an earth moon’s heart is full, but she is hard like a forest floor. yet, every single day, new things grow in the forest, and form treetops and flora. it gives a home to forest animals and humans that dare to adventure into it. it’s alive and thriving, and so are earth moons.
an air moon’s heart is empty, but only because she is up in the clouds, running, dreaming, flying. she’s breathing in new experiences and emotions that don’t even exist yet. she’s found peter and she’s on her way to neverland as we speak, she doesn’t ever want to come down.
a fire moon’s heart is overflowing, you cannot keep her contained. she needs release, spirit, adventure. she’s sprinting through cities and setting everyone and everything in her way ablaze with stories, emotions and life. she’s reaching for the clouds and burning the planet to it’s core. she’s everywhere, everything and more.
a water moon’s heart is waiting at the bottom of the ocean. she’s seen everything the world has to offer and she’s not done yet. she’s catapulting into space. she’s created the oceans. she’s filled herself to the brim and she’s filling others too. she has so much to offer that her own tiny body cannot contain it all.
so I love Agents of SHIELD don’t get me wrong but what if…there was a lighthearted show about SHIELD? Like agents who aren’t involved in all of the life-threatening missions?
“Oh god Cristina sent out another spam email about her lunch in the fourth floor breakroom fridge…someone stop her.”
“Hey, what did Director Fury say during that speech? I spaced out after he mentioned percentages.” “Oh, same. I think it was about cutting back on the printer costs. Ask Coulson about it.”
They tell all the newbies the urban legends that SHIELD has. Like the legend that Natasha Romanoff will protect you if you leave her three bottles of wine and a knife sharpener at her house. (No one knows where she lives, that’s the fun part of it.) Or the legend that Director Fury used to have hair. “No one has pictures, but they think that Coulson might have one,” one of the techies whispers.
Maria Hill is a walking legend. She’s the Director’s righthand person, and for good reason. She can handle anything with absolutely zero reaction. (She comes into work covered in glitter one day, and no one questions it except for Barton. Hill responds that she was making a card for her niece. Everyone knows that that isn’t true, mainly because Maria used to live in the middle of nowhere, and she hates her family. True story.)
The agents have a feud, like the scientists versus the fields. Only it’s much wider. The desk agents hate the field agents, because it’s like the sports vs. arts departments in school; the funding goes to sports (the field agents) while the art students get a budget, but it’s about enough to pay a pack of cheap paintbrushes and a gallon of paint. The desks’ biggest success to date is stealing the best coffee machine from the fields.
There’s a trend started by Coulson after an agent was caught stealing extra staples, and he asked him “Do you think Captain America would think this is a good idea?” The trend starts because a.) everyone at SHIELD knew that Steve Rogers was a reckless idiot who jumped out of planes with no plan or parachute and b.) Coulson’s basically a dad. (Honest-to-god they had a company picnic and the man wore black socks with sandals.)
And as for the company picnics??? don’t go if you can’t shoot. They have a paintball war. Last year Agent 13 couldn’t be found for six hours. It turns out she fell asleep in a tree. Barton won by not giving up. Fury grills burgers. They’re legendary. You do not want to trust whoever made the potato salad if there’s not a placard by it because almost every year the potato salad is bad in some way.
There are SHIELD memes that get passed down through every generation. They have a phrase that basically means “don’t be stupid” but instead they say “don’t pull a Harrison” after an old agent accidentally let a serial killer get away by being distracted by a puppy. (it happens too often.) Melinda May is the starter of at least four, because she used to be this huge prankster. She even pranked Fury once.
Secret Santas are legendary. You always want to participate.
Everyone talks about the time Natasha Romanoff showed up to work in an insanely ugly Christmas sweater. Clint said he made it. No one was surprised.
They have contests for who can give the best excuse as to why they didn’t do their paperwork. Maria Hill, surprisingly, is in the lead.
“I accidentally went to Russia and left my paperwork in St. Peter’s Basilica,” she said boredly. “Whoops.”
(this is probably gonna be a long oneshot and once there’s more it’ll be on ao3 but for now, let me know what you think?)
There are things that Kent can handle, and then there are things that Kent cannot, under any circumstances, in any universe, even begin to handle.
As it turns out, watching Jack Zimmermann, Alexei Mashkov, Randall Robinson, and Sebastian St. Martin attempt to build a deck is one of the things that he can’t handle, because holy fucking shit.
It’s about a million degrees out, and they’re all shirtless and covered in sweat and, yeah, it’s the off season, but they’re still professional fucking hockey players, for fucks sake, and Kent realizes then and there that accepting the invitation to spend the week at Jack and Bitty’s new cottage was definitely a mistake because, really.
Except for Mashkov, everybody brought their families, and they’re all friends, and they’re all teammates, and Kent is 99% sure that his invite was a pity one prompted by the Aces losing the Stanley Cup in game seven against the Stars, and he can’t help but feel like he doesn’t belong there at all, and he can’t help but think it’s because he doesn’t.
Here are all the illustrations for my 36k Dean/Cas fairy AU Our Garden Home, which is finally completed after 19 months!! Hands-down, it’s the most personal (and cutest) story I’ve ever written, with lots of hard topics all wrapped up in a childlike narrative. If you crave some flowers, cuddles, or “tiny disabled fairy vs. society” adventures in your life, this fic is what you need.
Working as a prostitute (that’s ‘sex worker’ to the decent folks), Castiel has heard more than his fair share of odd requests. When he’s paid to spend a night with Dean Winchester (handsome, dork of all dorks, has a nice car… secretly a cop), the last thing Castiel expects to hear are the words “I wanna make love.” That’s the one thing he’s never done before – so Dean is going to show him how to do it. But then, barely a month after that night is over, Castiel finds himself in a difficult situation, and Dean is mistakenly summoned to help. They begin to share again: Dean’s apartment, the spare bed, their deepest secrets. Over time, with the support of Dean’s brother Sam, a mystery dog, and lots of cuddles, kisses, comfort, and tea, maybe Cas can finally be loved the way he deserves.
A man enters an office supply store. He was a mere mortal seconds before, but as he passes through the door he becomes a customer. His superior gaze drifts across his domain and settles on the cashier.
“Do you sell stamps?” he asks.
“Yes,” I say,” However-”
“I want one.”
“However, we sell them only in sets of ten.”
“But I want one.”
“I’m sorry, Sir, but I can’t sell you a single stamp.”
“Can’t you just…” He (skillfully) mimicks the act of ripping apart paper.
Clearly, I have never thought of this. My simple mind grapples with the idea. I realize I am dealing with a genius, and yet, I regretfully inform him, “Sorry. They come on stickersheets, and anyways, the barcode–”
“Well that’s just rubbish,” he informs me. He is right. I realize this now. His genius ignites a spark within me.
“You are right,” I tell him as I take fifteen sheets of stamps into my hands and begin to tear them apart. I type 0,019 stamps and press a non-existent key on the register. I hold out a quarter of a stamp to the customer (with a smile), but he shakes his head (without a smile). I rip apart all the stamps I can find, desperate to please him, for he has gifted this humble store with his presence. From the pieces, I begin to assemble a perfect, custom-made stamp. It is worth exactly 66,66€. I single-handedly reprogramme not only my cash desk, but the entire system. It can now scan any stamp in (or out of) existence. It is raining stamps. I am smiling.
Two hours later, it is done. Beaming, and covered in the torn remains of hundreds of unfortunate stamps, I hold the perfect stamp out to The Customer. He accepts it. I rejoice. It might just be my high fever and blurry gaze, but I think the right corner of his mouth moved upwards for exactly half a second. I am blessed.
He licks the stamp and slaps it onto a letter. He wants to lend a pen. I lend him a pen. When he is done, he holds the letter out to me expectantly. He does not say a word, my silent angel, but I can tell what he wants. Thus is our connection. There is nothing, I assure you, nothing I would have rather done than to accept his letter, on my knees, with tears of gratitude streaming down my cheeks… But alas:
“I want to send the letter,” my dear customer finally says, after the silence has stretched into infinity and back.
“Oh, I’m sorry, Sir,” I say with a polite smile, brushing stamps off my shoulders, “We don’t accept mail. We only sell stamps.”
After all, you can’t make exceptions to a well-established rule in the workplace.
The customer doesn’t bat an eyelash. “That’s okay,” he says with a disarming smile. “I wouldn’t ask the impossible of you.”
As he turns to walk away, a single tear rolls down my cheek. I wipe it off with a stamp that wears his majestic face, hand-stitched by me.
I don’t tell him there’s a mailbox around the corner.