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#casting out the darkness
thebirdandhersong · an hour ago
Well, I am pleasantly surprised!!!!
#i just finished the first shadow and bone book and can i just say. was not expecting to like it#but the fact that alina first wakes up her powers because she's trying to protect mal made quite an impression#the worldbuilding is just as confusing as i remembered but the descriptions of some of the settings are really fascinating#i had zero feelings about the characters the last time i read this book and now?? very attached#genya and david and mal in particular#honestly was not expecting to like mal at all#but you know how katniss makes her choice between peeta (peace and kindness and green growing things)#and gale (war and conflict and trusting no one but oneself)#yeah any sort of story with that already has my attention#(by 'that' i mean choosing love and kindness and light over darkness and fear and cruelty and hatred)#i just LOVE that mal and alina wanted a few farm animals and children in a safe warm place when they were little#and i love that they keep referring back to the meadow line (that one has my whole heart)#and i love the simplicity of their love and affection. it doesn't come with strings attached (as the darkling's love does)#not gonna lie though after seasons 1-3 of agents of shield and being scared out of my wits by grant ward in s3#i hear alarm bells any time i hear charismatic morally dubious bad boy with sad past#i'm sure we'll see more development in book 2 and 3 and my feelings may change#(i do feel bad for him a little because it IS obvious that he wants connection)#(but Wow there really is no excuse for all he's done and he still has no problem tormenting alina)#the thing is that he's just so good at manipulating your perspective that he SEEMS so charming and convincing#and casting ben barnes was a top notch decision tbh#because you can just tell by looking at pictures that he's given the darkling that fascinating factor from the books#which goes to show that he takes advantage of all of these things in order to get his way#anyways that's terrifying#reading adventures
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shmitty · a month ago
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New art I just did called (casting out the darkness)
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jobean12-blog · 2 minutes ago
After the Show
Pairing: Bucky x reader (Rockstar!Bucky AU)
Word Count: 2,170
Summary: You want Buck off stage, on stage and everywhere in between. 
Author’s Note: This is born soley of my thirst for Bucky and the super fun Rockstar AU, the recent pics Seb posted definitely helped and my talks with the girls are always inspiring. Thank you @navybrat817 @angrythingstarlight @pepsicup @awesomerextyphoon and @eurynome827 I have zero love for Tommy Lee and this has nothing to do with him. This is also for @goaskbarnes 500 follower AU Challenge and the Rockstar AU. Congratulations Hailie! Sending you lots of love! Thank you all so very much for reading! Much love always! ❤❤❤ My jobean divider is by the lovely @imerdwarf and the music note divider is by the lovely @skylightlantern thank you loves! PS the lyrics in italics are from Led Zeppelins song ‘Thank you,’ listen here! :) 
Warnings: soft sweet fluff followed by smut (thigh riding, light dirty talk, flirting, teasing, semi-public sex) 18 + ONLY PLEASE!!! 
This first gif is meant to show Bucky’s look when you first met him and the second pic is an AMAZING edit by my beautiful friend @nix-akimbo and is meant to be Bucky present day. THANK YOU SO MUCH ❤🥰😍
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“I know that song,” you say softly, adjusting your body amongst the pillows.
Bucky looks up from his guitar and smiles. The moonlight casts a soft glow across the bed, enough that you can see the blue of his eyes as he gazes at you while strumming his acoustic.
“I remember that night like it was yesterday,” he says, closing his eyes and continuing to play.
“Me too Bucky. I’ll never forget the first time I heard you play,” you sigh. “I loved that little coffee shop. They had the best muffins. I always went there just for the lemon poppy seed. But nothing compared to finding you and after we met I kept coming back for a totally different reason.”
His eyes open and he plucks a few strings before setting the guitar gently on the floor. He crawls over to you and slips under the sheet, pulling you into him. Your fingers lightly trace the outline of one of the tattoos on his chest and when they meet the chain of his dog tags you drag him down for a kiss.
“Remember when this was the only tattoo you had?” you ask him with smile.
He nods and says, “it used to be my favorite. But not anymore.”
Your hand moves up to his bicep and your fingers ghost over your name outlined in dark ink.
“This is my favorite too,” you giggle.
“And your hair used to be so much shorter,” you whisper, gently brushing a long strand that falls in front of his face.
His nose brushes along yours and he hums in agreement, kissing you softly. Your hand combs through his hair and settles at the back of his neck so you can deepen the kiss. When you pull away you’re breathless.
“Will you play for me more?” you ask in between kisses. “I love when you play your acoustic.”
“Of course, baby girl but I’m gonna play you first,” he whispers, dancing his fingers down to your hip and pulling you under him.
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Bucky shuts the doors to the truck and takes you in his arms.
“I’ll see you at the show baby doll,” he murmurs into your hair.
You rest your cheek against the bare skin that peeks out from his open shirt, fingering his dog tags that hang there. The sun is just starting to set behind him and the pink and orange glow shines off the metal pieces. Tucking a strand of hair behind his ear you trace your fingers along his jaw and lean up to kiss him.  
“See you at the show baby,” you say and blow him another kiss once he’s in the truck.
You take your time getting ready for the show since you don’t have to worry about lines or the crowd. You decide to surprise him and wear the same outfit you wore the first time you saw him play live with the band. You’ll never forget the way he looked at you from the stage. Just thinking about it makes you tremble with want.
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When you walk to the door you greet Tony with a smile and flash your pass even though you don’t have to. He escorts you inside and waves you off as you head to the back. The band has played this venue a few times before so you know your way around.
The green room is at the far back and you can hear his guitar as you head down the hallway. You lightly knock on the door and open it when you hear him say “come in baby girl.”
You smile to yourself and your eyes find him immediately, seated on the couch, legs spread wide and his guitar now resting against the edge. The leather pants he wears pull snugly across his thick thighs and you bite your bottom lip.
You stand in the doorway and admire him but it’s his heated gaze that rakes over your skin and causes you to squeeze your legs together.
“You look fucking incredible,” he says, patting his thigh. “Come here baby doll.”
You saunter over and sit, resting your hands on his chest. “I wasn’t sure if you would remember,” you say demurely.
His hands settle at your waist and he pulls you into his lap so you’re straddling him.
“You know it’s etched onto my brain like one of my tattoos,” he tells you, grazing his fingers under your skirt. “Just like every inch of your skin.”
You lean into his touch, letting your head fall to the side as his cool metal fingers inch higher.
“Bucky,” you whimper. “The show starts in a few minutes.”
He grips your thigh, brushing his thumb over your already soaking underwear before crushing his lips to yours. Your fingers grip his silken locks and you roll your hips, unable to stop yourself. A knock at the door pulls you apart and Bucky’s face falls to your neck, his loud groan not going unnoticed by Steve on the other side of the door.
“Show time Barnes. Let’s go,” Steve shouts.
His eyes meet yours and they are dark with want.
“I love you,” he whispers, kissing you one more time before promising, “and I’ll see you after the show.”
He helps you off his lap and grabs his guitar, throwing you a smirk before heading toward the rest of the band. You follow behind and say hi to Steve, Nat, Wanda and Sam. Wanda gives you a knowing once over before winking while Steve and Nat sneak in a kiss and Sam flips his drumsticks.
You shout, “break a leg,” and then make your way to the floor in front of the stage, wading through the crowds of already screaming fans. Throngs of girls are struggling to get as close as possible and you know why. Thankfully, you know Bucky only has eyes for you and the moment the lights go down, adrenaline shoots through your veins and you join in with the screams.
The first note Bucky hits sets the crowd into renewed cheers, the sound nearly drowning out the soft sound. The lights come on and his eyes instantly search for you. He finds you quickly, winking before bringing his lips up to the microphone.
You’ll never get tired of watching him on stage, his strong legs spread wide, his ocean blue guitar resting between them and those fingers, the way they move over the strings, strumming and picking to create the most amazing sound. The stage lights shine off his metal arm, creating a stunning effect of colors as he moves with the music and his tattoos shift with the muscles in his arm and chest.
You know this song well and when his solo starts he locks his gaze on you, singing the words and playing the melody with such ease it takes your breath away.
“My love is strong, there is no wrong. Together we shall go until we die, my, my, my, inspiration's what you are to me.”
He wrote this song not long after you met, the lyrics like a song written on his heart.  You sway with the rhythm, never looking away and when he gets to the chorus you sing along out loud.
“If the sun refused to shine, I would still be loving you. Mountains crumble to the sea, there will still be you and me.”
Everyone erupts into loud cheers when the song finishes and Bucky smiles, working the crowd for a minute before launching into the next song. You dance until your feet are aching and scream until your throat is sore.
The band exits for the intermission and you rush backstage. Bucky is waiting in the hallway and you throw yourself into his arms. He’s sweaty and smirking and you can feel his heart beating in his chest.
He pulls you into the bathroom, shutting the door and pushing you against it as his whole-body lines up with yours. He leans down to kiss you but you stop his mouth with a finger to his lips, reaching into your bra to pull out a small ball of lacey fabric.
He takes it from your hand and rubs it between his fingers, stuffing it into his front pants pocket before his lips devour you. There is nothing but desperation in his kiss and as his lips trail down your neck and he sucks on your pulse point your legs nearly give out.
Your hands are everywhere at once, wanting to touch every inch of him and when he pushes his thigh between your legs you tug hard on his hair, moaning at the friction.
“Bucky!” you cry out, grinding down to harder to find your release. His muscles flex beneath you and he grabs your hips, rocking you back and forth until you fall apart for him. You barely have time to catch your breath before they are calling him back out.
“I’m not done with you yet, not even close,” he growls out, his mouth swallowing any chance of your reply before leaving the bathroom.
You lean against the door, breathing hard and try to fix your skirt with shaky hands. You’re able to make it onto the floor just as the band comes back out on stage. You can see the red lace of your underwear peaking out from Bucky’s pocket and it sends a new wave of heat through you.
By the time the show is over you can’t get to him fast enough, the events of the night catching up and leaving you filled with need. You make your way down the hallway, doing your best to say a brief hello to everyone you pass but only needing to find Bucky.  
You’re headed for the back when a strong arm reaches out and pulls you into the equipment room. You don’t even get a chance to greet him before his mouth is on yours, the force of the kiss knocking you into the wall as his hand slides behind your neck.
At the taste of him, you moan, unable to help yourself and your hands rove over his hard chest, desperate for any skin. They rake through his hair, the strands silky as they slip through your fingers and you pull him closer.
His hips grind into you and you arch your back off the wall, baring your neck to him. He drags his mouth from yours and traces a line up the column of your neck, reaching the spot just below your ear that makes you whimper.
“Did you enjoy the show baby girl?” he asks dangerously, burying his face against your neck to scrape his teeth over your pulse point.
You can’t form a proper response and Bucky growls low, kissing you again. You have to feel his skin, have to feel the hardness pressing against you with your hands, your mouth, your body. You wedge your hand between your bodies and Bucky groans as you cup him through his leather pants.
His kiss turns deeper and more insistent as you wrestle with the buckles on his pants.  Bucky’s hands caress your skin, slowly hiking up your skirt as he nips your bottom lip, your ear, your neck. The blood roars in your ears and you finally manage to get his pants down to his ankles.
He lifts your leg and wraps it around his waist, rubbing himself through your soaking folds, teasing you with every inch of him.
“The whole fucking show all I could think about was burying myself inside you,” he simpers before pushing into you slowly.
His lips graze yours, slowly taunting until he fills you completely. At the feel of you wrapped tightly around him he loses all control and pulls all the way out before slamming back in hard enough to shake the doorframe.
You grip his ass, the muscles taunt beneath your fingertips and push him deeper. He lifts your leg high, keeping his pace steady as he thrusts his hips hard, his grip on your waist bruising. You burn with pleasure, so full of him that his shoulders are the only things keeping you standing.
Looking between your bodies you see him disappear inside you, so thick and long and slick with your wetness that you tighten around him, your release already building. Bucky groans, arching into the feeling.
“Fuck,” he pants, repeating the word over and over as he feels you squeezing him.
His metal hand drifts between your legs, the touch sending you over the edge. Bucky’s movements become erratic as he spills into you, his hips stilling only after his release drips down your thigh.
You stay locked together, his weight pushing you into the door as you both catch your breath. Bucky finally releases your leg, gently placing it on the floor and wrapping his arms around you, brushing his lips to yours.
Your fingertips slide down his sweat slicked chest and wrap around his dog tags, tugging him closer. “I still need more.”
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mrcifci · 51 minutes ago
Dracula's BFF Renfield Joins Dark Universe in Solo Film for Universal
Actor Tom Waits as Renfield in Francis Ford Coppola’s Dracula 1992
Screenshot: Columbia Pictures
Early on, Universal had difficulty establishing their Dark Universe, consisting of films about Dracula, Wolfman, The Mummy, The Invisible Man, Frankenstein, and Jekyll/Hyde. They tried to get things popping in 2014 with Dracula Untold, but that was a financial and critical failure. Unfortunately, 2017's The Mummy starring Tom Cruise suffered a similar fate in an attempt to reboot things.
With that, the studio’s Dark Universe was DOA. That is until Leigh Whanelle’s Invisible Man (2019) exceeded expectations and revived faith in the franchise.
Invisible Man opened the door for new stories, cast, directors, and films. The latest film to find a home at Universal is Renfield. If you know the Dracula story, ole Renfield was one of Dracula’s familiars. He isn’t a central character in the story, so the choice to make a film about and explore his life pre and post Dracula is interesting.
Director Chris McKay (The Tomorrow War) is in talks to direct the movie with Rick and Morty writer Ryan Ridley. On Kevin Smith’s Fat Man Beyond podcast, writer and Renfield producer Robert Kirkman discussed what fans could expect from the film. “We’re doing this cool movie for Universal that’s a focus on Renfield,” Kirkman said. “It’s a story about him being Dracula’s henchman and how shitty a job that is. It’s a fun, extremely violent comedy because I’ve got a crutch, and it’s violence.”
Digital Spy reports that Dark Universe is quickly on the move, with several projects already in the works.
G/O Media may get a commission
Dracula, directed by Karyn Kusama
The Invisible Woman, directed by Elizabeth Banks
Ryan Gosling is starring in a new take on The Wolfman, directed by Leigh Whannell.
Paul Feig’s Dark Army, which is said to feature classic Universal monsters
There are even more films out there, but they don’t in development but don’t have any specific details available.
What do you think of the development of a new, solid Dark Universe? Any particular monsters you want to see? Let us know in the comments!
For more, make sure you’re following us on our Instagram @io9dotcom.
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madformoony · an hour ago
Caring is the Greatest Advantage- Part 2 (Mycroft Holmes x Reader)
AN- Thank you so much for the love I received on the first installation of this series! This one is more of a bit of a filler chapter, getting everything kind of settled down- next chapter should be both a little heart-breaking, but also heart-warming! Hope you guys enjoy this part!
Word Count- 4435
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It had felt like no time at all had passed until the intruding sunlight pierced through a small crack in Mycroft's navy curtains, casting bright white lines throughout the dark room and stirring you from your slumber. Warmth, inability to move properly, body moving to the movement of somebody else's breath; you took a brief glance down and noticed the pale hand that lay flat against your stomach, the silk-clad arm that wrapped over your waist and connected you to the form behind. Your cheeks flushed instantly, embarrassed both at the situation and at how much you had to admit you were incredibly comfortable. Eyes flickering to the clock, you sighed, 7am, still too damn early for somebody that had only had a painfully low amount of sleep after residing into bed so late the night before. Mycroft was still sound asleep behind you and you smiled, content knowing that he was finally able to rest and let his mind have a much needed break. Rolling over softly, slowly, you turned your body to face the elder Holmes, smiling slightly at the peaceful look on his features before instinctively tucking yourself in a little closer to his chest and closing your eyes once more, breathing in the residing peppermint and green tea shower gel he had used the night before and falling back into a slumber- there was no way you wanted to disturb him while getting up and a few more hours kip sounded heavenly.. you'd also be lying if you didn't admit it felt calming being held in Mycroft's arms in this way. As you settled back into unconsciousness, the peeking Mycroft allowed the corner of his mouth to flick upwards for a mere second before he, too, elected to treat himself to a lie in- God knows he hasn't had one in the last 20 odd years. Neither of you were quite sure at which point during the night you had managed to get yourselves in such a position at all, having left you in Mycroft's grasp when only a short while earlier he had fallen asleep to you stroking his hair- Mycroft had joked in his head that it was likely due to him always liking the position of power, and apparently that didn't relent just because he was asleep.
3 more hours had passed before you felt your eyelids twitching once more, your eyes opening to the sight of Mycroft's collarbone- evidently your body noticed how much you liked how he had smelt post-shower and led you to seek to get it closer while you slept, your nose just poking underneath the folded collar of Mycroft's pyjama top. You pulled away slowly, embarrassed and petrified that Mycroft would notice your proximity and trying not to wake him. He still lay still, chest rising slowly with each inhale and exhale of breath, the fingers that rested on your cotton clad hip twitching upon occasion, brow furrowing every now and then as he dreamed. In his own way, Mycroft Holmes was an incredibly beautiful man- not that he would see things that way; 'brother mine, you may have the looks but I clearly inherited the intelligence gene. So sorry you had to pull the short straw', he had spoken to Sherlock during one of the small gaming evenings hosted at 221B (Mycroft never wanted to attend and ensured you had to be there if he had to 'endure the small-talk of goldfish' for an hour or so, and rewarded you each time with dinner the following evening). He had spent his entire life that he was around other people being ridiculed for his appearance. In Primary School he had first started experiencing the comments on his weight- he had been the only boy who never wanted to go out to play sports, electing instead to spend his breaks in the school's library. He blames the Librarian for his significant weight gain as Mrs Tubbs, ironic as the surname sounded, spent a lot of her lunches treating Mycroft to an abundance of cakes and pastries, claiming his interest in the library was likely the only reason the school still needed her, treating him in thanks for his love of reading. High school was perhaps the worst experience, the whole school had elected to nicknaming him Fatcroft- at first, if anything, Mycroft was more disappointed in the lack of imagination that came with the nickname, but as the five years ticked by he found the nickname altering to 'fatty', before finally stopping altogether as nobody chose to speak to him at all. College hadn't been much better, his circle of friends still remaining empty, though bullying continued from other people about his weight, and also his clothing- growing up, the Holmes' hadn't been the most wealthy family, leaving Mycroft attending college in his father's hand-me-downs; trousers that cuffed at the ankle from the large height difference between them, shirts that's buttons threatened to burst with each inhale of breathe. This had continued in university until Mycroft decided to try and get himself in shape in his final year before he moved into the world of employment. Obtaining his place in a position in the British Government allowed Mycroft to live comfortably, very much so, and his collection of well tailored three-piece suits were his proud reminder of how far he had come. Of course Sherlock has equally been very unrelenting towards Mycroft, whether it was about his weight, his hair, his clothes, acne, anything- Sherlock was on it and wanted to bring his brother down each time, even still now. Mycroft liked to pretend still that it caused no bother, but you didn't need the deduction skills of a Holmes to know that was bollocks.
Your eyes scanned his body slowly now, the slightly loose skin around his neck that had come with both age and weight loss, the small stretchmarks that had lightly covered the exposed part of his shoulder. Your hands that were tucked round his body could feel the slight pudge that still clung round his hips and his belly, a factor you liked but knew Mycroft hated with a passion, skipped meals to try to lose. His legs had been the same. While looking thinly muscled in his well tailored suits, you had walked in once to him on his treadmill in his running shorts, noticed the small stretchmarks that had rested behind his knees, a few down his calves, and some disappearing up over his thigh (he had been incredibly embarrassed and ended up switching to running trousers, though telling you his decision was purely down to the effectiveness of the lycra trousers over their shorter competitors, how the choice was 'obvious'.) Mycroft was far from perfect in his own eyes, but to you at least? He was still beautiful, he was human, and that's how you've felt about him for pushing 4 years now, though he would always take your genuine compliments as pity and wave them off, disappearing almost instantly after.
"It's incredibly rude to stare, Miss L/N." Mycroft's voice made you jump out of your skin as your eyes returned to his face.
"Miss L/N? You haven't called me that since... you interrogated me when I started working with Greg." You joked, suddenly becoming aware of your proximity and peeling your arms from his waist and chest, returning to your own side of the bed. Mycroft's fingers itched to pull you back a little but stopped themselves.
"Ah yes, I apologise for.. that."
"The interrogation or the cuddling?" You teased, only lightly, not wanting to break the trust and for Mycroft to put his barriers back up. Mycroft raised his left eyebrow, offering his 'you know full well what I'm talking about' look, his expression looking nonchalant had it not been for the pink tinge to the tips of his ears. You rolled your eyes and sat up, shuffling the duvet to your mid thigh and stretching your arms audibly.
"Don't apologise, that was... lovely?" You didn't know how else to describe it without coming off weird, not that your chosen wording was particularly well thought after. Mycroft followed suit in sitting up and failed to answer you back. "Don't make it weird, it felt good and neither of us have slept in til.." You read the clock once more. "Fuck me, gone 10? For a long time." Mycroft smirked, choosing to ignore talking the on the part of the close embrace and instead on your choice of language.
"Is your language always so colourful in the mornings? You may have to work on your bedside manner before I allow you to stay in here again." Another raised eyebrow and a flash of a smile. You avoided picking him up on the term 'allow' in his statement- knowing Mycroft, it was his way of trying to make it sound like he hadn't asked for you to stay, as though he was in control of everything and didn't truly need you, but you both knew that was a lie. He was just still trying to work around the embarrassment of needing, and actually quite enjoying, the company of another human being. You pressed a little more in your teasing and climbed your way out of bed.
"My bedside manner? How many times have you rated a woman's behaviours the morning after she spent the night in your bed?" Padding to the bathroom. Mycroft let out a small snort as he watched you disappear behind the door.
"One, so far, but there's always tomorrow." He let out, making your movements stop a little in the bathroom. Previous sexual encounters wasn't typically a conversation that arose between the pair of you, partly because the topic never came up, and partly because you hadn't slept with someone else for the better part of 5 years. When it came to Mycroft you had never heard of any previous relationships, or encounters, though he was a very private man- it wouldn't surprise you if previous relationships had to be kept on the downlow but, equally, it wouldn't be a surprise at all if he were still a virgin; his history of social interactions, or lack thereof, signifying enough that the likelihood of him having a previous partner was very slim. It wasn't a topic you ever intended on asking him about, mainly because there was no real reason for you to care at all. "I can hear your brain whirring, I despise it." He quipped, reaching over to grab his phone and send a quick message to Anthea to bring you over some clothing and other things she suspects you will need within the next couple of hours or so. You hummed, disagreeing with him entirely. "I've never shared a bed with someone previous to last night, excluding Sherlock as a child, hence the awkwardness upon waking. I never had the desire for it, nor did I ever see the appeal." You hadn't missed that he was speaking in the past tense, would have argued it was just a mistake in wording.. but Mycroft doesn't do that. So he had enjoyed last night, you smirked to yourself. "Also, rather than palming at your hair like some baboon, the second drawer on the cabinet to your left contains some spare toiletries and such items I had Anthea purchase after your visits became a little more.. frequent." You opened the mentioned drawer and found a hairbrush, hairbands, a toothbrush, toothpaste and deodorant, feeling thankful that he cared enough to even bother to do this.
"See, you can't despise me. You love me really." You sang, locking the door behind you to completely freshen up and try to appear slightly more presentable in Mycroft's shirt and yesterday's leggings. Still sat in bed, Mycroft froze a little. He knew you had only meant it as a joke, to tease him for breaking his rule of no sentiment when he was around you, but the thought still sat weird in the pit of his stomach, his heart still beat a little faster in his chest and he shook his head to himself. He wasn't proposing he was in love with you, of course, that was preposterous, though he wasn't quite sure what his emotions were around you. He cared, yes, a lot more than he cares for anyone. Less than 24 hours ago he had stared death in the face, quite literally actually, and yet he felt more fear seeing your life on the line- he was willing to sacrifice his own life for yours. His breath hitched at the memory and he closed his eyes. Caring wasn't an advantage. Caring was ridiculous, humiliating, idiotic, shameful. Caring led to him laying his own life on the line, risking one of the most important people in the British Government, allowing himself to be vulnerable, to SHOW he was vulnerable. And yet...
"I've made a brief itinerary for today." Your voice let him blink back to reality, sliding out of his bed to head to his wardrobe to get ready for the day. You skipped behind him, pulling him away from the closet doors by his elbows and standing him in front of you. "And wearing those isn't on the list, in fact, if I see a hint of a suit today I may well go loopy and burn the lot." Mycroft frowned. "You're having a break from normality, no suits allowed. Just because you've woken up pretending to be your usual smartass self doesn't mean I'm letting you off. I'm not as clever as you are, Mycroft, but I know very damn well how somebody who's concealing their emotions looks like, too well." He kept that thought, would bring it up at some point, but let you continue. "You should know by now I wont judge you, ever, at all. The stuff that happened last night? The sleeping, the not letting me go? I won't mention it to anyone- I teased you on it as a way to try and make you laugh, I wouldn't do that around other people without your permission. Christ I care about you, probably more than I care about myself so please spare the lies of being fine. If you want to sit in bed all day and cry? I'll get the tissues. If you want to act like you're fine and not talk about anything, we can do that too. Everything that happens is down to your discretion, and I want you to trust me, and to trust that I won't take the piss and mean it." You smiled at the end, glancing at your feet a little and looking back up when he didn't answer- but his shoulders slumped, his back broke away from his perfect posture and he let out a breath he didn't know he was holding. "Right. Now back to my plan. I suggest no 'human day time clothes', I make breakfast- no exceptions, I make a mean scrambled egg, we wack on a couple of DVDs and then, if you're feeling up to it, we can play some music and you can talk me through what happened? Don't feel pressured to, I just.. want to let you know that the option is there." Mycroft stiffened slightly at the thought of speaking so soon, the panic clearly showing on his features as you reached for a hand that rested by his side, holding it between your two smaller hands. "Don't worry about it now, you don't have to tell me a thing, ever. Just know that you can." Still unsure on the appropriate way to respond to your ramble of clothing choices, food, plans, and admittance to caring on his behalf, Mycroft spoke on the most mundane of the suggestions.
"I do hope you're not expecting me to spend the day in my pyjamas." Mycroft already felt agitated having the silk pressing against his skin during the hours of day, tugging the hem of the top slightly away from his stomach as though adding emphasis.
"Oh no, of course not. How detrimental would that be if you spent the day in your pyjamas like any other person has done." You placed the back of your hand against your forehead, feigning shock as Mycroft rolled his eyes at you. "But you could at least change into some sweats and a t-shirt or something." Mycroft stared again. "You're joking? Not even one set? Not one? Have you even WORN them before?" Mycroft opened his mouth each time you asked a question, shutting it as your next followed.
"It isn't my choice of exercising attire, and I can assure you I am not sitting in lycra all day, for both of our sakes. Perhaps I could just forgo the waistcoat and tie?"
"Oh most definitely, sounds like the epitome of at home comfort." Mycroft glared, looking as though the down speaking of his suits equated to somebody calling his mother a whore. You slowly leant forward, whipping Mycroft's phone out of his shirt pocket and jumping back on the heels of your feet, logging into the device with ease and starting a phone call. Guessing Mycroft's password the first time a few months ago had been scarily easy, him swearing you to utmost secrecy at the meaning behind it; Sherlock's date of birth- 'bit easy isn't it?', 'it's simple enough that nobody would suspect it true.', 'I got it..', 'yes but you're a welcomed exception. Now give it back.'.
"Y/N that is official Government Property. There are items on that device that, should it be known are in your hands, would get you thrown into a prison so far away tha-"
"Anthea, hi! It's Y/N, so sorry for the intrus- mine's in the bathroom still, it would have been too late. Anyway.. you know a lot, right? Including the trouser size Mycroft wears?" A pause.
"You wouldn't dare." Mycroft mouthed. He was a strong man, well trained, if he really wanted to take the phone back it would have been in his hands already, you a mess on the floor- but he didn't, not even sure he had the energy to, and thus you continued.
"That's brilliant. Could you pop over at some point of what's left of this morning and bring him a variety of jogging bottoms, a few t-shirts, fuck it, why not, and some sweatshirts or hoodies please? I can treat you to scrambled eggs as thanks?" Another pause. "You're a star, thank you so much. See you soon!" Anthea declined your offer of breakfast (likely because of the time) but agreed to bring you everything else along with the stuff requested earlier in 20 minutes.
"You are the spawn of the Devil himself." He whipped his phone back from your hands and nestled it in his trouser pocket this time. You were daring, but not THAT daring.
"Bite me Holmes." It was rare for Mycroft to be able to quip back and forth with another person without completely losing his sanity and becoming angry, but with you it felt like a relieving release; watching you shoot words towards him with no malice behind them, no intentions of truly being upset with him, he actually enjoyed it.
"Could get Anthea to do it for me being as she's being used to go clothes shopping for me now."
"Mycroft you literally send her to pick up your dry cleaning."
True to her word, 20 minutes later Anthea knocked at the front door, making you startle as you put your dirty plates from breakfast in the sink, feeling accomplished that you had managed to convince Mycroft to eat a slice of toast with scrambled egg. Mycroft stood but you were faster, pushing him back down in his seat.
"I am perfectly capable of meeting my own PA at the door."
"So am I. Just sit bloody still or I'll glue you to the chair." You beamed at Anthea as you opened the front door, taking the few bags from her hands. You offered her inside but she politely declined, stating she had far too much work to do and was satisfied that you were treating Mycroft with the utmost care. "Myc? Time to feel the most comfortable you ever have in years." You walked back to him, holding the bags up almost childishly with a grin on your face. The nickname still settles oddly in Mycroft's mind, had anybody else dared to shorten his name he felt the constant need to correct it, and often did- you remember on one occasion when Greg had called him Crofty for a laugh and got whacked with his umbrella- but from you it just felt.. endearing. Sherlock used to bring it up a lot, question outwardly why you were allowed to give him nicknames but he wasn't, but Mycroft always found some kind of response that more so belittled his brother rather than reference to his own sentiment.
"I still don't see why this is necessary.."
"You've said already you don't want to be in your pjs anymore, and these are the most comfortable back up." You peered in the bag and grinned. "Oh how cute, Anthea picked us up a matching set. Mycroft took a mental note to remember to bring that up to Anthea later. She always means well, and Mycroft wasn't entirely sure he would ever be able to work without her as his Personal Assistant, but the issues that entail with the time the pair of them have to spend together is that she always knew everything- he wouldn't be surprised if she understood Y/N and his relationship more than he does, and these sodding clothes proved it. "Go change, don't make me do it for you." Mycroft blinked, standing to grab the clothes from your hands as he had no real doubt that you would do such a thing. He glanced at the materials in his hands, admitting silently that the materials did feel exceptionally soft before rolling his eyes at the print on the front of the black t-shirt he had been handed- the red, white and blue of The Who's logo standing proudly centred on the fabric- before reaching the bathroom and changing into them. You had elected to just get changed in the front room, praising Anthea mentally for also bringing you clean underwear, and grinning as you stared at the front of your new shirt in the mirror. You were slightly peeved that you had to remove Mycroft's button up from your frame, the rich fabric having felt wonderful, but your new The Who merchandise was definitely a good replacement- your shirt having been white in comparison to Mycroft's black.
Mycroft felt utterly ridiculous, attempting to tuck his t-shirt in the waistband of his jogging bottoms before giving up, the strange shape the wedged material had given his behind being enough to make him decide to settle with it being loose over his hips. He cast a glance to his bedroom, thinking of his usual attire that resided just behind the closed door before sulking down the stairs- everything you had done for him so far he had been incredibly thankful of, so the least he could do was dress up like a bit of a chav for the rest of the day. You were already dressed, perched on the sofa while surfing the television channels as Mycroft ushered his way inside the room, sitting on the other side of the sofa instantly and not saying a word. You looked over and whistled in approval.
"See, that's not so bad is it? And you still look just as dashing as you do in your suits." Mycroft's cheeks burned a little as he took interest in playing with the hem of the shirt.
"I don't know if that's an insult or a compliment." He commented, having disliked the way he appeared in these clothes he panicked he looked just as undesirable in his suits after your words. Not that he needed to look desirable, of course. You shuffled over and moved closer to him, pulling the front of your own T-shirt to make him see you were in matching attire.
"I don't think I could ever stop complimenting you, Mycroft. Especially when you have such a cool shirt on." You placed a hand on his upper arm, squeezing a little to show you meant it. "You could have come in in a bin bag and still radiated elegance, but if you're really that uncomfortable.."
"It's fine." Mycroft blurted a little, trying to not show that your compliments effected him at all, that they made him feel better in the clothes he was now wearing. "I'm only thankful Anthea elected to choose a relatively decent band. Had she arrived with the Sex Pistols I'd have been back in a Westwood faster than you could say God Save the Queen."
"Watch your tongue Myc. I may be here to support you but I will not tolerate blasphemy against my music choices." You jabbed his arm once with your finger in warning before focusing your attention back to the television. "Right so I've lined up the collection of The Young Ones because I think that show is appropriate for any mood." You spoke, moving back to the other side of the sofa and watching as Mycroft looked at the gap where you had just been. You shuffled to get comfortable and patted the top of your thigh in offering, Mycroft only looking a little awkward as he fidgeted in his seat. "I won't bite.. unless you move on to berate the Clash.." He nodded and laid out, the back of his head resting on your leg as you played the first episode of the show, grinning already when Rik Mayall's character appeared on screen, and petting Mycroft's hair in attempt to make his body stop being so stiff. It wasn't long until he had relaxed, laughing along at the characters' misfortunes with you, relishing at how much he was fond of laying in your lap in such a way, the way your fingers brushed through his short hair, how it just felt so natural to you to want to be this close to him, to be here willingly. And caught in this moment of domestic bliss, Mycroft had completely forgotten about the fact you had wanted to talk about yesterday's events with him, find out what happened. So for now, he would appreciate what he had here with you, whatever 'it' was, until, he thought, you inevitably decide not to speak to him again.
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KRYPTOS: Dance with Darkness
Billy Russo x Reader, 2.4k
A/N: These were supposed to be 500 words each. Idk why I'm like this.
This is a companion piece to Let it Burn, Part Nine & Part Ten and the story told from Billy’s point of view.
Billy Russo and the job that's never done.
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I point.
You shoot.
A simple credo. Unchangeable when the chain of command is wrapped around your neck. It left little by way of options. Choke on your own pride or… just fucking shoot.
Rawlins made his expectations clear in Kandahar. Looked a room of marines in the eye and claimed dominance over all of them. Weapons training. Combat training. Pounds on pounds of muscle. None of that mattered. A million dollars worth of the defense budget sat in khaki boots and listened to some prick in a blue button down. All the expertise in a waxed canvas tent and the guy the least dangerous man was somehow the most powerful. Without realizing it, ‘Agent Orange’ made it clear that real power was in influence and wealth, not a steady aim.
But now Billy Russo had both.
Thanks to Rawlins’ connections, Anvil broke through the soil. But Billy’s leadership, his drive, and his ability to sell his experience had it flourishing beyond what anyone expected in just a short time. The more men of means that hired Anvil to protect them, the more men of means suddenly had favorable opinions of Billy Russo. Favorable opinions looked a lot like favors owed in the right setting and Billy knew he was in a sweet spot. It was everything he wanted without complication.
Except you.
The biggest complication he’d ever run into.
Billy hadn’t lived with a woman since he was a child, preferring a clear line of demarcation between his space and anyone seeking to take advantage of it. Sex was one thing, whatever dance you two were caught in was far more intimate. Hell, the first time you slept together was accidental and not at all what he was used to. He’d woken up with a start in the middle of the night, tv still glowing and the volume muted. Your body was flat atop his, even breaths warming the side of his neck while you slept. The last thing he remembered was sitting up with you, but sometime in his sleep, Billy had leaned back on his sofa, softer from use now that you were sleeping in his guest room. Your body was soft and pliant and followed him down until you were both prone against the leather. He looked around the dark, following the shadows the tv cast along the livingroom and found that his green girl had fallen to the floor sometime in the night. He didn’t know what to do. The full body contact, even clothed, was too much. He’d decided to keep you at arm’s length, having neither the time nor the capacity for a soulmate in the traditional sense. He’d only recently given up going out with other women, a fact he kept hidden from you for the time being, unwilling to let you misread the gesture as some kind of commitment. It wasn’t. Not really. Dates were boring suddenly and there was only so much desperate, rushed sex a person could stomach when they weren’t as lonely as they had been before. Apparently he wasn’t even committed to the idea of holding you away from him.
You lived in his apartment, thought it was the least he could do. You spent time with him and listened to him and despite getting to know him and seeing the worst he had to offer, Billy still caught you looking at him with hope and longing and all the things he was convinced couldn’t be real. The way you shook it off, preferring to play the friend, reminded him that it wasn’t. You’d clearly expected something different from a soulmate. Someone different. And it was clear that he wasn’t it. There was so much you didn’t know and even if you thought your feelings were real, they’d disappear once you did. Some bullshit mark wasn’t enough motivation. You loved an idea, not a person, he was sure of that. It was better for you to never have that opportunity, he lied to himself, unwilling to admit how much the mere thought pained him. He was caught in a trap, in a stalemate between his own confirmation bias and his curiosity. Certain that you’d turn out like everyone else someday, but content to watch you upclose before that day came. So he’d stay stuck. Billy had moved one arm across your shoulders, holding you tight to his chest while he groped around with the other and tried to cover both of your bodies with the blanket.
Normally, at night when he couldn’t sleep, he’d slink out to the livingroom and clean his gun. He’d sit in the dark and ignore the sound of your bare feet in the hallway while you came to check up on him. Unable to extract himself without waking you too, Billy simply closed his eyes. He let himself feel the weight of you pressing him deeper into his sofa cushions. He let himself feel your arms brush his chest and sides in your sleep. He let himself imagine that it wasn’t an accident, that you’d wanted him. Billy felt it the second you woke up, but stayed perfectly still as you pulled away. Your movements were cautious as you attempted not to wake him and his chest burned. He’d let you stay in your comfortable position, but the second you were awake, you tried to run, to hide this vulnerable moment from him. But Billy had seen it and he didn’t like being the vulnerable one, so he sat up straight and said good night as you tiptoed back to your room. He heard your hand land against the wall as you stopped moving away from him. For a moment he thought you might turn around and come back to your seat. You didn’t. You said good night and you were gone.
The next morning, he’d planned to talk to you about the complication that you’d become in his life. But Billy let himself become distracted. He fell into your bed and had to stop himself from rolling directly on top of you at the sight of his shirt pulled across from your chest. It wasn’t real, he reminded himself, but he stayed in your bed. It felt real, if only for a morning, while he talked about first moving in and you made him laugh. It felt too real and the universe corrected its course. Work pulled you both away and while you wanted to talk more, you hadn’t been given the chance. He was called over to Afghanistan and hadn’t even seen you since he’d been back.
Billy was used to being there. There was a sick comfort in being back to the location of his last deployment. It was familiar to the part of himself that never really made it stateside, but also a reminder of how far he’d come. He didn’t wear standard issue drab anymore. It was his own gear, Anvil gear that he sported and his chest was permanently puffed beneath that logo.
Until the night he lost one of his men. A newer recruit, back on foreign soil too soon. Billy should have seen it coming, but even the biggest and the baddest can break. They're usually the ones who try the hardest to conceal it. He was jumpy and put himself and his team in danger. Billy counted it as a success that only one life was lost among great potential for more. The team was quiet as they shuffled back into their bunks, tension heavy in the air. It’d be gone by morning. That was how they operated and how Billy ran his company. Deal with your shit, but always finish the job. When he laid down that night, he found himself unable to sleep. He needed to be able to trust his team to be effective and Billy ran through all of their faces in his mind, looking for some hidden sign that there was another weak link in their group. He was exhausted and yet his mind wouldn’t stop. The thought of how much easier it would be to fall asleep with you lying on top of him again caught him off guard. The exhaustion was to blame. The stress. He almost crawled out of bed to clean his gun like he would at home, but he didn’t, thinking about how it wouldn’t be the same. He’d whip around at the faintest noise and you wouldn’t be hiding around the corner in concern. If he couldn’t sleep, then he’d work until he did. Billy pulled his chunky black laptop from the footlocker and opened his standard ‘regret to inform you’ letter for families. He changed a few key details and added a pre-saved signature to the bottom before sending it to his corporate office, where someone else would pass along the news and his condolences while he was still overseas. You’d probably think that was cold and Billy had to stop picturing you in his bunk, so he slammed his laptop shut and laid back down. It was just the exhaustion conjuring your face for him. He just needed to sleep it off.
It had nothing to do with the fact that for the first time in his life, while he stood in the sand, surveying a job that he was perfectly suited for… there was someone waiting for him. At home. His home. The home he shared with you. It was a new feeling. The last time he was there, he had options. Plenty. But not the kind that made a man think. It almost made him want to call you. He’d never had someone to call on missions like this and Billy told himself that the novelty of his situation was what drew him to the idea. Not the hidden appreciation he had for your voice in his ear. He resisted of course. He’d never reached out while away and starting now would be giving in to weakness.
He’d only been home for an hour or so when he was alerted that a field team from Homeland Security was headed to their newest training facility. If Billy hadn’t been airborne that morning, he’d be pissed that he was only just now being told. It was too big of an opportunity to pass up. He had to be there, be the face of the company, and use the exercise as a new avenue toward a legitimate government contract on US soil. There wasn’t time to wait for you and the idea of leaving a note felt childish. He’d just have to catch you when you were both home. Home, he grinned, looking over his own space, clearly lived in while he was away and more welcoming than it had ever been.
Billy sat up in the crows nest, surrounded by screens, face lit by the green hue of the night vision monitors. He leaned against the back wall, ankles crossed where they stuck out casually.
The team below was covered in gear, faces hidden under helmets with shields, but he spotted her instantly. The man directly behind her was nervous, hunched over too far and his head whipped around too quickly as they made their way through each room, clearing them as they went. She was nervous too, but she stood a little too straight. The rest of her team was poised and ready to shoot, they responded to her hand signals as any good team would, but she walked through the training grounds like she’d been there a hundred times. Or like she wanted to look like she’d been there a hundred times. The nervous guy fired nearly triple the shots she did and Billy smirked. He knew exactly how this exercise was going to end. When he fired upon a hostage and the bright lights went up, Billy shook his head and straightened his tie. If only he was a gambler. Billy leaned forward to thank his employees monitoring the grounds before heading out to meet his newest clients.
Sam Stein, nervous guy.
Dinah Madani, Homeland agent with something to prove. Nice face though.
Billy was his usual charming self, selling his company with a smile. He was the best at what he did, his guys were the best in the city. The warehouse they rented for this particular exercise was a little rough around the edges, but it served its purpose well- to give nervous guys like Sam Stein a safe place to fuck up. And a backdrop to convince government officials that Anvil should be the company training their operatives, or simply be the contractors that do the dirty work for them. Billy didn’t care either way. Whatever got him a contract on home soil.
Suddenly, Madani’s already wide eyes grew at the sound of Carson Wolf. Billy didn’t react, but he hadn’t anticipated a formal introduction. The SAC extended his hand, which Billy eyed before taking it, deciding to play along as if he hadn’t seen Wolf just minutes ago in front of the monitors. Billy took the opportunity, fresh in the eyes of all witnesses, to mention that he’d happily discuss tailoring a program specifically for Homeland Security’s needs. It was shut down. Diplomatically of course, but Billy played along.
That was what Wolf said and Madani responded to the threat with a yes sir as she should, but unbeknownst to her there was another conversation happening in front of her. Another threat she hadn’t picked up on.
Wolf made eye contact with Billy. Slapped his shoulder with a familiarity that negated the awkward introduction moments ago.
I point, the gesture seemed to say, as Wolf looked to Madani pointedly before walking away without another word. The message was clear. You shoot.
This Dinah Madani was no friend of Carson Wolf’s and she connected to Kandahar. She’d asked Billy what unit he served with. He hadn’t been given the chance to answer her before Wolf changed the game. She wasn’t a nice face or a chip on her soldier. She was a threat. Not to Anvil, but Rawlins would certainly find a way to reframe it. He’d make it clear that any threats to his operations were also a threat to Billy’s.
Though a skilled sniper, Billy had a penchant for hand to hand combat. He preferred to get close to a target, if the situation allowed. Billy spun on his heels to face Madani again. “I assume you can talk about whatever you like off duty…” he said suggestively, ignoring the twitch in his gut. “Over a drink?” She responded favorably, as expected from a patronized agent who’d been handed a golden opportunity to do some digging off the record. She was a threat to Anvil.
Other complications would have to wait.
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@something-tofightfor @the-blind-assassin-12 @gollyderek @fific7 @suchatinyinfinity @beautifuldesastre @commanderlola @actuallyazriel @thesumofmychoices @disengagefrmreality @thetallassgirl @fireeyes-on-teller-dixon-grimes @littlemermaidprobz @blackbirddaredevil23 @operation-spot @charmed-asylum @christinawxxx @stories-you-wont-hear @bugboy-and-icegirl @thefinalexperiment @ofheroesandvillains @pheedraws @malionnes @elanor-of-imladris
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motesinthevoid · 2 hours ago
Lightseeker II
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Continued from [ HERE ]
"Someone help!" A woman's voice sounds, shrill and desperate less than a block away. "We need a healer, please?"
Vel'vinta's body acts faster then her mind. Even in her poor shape, she's risen from the alley where she rests, worn boots carrying her at a sprint to close the distance. Her long dark tattered cloak flaring our behind her, exposing more of her skeletal form.
As she rounds the corner the shout came from, she sees a pair of humans, a woman kneeling beside a fallen man, a ladder laying beside him. His arm lies bent at a sickening angle, and blood runs from a gash on his side where he caught the edge of a sign as he fell.
"What happened, speak quickly," Vel'vinta's words come in Thalassian, but she switches and says it again in Common at the woman's look of confusion.
It shifts from that to skepticism. "You are a healer? The ladder slipped, he cut his side open, broke an arm, he's unconscious, what can you do?"
"The Light takes a toll on the body, no healing is free," Vel'vinta replies, approaching to crouch over the man, her dangling golden sunburst medallion swaying. "I will heal him, if you're certain. He will be in lingering pain for a few weeks but his wounds will heal."
A small nod from the Ren'dorei as the woman gives her approval, and Vel finds her lips already whispering rote prayers to the light, conjuring and calling upon the power that feels so distant to her. Brows furrow, and golden light begins to seep through her veins. Spiderwebs of glowing soothing warmth writhing just beneath her thin hands and papery pale skin. It climbs her neck, illuminating her throat with the Light's holy glow.
The human woman's gaze darts back and forth between the man and the elf, trying to follow the process with eyes that turn to sudden alarm as Vel'vinta cries out in pain.
Her head is thrown back, fingers twitching and flexing as the Light beneath her skin turns to inky darkness. Tendrils of void energy burst from the side of the building and the broken cobbles beneath the man, lashing out with liquid slimy sluggishness to envelop and lift him. Twisting about his midsection and broken arm, forcing it back into place with an audible crack.
"Stop! Stop you're going to kill him! Guards? Someone?" She calls out more shrill, grabbing at Vel'vinta's arm, and finding the elven woman icy cold and unresponsive, still crying out in pain herself.
Then it's over. The tendrils retreat from the man, leaving him laying in the street once more. The light and void both flee Vel'vinta's body, and the elven woman collapses to the cobbles even as the once unconscious man sits up.
"What happened?" He asks, tentatively touching and flexing his arm, and then tracing fingers over the rent in his tunic. His skin shows sign of purple bruising, aching, and yet they are knit closed once more.
"I...don't really know. I don't know..." The woman grabs for his arm and tugs him away. "We...we need to go now, please."
Still dazed from the experience, the man lets himself be drawn away, only a brief gaze cast back as they gather up the ladder and move in a rush down the empty street.
Vel'vinta is left, unconscious on the cobbles of the slums, outstretched fingers occasionally flexing or twitching as the lightest rain begins to patter down on her cloaked form.
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sing-amen · 4 hours ago
5/19/10 From The Lord, Our God and Savior The Word of The Lord Spoken to Timothy For All Those Who Have Ears to Hear
This question was asked of The Lord, for a sister in Christ: Lord, is this really the last Pentecost?
[The Lord answered] Beloved, I have poured out My spirit on all flesh, even as I was poured out for you from the beginning. Yet no one comes to drink, not one is willing to receive of Me as I truly am. I have brought forth the rains in their due season, both the former and the latter, and still the crop wanes and bears only bitter fruit. Behold, the voice of The Lord your God has spoken, yet few have ears to hear, few are willing to open their heart and truly listen. I tell you the truth, before Me stands a very proud people, multitudes of foolish children who can not discern their right hand from their left. Their knowledge is corrupt; all their thoughts and musings only serve to uphold their vile nature. For they do not retain God in their thoughts, and from The Holy they are far removed.
Therefore, thus says The Lord: The churches of men are perverse, their ways corrupt, a wholly ignorant and vain people, multitudes of deceived children, a people who were to prepare My way before Me! Yet they have chosen another way, twisting and segregating the Scriptures, both adding to and taking away, that they may continue to uphold their own corrupt doctrines and filthy traditions, which I hate! Therefore, woe to those who dwell in the churches of men! Woe to all who walk in their ways! HYPOCRITES! And of the hypocrite’s portion they shall surely receive, unless they repent and return to Me wholly and in truth! Says The Lord. For I tell you the truth, behold, I declare it to you plainly, if I were to come down and speak in the former manner, every one of these churches of men would bar My way before Me; even every one of them would cast Me out and seek to have Me arrested! Yet I have indeed passed through the midst of them, and though they have not seen Me, as I live, says The Lord, they have surely rejected Me!
I have poured out My spirit, yet they refuse to drink! I have spoken to them, yet they shut their ears to My voice! I have sent My messengers to them, yet they cast them out With great anger and violence, persecuting and slandering them!...
Behold, even the least of these, My servants, have been Mistreated by these so-called people of faith!...
It is written: The heart of this people has waxed gross, their ears are very dull of hearing and their eyes they have shut, lest at any time they should see with their eyes and hear with their ears and understand with their heart, and be fully converted, and I should heal them. Yet they have not returned to Me, nor will they repent. How then shall I heal them? For only those who know they are sick seek out The Physician. Yet those who perceive themselves as well will in no wise come to Me. Indeed they remain seated firmly in the darkness of their own understanding, resting upon their laurels by which they highly esteem themselves, as they for a pretense worship another messiah. For one who peers through stained glass can not behold his own image, nor is he able to see those inside clearly. For he sees only an outline, a blur of color obscuring his vision. And those on the inside who peer outward remain blinded, able to perceive only a shadow of what truly is, holding up the hand against the brightness, for fear of the noonday sun which is about to come in. Thus they prefer the light filtered and the brilliance masked, by means of all this painted glass. What then shall a people such as this do when night has fallen? Thus the churches of men do always take the name of The Lord in vain, by all they say and do. From the least even unto the greatest, they pollute My name, even to the continual blaspheming of the Spirit. Therefore I shall indeed remove My hand, and My spirit shall return to Me. Behold, from every individual who refuses to give heed to My voice and embrace My correction has it departed already. Yet let all those who remain in My love understand and have peace. For though My spirit departs from the multitudes and the ensuing darkness be thick, though wickedness overflows and every man of pride who being wise in his own eyes is left confounded, I shall not make a total end. For My hand shall remain with the faithful, and My strength shall be revealed in My anointed. Behold, My spirit shall well up within the hearts of the penitent and come upon My chosen as a welcomed rain, and they shall be greatly increased, shining ever brighter, even amidst thick clouds and darkness.
Behold The Lord’s purpose, for it shall surely Be accomplished, it shall surely be done:
From My left hand, judgment shall be poured out Upon the desolate, the high-minded and the hypocrite...
Yet under the shadow of My right hand, The humble shall be hidden...
For I am The Lord, and I do not change.
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dracothulhu · 4 hours ago
Just a little snippet I wrote for the Temple Jedirodyne AU
Darkness.  Darkness all around.  Cloying.  Suffocating.  Rot creeping through the eddies and flow of the Force.
Lights, illuminating the Dark.  Fighting back.  Doing what they could.  But not enough, not against such a tide.  Some flare.  Some are cut off.  Some fade into the Dark, and each one tears at the Temple like a wound.  Dooku, so serious.  Krell, so proud.  Offee, who it can barely feel slipping away as the Dark starts to finally batter it insensate. The Temple is buried under the slow, relentless assault, and its awareness turns sluggish. Not sleep, for the Temple does not sleep - not in a thousand years has the Temple’s awareness so much as flickered, but now the insidious numbness that has been picking at it all these years finally begins to win out.
The Temple can only barely muster its attention within its own halls, much less outside into Coruscant proper, such is the malaise. There is no sense of time passing, merely a dull rush of days and weeks blurring together, and the Temple cannot muster the focus.... It nearly misses what happens. Council Masters leave, their Force presences grim and purposeful. And then, shortly afterward in the endless now that comprises the Temple’s paralyzed and helpless watch, their threads snap one by one. It senses Skywalker, who burned so brightly even as the shadows reached into his heart (the Temple had tried to reach out, but it has been so hard to rouse itself now against the weight of the Dark, against the misery of its young charges washing through, and the ghosts crowding the halls), and feels him Fall.
It feels a Sith. Suddenly, a greater change.  The lights are being silenced.  Glittering stars the galaxy over, being snuffed out. The young ones are under attack. Quickly, too quickly, and the Temple feels the Darkness throb.  Malice.  Hunger.  Triumph.
It is like swimming through molasses to try and stretch its awareness back into the spaces it had once filled so comfortably - like wading through clinging, sucking tar; but the Darkness is encroaching, and the lights outside are dying, and it must come back to itself.   All resistance must crumble eventually, and this miasma is no different. There is an almost palpable snap, a shift in the air, and it is as though a dam has been breached, the river charging forward once more and never to be contained again. Awash with new-old-returned-always energy, the Temple ziggurat fairly quivers, and the ancient mind takes stock.
The cradle is under threat, and this is what the Temple-mind was reborn for, cast in durasteel and stone and the pure, coursing flow of the Force.  No more. No further.
The children must survive.
The children will survive.
The Guardians are warned.  Inside.  Retreat.  Protect the Younglings. 
Shield generators not used in an age begin spooling up.  Power surges through ancient conduits, unused but well maintained.  Blast doors and durasteel shutters grind into motion, crumbling the thin facades behind which they had hidden for years. 
And at the centre of the old mountain, the ancient will of the Temple reaches into the wellspring, and it drinks deeply.  Static charge begins to crackle around the spires, the dry-hot seeds of lightning gathering as the Temple casts its formidable awareness forth. Across the rolling duracrete plain of the Temple plaza, a faint tremor pulses.  The few citizens still lingering at this time of night glance about, filled with a sudden nervousness, and begin to make their way home, each filled with a feeling of should-not-stay. The Temple sends its awareness out ever further, toward the dark miasma of the Sith leech, even as part of its attention focuses on the network of exterior cameras raking the perimeter approaches. The Temple feels at the cloying mass for but a moment before withdrawing and settling in to wait. At such a distance, the Sith is impossible to make out amidst the polluting Darkness. Instead, the Temple sends forth a message - a wave strong enough to cross the length and breadth of the planet, with enough force that it is a wonder that it doesn’t shake the air itself.  Come on then.
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chaoswillfallrpg · 5 hours ago
Hey mods, hope your evening is good! Do you have any prompts for Emilia? I fell in love with her when I read her bio!
“I see magic in your eyes, I hear the magic in your sighs, just when I think I'm gonna get away I hear those words that you always say abra-abra-cadabra, I want to reach out and grab ya. Abra-abra-cadabra. Abracadabra.” - Abracadabra, Steve Miller Band (1982)
Despite being a Muggle-Born, due to her older sister being confident with magic Emilia is someone who has grown up aware and unafraid of her power. Write about Emilia’s earlier years growing up in East London and coming into her own. It could be interesting to explore where Emilia’s fire came from. Was it from being at school and always feeling different or was it being around people who just weren’t simply like her where they grew up because she wanted more? It might be useful to stage your sample in the present where Emilia is exploring similar issues now and looks back on her younger experiences as a child and some of those first spells she unknowingly cast on her classmates or anything else she might have done in her earlier years that helped shape her into who she is now.
“Smell like I sound, I'm lost in a crowd and I'm hungry like the wolf. Straddle the line in discord and rhyme, I'm on the hunt, I'm after you. Mouth is alive with juices like wine and I'm hungry like the wolf.” - Hungry Like the Wolf, Duran Duran (1982)
An avid journalist Emilia wanted to work for The Daily Prophet in order to make a difference in the world and write pieces that would inspire and create change. You could write about Emilia’s passion for writing and maybe stage your paragraph in the form of her writing a story at work with RITA SKEETER and explore her feelings as she does so. How does she feel about writing fluffy gossip stories? Does she ever try and offer any stories at work that are quickly shot down? Does she feel stifled but stays there to try and get ahead? You could explore a day in the life of Emilia at work and how she longs to do more, considering how this feeling impacts her. Is she restless because she is being creatively stifled? Does she spent a lot fo her evenings reaching stories and does she feel jealous of those at work who are given these opportunities whilst she has to work somewhere she isn’t overly excited to be.
“Starlight, star bright, first star I see tonight. Starlight, star bright, yeah. You must be my lucky star, 'cause you make the darkness seem so far and when I'm lost you'll be my guide I just turn around and you're by my side.” - Lucky Star, Madonna (1983)
A determined witch who is prepared to do anything it takes to get to the top explore Emilia’s relationship with CORNELIUS CRABBE. You could stage your sample when Emilia first propositions Cornelius and shows him the photo of them that would become her bargaining chip. What is their relationship like from Emilia’s perspective? What does she think of Cornelius and their relationship, is she simply using him to get ahead, does she have any respect for him? Given the Crabbe family’s views, how does Emilia feel about working so closely with him? It could be useful for you to consider this meeting in contrast with her first seeing her name in print in The Daily Prophet when she broke the BENJY FENWICK story. Did any of her previous negative feelings go out of the window when she picked up the paper if there were any at all? If not, consider how Emilia feels about where their relationship could possibly take her and her feelings. 
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gemstone-roses · 6 hours ago
Professor Remus Lupin x Professor Reader
Summary: after an incident with some 5th years leaves your living quarters destroyed, dumbledore has you sharing with the handsome professor lupin.
Note: this blog is 18+ and so are all my works, including the sfw ones, if I find a minor interacting with any of my works or blog then they'll be blocked instantly.
-I've had a shitty week okay😤.
Warnings: nightmares(reader) ,panic, crying, comfort, gender neutral (I think).
Divider by @fireflygraphics
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"I'm afraid it's not very big" remus chuckled, running his hand through his hair.
You looked around at his living space, it was cozy, a bookshelf with books piled everywhere but straight in the corner, a small fireplace, crackling, providing light to the dark room, Gryffindor colours were scattered throughout the room.
"It's okay remus, it's nice"
He chuckled nervously at you
"um, I'm afraid, I only have the one bed, so I will take the couc-
"You will absolutely not! This is your room, I will take the couch!"
"No remus, seriously I don't mind" you pleaded.
Remus sighed, he was trying to be a gentleman
The light from the fire highlighted his handsome face, he looked good, the glow of the flames making him look flushed.
"Do you want some tea y/n?" he smiled
"ooh yeah go on then, please" you said, you plopped down on the couch that would soon be your bed. You cursed the students who had been messing about with spells next to your room, causing a serious amount of destruction.
Remus was the first person you'd really grown close to since you started, he spotted your worried looking face from across the great hall and immediately began making you feel comfortable at hogwarts.
You enjoyed his company a lot, he offered to show you around properly but you had a feeling he had some inside knowledge of the layout.
"here you go" he said handing you a mug.
"thanks remus" you smiled
"Not a problem, I've got a bit of marking to do, but I'll give you some space, I'll do it in the study just give me a shout if you need anything" he gave your shoulder a squeeze as he got up and gathered his papers.
You sighed as you lent back into the couch, wondering, contemplating, your life before hogwarts wasn't easy, and you struggled to truly feel like you belonged here, but the handsome defense against the dark arts professor had done his best to make you feel at home here, you almost thought he could sense it.
You drank your tea-which was very good by the way, and began arranging the cushions to make a pillow, it was getting dark and the fire had died down to a simmering pile of ash.
Remus popped his head out of his study with a pile of blankets, it looked like he'd tried to fold them and failed.
"Sorry I-I haven't got a spare quilt" he said chuckling, handing you the pile
"That's okay, I can just cast a heating charm if I get cold" you reassured him
"Thankyou remus, I'm so sorry for invading your space like this-
"Nonsense, I don't mind at all, I'm glad of the company if I'm honest, just let me know if you need anything okay? I switched with Minerva so I have one patrol of the castle to do but I'll cast a silencing charm so I don't wake you Goodnight y/n!" he smiled
"Goodnight remus" you said as he headed out to wander the castle.
You grabbed a couple of blankets and wiggled around to get comfy.
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You woke with a start, panting, shivering, shaking, sitting up you clutched the blankets tight and shuffled to the end of the couch.
"Did I wake you y/n?" a low voice asked behind you.
"N-no" you croaked out
"What's wrong?"
"Nothing remus, go to bed" you sniffed.
You felt the couch dip behind you as he sat on the edge
"lumos" he muttered
You turned away from the source of light
Remus put his wand on the table
"y/n, look at me" he said gently, placing his hand on the side of your face, tilting it to face him.
"y/n" he whispered
His eyes filled with concern at the look of pure terror on your face, your breathing was still heavy, his hand held your face
"I-I,- remus-" you breathed out shakily
"Hey, it's okay, keep your eyes on me okay, breathe y/n, breathe" his voice was soothing, calming, his eyes never left yours as he tried to calm you down.
"That's it, good, there you go" your breathing slowed as he talked you through it, a few tears ran down your face.
He used his thumb to wipe them away, you looked at him and he looked so pure and your eyebrows furrowed as he looked at you with a reassuring smile and you sobbed
"Hey, come here" he pulled you into him, as his arms wrapped around you and he held you tight.
"Shh, its okay, I'm here, your safe, okay love, I'm here" he comforted as you sobbed into him.
He held you for a while, until your sobs died down into sniffles.
"Come on, let's get you to bed" you tried to protest but he was having none of it as he helped you up and guided you to his room.
You lay down on his bed and he grabbed the covers and tucked you in gently.
"will you stay?" you whispered
"of course I will darling" he kissed your forehead and climbed into the bed next to you, you rolled over and he opened his arms for you to lay your head on his chest.
"Come on love, come here" he whispered as he held you, watching your breathing slow as you finally fell asleep in his arms.
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revolutioncry · 6 hours ago
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Was that [DOMINIC SHERWOOD]? Oh no no, that was just [SCORPIUS MALFOY], a/an [CANON CHARACTER] from [HARRY POTTER]. They are [TWENTY-THREE] years old and [ARE] aware that they are not actually from Washington DC. Too bad they can’t stray from this city for long. 
how long has your character been here?
scorpius has just arrived here, so there’s going to be a lot of confusion on his part as to how or why he’s here. and why so many people he knows are here.
what is your character's job
scorpius has only just arrived so he doesn’t yet have a job, but eventually he is going to find himself a job on the police force
where has your character been pulled from in their fandom
he has graduated from hogwarts and was working towards becoming an investigator in the DMLE
has any magic affected your character
not as of yet, he is still aware of his past and everything seems to be in tact.
and any other information you might find useful for us and the other members to know!!
scorpius is the definition of ‘looks like he would kill you, is a cinnamon roll.’ for the longest time he’s been trying to get out of the dark cast the malfoy name has left him. he doesn’t think of himself as a bad person, he always tries to abide by the law and do what’s right but it can get hard sometimes. especially when people take one long at him and think of his father or grandfather. but he wants to bring the malfoy name into a more positive light, to help for his children in the future to not have to feel like they either have to live up or shy away from whatever his name usually brings. he is brave, kind, ambitous, and gentle. he cares about others but is extremely protective of those who are important to him
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astroboots · 6 hours ago
Versus: Chapter One
Warnings: angst, graphic violence, murder, guns swearing (more warnings in the tags)
Word count: 4.9k words | {Playlist} 
Dedications: This is wholly dedicated to my actual co-writer @thirstworldproblemss, who's co-written, brainstormed, beta-read and held my hand throughout. I'm just a dummy clown but I love you ever so much. 📲 🤡 is the highlight of my day, every day. 🤡 💖 🤡 > 🚁🍆 & 🤡 💖 🤡 > 🍤 In fact 🤡 💖 🤡 ∞ until we're both 👵🏻 💖 👵🏻
Thanks to @songsformonkeys for beta-reading. & @loversandantiheroes brilliant analysis of Dave/Frankie that gave me this idea in the first place.
Summary: Dave York and Francisco Morales are probably more similar than either would like to admit if they ever were to meet. Both of them served, killed and retired from the military, with difficulties adjusting to a civilian life that did not welcome them back with open arms. But when Dave is assigned with a name on his list to take care of, one that hits a bit too close to home for Frankie, you, it forces him to tap into a part of him that was supposed to be a closed chapter of his life.
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Photo by Mariana Beltrán on Unsplash
It’s dark outside with no visibility ahead as he drives on a small dirt road leading up to the wetlands. The only sounds, the slosh against the tires; The rain pelting the windows; The occasional thumping sound accompanied by muffled screams from the trunk. After so many hours of driving, he has learned to treat it as white noise to the backdrop of the audiobook he was trying to listen to. A pulpy crime thriller for his wife’s book club about a P.I. hunting down a contract killer that is out to assassinate the president. Convoluted and contrived, which means at some point Gerard Butler is probably going to be cast in the straight to DVD film adaption.
The work of a contract killer is simpler and more straightforward than one would think.
They give him a name on a piece of paper.
The way it works, there is no digital trail. He is handed a manila folder, sparse in details, just enough for him to correctly identify the target, but not enough to connect anyone to anything if any of them were stupid enough to slip up and let an outsider see the contents of the folder. It's for him to fill in the blanks.
It is his job to put one and one together. The target’s occupation. If you were the name on his list, the first thing he’d find out is the name of your spouse, your parents, your children. Your daily schedules and habits. Little pieces that form who you are, where you will be, and when you were at your most vulnerable and exposed.
The people on his list don’t always deserve to be there. Sometimes they’re just unfortunate. Like a 22 year old banker that ends up with a price tag of $150,000, because one of the bank’s clients held money in their account that didn’t belong to them.
The reason doesn’t matter. He didn’t go to law school, he isn’t a judge, and he isn’t being asked to deliberate if it is fair or unfair for someone’s name to end up on his list. A lifetime in the Marines had trained him to take orders, not to question them.
But here is what he knows: If he said no. Someone else would say yes.
The way he views it, assassins don’t kill people just as guns don’t kill people. Spoons don’t make people fat and pens don’t misspell words. They’re just tools used to achieve a goal and like any tool can be thrown away and easily replaced. The job still gets done either way.
The view of the road recedes in the rearview mirror as the thicket of trees begins to surround the car on all sides. The rising water eats into the muddy road. Any further and he might actually have difficulties reversing the car out afterwards.
He stops the car, grabbing the flashlight from the glove box and the rifle from the passenger seat. Stepping out of the car, his boots squelch against the wet mud underneath. He points the flashlight to the back of the car and opens the trunk. Inside, a man in his early twenties is lying on his side, clad only in boxers and sweat-stained dress shirt, hands tied to his back. The kid wiggles further inside, as if this is Narnia and if he crawled far enough into the car’s trunk he'd somehow end up in a different realm.
“Ple-please, you don’t have to do this.”
They always beg. In fairness, people probably don’t have much of an idea of what the right thing to say is, in circumstances like these. That’s probably why they always sound like a stock character from a bad movie. Because it’s their only frame of reference. And so people will beg. They will try to negotiate.
The kid does exactly that, blubbers and begs. Plump cheeks slick with tears and runny snot. An absolute mess. “My family has money, they’ll pay you.”
Yanking the hysterical younger man by the lapel of his oversized shirt, he hauls him out of the trunk.
He points in the direction of the bayou. “Walk towards the water”
The kid stands in front of him, bowl-legged and shaky, unable to support his own weight. “Straight ahead...”
Watery blue eyes look up at him in wide-eyed panic, as they dart left and right.
The idiot runs. They always try to run. This is going to be a pain. Shooting him on land means that he is going to have to wade into the bayou to drag the body down there himself. But he’s in no mood to run after the kid and try to tackle him into the wet mud like some redneck hillbilly either.
Raising the rifle to take aim, he steadies the underside of the barrel with his left hand. The bullet lodges into the back of the kid’s head and the body slumps down against the ground with a heavy thud.
It’s a five hour drive home, and if he starts now he’ll be back right around 03:20.
That means another audiobook. It means he has to switch to the pristine family car at the warehouse and a fresh change of clothes that aren’t wet with swamp water, before he sets foot on the front doormat that says “home sweet home”.
Dragging the lifeless body by the ankles, the cold muddy waters come up to his knees and flood the inside of his boots. He grits his teeth. This is taking much longer than he would have preferred.
At home, his wife will be waiting. The kids will be fast asleep, but his wife usually tries to stay up to welcome him home in person whenever he’s been out of town on a business trip. 03:20 might be pushing his luck though.
Chances are that tonight she’ll have fallen asleep on the sofa, one leg kicked up like a funny-looking heron. He’ll have to either wake her and shepherd her up the stairs to their bedroom, or if she won’t wake, carry her upstairs as best as he can without banging her into a corner. It’s far easier to drag a corpse into a bayou because he couldn’t care less about how a dead man’s body would fare.
Putting weight behind his kick, he rolls the body away from the bank and watches as it easily sinks into the water. Eyeing his wristwatch, he watches one minute rolls over to two and eventually five. When the body doesn’t reappear above the surface, he climbs back up onto slippery muddy land, gets back into the car then reverses back until the car reaches the main road.
It should take three or four days before the body floats back up the surface, and with a little luck, it will be another day or two before it’s discovered, unless some random jogger happens by.
When he finally steps through his front door it’s 03:26. The family cat, Mr. Belvedere, slinks by and wraps itself around his legs. There’s only the small table lamp still glowing from the living room when he walks in.
His wife is still awake, fighting sleep on the couch. She smiles at the sight of him and greets him with a sleep-laced, “welcome home, Dave”.
It’s good to be home.
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There is a scrappy-looking piece of paper hiding away in Frankie’s sock drawer. On it are 15 digits right of the decimal points scribbled down in Will’s neat handwriting that pinpoint the location of a ravine in Peru where $250 million is buried.
It was given to him by Santi after their failed reconnaissance mission in Colombia with an apology that was too little too late. “I shouldn’t have forced your hand to come,” he had said. “I owe you the choice this time.” He left again two days later. The two of them don’t speak anymore.
The note has been sitting there ever since, tucked underneath rolled up socks so Frankie doesn’t have to look at it every time he opens the drawer.
It’s also why he skipped packing spare socks this morning, despite the warnings of the weather forecast. The drawer was running low, and he didn’t want to see that note first thing in the morning before work. Now he’s sitting in his car, boots and socks drenched, water dripping down his bare neck, after ending a 12 hour shift that was only meant to last 8. It meant he was four hours late in picking up his daughter, and traffic is crawling at such a pace that time itself seems to have stopped moving altogether.
He shouldn’t complain. Things could be worse for him.
They’re certainly not ideal. Being a divorced single dad, with a revoked pilot licence because he tested positive for coke was never in the plans. Neither was working as an aircraft maintenance technician and having to stand outside on the landing strip during the middle of the rainy season in Florida.
But things could be worse.
At least he gets to have Mireya on the weekends now. Not a monitored visit, with a social worker hovering over his shoulders, dissecting his every interaction with his own daughter for evidence of poor parenting.
Now, when he shows up at his former home to pick up Mireya for the weekend, it doesn’t hurt him to breathe when there’s eye contact with his wife ex-wife. With you.
Most of the time when he shows up now, you both manage to politely smile at each other and make awkward small talk like you’re distant acquaintances.
The familiar outline of the small wedge blue house comes into view. The lights are still on from the kitchen window and it makes for the picture of a cozy dollhouse when he parks the car on the driveway. It doesn’t matter how many times he’s done this each week, when he stands on the front steps, the split second instinct is still to reach into his pockets for his own keys. Instead, he knocks on your front door, which is no longer his.
There’s no shelter on the front steps and the rain is pouring down his collar and onto his bare skin. He tries not to squirm, ignore the prickling discomfort under his skin as he waits for the door to open. Trying to ward off the memory, smelling of wet soil, and decaying plants that’s trying to drag him under.
The lock unlatches as the door slides wide open, and amber light filters through from inside the house. You look soft and warm, a perfect contrast to what he is right now.
“Sorry, Mireya fell asleep watching Lion King again. Just give me a minute to wake her up.”
Frankie frowns, he was hoping that he’d be able to make it before she fell asleep. “No, don’t wake her. It’s my fault I’m late. I’ll come back and pick her up in the morning instead.”
“Frankie, I’m not making you drive all the way back just to drive down again at the crack of dawn. She’ll fall right asleep in the car anyhow. Let me wake her up for you.”
You half-turn go back inside but stop to eye him and then the pouring rain behind him. “Do you want to come in and wait?”
“I don’t want to get the floor wet.”
“It’s fine.”
You gesture for him to come inside, and Frankie takes off his wet boots, leaving them by the hallway so as to not track in rain and wet mud. But with every step, his socks are leaving an incriminating trail of water against the clean wooden floor.
You hand him a towel and then head into Mireya’s bedroom.
He stands around awkwardly in what used to be his old home. Nothing’s changed, all the furniture remained the same. The sofa even carried the same indentation from wear.
Last time he stood in this living room by himself was three years ago when he came back from Colombia to an empty home, greeted by a process server and divorce papers instead of his wife and daughter.
Not that he didn’t deserve it.
You don’t leave your wife of 14 years with an 8 month old baby on her own because your former military buddies decided to play team Rambo in the middle of Colombia and rob a drug lord, and expect everything to be fine.
Instead of being gone for a week like he promised, he was gone for a month, and three weeks out of those four, he wasn’t even able to contact you. Worst of all, there was not even any money to show for it when all was dusted and done. In their “brilliant” escape, they had to dump the better part of 250 million dollars down a ravine somewhere between Peru and Colombia. In the end, the only thing he got in return for squandering your life together was $17,000, and the divorce lawyers ate into that in the blink of an eye.
The door to Mireya’s bedroom is ajar, and he can hear your voice spilling through. “Possum, daddy’s here.”
There’s a pause and another rustle of the quilts, before he hears the quiet whine. “But I’m sleepy.”
“Mireya, daddy drove all this way to pick you up.”
Your voice comes out sterner now, curt. Not cajoling anymore. “Mireya.”
A frustrated whine sounds out.
He can’t blame her. He’d be pretty crabby too if someone tried to kick him out of bed when he was sound asleep.
There are more hushed whispers and negotiation, then silence, but ultimately you come back out into the living room defeated.
“I’m sorry. Let’s give her a few minutes, and I’ll try again… If not, we can always just carry her to the car.”
In your arms, you’re holding a stack of clothes. At first he mistakes it for your laundry until you’re shoving it at him, and he realizes he’s staring at his own clothes. He’s not sure what he’s more surprised by, that you’re offering him clothes so he can be more comfortable or that you’ve kept some of his old things around.
“You’re soaked, you’ll catch a cold if you stand around like that.”
You stand rooted on the spot, and Frankie’s not sure if you’re expecting him to go use the bathroom, or unbutton his shirt and peel off his shirt in front of you. He looks at your face, drawing his eyes to the items of clothes and back up again, and then it clicks for you.
“Sorry. Do you want me to—” You gesture behind you. Already taking a step back.
“Or I can go.”
“I’ll go.”
You both speak over each other, then laugh quietly, as if you’re both in on the joke of how awkward you are. In normal situations that should be enough to break the tension. But the icebreaker doesn’t take and the claustrophobic quiet returns.
He sticks his hands into his pockets.
You shift your weight from one foot to the other.
He looks at you, and when your eyes meet his, you look away.
“Bathroom’s down the hall,” you tell him.
Frankie bites down the instinctual I know. But you save his restraint by quickly correcting yourself. “You obviously know that.”
Closing the bathroom door behind him, Frankie takes a deep frustrated sigh, scrubbing a hand over his face. What the hell is wrong with the two of you that you can never spend more than 60 seconds in a room by yourselves?
Undressing quickly, he strips off the clammy fabric and pulls on the clean clothes. Despite the fact that he hadn’t worn them for three years, it didn’t have that musty in-the-back-of-the-wardrobe smell. It still smells fresh, like your fabric softener. The same one he still uses for his own laundry because it reminds him of home. If he didn’t know better he’d think they were newly washed.
Standing with his hand hovering over the handle of the door, anxiety gnaws at him at having to go back out there, not knowing what the hell to say to you.
His therapist had asked him in the early days, what he’d found to be the most difficult adjustment after the divorce. The answer was simple. Losing your friendship. Because you hadn’t just been his wife. You were also the person he would stay up late at night watching reruns of Columbo with when nightmares kept him up. The person he had so many stupid inside jokes with that other people used to assume the two of you were speaking in code.
Frankie has other friends. Close friends. The kind that were forged while submerged in wet cold mud surrounded by the smell of napalm burning in the air. But no one's ever come close to the friendship he had with you. Even now, when he spends most of your time together standing there awkwardly without anything to say, you're still the person he feels the closest to.
When he comes back out, you’re smiling at him in the polite way one would at an acquaintance. “Are you coming to Molly’s housewarming next Saturday?” you ask.
“Probably not.”
“Why not?”
“I won’t really know anyone there besides Benny.”
“Neither do Molly or I. That’s the purpose of a housewarming party.”
He doesn’t know why you seem so irritated at him. It’s become an unspoken rule between the two of you. You got Tess’ graduation. Frankie got Will’s going away party. The only event you’ve attended together in the last three years was Tom’s funeral.
It’s one of the things no one ever tells you about divorcing, that you’ll end up having to share custody of your friends.
“Molly’s things are yours. I shouldn’t crash it.”
“We don’t have to do that anymore, Frankie. It’s been long enough hasn’t it?”
This time it’s his turn to look away. There’s another stilted silence that drags on the ground like a limp leg with an open wound. With each passing second and step, the infection seems to be getting worse. Frankie’s racking his brain for something, anything to end the excruciating silence.
“The Kuchen for the bake sale you made were really good.”
“Thanks?” You shift your feet pointed away from him. “They were your mom’s recipe.”
You open your mouth then close it again. He half expects you to make a teasing jab that those cookies are meant for the bake sale not for him, like you would have done before. You don’t.
“I think I still have your tupperware at my place,” Frankie says.
“That’s ok.”
Frankie lets it end there, giving up. The more he pushes this conversation the worse it gets.
You fiddle with your now bare ring finger. A nervous habit when you were uncomfortable.
“Oh,” you pipe up, as if you finally thought of a topic, “Do you have any old socks?”
Frankie blinks, confused by your question. The two of you sound like you’re two people in different rooms having two entirely separate conversations. Is this how two humans talk?
“They’re asking for donations at Mireya’s school to make sock puppets for a play,” you clarify.
“I should have some at home, I’ll check tonight.”
You nod, an almost relieved expression on your face. But as silence settles in for the fourth time in the timespan of ten minutes, he can see you dying inside. Or maybe he’s superimposing his own discomfort.
“I’ll try to wake her again,” you offer.
“I can do it.”
You hold up the door for him and he walks through. The nursery is about the only thing in the house that seems to have changed. There are still similarities. The walls were still the same pale lavender you’d chosen and he’d painted.
On the toddler bed, the quilts are drawn all the way over her head to form a Mireya shaped burrito. Hunching down by the low bed, he lays a hand on her shoulder rousing her from sleep. “Hi princesa, sorry to have to wake you.”
Mireya whines, shuffling further up the bed, and Frankie feels terrible. It’s his fault he’s this late from work.
“If you’re sleepy I can come back in the morning instead,” he says.
The movement stops. Then a mop of chaotic brown curls pops up from under the covers, along with his eyes and your cheeks. Mireya considers Frankie for a second, eyes bleary with sleep, then shakes her head and stretches her arms out for him. “Daddy, carry me.”
Her hands come around his neck and Frankie wraps his arm around her much smaller body, hugging her close to his chest as he stands up. He carries her through the living room to the outside, where it’s finally stopped raining, thank god.
Then he looks back and you’re standing by the threshold with a soft smile. The light from inside the house glowing behind you. It looks so inviting and nostalgic, his brain glitches for just a millisecond, and it feels like you’re welcoming him home instead of seeing him off.
“You should come next Saturday. If nothing else, you can return my tupperware.”
“I’ll think about it.”
Your smile is still there for him, and he looks back for longer than he should, before it sets in that you’re probably smiling at Mireya, not him.
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Mireya falls asleep even before Frankie’s managed to buckle up her seatbelt, so it’s a quiet ride home instead of their usual ritual of car karaoke and her nose squished up against the window, on the lookout for that one house where they never take down their Christmas decorations.
He might only be a weekend dad, but Frankie has Mireya’s nighttime routine down to a science. Brush her teeth, quiet time – read a book, tell a story, sing a song, cuddles. Get into bed, kiss goodnight - Mireya convincing him she needs more bedtime stories. It’s the highlight of his week normally.
Tonight, he only makes her wake up long enough to brush her teeth. The moment he lays her down in the canopy bed, she’s already fast asleep.
Flicking the light to his own bedroom, Frankie opens his sock drawer and rummages around for worn out pairs. If he didn’t find some socks to donate now, he’d probably forget it later. His stomach drops when a bit of starched white against the brown wood catches his eye, and he feels like he can't fucking breathe.
God fucking damn it all to hell.
He picks up the note and stares at it, chest tightening.
Slowly he reaches into the back corner of the drawer to pull out the one pair of colorful socks he owns. It’s a rainbow polkadot pair you had bought him as a gag gift so many years ago. He used to pull them out and wear them periodically, relishing your surprised laughter when you caught sight of them peeking out from under the hem of his pants. Frankie doesn't wear them any more.
He stands there, chest aching, the note in one hand and the socks in his other. The representation of what he used to have and what he threw it all away for. Then he deliberately folds the note, pushes it into the colorful sock roll, and carefully tucks the whole thing back into the farthest corner of the drawer. He doesn't want to come across them accidentally again. Can't bear to think about it or to remember what he's lost. He just... He can't.
Sliding the drawer shut, he lies down on his bed and stares up into the ceiling. He doesn’t know why he keeps that fucking paper. He doesn’t even want the money. Frankie’s done chasing after wild promises of a fortune buried in the jungle. If he had his choice, he knows exactly what he would have wanted.
He wants to still be married to you.
If he could choose again, he would remain steadfast, sticking with the “no” he gave Pope when the man said he needed a pilot, instead of caving in to the misguided belief that if he was there he could keep his teammates safe. God knows it did nothing in the end.
Given the chance to go back, he’d never sign up to the military in the first place. He would choose to be saddled with student loans into his fifties, instead of the life debts he owes for all the people he’s killed in the course of paying Uncle Sam back for sponsoring his college tuition. People whose names he never knew but faces he’d never forget.
What he wants is to unlearn the part of himself that can field strip and re-assemble a rifle in 50 seconds flat, even in the dark.
To spend a lifetime rewriting the things he learnt in the military, or the habit of scanning every individual whenever he enters a room, the ability to compartmentalise just about anything, the rigorous training, the exact gasping noise a man makes when his lungs are collapsing, the kil—
The voice of his daughter snaps him out of it. Pulls him from the familiar endless spiral of anxious thoughts that so often consumes him.
“Mireya, what are you doing up?”
“Can I sleep with you, daddy?
Stomping towards the bed, she climbs onto the mattress. Chubby leg hiked high before pulling herself up by her arms the rest of the way like a little monkey.
“Come here, princesa,” Frankie grabs her under her arms to drag her further up the bed and settles her against his chest.
“Read me a bedtime story.”
“Ok, but it has to be a short one, it’s late.”
She immediately climbs over him, nearly kneeing him in the groin in her excitement to get a book from the shack on the window sill.
With a beaming smile, she shoves it in his face. It’s The Little Prince, which takes him two hours to read from beginning to end. Given the option, Mireya will always push her luck.
“That’s a really long one, baby.”
She hugs the blue book close to her chest, all big brown eyes, unwilling to give it up. “I woke up to be with you.”
Chalk it up to guilt over the divorce and not getting to spend nearly as much time with her as he’d like, but he always lets himself get tricked into at least one more story, every time.
“Just one chapter.”
Her head bounces with excitement, before she crawls over and settles herself, ear pressed to his chest for a pillow. Surprising to no one, Frankie ends up reading more than one chapter.
Mireya likes him to do voices for each character, squeaky for the rose, rumbly for the fox. If Frankie does the voices wrong she will let him know, giving him firm commands with the visionary of Alfred Hitchcock. “He’s happy daddy. You have to sound more happy.”
By the time they’ve gotten to her favourite part, his throat is scratchy from reading for an hour straight.
Pausing, he hums questioningly in reply.
“Te extrañé.” {I missed you}
His heart blows out at that, smiling so widely that it stings his cheeks. Maybe she’s simply saying that because they’re nearing the end of a chapter and she’s trying to butter him up for another, but he doesn’t even mind.
“Yo también te extrañé, princesa.” {I missed you too princess}. Frankie squeezes her to him a little closer and presses his lips to her forehead. “Te quiero mucho, mucho.”
She rubs her button nose into his shirt, then whispers into his chest with a sly smile. “Keep reading.”
“Goodbye, said the fox.”
Mireya shakes her head, disapprovingly. “More sad, daddy,”
“More sad?”
She nods.
Clearing his throat, Frankie tries again in the most dour tone he can manage. “Goodbye, said the fox.”
Tilting his chin to check for approval, it’s only when his girl smiles and nods that he keeps going.
“Here is my secret. It’s quite simple: One sees clearly only with the heart. Anything essential is invisible to the eyes. It’s the time you spent on your rose that makes your rose so important. People have forgotten this truth. But you mustn’t forget it. You become responsible forever for what you’ve tamed. You’re responsible for your rose... ‘I’m responsible for my rose’, the little prince repeated in order to remember.”
There’s a tiny wheezing sound filling the room, and Frankie closes the book. Mireya’s asleep. Chubby cheeks tucked to his chest. She snores like a little pig and is slobbering drool on his shirt.
And he realizes that he’s happy. Not, happy enough. He’s just happy. Without qualifiers or limitations.
In the small safe space of his bedroom, something clicks inside him. It’s like his brain’s been trapped in an equation that he’s starting to be able to make sense of. Variables and fractions finally slotting into place. Frankie carefully slides his baby daughter off his chest and onto the mattress, slipping out of bed and walking toward his dresser.
Taking care in being quiet when he slides open the drawer, not wanting to wake Mireya, it doesn’t take him long to find the rainbow dotted socks and the lighter in an adjacent drawer. His fingers slide inside the fabric, pulling out the note that he knows would be there,
Then he holds it up in front of the lighter, flicking his thumb on the jagged sparkwheel and with a tiny spark, watches the tiny orange flame light up, consume and erase the 15 digits from existence.
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Tag List: Let me know if you want to be removed from the tag list. @yespolkadotkitty @thirstworldproblemss @songsformonkeys @buttercup--bee @pedropascaldice @heatherbel @helloannbananalove @danniburgh @keeper0fthestars @knittingqueen13 @reader-s-cantina @sleep-tight1 @itssmashedavo @pumpkin-stars @leonieb @filthybookworm @disgruntledspacedad @mandorush @agirllovespancakes @littleferal @miceenscene @wyn-dixie
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doopcafe · 6 hours ago
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Star Trek Voyager: Collective (6x16)
Comments: Oh, snap! It’s Icheb!
I know who that is from Star Trek: Picard! He’s the guy that had his Borg components forcibly harvested as he writhed about in horrendous pain, screaming. old!Seven attempted to rescue him, but arrived only in time for Icheb to plead with her to end his life. Since STP is dark, violent schlock written by amateurs and created by one-hundred-and-thirty-seven thousand producers, Seven used a phaser on Icheb to end his life. So inspirational! So thought-provoking! Much Star Trek, wow.
Anyways, Icheb makes his first appearance here. He’s introduced alongside two mutes and a little girl and their shithole leader who’s conveniently killed by the end of the episode so that the show doesn’t have to write drama moving forward.
Okay, so the plot here is that Janeway allows four of her top-billed cast members to go... somewhere... on the Delta Flyer, but it’s captured by a Borg cube. Except, the Borg cube only has the aforementioned children piloting it (see screenshot). Turns out there was a virus aboard that killed all the adult Borg, but the maturation chambers were active and kept the children alive. They are now attempting to barter with Janeway: her crewmembers for her deflector dish.
It’s an interesting episode (in premise), but shatters the teeth of the Borg as a serious threat by portraying them as incompetent children. Now Seven has four Borg children to look after. My notes at this point read, “Harry walks around a Borg vessel,” but I don’t know what that's referring to. I guess Harry walked around a Borg vessel? Nice to know the plot's giving him something to do.
You know, what did Janeway do with the Borg cube after rescuing the children from it? Did she push it into a star?
LOL, no, what am I saying. Leaving the derelict Borg cube just floating there will:
Delay Voyager's return to Earth by abandoning an entire cube's worth of transwarp coils, and
Allow local thugs to use the cube to terrorize nearby planets
But seriously, it would have been fun (and practical) if she would have driven the cube for a bit. We could have an episode or two where Voyager’s crew gets it running again and transwarps a bit closer to home.
Speaking of which, remember that episode where Janeway risked literally everything to sneak aboard a tiny, disable Borg ship and steal just a single transwarp coil? Here she has an entire Borg curb's worth and... nope, let's just leave it there.
My enjoyment: 2/5
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decodamalion · 7 hours ago
The Underwing Challenge Day 3
Here's a link to my first day!
Here's a link to my second day!
Who is your main cast? Describe as many of your OCs as you can cram into one post.
OH. HELL. YES. This is gonna be a maaasive post.
Since I'm too lazy to draw a portrait of everyone, I'm using this pitcrew for the images shown below.
Decoda Olivia Malion
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Role: Main Character
Age: 16 - 22
Fears: Abandonment, suffocating, loneliness
Body type: slim and strong/ (transformed) strong athletic
She is essentially my self insert in my series. Decoda comes from a mining village called Nafeli on Aslen. She is a half demon, half Aslantian teenager who watched her village burn and her childhood home collapse. She escaped and ended up on the other side of Aslen, only to be knocked out in the middle of a forest. Little did she know, that when she would wake up, a new journey would begin for her, and secrets she didn't even know she had would be uncovered.
Elliott Jonathan Ruben
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Role: Main Character / Main Side
Age: 120-127 (17-18 for Osrocan. They live 7 times longer than Aslantians and Karmareans)
Fears: Not being qble to be there for his friends, loosing people.
Body type: broad shoulders, slim and strong.
Married to Decoda, he will do everything he can to protect her and keep her safe, even though he doesn't always succeed. He was a famous blacksmith on Osrow in the city of Dravern before it was destroyed and his brother was killed by The Destroyer. He later found himself on Aslen and met Decoda and her friends in a very unusual way.
Alexandrite Schmider
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Role: Decoda's best friend and main side character
Age: 16-22
Fears: loss, large open spaces
Body type: stocky, strong
Alex has been known to be gruff and hot headed. She can be brutish qnd has a bit of a mean sense of humour. However, when it comes to those she loves, she will be soft, kind and gentle, however her sense of humour doesn't change.
Michelle Burns
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Role: Alex's Girlfriend and main side character
Age: 15-21
Fears: being percieved as weak, spiders
Body type: bulky, short
Because of her overbearingly protective parents, she seeks to improve her strength as best she can to prove their persception of her wrong.
Mistyal Burns
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Role: Michelle's sister, side character
Age: 20-27
Fears: Dying early, loosing family, succumbing to her desease without protecting her ruler.
Body Type: thin, lean
Mistyal has a rare disease called the Endoran plague. I guess you can see where that came from. Mistyal used to be a strong soldier, but as her health deteriorates, so does her strength and her willingness to survive. There is no cutre for her disease.
Kaylum Asvadicus Laidon
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Role: Anthony's husband, main side character
Age: 21-23
Fears: being forgotten, heights
Body Type: big, broad and strong
Drafted into The Destroyers army at the age of 9 (as a magically created child to infertile parents), and having to lock his sister away until her untimely demise, Kaylum grew up stricktly as a soldier qnd didn't learn real love until he met Anthony.
Anthony Martin
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Role: Kaylum's husband, main side character
Age: 22-28
Fears: large, deep bodies of water
Body Type: lean, tall
Running away from an qbusive household as a boy, Anthony discovered his own peculiar abilities and an intense love for flora and fauna and exploration.
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Role: main side character
Age: [unknown]
Fears: loosing his family, slipping back into darkness
Body Type: thin, lean and tall.
Herross is the God of Destruction, Fear and Death. Hero is very in tune with his emotions and is very sensitive to the enotions of others because he can sense every bit of fear in everyone around him, weather that be a small pang of anxiety or full blown panick. This is why he is so conpasdionate, because he knows and hates the feeling of fear and gaining power from it.
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Role: main side character
Age: [unknown]
Fears: the destruction of all he has created
Body Type: tall, broad and buff
Selvan is the exact opposite of Herross. He is the God of Creation, Progress and Battle. He is "an arrogant fuck" and it is hard for him to warm up to or even think of Gaians as his equal for the most part. He does not mingle with the affairs of Gaians, even if their life is in danger, despite his qbility to physically obliterate creature's bodies. He is cold towards his brothers but eventually warms up to at least Herross.
This one will only come up later in the series but how could I not include:
Varitran Hue
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Role: main character
Age: 252 (36 for Osrocan.)
Fears: loosing power, facing his past
Body Type: strong and tall
Vari had been adopted a few times, mostly by Aslantians that lived on Osrow after his birth parents died. He was taken in by an arch magistrate at the great Academy of Westwine, and learned his magic there. Where the reader meets him in Malion: The Battle for Skladmir, he is reminicing in his ruined hometown over everything he had done there and to the people before it was levelled by the army of The Destroyer.
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tonguebreaks · 7 hours ago
I have a friend who still believes in heaven. Not a stupid person, yet with all she knows, she literally talks to God. She thinks someone listens in heaven. On earth she’s unusually competent. Brave too, able to face unpleasantness.
We found a caterpillar dying in the dirt, greedy ants crawling over it. I’m always moved by disaster, always eager to oppose vitality But timid also, quick to shut my eyes. Whereas my friend was able to watch, to let events play out According to nature. For my sake she intervened Brushing a few ants off the torn thing, and set it down Across the road.
My friend says I shut my eyes to God, that nothing else explains My aversion to reality. She says I’m like the child who Buries her head in the pillow So as not to see, the child who tells herself That light causes sadness– My friend is like the mother. Patient, urging me To wake up an adult like herself, a courageous person–
In my dreams, my friend reproaches me. We’re walking On the same road, except it’s winter now; She’s telling me that when you love the world you hear celestial music: Look up, she says. When I look up, nothing. Only clouds, snow, a white business in the trees Like brides leaping to a great height– Then I’m afraid for her; I see her Caught in a net deliberately cast over the earth–
In reality, we sit by the side of the road, watching the sun set; From time to time, the silence pierced by a birdcall. It’s this moment we’re trying to explain, the fact That we’re at ease with death, with solitude. My friend draws a circle in the dirt; inside, the caterpillar doesn’t move. She’s always trying to make something whole, something beautiful, an image Capable of life apart from her. We’re very quiet. It’s peaceful sitting here, not speaking, The composition Fixed, the road turning suddenly dark, the air Going cool, here and there the rocks shining and glittering– It’s this stillness we both love. The love of form is a love of endings.
Louise Glück, “Celestial Music”
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roesavalonsigma · 7 hours ago
The Spaceship
Triggers: animal death, murder, slight gore, blood
On the outer rim of a planet called Mako was a spaceship called the Resurrect United Kingdom Alliance or Ruka for short, an old spaceship made centuries ago for one purpose, to work as a way of travel between planets of possible allies to the planet Karo. The spaceship and its crew were on their way to Mako for that exact purpose, and all was going well for the crew still everything took a sudden turn for the worse.
The crewmembers sat around the control panel on the ever proper blue swirling chairs, watching the fuel gauge. Instead of having fun like they normally would do, they were silent as they watched the fuel tank go down at great speeds without any way to stop it. The only thing that is breaking through the silence is the siren so loud that even the half-dead would wake up. It's blue light shining down on their faces so much so that they had to squint to see each other. Though that soon wouldn't be a problem for they  only had brought enough fuel supply to last them the trip and when the fuel goes, so does the light. Never in a million years did either of thought that the fuel would have evaporated mid-flight right before their eyes, and yet there they were experiencing just that.
"Are you sure we didn't miscount the number of fuel cans we had prepared for the trip? Maybe  I left some in the kitchen by accident?" Roes stared at the fuel, almost daring to try telekinesis to stop its downward slope.  Yet, that was both impossible and unlikely that it could have preserved fuel even if it was.
"Roes, why the hell would you have fuel tanks in the kitchen? The appliances run on the energy of the stars, not on crystal fuel." Nick glanced at his friend with a concerned look in his eyes, remembering when Roes "accidentally" exploded an entire town. "You haven't been planning on going full-on arsonist on me, are you?  I mean, I get you have an unhealthy obsession with explosives, but you never been a fan of fire."
"Just because I tinker with explosives every now and then doesn't mean I have an obsession. And stop doing that Nick that's my thing." He then ran out of the control room as the fuel tank dipped down into the ten percent range making the lights dim and flicker, nearly casting them into darkness.  The darkness causes Roes to hesitate for only a brief moment, so Nick takes the lead after giving Roes shoulder a comforting squeeze.
"I am only trying to keep you from panicking, we both need to keep our heads in this scenario, or we will get nowhere. That isn't just your responsibility Roes; we've talked about this. I'm not your right-hand man for nothing."
"Yes, yes, bud, I know. But whenever people start picking up my characteristics, they usually end up dead, and I rather not have a do-over." He said tensely, then went silent and walked the rest of the way down the metal corridor heading for the ladder at the end, which leads to where they would refuel, unknowingly leaving Nick behind in the process.
"And neither would I." Nick went to follow after him stopping when he heard a rustling coming from the kitchen. He turned around with one last glimpse at Roes fading form before he went to check it out. Slowly he walked into the kitchen, the crystal door went up into the frame to let him in swiftly and closed behind him without a sound. The dimming red lights made the room look like it was being viewed at the start of dust. Inside the kitchen, every single item would have hovered slightly above the ground, only enough to impress any potential ally except for the waffle maker, which could rise up high enough so anyone could reach it without a fuss. Now that Nick had entered, however, everything was firmly on the ground; even the usual hum of the fridge was silenced. It wasn't even clean like Nick so diligently kept it. Instead, blood dripped down the strove, the cabinets, the blue table in the middle, even the silver walls.
Nick could hear his heart pounding in his ears, yet he tried to keep his voice level as he called out, "Come out wherever you are; the darkness does you no good. My race can see in the dark just as much as a cat's, so you mind as well show yourself. Less you hope to get shot by a misfire." Nothing. Silence so he started to search the place; his footsteps echoed across the kitchen. First, he checked behind the fridge only to find a dead rat its head laid a few inches away looking up. He stepped away with haste and went to the table, lifting the blue sheet over it; for a moment, he thought he saw a green glitch like one would see on a Tv, but once he blinked, it was gone.  In its place is a severed hand that made his blood turn cold for on its ringer finger was a golden ring one that had beyond to his friend from long ago marked with his friend's initials ZE in a red made darker by the surrounding blood.
"Z...Zekel...You were supposed to be on vacation. How did this happen? What am I gonna tell-" He suddenly feels a whisper tickle his ear.
"Behind you." The person giggles, causing Nick to turn around swinging his fist, yet once he turns around, the person is no longer there; he hits only air. He shivered, yet he wasn't afraid; the ship was well insulated, so he shouldn't have been cold. What is going on?  Was he going insane? The lights flickered out as the fuel ran out completely.
"You might want to check on your little friend." A person's voice echoed all around him; it followed Nick as he searched for his friend bouncing off the silver walls, only increasing in volume as he got further and further away.
"Roes?! Roes, where are you? Answer me!" He called out, getting more and more worried as time passed without a word from his friend. Suddenly he hears sobbing, scared hopeless sobbing coming from a few feet away. He felt his way towards Roes, running his hand along the walls judging. Since even with his advanced vision seeing black on black metal wasn't easy, he could barely make out Roes form in the darkness. After a few moments, he bumped into Roes's leg, who whimpers upon the sudden contact. He decided then that he would wait to tell him about Zekel; he then sat down across from him and put a hand on his cheek; he moved to the side a strand of ginger hair to wipe away the tears.
"Hey, hey, it's ok, it's just me. No need to be afraid." Nick stretched out his arms and allowed Roes to put his arms around, hugging him tightly as he gathered up the courage to say what Nick already knew.
"I saw the fuel tank go down, I tried to stop it, but there was a puncture in all the tanks. There was nothing to patch it up and no fuel.  Then the lights went out, and I heard laughter. I thought I was gonna end up like my mother. And now we are stuck here just like how it was in the book. Fuck. Fuck. I should have packed more fuel. I...I should of"
"Shhh, it's ok. I'm here now; we can work this out together like we always do." As one they stood up interlocked in each other's arms, a chuckle penetrated their silence, tearing it apart swiftly as a knife.
"How touching am I interrupting you?" The same Figure that Nick looked for moments before in the kitchen was standing just mere feet away from them to their left. It looked upon them with a grin that could make even the hardest of fools cower in fear before him. It regarded them like they were mere annoyances to what he was planning. Due to the Figure's presence, the silver walls of the hallway turned bloody, and the metal floors as well making the ground sticky.
"Who are you?! What do you want from us! Did you cause this! "He pulls out his gun and starts aiming at the darkness, pointing at the sound of the voice in order to be threatening, yet his whole body is shaking, betraying his confidence.
"Easy Roes, don't do something you'll regret." He pulled his friend's arm down by a hair, so the gun pointed to the ground while looking for the Figure. After a second, he locks eyes with it, and the sight turned him pale. For the Figure's whole body glitching, so one moment the Figure was looking at them straight ahead, but the next, it was looking at them like it had a broken neck. The Figure also glowed red like it was some sort of deity, and the skin, if you could call it, that was scaly like an alligator's. This, paired with his grin, made him like something out of a nightmare, but this was no nightmare.
"Oh yes, Roes, you wouldn't want to accidentally shoot your friend, now would you?" The Figure laughed; it enjoyed watching them struggle to decide what to do.
Roes looked at them both, not really seeing either, but he felt the weight of both of their gaze. He drops his gun, which hits the ground with a resounding crash.
"Nick, I am too hot-headed. I want you to take charge. Use your fancy magic to teach this thing a lesson."
"You knew about my magic?" Nick looked at him in surprise with a hand already in his coat pocket holding the emerald in his palm; he clenched and unclenched it nervously.
"Bud, how stupid do you think I am? If you used a normal fire to burn my book, I would have smelt the smoke when I awoke. So, of course, it was magic. Now give them hell. I'll be here if you need me." He leaned against the cold wall and picked up his gun as Nick took out the amulet and put it on his neck, the green emerald shining bright.
"Roes, I can't do this less; you promise me that you won't think of me any differently."
"Aww, does the wizard fear being rejected by his friend? Perhaps you don't have as strong of a relationship as you thought."
"Of course I wouldn't. You never did. Like you said, we stick together no matter what."
Nick grins, and the emerald glows bright; he outstretched his hand, and a green beam shot forth, knocking the Figure into the wall. The Figure laughs and lunges at him, scratching his cheek. Instead of the wound only bleeding a trickle like a wound like that normally would it bleed like a fountain, it quickly stained his cheek red. He put a hand on it before Roes could touch him; green mist momentarily covered his face, sowing the scratch back together, stopping the blood flow.
"Not bad for a mortal. But I fear it's not good enough. Little-" the Figure is then raised up into the air before the Figure could finish its sentence as Nick raised an arm only to bring it down, slamming the Figure on the ground. This act momentarily stunned the Figure giving Roes enough time to press a hidden button that was on the wall beside him. Which in turn caused bars to rise up from the ground surrounding the Figure and made a barrier between it and them. Once the Figure got its bearings and noticed the barrier, it merely laughed and snapped its fingers; this caused the barrier to disappear like it was never there.
"Your magic is no match for me, little wizard. Just like your little friend was no match for me." The Figure grinned as Nick tensed as the truth became known; the Figure just to rub it in a little more caused Zekel's body to appear before him; his limbs were severed, and his head a few feet away scarred upwards in a look of eternal terror.  Yet Roes, clueless of Nick's findings, was just lost but distracted regardless, giving the Figure the opportunity it wanted. It lunged at Roes and pushed him at half his strength ramming him into the wall by the window knocking his shoulder out of joint. Even worse than physical harm by the touch, the Figure transmitted the image into Roes's head, causing him to shake in rage, blinding his judgment yet injured; he knew he couldn't fight a being like that, so he did the next best thing he crawled to the window. Disappointed that Roes wasn't fighting back, the Figure was going to knock him out to use him as a bargaining chip, but Nick comes to before that could occur after hearing the loud crash of Roes hitting the wall.
"Leave my friend alone if you want to live." To emphasize his threat, he mumbles a few quick words setting the Figure ablaze the flames green as the emerald from which it came, but it's put out in a matter of moments, leaving the Figure more steamed than hurt. Giving enough time to get the window as he was close. Once there, Roes puts on a chipper voice masking the pain and anger he feels, not wanting to give the Figure the pleasure of witnessing him break down again.
"Maybe it's no match for my friend, but I hear Mako specializes in slaying gods." He pointed out of the right-facing window with a chuckle, having noticed the approaching crystal Mako ships moments before. "The Calvary is coming, boys!"
The Figure turned to face the window just long enough for Nick to begin a chant in a foreign tongue even to Roes standards; slowly, a green magic mist winds up around the Figure binding him tightly. The Figure's scales burned, and the smell that arose was nothing short of foul. Yet the Figure didn't scream or cried out; it only glared at them both.
"It'll only last  for ten minutes; why don't we push him out of the chute."
"With pleasure Captain Nick." He gives him a salute. "But you're gonna have to lead; I can't see a thing. Just don't stray far...please."
Nick chuckles and grips Roes's hand tight. "I won't ever again, I swear it, and thanks for accepting this part of me." They walked forward into the darkness, Nick dragging the Figure behind them tied to them with the green mist.
"I'll always accept you; that's what friends are for."
Ten years have passed since that incident. Nick and Roes sat across from each other at a table made for two in an otherwise empty cafe, save for course, the employee behind the counter, who is decked in white who looked upon the two in case one of them calls them over. They watched as Roes griped Nick's hand tightly with that adorable tilted soft smile of his.
"You seem more cheerful than usual, Roes. Is something up?"
"Why shouldn't I be, bud? It's a lovely day, everyone cheerful. We are on a date. There are tons of reasons to be happy!"
"Sure, but the last I checked, you arranged this to talk about your nightmares of Zeke. I'm the one that offered to make it a date. You don't have to hide around me. You know that. And if the employee over there says anything, I could merely use my magic to shut him up."
Roes chuckled half-heartedly, then his grin disappeared into a frown; he squeezed his hand a little tighter before saying, "I really rather not talk about him today, bud. Let's talk about how you really thought I would abandon you for nearly killing that bastard? Nick bud, did you forget who I am? I kill people every day! Besides, that bastard deserved it! I wouldn't care if you killed one or two or twelve or-"
"You shouldn't be bragging about killing people, Roes, or resurrecting people. We talked about this. If you keep bragging about these things, you'll end up in jail, then I would have to kill a sheep just to break you out. My amulet needs fresh blood after three years of usage, you know."
"Well, bud if you put it that way-"
"However, I am glad the spaceship stalled. If it didn't, I wouldn't have admitted to having magic, then I wouldn't have been able to do this." He leans across the table and kisses Roes gently on the cheek. Making Roes turn a hue of red only serving to make him more adorable in Nick's eyes.
"I...I umm...I..see...I umm..see..later." Roes runs out, grinning ear to ear, likely to brag to his other friends about how he totally didn't get flustered at their first kiss. Nick loved him for that.
"If only I didn't have to leave you alone on that ship. That's my only regret." He took his tea and followed after Roes into the night. Later he tried again to get him to open up about the nightmares that have been plaguing him since the trip but to no avail. Roes would open up again in his own time; he always did.
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pompompurin1028 · 8 hours ago
Like a Sunset
Summary: Dazai’s thoughts as you and Dazai take a walk along the coast to view the sunset, from Dazai’s POV
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A/N: This whole fic came to mind because I was overthinking about the meaning of the sunset motif in this anime, anyways... Relationship: Dazai x reader (from Dazai’s POV) Warnings: None, just soft Dazai Genre: Comfort/Fluff
My Masterlist
There was something undeniably other-worldly about the view of the setting Sun. The sight of the bright sun, as it dips into the cold waters, casting a glowing filter upon the soft waves. Along with the sight of fleeting colours of dusk fading into the distance, blending into an array of beautiful colours like that on an artist’s paint pallet. It is like a symphony of colours have painted the sky, but slowly quieting down, and is vanishing like an old friend waving goodbye. Oh, how forever ephemeral is this sight, like everything that is beautiful, as I watched it fade more and more into a darkened sky with each passing second...Truly, what other sight in this world could portray something so utterly sublime yet tragic at the same time, but never cease to produce an ethereal quality whenever I had the pleasure to view it? 
And as I watched your figure strolling ahead of me, your hair moving gently against the soft winds, a shadow slowly casting over your figure, enveloping you in the image of a beautiful silhouette. I couldn’t help but feel that there’s something picture-perfect about this scene unfolding before my eyes. As you blended in perfectly into the scenery, like you were meant to be there, it was at that moment I realized, that the sight and feelings I often sought for in sunsets, is embodied by no one other than you.
Like the sight of the Sun sinking into the ocean, as the waves lapped softly against the shore. You give me a sense of serenity, even with your antics, for they were nothing if not genuine. You held no malicious intentions, and only sought to understand and to accept my broken self. And for once, for someone other than him, I feel like I can lower my guard, even just a little.
Like the wonderous colours of a sunset, you showed to me beauty in this world of depraved humanity. You reminded me of the acts of tenderness that still exists in this world, through your affection, acceptance and love for me, even when I have yet to embrace and appreciate my own self.
Just like the speaks of light that continue to shine, even as the world begins to darken into the night... The night that I dreaded, the darkness I fear I could never escape from, even as I continued to chase the dying light. You reminded me of the promise of hope through dissipation, the promise of a new dawn every sunset tells -- that there is still hope for goodness for a man such as I, even after all the crimes I have committed with my tainted hands.But more importantly, like the embodiment of this sight itself, that glows bright with a gentle orange hue as the soft flickering flame of a fire, I’m continuously drawn to you and I know I’ll keep coming back to you...
“Dazai,” only when my name was spoken upon your lips was I recalled from depths my thoughts, only to come to the realization that I have come to a stop in my tracks. “Come on, what are you doing just standing there?”
For once, there were no traces of lies in the words I uttered, no form of deceit, no need for me to hide my raw thoughts beneath a ever-beaming mask of foolishness, for I know, either way, you will accept my truly and deeply. And in this sentimental moment, I couldn’t help but let these words from slipping out of my mouth without thought, and contrary to my usual self, I welcomed it. 
“Just admiring how lovely you are.”
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jaemotel · 8 hours ago
GAME OF SURVIVAL — nct collab call
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❝ who's in the shadows? who's ready to play? are we the hunters? or are we the prey? ❞ — game of survival, ruelle
welcome writers! this is my first ever collab hosted with your lovely co-host @glossyjaems <3 this collab is specially for the writers who love the thriller an action genre, though any other genre is allowed! i will be not writing for this collab skkssk, too much irl work-
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↣ the theme is pretty self-explanatory, it revolves all around survival
↣ now, it can be anything apart from zombie apocalypses too! not necessary to only write about that!
↣ you can write about a purge-themed au
↣ you write about the reader/chosen member trying to hide from anyone
↣ apocalypse au
↣ or any au/fic/plot that has the reader or the chosen member surviving, or kinda close to hiding.
↣ any other sub-genre is welcome (like horror, supernatural, yandere) as long as the main focus is survival. the main focus should not move!
↣ you fic can include gore, injuries, yandere themes, dark themes, torture etc.
↣ all of the warnini should be properly tagged at the beginning of your fic!
minimum word count: 1.5k
↣ there is no maximum word limit, you can write as much as you want. but the fic cross at least 1.5k words.
↣ writers above 18 are only allowed to write smut
↣ you can feature other members to make up your cast but the chosen member by you should be the main focus!
↣ pairings should be reader x chosen member only!
the due date of the fic will be towards the beginning of January 2022. if you want to drop out, no hard feelings! but please inform me or @glossyjaems before the end of August!
↣ this is a writing event for writers to write and express/improve their writing skills and enjoy their writing time. if you're nervous or discouraged by it, please don't underestimate yourself. as long as you think you're willing to do it or want to, you can!
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↣ first come, first serve
↣ reblog if want to join!
↣ dm the member you choose to me or to @glossyjaems
↣ please do not spread any hate between the writers or to any writer participating here. your participation will be terminated
↣ plagiarism is strictly not tolerated
minimum word count: 1.5k
↣ no reactions or timestamps. only full length fics.
due date: January 2022
↣ only reader/oc x reader. no member x member
↣ only writers above 18 are allowed to write smut! no smut for chenji please!
↣ if you have any further questions, please contact me or @glossyjaems
↣ optional: follow me and @glossyjaems for any further notices!
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6/23 open!
moon taeil
johnny suh taken by @oh-my-sparkle
lee taeyong taken by @multi--kpop--fanfics
nakamoto yuta taken by @127-mile
qian kun
kim doyoung taken by @stayinzencity
lee ten taken by @hachanbaecon-main
jung jaehyun taken by @daybreakx
dong sicheng taken by @jeontaeil
kim jungwoo taken by @kpop-vv
wong lucas
lee mark taken by @ni-kigai
xiao dejun
wong hendery
huang renjun taken by @treasuretaeil
lee jeno taken by @prettyjaems
lee haechan taken by @sunryu
na jaemin taken by @chweing--gum
liu yangyang
osaki shotaro taken by @moondustaeil
jung sungchan taken by @ericismysohn
zhong chenle taken by @reiichann
park jisung taken by @seularcade
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