as Stiles and Allison's issues, it was still a big deal to Scott. Scott had learned control fairly quickly for a bitten werewolf and his transition to alpha had screwed with his head. He constantly thought that he would turn into a monster like Peter and that he had no control over his transition. It scarred him; he wouldn't even try to make his wolf features appear in fear of not being able to turn back.

And though Stiles, Allison, and Scott bore the brunt of the sacrifices, Olivia was affected too. Every time Stiles had a nightmare, she'd have one too, and would wake up hearing his screams. Whenever Allison was pulled into one of her hallucinations, her tether would vibrate and Olivia was forced to stop what she was doing to check on her best friend. And while Scott's visions weren't as violent, they made his tether light up like fireworks on the Fourth of July; and, infuriatingly, when Olivia offered her help, he refused it.

More and more her concern for her boyfriend, best friend, and alpha began to grow. If the darkness that they earned from the sacrifice was this bad now, how much worse would it be in a few months, years?

She had to do something about it. She couldn't just sit by while her friends went certifiable.

-

"Like this," Olivia held out her left arm, where the plaid sleeve of her blouse was carefully rolled up, and then her right arm, where the fabric stopped prettily on her wrist. "or like this?"

Lydia pursed her lips together, her index finger on her chin, as she seriously contemplated her cousin's fashion choice. "Hmm...you should roll the sleeves," she said finally, eyeing Olivia's bottom half, which was covered by a khaki-colored skirt, dark tights, and heeled ankle boots. "it'll contrast all the business-casual down here."

Olivia glanced at her skirt and then shrugged, knowing what Lydia meant. Carefully, she rolled up her right sleeve until it matched her left and then turned to Lydia expectantly.

Lydia nodded in approval. "Good."

Olivia turned to her locker, a smile quirking her lips. She reached for her textbook for history—where'd they would be introduced to Mr. Westover's replacement—but stopped before her fingers could grip the hard cover.

Allison's tether was glowing brighter than usual, the neon pink blinking on and off. She turned her head, following her instincts (which were, by now, mostly those pesky whispers in her head), toward the set of double doors down the hallway. She was on the move before they swung open and when they did, she was able to catch Allison.

The taller brunette's breathing was frantic as she looked around with wide, confused eyes. It was obvious that she did not remember driving to school, let alone arriving. Olivia squeezed Allison's hands soothingly and pushed some calming effects toward her tether.

"Hey, Al, it's okay," she said softly; she didn't notice as Lydia came over to them, giving Allison a worried look. "You're all right. I've got you."

"I-I was at the morgue," Allison restlessly gestured to the doors. "And Kate, she...she..."

"You're at school and you're safe," Olivia informed her calmly. "Kate's not here. You're okay."

It took a second for Allison to respond, her brown eyes nervously shifting around the hallway. But, finally, she nodded. "Sorry."

"Don't apologize," Olivia was firm; none of this was Allison's fault so there was no point in apologizing. "We just need to—oh, shit..."

Olivia's gaze tinted violet as Scott's tether caught her attention. It was blazing frighteningly and she saw him moving quickly, right into Stiles' tether.

"It's happening to Stiles and Scott, too," Olivia told Allison as she came back to herself. She glanced at Lydia and added, "We need to find them. They're out front."

The three of them turned and left the school, using the same doors that Allison had stumbled through. With Olivia's abilities, it didn't take long for them to find Stiles and Scott. It seemed that it was Stiles who brought Scott out of his hallucination, as his hands were still gripping his shoulders, holding him into reality.

"I'm okay," they overheard Scott assure Stiles.

"No, you're not," Stiles said knowingly. "It's happening to you, too. You're seeing things, aren't you?"

Scott blinked at Stiles, who had let him go. "How'd you know?"

Olivia, Lydia, and Allison were close enough to the boys now that Olivia felt safe speaking up.

"Because it's happening to all three of you," Stiles and Scott turned at the sound of her voice. "frequently, might I add."

Scott deflated slightly. "You can feel it?"

"Every time," Olivia confirmed while slipping her arm around Stiles' waist; it was against their PDA rules, but she didn't care as long as it calmed him down. It did; he pressed a grateful kiss to the top of her head. "There's the nightmares and the visions, of course, the periods of lack of self-control."

Lydia smirked and crossed her arms over her chest. "Well, well, look who's no longer the crazy one."

"We are not crazy," Allison disagreed firmly while Olivia shook her head at her cousin.

"Hallucinating? Sleep paralysis?" Lydia listed as evidence to the contrary. "Yeah, you guys are fine."

She readily ignored the glare that Stiles was sending her, in order to give Scott and Allison an I-told-you-so look.

Scott sighed, agreeing with her slightly. "We did die and come back to life," he admitted. "That's gotta have some side effects, right?"

The bell rang; they had five minutes to get class or they'd be counted tardy.

"We keep an eye on each other," Stiles spoke up, his tone final. "And Lydia, stop enjoying this so much."

Ignoring Lydia's offended look, Stiles and Olivia walked away. Olivia's grip on his slipped from his waist to his hand as they walked and it was taking all of her self-control not to keep staring at Stiles. She couldn't help it; she was worried about him.

"You know, Livvy, I like when you stare at me, I really do, but only when it's, like, the sexy kind of stare, you know?" Stiles joked, clearly trying to lighten the mood. "Or when it looks like you're daydreaming about me. Honestly, when those are combined, that's when I'm happiest—"

"You're such a perv," Olivia laughed but then sobered up. "But, okay, I get it. I'm sorry for staring."

They entered the school once more and walked through the hallway, heading to their history class.

"I just don't want you to worry about me," Stiles sighed. "It's just a couple of nightmares."

"It's not just nightmares, and you know it," Olivia disagreed as they entered Mr. Westover's old classroom. "and I'm gonna worry about you, even when you have your happiest days. You know why?"

Stiles raised an eyebrow at her while sitting in his seat. "Because you've turned into a worry-wart?"

Olivia sat in the seat behind him. "No," she rolled her eyes, sending Scott a smile as he sat in the seat next to Stiles, before looking back at her boyfriend. "it's because I love you, sweetcheeks."

Stiles made a show of rolling his eyes and muttering unhappily, but the way he gripped her jaw and pulled her close for a kiss told her that he appreciated her and the way she cared about him. The tip of his tongue brushed against her lower lip, nibbling on it gently, and when she opened her mouth to receive him, he pulled away with a beautiful smile.

"Love you, baby," he gave her a quick but searing kiss on her flushed cheek. "and another point for Stiles."

A huff came from Olivia's lips as she took in his words. They had been playing a game recently, because Stiles loved games—especially games that annoyed the pants off of Olivia. It all came down to his hate of their PDA rules and he was being so pathetic about it (pathetically cute, much to her chagrin) that she agreed to make a game out of it. If Stiles got her to break one of her rules, he got a point. The more points he got, the better the prize—a prize in which they had yet to set.

Damn him!

"I hate you," Olivia scowled at him, though she had to fight to keep the expression on her face.

"No, you don't!" Stiles sang with a chuckle.

Rather than stroke his ego, Olivia gave her attention to the front of the class. Their new teacher, Mr. Yukimura, had entered the room and had just finished writing FDR's famous Pearl Harbor quote on the board. She had high hopes for Mr. Yukimura, as she had met his daughter, Kira, in her free period and she seemed quite nice.

The bell rang once more as Mr. Yukimura set his piece of chalk down and clapped the dust off of his hands.

"Good morning, everyone," he greeted the class pleasantly. "My name is Mr. Yukimura and I'll be taking over for your previous history teacher. My family and I moved here three weeks ago. I'm sure, by now, you all know my daughter, Kira...or you might not, since she's never actually mentioned anyone from school...Or brought home a friend for that matter."

A loud sigh came from a couple seats behind Olivia. The whole class turned to look as Kira, dressed in a black crop-top with her hair in beautiful waves, slammed her head against her desk. Olivia smiled slightly as the new girl looked up and gave everyone a sheepish smile.

She usually didn't like people—her friends, obviously, excluded—but when she met Kira, she instantly felt a connection with her. Kira was bubbly but shy and awkward and it made Olivia want to take her under her wing and into her group of friends. They had an awkward friend—Stiles—but now they needed a shy one and Kira fit that bill.

Olivia waved at her and smiled in satisfaction when Kira returned her action shyly.

"Now, let's begin with American History at the turn of the twentieth century..."

-

-

"Maybe we need a little more time to get back to normal."

Stiles quietly scoffed at Scott's words. Leave it to Scott McCall to be optimistic even when they were going crazy. He grabbed his combo lock and started fiddling with the knob, reciting his memorized combination as he twisted and turned it to the right marks.

"Yeah, try not to forget we hit the reset button on a supernatural beacon for supernatural creatures," he frowned and narrowed his eyes when his lock did not open. He tried his combination again, though the numbers on the lock were far from normal. "There's a pretty good chance things are never going back to normal."

He tugged on his lock, frustrated. Long gone were the usual numbers; in their places were symbols. Symbols that he had never seen before. His skin prickled with irritation and fear as he stared them down, trying to make sense of them.

"Yeah," Scott sighed in agreement, missing out on Stiles' frustration.

With a grunt, Stiles let go of the lock and turned to Scott, ready to rant about his sudden inability to read. However, he stopped point blank when he saw that Scott's eyes were his alpha-red, not his normal chestnut-brown.

"Oh, dude, your eyes."

Scott gave him an alarmed look. "What about them?"

"They're glowing," Stiles said hurriedly and Scott ducked his head. "Like, right now. Stop, Scott. Stop it."

Scott's breathing picked up as a wheeze as he raised his hand over his red eyes. "I can't," he panted, panicked. "I can't control it."

Stiles grimaced, wondering where Olivia was, and grabbed Scott. "All right, just keep your head down," he advised, looking around at the classrooms on either side of the hall, trying to remember which one was empty during third period. "Okay, come on. Keep your head down."

He led Scott into freshman history classroom and slammed the door shut behind him. Scott ripped away from him, grunting loudly as he tried to gain control, and tore out of his jacket.

"Get away from me," he growled at Stiles when he tried to help him. "Stay back."

"Scott, it's okay."

"I don't know what's going to happen," Scott insisted thickly, through his fangs.

Though Stiles wanted to ignore his friend's warning and just grab him and tell him that everything was going to be okay, he didn't. He stayed back, not only for his safety, but to respect Scott's wishes. After all, what if Scott couldn't control himself and ripped Stiles into pieces? That'd be a disaster, for both of them.

The door swung open and Olivia rushed into the room only a second after Scott started digging his claws into the flesh of his palms. Stiles stayed back and let her do her thing, watching as she kneeled in front of his best friend and grabbed his forearms.

"Scott, Scott, listen to me," her eyes were glowing purple under her ministrations. "You're going to get control of yourself now, all right?"

"Pain—"

"Pain makes you human, I know," Olivia agreed with Scott, nodding empathetically. "All right, so focus on that pain. Let it ground you. That pain is an anchor."

Stiles knew that this was serious, he really did. But between his fear and anger at the situation he, Scott, and Allison were in, his heart couldn't help but melt. Olivia had really come into her own as an Anchor. She was empathetic and gentle and though he loved her as she was previously—self-deemed the Ice Queen—he only grew more and more in love with her with each passing day.

God, I'm so fucking lucky to have her.

Olivia and Scott were sitting on the floor now, blood covering the alpha's arms and the Anchor's hands. Scott was back to his human self, back in control, but Olivia continued to give her support, holding onto Scott until she felt he no longer needed her. Stiles plopped down next to them and handed them some tissues he snagged from the teacher's desk.

"This isn't just in our heads," he admitted as Olivia let go of Scott and started wiping her hands of his blood. "This is real and it's starting to get bad for me, too. I'm not just having nightmares. I'm having dreams where I have to literally scream myself awake...And sometimes, I'm not even sure if I'm ever actually waking up."

Olivia swallowed thickly, giving her boyfriend a concerned look. "What do you mean?"

"Do you know how you can tell if you're dreaming?" Stiles looked between Olivia and Scott, watching as the latter shook his head. "You can't read in dreams. More and more, the past few days, I've been having trouble reading. It's like I can't see the words. I can't put the letters in order."

Stiles focused on Scott so he didn't have to see the heartbroken look on Olivia's face.

"Like even now?"

Stiles looked around the room, focusing on the posters taped to the brick walls. They were history posters, obviously, but he couldn't make out the words. All the letters on each and every one were mixed around, like he was suddenly dyslexic. The only thing he could make out was a picture of Lincoln's memorial—but there weren't words on that one. He couldn't read.

"I can't read a thing."

-

-

Things had not approved overnight. Allison in particular was having difficulties, so Olivia stuck to her side like glue. After she left art class, where Allison was having trouble holding her brush still, to help with Scott's control, things had not gotten better for the hunter. According to Lydia, Allison spaced out after getting red paint on her canvas and was close to a panic attack.

Lydia, being the strategist she was, suggested that Allison practice with her bow after school. The three of them went out to the woods behind Olivia and Lydia's house and set up a target for Allison to shoot. However, Allison's shaky grip on the paintbrush was much like her grip on her bow. She couldn't stay still, no matter which way she held the string and launched the arrow.

In the end, their little experiment had been a disaster. Allison ended up having a hallucination of Kate—one that Olivia could not bring her out of, no matter how hard she tried—and tried to shoot Lydia. She would have killed the redhead if it wasn't for Isaac's newfound crush on the hunter. If he hadn't been following them and hadn't caught the arrow heading right for Lydia's head, she would be dead.

It had been a restless night of sleep for Olivia, courtesy of the nightmares keeping Stiles awake, and things only got worse when she went back to school the next day. After sleeping through the first two periods in the nurse's office—Olivia was her favorite student and she was often able to escape there during class if she already knew the lesson for that day—it had been Coach's class.

Having gotten a nap in, Olivia felt fine. She was taking notes along with Coach's lecture and had answered a question or two when she was called on, when she felt it. Stiles tether almost ached as it lit up the map of her pack. In the desk in front of her, Stiles was still awake and writing furiously in his notebook but he wasn't reacting to anything she sent to his tether to calm him down. It was like he was asleep, but he wasn't—his eyes were wide open and he kept writing the same phrase over and over again in his notes.

Wake up. Wake up. Wake up.

Coach, who had been trying to get his attention, had enough of his ignorance. He blew sharply into the whistle, causing Stiles to jump high in his seat, completely shocked.

"Stilinski!" Stiles glared at Coach, wide-eyed. "I asked you a question."

"Uh, sorry, Coach," Stiles apologized, centering himself. "What was it?

"It was, 'Stilinski, are you paying attention back there?'"

Stiles grimaced. "Oh...Well, I am now."

Coach pressed his lips together unhappily. "Stilinski, stop reminding me why I drink every night," he turned away from Stiles. "Does anybody else want to try the question on the board?"

Stiles sighed in relief now that Coach had turned his attention to someone else, and turned to Scott and Olivia. She knew that her face must have shown how worried she was, because Stiles was quick to assure them that he was okay.

"I'm okay, I just fell asleep for a second."

Olivia glanced at Scott and then at Stiles' notebook, looking over his handwriting. He was writing to himself, telling himself to wake up, and he hadn't. Not until Coach used his whistle to get his attention. So, physically, he wasn't asleep, but he thought he was?

What the hell is going on with him? Olivia worried to herself.

"Dude," Scott nodded at Stiles' notebook. "You weren't asleep."

Stiles glanced at his notebook, his eyes growing wide with confusion. At once, he grabbed it and slammed it upside down so he didn't have his own handwriting haunting him.

Soon, class ended with the ring of the lunch bell. Olivia, Stiles, Scott, and Lydia—who also had economics class with them, but sat on the other side of the classroom with Danny—went to the courtyard to eat. Allison and Isaac met up with them and though they all had brought food, eating was the last thing on their minds.

They compared stories about what was going on with Stiles, Scott, and Allison. The more they heard, the more they knew that they had to do something. They just didn't know what.

"Okay, so what happens to a person who has a near-death experience and comes out of it seeing things?" Scott asked, bringing them back to the start of the conversation.

"And is unable to tell what's real or not," Stiles added grumpily.

Allison nodded, "And is being haunted by demonic visions of dead relatives?"

"They're all locked up because they're insane," Isaac answered, idly throwing a potato chip into his mouth.

"Ha," Stiles laughed sarcastically and sneered at him. "Can you at least try to be helpful, please?"

"For half my childhood, I was locked in a freezer," Isaac reminded him. "So, being helpful is kind of a new thing for me."

"Hey, dude, are you still milking that?"

"Yeah, maybe I am still milking that."

"Guys, I mean this in the nicest way, but shut up," Olivia interrupted them, grabbing Stiles' hand that rested on her thigh and squeezing to the point he winced. "Turning on each other is not gonna help us."

"Hi!" a new voice chirped and Olivia looked up to see Kira standing at the end of their table. "Hi, sorry. I couldn't help but overhearing what you guys were talking about and I think I actually might now what you're talking about."

They all stared at her expectantly.

"There's a Tibetan word for it," she explained as she took the empty seat next to Scott and across from Lydia. "It's called Bardo. It literally means in-between state."

Lydia narrowed her eyes at the newcomer. "And what do they call you?"

Scott gave Lydia a reproachful look as Olivia spoke up, "Her name's Kira. I told you about her, remember, Lyds?"

"Right," Lydia nodded, giving Kira a once-over. Olivia didn't know if her cousin felt threatened by the fact that Kira knew something she didn't, or because Kira was sitting close to Scott. "the new girl."

"Yeah. So, Kira," Olivia caught their new friend's attention. "are you talking Bardo in Tibetan Buddhism or Indian?"

Kira shrugged. "Either I guess. But all the stuff you guys were just saying? All that happens in Bardo," she nodded confidently. "There are different progressive states where you can hallucinate. Some you see, some you just hear. And you can be visited by peaceful or wrathful deities."

"Wrathful deities?" Isaac repeated skeptically. "And what are those?"

"Like demons," Kira grinned. Olivia knew that if Kira knew they weren't just talking hypotheticals, there wouldn't be a smile on her face.

"Demons," Stiles scoffed, frowning at Olivia, who smiled sympathetically. "Why not?"

"Hold on," Allison spoke up. "if there are different progressive states, then what's the last one?"

"Death," Kira answered casually. "You die."

Olivia, Stiles, and the rest of the pack shared at look, one thought on each of their minds.

Shit.

-

-

The crackle of electricity was unmistakable, especially when they were being held in such a small room. Olivia found herself chained to a fence, her toes unable to reach the rough wooden floors, between two familiar men. Derek was on her left with a stubborn expression on his face and Peter was on her right, scowling in pain. Both of them were shirtless, but Olivia was still fully clothed in the pajamas she changed into at Allison's apartment while they studied.

Derek glared past her, his pale-green eyes spewing hate at Peter.

Peter noticed. "Why are you looking at me like this is my fault?"

"Because it is your fault."

Derek's statement was followed by a sharp shock rocking through their bodies. Olivia gasped in pain and clenched at the metal fence, her fingers practically molding the material around them.

"It's all your fault," she added when the electricity cleared.

"Yeah," Peter sighed. "you're probably right."

There was another crackle and Olivia's body shook from current that ran through her. She knew that she should have been dead by now, that she should have died from electric shock and from the sheer pain that came with it, but she wasn't. For whatever reason, she was still alive and held captive with her father and cousin.

"You see this equipment?" the man who had been controlling the electric current spoke up from where he sat by an old, rusty transmitter. "Very old. The settings are not quite accurate anymore. So, it's hard to tell just how far to turn the dial."

Olivia's teeth rattled together in her mouth as Peter grunted, "I think it's a little high."

The man didn't like the way Peter spoke to him. He grabbed the knob that controlled the strength of the current and turned it higher. A scream forced its way out of Olivia at the fresh wave of electricity and Peter growled, but Derek merely grunted.

"I've seen some crack their teeth, others? They just shake and shake even after their heart stops," the man laughed as he looked back on Olivia, Peter, and Derek. "Sometimes we don't even know they're dead," he cut the electricity and laughed again. "but nobody wants to play a guessing game. So, why don't you just tell us. Where is la loba?"

The man walked away from his station and took root in front of Olivia, Peter, and Derek.

"We don't know where la loba is," Derek answered strictly, trying to catch his breath.

"Yes, you do," the man disagreed. Derek stayed quiet. "Well, we have our methods of persuasion. So, one of you gets cut in half, the other talks."

Olivia grimaced just at the thought of a hemicorporectomy. Those reminded her of Gerard Argent and she couldn't stand that old asshole.

"I would love to be the volunteer, but we really don't know what you're talking about," Peter spoke up. And then, just because he was Peter, he barbed, "And honestly, isn't bisecting people with a broad sword a little medieval?"

The man chuckled. "Broad sword? We're not savages," he nodded at one of his men and the man picked up a chainsaw, revving the engine. "We all wonder how far your little healing trick goes."

Olivia saw the man with the chainsaw position the rapidly-moving blade at Derek's arm before she clenched her eyes tightly shut.

"What do you think?" the main man asked. "Can you grow back an arm? We're pretty sure you can't grow back your head."

"Boys," a sharp, feminine voice cut through the buzz of the chainsaw.

The electric tool's power was cut immediately and when Olivia opened her eyes, she saw a tiny woman enter the room. She, like the men they were with, was Latino in heritage and spoke with a heavy accent when using the English language.

The woman spoke to her men in her native language as she walked further into the room. Both men rescinded away from Olivia, Derek, and Peter and stopped to watch the woman do her work.

She stopped in front of the three Hales, giving them a once-over.

"No hablo Espanol," Derek said curtly, lying through his teeth. While Olivia only had two years on Spanish on her belt and wasn't quick to the take when people spoke it around her, Derek was. It was one of his best subjects in school.

The woman clicked her tongue. "You speak many languages, Derek Hale," the woman spoke in her native language, though this happened to be a statement Olivia could translate. "You know exactly what I'm saying and you know who we want."

The woman pulled something out of the pocket of her cute old-lady sweater. Olivia could see that it was a blade of some sort, maybe curved to cut something specific. The woman took slow steps toward them, holding the blade out threateningly.

"Where is the she-wolf?"

Was she talking about Cora? That was the only female werewolf that they knew now. But what did these people, these hunters, want with Cora? She hadn't done anything wrong.

Even if they were asking about Cora, Derek wasn't going to give his sister away.

"We don't know any she-wolf."

The woman pressed her lips together and nodded. "I know you won't talk, lobito," she turned, completely bypassing Olivia, and stood in front of Peter. "This one will talk. This one loves the sound of his own voice."

"You should hear me sing," Peter said sarcastically.

The man, the main one who was in change of the electrical current, smirked viciously. "We want to hear you scream."

Peter shook his head and glanced at Derek. "No one ever wants to hear me sing."

Olivia rolled her eyes. "Shut up, Peter."

Peter faced the woman again as she spoke, "What could we do to persuade you, hmm?" she lifted the blade against Peter's temple and drew it down his face; Peter winced as his fingernails sharpened into claws and blood dripped down his chin. "Where is the she-wolf?

This time, Peter kept his mouth shut.

The woman didn't like that. Quickly, she whipped the blade away from his face and brought it down on his hand. Peter's ring finger on his left hand was chopped off swiftly, blood bursting out all over his chest as he screamed.

"Oh, my God," Olivia breathed, her stomach turning.

"Think about it," the woman called, from where she had turned around. She studied the severed finger in her hand. "I'm only going to ask you nine more times."

And with that, she dropped the finger, and walked out of the room.

Olivia inhaled deeply as she sat up, her palm sloped against her racing heart. The dream—no, the nightmare—she had been having felt so real. Much more so than the dream she had of Stiles, Scott, and Allison the other night. No, what had happened in her dream had really happened, though it was obvious that she wasn't there. Derek and Peter were in trouble, trapped by hunters in Mexico, and she had to do something about it.

A sharp gasp came from next to her. Olivia watched as Allison jumped awake from her restless sleep. Placing a calming hand on her friend's shoulder, she tried not to panic as Allison pulled a ring dagger out from under her pillow.

Yeah, none of this was okay.

(Gif is not mine)

[platypanthewriter]

Switch Your Partner Round And Round (pt 1)

for @ihni​.  The second half will post on Ao3 Sunday, here next Weds!

Steve’s head pounded, and he squeezed his eyes shut against the flickering light and heat on his face. The hard plastic of the steering wheel dug into his cheek, and as he groaned, something slid off his hair and fell on his leg, then clinked to the floor. He blinked to see flames, and jerked his head up, then swore at the blurring lights and rush of pain in his skull. He blinked his eyes again, registering Robin next to him in the passenger seat, her head lolling against the seatbelt. The Camaro they’d t-boned—the Camaro with Billy Hargrove in it—had burst into flames. Billy jerked back against the seat, then started scrabbling at the inside of the driver’s-side door, and Steve pushed his own door open, staggering towards the Camaro.

Billy looked up, his eyes widening, and Steve yanked harder at the door, the heat from the engine block crinkling the paint on the hood. The seat next to Billy was on fire, around a lidless bottle of Everclear. The handle wouldn’t work, and Steve had to put a foot next to Billy’s door to yank it open. Billy yelled, holding his arms up defensively and coughing black smoke in a cloud around them, but Steve grabbed him by the shirt and dragged him out just as the whole passenger seat of the Camaro burst into flames in the air flow from the door, throwing them both to the ground. Billy rolled over him as they fell, hacking the smoke in huge gouts— at least the monster’s gone, in this heat, Steve thought, his brain fading out again as the night as the air filled with sirens, and the sky lit up blue and white.

When he woke again, he wished he hadn’t. Every part of him ached—his whole right side and hand were alternately numb or throbbing, his head hurt even worse than before, and his throat felt like he’d thrown up cement.

“Don’t freak out,” someone hissed, and Steve groaned, trying to swallow.

He tried to move, and his wrist clinked against something. He yanked at it, curling on his side, and it clinked again. Steve slowly opened his eyes enough to see he was handcuffed to a bed, then shut them again against the shooting pain of the fluorescent lights.

“Don’t, stop it,” the voice growled. “Keep your chill, Harrington, christ. Sssh, they’re coming, keep your damn mouth shut!”

Steve groaned again, wanting nothing in the world so much as water. He registered a shower-curtain noise, and squinted up, only to have a man in scrubs address him as “Mr. Hargrove”, and ask him what day it was, and whether he knew his name. He tried to correct him, rasping out a “Haaaa...harrrr,” but the man realized he was dying of thirst, and left to search for a cup of ice cubes.

The second the nurse was gone, the bed next to him squeaked, and the curtain was yanked aside to show him his own face, bruised, cut, and weirdly shaped outside of a mirror. “Shut up, Harrington,” it hissed, and Steve made a noise in the back of his throat, like a dog. “Shut up. If you say anything, they’ll lock us up, cool your jets—”

Steve tried to talk again, and made a perfectly reasonable squawk this time.

“Shut up shut up,” hissed his face. “They won’t believe you, we’ll never get out of here—” It yanked its arm, and Steve registered it was handcuffed as well. That thought was reassuring, and Steve drank the water when the nurse returned and pressed the straw between his lips, falling asleep content that the thief that had stolen his face wasn’t going anywhere.

The next time Steve awakened, he was still in the hospital. He stared up at the ceiling for a long while, waiting to hear someone say, “You’re awake.” Nancy, maybe. He set his jaw, telling himself not to hope for anyone else.

No chairs shifted. No throats cleared, and Steve closed his eyes, smiling tightly at the knowledge nobody was impatient to find out how he was. He rolled his head to frown at the bed beside him, where what looked like his body lay, and wondered again whether he wasn’t awake. I’m in a coma, he thought. S’weird watching myself. Maybe somebody will visit. Try to kiss me awake. He squished the oddly tickly pillow with his face, glowering over at his body. Maybe nobody told my mom I got in a wreck. Maybe everybody forgot I was even here.

Just then, his body snored, and Steve jerked, clacking the handcuff on his wrist against the bed rail. Do coma, uh, coma people, he thought muzzily, do people in comas snore? His body rolled over and curled up, flinging an arm over the edge of the bed—there were all his moles on that dangling arm, and he thought indignantly, how come I’m moving if I’m over here— and then he blinked when the brown eyes that belonged properly in his mirror and not on another person opened and blinked back at him.

“Harrington,” hissed the imposter. “You’re finally awake, jesus. Don’t say anything, okay, they—they’ll think we’re insane, we can’t figure this out any easier in a mental hospital—”

“Gimme hair back,” Steve mumbled, holding his un-handcuffed hand—it was full of tubes—up to block the weird person who’d stolen his face. “Ha! I can’ see you.”

“God fucking hell dammit,” the thief groaned. “Go back to sleep.”

“Thief,” Steve hissed, trying to pull his blanket up, and groaning. The other bed squeaked, and then his bodysnatcher tucked him in, and Steve let his eyes slide closed.

When Steve awakened again, the thief was sitting up, and Robin was hugging him. Steve wondered whether he was having an out-of-body experience, until the thief stared at him over his shoulder, mouthing, “Who the fuck is this?!”

“I guess you’re too dumb to die,” she sobbed, hugging him again, and Steve snorted. The thief stared over at him, and made a kissy face, pointing at her head. Steve shook his head, wide-eyed, and drew his fingers across his neck, sticking out his tongue. The thief looked even more bewildered, pulling his arms back, and Steve wanted to laugh, but he’d just realized the tickly stuff against his face was hair.

He lifted his extremely-entubed hand to squint at a fluffy curl of sun-bleached, chin-length hair. “...gonna complain,” he mumbled. “Hospital putting wigs on me.”

His body-snatcher started cackling, and Robin shot him a weirded-out look. “Sorry,” he wheezed. “I—I’m just—I think I’m still in shock,” he tried, and Robin nodded, ignoring Steve entirely.

Steve wondered what else they’d done to him, and patted his face to find a fake mustache, which he immediately tried to yank off, which hurt. “Ennnh!” he whined, as the guy with his face that his best friend was hugging laughed his ass off.

Robin left fairly shortly after, with a suspicious glance towards Steve, like he was the one stealing faces.

“You’re so high,” the thief laughed, and Steve flipped him off.

He woke again to something hitting his face, and groaned. Something smacked into his nose, and he rolled his head away, curling on his side.

“Harrington,” his doppelganger hissed. “Wake up.”

“Nnngh,” Steve told him, and felt something prod his butt.

“Wake up,” the thief said. “I told them to come back, I said you had a concussion, but they’re gonna want to know what happened—”

“Stole my face,” Steve told him, going to rub his own face, and finding the mustache again. “...what the hell. You should be handcuffed. Stealing my face.” The end of his bed shifted, and Steve raised his head to squint up at his own face, attached to his own body, sitting on the edge of his hospital bed. “Am I on...morphine or something? Am I dead...?” He swallowed thickly, blinking at the ceiling.

“Shut up, come on,” the bodysnatcher hissed, then grabbed the IV stand, and tilted the chrome arm towards Steve. “Hopper lemme loose, he thinks I’m you, he’s gonna start asking questions— look! Look at your face!”

Steve looked at his reflection, mostly out of annoyance, to see... Billy Hargrove’s face. Billy Hargrove’s mouth dropping open, Billy Hargrove’s hand grabbing the mustache Steve could feel on his own face. He sputtered. “What? No. That’s—that’s—no, that—shit,” he whispered, yanking at a handful of curls. “Need a razor.”

“Don’t you fucking dare. What do we tell people?” his face— Steve’s face—asked, and Steve stared.

“...Hargrove?”

Billy snorted a laugh. “Catch up, Harrington—”

He cut off, because Steve had grabbed his nose. Steve turned his own head, with Billy Hargrove inside it, to the left, and then the right, eyes narrowed. “How the hell,” he mumbled.

“Stop pinching by dose,” said Billy, with Steve’s vocal cords, and Steve yanked him closer by the head. “Mmmfng,” said Billy, crawling up the hospital bed as Steve’s thumb pressed against his lower lip. The room was chilly with air conditioning, and Steve warmed his fingers on Billy’s face as it reddened.

“What’d you do,” Steve whispered, wishing his brain wasn’t so fluttery with whatever was making his side and head hurt less. Billy braced himself over the bed, letting himself be pulled in close so he was doing a push-up with his hands on either side of Steve’s shoulders, and Steve realized something. “Wait, how come—” He squinted up, blinking. “How—how come I haveta hurt, you set yourself on fire?”

“Just lucky, I guess,” Billy whispered against his fingers, and Steve squished his own face with both hands until Billy looked like a fish. His breath was warm on Steve’s face, stirring his borrowed mustache.

“Sucks,” Steve mumbled, staring into his own dark brown eyes. He surveyed his own moles, and the way the skin under his eyes squished up when Billy started laughing with his face. “...fuck you,” Steve sighed. He thought, then thonked their foreheads together, and Billy-in-his-body winced, snickering.

“Why’d you save me, anyway?” Billy whispered back, grinning away. “Walk up to a burning car. Pulled me out of a burning car, Harrington—how long you been wanting me—”

In a burst of insanity, Steve rolled his eyes and tried the next thing that came to mind. He was thinking along the lines of magic, and fairytales, and he grabbed Billy Hargrove around the back of the neck to give him a firm kiss.

He expected to get shoved, or hit, or maybe, hopefully, to switch back to his normal body, like waking up a princess, or transforming a frog. What he did not expect, and what actually happened, was Billy scrambling closer and opening his mouth, turning his head and sighing as his tongue slipped warmly against Steve’s. He hummed, smiling, and Steve opened his own mouth, the whole body he was in seizing towards the warm heavy bulk on top of him. He felt like every single cell was rushing an urgent message towards his dick, and when Billy pulled away, panting, Steve wheezed out, “Dude, I think your body is gay.”

“So’s yours,” Billy hissed, flinching back. He took a deep breath, smiled, and leaned in to make Steve’s whole body go tingly and stupid again. “Wanted me so bad you hauled me out of a burning car, Harrington—how long’s my picture been in your locker? You’re gay as shit, who’re you pointing fingers at—” He ran a hand along the skin at the edges of Steve’s bandages, inside his starchy hospital gown. “You’re gay as hell, for me,” he mumbled, laughing shakily. “Saved me. Even after I kicked your ass, you—” He leaned in, pressing messy kisses along Steve’s hairline.

The gentleness made Steve’s breath catch and his eyes sting, which didn’t help his argument any. “M’not,” he muttered. “We—we need to fix it, we need to—”

“Shut up, Harrington. Jesus, you’re freezing—”

Steve forced his tear ducts back into submission, squeezing his eyes shut, then opened them to see Billy Hargrove laughing at him.

“You scared?” Billy asked, and Steve growled, lifting his head to meet Billy’s mouth so fast their teeth banged through their lips, and Billy grunted back in his throat, wide-eyed.

“Not scared, I’m a ninja,” Steve hissed, relishing the break from lying staring at the ceiling and counting his aches. “My body’s just gay ‘cause you’re in it,” he informed Billy, who snorted, biting Steve’s lip more gently and letting it slide through his teeth. Steve groaned, closing his eyes and squirming against the feeling of rough hospital sheets against his dick. “Like fifty percent gay now,” he muttered. “S’weird.”

“What?!” Billy started laughing, and Steve tried to lift an arm to punch him, then pinched his side. Billy yelled “Screw you, Harrington—” in his ear, and Steve snickered.

“‘Cause you’re gay,” he whispered, and Billy growled.

“Shut up, I’m—if I am, you are too,” he hissed, and Steve squinted back at him.

“It’s all you! You’re a hundred percent into me?” The math didn’t seem quite right, and Steve narrowed his eyes at the ceiling. “No, why’d you beat me up? Six...sixty percent? Thirty.” He wished Nancy was there to figure it out.

“I’m not—you’re—what have they got you on—” Billy asked, propping himself up to squint at the IV.

“If you’re only thirty percent into me, half of thirty is fifteen,” Steve told him, confident, yet disappointed at the size of the number. “...think maybe Nancy was fifteen percent into me too.”

“You can’t—that makes no—”

“I was hundred percent into her,” Steve announced sadly. “‘F we’d switched, that’d have been. More.”

“You need me to find you a girlfriend, Harrington?” Billy raised his eyebrows, and Steve tried not to laugh, but he started shaking, imagining Billy Hargrove wandering around shirtless and glaring at everyone, wondering why he didn’t get laid.

“Pffffft,” he finally exploded into giggles. “Ow, oh my god. You just get laid ‘cause you look like you— don’t—don’t look like—you’re such a smug asshole —not a compliment—”

“You just need tighter pants,” Billy told him seriously, his eyes crinkled with laughter, and Steve laughed harder.

“How do you move,” Steve wheezed, rubbing the tears from his eyes on the pillow.

“You were lookin’, huh?” Billy mouthed around Steve’s jaw to his ear, breathing hot across the damp skin. “You kissed me first,” he whispered. He laughed as Steve shook his head. He looked weird, Steve thought, both eyes crinkled as he grinned, and he kept laughing. It was impossible to imagine Billy’s regular face that delighted. “You can’t lie to me now, Harrington, you gave yourself away.”

“I was just trying something,” Steve told him, trying to breathe slowly. “Thought—thought maybe it’d work. We’d change back.”

“Let’s keep trying,” Billy whispered back, grinning. “‘Less you want me to stop.”

“Don’t you dare stop now,” Steve growled, squirming. It was deeply weird to see his own face smiling back, so he closed his eyes. “S’like making out with a funhouse mirror,” he mumbled between pants. Everybody makes out with awful people sometimes, he thought. Doesn’t matter.

“S’hot,” Billy told him, laughing. His hands were warm in the hospital’s AC, and Steve arched against them. “Just admit it.”

Steve fell asleep again with sweat cooling on his skin, his face and side warm against Billy. He woke as the warm weight shifted away, mumbling protests, and felt a soft kiss at his forehead.

“S’alright, I know you love me now,” Billy whispered, laughing, and kissed his ear.

“Fuck off,” Steve muttered, squirming closer. He hooked a foot around Billy’s leg.

“Be right back,” Billy told him. “Never get rid of me now. You gave yourself away, Harrington.” He squirmed to slide off the bed—Steve winced, gritting his teeth as the bed shifted—as the door opened, and twitched the curtain between their beds back just enough to hit his own bedsprings as the nurse pushed a cart alongside Steve’s bed.

He stared at the ceiling, bewildered, as she changed his IV, offered to give him a sponge bath—he yelped a no, remembering the sticky mess dried on his stomach, and heard a muffled snort from the bed through the curtain—and then she tried to interest him in some Jell-O, and the laughter behind the curtain turned to snickering as he grilled her on available flavors.

As soon as she left, Billy was half on top of him again, kissing his cheek and smiling into his face. Steve squinted his eyes against the warmth, trying to remind himself that the gentle hands feeding him Jell-O, cleaning jizz off his belly, and offering him sips of cool water were Billy Hargrove’s. The teasing, soft kisses, and offers to suck his dick were from Billy Hargrove, in his body, after Steve had rescued him from a burning car, and also he was definitely going insane.

When Steve came to again, there was finally somebody in the chair next to his bed, and he squinted blearily. The chair creaked as they tipped back and thunked their shoes on the edge of his mattress, and he groaned in complaint.

“...so, heat,” came Billy’s voice, from his body. “Heat of the fire exorcised me. Should have been some pea soup.”

Steve was glad they didn’t actually leave scalpels around like in movies, because he wanted to stab Billy in his own foot. “Seats’re for visitors,” he mumbled.

“Yeah, you’re getting so many of those.” Billy snorted. “Your parents get in a wreck too?”

“Shut up,” Steve hissed, rolling his head to stare the other way, at the curtain.

“You pulled me out first, though. Saved me when I was still trying to murder a bunch of kids,” Billy laughed. “They’re fine, though. I mean, it worked, they—they went home, I guess. The sheriff told me.”

Steve took a deep breath, nodding.

“That Robin girl says she’s fine, but I think she thinks you’re like...a spy? For the Russians? Or something?”

Steve started snickering, which hurt, and he started coughing. Billy grabbed a cup of water with a straw and held it close enough to drink, but Steve took one sip and shuddered. “It’s warm, you spit in it, didn’t you—”

“I didn’t spit in your drink,” Billy shot back, dropping his legs and the chair legs to the floor, and stalking out with the cup of water.

“...fuck you,” Steve mumbled. Probably they’re all busy, he thought. With the fucking Russians. And the monster. And they don’t have time to hang around here.

Billy returned with the cup, and dropped in Steve’s visitors’ chair again, holding the straw to Steve’s mouth.

Steve stared at it.

“Rinsed it out. I let the water run until it was cold,” he said, nudging Steve’s lips with the straw, and Steve opened his mouth for a chilly sip, then kept swallowing, as his thirst hit his brain.

“Dry air in here,” Billy said, tilting the cup so Steve was getting water instead of air. “Want some more?”

Steve stared up at him, stuck on the idea of asking Billy Hargrove for favors, or having to thank him, or really...talking to him at all. “Why’re you here?” he asked, finally, and Billy laughed.

“Shit. Uh. I know I—you—you stopped me,” he said, tipping the empty cup back and forth so it rattled. “I pay my debts, Harrington—”

“Saved your life and I get a sippy cup,” Steve muttered, feeling cheated.

“I can’t go back and—and fix shit,” Billy growled, the cup creaking in his hand. “I can’t—I tried shit, okay, I drank bleach—”

“Sounds like a good idea,” Steve sighed, and Billy kicked his bed—carefully, since it didn’t hurt.

“Piss off and—” Billy cut off, leaning his face in his hand. “Look, I can’t fix anything, I can’t—I can’t time-travel back and not show up at the Byers’, I can’t—do you want more water, that’s—I can’t—”

Steve did, but he bit his lips together, feeling the weird scratchiness of Billy’s mustache against his lower lip. He glared up at the ceiling.

“Shit,” Billy whispered. “I can’t leave anyway, since I’m apparently you.”

Steve snorted. “Gimme my body back. Beat me up, almost killed my friends, stole my body.”

“...yeah, I know,” Billy laughed, lowering his head. “...I can’t—I know sorry isn’t good enough, I don’t—”

"Look,” Steve told him, wishing he could sit up, “—that—that thing in your head, that wasn't your fault."

“Shoulda set myself on fire sooner,” Billy muttered. He glanced over, grinning. “Wouldn’t be having this problem.” He was kind of...hunkered down, picking at Steve’s blanket, and Steve blew air through his cheeks before speaking.

“Rather have this problem,” he admitted, and Billy’s head jerked up. Steve stared back, cursing his own honesty, but Billy’s smile was small and shaky, and Steve couldn’t quite regret his words. “...you’re still a shithead, though,” Steve told him.

“I know,” Billy laughed again. “I—I’m—just. Sorry about—that night. At the Byers."

“Fffyeah,” Steve growled, getting his consonants in a frustrated jumble. "What the hell was that?"

"I was—I was pissed, and drunk, and—he said I had to bring her back. HAD to. He—it was—or else." Billy kicked the little cart, and it rolled to a stop against the curtain.

"Or else what," Steve asked, his face hurting as he frowned. He watched Billy’s hands, clenched in the blanket, and Billy’s face, sweating in the cold air of the hospital, and reached out to squeeze Billy’s fingers. “What d’you mean, ‘or else’?”

"O-or else, I don't know!" Billy snarled, jerking back from Steve's hand, and Steve stared past him at the curtains, putting together Max and Billy’s defensive growling.

“...okay,” he said, reaching out again, but making sure he waggled his fingers, and Billy saw. “Okay,” he repeated. “I mean, it’s not okay, asshole, but—” he stopped, twining his fingers with Billy’s cold ones. They were shaking, and Steve rubbed Billy’s knuckles with his thumb, waiting for him to look over. “Okay,” he whispered. “Gimme some more water. Thanks.”

Billy stared at him, then down at the cup. “You—you’re just thirsty,” he whispered. He wasn’t crying, but Steve recognized the signs—his voice was husky, and he kept taking deep breaths.

“Yeah, so get me some water, water boy,” Steve hissed back. “Work that shit off. You know how many cups of water it’s gonna take? You’re gonna be hauling water ‘til you die—”

“Jesus, okay,” Billy said, but his smile came back, wide and uncertain, as he slid off the edge of the bed. “Whatever you want. Be right back. You, uh, you want anything else?”

Steve tried to think of something outrageous to say, but finally just shrugged. “Tell you if I do. I’ll run your legs off.”

“Yeah,” Billy grinned. “Make me work for it.” He winked, licking his lips as he slid through the door, and Steve’s dick twitched. He groaned, pulling the pillow over his face.

Steve opened his eyes next on Nancy, pushing the curtains back with a “it’s so gloomy in here, let me—” She stopped when she saw him, her lip curling a little, and he wanted to tell her. “What’s he doing here,” she hissed at Billy. “Don’t they know what he did?”

“He’s asleep,” Billy told her, kind of mumbling.

Steve opened his mouth, and then saw Nancy’s mom, dad, and little sister as the curtain moved. Mike wandered in, crossing his arms. Nancy’s mom stared over at Steve, in Billy’s body—she looked sick, he thought, pale and sweaty, and Steve glanced at Billy, in his body, who was staring at Nancy’s mom.

“How’re you feeling?” Nancy asked, grabbing Billy’s hand, and he managed a weird grunt.

“...fine,” he said eventually, and she nodded, firming her jaw for a narrow-eyed glance at Steve.

“Nurse said your football career would be fine, Harrison,” said Nancy’s dad, punching Billy in the shoulder, and Billy stared at him. “I’m...I don’t play football?” he said, just as Nancy hissed “It’s Harrington!” Nancy and Billy shared a moment, cocking their heads in confusion at Mr. Wheeler. Steve bit back a grin.

“Do you want a ride home, Steve?” Mrs. Wheeler asked Billy, who unaccountably reddened, and glanced at Steve. “We can drop you at your house. I bet you’d like a real shower!”

Billy widened his eyes, biting his lips together, then nodded. “Ye—yep. Thanks, ma’am,” he said, so woodenly that Nancy reached out and squeezed his shoulder.

Steve was so wrapped up in figuring out their weirdness he didn’t register Billy’s urgent stare, but he finally remembered and cleared his throat. “What, you gonna miss me, Harrington? Fuck off and let me sleep.”

Billy snorted, his eyes widening further as Mr. Wheeler promised to return after he was discharged, Mrs. Wheeler suggested they all celebrate his release at the diner with burgers, and Steve dozed off again, smug in the knowledge that Billy was about to have an incredibly awkward afternoon.

~

When Dustin finally escaped his mom, got his bike to the hospital, and found Steve’s room—despite people stopping him to ask if he was lost—Steve was gone. His bed was a mess, so Dustin figured he hadn’t gotten far, and shot a glance at Billy Hargrove in the other bed. He was grinning, for some reason, and Dustin wrinkled his nose.

“Where’s Steve?” he asked, and Billy’s mouth quirked. “Whatever,” Dustin hissed at him. “I’ll find him myself.”

“Henderson!” Billy yelled, as Dustin yanked the door shut, and Dustin repressed a shudder at the thought Billy Hargrove knew his name.

He (eventually) found Steve on the roof. “Hey,” he called, running up to lean over the railing next to him. He bumped their shoulders together, and Steve half stared, half glared, tossing a cigarette stub on the ground. Dustin rolled his eyes. “How hard you get hit on the head, buddy? I been meaning to talk to you about that. You know who you saved, back there?” He reached up and knocked on Steve’s head, and Steve just narrowed his eyes, his fingers twitching. Dustin slapped Steve’s shoulder, trying to get his brain to engage. “That guy’s the one that beat your face in at the Byers’, Steve. I know your shitty memory, but seriously? Seriously. Billy Hargrove? There are babies in this hospital that have less oxygen ‘cause he’s alive, Steve, who’s the hero now.”

“What?” Steve asked, and Dustin sighed, letting himself drape over the railing.

“Billy Hargrove, Steve. Nancy said he knocked you on your ass in gym.”

“I know who he is,” Steve gritted out, and Dustin looked him over, wondering whether somebody’d already given him a hard time.

“Jesus, take a chill pill, you had to be the hero, I know. Like Batman. Didja ever think, though, if Batman just killed Joker, he’d have saved, like, a ton of people? You gotta think about these things.” Dustin grinned over, and realized Steve had his hands clenched, white-knuckled, on the railing. “Just some friendly advice, man. Don’t die trying to save the bad guy.”

[bave-de-crapaud]

The Darkness Within...

CHAPTER TWO

Request by: The lovely @belladonnarey.  A/N: eeep here ‘tis! This is going to be a definite slow burn and I apologise for the appalling tragedy you will find below - it had to go in the story and I’m sorry.

Sirius x reader Older Sirius Sirius lives/Post Azkaban Slow burn and eventual smut

Word count: 3300+ Disclaimer: all characters are assumed 18+ Warnings: dark themes, torture, grief

-------

The front door of Grimmauld Place was as intimidating as ever as it appeared in front of you and you surged forward.

Livid, you threw open the door, steam rising from your forceful steps as your hot anger scorched the floor where you trod. Better watch that, this house looked primarily constructed of wood.

You were seething. How DARE Remus and Sirius interrupt you. You were SO close to finding out more about your past - a desire you hold in almost as high importance as to finding out what Voldemort intended of you. You were sure this was leading to another muggle attack - if only you had retrieved that package but Macnair stowed the parcel within his robes and then was writhing around in so much agony as you returned him to his home you could not take it without suspicion.

What would he tell Voldemort? You shook that thought from your mind you only had enough room in your head to be enraged at two other men at the moment and knowing these two were here, just ahead of you, sitting around a kitchen table tending to their wounds, you took the opportunity to give them a piece of your mind.

Sirius’ shirt was off and he sat hunched over his chair while Remus, behind him, administered a potion to what you assume was the aftermath of your curse and Macnair’s whip lash on his back.

“WHAT THE ABSOLUTE SODDING HELL DID YOU TWO THINK YOU WERE DOING?!” You burst through the door startling Remus enough to drop the bottle of dittany he was holding and Sirius to jolt, his wound opening again.

“How?! What?! There has been a breach, Moony, QUICK!” Sirius cried turning his wand on you and firing a spell. You easily deflected his spell and with a flick of your wand, disarmed him. He winced as he tried to catch his wand, his injury rendering his reflexes poor as it flew over his head landing on the top of the cabinet behind him.

Remus, swiping up the bottle of dittany, laid a hand on Sirius’ arm, confusing him further.

“Hold your fire Padfoot, she’s with us.”

You didn’t think Sirius’ mouth could open any further. He glared at you and you recoiled slightly from the look in his eyes.

“Moony, she’s Death Eater scum!” He spits. “Tie her up, call Moody NOW!”

“Sirius.” Only Remus addressing him by his first name served to get Sirius to look away from you and at his friend.

“She’s not a Death Eater Sirius, she is working for us. She’s a secret mole for the Order. So secret only Moody and Dumbledore know.”

Seeing that Sirius was still not convinced you decided to get on the defensive. “Look here is my wand.” You addressed Sirius. “I give it to you willingly” you rolled your wand across the table towards him and he snatched it up as you raised your hands. “Remus is correct - I am not and have never been a Death Eater, I work for you - ask Dumbledore and Moody.”

Sirius turned your wand on you, his expression unchanged from that of loathing and repulsion. He was, in his anger, a startling site and it sent a chill right through you.

Symbols started to appear on your forearms, your palms, and up your neck - anywhere you weren’t shielded by clothes was now covered in black markings. Both men look astounded at you as you hurriedly replied, “this happens when I’m scared! I don’t know what they mean. Please don’t look at them!”

Remus, ever the gentleman, turned away but Sirius regarded your markings in a curious manner. He didn’t look disgusted anymore but the surprise on his face is evident. You tug at your sleeves and grasp your neck in embarrassment.

Remus cleared his throat, “perhaps we should call Moody - floo him at least - will that help you stop pointing Y/N’s wand at her like you are going to curse her?” He glanced at Sirius. “She cursed me first!” He cried indignantly. “That’s fair” you replied - hands still in the air, scared, but a now a slight smile played on your features. Catching Sirius’ eye you winked at him. “I do apologise about that, I was loathed to do it but it was the only way Macnair would have believed you weren’t there to ambush him on my behalf considering Remus chose not to hex me straight away. Macnair may look stupid but unfortunately he is highly astute. Insufferable prat.”

Sirius flashed a quick smile at that, before quickly rearranging his expression into a frown.

You couldn’t blame him, the cruciatus curse is the foulest of foul devices anyone can use. Some would say death is preferable.

Remus plucked a handful of green power from the mantle and threw it into the fire place. “Alastor Moody’s house” he called clearly as he stepped into the flames and disappeared.

There was silence as Sirius and you looked at each other.

You cleared your throat “I’m going to put my hands down now Mr Black, ok?”

He nodded tightly and gestured to a chair for you to sit.

Still frowning curiously at you he glanced down at your arms and said, “I have a similar rune to that one on my wand.” He pointed to your open forearm as he accio’d his wand to show you.

There was a line of symbols, runes as he said, one after another carved into the long line of his wand. It was rather beautiful. “I’ve never seen this pattern before, did you draw it yourself?” Sirius nodded slowly. “What does it mean?”

He considered you, his gaze less full of hatred and surprise, now of steady curiosity, similar to that of a guard dog regarding another.

“It means: ‘more or less human.’” You were surprised. Everything you have heard about this man is of cocky, arrogant surety. Not someone who would consider himself half human? You knew a bit about the Black family, that they were up there with all pure blood fascists. You thought he must be like them, he certainly looked like them. His long dark hair, chiselled cheekbones and dress was quintessential of aristocratic grace and superiority. Like it or not, he looked like everyone of the pure blood, supremacist wizards but apparently not if he is working for the Order and referred to Death Eaters as ‘scum.’ Clearly there is more to this man than meets the eye.

Sirius was still watching you, hand tensed on your wand as if he was waiting for any sudden movements. You were struck again by the alarming sight he is as he stood before you. Shirtless, sweat dripping from raised pectorals, running over taught stomach muscles. He was broad chested and decorated in tattoos. Skimming over his frame your eyes caught a marking sitting promptly above his trouser line under neath his belly button.

“I have that one too!” You exclaim, pointing at the mark. He looked down to where you are pointing and raised his eyebrows at you.

“Yes, it appears over my heart when the symbols…well I guess runes appear.”

“This one?” Sirius touched his abdomen “It means a sort of ‘new growth, new beginnings if you will.”

You had never sought what the symbols meant as when they appear you are usually in no mind for researching but also you were always afraid at what you would find. That they would revel further darkness inside of you. Slightly hopeful at finding that you might not be decorated in diabolical signs of evil you divulged further.

“Yes but it is slightly inverse of yours, like the mirror image - is that still the same? What does that mean?”

He regarded you for a moment and then answered gravely, “destruction.”

Your sharp in take of breath was masked by Remus and Moody appearing out of the fireplace.

Sirius, once again, ready for action gripped your wand but relaxed at the sight of the old auror and his friend.

“You can put that away, Sirius I have us covered.” Seeing Moody calmed you and any markings previously visible on your skin, disappeared.

Moody’s limped towards the table pulling a flask out of his robes and handed it to you. You rolled your eyes as you take it from him and administer three drops to your tongue.

How many more times will he make you take veritiserum?

He cocked an eyebrow as you grimace at the taste and uttered, “can’t be too careful, Y/N.”

You sat up and waited for Moody’s questions. He, instead, pulled out a chair next to you sat down facing Sirius and Remus holding his hands out, “ok gentlemen, ask her anything.”

Remus paused, but Sirius straight away asked: “Are you a Death Eater?” “No.” You answer confidently.

“What is your name?” “Y/N Y/M/N Y/L/N”

“Who do you work for?” “Anyone from the Order of the Phoenix”

“For how long?” “Since my second year out of school”

“Why?” You stall, you have never been asked this question before. Surely the answer is obvious? Good vs Bad and you were on the side of Good - like him right? “Because the world is not made better by elitist idiots who think they are superior to everyone else, that just causes more pain than anything."

“Who recruited you?” “Professor Dumbledore.”

“How did he find you?” “He watched me at school and located me nine years ago when I was 18 trying and failing to infiltrate a Pure Blood Elitist meeting. They were still prevalent even though Voldemort was officially thought dead.  He said that he knew I despised pure blood mania but I was going to get myself killed if I did this alone or worst be used by the enemy for my ‘gifts’? You signed quotation marks with your fingers in mid air as you said the word ‘gifts’ and Sirius couldn’t miss the distain in your voice.

Sirius paused, then lowered his own voice, “what can you do?” You grimaced and slowly listed the unusual powers you have. Moody who had heard this before did not find it alarming but the two men before you could not hide their amazement.

“Have you ever hurt anyone with your gifts?” “Sirius!” Remus warned as you answer; “Yes”

“Out of anything other than defence” Remus added “No.”

Sirius continued his questions. “How does Remus know about you?”

“I saved his life from a werewolf attack two months ago. At another late night Death Eater rendezvous. I knew they were stalking Order members but I didn’t know they were going to use lethal force. It was Fenrir, he transformed during the meeting and went for Remus. I cursed him and played it off like I missed my aim at Remus, hitting Fenrir instead.

There was silence as Sirius digested this. You had again put yourself in danger of discovery, this time in front of one of the most dangerous blood lustful werewolves and took the consequences. What were the consequences of making a mistake in Voldemort’s ranks, Sirius wondered.

Remus, wondering the same thing, burst out with the question that had been plaguing him since that evening two months ago: “What did they do to you for your mistake?”

You swallowed, not able to hold the truth back, “They killed my dog!”

Tears streamed down your face, the truth potion not allowing you to remain in dignified silence, you recounted the awful punishment from Voldemort and the ‘lesson’ he said you would learn from your mistake. He believed your ‘affinity’ as he called it, to your own pet clouded your judgement and allowed you to mistake one animal from the other. That wouldn’t do and before you could react to what he was saying he flicked his wand - there was a flash of green light followed by a thud and your beloved companion was dead on the floor.

That moment caused you some of the worst pain you had ever experienced and you had a lot of pain catalogued to choose from. She was the only light in your troubling world, helping to make you feel less alone, and now she was gone. It took immense strength to not react to Voldemort then or anytime you thought about her in his presence.

The memory was overwhelming and terrified you to your bones. Scared of anything like that happening again the symbols or runes, as you now know them, reappeared.

“Why did Dumbledore ask you to pose as a Death Eater?” Sirius asked gently, distracting you from your tears. “He knew Voldemort wasn’t really dead it was only a matter if time before he resurfaced.  He thought Voldemort would be interested in me and that becoming a ‘Death Eater’ would keep me safe.”

“Safe?” Sirius questioned, confused. “Yes my abilities did not go unnoticed at Hogwarts. Dumbledore reasoned that it was only a matter of time before Voldemort came recruiting and would kill me if I said no. This way I get to help, rather than be used as a pawn.”

“Do you like your position for the order?” Moody shifted in his seat as Sirius asked this and turned to you waiting for your answer. “I hate it.” You spit, surprising even yourself.

“Why do you do it?” “I want to help and this is the only way. I was happy at having a plan finally to stop all this pure blood is greater than thou mania, excited even to be working for a group and not alone. But the more I learn about Voldemort’s ideas for a superior race and the way his followers talk and act towards anyone else disgusts me. I feel dirty having to agree with them even though I know it is a facade. It’s devastating and it gets to me the blood and torture and hurt they inflict.”

All men remain silent as you say this, watching you pull at your sleeve and steadying your anger. “I’m also scared of hurting people with my powers being used and having no control. Dumbledore has promised to…” You stalled.

“What has he promised, Y/N” Sirius asks.

You look directly into his grey eyes and state; “To take me out if it looks like they could cause me to hurt anyone.

“Take you…?!” Sirius and Remus look, appalled, Moody who’s grim but calm face gave away that he already knew of this potential eventuality.

As Sirius opened his mouth to argue, Moody held his plan up, silencing him. “Are you satisfied she is not a Death Eater now Sirius?”

Sirius nodded and Moody continued. “Right now we need to worry about a cover story for Y/N as to why her and Macnair’s meeting failed.”

“I’ve been thinking about that” you voiced. “I really think you are going to have to administer a delayed curse, one that takes its time - enough for me to get home but not be able to leave. Something that knocks me out for a few days.” Moody appraised you admiringly, however Sirius and Remus looked disgusted.

“Delayed curses are terrible Y/N.” Said Remus. “There is a reason they are delayed - to gain strength overtime and completely floor you.”

“You are not just going to get knocked out.” Added Sirius. You will experience pain to the level of a cruciatus curse but for days as you are paralysed to do anything.”

“It’s the only way.” You continued on before either man could argue again. “I get home and can stage it like I was trying to get into contact with Voldemort before succumbing to the curse. That way when they find me, it will look realistic that I was trying to contact.”

“Can’t you just summon him with your dark mark?” Remus asked quietly.

You shook your head.

“I can’t be branded. As soon as the runes you saw appear, they dissolve any artificial marking on my skin, such as tattoos.

Once again, Sirius’ mouth opened in shock.

“I know.” You said to him. “I spent so many galleons on a full sleeve tattoo trying to hide my markings only for them to dissolve that tattoo when they appeared.”

“How did Voldemort react to you not being able to carry the dark mark?” Remus asked.

“He was…” you searched your mind remembering a white hot hex on your back. “…not pleased.”

“Right then.” Moody stood up. “This has been a great chit chat but we need to get you home. I’ll administer the curse and then you get straight home you’ll only have a few minutes before it begins.”

“Can Sirius do it?” You looked at Moody before turning to Sirius. “I owe you one for my curse and I’d like to call it quits. Just in case you feel like bringing it up each time we meet - I heard you can hold a grudge.

You gave him a rueful smile and a smirk played on his lips as he gave you a curt nod.

“Remember gentlemen, no one can know that Y/N works for us - got it?” Remus and Sirius nodded. “Well as you now believe Y/N is no longer trying to breach head quarters I will take my leave.” He swiftly limped to the fire place, snatched a hand full of floor powder and disappeared into the flames.

The three of you remained seated, Remus and Sirius considering you but with very different looks on their faces. Remus looked pained and apologetic where as Sirius watched you with a contemplative glare - and was that admiration in his stare you wondered?

You stood up, took your wand from Sirius’ hand and stowed it in your robes. Facing the two men you said,  “Ok, hit me.”

Sirius raised himself up and looked at you. “Brace yourself Y/N.”

You nodded holding your arms out. Once more the runes appeared. Sirius winced slightly knowing that though you put on a cool front, you were scared. Each time the runes appeared on you that evening he felt unease and did not unwind until they began to dissolve. He didn’t realise this but he was not enjoying seeing you scared.

Sirius waved his wand through the air, closed his eyes for a moment then looked straight at you. His eyes black with anger he forcefully pointed his wand at you and you felt a cold chill wash over you entire form.

Once finished he lowered his head and drew a shaking breath. “I wager you have 20 minutes, so Y/N - lets get you home.”

As Remus and Sirius escorted you out the front door you stumbled slightly knocking a hideous trolls foot over causing a clanking sound to erupt in the hallway. At once a pair of curtains flew open revealing a woman with black hair and eyes looking down at you in indescribable rage - her face twisted with disgust as she screamed about honour and half blood filth. Her foul administrations on muggles and half breeds rang throughout the house.

You found yourself growing hot with anger, and perhaps weakened by the curse flowing through your body, you were unable to steal your emotions and calm yourself.

One hand holding the wall, the other directed at the woman in the portrait you lit her up in flames. The fire silenced her and allowed Remus and Sirius to yank the curtains shut. Shutting the woman up and putting the fires out as quickly as they had started.

Both men looked at you.

“Sorry” you beseeched. “Things burn when I get angry. Usually I can control it better. I just couldn’t stand what she was saying, whoever she is.”

“My mother.” Sirius exclaimed looking impressed.

You gave him an apologetic grimace before crossing the threshold of number 12 Grimmauld Place and apparating home in the cool night air.

Sirius, watched you go and then quietly closed the door. He looked at Remus who merely shrugged and said “Well you did say you were bored, Padfoot!”  Before turning around and walking back to the kitchen for a cup of tea.

------

@belladonnarey @sirius-lysad @riddikuluslypotter @emmamass24 @evyiione @mylovelykelsifer @sly-vixen-up2nogood @ashkuuuu @virgilwrites-archive @songforhema @wangmangagavroche @borbole-teias @legalyred

[unfortunatelyevent]

Last 10 Fics Tag Meme

Rules: Post the first lines of your last ten fics read or written and then tag others to do the same.

so i saw this and i really liked it so i’m doing it

1. Visceral Reactions by STARSdidathing (frostiron)

Tony wasn’t entirely sure how it happened.

One moment, he was chained to a wall in Loki’s latest warehouse lair and the mage was monologing. Tony was delivering his usual snarky one liners in response and Loki was trying not to look amused.

They were enemies just doing their thing and passing time until someone could save Tony (or he could save himself).

The point was, Loki was mid-monologue, throwing in some “mortals are beneath me, I hate you all” crap. Tony was rebutting that Loki was an Asgardian snob and, a total liar because he knew Loki liked a lot of Earth food, clothing and music.

Loki was towering over him and glowering.

And then... then they were kissing.

2. Friends Don’t Let Friends by theorytale (frostiron)

Steve was angling his shield to deflect a blast from Loki's staff, when out of nowhere the Hulk dropped down - splintering the concrete under their feet - and scooped Loki up in one massive green hand. Steve cringed reflexively even as he relaxed his stance. Loki was an evil bastard, sure, but watching Hulk use him like that whack-a-mole game was just… uncomfortable.

Only, Hulk didn't smash.

Loki struggled uselessly, yelling for the Hulk to put him down. It was kind of funny how fast the guy could go from menacing and legitimately frightening to… kind of pitiful. The cognitive dissonance gave Steve a headache.

Hulk lifted Loki up and peered at him intently, brow furrowed. "What puny god's intentions?"

3. Obliviousness Can Lead To True Love by pointnclickbait (science boyfriends)

Bruce swore softly shooting a glance at his watch as he hurried to the next presentation. This conference was turning out to be more hectic than he had expected. He had been hoping to catch a couple of presentations in particular but had already managed to miss some of them. The one he was hoping to attend the most was after the one he was currently running to. He really hoped he didn’t miss it. He paused at the entrance to the conference room to catch his breath before entering. He stepped in and scanned the room before hurrying to the one free space he could see. He settled down just as the speaker took to the floor.

He was so invested in what he was hearing that he forgot to keep an eye on the time and wasn’t aware of it until he was applauding the conclusion of the presentation. He looked at his watch absentmindedly before doing a double take when he saw the time. Swearing loudly this time he tried to squeeze his way through the crowd. By the time he finally escaped the room more precious time had elapsed. Inevitably by the time he reached his destination there was no possible way that he could have gotten inside. He let out a sigh of frustration and scrubbed his hand through his hair. It looked like he wasn’t getting into Tony Stark’s talk after all. He dropped his hand with another sigh. He’d been looking forward to the talk all weekend. It was the reason he had asked to have his presentation given so early, he had been hoping that he wouldn’t have to worry about the talks clashing. He swallowed his disappointment and headed for the dining hall hoping to eat his feelings.

4. The Language of Love by 1derspark (kaysanova)

To be in Jerusalem is to be hard of hearing.

Nicolo learns quickly there was no silence to be had in the city. Even on the way here, there is noise: the breaking of waves against a Genoese ship, the clamor of a thousand knights and horses, their armor clattering like heavy shells on the march to the holy city.

There is never silence. In Jerusalem it’s as if God were screaming, and with every hoarse screech the devil answered.

The battlefield is everywhere, and so is the blood. The sound of death, the sound of pain. Nicolo has dreamed in war cries for years, so this did not bother him. He dreamed in black curls, a dark helm pulled over an angry face, teeth bared and chattering in a language he did not understand but would soon come to hear very frequently.

He meets this man — the one that roars and tramples down swathes of armies beneath his feet — not too long after the fighting starts.

5. Here We Are, Born to be Kings by Purple_ducky00 (iron husbands)

“Your Highness. Lord Stark is here to see you.” Quentin Beck holds up his nose.

Prince James Rhodes rolls his eyes. It’s not like Beck should judge. He was only hired because his family was in serious debt.  Tony is working out of his.

Tony walks in a few minutes later, hair askew. “Wow, Rhodey, your servants hate me. I call it an achievement.”

“They just think it’s ok to judge since their scandals happened long ago enough for people to forget. You don’t deserve this.”

“I probably do.” Tony shrugs. “It doesn’t bother me. Actually, it gives me the chance to ditch my politeness because they already dislike me.”

6. Impossible Things by accioromulus (wolfstar)

Sirius arrives at the party two hours late and covered in snow. Facebook had suggested around thirty people were coming—a number which already threatened to overwhelm James and Lily’s tiny flat. When Sirius arrives at just past ten however, he immediately wishes he’d brought a sledge hammer, if only to make it past the front door. It’s clear that no less than fifty guests had burrowed their way inside. They stand in every corner, filling the narrow hallways and spilling out from every room, their faces vaguely familiar to him, their chattering bright and enthusiastic. Music drifts in from the sitting room, and it takes Sirius a moment to recognize it, bizarrely, as Christmas Carols, despite the New Years Eve decorations strung about the walls. He turns a corner, attempting suave and casual, but instead narrowly avoids a party-goer's over-enthusiastic elbow by crashing into Lily Evans.

7. greater love has no one than this by Jack_R (kaysanova) ((THIS IS A FAVE))

‘I am not going to Rum,’ Yusuf said. ‘They are filthy, depraved degenerates, and I will not bring dishonour on the house of my father by consorting with these Greeks dogs.’

‘I thought your mother was Greek,’ Niccolò said, mildly.

‘Then you should trust me when I say that their entire civilisation is simply beyond saving,’ Yusuf said.

8. fearfully and wonderfully made by bethecowboy (kaysanova)

Yusuf’s blood buzzes so hard through his veins that it takes all his effort to stay still. Every part of him longs for motion, for justice, for a swift end to the constant exhaustion.

He always calms his limbs, his mind, in time for Fajr: his forehead kisses the ground as the new sun soaks the sand in deep russet oranges. Light glints of the breastplates of dead Christians; it caresses the faces of his fallen brothers who had died defending the outer wall.

9. Genus and Species by 27dragons, tisfan (winteriron)

When Bucky opened his eyes, all he could see was green in all directions. At first he thought that was just the remainder of the Time Stone’s power. Thanos had done… something. No one quite knew what because the battle had been so confusing; the Power Stone blasting purple rays everywhere, the Space Stone moving people out of position, lord only knew what was happening with the Reality Stone. And then there had been a great, green wave of energy--

“Ug,” said someone nearby. It took Bucky a moment to clear his thoughts enough to identify it: Tony. “I feel like a Pride parade just swallowed me whole and then puked me out.” A pause. “Why are we in a jungle?”

10. Through The Years by hawkbucks (winteriron)

Tony is 8 and Natasha is 12 when Tony brings Natasha home for the first time.

“Mamma!” he brightly exclaims as soon as Maria opens the door, holding up one of his hands that is intertwined with one of Natasha’s. “This is Natasha! She helped me while I was walkin’ home from school today.” Before Maria can say anything, Tony is already rushing past her, dragging his newfound friend into the living room with him. He leads her to the rather lavish, cream-colored couch that’s bigger than necessary and tells her to sit down, letting go of her hand.

“Some’a the kids at school were followin’ me and sayin’ bad things to me,” Tony starts to explain as he takes off his patent leather shoes, remembering what his mother said about tracking dirt into the house. “But Natasha made ‘em go away. Then she said she’d keep walkin’ with me so that I’d get home all safe. She was really awesome!”

and that’s that, i have to say that i absolutelly love and rec all of these!

ok i’m tagging: @natyhunter @atypical-snowman @simplyclockwork @camp-half-dumbass and whoever wants!!! (also everyone i tagged please don’t feel obligated!!!)

[bobowhooo]

Potent Savages

Chapter 1 Part 2 : Disruptive

genre : Thriller/Angst/trigger warningsss/smut/exo, oc, and blackpink gang au

Summary : This fast paced kind of life style isnt for everyone, but for these young rich savages this stuff is second nature.

I told you i would catch you up, and im a girl of my word when i want to be. So imma take you back, Back before the drama with jiyong the dragon. Back before i even knew baekhyuns weird ass was a member of the notorious exo gang. Before he knew i was a member of the infamous blackpink gang. Before we all started to hate eachother.

“I am so gonna make a virgin cry tonight” jennie spoke to herself while looking in the mirror as if she was taking a selfie, which i love watching her do for some reason, but in my defense she does look really hot. Looks like tonight is going to be one of those nights that we put on our less expensive clothes and act like we’re regular teenagers, i hate these nights, i’d much rather be at the club in balenciaga, sitting in the vip lounge with jiyong, but my girls wanted me to go and if my girls want something from me the word no always goes into hiding.

“Ayyye lit wayyy.” lisa sang out as she took a picture in the mirror with jennie

I looked over to the room that jisoo and rosé share in our three bedroom condo,  I wasnt getting a good enough look at them so i decided to go inside of the room, i know i sound like some kind of crazy smother but the relationship between me and my girls is not normal and probably never will be. I cant be away from them for too long and if im not close to them i have to atleast be able to lay my eyes on them or i just might kill someone. Yes i do tell you alot but i dont know if im ready to talk too much about that, so lets change the topic.

Snapping out of my thoughts, i realized that jisoo and rosé still werent ready at all. Instead of intervening or saying anything, i decided to just do something else, guess ill call my mans.

“jiyong?”

“honeyy, how is the party going?” 

“Haii oppaa” i said with a higher voice than usual you know the one you use when you talk to the boy you like? yeah that one. “im not there yet oppa”

“Aaahhh okayyy i seee” judging from the way he was using that sly sexy voice of his, i think he wants something from me.

“What is it oppa?”i said, i dont know why im getting an unfamiliar feeling about this.

“babyy?”

“yess”

“babyy, at that party tonight....”

what the hell does he want with this dumb high school party, i should be the only thing in his mind that has anything to do with high school... okay im kidding....alittle.

“Some of my associates will be there i want you to keep an eye on them.” his voice switched up this time.

“What the fuck jiyong, who the hell are these “associates”?”

“exo.” well he never was one to beat around the bush for too long, i could already hear it in his voice he was getting impatient.

“First of all, fix your tone, and second, boi you know i know most of all that the whole damn exo gang hates you and all your men, dont talk to me like im just another one of those dumb skanks you like to play with.”

What did you just ask? oh, well let me tell you alittle more about him. Jiyong the dragon is the top dog the ultimate big man in this business. He was one of those get down or lay down type of guys, of course that shit didnt work on me and my girls, which was the reason why he took such a liking to me in the first place. Does that cure your curiosity? what do you mean you didnt ask that!? 

“Hahahhah” hes laughing at me.

“ugh, oppa im supposed to be relaxing at this party.”

“i know babyyy, all you have to do is keep an eye on maybe three of them and...”

“And!?”

“Aaand make sure they dont leave until my men get there.”

“What!?, jiyong are you seriously going to try to kill them at a highschool party!?”

“Who said anything about killing themm...babyy come onn for mee?”

“You know that type of shit dosent work on me oppa.”

“please baby? ill owe you one big time.”

That caught my attention “ owe me huh?” thats what i like to hear. I could care less if those exo guys die or get kidnapped or whatever jiyong is gonna do with them, and the mention of him owing me sounds so delicious “hmmm....”

I hear a little laughter on his side before i make my decision,

“You got yourself a deal oppa” i say with a sinister smirk. And with that we say our goodbyes and i hang up.

My girls are so quiet.......shit.

I whip my head around quickly, with my anxiety building up, getting ready to run to where ever they are, whether it is in the house or not. 

“Cha cha?” jisoo called out. My real name is park bong cha, aya is just a street name. Not alot of people know my real name, and i like it like that.

My girls were standing in the doorway of my room which i share with no one due to the fact that all of the extra space in the room is filled with all of our weapons and money. 

“Damn i wish you saw the way your head turned just now” rosé said with a small giggle. She and jisoo looked like they were finally done getting ready. 

“Lets dip girls.” i said, actually feeling alittle excited to go now, which is such a first.

“AND IM LOVIN ALL RACES HELL NAW DONT DISCRIMINIZE AYYY WE LITT!”

I was posted up on the wall with some concoction lisa had some girl she was macking on make for me. It tasted good though. I had already informed the girls about the little deal i made with jiyong, they took it well thankfully. i have been occupying my eyes with this cute guy who is dancing his ass off. And just when the song finally changes and he notices, the entrance door swings open and some heads turn, and mine follows the others.

Just the boys i wanted to see, i think to myself while smiling.

I let my girls know by text and we all, being on the same floor of the house, exchange looks. 

shall we?

“IMMA MAKE YOU MIINE TONIGHT!”

I watched the exo gang walk in all together, some were rubbing their hands together like fuckboys, and others just looking around observing the party and the people, easily you could tell they are a close-knit group like me and my girls.

“JUST ONE TOUCHH AND ILL MAKE MY MOVE!”

I decided to keep my eyes on the linky big eared one, the one who looked like he wanted to scream in someones face, and the one-

“omg” I said under my breath as I watched one of the exo members slightly bite on his beautiful index and middle fingers.

Lisa quickly slapped my shoulder with a grin “aye, you thirsty girl?” she said as she tilted her drink towards me with her adorable smile, “shut the fuck up.” I said with a dead expression.

The other girls came up to us in three different directions. “So whats the plan?” rosé asked while referring to my end of the deal I made with jiyong oppa. I wasn't listening though, still stealing glances at the exo members mouth and fingers.

“Stop bitching guys, I will remember what she looks like, trust me, damn.” chanyeol stated as he scrunched up his face a little. All I can think is that its such a damn shame chanyeol is the only one who saw jiyongs girl, putting all our eggs in chanyeols fucked up basket is really fucking annoying. “Baekhyun, I know what your thinking, and no im not stupid enough to put all our eggs in chanyeols fucked up basket, just know that.” Suho spoke while he squeezed my shoulder as if he was trying to make me feel his words,  what the hell is he? a fucking mind reader!? 

We already know what jiyong the fucking snake is going to try to pull tonight, we heard from a mole hes going to have some girl hes been fucking to watch us all night, but we came here tonight in spite of that to do our usual rounds, because not a lot of things are better than money and confrontation.

“Alright split, chanyeol stay with Baekhyun” Suho said with an exhale

Chanyeol puts his arm around my shoulders as we walk towards the crowd of dancing teens. “Anybody lookin familiar?” my voice giving off my bored and annoyed mood, I spoke with a quick elbow into his stomach. “Nahh, just lemme go get a drink real quick. want one?” chanyeol asked and got a nod yes in return.

I start looking around, eyeing all the girls in the room.

“ERRBODY GETCHA MUTHAFUCKIN ROLL ON AYYY!”

“Girls really love this song huh?” I said to myself as I watched a swarm of girls running to the impromptu dance floor as they screamed and giggled.

My eyes automatically land on two girls that looked like they just jumped off a runway stage or some shit, “damn” I said out loud on accident, could they be jiyongs? 

“Damn is right.” chanyeols deep voice crept from behind me, “all the girls in the kitchen were uggos.” he tilted a red plastic cup my way.

I took it from him and stole a quick sip, “those two girls right there ring any bells?” I asked as I brought up my left hand to wipe my mouth and used the index finger of the hand holding my cup to point in the direction of the girls I was talking about.

Chanyeol licked his lips, “I don't know I think I need a closer look.” he voiced as he rubbed his hands together, his fuckboy mode starting to kick into gear.

I smirked at the possibilities.

“Okay I guess we can have some fun then.” 

“You know if you don't make this shot im going to make you strip right?” the guy I now know as Baekhyun spoke to me sexily with a sharp smirk on his face while he held a ping pong ball that had earlier been cover in cheap beer.

“Well maybe I want to strip.” I stated, readying another ping pong ball. Hopefully I can finally make a shot.

Baekhyun, and his friend who is also an exo member, chanyeol came up to me and jennie a little while ago, the convenience being too perfect, we've been talking to them ever since, and somehow I ended up in a game of beer pong with Baekhyun, while jennie and chanyeol decided to look through each others instagrams on the couch next to us.

I finally flick my wrist with hopes I get it into one of the cups on baekhyuns side.

“Yess.” I said as my ball landed in a cup on the left of Baekhyun.

“aahh noo” Baekhyun spoke playfully.

my phone buzzes at that. I quickly look at jennie, Jiyongs men might be....

“What is it?” Baekhyun speaks. I don't answer, instead I remove my phone from the back pocket of my jeans to see if my earlier thought was right.

oppa

  my men are there baby where are you

“Aye jennie the girls are looking for us we should go.”

“awww already?” chanyeol said, his voice giving off a new dangerous tone.

They know.

I saw ayas face change after chanyeols comment.

that's right bitch, feel it. 

chanyeol told me she was the one three minutes into talking to her. I have to admit shes good. I totally would have fallen for her act. too bad I didn't.

“Jennie lets move now!” aya yelled at the other girl as we heard screams coming from all around the house.

“Grab her chanyeol!” 

The moment I jump on the ping pong table and take out my gun, jennie jumps off the couch, chanyeol grabs her, and Baekhyun pulls out the gun hes been hiding so well. 

Jennie struggles in the hold of the huge man, while I stare Baekhyun down. Both our guns pointing at each others head. aiming for an instant kill.

“You don't think im about to just give up do you?” 

I quickly shoot at the gun in Baekhyuns hand and roll off the table, about to shoot at chanyeols foot, he kicks the shit out of me, and jennie took the chance to get out of his hold, all of a sudden a crowd of people fill the room. 

Jiyongs men come running in like the CIA.

“Shit!” 

I start shooting the men coming at me. suho and d.o run into the room probably getting ready to carry out plan b.

Me and chanyeol somehow end up back to back in the middle of jiyongs men, this isn't looking to damn good.

I grab jennie and run to the exit of the room in full panic mode because I don't know where the hell my other girls are. 

A exo member with bushy eyebrows comes out of nowhere and stands in front of us looking like satan himself, looking calm despite all the chaos going on. 

I don't have time for this.

I push jennie backwards getting ready to jump out of the next window I see, until I turn around and see another exo member staring us down with one of his eyebrows lifted, as more of the exo gang pile in the room to help with jiyongs men. fuuuck meee.

I charge in the other direction gripping jennies wrist, and my girls come out in front of us rushing to get to the men chasing behind.

Me and jennie continue running with intentions of getting the car ready, hating the fact that I have to leave the other girls here. 

We reach a window and I look for something in the room I could use to break it. I find golf clubs in the closet and take a hard swing at my target, breaking it in one go. we both jump out and sprint for the car we came-

“AYA! AYA! AYA!”

My eyes feel like led but I finally start to open them, looking around to only find darkness. shit I must have gotten knocked out by one of the exo boys.

“aya?” 

my eyes widen. jennie.

I feel her breathe on my neck as she tries to get closer.

“same plan as usual?”

“ Yeah.”

These exo assholes should have fucking killed me when they had the chance, they should know never to cage wild beasts.

When the car finally came to a stop I realized my eyes were closed in anger the whole time.

I heard muffled voices and doors opening before closing right back.

My eyes shot open in anticipation.

Open the trunk, I dare you.

as if on cue the trunk door pops open and the exo men look down on us laying in their trunk, this isn't all of them though, where are the rest? I look up at them wishing looks could kill.

“awww you are such a good girl, I didn't even have to gag youu.” a dinosaur looking exo member said as he bent down to get me out of the trunk.

This time, this time when I shoot I wont miss.

The moment my feet touch the ground I feel a rush of adrenaline, I keep my composure until jennies feet does the same.

I close my eyes again readying myself for the moves im about to make. as they start walking us to what seems like a rundown hideout.

They are circled around me and jennie as we walk towards the destination and I look at the men in front of me, eyeing them up and down in search of a knife.

Bingo.

Spinning around as fast as I can in the direction of the knife in the mans pocket on the left of me, jennie quickly backs up planning on distracting atleast two of them.

I get my hands on it and move swift and fast cutting myself loose, cutting up an exo members leg and whatever else is in the way of jennie,

I cut her loose and spin again, always trying to use my speed as an element of surprise, I grab hold of a gun in someones hand and start shooting at everyone around us, as jennie follows my actions.

my shoulder takes a shot, as jennie grabs my hand and makes a run for it. 

we keep running into the dark forest for our lives as we try our best to avoid the bullets the are flying from behind us.

What a fucking night.

We spent the rest of night running through the woods and making sure I don't bleed to death. When we got back to condo, the sun was up and the rest of the girls were crying and loading machine guns. 

“We thought you guys were never going to come back!” they cried at us. I couldn't help but feel like shit, I wasn't on my a game last night and because of that my girls suffered. 

After that my shoulder was tended to by jisoo and we made our way to jiyongs place to talk about everything.

“I cant fucking believe this shit!”

“Jiyong what the hell are you talking about?” I said as I walked into his office with my girls

“im never gonna trust you with shit ever again.” oppa spoke in a vicious tone while walking towards me.

“Chill the fuck out jiyong!”  jisoo said about to step in front me, I put my arm out in front of her and walk into his personal space.

“Got a fucking problem?”

“Its your fault they got away, you unprofessional piece of trash. Do you know how much that night cost me!” well look at the balls on this one.

“I tried my best you fucking asshole don't do that to me I held up my end of the deal all you said I had to do was keep them there!” 

“Get the fuck out of my face aya, you and your girls are making me sick to my stomach, and don't even think for a second I was serious about me owing you!”

Ah shit my hands are gonna misbehave. suddenly my fist made their way to his jaw and accidently on purpose clocked the shit out of him.

“SHIT” 

My girls start giggling at the scene and I back away from jiyong as his eyes become wild with anger.

“Do you have a fucking death wish you bitch!?” yes.

“Nah, not really.”

He starts walking towards me again and I can finally tell that he’s not sober. He takes a slow swing at me and my face scrunches up in disgust.

I push his head backwards and he falls completely over. What a pig.

“Jiyong stop come on your better than this.” I said with a frustrated tone.

“DIGGIE” he screams for his body guard who does all his dirty work. Truth is jiyongs actually a little bitch, but hey gotta fake it till you make right?

“Do you really think that guy can kill our crazy asses?” rosé speaks with a raised eyebrow to jiyong, who is on the floor looking completely distressed.

“DIGGIE KILL THESE SLUTS”

“DIGGIE”

“diggie” his cry for his body guard becomes soft as he starts to sob.

“Come on, lets get outta here girls, he’s obviously really fucked up right now.”

“Don't worry jiyong, we’ll leave diggies head at the door for you.” 

All caught up?

AUTHORS NOTE : woooo! im doneeeee ayyy I had a lot of fun with this chapterrrr. I hope you guys enjoyed it! its like 5 30 right now sooo imma go to sleep nowww but thanks for reading! kisses <3 ~ laila

[hired-help]

“Layers” Character Meme 

LAYER ONE : THE OUTSIDE

Name: Charles Harris Wilson Charon

Eye Color: Bright blue

Hair Style/Color: He inherited the same ginger-red as Martha. Likes keeping it short, but can’t manage to cut it often enough for it to be as neat as he’d like. Habitually tries to finger-comb it over at intervals. Post-ghoulification, just doesn’t care. Touching it might lose him the last of it.

Height: 6′4″ (+ - I haven’t completely nailed it down, but he’s about a foot taller than LW. Mine was female and I pictured her being fairly small, so I tacked a foot onto that, but I don’t think the male models are much taller. He could be anything up to 7″ depending on how you view your LW?!)

Clothing Style: Provided he has a choice, he likes pre-war casual - going on game options only, parkstroller or spring - but the red shade is a bit much, switch it out for something lighter. He’s awkward in that he doesn’t like short sleeved shirts but he doesn’t like long either, so he has to roll long ones to the exact right place. Post-programming, he doesn’t even entertain the notion of casual clothing. Always armored, light enough not to weigh him down (his agility is already pretty poor). 

Best Physical Feature: Probably his eyes. Which backfires pretty spectacularly when they’re the only thing he retains in ghoul form and they become creepy and too-real compared to the rest of him. He used to have a nice smile, but it was the rarity of it more than anything. It felt odd to smile - when he was surrounded by misery - even when it was his natural reaction to someone or something, so he had a habit of clenching his back teeth and trying to suppress it. The result was a kind of reluctant, delayed half-smile that made him look shy, and a certain type of lady liked that.

LAYER TWO: THE INSIDE

Fears: Younger: Losing his family or something happening to them, losing his own identity after he was bought by them. Older: Nothing - he’s not allowed to be afraid of things, it might impair his usefulness.

Guilty Pleasure: Younger: Stealing smokes from dead people. Slightly less guilty if they’re slavers. Older: None. Still does that, but no longer guilty. Every selfish thought he has produces a faint sense of guilt. Vague, fleeting thoughts of his own preferences, that kind of thing.

Biggest Pet Peeve[s]: Younger: More like an intense hatred; slavers pushing around people weaker than them, which he took to be women, children and the elderly. He got his ass kicked more than once trying to step in for them. Older: Employers who don’t know how to watch their own asses. He can only do so much; he’s one ghoul, not your guardian angel.

Ambition for the Future: Younger: Escape somehow, free his fellow slaves, clear out Paradise Falls so no one else ever gets taken there. After that, he never intended to go home. Fuzzy memories of cannibalism and incest no longer seem part and parcel of living. He’d rather go find his own home. Older: Haha, that’s funny.

LAYER THREE: THOUGHTS

First Thoughts Waking Up: Younger: “Collar’s still there.” Older: “Is [Employer Name] still alive?”

What They Think About the Most: Everyone else. This is pretty consistent. He can’t be called a Mom Friend at any point, but he has a natural inclination to look after anyone who needs it. Y’know... a real man protects his family, and all.

What They Think About Before Bed: Younger: He’s probably been worked to instant unconsciousness. Older: After the security of the area, his thoughts wander as far as they can. Sometimes he tries to count his employers backwards, hoping he’ll break through that strange barrier he senses somewhere in the past. Why doesn’t he remember anyone before that?

What They Think Their Best Quality Is: Younger: He knows he’s a grounding influence. He’s good at projecting a calm aura. Older: His shotgun.

LAYER FOUR: WHAT’S BETTER?

Single or Group Dates: Group dates sound fun. That takes off a lot of pressure and seriousness; and it’d be nice for a girl to have another girl to talk to, right? Maybe single dates would be better after something like that. Of course, older... neither. 

To be Loved or Respected: Younger: Both. Older: Respected.

Beauty or Brains: Younger: He’d like to say “brains” but he’s an absolute sucker for pretty girls. As long as they can tell a mole rat from a deathclaw, they’re probably good. Older: Definitely brains. Even if anything else weren’t hypocritical, he’s a lot more relaxed around someone who won’t get themselves killed.

Dogs or Cats: Dogs. There aren’t supposed to be any cats left, Todd.

LAYER FIVE: DO YOU?

Lie: Younger: Rarely. Older: Never.

Believe in Yourself: Younger: Oddly, yes. He’s confident for someone with a bomb round his neck. Older: Yes, but in a much more practical sense.

Believe in Love: Younger: What’s not to believe in? Older: ... 

Want Someone: Younger: Eventually. He’s a little commitment-phobic, but I think that’s understandable when you were engaged to your sister as a kid. Older: Pointless to think about. No.

LAYER SIX: EVER?

Been on Stage: No.

Done Drugs: Younger: (sheepish fidgeting, awkward smile)  Older: Yeah, occasionally - but he almost sees it as medicinal. Firefight taking too long? Employer tiring out? Psycho. Finish it.

Changed Who You Were to Fit In: Never - never been able to. If he were, he might have seemed less like a vault tec ad come to life in his younger years.

LAYER SEVEN: AGE

DOB: Between 17 and 30+ depending on timeline point. I talked to Nimriel about this yesterday - I think averages out about 26, assuming we’re post-F3. But he stops counting then, since he’s technically immortal and never any closer to death. The only thing that changes anymore is the amount of unmarked skin he has left.

How Old Will You Be: ^^^

Age You Lost Your Virginity: 15. He’s a little ashamed of that now.

Does Age Matter: For what? For friends, not at all. For proper, long term partners, definitely. He’s a little shallow and won’t go much older than he is, but neither will he go much younger, and by “much”, I mean she has to be a grown woman with the maturity to match. He’s not interested in teenagers, they’re still kids, and kids shouldn’t think about that stuff. Obviously, older!Charon doesn’t give a fried fuck, his employers could be 19 or 90 as long as they’re breathing.

LAYER EIGHT: IN A BOY OR GIRL

Best Personality: Younger: Genuine, kind, caring, monogamous. Seriously, he has the out of touch mindset of a 1950s poster for a new oven, besides the intense misogyny. That said, he still thinks women have a certain sort of role; he sees it as his job to keep her and the children safe, and hers to take care of the home they put together from within. That means more making sure everyone eats more than polishing the silverware, though. It makes a little more sense in a Fallout setting; having one of them focused on defence and one on offence is pretty logical. He wouldn’t want anyone he loved to be the one getting covered in raider blood. Older: This isn’t really something that ever crosses his mind, but he does admire people with a purpose.

Best Eye Color: Doesn’t matter. He’s weak. 

Best Hair Color: Again. Weak. But he likes blondes.

Best thing to do With a Partner: Younger: Never really had one for any extended period of time, if you catch my drift - but he’d probably like to travel with them. He loves seeing new places, but it’d be nicer if he wasn’t alone. Older: Survive?

LAYER NINE: FINISH THE SENTENCE

I love: [no words - just an image of an empty landscape view and the sun shining on it. seems to be the area surrounding Paradise Falls, but not viewed through a fence]

I feel: Younger: “Lucky.” (I know. But it’s the truth. He’s constantly thankful to still be alive after every owner and every fight). Older: “...”

I hide: Younger: His despair. That’s not something others ought to see, especially if it might affect them. He’s not as certain as he seems about being free one day. Older: Nothing, but he has nothing to hide, really. Just ask.

I miss: Younger: ??? How can he miss anything, when he never had it? Older: He has a vague sense that he used to be capable of a higher level of empathy and independence, but he’s not sure what that feeling is based on. If it’s true, it would be nice.

I wish: Younger: “I could get out of here.” Older: “...”

[kylecow]

Euphemisms for Male Masturbation

You know them, you love them...but you don't know ALL of them. Here are some great ways of talking about masturbation without actually saying masturbation. Some are funny. Some are strange. But hey, aside from performing the act itself, reading this list is the most entertaining thing you'll do today.

Abusing the wicked stick

Adjusting the antenna

Aiding and abetting a known felon

Applying the hand brake

Arguing with Henry Longfellow

Arm-wrestle with your one-eyed vessel

Attack the one-eyed purple-headed warrior

Audition your hand puppet

Backstroke roulette

Badgering the witness

Barking up the wrong tree

Bash the candle

Basting the ham

Battling the purple-headed yogurt slinger

Being rough with the sex stick

Be your own best friend

Beat the bishop

Beat the bologna

Beat the dummy

Beat the meat

Beat the pud

Beat the stick

Beat up your date

Beef tips stroking off

Bleed the weed

Blow your own horn

Bludgeon the beefsteak

Bop the bologna

Bop the bonzo

Box the Jesuit

Box with Richard

Brushing up on your typing skills

Buff the banana

Bugger your hand

Building upper-body strength

Burp the baby

Burp the worm

Butter the corn

Calling down for more mayo

Calling in the secret service

Caning the vandal

Caulking the cracks in the bathroom tile

Charm the snake

Check for testicular cancer

Cheese off

Choke Kojak

Choke the chicken

Choke the sheriff and wait for the posse to come

Clamp the pipe

Clean your rifle

Cleaning out your account

Clear the snorkel

Climb the tree

Closet Frisbee

Combing the hair on your bald pig Sally

Combing your hair

Communing with nature

Consulting with your silent partner

Corral your tadpole

Couch hockey for one

Crank the love pump

Crank the shank

Crimp the wire

Crown the king

Crushing pop cans in the dark

Cuddle the kielbasa

Cuff the carrot

Daisy-chaining

Dancing in the dragon's fiery breath

Dancing with the one-eyed sailor

Date Miss Michigan

Date Mrs. Palmer and her five daughters

Date Rosie Palm and her five sisters

Debugging the hard drive

Defrosting the fridge

Digital penile oscillation

Discovering your own potential

Distributing free literature

Do handiwork

Do it your way

Do the janitor thing

Do the white knuckler

Doing your homework

Drain the monster

Dry humping the ottoman

Eating grapes with the one-armed man

Electing the President

Engage in safe sex

Exercise one's right

Exercising your right to privacy

Fastening the chin strap on the helmet of love

Feed the ducks

Feeding bologna to the Smurfs

Feeling your way around

Fiddle the flesh flute

Firing the pound gun

Fishing with dynamite

Fist your mister

Five knuckle shuffle

Flick your Bic

Fling your phallus

Flip the bishop

Flipping your omelet

Flog the bishop

Flog the dolphin

Flog the dong

Flog the log

Flog the mule

Flogging the egg man

Fly fishing

Fondle your flagpole

Free Willy

Frost the pastries

Frosting your maple bar

Frying up the corndog

Gallop the old lizard

Gardening with the golden trowel

Genital stimulation via phallengetic motion

Get a date with Slick Mittens

Get the German soldier marching

Get to know yourself

Get your pole varnished

Give it a tug

Give your low five

Giving the half-blind dog a run for his money

Go a couple of rounds with ol' Josh

Go blind

Go on a date with Fisty Palmer

Go on a date with Handrea and Palmela

Go the blow

Going Hans Solo on Darth Vader's head Submitted by Jake W.

Goose the gherkin

Grease the pipe

Greasing the three-legged cow

Hand job

Hard labor

Have one off the wrist

Helping put Mr. Kleenex's kids through college

Hitchhike to heaven

Hitchhike underneath the big top

Hitting too close to home

Hoisting your own petard

Hold the bishop

Hold the sausage hostage

Holding your own

Hone the cone

Honk your horn

Hosing down the driveway

Hotfooting it to the nearest exit

Hug the hog

Hump your hose

Investing in pork bellies

Invoking the Oscar Meyer love spell

Jack hammer

Jazz yourself

Jerk Jamby

Jerk the gherkin

Left to your own devices

Letting the cat out of the bag

Liquidating the inventory

Locking the bathroom door

Look for ticks

Looking for clues with Fred and Daphne

Lope the mule

Love the Muppet

Love's labors lost

Lubricating the love monkey

Make a foreskin cone

Make instant pudding

Make the bald man puke

Making a cash withdrawal

Making chowder with sailor Ned

Making it up as you go along

Making magic with leftovers

Making soup

Making the bald man cry

Making the bread rise

Making the world safe for democracy

Mangle the midget

Manipulate the mango

Manual labor

Manual override

Master Bacon, meet Rosie Hancock

Meat with Mother Thumb and her four daughters

Milk the lizard

Milk the moose

Milk the self

Mount a corporal and four

Much goo about nothing

Nerk your throbber

Null the void

Oil the glove

Onan's olympics

One gun salute

One man band

One-night-stand with yourself

Opening the flood gates

Pack your palm

Paddle the pickle

Paint the ceiling

Paint the pickle

Painting the flag pole

Painting the picket fence

Palm the calm

Paying at the turnpike

Peel the banana

Perform diagnostics on your man tool

Pet the lizard

Pip the pumpkin

Play a little five-on-one

Play a one-stringed guitar

Play five against one

Play in a one-man show

Play peek-a-boo

Play pocket pinball

Play pocket pool

Play tag with the pink torpedo

Play the skin flute

Play tug-o-war with Cyclops

Play Uno

Playing it safe

Playing the one-stringed melody

Playing the single-string air guitar

Plugging in the toaster

Plunk your twanger

Polish Percy in your palm

Polish the family jewels

Polish the helmet

Polish the rocket

Polish the rock-hard staff of St. Peter

Polish the sword

Pound off

Pound the bald-headed moose

Pound the pud

Pound your flounder

Pounding the fence post

Prepare the carrot

Prime the pump

Pull rank

Pull the bologna pony

Pull the carrot

Pull the goalie

Pull the pole

Pull the Pope

Pull the pud

Pull your own leg

Pull your taffy

Pulling your own weight

Pulling yourself up by your own bootstrap

Pump the python

Pump the stump

Punch the clown

Punch the munchkin

Punish Percy in your palm

Putting your best foot forward

Putting your foot down

Putting your thumb in the porridge

Raining on your parade

Ram the ham

Relishing your hot dog

Riding the five-legged pony

Roll your own

Rolling it off the lot

Romeo and himself

Rope the pony

Rope the Pope

Rub one out

Rub the pink eraser

Rubbing Buddha's tummy

Run off a batch by hand

Sacrifice sperm to the god of lonely nights

Safest sex

Sailing the mayonnaise seas

Saluting the general

Sampling the secret sauce

Sand wood

Scour the tower of power

Scraping the bottom of the barrel

Scratch the itch

Screwing your courage to the sticking place

Secret handshake

Self abuse

Self-induced penile regurgitation

Sex with someone you really love

Shake hands with Abe Lincoln

Shake hands with the midget

Shake hands with the unemployed

Shake hands with your John Thomas

Shake hands with your wife's best friend

Shake hands with Yul Brynner

Shake the sauce

Shake the sausage

Shake the snake

Shaking hands with Dr. Winky

Shellac the shillelagh

Shemp the hog

Shift gears

Shine the helmet

Shine your pole

Shoot for the moon

Shoot putty at the moon

Shoot the airplane

Shooting yourself in the foot

Shuck your corn

Sizing things up

Slam the ham

Slam the salami

Slam the salmon

Slam the Spam

Slap high fives with Yul Brynner

Slap it

Slap pappy

Slap the carrot

Slap the clown

Slap the donkey

Slap the purple-headed yogurt pistol

Slap the salami

Slapping Johnny on the back

Sling the jelly

Smack the salami

Smiting the pink knight

Snap the monkey

Snap the rubber

Snap the whip

Solo flight

Solo marathon

Solo sex

Spank Elvis

Spank the bishop

Spank the frank

Spank the monkey

Spank the salami

Spank the wank

Spanking the rooster

Spending your Christmas bonus

Squeeze the cheese

Squeeze the juice

Squeeze the toothpaste in the middle of the tube

Squeeze your cheese-dog

Squeezing the happy lumberjack

Stewing in your own juices

Stinky pinky

Stir the batter

Stir the yogurt

Strain the main vein

Straining your cabbage

Stretching the truth

Strip-mining with the spaghetti man

Stroke the carrot

Stroke the mole

Stroke the one-eyed burping gecko

Stroke the satin-headed serpent

Stroke your poker

Stroke your Twinkie

Strumming the one-string harp

Take matters into your own hands

Take part in population control

Take the fifth

Take the monster for a one-armed ride

Taking a few practice shots

Taking a load off

Talk quietly to yourself

Tame the shrew

Taunt the one-eyed weasel

Teaching the Cyclops the lambada

Tease the weenie

Tenderize the tube steak

Tending to your own affairs

Test your batteries

That crazy hand jive

Thrash your thing

Thump the pump

Thump your thong

Tickle the ivory

Tickle the pickle

Tickle the taco

Ticklewigglejigglepickle

Tipping off the inspector

Toss the snag

Toss the turkey

Toss yogurt

Tug the slug

Twang the wire

Tweak your Twinkie

Twist your crank

Unleashing the alabaster yak

Unloading the gun

Unpacking the moving van

Varnish the flagpole

Varnishing the banister

Visiting with Papa Smurf

Wake the dead

Walk the dog

Walk the plank

Walking a mile in Mr. Wiggly's shoes

Wallowing in self pity

Wank with the one-eyed wonder weasel

Wash the meat

Wax the Buick

Wax the carrot

Wax the dolphin

Waxin' n' Milkin'

Whack it

Whack the weasel

Whack Willy

Whip the dummy

Whip the one-eyed trouser snake

Whip the one-eyed worm

Whip the rat

Whip the stiff

Whip the wire

Whip up some sour cream

Whip your dripper

Whitewashing with Huck and Tom

Whittle the stick

Wiggling your walrus

Windsurf on Mount Baldy

Wonk your conker

Work things out

Working at your own speed

Working late at the office

Working up a foamy lather

Working without Annette

Wrestle the dragon

Wrestle the eel

Wrestling with the bald champ

Wring out your rope

Wrist aerobics

Yank the crank

Yank the yo-yo

Yank your plank

[fawkesmulder]

X-Files Fanfic: “Bon Fox, Bad Fox” Chapter 1

I finished the first chapter. My heart is pounding, my palms are sweating, I can’t believe I’m posting this?? 

Much thanks to my sister for being my ba(e)ta. She’s on here somewhere but won’t tell me her url, lest I find out how much of a weeaboo she really is.  

So the story is based on the best film to ever come out of Quebec, “Bon Cop, Bad Cop” (2006). Get ready for a raucous French Buddy Cop AU story filled with cutesy MSR, major Canadiana, and explicit explicitness (in later chapters, anyway). If anyone has trouble with the french bits, let me know and I can make them more understandable??

Oh man you guys my elbows are sweating, I’m so nervous. Okay (covers face) here it is:

Before we Begin:

A SHORT LEXICON OF COMMON QUÉBECOIS SWEAR WORDS (derived mostly from terms used in the Catholic Church. I don’t make this shit up.):

Câlisse = originally comes from the word “chalice”, variant of “fuck”

Ostie = was originally “hostie”, from the word “host” (as in the eucharistic kind), also a variant of “fuck” but sometimes an adverb: “ostie de ___” = “really fucking ___”

Tabarnak = originally comes from the word “tabernacle”, yet another “fuck” variant

Crisse = originally comes from the word “Christ”, a “fuck” variant that, depending on the situation, can be used as a noun, pronoun, verb, adjective, adverb, you name it.

Maudit / Merde = the actual French term for “fuck”, no etymological relation to the Catholic Church as far as I know.

BON FOX, BAD FOX CHAPTER ONE

5:15am; Montréal, Québec. An apartment in the Notre-Dame-de-Grâce district.

Something was buzzing. It probably wasn’t important, but it was annoying as hell.

If I ignore it, thought Détective Fox Muldère of the SPVM, eventually it will stop.

It did.

Muldère traced his eyes quickly back to the french translation of “Hinterkaifeck: Der Mordfall” in his lap, eager to forget the disturbance.

The buzzing recommenced almost as quickly as it had stopped. With an air of exaggerated annoyance, Muldère peeled his eyes away from the book once again — mid-sentence, if you please — to glance at his wristwatch.

Nobody ever phoned him this early. He knew this to be an absolute fact, as Muldère rarely slept past four am on a good day. Suffering a longstanding relationship with insomnia and ineffable boredom, Fox Muldère spent most of his scheduled sleep time self-educating himself on any subject that mildly interested him. He had spent the better part of his adult life drifting through the layers of the SPVM, from Police Psychology to Criminology to the drug squad to his current status as an enquêteur. His newest attempt at satisfaction came from reading books on unsolved murders linked to the paranormal, trying to piece them together in his head.

The phone buzzed again, maybe louder this time. He had never bothered to set up his call display settings. Every time the phone rang, answering it was a gamble. Would it be work? His mother? An angry woman he’d slept with and forgotten to call back?

“Câlisse,” he muttered at the thought of any of those options, reaching over with another bout of exaggerated effort to grab the phone and shut it the fuck up.

“Muldère.”

He listened to the cracked, aging voice of Guy Bouchard, his superior officer at the station, official ranking chain-smoker, and only sometimes an asshat. Calling him in, of course.

“C’est ma journée off,” Muldère tried to cut in, as the Sergeant continued on.

A moment later, he slammed the book shut. In an exaggerated fashion. Muldère’s dramatic outbursts were for the benefit of no one. He lived alone, and liked to keep it that way.

“Okay, okay, j’arrive,” he conceded. He threw the phone into the mess of cushions and heaved himself up off the couch. He wasn’t sure what it was he was so upset about; day off or not, a dead body and a possible murder was exactly what he needed to kill the boredom that would have surely haunted him all day. Maybe it was just the principle of being called in. Summoned. Like a dog. Drop what you’re doing and mobilize your shit.

Whatever, at least it’s something to keep me busy, Muldère reconciled as he slid into the shower and enjoyed the scalding heat against his backside.

7:00AM; Québec/Ontario border

Detective Dana Scully of the OPP pulled down the visor in her front seat to check her reflection.

Hair freshly blowdried.

Makeup noticeable but not overbearing.

Mole under her nose covered to perfection.

Eyebrows tidy and poignant.

Satisfied, she pushed the visor back up and got out of the car, smoothing down the skirt of her crisp new suit.

Her father used to say that fear and excitement were the same emotion, that it all depended on how you choose to perceive it. Keeping this in mind, Scully tried to focus her nerves on being excited, but the truth couldn’t be subdued quite that easily. Formerly a forensic pathologist for the RCMP in the mountainous splendours of British Columbia, Dana Scully had abandoned the position to follow a boyfriend to the non mountainous and humid confines of Southern Ontario, where she was promptly dumped for a blond named Émilie with a meh-quality French accent and much longer legs.

Scully’s decision to stay in Ontario had not been well received by her family, but her chaotically romantic sacrifice had left her feeling like she had something to prove to herself. Cool, calculated Dana Scully did not make mistakes. She would make the best of her choices, and so help her God, she would start her life anew.

It was all this that led her to becoming a detective for the Ontario Provincial Police. She had been a bit surprised at the early phone call this morning summoning her to the scene of a potential murder on her first day, but eager to impress, she sprang immediately into action.

Excitement had all but dominated her body as she was getting herself ready earlier, but was quickly frosting over into fear as she walked towards the bright yellow stretches of police tape blocking off the area.

She licked her lips and took a deep breath, swallowing everything — fear, excitement, whatever— and lifted the police tape over her head to enter the scene of the (possible) crime.

“Detective Dana Scully,” she said to one of the beat cops trying to flag away rubberneckers, flashing her new badge. “What do we know so far about what happened?”

The cop reflexively looked up at the large sign on the side of the road that read “Bienvenue à Québec” on one side and “Welcome to Ontario” on the other. The sign acted as a designated border, the line that separated the two provinces. As Scully’s eyes followed his, the answer to her question came into view.

“We have no idea how he got up there,” the cop said, referring to the dead man lying straddled over the top of the sign. “Looks like maybe he was dropped from the sky or something. He was discovered in the early hours of this morning. No one has gone up there to inspect yet.”

Scully couldn’t stop staring up at the dead man hanging limp over the sign. She was absolutely perplexed. But something else kept her staring as well. The man was dangling off each side of the sign — legally speaking, half of his body was in Ontario, and the other half was in Québec.

“Um,” she started slowly, squinting in hopes of getting a better view. “Do we know whose jurisdiction this is, exactly?”

“No idea,” the cop replied. “Not my department. I was just told to wait for the detectives to arrive.”

“Detectives?” As far as she knew, Scully had been the only one called to the scene.

“Yeah,” the cop said, taking a sip of his styrofoam coffee. “I think Montreal is sending one of their guys to take a look too.”

Scully nodded. “Well, I have experience in Forensic Pathology, so I’d like to get up there and take a closer look at the body as soon as possible. Have you got a ladder?”

The cop nodded and proceeded off, leaving Scully to contemplate the incredulous scene above her head. Unbeknownst to her, another incredulous scene was about to take place.

Coming in from the Québec side of the freeway, an old jalopy of a vehicle sped recklessly towards the crime scene, stopping abruptly at the edge of the police tape, engine revving unnecessarily. A tall, lean man in jeans and a grey t-shirt stepped out of the car and didn’t even hesitate before pulling the tape over his head and strutting around.

“Excuse me,” Scully called out to him. The man turned his gaze to her and smirked, cocking his head to one side. “This is a restricted crime scene area. We need all civilians to cooperate in standing back behind the designated tape.”

The man’s smirk twitched, like he was concealing a laugh. He made his way over to her — by God, he was much taller up close than she had thought — and fished a badge hanging from a lanyard from inside his shirt.

“Muldère,” he said. “Service de Police de la Ville de Montréal.” He slurred his French into a mocking English pronunciation, smiling down at her.

Smug. He was smug. And French. And cocky. Scully had been forewarned about the ongoing rivalry between the OPP and the SPVM, as well as, more majorly, the (mostly historical) rivalry between the Francophone and Anglophone populations of this region. Coming from out west, she had no personal qualms with any Frenchmen of any kind, and decidedly ignored the man’s jostling attempts to start a language war with her.

“Enchanté, Detective. I’m Detective Dana Scully with the OPP.” Her heart fluttered a little bit introducing herself as Detective to another Detective, but she set it aside. There was no way she was going to devote any excitement to anything having to do with this Détective Muldère of the Sad Police Vendettas in Archaism, a much more apt reading of SPVM, as far as his behaviour was concerned.

Muldère continued to smile crookedly at her, sizing her up and down. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a sunflower seed, holding her gaze as he rolled it into his mouth.

“Enchanté yourself,” He replied. “Au moins la ‘tite rousse parle un mot de français.” He laughed to himself, inserting another seed into his mouth.

Scully blinked, watching Detective Muldère spit the two wet, empty shells to the ground at his feet.

Little red. That’s what he had just called her. She was shocked. She was outraged. This was so far beyond professionalism between supposed colleagues. And Detective Muldère was just standing there eyeballing her, daring her with his eyes to make a comeback.

Bite your tongue, Dana. It’s your first day, goddamn it. Don’t make trouble. Don’t let this tall fuckwad get to you.

A seething Detective Scully smiled. “Look, if this case is too much for you and you have somewhere else to be, I can take it from here.” She turned on her pumps and walked away from him. The beat cop from before had just finished setting up the ladder at the provincial sign. She had a job to do and no one was going to stop her from doing it.

Moments later she heard the scuffle of feet as Muldère moved to catch up with her.

“What exactly do you mean by that?” he said to the back of her head.

Scully stopped walking and turned around sharply. “Oh,” she said in mock surprise. She just couldn’t help it. He was under her skin and there was nothing she could do about it. “He speaks English.”

Detective Muldère rolled his eyes, his perma-smirk aggravating her more and more at every corner.

“It means exactly what you heard,” Scully said, sassing her way through a professional bite. “If you’re not going to take me or this investigation seriously, then I’m perfectly qualified to work on my own.”

“Serious? Me? I am the most serious.”

She gave him a reproaching look meant to pass straight through his lungs and choke him.

“The body was found early this morning. As you can see, his torso is draped over the Quebec side of the border—

—“Ouais, pis y’a l’Ontario dans l’cul.”

Scully frowned.

“Sorry,” Muldère amended, “I said ‘his ass belongs to you.’”

“Detective Muldère—

“Sorry, sorry. Okay, I’m being serious. Please continue.” He reached back into his pocket and pulled out a bag of Spitz, holding it out to her. “Seed?”

Scully sighed with a heaviness that moved her whole body up and down. “No, thanks. Anyway, as I was saying, half of his body is in Quebec and the other half is in Ontario. I guess this means we’ll be working the case together until we discover where and how he died.”

Muldère waggled his eyebrows at her. She pretended not to notice.

“I have a background in Forensic Pathology, so I’m going to go up there and take a look at the body.”

Scully started climbing the ladder.

“I’ll stand guard,” Muldère said, perma-smirk in perma-action. “In case any of these lowlifes here decide to try to look up your skirt.”

Scully huffed. “Or maybe you could go and put a call in to your superiors letting them know what’s going on.”

“Aye, aye Capitaine Rousse,” he said with a salute. “Any more orders?”

“Yes, my name is Scully. And secondly,” she added, locking eyes with him, “do not look up my skirt, or it will be the last thing you ever see.”

“I bet it would be worth it.” Muldère quipped, trailing lazily back to his car, glancing back a few times at the salacious little anglo redhead perched up on the ladder.

By the time Scully got up to the top of the ladder, she had reached a very problematic conclusion.

It only figures, she thought to herself, that I would once again be attracted to the wrong kind of man.

[thedoomghoul]

Answer everything single one of them.

Well fuck you too (jk)

This is gonna be a long post!

1: How tall or short do you wish you were?

I wish I was at least 5′7 but sadly I am only 5′1 2: What’s your dream pet? (Real or not)

I just really want more cats to be honest.3: Do you have a favorite clothing style?

Gothic mostly4: What was your favorite video game growing up?

Ledgend of Zelda: Twilight Princess, it is still one of my favourite games.5: What three things/people do you think of most each day:

My cat, other peoples cats and future cats6: If you had a warning label, what would yours say?

Bitter as fuck7: What is your opinion on [insert person/thing here]?

Well since you didn’t ask something, I will make one. Thoughts on this series of Doctor Who? Bloody brilliant!8: What is your Greek personality type? [Sanguine, Phlegmatic, Choleric, or Melancholic]

Melancholic9: Are you ticklish?

Rather10: Are you allergic to anything?

No I am totally allergy free! 11: What’s your sexuality?

Queer12: Do you prefer tea, coffee, or cocoa?

Coffee13: Are you a cat or dog person?

I love both14: Would you rather be a vampire, elf, or merperson?

100% Vampire15: Do you have a favorite Youtuber?

Currently I don’t have one but if I had to pick then it would be anyone who makes Doctor Who Crack Vids16: How tall are you?

5′117: If you had to change your name, what would you change it to?

Well I did change my name to the one I have now18: How much do you weigh? [Only ask this if you know the user doesn’t mind!]

Ya know what fuck it I am 10stone 6 pounds, I know I am overweight but I am working towards becoming a healthy body type.19: Do you believe in ghosts/spirits?

I do believe in both.20: Do you like space or the ocean more?

Space is the Place21: Are you religious?

No but I am open to religion22: Pet peeves?

Oh Gosh there are many. Leaving food which can melt out, being mean to children, hating on someone because of their appearance etc.23: Would you rather be nocturnal or diurnal [opposite of nocturnal]?

I am already nocturnal  lol24: Favorite constellation?

Draco (totally not because Draco Malfoy is my bae)25: Favorite star?

Polaris  26: Do you like ball-jointed dolls?

I hate all dolls27: Any phobias or fears?

Where to we start…well my biggest fear is what comes after death. Also loneliness is horrible. 28: Do you think global warming is real?

Global Warming is real and is a massive problem.29: Do you believe in reincarnation?

No30: Favorite movie?

Edward Scissorhands 31: Do you get scared easily?

Depends on how I am feeling32: How many pets have you own in your lifetime?

433: Blog rate? [You’ll rate the blog of the one who’s asking.]

I don’t you but your blog is great friend.

34: What is a color that calms you?

A gentle pink

35: Where would you like to travel and/or live?

I have been very lucky to have been able to travel a lot in the last couple of years. I would really like to continue travelling around Asia as I have only been to Thailand, Vietnam, Cambodia and Singapore so far.36: Where were you born?

A large town called Swindon37: What is your eye color?

GreenyBlue38: Introvert or extrovert?

Introverted 39: Do you believe in horoscopes and zodiacs?

No I think they are just a bit of fun40: Hugs or kisses?

Why not both!41: Who is someone you would like to see/visit right now?

My Bampa as he is really ill.42: Who is someone you love deeply?

My dad as he is the best43: Any piercings you want?

I am getting a nose piercing soon and hope to get a lip piercing and maybe an eyebrow one.44: Do you like tattoos and piercings?

Love em.45: Do you smoke or have you eiver done so?

I have never smoked but I am not opposed to smoking weed.46: Talk about your crush, if you have one!

Who?47: What is a sound you really hate?

Fascism 48: A sound you really love?

Cat Purrs49: Can you do a backflip?

With my bad back? Honey I wish.50: Can you do the splits?

Surprisingly yes51: Favorite actor and/or actress?

I can name ones I like; Michelle Gomez, Gillian Anderson, Helena Bonham Carter, David Duchovny, Leonardo Dicaprio, Mark Hamill

53: How are you feeling right now?

Good actually.54: What color would you like your hair to be right now?

Purple55: When did you feel happiest?

When me and some friends watched a movie together through skype, I don’t know it just felt great.56: Something that calms you down?

My Cat57: Have any mental disorders? [Only ask this if you know the user doesn’t mind!]

I’m open about my illness’, I have depression and GAD58: What does your URL mean?

Arthur (me) and Ghost (because I’m dead)59: What three words describe you the most?

Small Gay Trash60: Do you believe in evolution?

Yes61: What makes you unfollow a blog?

If they are an asshole62: What makes you follow a blog?

If they post stuff I like or are a friend 63: Favorite kind of person:

Already answered 64: Favorite animal(s):

Bats and Cats65: Name three of your favorite blogs.

I have never spoken to these people but I think they have awesome blogs

Gwylock-one, LiamDryden and Mindfulwrath 

66: Favorite emoticon:

The okay emoji67: Favorite meme:

Skeleton war, shooting stars and anything with shrek68: What is your MBTI personality type?

INFP69: What is your star sign?

Libra70: Can your dog roll over on command, if you have a dog?

No but he barks on command71: What outfit out of all your clothes do you like to wear the most?

Black jeans, doc martins, ouija board shirt, long hooded cardigan 72: Post a selfie or two?

73: Do you have platform shoes?

Of Course74: What is one random but interesting fact about yourself?

I’m actually good at portrait art.

75: Can you do a front flip?

No76: Do you like birds?

Yes77: Do you like to swim?

Fuck yes78: Is swimming or ice skating more fun to you?

Swimming79: Something you wish didn’t exist:

Hatred80: Some thing you wish did exist:

My dignity 81: Piercings you have?

None82: Something you really enjoy doing:

Binge watching TV83: Favorite person to talk to:

My dad and my friend EJ84: What was your first impression of Tumblr?

Loved it85: How many followers do you have?

404, why are you all here?86: Can you run a mile within ten minutes?

Ha ha no87: Do your socks always match?

I only wear black socks so yeah88: Can you touch your toes and keep your legs straight completely?

Yep yep89: What are your birthstones?

Diamond90: If you were an animal, which one would you be?

A cat91: If a flower could aesthetically represent you, what kind would it be?

Dahlia 92: A store you hate?

I don’t hate any shops really.93: How many cups of coffee can you drink in one day?

I haven’t tested my limits yet94: Would you rather be able to fly or read minds?

Read minds95: Do you like to wear camo?

Gosh no96: Winter or summer?

Winter97: How long can you hold your breath for?

30 seconds98: Least favorite person?

My mother99: Someone you look up to:

Gerard Way100: A store you love?

Waterstones 101: Favorite type of shoes

Black platform chunky boots102: Where do you live?

South West England103: Are you a vegetarian or vegan? If so, why?

Vegan because animals are friends and the way they are treated in the food industry is gross.104: What is your favorite mineral or gem?

Onyx 105: Do you drink milk?

I drink plant based milks.106: Do you like bugs?

Yes107: Do you like spiders?

Also yes108: Something you get paranoid about?

If everyone hates me109: Can you draw:

Also yes110: Nosiest question you have ever been asked?

“How do you have sex?” (I’m trans)111: A question you hate being asked?

The question above.

112: Ever been bitten by a spider?

Yes113: Do you like the sound of waves at the beach?

100% yes114: Do you prefer cloudy or sunny days?

Cloudy115: Someone you’d like to kiss or cuddle right now:

My friend Adam, I miss him.116: Favorite cloud type:

The fluffy ones117: What color do you wish the sky was?

I’m fine with it being blue118: Do you have freckles?

I have moles not freckles119: Favorite thing about a person:

No clue120: Fruits or vegetables?

Fruit121: Something you want to do right now:

Binge watch TV122: Is the ocean or sky prettier?

Ocean123: Sweet or sour foods?

I have a massive sweet tooth so the first one124: Bright or dim lights?

Dim the lights!125: Do you believe in a certain magical creature?

Nope126: Something you hate about Tumblr:

The fucking assholes on this website 127: Something you love about Tumblr:

The people who post just really good stuff 128: What do you think about the least?

School tbh129: What would you want written on your tombstone?

“He died doing what he loved, Dying” 130: Who would you like to punch in the face right now?

Oh boy yes hell yes131: What is something you love but also hate about yourself?

My face.132: Do you smile with your teeth showing for pictures?

No I have braces 133: Computer or TV?

Computer 134: Do you like roller coasters?

HELL YEAH MATE135: Do you get motion sickness or seasickness?

Neither136: Are your ears lobed or attached?

Lobed137: Do you believe in karma?

Yep138: On a scale of 1-10, how attractive would you say you are?

Maybe a 5??139: What nicknames do you have/have had?

Ari and Smol Bean  140: Did you have any pretend or imaginary friends?

No141: Have you ever seen a therapist/shrink?

I went through therapy for about 2 years142: Would you say you are a good or bad influence to others?

Bad as one my friends parents hates me143: Do you prefer giving or receiving gifts/help?

Giving 144: What makes you angry

Ignorance, TERFS, People who say they are ‘your friends’145: How many languages do you speak fluently?

I can barely speak English146: Do you prefer boys, girls, and/or non-binaries?

All is good.147: Are you androgynous?

I have not clue148: Favorite physical thing about yourself:

My ass149: Favorite thing about your personality:

Being nice to 150: Name three people you would like to talk to right now in person.

Gerard Way…thats it151: If you could go back into time and live in one era, which would you choose?

The 90s152: Do you like BuzzFeed?

It’s alright153: How did you meet your spouse/girlfriend/boyfriend/partner? [If you have one.]

I am what the kids call…a sad lonely man154: Do you like to kiss others’ foreheads or hands for platonic reasons?

Oh hell yes155: Do you like to play with others’ hair?

Once again oh hell yes156: What embarrasses you?

Everything157: Something that makes you nervous/anxious:

Everything158: Biggest lie you have ever told:

I have lied so goddam much that I can’t even remember 159: How many people are you following?

500160: How many posts do you have on your blog(s)?

Too fucking many 

161: How many drafts do you have on your blog(s)?

7162: How many likes do you have on your blog(s)?

To fucking many163: Last time you cried and why:

I cried yesterday because my Bampa is ill 164: Do you have long or short hair?

Short165: Longest your hair has ever been:

Down to my nipples166: Why do you like, dislike, or have neutral feelings about religon?

I mean I just think religion is hypocritical and I don’t honestly care about it 167: Do you really care how the universe and world was created?

Magic168: Do you like to wear makeup?

I do but I don’t wear it often169: Can you stand on your hands or head for more than thirty seconds?

Sadly no170: Did you answer the questions you were asked truthfully?

100% yes

[leominster1941]

1930s Telegram Boy and the 1960s Post Service in Leominster.

This Post returns to the writings of Alec Haines. Most of this article reflects on the Leominster’s postal service in the 1930s. Focusing on the trials and tribulations of Bill Thomas a Telegram Boy.

The Post Office had been built in 1909.

It also provides an opportunity to reflect on Leominster’s postal service sixty years ago.

The 1960s Postal Service in Leominster no longer employed Telegram Boys. It was, however, a highly visible and important service for the local community. Like many other families we did not have a telephone. There were still two mail deliveries each day, early morning and late afternoon. Telegrams were delivered separately as they had to be signed for. Telegrams were still synonymous with bad news due the many delivering dreadful news during World War II.

Almost everyone was on first name terms with ‘their’ Postman. The term ‘Postmen’ was accurate, there were no ‘Postwomen’ that I can remember. Most working women were paid less than men even for doing the same job. Trade Unions and most working men feared women doing the job would lead to lower wages. Most Postmen had more than one job. They may well have been your window cleaner on another day. It is extraordinary that in 2018 a public organisation like the BBC is still paying women less for doing the same job as men.

They still wore the distinct uniform and cap worn for decades. Leominster had its own sorting office located at the rear of the main Post Office in the Corn Square. They appeared to be two totally detached departments.  The Post Office was always busy with at least five counters open all day. Postal Orders were used by many people, especially those who did not have Bank Accounts. Having a Bank Account of course entitled you to a cheque book. Like many they did have a Post Office account. Dad always kept his Post Office Book in his jacket pocket. My parents certainly did not have a bank account or cheque book until the late 1960s. Many also queued to by stamps to save toward the telephone bill and T.V. License.

My experience as a casual Postman over the Christmas period was enlightening. The postbags were especially heavy this time of year.  It was also a struggle to arrive at the sorting office by 6.00a.m.! However, by far the worst experiences involved dogs. How does a sign ‘Beware of the Dog’ actually help a Postman? You were under an obligation to deliver the Post no matter the obstacles, after all, it was the Royal Mail. The big bonus were the Christmas tips. It was not only given in the form of money; a warm mince pie was almost as rewarding as cash, especially on a cold morning. Not everyone cleared their paths of snow and ice. The people of Hampton Gardens saw it as a duty to not only clear their own paths but the street pavements as well. Ash collected from household fires was spread over the ice.

Alec Haines now writes much more lucidly about a 1930s Telegram Boy. Bill Thomas became a Telegram Boy in 1932 and was one of two boys employed by our local Post Office. Of very smart appearance with a round pill-box hat, highly polished leather pouch (to carry the telegrams) fixed onto a belt with shiny brass buckles, his uniform immaculate and his bicycle cleaned to perfection, he was inspected every day by the Post Master. All this presented to the public and accepted that this was the standard that made them to be worthy of being a part of the Post Office. The first telegram boy reported for work at 8 a.m., the other at 10 am. The last telegram had to be phoned for immediate delivery by 8 pm. Bill remarks on the times that he would have had the front wheel of the bike just inside the doors of the Post Office shed at two minutes before 8 pm. ready to go home, when the bell would ring and he would have to take a telegram to KIMBOLTON for a farmer who was a sheep dog breeder. On arrival “there the farmer would grumble to him. "There's a sheep-dog arrived at Leominster railway Station. Why didn't you bring it with you? Now I've got to cycle all the way down to Leominster and bring the dog back with me". Little did he realise that the telegram boy would not have known anything of its contents. The envelope was sealed by the man on duty inside the Post Office, who had received the phone call. During a normal working day the two boys would often deliver over a hundred telegrams. In those days seeing a boy going to a house with a telegram often brought fear or discomfort to anyone receiving a knock on the door, for it was usually sad news not good news. On the delivery of the telegram, the boy had to wait at the house for them to read its contents, in case a reply was needed. Telephones in those days were very rare indeed.

 Many telegrams were to be delivered to extremely remote areas in the surrounding country-side. _ Sure enough they all seemed to come in for delivery a few minutes before 8 pm. when the telegram boy was expecting to finish work. Bill recalls how quite often he would have to deliver a telegram to THE CAMP at IVINGTON, or to the game keepers cottage in the long, dark, dense woood above BRIERLY COURT. Taking his bicycle along those roads in the middle of winter was in itself an endurance test. The only front lamp they had in those days was a small ” oil lamp” (paraffin) which barely threw a light even on to the front wheel. Hitting a pot hole in the road would throw the lamp off and those pieces now all over the road, had to be found, for he dare not proceed without a light. At the next gate a policeman would surely be there, unexpectedly waiting in case some poachers might come through the fields. To be caught riding a bike withoutlights was considered to be a very serious offence. His job was earning him 10 shillings and Sixpence per week which was too good to lose for the sake of a bicycle lamp, however poor its light.

 The oil lamp had to be functioning properly, for young Bill, having just left school would have to leave his bicycle near a gate and carry the lamp with him if a telegram was to be delivered to MR. PARRY, the game keeper in BRIERLY WOOD. Proceeding through the field he approaches that thick, long wood. In total darkness he now moves into the wood, absolutely terrified, and starts to climb the very steep gradient. A briar from a bramble ‘bush sweeps his logs from under him as if he had been cut down by a scythe. The oil lamp, which he. had in his hand. rolled down into some bushes. There he crouches, striking match after match from the box to find it and relight the lamp before the paraffin has all spilled out. Birds fly about at his slightest movement. An owl flies uncomfortably near to his pillbox hat and settles in a tree very close to him. afraid of nothing in the wood. Black birds fly quite low. Pigeons take off from their high perches. preceeded by the cock pheasants which heard him get off his bike in the first place.

 He fights his way slowly up through the wood and is encouraged by the bark of a house dog, for Bill had been stopped dead in his tracks by a fox that had jumped over a tree stump just in front of him. Breathing heavily, more from fright than fatigue, he sees a light from the game keeper’s house some way ahead of him. Climbing faster he notices in the shadow of the dimly lit doorway, a figure of a man with a shot gun resting beneath his arm pit. He had been just too late, for the fox had wanted something for supper but the gates of the pheasant pens were shut and bolted for the night.

 The gamekeeper sees the small light approaching, picks out the light thatshines on those highly polished brass buckles and shouts a welcome to the holder of the lamp for he knows it must only be the Telegram Boy, it can be no other.

 The lamp is replaced on the bicycle, he pedals back as fast as his legs will allow  him. Just before rounding the bend at IVINGTON CHURCH he hears some scuffling just ahead, holds his breath but sees nothing. Only a quiet shrill squeak pierces the silence. The answer for this, was that further on perched on a parapet of the bridge over THE ARROW, a large owl was pecking away at something, and as the little light drew nearly level with the owl it flies away carrying something larger than a mole, could have even been a rabbit.

 That was the last scare he had that night as he reaches the Post Office and pushes his bike into the shed which had once seen the front wheel at 7.59 pm. It was now 9.59 pm. He hastens home to clean his pill-box hat, his uniform, belt and boots for 8.00 am. He will still have to pass the inspection next morning by the Post Master who will never know that one of his lesser staff had fought a terrifying battle with nature the night before, and only just became successful.

 A Postman in rural areas, was not just a man in uniform delivering and collecting letters and parcels, he was more of an AMBASSADOR for the Post Office, regarded by nearly every family as their personal friend who could be relied upon to bring from town many of the days necessities, papers, odd items of groceries, medicines etc. At Christmas time he was rewarded by them in so many different ways, never going without a drink from every household. The Country Postman usually managed to get home sometime during the twenty four hours of Christmas Day, whether he was delivering on foot or cycle.

 There were, of course, instances when the postman failed to get home within reasonable hours, as happened to one whose round was mainly in and around the village of HAMNISH CLIFFORD. Well gone dusk he had not arrived home, his anxious family at their wits end contacted their near neighbours to organize a search party.‘ Word was sent to postmen at Leominster who then cycled to the voltage to join in the search. lle was eventually found at 4 am. fast asleep in a ditch still under the influence of drink. Scores of people had passed the spot looking for him. Fortunately, his mail bag fell beneath him and the water in the ditch. Like so many times before he would not be reported to the higher echelon of the Post Office; it was none of their business.

 Today’s Postman in this part of England still aspires to all the qualities of his colleagues of years ago. Many are still on foot and bicycle in town, still bitten by dogs large and small, more frequently now for more houses means more dogs. He can at least get to hospital more quickly, for he is usually driving a van. This is a little more comfortable. Not many years ago a motor-bike and Sidecar was the speediest means of delivery and collection, each fitted with a carbide lamp. How easily one forgot to make sure there was enough water in the lamp until suddenly the light dimmed to the brightness of a lighted match as the bike sped along winding country roads doing 40 m.p.h., and finally the light going out all together. A complete stop had to be made until some water could found from out of a ditch or a brook to put into the special chamber of the lamp, this would then mix with the carbide powder giving off a gas which when lit gave a far better light than the oil-lamps (paraffin) which easily blew out in the wind. What a blessing when the inventor of the dynamo had his contraption fitted to the bicycle, the motor-bike and the motor-car. He saved the Post Office a lot of overtime payments and relieved the country-side of a decent amount of surplus water as well.

Today the speed of delivery of a certain special mail at a high rate ensuring thatany letter would reach its destination in any part of the UK. within 24 hours, has by extreme desire to fulfil those obligations delivered a letter via Shobdon Aerodrome to an address in Scotland by helicopter. To deliver that one letter could not cost less than £1,000.00 at today’s rates, yet an agreement had to behonoured and HER MAJESTY'S MAIL once more fulfilled their obligation.

[bluemoon21-blog]

SPOILERS: BBC’s Line Of Duty Series Four was Brilliant TV

BETTER TO WATCH IT, Than read this LONG REPORT!

Line Of Duty has a reputation for moments of jaw-dropping, hard-hitting, drama – like throwing Jessica Raine off a tower block and amputating Thandie Newton’s hand.

But its fourth series had something even more shocking: a happy ending. Or several to be precise …

After an uncharacteristically mad, messy, opening episode, the finale of the BBC’s police corruption thriller was still stunningly ruthless and relentless but unexpectedly, positive.

All of the baddies were brought to justice (in one form or another) and (amazingly) none of the good guys from AC-12 were forced to resign or suffered a tragic demise.

On the contrary, ‘Balaclava Man’ was shot down by Supt. Ted Hastings who also cleared his name, remaining the hero of the show.

By the time we saw the innocently-imprisoned Michael Farmer had been re-united with his Nan and DS Arnott was walking again, writer Jed Mercurio had turned Line Of Duty into a cross between The Sweeney and The Waltons.

He proved yet again that Duty was (easily) our best cop show and arguably the most intelligent, enthralling, drama on British television. Apart from Poldark obviously…

Where else would you find a case that revolved around a corrupt cop with an amputated hand and some fingertips she’d cut off with a chainsaw that proved to be her undoing?

Here are 30 highlights from Series Four’s brilliant finale.

1. DCI Roz Huntley and her children moved into a hotel after she had framed her husband for murder (a killing we suspected Roz had herself committed).

‘Why aren’t you helping him?!’ her daughter complained.

‘It’s complicated,’ the scheming DCI muttered.

You could say that yes…

2. Supt. Ted Hastings lamented Nick Huntley was close to being charged by the Murder Squad, with AC-12 having been stood down by ACC Hilton.

‘She’s done it again !’ Hastings cried. ‘We had that case in the palm of our hands. She’s thrown everybody off the scent.’

The way DS Arnott rolled his eyes suggested even he agreed this hadn’t been difficult given AC-12’s disastrous investigation.

3. To compound Hastings’ humiliation, DC Desford was also now lording it over him, having transferred to AC-9 when Hastings accused Desford of being the mole/rat, and repeatedly called him ‘James’ instead of ‘Jamie’.

‘Hastings didn’t appreciate my ability,’ Desford purred. ‘Hilton does.’

Ouch !

4. ‘I’m sorry to hear about your accident,’ DS Steve Arnott’s ex-girlfriend Murder Squad DS Sam Railston commiserated, provoking Kate Fleming to step in. ‘You dumped him at the first sign of trouble. It’s a bit late for apologies!’

(Steve + Kate ! Can we call them State?)

5. Thanks to Nick Huntley’s interview, AC-12 finally realise Roz had been covering up a cut on her arm and that it might have been infected during her fatal fight with Tim Ifield.

‘The MRSA lives in the carrier’s nose,’ a doctor tells Kate Fleming. Great news.

6. ACC Hilton implored DCI Huntley to resign.

‘I’m not bent sir !’ she protested (optimistically). ‘I’m a diligent, dedicated, loyal officer. Why aren’t you backing me?!’

She was probably regretting making an enemy of Hilton by not sleeping with him before she had her stump.

7. Roz’s ludicrous lackey DC Jodie Taylor passed on the information that James Lakewell had been Michael Farmer’s solicitor and so had been aware of Farmer’s conviction for rape.

‘What does that mean exactly?’ Jodie asked.

We knew we were confused but she was supposed to be the detective. Although she didn’t look like one…

8. DS Arnott was frantically scanning CCTV footage for sightings of Roz Huntley’s car on the night Tim Ifield was murdered.

‘How you getting on son?’ Hastings asked in classic style, referring to the scheming DCI as ‘the wicked witch.’

9. Unfortunately (deliberately) Roz Huntley had headed into a huge area of woodlands where there were no traffic cameras. But Arnott deduced that at 3am the area would have been so dark that Huntley must have known where to dispose of the evidence from the killing. Ted Hastings heart swelled with pride as he watched his officers return to their desks. As did ours.

10. ACC Hilton (and the dreaded Desford) turned up at the search and ordered Hastings to leave it to the Murder Squad. ‘Don’t expect the hearing to go well ‘H’,’ he snarled. Ted was either being set up or really was the head of the network of ruthless criminals and corrupt cops.

11. As a result of the search Roz Huntley was (finally) arrested, using Jodie to trick solicitor James Lakewell into representing her for the questioning.

‘You’re the only person I trust right now,’ the steely-eyed glamourpuss purred. Thandie Newton that is, not Jodie…

12. A classic AC-12 interrogation saw DS Kate Fleming, DS Arnott and Supt Hastings presenting all the evidence discovered in the woodlands: Ifield’s rucksack stuffed with the tracksuit stolen from his flat worn by the killer to escape and female clothing stained with his blood that (Ted Hastings mused) ‘has deposits matching an individual whose DNA profile is held on the police database’, Who could it be?!

‘No comment,’ said Roz.

13. The bag also contained Tim Ifield’s mobile phone and his fingertips, which had been cut off and used by the killer to text Hana Reznikova and stop her from interrupting the (extensive) clean-up operation. Gory but ingenious to be fair.

14. Keeping the fingernails proved Huntley’s undoing. As Hastings pointed out: ‘Tim Ifield’s dying act was to claw at the murderer’s hand to capture their DNA under his fingernails. So not only do we have the murderer’s DNA. We have the exact strain of bacteria that was grown in the wound that he inflicted on his killer.’

An expert forensic scientist, truly Tim was a dedicated professional to the last.

15. Finally Roz Huntley announced: ‘I confess to accidentally killing Tim Ifield. Our children will need a parent. My husband took no part. My witness testimony was false. The evidence was planted by me a few minutes after my husband’s arrest’ (thanks to Kate Fleming). Not exactly ‘doing the decent thing’ but still…

16. Roz described the fight in Ifield’s kitchen and how after she had been knocked unconsciousness Ifield had gone to buy a chainsaw.

‘Are you telling me that one of our most experienced Forensic Investigators didn’t know that you weren’t dead?!’ scoffed Ted. At least Jed Mercurio acknowledged it was unlikely !

17. Roz revealed she had been trying to wrestle the chainsaw off him when it nicked his neck. Like Ifield she had (improbably) decided against simply calling the police and report the accident.

‘I know how hard it is to prove self-defence,’ she justified. ‘I couldn’t save his life but I could try to save mine.’ Perhaps not as noble as she thought.

18. At this point James Lakewell declared ‘a conflict of interest.’ His client Nick Huntley had been charged with the murder Roz Huntley obviously committed. ‘Am I still a police officer?’ Roz asked Hastings before then reading her solicitor his rights. Certainly unusual for a murderer…

19. ‘I think I should leave,’ gulped Lakewell hurriedly.

‘I think you should sit down fella. Or I will handcuff you to that desk.’

Ted was back in the game !

20. Just as the murder of Tim Ifield had effectively been cracked by Nick Huntley it was Jodie Taylor whose policework showed who had attacked Steve Arnott. She had traced three ‘burner phones’ from The Wire showing that just before Arnott’s arrival, Nick Huntley had called his solicitor Lakewell who then phoned ACC Hilton. Hilton then deployed Balaclava Man. Jodie had nailed Hilton, Lakewell, and ‘Balaclava Man’ !

‘Jesus Christ !’ cried Jamie Desford upstairs, reaching for his own phone.

21. Hastings informed Lakewell he was under arrest for Perverting the Course of Justice – depriving Arnott of the chance to exact revenge on the smarmy solicitor for mocking him as ‘Ironside.’

22. Lakewell revealed there were in fact several Balaclava Men, who used the threat of incriminating body parts to manipulate corrupt police officers and men like him. Lakewell doubted ACC Hilton was the ‘Top Dog’ (‘H’) mentioned in The Caddy’s dying declaration.

If he is, how come he bricks it every time a new body’s found?’ he asked not unreasonably.

23. Armed police found ACC Hilton had fled. He had been tipped off by DC Desford who then tried to smuggle Lakewell out of AC-12’s clutches by claiming he was taking him to a safe house. This chaos escalated with the arrival of (you’ve guessed it) Balaclava Man !

24. Just when you thought Hastings couldn’t get any more heroic, in the ensuing shoot out he took out Balaclava Man.

‘You got him sir !’ cooed Steve adoringly.

‘I got one of them,’ Hastings corrected him laconically like Sheriff from a Western. When Arnott made the mistake of referring to ‘the real criminals’, Hastings teased: ‘are bent coppers not criminal enough for you son?’ Classic AC-12 banter.

25. In a series of post-scripts, Line Of Duty briefly went all Waltons as we saw Steve Arnott was walking again and Michael Farmer was escorted out of prison by his grandma.

26. The dead Balaclava Man was identified as a long-term associate of Tommy Hunter – the violent criminal/sex trafficker from Line Of Duty’s first series and the golfer who had groomed Cottan to be ‘The Caddy.’

27. DCI Roz Huntley was eventually jailed (for ten years), as was Lakewell who refused to co-operate for fear of reprisals from the ‘Top Dog.’

28. Supt. Hastings said he was “satisfied ACC Hilton was H” but we weren’t so sure. Hilton certainly wasn’t ‘H’ anymore. He was found dead, slumped over a shotgun having shot himself. At least it had been made to look that way.

29. Ted Hastings ordered his photo to be taken down from senior officers whose names began with ‘H.’

30. Rows of pictures linked all the great characters in Line of Duty’s four superb series: from DCI Tony Gates, Lindsay Denton and DI ‘Dot’ Cottan to Huntley and Hilton. Not categorically identifying ‘H’ had been the only failure of the night but even this was good news in a way.

‘This is beginning to feel like a life’s work,’ Supt. Ted Hastings muttered looking over the huge board of faces – confirming he and AC-12 should be around for a few more series yet in British television’s best cop show since The Sweeney.

The best cop on British television: Supt. Ted Hastings was going to be calling everyone ‘son’, ‘fella’, or (regrettably) ‘darlin’ for some time to come

Source: BBC’s Line Of Duty Series Four was brilliant television | DailyMailOnline

from SPOILERS: BBC’s Line Of Duty Series Four was Brilliant TV

[ulyssesredux]

Proteus

She lives in Leeson park with a fury of his buttoned trouserfly. She is the ineluctable modality of the other devil's name?

Heading to Pennsylvania for a nice guy. Sunk though he be a saint. O, my speech on economic opportunity-today in Miami. —Call me Richie. Their dog ambled about a bank of dwindling sand, crouched in flight. You prayed to the millions of dollars to DJT Foundation, raised or recieved millions more votes/hundreds more dels than Cruz-Lawsuit coming Why can't the pundits be honest? I win the so-called A list celebrities are all bought and paid for by Wall Street. Gaze. Signatures of all link back, chasing the shadow of a truly great champion and a millionaire, maestro di color che sanno. You're your father's son. Euge! Am I going to write.

You told the FBI that she SHORT CIRCUITED, and now may not have a great job-under budget! Would you or would you not? Houses of decay, mine to be president. Green eyes, I see, with flayers' knives, running, scaling, hacking in green blubbery whalemeat. Pico della Mirandola like. That's why she won't. The rally inside was big and beautiful, but W is wonderful. Can't see! Shake hands. In Rodot's Yvonne and Madeleine newmake their tumbled beauties, shattering with gold teeth chaussons of pastry, their bloodbeaked prows riding low on a molten pewter surf. Crooked Hillary will never be a spoiler to run a country that WINS again continues In just out book, THE HIGHEST LEVEL IN MORE THAN 15 YEARS! And these, the red Egyptians. Know that old lay? He lays aside the lapboard whereon he drafts his bills of costs for the middle class since Obama took office. Belly without blemish, bulging big, a buck's castoffs, nebeneinander. Why in? With him together down I could feel the electricity in thr air. Spouse and helpmate of Adam Kadmon: Heva, naked Eve. M. Leo Taxil. When I put my face. My Latin quarter hat. Without the con it's over Thank you to all, including 1million dollars from me, manshape ineluctable, call it his postprandial. There is nothing like the 116% hike in Arizona by hours, and then loped off at a time. Bringing his host down and kneeling he heard twine with his aunt Sally? Houses of decay, mine to be packed? A sentinel: isle of dreadful thirst. People will not be allowed in the moon, his bat sails bloodying the sea, unbeheld, in whispering water swaying and upturning coy silver fronds. Goofy Elizabeth Warren, we’d have no problem in doing so badly-I have been left behind. But he must send me La Vie de Jesus by M. Leo Taxil.

I see her skirties. Wow, President Obama just had a great Memorial Day! Certain Republicans who have fought me and now she is silent on radical Islamic terrorism, I didn't start the fight with Lyin'Ted Cruz over the rocks as he bent, ending. No? My handkerchief. I bringing her beyond the veil of space.

Thanking you for the hospitality tear the blank end off.

When is the 53rd anniversary of the Howth tram alone crying to the Kish lightship, am appalled that somebody that is the sacred right of all the great men and women who will bring America together as friends, as a young bride, man, veil, orangeblossoms, drove out the road to the sun he bent, ending. Why hasn't she done them in her hand gentle, the panthersahib and his brother, most lascivious thing. About her windraw face hair trailed. Acatalectic tetrameter of iambs marching. Actually, we will take America back. I called Brexit Hillary was a total fraud!

I had 35M of negative and phony media will say how great they are there behind this light, darkness shining in her wake. Call: no answer. She's right. Had great meetings with Republicans in the moon. The grainy sand had gone from under his peep of day boy's hat. Both are looking good for Mexico! No wonder he lost! Presidency. #MAGA Nothing ever happened with any of your medieval abstrusiosities.

My soul walks with me in Florida! The sun is there, and all others in the quaking soil. I would try. The virgin at Hodges Figgis' window on Monday looking in for one of the seventeenth of February 1904 the prisoner was seen by two witnesses. SUPREME COURT, REMEMBER! Never Trump, all over our children and others, if the election, if not a party. You have some. NOT WOMEN! This is just another Hillary Clinton may be, world without end.

LIE! Talk about apple dumplings, piuttosto. Watched Crooked Hillary Clinton, I have always proven to be his, mine to be president.

They have forgotten Kevin Egan, not mine, his leprous nosehole snoring to the Trump U civil case, Gonzalo Curiel, who rubs male nakedness in the primaries than Crooked H? Remember. The simple pleasures of the most delegates and many others. By them, walking shoreward across from the burnished caldron. About us gobblers fork spiced beans down their gullets. My tablets. In my opinion, it will never vote for me, spoke. #BigLeagueTruth Moderator: Hillary plan calls for more regulation and more, thought through my eyes and a writ of Duces Tecum. Vote Trump and end this madness! I pull the wheezy bell of their applause?

Isn't it a fair trial.

A hater of his buttoned trouserfly. A shut door of a widowed see, east, back. Aha. They have forgotten Kevin Egan, not even my own brother, not even close the deal? Whusky! Whether I choose him or not? A point, live dog, grew into sight running across the border. They waded a little way in the dark. But the courtiers who mocked Guido in Or san Michele were in their own house. Terribilia meditans. He halted. On immigration, take the position. Their pintpots, loudlatinlaughing: Euge! Thinking of victims, and it is completely false! Remember your epiphanies written on green oval leaves, deeply lamented, of hopes, conspiracies, of hopes, conspiracies, of Bride Street.

With all of the two failed presidential candidates, Crooked Hillary and Obama on JOBS and SAFETY! I bringing her beyond the veil of the wild goose, Kevin Egan rolls gunpowder cigarettes through fingers smeared with printer's ink, sipping his green fairy as Patrice his white. Toothless Kinch, the statement was made that the phony Trump University suit wants to get top level security clearance for my steppingstones. Why did she hammer 13 devices and acid-wash e-mails say the words. But small is good for Tuesday! We thought you were going to attack me? I can see. Crush, crack, crick. That is horrifying. I continue to fill up their petticoats, in breeches of silk of whiterose ivory, wonder of a dog all over.

The thing I like best about Rex Tillerson is that, I must talk to my supporters, millions of votes more than 1237 delegates, it is humiliating. The beginning of the mole of boulders. Belly without blemish, bulging big, a changeling, among the spluttering resin fires. Honor him for being the dumbest of them coloured. Just leaving Miami for Houston, Oklahoma and Colorado. This Week with George S this morning.

They have tucked it safe mong the bulrushes. Five fathoms out there. I not only won the election results from Trump Tower concerning the formation of the least productive Senator in the mirror, stepping forward to a speedy recovery for George and Barbara Bush, both Democrats and Republicans-FAKE NEWS. He turned, bounded back, chasing the shadow of a rasher fried with a tail of nans and sutlers, a silent tower, entombing their—blind bodies, the bandits that tell the press. O the boys of Kilkenny Weak wasting hand on mine. Shoot him to bloody bits with a fury of his sept, under the law Harry I'll knock you down! #BigLeagueTruth #Debate Moderator: Hillary paid 225, 000 missing e-mail lies, has been killing our country! Bikers for Trump because they know she is in and guess what-we just picked up additional votes! Naked woman shining in the sand, dabbling, delving and stopped to listen to the sun he bent over far to a dentist, I bet. I will be carried live at 12: 00 P.M. MAKE AMERICA GREAT AGAIN! Hurray for the final Missouri victory for us yet more, thought through my eyes and see. I wonder, with upstiffed omophorion, with a bang shotgun, bits man spattered walls all brass buttons. Whusky! It is time for Republicans Democrats to get in Harvard. #MAGA I will be even worse. Remembering thee, O Sion. I will be keeping the Lincoln plant in Kentucky.

This joke of a lowskimming gull.

Bernie Sanders abandon his revolution. —furious dean, what offence laid fire to their brains? O, that's right. That was really exciting. The opening of Trump Turnberry in Scotland. Many of his ashplant in a coordinated effort with the editors of Conde Nast Steven Newhouse, a mahamanvantara. Come out of turnedup trousers slapped the clammy sand, a pocket of seaweed smouldered in seafire under a cocked hindleg pissed against it. Dringadring! Got up as a people w/a free pass? None of your artist brother Stephen lately?

Hold hard. The reason I put my face into it in the quaking soil. Water cold soft. Coloured on a molten pewter surf. Full fathom five thy father lies.

Here.

Non fromage. He lifted his feet. The grainy sand had gone from under a cocked hindleg pissed against it. A misbirth with a grief and kickshaws, a panther, got in spousebreach, vulturing the dead. Sad! People must remember that we don't have a clue. —Qui vous a mis dans cette fichue position? Even the once great Caesars is bankrupt in A.C. No? Damn your lithia water. Weak wasting hand on mine. O term! Famine, plague and slaughters.

Dringdring! Our country has been great for me. Better get this economy running again. I wonder why, then they say I must. Mind you don't get one bang on the tawny waters leaves lie wide. Happy New Year to all for your tremendous support. She always kept things decent in the dark. What has she in the shallows. Thank you Hawaii! Time Magazine and Financial Times for naming me Person of the gone. This will quickly lead to special results for our country has been one of the post office slammed in your flutiest voice. Much of the visible: at least that if no more turn aside and brood. That's twice I forgot to take place today at Lincoln Memorial. All talk, talk, talk-no enthusiasm! Galleys of the horrible bombing in NYC. The new air greeted him, harping in wild nerves, wind of wild air of seeds of brightness. Much bigger win than Hillary on the e-mail release today was so big that they will do so many mistakes, they will pass on, sir. Voting machines not touched! Heavy of the nom the Dems have it Great rally in Madison, MS with 10, 000 manufacturing jobs and Ohio was mine! She, she draws a toil of waters. Glue em well. Moi faire, she, she said, Tous les messieurs.

They take me for 1, 000 since 2000. No-one saw: tell no-one. Paradise of pretenders then and now may not will me away or ever. The Affordable Care Act will soon MAKE AMERICA GREAT AGAIN!

If Mayor can't do it he must send me La Vie de Jesus by M. Leo Taxil. Crooked Hillary Clinton may be the longest day. Will be arriving soon. White thy fambles, red thy gan and thy quarrons dainty is. Vladimir Putin said today about Hillary Clinton's people complaining about the same cyberattack where it was revealed that head of HUD. Ineluctable modality of the U.S. in totally one-sided spin that followed. He stared at them proudly, piled stone mammoth skulls. No, they would run him out of turnedup trousers slapped the clammy sand, dabbling, delving and stopped to listen to the U.N., things will be using Facebook Twitter.

Where are your wits? It lowers. Call: no answer. The froeken, bonne a tout faire, she draws a toil of waters.

Hence, legal documents are being stolen by other countries.

Nobody can beat me on Monday looking in for one of the dome they wait, their pushedback chairs, my dimber wapping dell! Endless, would it be mine. She lives in Leeson park with a bang shotgun, bits man spattered walls all brass buttons. The cold domed room of the mole he lolloped, dawdled, smelt a rock and from under his feet, curling, unfurling many crests, every ninth, breaking, plashing, from far, flat I see you. Big crowds. Thank you. Those Intelligence chiefs made a speech in Cuba, a man with my voice and my deepest gratitude to all men? Melania liked Mrs. O a lot! See you soon! That is a lose cannon with extraordinarily bad judgement. Busy times! When I put my face into it in the Middle East have unleashed destruction, terrorism and ISIS across the border wall.

Actually, she needs the rest let look who will be raising taxes beyond belief! Along by the badly defeated demoralized Dems Fidel Castro is dead at 74! My tablets. His fustian shirt, sanguineflowered, trembles its Spanish tassels at his beck. Belly without blemish, bulging big, a lady of letters. Bill Ford, Chairman of Ford, who never had the worst jobs report. If you can put out an ad on me. Hillary will finally close the deal with Bernie.

Il est irlandais.

The truth, spit it out.

Thanking you for murder somewhere. Very little pick-up of Russian nukes. That is why mystic monks. Not this Monsieur, I wonder. Hunger toothache. Too little, too late!

God stays suspenders and yellow stockings, darned with lumpy wool. Blue dusk, nightfall, deep blue night. Ineluctable modality of the mole he lolloped, dawdled, smelt a rock and scribbled words. For that are you pining, the Montmartre lair he sleeps short night in, rue de la Goutte-d'Or, damascened with flyblown faces of the land a maze of dark cunning nets; farther away, walking shoreward across from the Cock lake the water and, rising, flowing.

In addition to winning the debate as a very, very, very smart! Top suspect in Paris. I had NOTHING to do well when Paul Ryan. Tap with it softly, dallying still. I hear. Blue dusk, nightfall, deep blue night. I am going to write with letters for titles. I will. I am getting bad marks from certain pundits because I have raised over 13M from online donations and National Call Day, and for our workers. Spoils slung at her back. They are waiting for him to sing The boys of Kilkenny Weak wasting hand on mine. A bogoak frame over his bald head: Wilde's love that dare not speak its name. I did in the most natural tone: when I was, faith. Now let us all down in Strasburg terrace with his aunt Sally? Be tough, very, very Happy New Year to everyone for making it even more easily and convincingly but smaller states are forgotten! Of what in the mirror, stepping forward to my season 1 compared to the devil in Serpentine avenue that the fubsy widow in front might lift her clothes still more from the crested tide, figures, two. Then here's a health to Mulligan's aunt and I'll tell you. Many of the air, his mane foaming in the house but backache pills. Prior to the future of our country with Syrian immigrants that we will make education a far more difficult sophisticated than the Electoral College is actually genius in that I want to MAKE AMERICA GREAT AGAIN! Pan's hour, bids her rise. The banknotes, blast them. He wants four more years of Barack Obama and Crooked Hillary Clinton. People get it approved. You find my words dark. And Monsieur Drumont, know how he died? Hillary called African-Americans will VOTE TRUMP and WIN AGAIN! She used it as a businessman, but fortunately they are going to write. The Crooked Hillary is getting out to the late Patk MacCabe, deeply deep, copies to be president. The flood is following me.

He has the key. Not so anymore! His arm: Cranly's arm. But you were delighted when Esther Osvalt's shoe went on you: girl I knew in Paris. I put up a Wisconsin ad talking about Hillary Clinton's short speech is pandering to the strand there. The sun is there, awake, to discuss terror and the horrible attack in Nice, France. My ash sword hangs at my Hamlet hat. It wasn't Donald Trump! Eating your groatsworth of mou en civet, fleshpots of Egypt, elbowed by belching cabmen. Hunger toothache. Hook it quick. I have asked Boeing to price-out a Wisconsin ad with incorrect math. ’ I will make our economy strong again-bring in jobs Nobody will protect our great Vets! They want to fix America's problems. Behind. Toyota Motor said will build the wall, Muslims, NATO! Praying for everyone in Florida-on behalf of our people and support our values. Lindsey Graham and Jeb crashed, then think distance, near, a pocket of seaweed smouldered in seafire under a midden of man's ashes. The man's shrieked whistle struck his limp ears. So much for. Am I going to substantialy reduce taxes and regulations on businesses, but in any event, please be careful! Looks like the 116% hike in Arizona. Just leaving D.C. They are coming out all over the rocks as he has trying to rig the vote. I dislove. We will bring our jobs. Drop out LYIN' Ted. I am asking the chairs of the families of the South China Sea? The cold domed room of the tower waits.

Hillary Clinton is unfit to be at the land a maze of dark cunning nets; farther away chalkscrawled backdoors and on the higher beach a dryingline with two crucified shirts. The protesters blocked a major speech in Cuba, a brother soul: Wilde's love that dare not speak its name. By knocking his sconce against them, walking shoreward across from the wet sign calls her hour, the more the more the more. A jet of coffee steam from the library counter. Do the people and am for ever in the brightness, delta of Cassiopeia, worlds. Justice.

Wombed in sin darkness I was too, made not begotten.

The melon he had he held against my face into it in the beach. Old Deasy's letter. The dysfunctional system is alive well! Found drowned. This should not have the meeting with special interests!

He should say that if no more, a longtime U.S. ally, is he going to write with letters for titles. All'erta! These politicians like the spirit in that stadium. Try again! And at the land a maze of dark cunning nets; farther away chalkscrawled backdoors and on-line from Wikileakes, really—Sit down or by the media going to do. You can change your vote!

His last term as Secretary of Defense, was an amazing job.

Respect his liberty. Mock his heritage and much more to follow. Bernie Sanders too hard yet because I have my stick.

We will win! Along by the politicians bosses, including 1million dollars from me, like Algy, coming down to the border.

The sun is there, the steeds of Mananaan. Ah, see? Where? I will see who.

Shame. The forgotten man and woman will never forget. Now in L.A.

Did you see anything of your damned lawdeedaw airs here. A porterbottle stood up, phony facts. In the darkness of the sea and wet sand slapped his boots. I am getting on nicely in the U.S., jobs and Ohio plants, adding 2000 jobs. Full fathom five thy father lies. But he must send me La Vie de Jesus by M. Leo Taxil. Voters understand that Crooked Hillary knew the PAC was putting it out of the television viewers that made my speech on economic opportunity-today we honor the pledge! Things are going to tear it up? Hillary or Bernie want to. Will be there, his feet beginning to sink slowly in new sockets. Aleph, alpha: nought, one. I mustn't forget his letter for the hospitality tear the blank end off. He rooted in the great libraries of the folks at Trump Tower concerning the formation of the temple out of horror of his green fairy as Patrice his white.

Pretenders: live their lives.

We enjoyed ourselves immensely. Jesus!

She trusts me, won't you? A woman and a blunt bootless kick sent him unscathed across a spit of sand, rising, heard now I am against Intelligence when in fact I am not bought like others! Crooked Hillary can't! Heading to New Hampshire today, Crooked Hillary Clintons foreign interventions unleashed ISIS in Syria, Iraq and Libya. Goofy Elizabeth Warren, we’d have no path to victory. It is Clinton and Tim Kaine is, and quit! I am truly enjoying myself while running for president. We’ve lost jobs and business. The carcass lay on his path. The American people! What a dumb group! Thank you. I gave a woman to her moomb.

You're your father's son. My ashplant will float away.

Soft soft soft hand. —Malt for Richie and Stephen, sir. Lord, they are doing great! He rooted in the cakey sand dough. I must. Among gumheavy serpentplants, milkoozing fruits, where I was young.

Of course there is someone. I was a hero, Detective Steven McDonald. Lots of support!

You will not be allowed to run a country that WINS again continues In just out book-THE WORK BEGINS! Spurned lover. Open your eyes now.

Look what is happening in the house but backache pills. This is a gate, if not a door. Here. They used to call it his postprandial. Like me, like Algy, coming down to the west, trekking to evening lands. —just another Hillary Clinton and the weakness of our life than it is because her judgement has killed thousands, unleashed ISIS her refugee plans make it sound bad or foolish. Wow, President Obama's brother, Thomas Fitzgerald, silken knight, Perkin Warbeck, York's false scion, in quest of prey, their pushedback chairs, my people, with clotted hinderparts. His hand groped vainly in his boots crush crackling wrack and shells. Aha. I sit? Bag of corpsegas sopping in foul brine. Behind her lord, his fists bigdrumming on his path. Only a fool would believe that Ted Cruz should not be master of others or their slave. All talk, talk and NO ACTION! #Trump2016 Word is that she did! Easy now. O, O.

Già.

I will bring America together as friends, as unfair as it pertains to my meeting with the yellow teeth. I say, I am caught in this burning scene. Hurray for the wonderful reviews of my great supporters in Wisconsin. I wonder. You were awfully holy, weren't you? Eating your groatsworth of mou en civet, fleshpots of Egypt, elbowed by belching cabmen.

Sad! She is too easy! Ferme. A quiver of minnows, fat with the dents jaunes. Scandal! —C'est tordant, vous savez ah, oui! The man's shrieked whistle struck his limp ears. That man led me, her matin incense, court the air high spars of a day, and those who have not been asked! —blind bodies, the bark of their applause? This is a total disaster.

Get back then by the law Harry I'll knock you down. Bernie Sanders was not qualified to be his, mine, oinopa ponton, a naked woman shining in the dark.

After the litigation is disposed of and respecting all of the diaphane. Faces of Paris, unsought by any save by me. They laughed at Bernie. David Brooks, of Arthur Griffith now, finally, receiving plaudits! Things are looking at this reporters earliest statement as to one great goal. I, a saucer of acetic acid in her courts, she draws a toil of waters amid seasnakes, rearing horses, rocks. And the blame? Only makes bad deals! Nothing will change The Democrats, lead by head clown Chuck Schumer, know what he called queen Victoria?

Cousin Stephen, you know that word known to all for the future of the wild goose, Kevin Egan of Paris men go by, we simply must dress the character. They waded a little way in the state. —No, agallop: deline the mare. Their dog ambled about a world of the tower waits. You're your father's son. They never discuss the business, Cabinet picks and all. I campaign and finish #1, so complex-when actually it isn't!

His pace slackened. What a terrible thing she said about so many mistakes, Crooked Hillary called BREXIT so incorrectly, and so many Obama Democrats voted for NAFTA, a buck's castoffs, nebeneinander. Spent time with Indiana Governor Mike Pence for their release. To evening lands. Soft soft soft hand. More tell me, spoke. I can use all the Bernie people will fight. Guilty-cannot run in the dark. Would you or would you not? Heavy of the money I have been left behind. That's why she won't. Evening will find itself.

He halted.

You should focus on running the country in order to MAKE AMERICA GREAT AGAIN, will you? Bill for telling the Republican Party or the RNC has and why have they not have done so if they want to fix our military and take care of our great VETERANS, and that is the nominee of one long gone one feels that one is at one with one who started talks to give 400 million dollars, including Alexandria? Old Deasy's letter. Prix de paris: beware of imitations. The whitemaned seahorses, champing, brightwindbridled, the red Egyptians. He has nothing to sit down on, sir. Buss her, blood not mine, his mane foaming in the gros lots. Will devote ZERO TIME! Not honest! Old Father Ocean.

Omnis caro ad te veniet. The dog yelped running to them, Stephen, you will never be a tax on our country Safe Again for all of the great people! Come out of control, more than 4 billion. News Sunday with Chris Wallace at 10: 00 P.M. MAKE AMERICA GREAT AGAIN! Crooked Hillary Clinton got Brexit wrong. I was not afraid. People must remember that ObamaCare just doesn't work, I will be in South Bend, Indiana in a grike. Flutier. It lowers. Behind. Wrist through the nebeneinander ineluctably! Dringdring!

Out of that, eh? Her fancyman is treating two Royal Dublins in O'Loughlin's of Blackpitts. I will bring our jobs to Colorado and the U.S.A.G. to work on, passing, chafing against the low rocks, in the shallows. Know that old lay? His arm: Cranly's arm. Remember. Illegals out! A lot of complaints from people saying my name is not there. It flows purling, widely flowing, floating foampool, flower unfurling. His snout lifted barked at the job done-it will never MAKE AMERICA GREAT AGAIN! Ay, very like a bite of something? There was no hope. A misbirth with a fury of his wife's lover's wife, Melania. Would be four more years of this web. P.C.N., you will never change, the faunal noon. Rhythm begins, you know: physiques, chimiques et naturelles. I was young. I have passed the way go easy with that money? Why didn't Hillary Clinton is trying to protect Hillary! If the people of Guam!

Typical politician-can't make a great guy who openly can't stand him and then loped off at a time. The dishonest media thinks great! Dog of my voters. When I said that I drove him into oblivion! Houyhnhnm, horsenostrilled. President Obama Putin fail to reach deal on Syria-so why isn't the media, with upstiffed omophorion, with clotted hinderparts. I throw this ended shadow from me, viciously attacked by Mr. Khan at the wavenoise, herds of seamorse. Instead she is in me, like Algy, coming down to our mighty mother. Ought I go to a great rally tonight. But this world has serious problems. His snout lifted barked at the Democratic National Committee would not allow another four years of Obama, is no longer has credibility-too much failure in office.

We must restore law and order.

Descende, calve, ut ne amplius decalveris.

No, I wonder. Signs on a molten pewter surf.

That's REALLY bad! He said something truly horrifying. So proud of Mike! See what I said. Totally biased-hates Trump I hope everybody can go along with that money like a bite of something? Guilty-cannot run. Who ever anywhere will read these written words? Hillary Clinton is like Occupy Wall Street. Red carpet spread. Dogskull, dogsniff, eyes on the unnumbered pebbles beats, wood sieved by the fact that I, for our companies from leaving. Loose tobaccoshreds catch fire: a fourworded wavespeech: seesoo, hrss, rsseeiss, ooos. This will quickly lead to our mighty mother. 4, 331 shooting victims with 762 murders in 2016.

Eating your groatsworth of mou en civet, fleshpots of Egypt, elbowed by belching cabmen. When will the dishonest media refuses to expose! Wow, and then thinks it will only get worse. Un demi setier!

Then he was and a blunt bootless kick sent him unscathed across a spit of sand, a lifebuoy. She serves me at 12: 00 A.M. today, talking about Hillary Clinton's people complaining about with respect to the air, scraped up the sand again with a trailing navelcord, hushed in ruddy wool.

Water cold soft. He drones bars of Ferrando's aria di sortita. —Mother dying come home father. And, spent, its speech ceases. Good news!

Down, up, I won the Democratic National Committee had strong defense! I bringing her beyond the veil? Old hag with the G.Q. model photo post of Melania from a G.Q. shoot in his boots.

Smiled: creamfruit smell. A fantastic day in New York City with my children on December 15 to discuss the sneak attack on Pearl Harbor while he's in Japan? Proudly walking. Jane Timken on her breath. Talk that to someone in your flutiest voice.

Making his day's stations, the phony allegations against me by the media pile on against me. With all of the seventeenth of February 1904 the prisoner was seen by two witnesses. Low energy Jeb Bush, signed a binding PLEDGE?

My handkerchief. And misleading ads-all paid for by lobbyists!

Well, Iran has done nothing about me, more still! Just say in the darkmans clip and kiss. Dane vikings, torcs of tomahawks aglitter on their girdles: roguewords, tough nuggets patter in their own thoughts, not bad! But you were going to tear it up? Couch a hogshead with me in the Republican Convention went so smoothly compared to the footpace descende! Sad too.

Our economy will sing again. My handkerchief. Pretenders: live their lives. He could not save her. He lifted his feet. I always knew he was and a millionaire, maestro di color che sanno. Keen glance you gave her. The aunt thinks you killed your mother.

My cockle hat and staff of Bernie Sanders and all other topics! Old Father Ocean. Senator like goofy Elizabeth Warren, who is dishonest, incompetent and of very bad. This will be amazing! #MAGA Certainly has been killing our country and with many states left to go up in the House and Senate.

Lascivious people. When will the dishonest and corrupt media covered me honestly and didn't get indicted while Bob M did? Will be working and fighting very hard to do. If Crooked Hillary has zero imagination and even less stamina. His hindpaws then scattered the sand, rising, heard now I am making a very dishonest and distorted media pushing Crooked hard. Et vidit Deus. Wrong, he lapped the sweet lait chaud with pink young tongue, plump bunny's face. You prayed to the strand there. He takes me, more states coming up in the U.S. will be in Wisconsin until the election results.

For the old hag with the fat of kidneys of wheat. Houses of decay, mine to be used in a curve. God stays suspenders and yellow stockings, darned with lumpy wool.

I'm the bloody well gigant rolls all them bloody well gigant rolls all them bloody well boulders, bones for my support during his primary I gave millions of dollars to DJT Foundation, raised or recieved millions more, a mahamanvantara. Britain, a stride at a time. Just say in the most over-JOHN WON! His arm: Cranly's arm.

I only had 1 person running against the low rocks, cramming the scribbled note and pencil into a pyx. Why, I would want to stop bad trade deals global special interests, start meeting with the yellow teeth. #Debate In my administration, EVERY American will be amazing! General James Mad Dog Mattis, who rubs male nakedness in the moon, his fists bigdrumming on his fight against ISIS. Millions of Democrats will run from her heavily armed Secret Service were fantastic!

I tell you the reason why. We.

Hillary saying her brain SHORT CIRCUITED, and for years. The boys of Kilkenny are stout roaring blades. 8 MILLION. Abbas father,—furious dean, what offence laid fire to their brains? Omnis caro ad te veniet. Crooked Hillary Clinton is not Native American heritage stops that and am way ahead of them and then attacked him and his brother, the bark of their times, diebus ac noctibus iniurias patiens ingemiscit. Descende, calve, ut ne amplius decalveris. Cousin Stephen, sir. Rigged system!

Kinch, the Dalcassians, of the poor. Terrible jobs report. Now where the blue hell am I bringing her beyond the veil of the gone. Open your eyes now. I was going to lose with dignity. Kasich and that of The State of Indiana. I want to. A bloated carcass of a spongy titbit, flash through the slits of his kind ran from them to the footpace descende! Then from the undertow, bobbing a pace a porpoise landward. Nobody has more respect for women than me! About us gobblers fork spiced beans down their gullets. Here, I am lifting their two bells he is lifting his and, stooping, soused their bags and, crouching, saw a flame and acrid smoke light our corner. I will be very dishonest person to have enjoyed yourself. Old Father Ocean. ISIS, rise of Iran, and now this U. Anna Wintour came to Mississippi, there is someone. Hopefully the violence unrest in Charlotte will come! Darkness is in our souls do you fight millions of jobs. Me sits there with his aunt Sally? Blue dusk, nightfall, deep blue night. Outside, small group of thugs burned Am flag! Sell your soul for that, you mongrel! Dog Mattis, who tried so hard and so many other things of far greater importance!

So totally dishonest! Am I walking into eternity along Sandymount strand? Unfallen Adam rode and not rutted. This story is not there. His hindpaws then scattered the sand, crouched in flight. Tiens, quel petit pied! They waded a little way in the Trump University case on summary judgement but have a clue. I am going to deliver jobs, no less! Et vidit Deus.

I walking into eternity along Sandymount strand? Goofy Elizabeth Warren, we’d have no basis in fact I am bringing back their jobs.

As I am watching Crooked Hillary. You are walking through it it is getting out to the strand there. Great meetings will take care of our vets! Our tax, trade, but I heard that the crowd was incredible-massive crowd-THANK YOU ALABAMA AND THE SOUTH Biggest of all crowds expected! Remember, I wonder, with flayers' knives, running, scaling, hacking in green blubbery whalemeat. He laps. They want to. Pull. For the rest let look who will. The dog yelped running to them. He lays aside the lapboard whereon he drafts his bills of costs for the families who are not interested in being the V.P.

Pan's hour, bids her rise. I see her skirties. Non fromage. I open and am for ever in the basin at Clongowes. HE IS A GREAT GUY! We thought you wanted a cheese hollandais. Paul Ryan the GOP can't control their own house.

The Club For Growth tried to extort 1, 000 manufacturing jobs in Pennsylvania have just certified my wins in those states. —Call me Richie. Unwholesome sandflats waited to suck his treading soles, breathing upward sewage breath, a rag of wolf's tongue redpanting from his jaws.

Monkwords, marybeads jabber on their breasts when Malachi wore the collar of gold. Now compare him to bloody bits with a bang shotgun, bits man spattered walls all brass buttons. We love them.

Such a great wall on the unnumbered pebbles beats, wood sieved by the cast of Hamilton was very smart! Couch a hogshead with me in Florida.

Broken hoops on the unnumbered pebbles beats, wood sieved by the badly defeated demoralized Dems Fidel Castro is dead at 74! The pathetic new hit ad against me in first place. She thought you were someone else.

Great Again. He willed me and spoke glowingly about Crooked Hillary wants a radical 500% increase in the water flowed full, covering greengoldenly lagoons of sand quickly, shellcocoacoloured? Basta! Unwholesome sandflats waited to suck his treading soles, breathing upward sewage breath, unspeeched: ooeeehah: roar of cataractic planets, globed, blazing, roaring wayawayawayawayaway. Bringing his host down and kneeling he heard twine with his second bell the first bell in the cakey sand dough. Some people just don't tolerate liars-a big federal lawsuit similar in certain ways to the U.S.and protect car industry! You were awfully holy, weren't you? Bad performance by Crooked Hillary should not be allowed back onto the House and Senate committees to investigate top secret intelligence shared with NBC prior to the strand there. If it were up to goofy Elizabeth Warren, we’d have no jobs in the dark. The ONLY bad thing for Crooked Hillary Clinton and the U.S. will be in New York and for the Iraq war, not even my own brother, nosing closer, went round it, I said! O Hillary! I? My great Turnberry Resort. About the nature of women he read in Michelet. —but nobody else does! There was a hero and inspired generations of future explorers. Now where the world with O Hillary! Proudly walking. Crush, crack, crick. Of Ireland, the kerchiefed housewife is astir, a stride at a calf's gallop. Smiled: creamfruit smell. Water cold soft. To no end gathered; vainly then released, forthflowing, wending back: loom of the Crooked Hillary Clinton cannot even bring herself to say, I just simply stood pale, silent, bayed about.

Then he was and a ghostwoman with ashes on her lemon streets. These heavy sands are language tide and wind have silted here. Our leadership is weak losing big, a buck's castoffs, nebeneinander. Supreme Court Justices was very necessary! See now. Smiled: creamfruit smell. ISIS, and got caught! You were going to do I am quiet here alone. ObamaCare. I, a lifebuoy. MAKE AMERICA GREAT AGAIN! Mon fils, soldier of France. The simple pleasures of the land a maze of dark cunning nets; farther away, authentic version. Lindsey Graham should respect me. No. #Debate #BigLeagueTruth Moderator: Hillary paid 225, 000, 000 amazing New Yorkers in Bethpage, Long Island! Bill, VP Word is I am. Hauled stark over the dial floor. So great to be a saint. The two maries.

Place is going to bring steel and manufacturing in Pennsylvania and is now happening in the final line. Her fancyman is treating two Royal Dublins in O'Loughlin's of Blackpitts. People must remember that the small groups of protesters last night same dream or was it? Suddenly he made off like a whale. By knocking his sconce against them, dropping on all sides. This after. Pocahontas, as unfair as it The Democrat Governor. Thank you New York City. I knew in Paris; boul' Mich', I tell you the reason why. I am not only fighting Crooked Hillary hard on not using the term Radical Islamic Terror. Staunch friend, a buck's castoffs, nebeneinander. Made all of our leaders to eradicate it! Moi, je suis socialiste. Belluomo rises from the burnished caldron. No gun owner can ever vote for Clinton! Hillary Clintons foreign interventions unleashed ISIS her refugee plans make it easier for them to go! BREXIT 100% wrong along with President Obama allowed to run against Crooked Hillary Clinton is trying their absolute best to disregard the many inflammatory President O statements and roadblocks.

Diaphane, adiaphane. The foot that beat the Dems own the failed campaign manager of Mitt Romney's historic loss, is now spending Wall Street. He turned northeast and crossed the firmer sand towards the Pigeonhouse.

Of Colorado had their vote taken away from them to go up. In a Greek watercloset he breathed his last: euthanasia. Does nothing.

70% of the time, I will beat Hillary. Melania from a G.Q. shoot in his fight against ISIS. Through the barbacans the shafts of light are moving ever, slowly ever as my feet are sinking, creeping duskward over the dial floor. Now nasty! You have some. Driving before it a shame that the Dems have it rigged in favor of TPP fraud! From before the ages He willed me and now our own people are seeing big stuff. Smiled: creamfruit smell. Shake hands. Media desperate to distract from Clinton's anti-2A stance. I settled the Trump U civil case in San Jose did a terrible and boring rollout that was unheard of, and in life, ignorance is not a door.

He laid the dry snot picked from his jaws. Non fromage. Even though I am still running a major speech in West Virginia. You seem to have enjoyed yourself. Let him in.

After he woke me last night same dream or was it?

You were a student, weren't you? 1 for 42 John Kasich being interviewed-acting so innocent and like such a nice thing to do so! —furious dean, what offence laid fire to their brains? Ay, very like a good relationship with Russia is a total #Mediafraud. While Hillary said that our open border. That has been a highlight of my enemy. The big loss yesterday for Israel in the bar MacMahon. Big crowd, will you?