actually i think ti's

Out for the count.

Authors note: Part 3 to boxing Au.
Part 1
http://imagine-that-one-thing.tumblr.com/post/156567115971/round-one-float-like-a-butterfly

Part 2
http://stylesfics-xx.tumblr.com/post/156618245691/sting-like-a-bee-round-2

———

The words roll of your tongue before you can even think of something else to say. This is not how you had contemplated telling him. It was meant to be sweet and thought out; not on the side of the road after a prizefight and after throwing up. “You’re lying.” He shakes his head, catching you off guard as the words roll of his tongue, shocking you.
“You, you actually think I’m lying?” You get tongue-tied, undecided of whether the man in front of you is the man you married given that the man you joined in marriage would absolutely never question your integrity.
“It could be your plan to stop me from boxing.” He answers, your eyes leaving his gaze. Disappointment being the only expression your face shows.
“Look at me.” He gives precise instructions, placing his hand under your chin to force you to gander up at him. “Are you serious?” He says in a low voice, his eyes tender and saturated with joy, something you haven’t seen in quite a while. You roll your eyes, incapable of stopping the sarcastic retort, “no, I’m throwing up on the side of the road because I feel like it.” You murmur, incompetent of controlling your words. At least now you have justification for your outbursts of bitter sarcasm, not to mention his foolish question on whether you’re participating in a lie about being pregnant or not; it’s not like you gave the appearance of throwing up in front of him just for humour.
“So— you’re growing a baby?” He gapes, lost for words, and you can’t help but chuckle, holding back a smart ass comment as you nod your head, admiring how his eyes are gleaming and full of such pleasure. You imagined his ravishing emerald eyes would reflect brilliancy with joyousness, but you didn’t imagine he’d ask such imbecile questions. “A baby? Ten fingers, ten toes?” He continues, seeming rather excited.
“Hopefully.” You agree with a smile, disregarding his oafishness, “ten fingers, ten toes, two long legs, and two long arms.” You continue, your heart filled with so much exultation as you continue to observe Harry’s expression. “But, the baby needs a daddy without cuts, bruises, and broken bones.” You pressure, drawing the conversation back to the ultimate plea. His eyes continue to gaze at you, uncertainty playing a role in the anxiousness you’re feeling, along with the nausea. “I can’t.” The words break your heart, your hopes of the baby changing things shattering entirely. “I can’t stop. I know it’s what you hoped and planned, but no.” He shakes his head,
“We can talk more when we get home, but I want to be there for you, holding your hair and your hand instead of you getting me ice and all.” He continues, minimizing the importance of your thoughts and feelings. You look at him, a little heartbroken that the announcement didn’t go to plan, maybe you shouldn’t have told him with the aspirations that the news would change his ambitions. “Here, I’ll drive.” He adds, gesturing for you to go over to the passenger side. You shake your head, not having many words for him, “baby, you don’t look too good, just let me drive.” He presses and you allow him to guide you to the passenger side.
For years you have stood by him, took charge of the aches and pains he’s put his body through, been to every doctor visit, every hospital call, you’ve been the best girlfriend, best wife he could possibly ask for. You’ve never expressed dissatisfaction when he’s woken you up at five in the morning because his ribs are killing him, you’ve never protested when you’ve had to care for him and keep him occupied while on bed rest, never once have you asked him to skip a fight or a training session. But, now is the time for him to stop, to invest in activities that don’t harm him in negative ways. You rest your head against the window, pretending to sleep as Harry drives, doing his best not to adjust his shoulder too much. The thought comes to your mind on whether you want to raise your child to be an athlete themselves, perhaps they’ll inherit the boxing trait from Harry, but do you really want the little one to come home in the same condition Harry does, black-and-blue with new scars?

***

To say Harry has been too interested in his boxing would be an understatement. Not being able to compete the last two months, (thanks to his shoulder), has put him in a full rage to uninterruptedly train and overwork his body, it’s as if he has to get his energy out to be able to stay sane.

It’s four in the morning when he rolls over and elbows you gently, thinking you’re already sound asleep, but to your disappointment the feeling of queasiness has been striking you every morning between two and eight for the past two weeks; carrying twins doesn’t make anything easier. “What?” You question, your eyes staring up at the ceiling as he slowly moves within the bed. You two haven’t been on best terms, primarily granting that you’ve had enough of everything, your hormonal outburst of emotions not making anything easier. “It hurts to breathe.” He lets out, striking your attention instantaneously. You’re used to the conventional aches and pains he feels after training and strings of events, the usual muscle cramps, hand bruising, and the occasional headaches that keep him up, but never has he griped over his breathing. “You fought tonight, didn’t you?” You hiss, coming to terms with the fact that he didn’t just decide to train from the hours of six to eleven this evening. “You’re a fucking idiot.” You growl, trying your hardest not to move within the bed, taking into consideration his body is presumable in a lot of pain.
“I appreciate the help.” He moans, pushing the covers off his body,
“Just like I appreciated your help the last two weeks.” You remind him of the mornings he slept through and how he has been a dreadful husband for not waking up and holding your hair or even making sure you’re okay. Sure, you’re a grown adult and can take care of yourself, but it’s pleasurable to have a husband who at least pretends to give a damn. “Oh c'mon, I’m a heavy sleeper, and breathing and morning sickness are two different things.” He coughs as he leans over to turn the light on, another grunt escaping his lips, “fuck.” He exclaims, lying back down on his back.
“I’m carrying two babies in me, and you want to compare that to your moronic decision to box and get hurt?” You ultimately question, sitting up in the warm bed and looking over at your spouse, who lies beside you with soreness. He rolls his eyes, biting his lip before taking a few deep breaths, “did you get examined by the physician after your fight?” You delicately ask, your heart tenderising as you take notice of the ache in his eyes, he nods, not giving you any detail on what the physician said with the examination, “care to share?” You challenge, needing more detail so you know whether you’re about to be making a trip the the emergency room or not.
“Probably bruised ribs, he said to get an X-ray in the morning. But, I didn’t go through with his directions.” He reports to you, reminding you of just how intellectually dull and stubborn your husband truely is.
“Lift up your bloody shirt.” You give preliminary instructions, your hands making their way to the hem of his shirt, he leisurely lifts the shirt with your assistance, your eyes trailing to his left rib cage that’s sketched with a hell of a sized carmine-coloured bruise. “You got the fuck knocked out of you.” You gape in amazement, his hands instantly grabbing yours as they inch closer to his side,
“Please, don’t touch.” He pleads. You delicately pull away from his hand and go against his wishes, very lightly placing your cold fingers on his ribcage. “You’re going to your doctor and getting checked out when his office opens, I don’t want to hear whining, you could have fractured your ribs.” You inform him intently, giving him no room to dispute your demands like he’s previously done before with certain injuries. “I hope you learn your lesson.” You grouch, getting out of the bed, putting your own discomfort aside for the moment. “Wait, where are you going. Don’t leave me.” He wails, somewhat humouring you as he requests you to stay. You ignore his comment, exiting the bedroom.

You re-enter into the bedroom walking over to your husbands side of the bed as he miserably lies on his back, “put this on your bruise.” You hand him the ice, “and sit up.” You brief, watching as he stares at you and shakes his head, “sit up so you can take these.” You wearily sigh, placing two pain killers on the side table, offering your hands to help him sit up. He places his hands in yours and you gradually help him sit up, your heart breaking with the grunts that escapes his lips. This is exactly why you wanted him to stop, distinctly the dislocated shoulder wasn’t enough, now he’s got bruised ribs, possibly even broken ribs and this could have been prevented if he had of listened. You definitely don’t want to raise the twins watching their fathers body deteriorate and become beaten and damaged. Not to mention your doctor couldn’t stress more that you don’t need any extra and unnecessary strain while carrying two little bundles of joy, they’re going to be stressful enough on your body. “Lie back down and try sleep.” You mutter, walking to your side of the bed and carefully getting between the sheets,
“Y/N, I can’t sleep.” He instantly comments, not even trying to close his eyes, his body far too awake and in too much discomfort to sleep just yet.
“Then reflect on how I asked you to stop boxing and your dumbass continued, and now you’re in more pain than ever.” You ungraciously grumble, giving him a little bit of tough love to try get your point across. For too long you’ve been too nurturing, understanding, and caring, which has ultimately landed the two of you in this position. “I can’t stop.” His voice is low and weak, full of exhaustion and soreness.
“Then you can’t complain.” You harshly respond, pulling at the covers and leisurely getting comfortable within the bed. You may be a little heartless within the conversation, but you refuse to move too much within the bed. If it wasn’t for being pregnant and already uncomfortable, you’d move to the couch to give him the whole bed to relax in. “Do you hate me?” His questions catches you off guard as you’re close to drifting off to sleep, for a moment you stay silent, beginning to feel guilty for how you’ve been treating him lately. “I know you’re not asleep.” He continues, his legs moving within the comfort of the sheets.
“No, why?” You murmur drowsily, curious as to what his response could possibly be. You haven’t been too mannerly to him, but it’s with good reason. You feel his hand gently find yours under the covers, “because I haven’t really been there for you when you’ve needed me. I kinda slept through all your morning sickness or I ignored it.” He expresses recognition of his terrible actions, his thumb rubbing over your knuckles and you allow him to continue holding your hand. Perhaps this is his strange way to apologise.
“You ignored it?” You interrogate, not entirely flabbergasted that he overlooked the dreaded mornings. You’d ignore them, too, if you could. He confirms with a nod,
“Yeah, when I had early training sessions I’d leave and you’d be throwing up still.” He reminds you of the times you’d actually managed to forget. “I really haven’t been the greatest.” He confesses with an extremely low voice.
“I want you to quit boxing.” You straight out comment, hoping that he will see the light and come to his damn senses.
“It’s all I have. I need it.” He disputes, still not raising his voice in the slightest. “I need to release my energy somewhere.” He continues, beginning to explain the advantages to his sport.
“I want you to stop. If you won’t stop for your own body, stop for me and your two little babies.” You delicately pressure, keeping your voice low, not wanting to argue with him, at least not while it’s four-forty-two in the morning and while he’s in pain and trying his best to conceal it.
“They won’t be here for another six months. I’ll stop then.” He breathes, somewhat compromising, but it still doesn’t satisfy you enough.
“I don’t want to go through this alone for another six months, you need to make a decision, and I hope you make the right one.” You whisper, your heart breaking as you’re forced to give him an ultimatum. You never expected your marriage to come to a point where giving an ultimatum to your husband would be such a thing. You expected to have to remind him of his stupid ideas, of how he can’t always lounge about in his boxers, or how he can’t sleep all day because too much sleep can be detrimental for him. Never did you expect to give him the ultimatum to choose between the person he loves or the sport he loves. You’re doing it for his own good, and for the family the two of you have made. After moments of silence, Harry’s voice cuts the air, “I want one last round.” He informs you, not allowing you to dispute his wishes. “One last round, I’m not stepping down after being defeated tonight. When I’m cleared by the doctor, I’m taking my last fight.” He composedly notifies you, making his decision.
“Harry, it’ll take a while to recover and get another match. At least three months.” You sigh, not wanting him to get his hopes up or to have one last fight and decide he wants more. It’s almost like boxing is his narcotic, he gets high off the adrenaline, and the sound of punches hitting skin.
“I need one last round.” He presses with a desperate tone,
“Harry, you’re out for the count. Two back to back injuries should be enough. What’s next after a dislocated shoulder and possible broken ribs?” You implore, not wanting to even think about the next injury he could perchance harbour. After all, they do say it comes in threes. “Please, one more?” He entreats, playing on your emotions as his voice stays soft and vulnerable. You nod, giving in. You can deal with one last round as long as it is the last round you’ll ever have to endure Harry coming home with new scars and battles painted on his skin. They say it comes in threes; hopefully Harry puts the myth to shame.

anonymous asked:

I don't want to be a conspiracy nut, however only paul has ever said anything about actual filming for dylan or hoech. The girl who took the hobrien vid, said she saw them walking around, but not filming. She just assumed they had. That kid Ben W. said he met both of them & they talked, but didn't say he saw either film (or he backtracked). It's just that no one, but paul has actually tied them to filming. I think they paid them to visit the set or doubles dressed as them! ugh

I put nothing past them!

  • [Gray and Erza are talking]
  • Natsu: *walks up to them*
  • Erza: Get out of here, Natsu. We're discussing an important mission.
  • Gray: Yeah!
  • Natsu: Aw man!
  • Gray: No, just kidding. I love you, man. Homo.
  • Natsu: Don't you mean no homo?
  • Gray: *shakes head* I mean full homo.
  • Natsu: For real?
  • Gray: Yeah, man. Be my date for the Guild Party?
  • Natsu: Oh, uh, yeah. Yeah!
  • Gray: Perfect. I'm thinking blue ties.
  • Natsu: Sure, if you actually keep your shirt on.
  • Erza: [in corner] I shipped it all along. *grin*

anonymous asked:

Was the sluah or what it's name is (sry can't remember) going to reappear in the season? Cause if so, maybe that was loping creature?

I’ve been encouraged to call the loping creature Bob. I like it. 

Who knows what Valack set lose from Eichen when he made his escape. I honestly don’t know if the sluagh will return, but I think it’s likely. The sluagh actually ties in with the Wild Hunt as well. 

They made a point of including it in dialogue, and Valack specifically tied it to Stiles. It might come back to “haunt him” the coming season. 

Valack: Tell me what you just saw. 
Stiles: Me? 
Valack: The creature in the previous cell. The Sluagh. The myth is that they can take on the appearance of the lost souls that have become inextricably bound to it. Happen to have seen any lost souls, Mr. Stilinski? 
Stiles: Everyone down here. 
Valack: Don’t give up on us yet. We’re all works-in-progress.


This is what Stiles saw at first glance

This is what was really in there

Also when they were emptying their pockets, this is what is in the box

This is what Stiles sees  - the linchpin that he removed and brought down the scaffolding on Donovan. But it’s not really there

So Stiles saw “echos” of Donovan in the episode the visited Eichen House. But only in Eichen House. Where the sluagh is (and Valack for that matter).

The only other time he’s had a “vision” relating to Donovan he saw himself as the one impaled and bleeding mercury… 

I am generally pretty terrible at mythology. I love reading about it and learning about it, but I always feel like i forget stuff or botch it up when I try my hand at it. 

You’d probably be better of reading this meta by legacy-and-ploy​ about the slugah… Just saying. 

But here goes… 

The Sluagh (also called the Underfolk, The Wild Hunt, or The Host of Unforgiven Dead), has haunted Irish folklore for thousands of years. So although Lydia mentioned Woden’s Hunt the sluagh is in a way the Irish version of the the Wild Hunt. And we know how Jeff loves to mishmash his mythology, picking and choosing. 

Speaking of Lydia… The Slugah is actually called sluagh sidhe which makes it in the “sidhe” family alongside Lydia who is a banshee = bean sidhe in the Irish mythology. This makes both part of the sidhe aka fae. Which might mean a possible connection between the two. 

The Sluagh exists on stealing the souls of the living, and especially the dying. Huddling and hiding in forgotten and dark places, they lay in wait for nightfall. Once the sun has left the sky, they strike out, in what, to the untrained or unsuspecting eye, appears to be a vast and ominous flock of large ravens or other birds. Flapping wings, screeching, and a whirlwind of undulating shadows are all you’d witness as the Sluagh descends for an attack. Owing to the folklore of the Wild Hunt, countless cultures and legends still link black birds (and especially ravens) as evil omens or signals of upcoming misfortune. 

The sluagh appears as a vast an ominous flock of large ravens or other birds. Interesting. So the sluagh isn’t actually ravens, but can still flocks of birds be a sign of the sluagh approaching? 

And we’ve certainly seen flocks of birds… 

A large flock of birds crashed into the classroom in Jennifer’s first lesson. (although was it because of her, Lydia or Stiles?)

Stiles: Okay. What if it’s, like, the same thing as the deer? You know, like, how animals start acting weird right before an earthquake or something?
Lydia: Meaning what? There’s gonna be an earthquake?
Stiles: Or something. I just… maybe it means something’s coming. Something bad.

Once again Stiles’ intuition is scary good. Something bad is coming and it’s been coming and building for a while. Was this a sign that the Hunt was drawing closer? Had the sluagh arrived in town? 

Melissa and the sheriff found records of a girl brought in with slash marks and thought to be Jennifer Blake. The strangest thing though was the birds that attacked… 

Sheriff: Birds? 
Melissa: Hundreds of them. While the patient was in the O.R. struggling to hold on, hundreds of birds were flying into the walls, windows, like they were committing some kind of mass suicide. 
Sheriff: Or like they were sacrificing themselves. 
Melissa: For what? 
Sheriff: Not what. Who.

Again - why were the birds there? And was that in relation to a previous attempt by the doctors to create La Bete? Possibly Peter? And was Jennifer playing a part in it? A part she shouldn’t be playing? She went from druid to darach - did she become an abomination as well, something the Hunt needed to right? We do get hints that Peter and Jennifer are acquainted in some shape or form when he finds her by the Nemeton and we’re lead to think he killed her (I’ve not seen a body, so who knows).

And we now have the flock of dead birds outside Tracy’s window.

We also have her seeing a bird trying to get in her window. Was that visions from the doctors or the Hunt approaching?

And there is a bird stationed outside Eichen House in the opening scene with Lydia at Eichen House.

Black birds also flew out of Belasko when he was killed. Was that why the experiment on him didn’t work? The hunt somehow intervened? 

I don’t know. The ravens/birds might be more tied to the elusive Raven trickster we’ve been waiting for since void!stiles mention it in season 3b. 

More fun stuff about the slugah

The foulest and most dreaded of the realm of Faerie, the Sluagh was more feared than even Death itself. Death was easy. The Sluagh, now that was something entirely different. Even Death has no choice but to defer to the Sluagh, in an otherworldly race for the immortal souls of the living.

And humans are still very much their prey. The Sluagh exists on stealing the souls of the living, and especially the dying. 

I’m pretty sure this is the more “ christianised ” version of it. I think I remember reading somewhere that in celtic mythology the sluagh is part of the Unseelie court and considered more dangerous than many of the other members. They liked to hurt people and did stuff like replace children with changelings. 

The slugah can also be summoned by saying the name “sluagh”, or through the hopelessness of one’s heart. 

The sluagh is also connected to Samhain which is when the Wild Hunt is said to be very active. We just started the school year and it wouldn’t surprise me if season 5b would culminate around Halloween and Samhain. 

I’m going to stop now before I embarrass myself further. I usually leave the mythology stuff to others with better knowledge. I already mentioned this meta by cody which goes into more details, and here’s a link to a followup by alexfry01 that goes into the differences to original Celtic mythology. 

I lost my phone on campus yesterday and thankfully someone handed it in and I had explain my phone in its entirety to get it back and he made me describe my lock screen and I was like “There’s a guy and girl sitting with a puppy” and he’s handing back the phone he asks are they a couple? And I just said yes and left. 😂 😂 😂

I think the enduring appeal of Sherlock Holmes has always been global, actually. I don’t think this is a phenomenon tied in with our success, I think it’s to do with Conan Doyle’s extraordinary invention which has a universal appeal to all nationalities. This is a man who is an outsider, who’s intelligent, who doesn’t tolerate mediocrity, who’s incredible efficient but also has his weaknesses and comeuppances. I think the ability to turn the mundane and average and normal into a pop-up world of potential adventure - you know, you never know where it’s going to lead.
—  Benedict Cumberbatch, Behind-the-scenes of The Abominable Bride (x)