because he's always been the one who carried the mythology anyways

Somewhere between Heaven and Hell/I Love You More

Okay, so - I don’t really know what to make of this episode. We know Davy Perez is all about brotherhood and family dynamics, and it looks like he forced quite a few things to be able to tell the story he wanted to tell. Which was, overall, good. I mean, I’m less than thrilled that he had to rewrite so many plot points and queercode every single villain to get there, but it was an interesting episode. What it also was - all about Sam and Dean, and whatever the hell is happening now between them, so it turns out the title had less to do with Crowley and Cas than I’d assumed (which is worrying, becase ‘between Heaven and Hell’ - that’s literally where Sam and Dean were in season 4, and boy, those were fun times).

Just to get it out of the way, a short list of OOC things:

  • Dean is absolutely not the kind of person who’d wear the same underwear for four days and walk around - or, Jesus Christ, sit down in his stupidly beloved car - covered in entrails if he had any other choice. Which he clearly had, because Sam looked freshly showered, so.
  • Ghouls, wraiths and sirens don’t live together, so either Dean went without a shower for two weeks, or, what? They found an underground poker den full of magical creatures? That was weird.
  • Also, sirens do interesting things to their victims - show, you lose several points for using one on an offscreen case.
  • I thought Sam was done assuming Dean is an idiot? Apparently not, though. And is Dean playing along, or just badly written? Still on the fence on that one.
  • Crowley is so fickle. Or, at least, written that way. He can’t be angry and bad-tempered one second, and flirting with Dean the next. That’s not how it works - or, it shouldn’t be.
  • And - he’s got a soul, now? Is this canon? Because if it is, it’s Big News. Of course, it’s possible Lucifer was just grandstanding and dicking around, but if so, one line of dialogue would have made that clear (“I’ll eat your soul. Not that you have one - figure of speech.”), and instead - what?
  • Cas is in some town where they kill angels (and, remember, we’ve got two Princes of Hell on the loose, one of them, we know, is taking an active interest in Kelly) and Dean’s like, Okay, sounds like fun, bye? I’m just - okay, then.
  • Master of secrecy Sam Winchester waited weeks to make his case to Dean about the BMoL, and then just chose to blurt it all out at the worst possible moment because Mick was calling him? Uh.

See, I know I say this every other week, but you can’t just pick and mix. If you write for a show with twelve season of canon behind it, you need to be more careful about balancing that canon with what you need to happen in a specific episode. 

Then again, apparently the target audience here is this mythological ‘casual viewer’ who wouldn’t notice any of those things, so, whatever.

I’m not bitter.

Moose and Not Moose

I was slightly uneasy about their relationship before, and now I’m downright worried. Because Sam and Dean were clearly paralleled with Gwen and Marcus, and what the hell was up with that? 

I mean - Gwen is this brilliant young thing going off to university, while Marcus, sweet and goofy, stays behind. He’s happy for her to go because it’s a great opportunity, but, of course, will miss her like crazy and hopes they can keep having the same kind of relationship even when Gwen’s away. Meanwhile, Gwen knows she’ll dump him the second she gets to college and move on to bigger and better things.

(Seriously - how much more obvious can they get?)

Also, Gwen has to stay and watch while Marcus is torn apart by Hellhounds.

(Okay, I take that back.)

Now, this is neither nefarious nor unusual. Sam and Dean get mirrored with random characters every week - that’s how shows work. And it doesn’t even mean anything subtextually, because, come on, they’re brothers, okay, so it’s a different kind of love, and of course they would know about each other’s underwear - they’ve basically been sharing a room for thirty years. It’s not weird.

What is weird, on the other hand, is what Gwen said: I liked Marcus. He was sweet and kind. And he loved me. More than I ever loved him. 

What are we supposed to take away from this?

I don’t think this is to be read at face value, ie that Dean loves Sam more than Sam loves Dean. I think that what we see here is the same thing we keep seeing about their relationship - what we’ve seen for years and years: that there’s an unbalance there, because they do not behave like brothers, but like parent and child - which is what they are. Dean raised Sam, after all. I mentioned two weeks ago this little detail of Sam being completely unprepared to take off Dean’s clothes and look for symptoms of a lethal curse, and here it is again: the parent/child coding. Sam can be fine without Dean, because that’s what children do. They wander off on their own, generally don’t call, and never, ever realize how much their parents are hurt by this, and how much they worry about them, their wellbeing and their happiness. And it’s no use complaining, because, after all, they’re supposed to make you miserable, as Bobby angrily reminded Dean, right before comparing the relationship John had with Sam with the choices Dean was making. Because, again, subtext, or whatever. In any case - things may be slightly different now, because Sam’s weird and dented (although, we’re still not focusing on that, and aaaaargh), but before - when they were Gwen and Marcus’ age - yeah, that’s exactly what happened. Sam went away to his renowned university, and he was fine and happy and had a whale of a time, and meanwhile Dean was - we don’t know. Hunting on his own, experimenting with drugs, left behind by his father, getting his heart broken by Cassie after a two-weeks relationship he took too damn seriously because he had nothing else.

Getting torn apart by a Hellhound is certainly a quicker way to die, though the jury’s still out on the levels of pain.

Keep reading


(n) the strange wistfulness of used bookshops.

Contains: fluff

Words: 2.4K

Summary: In the midst of yellowed books and wooden shelves, Seokjin found love in the form of a very special custumer.

Originally posted by kths

A/N: I was planning for this to have a heartbreaking ending, but changed my mind because I couldn’t bring myself to do it lmao Anyways, hope you guys like it! I’m pretty proud of the way this one turned out. You can also see how I’m a hoe for pretty words as titles. 

There were many reasons for Kim Seokjin to leave his work in that little old bookstore. The smell of mold that pervaded his nostrils; the eternal layer of dust that seemed to accumulate daily on the wooden shelves (even being cleaned religiously almost every morning); the dusty windows that hardly ever opened; the monotony of endless days; rude customers; and, finally, the anguish of always being surrounded by works, but lacking any desire to read any of them. 

But of course, not everything was bad, and the boy noticed it the first time you showed up. 

Keep reading

The giving tree

“Once there was a tree…. and she loved a little boy.” 

Stiles and I had been best friends for as long as I could remember. From the time in the sandbox in preschool. I remember stumbling into the box but I didn’t have any toys to play with, than a cute freckled boy handed me his shovel and I gave him a big smile and we played together for the rest of break time. We then played together for the rest of the year.

When Stiles and I were six we did everything together, he was my best friend. He even convinced me to join little league softball team when we were eight. We joined a bowling league together when we were nine. We just shared birthday parties since we had all the same friends. We had sleepovers and family game nights. I loved Stiles more than anything.

“And everyday the boy would come and he would gather her leaves and make them into crowns and play king of the forest.”

One day in summer right before sophomore year Stiles called me.

“Wanna hang out today?” Stiles asked me.

“Sure.” I smiled happily.

We drove down to the local preserve and started walking. Something Stiles and I normally did. We had been coming here since we were little we always found something new and interesting to play with or look at. Sometimes we’d even come at night to watch the stars or listen to the sounds of the animals and rushing water from the river near by. It was our special place.

We walked for a little before we stopped and sat down by the trunk of a tree, the fallen leaves making a cushion for us. Stiles smirked and made little crowns out of the leaves and placed one on my head and one on his.

“I now am the official king of this forest. I will rule this land with peace and prosperity. And I hear by crown you my queen of the land.” he said in a fake british accent. I giggled.

“Why thank your King Stiles, I am quite honored.” We both smiled and laughed.

“And they would play hide-and-go-seek. And when he was tired, he would sleep in her shade.” 

We eventually Stiles and I got bored and sat in silence for a while.

“Hey wanna play hide and seek?” I questioned.

“Sure. You count first!” he screamed as he started running away. I giggled but covered my eyes anyway.

“1…2…3″ I shouted with my eyes closed. “……60! Ready or not here I come!” I screamed when I was done counting.

I walked around the forest looking for Stiles. Eventually I found him hiding up in a tree.

“Dang I thought you’d never find me.” 

“Well I did so…start counting!” I screamed as I ran away.

I found a hiding place behind this really big rock pretty far away from where he was. I smirked when I heard him scream ‘ready or not here I come’ and started walking in the opposite direction I was in. After a while I wondered if he was ever going to find me. I leaned to peek around the rock to see if he was coming when I felt two arms around my waist and I was lifted off the ground and spun around as I screamed.

“Ha! Gotcha!” Stiles laughed.

“Stiles I hate you.” I giggled.

We played a few more rounds and it started to get dark.

“Hey Y/N I’m getting tired can we just go back to your place?”

“Yeah of course.”

Stiles and I went back to my house and snuggled into my bed. My parents didn’t care if he slept over because he’s practically lived here since preschool. And besides they liked Stiles, they knew he was a good kid.

“And the boy loved the tree…. very much. And the tree was happy.” 

As Stiles and I cuddled in bed and talked about nothing and everything he said something that caught me off guard.

“Y/N, you know I love you right?”

“Yeah, I do.” I smiled. 


I nuzzled my head further into the crook of his neck and went to sleep unbelievably happy.

“But time went by. And the boy grew older. And the tree was often alone.” 

I sat as I continuously watched Stiles and Malia practically undressing each other with their eyes during lunch. I let out a sigh. Don’t get me wrong I like Malia, I’m so happy that she makes Stiles happy. I would do anything to keep that boy happy. He deserved more than anyone to be happy. He was a great guy who deserved the world. And if she could give that to im than I’m happy. I just wished it was me…but I’m okay with being the best friend as long as he’s in my life.

Stiles hasn’t really talked to me much recently though. There’s always something new with Scott or Malia or even Lydia. He was with his dad a lot too. Not to mention he was getting ready for college. And then the new bad guys of the town came in and I just became nonimportant. Which I get. Saving the town is way more important than hanging out with me.

So I often spent my nights alone pented up in my room watching all reruns of shows I’ve seen a million times.

“But the boy stayed away for a long time…. and the tree was sad. And then one day the boy came back and the tree shook with joy.”

It was now senior year and I haven’t talked or hung out with Stiles since the end of the last school year. It was starting to take a huge tool on me. I missed Stiles. A lot. I literally did nothing without him. I was just so used to always being with him that when he was busy I didn’t really have any other friends. Sadly enough, I even spent some nights of my summer crying over my best friend because it seemed that he had forgotten about me.

It was noon on Saturday when there was a knock on my door. I went to answer it and when I opened the door, it revealed a lanky freckled boy.

“Stiles!” I smiled and jumped into his arms. He wrapped his arms tightly around me and laughed.

Boy, I missed that laugh, and the smell of him, and the feeling of his arms around me. I just missed him. I was so happy that I was literally shaking in his arms.

“And so the boy cut off her branches and carried them away to build his house.”

“Hey Y/N, I came over because I needed some help with our recent problem.”

“Oh, okay.” 

“Yeah what do you know about Dread Doctors?”

I was really skilled in the mythology department. I sighed seeing how Stiles came here just for information. But i obeyed and told him everything I knew about them and some extra stuff that might come in handy.

“Thanks Y/N! See you later!” he said as he walked out the door, after he got what he wanted.

“Bye Stiles.” I whispered even though he was already gone.

“And the tree was happy. But the boy stayed away for a long time. And when he came back, the tree was so happy she could hardly speak.”

It was towards the end of the school when Stiles came over again. When I opened the door to reveal his face I almost cried. I certainly couldn’t talk at first. I just pulled him into my arms and held him tight.

“I missed you.” I whispered.

“Come, Boy,” she whispered, “come and play.” “I am too old and sad to play,” said the boy. “I want a boat that will take me far away from here. Can you give me a boat?” “Cut down my trunk and make a boat,” said the tree. “Then you can sail away… and be happy." 

“Stiles do you want to hang out, we can go to the forest?” I asked him.

“No, don’t you think we’re too old for that. And besides I’m too sad to do anything.”

“Why are you upset Stiles?”

“Because everything just kinda fell apart you know. Malia and I broke up, Scott hates me, I have nowhere to go. I can’t stay here anymore Y/N. This town is horrible and everywhere I look it’s only bad memories.” That hurt me more than he could ever know.

“I need to get out of here Y/N, help me get out.” he cried.

Oh my god he was crying. I knew I had to help him.

“Stiles, it’s going to be okay. I have some money I’ve been saving, uh you can use it. Buy a plane ticket and rent an apartment with it. Be happy.”

“Thank you.” he said wiping his eyes.

“And so the boy cut down her trunk and made a boat and sailed away. And the tree was happy … but not really.”

Stiles took my money and got on the first plane he could. I was happy for him, he was finally getting what he wanted. But deep down the only thing inside me was sadness. The boy I loved just walked out with my money and left. I would probably never see him again. But hey, he was happy.

“And after a long time the boy came back again. "I am sorry, Boy,” said the tree,“ but I have nothing left to give you -” 

Four years later I was on summer break from college and came back to Beacon Hills. When a firmalar boy headed freckled boy showed up at my door step.

“Stiles.” I whispered. I pulled him into a hug and held him tight.

“I’m sorry, I have nothing left to give you. All my money is in college. I can’t help you anymore-I’m so sorry.” I said on the verge of tears.

“I don’t need very much now,” said the boy. “just a quiet place to sit and rest. I am very tired.” “Well,” said the tree, straightening herself up as much as she could, “well, an old stump is good for sitting and resting Come, Boy, sit down. Sit down and rest." 

“It’s okay Y/N, I don’t need anything from you,I just need a place to call home.” he told me.

“Well I would love to be your home Stiles.” I answered him.

“Thank you.” he whispered.

“Come on in, you probably hungry.” I said leading him inside.

“And the boy did. And the tree was happy.”

Stiles came inside and never left. And I was once again happy.

A/N: Oh my god this took me forever to write! But honestly it’s my favorite thing I’ve written so far :) Please message me and tell me what you thought of this!




Tallemaja: Newt x Reader Imagine


Summary: A fluffy little one-shot imagine based on this Anon request:

Anonymous said: May I have a Newt x reader where the reader is researching Swedish folklore?            

Hope you like it, love!!

Word Count: 3706

Originally posted by hardyness

You sighed, frustrated, running your fingers through your hair as you attempted to sift through your notes to find what you were looking for.

Papers and a few small journals were scattered all across the table in the café you currently occupied, a steaming cup of tea in front of you. Some of the books were open and the notes themselves were a mix of neatly documented notes next to more hasty scribblings and dates. The notes that were not so neat were virtually illegible to anybody except for you. Here and there, careful drawings lay strewn throughout the mix. You were just beginning to ask yourself what the whole point of all this was if you could hardly find anything, anyway - but at that exact moment you finally found the paper you had been looking for.

It was a drawing of a creature, although she so human-like in appearance that you hardly could have told the difference, despite the fact that she had a cow tail flicking out from underneath her skirt. There were notes in Swedish scrawled along the sides of the paper - these were yours; locations, hunches, details, compiled after painstaking research and hastily scribbled in the margins of the best picture you had got.

You had unceremoniously ripped the page from a library book, something that normally horrified you. But you couldn’t carry the whole book with you on your trip, and more than that, you couldn’t afford to buy the actual copy. You would have, had you had the money, because it had been a particularly well done book on Swedish folklore, but you had saved for months and months for this trip already.

Most of your fellow witches and wizards dismissed non-magical folklore, thinking it a giant joke and a supreme waste of time. You knew better.

You knew that, even if not entirely accurate, even if non-magical tradition got mixed in and some details went astray, that folklore was an excellent place to research actual magical creatures and beings. You had grown up with these stories, your mother and father reading them to you as a child, and they had always fascinated you. The Dwarves, with their dislike of the sun; the beautiful Elven maidens, living in the forest or in the meadows, described as more beautiful than the sun; the Trolls, slow, hairy, half-witted. You had declared, from a very young age, that you would go out on an expedition and find these creatures. Your parents had just taken it as something any curious, excitable, and adventurous five year old like yourself would say - laughed, patted your head, told you they couldn’t wait to hear all about it.

Your five year old self hadn’t been kidding around. You had been dead serious, and when you were dead serious about something, you were going to do it. Your passion and interests hadn’t faded, and neither had your convictions. It didn’t matter that you had had to spend an entire year just to save up to be able to do this in your own country, scraping to get by; it didn’t matter that you had to rip pages out of library books; it didn’t matter that still, no one was taking you seriously. You had made do, and you were here.

Your first official expedition.

It had been difficult, knowing where to begin and where to look. The only favorable thing about needing to save up the money and having to budget so carefully was that it had given you time to research. After months of poring over library books of historical mythology and all of the various accounts, you had found a forest where it was claimed that many disappearances had taken place. You had even found a guided walking tour into that same forest, advertising the mythological aspects.

Touristy, but it would suit your purposes nicely. A walking tour meant you could easily try and slip away.

You stuffed your papers into your notebook, except for your drawing with the labels and the notes; this you stuck into your coat pocket. You glanced around the café and drained your cooking tea in one gulp, packed your belongings, and moved outside, where the tour was designated to meet and begin with an hour or so of driving until you reached the forest near the mountains, exactly where the disappearances were supposed to have taken place.

A small group of people were already milling about by the front door. You gave them each an awkward smile an a nod, assuming they were the group you were going to join, but not wanting to socialize. You hitched your backpack up and over your shoulder a bit more and leaned against the wall, waiting for the tour to begin.

The van finally stopped and the tour guide, along with the tour group, spilled out of it eagerly, a few chatting among themselves. You hadn’t seen the point in getting too friendly, seeing as you had plans to bail on them as soon as possible. The man sitting next to you in the van, a rather awkward and yet attractive dark blonde in a blue coat, had luckily seemed to be thinking along the same lines as you; he had kept his gaze intently out the window.

The forest was beautiful ancient. the air crisp that day and a bit cold but the sun was shining, filtering through the trees until a portion of it kissing floor below. You shivered from the cold, but also from anticipation and a sudden bout of nervousness about what you were seriously attempting to do.

It was about half an hour into the tour that you saw your opportunity. The tour guide - who had, the entire tour, made spooky references to the disappearances of men in that forest, sometimes right where they were standing - as well as the other participants were facing the other direction. The tour guide was talking intently about something and you had been hovering behind, waiting for your chance. You grabbed it now.

Slinging your pack higher on your back, you edged off the pathway as quickly and quietly as possible and melted into the forest behind you. You hurried away before anyone could notice you, quickly and quietly; you didn’t hear any calls yet, or any shouting, so you assumed your presence had gone unnoticed so far. It was a good thing no one had been particularly chatty with you on the way up, but you had been careful to exude a very standoffish presence to achieve this exact goal.

Satisfied that you were far enough away, you slipped your wand out of your jacket pocket, your breathing suddenly becoming quicker, more pronounced. Here, in the thicker trees, there was less sunlight. It had been far easier to be brave and confident on that sunny pathway in the group of people and in the comfort of the tour. Chastising yourself and pursing your lips determinedly, you hurried forward.

The truth was, you had no idea of the true nature of what you were looking for. The stories were too varied to be certain. creature in particular was consistently described as a beautiful woman with a cow’s tail; but the personality varied. Some accounts had the woman luring men into the forest, never to be seen again. Others had the woman leave humans be, as long as they were not too rude; and yet others said she was friendly to humans.

You had been walking for only a few minutes, wand drawn, when you turned sharply around a tree and ran straight into another body.

You gasped and, with a loud thud, toppled backward to the ground. When you whipped your head up, lying there on the ground with your heart racing, you caught a flash of blue. Your eyes traveled up to see the same man from your tour; the one that had sitting next to you on the van. He was standing over you, looking bewildered.

You scrambled to your feet, desperately searching for your wand, which had clattered somewhere in the dirt and leaves when you fell.

You saw him bend and pick up something that had been lying on one of his feet. Breath hitching, you saw it was your wand.

He held it out to you. “Looking for your wand?” He was British, you could tell by the accent. His face, upon closer inspection, was certainly attractive. His eyes were a lovely, light shade of green and his face was dotted with freckles. The faintest half-smile graced his face as he took in your disheveled form very curiously, eyes flicking across your face.

Shocked to the core, you took it from him, eyes wide. “H-how did you…”

He pulled out another, albeit longer, wand from his front jacket pocket as an answer, looking even more amused as you stared at it, taking a second to process the implications. “You’re a wizard!” you exclaim with a gasp. “What are you doing here? Why did you leave the group?”

“I could ask you the same questions,” he replied, raising his eyebrows. He cocked his head to the side. “You have an accent when you speak English. Are you Swedish?”

“Yes.” You waited for him to speak again but he did not. He was merely slightly hunched over, peeking up at you every once in a while but his eyes darting constantly around the forest. “I asked you first what you’re doing,” you pressed further, urging him to answer you.

“Looking for…something,” he answered evasively.

You narrowed your eyes at him. “What’s your name?”

“Newton Scamander,” he answered promptly. “But you should just call me Newt.” He still wouldn’t meet your eyes for most of the conversation, and you were beginning to wonder why.

“What are you looking for, Newt Scamander?”

He glanced up at you again. “Isn’t it my turn to ask a few?”

You sigh. “Sure.”

“What are you doing here?”

“Looking for something,” you mimicked, purposefully evasive and innocent.

His mouth quirked into a half smile. “Fair enough. What’s your name?”

“Y/N,” you replied.

“You looked quite purposeful, Y/N. Did you leave the group on purpose?”

“Erm…sort of.”

He gazed at you curiously a bit longer, though it was still never for too long. Finally, he spoke. “Well since we’re both already looking for something, might as well figure out what that may be….I could, erm, help you, if you like. I’m quite good at finding things.”

Your eyes met his green ones. He really was quite adorable, standing there awkwardly shuffling his feet. You sighed and began to explain. “I’m looking for Tallemaja. The maiden of the forest, Hulda…She has many names. You know…from Swedish folklore?”

But he looked confused, so you elaborated further. “She looks like a woman in all of the accounts. A very beautiful woman, but she has the tail of a cow. Or sometimes a fox. And sometimes in the stories, she has the back of a tree, too.” He was staring at you now in such a way that you blushed, suddenly self-conscious. “I know it’s a bit of a strange thing to be looking for.”

“It’s not that,” he countered quickly. “But..why exactly?”

“Mostly to prove that she exists,” you answer simply. “I always loved folklore. I found it a really great way to find magical creatures. Non-magical folk sure miss a lot, but they don’t miss everything.”

“I find that true as well,” he replied, and his eyes were twinkling at you. “I’m a magizoologist, you see. That’s my job, to find creatures. So I suppose I really can be of help to you. If you like?” He looked at you questioningly.

You supposed that it couldn’t hurt. “Okay,” you agreed. “Erm…”


“Just a quick word of warning that I don’t really know what we’re in for. I don’t really know how she will behave if we do end up finding her. And you’re a man, so I should probably tell you that some of the stories say that she lures men in. With her seductive charms, you know.”

He shrugged, looking supremely unconcerned. “I’ll manage.”

You raise your eyebrows, a bit concerned how nonchalant he was, but you let the point drop. Desperately curious, you can’t stop the next question from pouring out as you begin walking along in the forest together. “So, a magizoologist, huh?”

He glances at you out of the corner of his eyes. “Yes.”

“So what creatures have you worked with then, Mr. Scamander?”

“Newt,” he corrected you.

You smiled. “Okay then, Newt. What kind of creatures did you work with?”

“All sorts, really. I rescue them, preserve them, study them. Occamies, a Demiguise, Ashwinders, Erumpent, Thunderbird…” He was still listing them, but you were too stunned to listen properly. In order to do all of this, he must have traveled most of the world!

Going on expeditions. You were not only impressed, but very jealous.

You also noticed the way his eyes lit up when he talked about the animals, the way his behavior changed entirely. Once he started listing them, his face took on a whole new light. You asked him more questions about the names you didn’t know, and he responded. He was no longer peeking around the forest, he was no longer glancing around and avoiding your eyes. He was chatting animatedly, eyes lit up, seeming to finally enjoy the conversation the two of you were having as he talked in depth about the creatures, how he had rescued them, what they need, how he cared for them…

After a while, he faltered, and you saw a steady blush rising over his cheeks. He had talked, with a few questions from you, for a solid ten minutes about his creatures and their stories. “I-I’m sorry,” he confessed. “That was very impolite of me to continue on like that, you probably don’t want-”

“I loved it,” you cut him off. Your voice was full of enthusiasm. “I absolutely adore having someone to talk about this stuff with. My family thinks I’m silly, chasing creatures from non-magic fictional books. Fairy tale stuff. I haven’t done all of the stuff you have, though, this is my first time doing something like this. They tried to stop me, but I wasn’t having it.”

He smiled at you, not a half-smile this time, but a very wide smile that reached all the way to his green eyes. You decided that you loved it when he smiled, and you loved looking at his face.

“Well,” he told you seriously, “I find that most people, for whatever reason, find it strange when a beautiful woman wants to do anything other than sit around and use those looks for a man’s benefit.”

It was a second before he realized exactly what he had said, before you realized what he had said. Quite flattered, you felt your cheeks heat up and you peeked over at him, but he avoided your eyes, clearing his throat awkwardly.

It was silent for a long time, your feet both crunching along in the leaves and plants on the forest floor. The sunlight was changing in the forest. It was past midday now, and the colors of the forest had taken on a more golden hue, the sunlight less pronounced in many areas where the trees were especially thick. You were suddenly glad that you had a companion and you wouldn’t have to traipse a dark forest alone, if it came to that.

After another hour, an hour of Newt’s companionship - which you were beginning to enjoy more and more as the time went on - something changed in the forest. You noticed there was a pond ahead, the water sparkling tranquilly with the last of the afternoon sun; the trees had become significantly less thick. But that wasn’t the change you had noticed. There was a certain hush. No birds, no animals, no sounds at all.

There was also a very light mist settled in the air, and you weren’t quite sure why you hadn’t noticed it before. It was if one second it had not been there, and the next second it was. At the same time, you couldn’t remember what the forest had looked like before the mist at all.

Everything was still.

Breath hitching, you peek over at your blonde companion. His hair was hanging over his eyes but he peeked up at you from underneath the curtain of it and you knew that he had noticed it, too.

Without realizing, you had both stopped in your tracks, poised carefully near the edge of the pond. Your mind suddenly flashed to other folklore stories of Sweden; particularly the nakk, a rather nasty creature that, supposedly, lured women in children into the water by playing the violin and drowning them.

You wished suddenly that you weren’t near a body of water.

“Newt?” you hissed, trying to keep the fear from your voice. “Can you see anything?” The mist was getting so thick that you could see him by your side, but just barely.

“Erm…yes.” His voice was suddenly very strange sounding, almost strained. He was gazing straight ahead toward the pond, eyes wide.


Eyes widening, you suddenly saw what he saw. The mist was beginning to become thinner; thin enough to see her there, sitting perched on the log. Hulda. The maiden of the forest. Tallemaja. She was there, she was real, and she had noticed you both standing there near the water’s edge.

She was every bit as beautiful as the legends described. Her face was angelic, her hair long and curly and blonde, cascading down her back in delicate waves. She was completely nude and she was perched on a log, though she was partially turned so you could both only make out the side of her; the way her belly curved inward, the curve of one of her breasts. Her cow’s tail swished behind her, trailing out behind her very human body. It was a strange sight to behold, one that nearly made your legs give way, and it was made all the more surreal by all of the shimmering mist, giving everything an incredibly hazy feeling. This was something you had only ever seen in your children’s books; she was here, she was real.

The maiden of the forest giggled; the sound was light, airy, a tinkling sound that seemed to carry on endlessly through the trees. It sounded like magic, like it carried to the moon and stars and the Sun.

But she was paying you no mind. She was staring intently at the man beside you, and after a few moments of staring, her full lips moved upwards into a small, seductive smile.

She beckoned very slowly, very purposefully.

You ripped your gaze away from Tallemaja in front of you, whipping your head to look at Newt. He was standing transfixed, slightly in shock, gazing in wonder at the woman in front of him in all of her glory.

As if in a trance, he took a very small step forward.

“Newt,” you warned, suddenly worried.

“Human male,” she spoke, and her words were like her laugh. They were addictive. They seemed like they contained boundless eternity, like she had a secret that only she knew and she was about to tell you. Her voice could make you feel so many strange things and you wondered, horrified, that if she could make you feel that way, the effect it must have on a man…

“Newt!” You tried again, louder, your voice even more desperate. He still didn’t even budge or act like he had heard you.

“Come with me, human male,” she said, her voice more seductive than anything you had ever heard in your entire life. She said this with a slight giggle, a twitch in her hips, swaying. Newt seemed speechless, unable to do anything but take another small, tentative step forward. “I have so many things to show you…” she continued, smiling another wonderful, radiant smile.

Warning bells were sounding in your head. You weren’t sure what would happen if Newt got too close, but you also weren’t sure you wanted to find out.

She giggled and he took another two steps, staring at her in absolute wonder and adoration.

Without thinking, you did the only thing you could think of to distract him. You darted forward, grabbed his shirt collar and spun him around to face you, stood up on your tiptoes, and kissed him hard.

You would be lying if you had said you hadn’t thought about doing this nearly the entire time you had been around this man. He was smart, funny, and incredibly attractive. You would also be lying if you said you didn’t enjoy kissing him and it was only to save his life, because that was simply not true. You very much enjoyed it, and you did not want it to stop. You moved your lips against his roughly, trying to invoke need in your kiss and as much passion as possible, for two reasons: both so he would be successfully distracted, and because you did need to kiss him like this.

His hands crept to your back, holding you steady and he pressed against you and your lips harder, desperately. He was reciprocating.

After a few moments you both broke apart, breathing heavily. Almost afraid to look, you glanced over at the pond.

The maiden of the forest, however, was gone. A disappointment ran through you but it was paired with the light, giddy feeling you had just received after being against Newt’s lips.

Your eyes found his green ones. He was staring down at you with a very strange look in them and you felt your cheeks getting a bit red. “Right,” you said, giving him a bit of a stern look. “You’ll be fine seeing the maiden, then, will you?”

“Yeah…sorry about that,” he told you, still looking a bit dazed.

“Men,” you mutter, shaking your head and avoiding his eyes.

“That was a good distraction,” he told you, a bit shyly. But when you looked up at him, he gave you a wink.

“Glad to be of service,” you said, trying to be casual despite the fact that his flirtatious wink had shaken you to your core.

He leaned forward suddenly, swiftly, until his face was right next to yours again. His hands were on your face this time, and you found yourself unable to breathe but also unable to look away from his eyes, which were suddenly full of passionate fire.

“Can I have another?” he breathed.

A/N: I know it’s a bit of a cliffhanger ending, but I quite like it. It was just meant to be a cute little piece so it’s only a one-shot, loves. Thanks to all for reading and to everyone who likes/comments/follows. I love you guys. Hope you enjoyed!

@gabrielledelacovr @rishlo @starkingdom

Falling Blossom [Part 1] // BTS’ J-Hope

[A/N] A miniseries set in a modern day mythological AU. Warning: Contains sexual implications.

Part 1 //
Word count: 4020

When it’s time for a blossom to die, it will detach itself from its branch and float to the ground, down to its earthy grave. There, it will lay unmoving, helpless to fight against the nature that turns its petals to ashes and pollen to dust. The beautiful flower becomes nothing more than a corpse: dead, rotting. What, then, happens to its promise of tomorrow? Of its rebirth that comes in the cycle of spring, when golden air seeps into budding grass and wind curls around treetops and flushed cheeks alike?

The answer comes in two forms: one, it follows the tradition of a fairytale and is reborn anyway, or two, the blossom embraces the tragedy and stays dead. It’s the juxtaposition of love; either you get a happy ending or one filled with shits and miseries. Because that’s how it always goes down, right? In fairytales, the prince always manages to rescue the princess, despite the plethora of seemingly impossible obstacles and opponents set in his way (like seriously, how is one guy able to take down armies of ogres or witches or whatever supernaturally jacked-up foe he’s faced with?). They get married and live happily ever after, la dee da. And in tragedies, the prince always manages to get close to rescuing the princess, before- you guessed it- one of them dies or the other one dies or they both die a miserable (and most likely totally preventable) death. It’s a story of regret at its finest, and thus, the fallen blossom becomes the decaying blossom.

It falls, and when it does, it takes with it everything.

The story here begins in a quiet bar in the heart of the city, with a copy of Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet. Ever famous and entirely too overrated. The book was tattered; dog-eared folds marked at least half of the pages, and the library tags along the spine were curled and falling off. You grimaced as you gingerly turned to the next page. You would have to order a new copy when you went in to work on Monday. It wouldn’t do to have this ratty book out for the patrons to read.

“Have you gotten to the part where they elope yet?”

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It begins with a memory.

When I was a young boy, my father took me into the city

To see a marching band.

Memories are funny things, clearer when we’re younger and fading the older we grow. Your life happens in chronological order because it must, but that isn’t how we always remember it. “Welcome to the Black Parade” opens with a simple melody, almost lullaby-like, but clearly somber in tone. From the first sound of the piano (a now infamous G5 tone), you know that you are listening to a story. There will be a beginning, a middle, and an end.

He said, “Son, when you grow up,

Would you be the savior of the broken,

The beaten, and the damned?

“Welcome to the Black Parade” is draped in a mythology. This is a father speaking to his child, in the way only a parent can, asking a question he already knows the answer to. He’s leading him to the start of a quest, burdening him from the beginning of his life. This is the burning bush telling Moses to lead the people to the Promised Land; it’s formative and definitive. The legend begins here.

(Image: A thumbnail of conceptual work for The Black Parade.)

He continues on to detail more of what this quest will undertake, but it doesn’t matter. The memory has been formed and the repetition cements it. We can’t possibly remember everything that’s ever happened to us, and there are many memories that never happened at all, but that doesn’t make them any less real. He repeats the setting, and the initial plea for a savior.  This is what sticks with him.

The memory vanishes and the parade swells, and we shift.

Sometimes I get the feeling she’s watching over me,

And other times I feel like I should go.

The frosted nostalgia melts away. The parade is a memory now reality, and the boy is now a man. He reflects on the loss of a woman, likely a maternal figure, that has shaped his life. Everyone knows the story of “Helena,” how Gerard’s grandmother passed and how it sent a man already without brakes careening into the night. I’ve always maintained that “Helena,” for all that is about his grandmother, reads more like an angsty breakup song. It describes a crisis of faith that defines Revenge more than any other: am I doing the right thing? So when our narrator reminds of us of her here, what he’s saying is this crisis is not gone from him, he stills finds himself wanting to leave - whether figuratively or through literal death. Regardless, it isn’t something that he feels he should dwell on, because:

We’ll carry on,

We’ll carry on,

And though you’re dead and gone, believe me

Your memory will carry on.

We’ll carry on,

And in my heart I can’t contain it,

The anthem won’t explain it.

In “The God of Small Things”, Arundhati Roy describes death as “[leaving] behind a Hole in the Universe” through which people could follow. Death does not mean an end, but rather an absence which can not be ignored. The chorus is mostly self-explanatory, and all the more effective for it, but it also depersonalizes the narrative; it shifts the song of a singular hero into the tale of a people. At multiple points in their career, My Chemical Romance have included their audience in the narrative. By depersonalizing, “Welcome to the Black Parade” encompasses three songs: the lullaby; the parade; and the foretold anthem.

(Video: Gerard performing “Cancer” during a show at Maxwell’s in Hoboken. As he reaches the ending lines, he addresses the crowd and thanks them for being in the band.)

So paint it black, and take it back

Let’s shout it loud and clear

Defiant to the end we hear the call

Rather than dying and just giving in, it’s taking over and claiming it. The color black most commonly represents death, but here it’s framed as a point of pride. He proposes, not like a leader would, by commanding, that we shout it loud and clear. That we defy what has been decided for us by being unashamed of who we are, be it broken, beaten, or damned. The chorus is bolstered by the reminder that we are not singular. Even if we are broken and defeated, the rest will march on for you. It’s “You’re not in this alone” in “Skylines” all over again, and the narrator asks us to believe in him because he is no longer afraid. He declares:

Do or die, you’ll never make me

Because the world will never take my heart

Go and try, you’ll never break me

We want it all, we wanna play this part

I won’t explain or say I’m sorry

I’m unashamed, I’m gonna show my scar

Give a cheer for all the broken

Listen here, because it’s who we are

This is the height of defiance, the climax of our song and our story. The instrumentation quiets, and his voice resounds, layered over and over and over. No longer a broken man, but the broken. Not above us, but with us. At this point we have arrived at our anthem, the words we repeat to ourselves so often that it doesn’t matter if they’re true, because repetition is powerful. Truth is subjective; if enough people believe in something it becomes true – thus the power of an anthem. He says, I’m unashamed, I’m gonna show my scar. Scars are by definition unwanted, jagged manifestations of harm. In saying that he’s unashamed of them, the narrator claims them and seizes control of the power they have over him. It doesn’t matter if he truly is unashamed, he’s showing them anyway and claiming their influence. You can choose to avert your eyes, but he isn’t hiding them any more.

I’m just a man, I’m not a hero.

Just a boy, who had to sing this song.

This is the final defiance. He’s responding to the memory of his father from years ago, but the nostalgia has gone. The narrator names himself as that same boy, but rather than call himself a savior, he maintains that he does this only because he has to. His punctuated roar of “I don’t care” is the final rejection of the quest his father gave to him so many years ago. This is not a fairy tale, he is not Moses, or Arthur, or any mythic chosen one. He’s just doing as he must: what it takes to carry on.

(Image: Gerard’s original concept sketch for the Black Parade staging.)

As the song enters its final chorus, the key changes. A key change denotes a rebirth, the song solidifying the developments of previous movements. The boy has actualized his final form. Anthem and Parade weave together, literally stitching together a lifetime. He can be the son, the leader, the people. The story has ended, and the song continues not because he’s a prophetic hero, but because he feels that he must do this, for the people and for himself.

The triumphant voices do not stop but fades past, until only the drumline can be heard. The parade continues along its path, having begun a new song. It carries on.

- Kelly

anonymous asked:

I keep trying to let this go but I can't stop tweeting these as shoes my feelings. I hope they do have a season 4 and the premiere ratings are embarrassing. I also hope someone realizes what this show had in Tom and Nicole and actually give them some quality work to do together. All in all SH was a horrible show after the first season minus the leads. So I'm happy this frees them up to do better things, just sad I can't see them on my screen together, for now anyways.

Okay so this has been sitting in my inbox for awhile now and I’m sorry that I’m just now getting to this. No scratch that, I’m not sorry it took me awhile to answer this because I wasn’t in the best head space to tackle this ask. My mental health is more important to me and it took a long ass time before I could even open up my computer to type this response out. I’ve been using my mobile app to reblog tumblr posts. 

Now that I’ve had some time to reflect I figured now would be a good time to post my thoughts. I know many have done this and while I’ve aired some of my grievances on twitter, I haven’t sat down and articulated how I felt about things.  

So while part of me would love to see a s4 just so that it crashes and burns because lets face it, we all know it will. I’m not sure they should even pick it up for another season. It feels like it would just be rewarding them for bad behavior. Ultimately it doesn’t matter to me because once Abbie Mills died, the show died with her. 

When the SH first started I wasn’t too familar with the cast with the exception of Orlando Jones and John Cho. Tom Mison was unknown to me and but I did recognize Nicole Beharie. Her face was familiar. It took a minute to remember what movie I saw her in prior to the show. It was American Violet. Anyways I instantly fell in love with her. Here is this short spunky black woman in a lead role on a fantasy show. Wow. Talk about hitting the jackpot with her casting. She had such an amazing chemistry with Tom and I was hooked right away. Finally I had a show with a woman that looked like me in fantasy genre. This was why I was so drawn to SH. Aside from the mythology all the characters in s1 (most of s1) just meshed really well. I couldn’t wait to see the episodes. I learned how to use photoshop so I could create gifs and graphics because I couldn’t get enough of Abbie and Ichabod. I even joined twitter just to tweet about my favorite show. This series was why I joined a fandom. So this was all new territory for me.

When s2 started the novelty started to wear off. Yes I still watched every week live. Yes I still chatted about the show on twitter. Yes I still created gifs and reblogged like crazy on tumblr. Yes I still shipped Ichabbie. But I noticed that Abbie wasn’t been showcased as important as Ichabod was. I noticed her storyline wasn’t as prominent as it was before. She was more the helper and while I would argue with anyone that Abbie wasn’t a sidekick. The writing for a time told a different story. It was very irritating seeing Nicole not featured in promos like Tom. Hell Katia got a bit more attention on the promo department or it was on par with Nicole which was some bullshit. After the AMDB hastag was started my hope was that the writing for Abbie would indeed get better and was told by tptb that our voices were heard and adjustments would be made. Little did I know that I was being lead into a false sense of security regarding her character development because had I know what I know now I would have left the show at the end of s2. 

So here we are in s3 and that joke of a finale. Never did I think that this show would butcher 3 years of character development in 2 simple lines. 

“Abbie Mills has done what she’s suppose to do.”

“Our job was to carry you forward.”

Those 2 lines destroyed what made Abbie Mills THE OTHER WITNESS. She was picked long ago to be a witness. It was her destiny. Or at least it was back in s1 and s2. Apparently in s3 she was just the help. Those 2 lines turned her into nothing more than a prop. I was gutted. I was already upset that the writers killed her off. In the same fashion as her running into the tree back in the mid season finale. So in she really died twice in s3. Her death ended up being just a simple hand wave. She got no funeral. Her sister and father didn’t visit her grave. She wasn’t even told she was loved in her final moments of her life. Let alone in death. It was like the writers gave zero fucks about who Abbie Mills was and why she was so important to this show. 

Gif Source

Tom Mison aka Ichabod Crane knew, HE KNEW what made this show work. It was Nicole. She was the glue that held this show together. And they killed her off. The writers didn’t give a shit. Her send off was so lackluster and disrespectful how could you treat your co-lead like this? 

Abbie Mills meant so much to me. I get so little representation anyways on tv. Even less in genre so he death is a huge loss. For me it was like I lost a family memeber. I truly mourned for her. Still mourn. I cried, i didn’t sleep. My rage kept me from eating for hours at a time. I felt like when she died a part of me died with her. I have a void in my heart that will never be filled. Not with how they treated her character. Abbie was the light that this show needed. She grounded it to reality. The perfect balance to Crane’s over the top behavior. That light is now gone from the show. No matter what s4 looks like it will never be as good as it was when Nicole was on it. 

The writers all need to be fired. Yes I said it all of them. Because they’ve proved how little they value black women. Because if anyone has one ounce of a fuck that finale wouldn’t have happened. Her send off would have been better. But no one cared. No one in that writing room cared. You write what you know. It’s clear they didn’t value what they had in Nicole Beharie. If they don’t value the characters they write for how do you think they see real life people. Becuase their personal views are reflective in how they write. So Nicole wanted to leave okay why did she have to be reduced to just a prop in her final episode. Her identity what made Abbie Mills who she was got ripped out of her hands. Why would they do that?

It felt so cold and calculated. Like a middle finger to anyone that was a fan of Nicole.  All the ship baiting was wrong too. They knew how the season was going to end and baited the fuck out of Ichabbie with zero fucks. This is how they viewed a segment of the fans of the show. They didn’t care. They weren’t thinking about how I may feel seeing this on the screen. Because for them I don’t exist. They didn’t respect Nicole. They didn’t respect Abbie. They didn’t respect me as a fan. 

So yeah I still have lots of thoughts about this. I foresee big things In Nicole’s future and I can’t wait until her next project. As far as the show goes it’s dead to me. I will probably finish my Ichabbie meme later on. Still reblog fan art and gifs. Still read fan fic. Pretend I never saw that finale because it was a fucking joke. I won’t lie and say I won’t miss the show because I will immensely. What I will miss the most is seeing Nicole’s beautiful smile. So as others have said we’ll always have season 1.


Previous Parts

Warnings: fluff, oral sex/smut, angst

Words: 2310

Note: I am so happy you are all liking this series so far, as always, let me know if you want me to continue!

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avengerjones-deactivated2016102  asked:

you asked for mythological clintasha so imagine: vengeful siren!natasha and fucking lost pirate!clint. but her singing doesn't work on him because he's deaf!!! and so nat is pissed and keeps trying wilder and wilder ways to get his attention and possibly drown him. menacing gifts of gutted fish. rude notes scratched into the sides of his pirate ship. but eventually his dumb ass grows on her and she reluctantly decides not to drown him and to help him get unlost and it's a beautiful beginning

Natasha as a siren, able to sing but not speak, luring men with her song; surrounded by the corpses of those who withered away, unable to leave her. Until the man who couldn’t hear but was drawn to her anyway, who taught her a language of silent gestures; and when he left, she shed her feathers to follow him.

There are stories across the seven seas about sirens, the fish-tailed women that lure women to their deaths with the hypnotic power of their voices. Men have long learned the corners of the world to avoid, if they want to keep their lives. But they’ve never learned to avoid her.

The red-haired sea witch is the worst of them all, never staying in one place for long, killing anyone and anything that comes in her path. Some men are able to resist, if for a moment, but none of them last very long. Some of the stories say that she was human once, kidnapped by pirates and drowned, but with the last breath in her lungs, she made a deal with the darkness that lies deep within the ocean. Others say that she is the darkness, and no one has ever escaped her.

Until now, that is.

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Remember - Solangelo AU

This is a gift fic for hoodedwordsmith​ who asked for Prince Nico and Knight Will AU. It’s only my second time writing an AU fic as I’m more of a canon nerd, and I had a lot of fun turning ideas over and around until they turned into something. 

General reminder: I don’t take prompts unless I specifically state that I am, or if I extend a private offer. 

Remember - Rated T. You can read it here or on the Ao3. If you like it, please let me know. I love to hear from readers. 


Prince Nico gazes down from his bedroom window as the rain batters the practice field and turns his only outlet into a swamp. He scowls at the idea it will likely take a week of good weather to dry it out again and by then, he’ll have died from sheer boredom.

He pictures himself, forgotten in the window seat, slowly decaying until he’s only a skeleton before anybody notices he’s missing.

He tells himself he doesn’t care, tries to think of the guilt his father would feel after he realized what had happened, and then he tries to think of something else before he starts getting weepy. The truth, he realizes, is that his father would probably just sweep his whole existence under the rug, never mention him again, and really, who is there that would even care to ask?

That’s my fault, the small voice in the back of his mind says. Intrusive thoughts, they call it. He’d learned the term when he was bored and looked the phenomenon up. I pushed them all away. That’s why he stopped bringing people around. That’s why he doesn’t care. What sort of a king would want a son who refuses to socialize. All I have is swordplay and now, I don’t even have that.

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Fanfic Recommendations - Bagginshield

I haven’t done a rec in a while (and I actually need to sort through my bookmarks to be honest), so I figured I’d compile a list of some of my favorite Bagginshield fanfics!  This list spans many genres, so I apologize if it’s a bit unorganized.  Summaries are taken directly from the author, and my absolute favorites are marked with an asterisk.  Also wow this got so long I’m so sorry

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The 12 Labours of Robin Hood

For Day 5 of the OQ week: Greek Mythology AU

Betaed by the amazingly talented and very patient Mrs Tiff!!

Here is the FF link

(The beginning is a bit graphic)

Robin was running, running, running. His throat and lungs were burning, his muscles were cramping but he couldn’t stop running. For days, he had been pursuing those men and it was finally down to one; the leader of the group, the most vicious one, the one who was really responsible for the massacre. Robin had to make sure he got what he deserved, no matter the cost.

He hadn’t been thinking straight since he came home from the battle of Marathon to find- no, it wasn’t the time to relive that. Now was the time to finish what he started. He would crumble and mourn his losses later. 

He felt like he had travelled across half of Greece, and it was close to the truth, but this chase was coming to an end.

Robin was gaining ground on the man and he wasn’t paying much attention to his surroundings, only aware that they were now ascending a hill. He never noticed the great marble structure they were approaching.

He only saw red, red like the blood of the other men he had killed, red like the blood of the man who was now… kneeling on the ground?

“Please, help me, help me…” The man was begging, in an unceasing mantra, over and over, to who-knows-which deity. His prayers remained unanswered as Robin finally towered over him, seizing him by the hair and making him stand back up.

He used his fists, his feet, his elbows, even his head, anything to hit this worthless excuse of a man. Robin looked down at the bruised, bleeding man on the ground  trying to crawl away from him. He took his knife out and finished him, the cries of pain were music to his ears, and he stabbed and stabbed, until the man cried no more. Robin stayed there, watching the pool of blood growing and growing, until it reached the feet of a statue and a thunder clap resounded suddenly.

A booming voice echoed all around him, and for the first time Robin realised he was in a temple.

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