circle of buzzards

I think you should all know that early this morning I saw a fucking buzzard circling over an insurance agency and I briefly wondered if I was actually awake yet


anonymous asked:

please write something where azrael meets chloe!

“So, is that your human?” The Angel of Death does that unsettling thing where she can see any mortal on the face of the earth, no matter who they are or what they are doing – though in this case, she admittedly does not need supernatural powers, given that Chloe is standing just across the way in Lux. Azrael raises an eyebrow and whistles, ancient bronze eyes gleaming appraisingly. “That’s far better than I thought you could do, little brother. I’m impressed.”

Lucifer squirms horrendously. Trying to keep another dangerous female relative under containment has been causing him no end of trouble. Azrael is a different kind of threat than their mother, and she does not appear inclined to stay, but he has absolute kittens every time she looks in Chloe’s direction. “Sis, can you – please not do that thing where you look at her like she’s a dead cow in the desert, and you’re a buzzard circling overhead, waiting to pick her bones clean? And she’s not my human, not really. I’d say fifty-fifty split with Maze. More thirty-seventy with Maze. Twenty-eighty?”

“Then you’re missing out.” Azrael leans on the bar in her black leather biker jacket, the metallic shimmer of her eyeshadow catching the light of the revolving disco ball. Her fingers tap to the pulsing electronica from the dance floor. “What’s this music? It’s terrible.”

“Forgot how much I missed you, Az.” Lucifer has another minor heart attack as her gaze lingers on Chloe. It could just be frank admiration, but he can’t wait to get the literal personification of Death away from his — no, not his, that’s the whole bloody point – detective. “Look, if we agree that I’ll go find what I might have done with your toy, you stay away from her?”

“I’m not here for her. Yet.” Azrael shrugs, throwing back another shot of whatever jet fuel she’s already had a few rounds of, though of course it does nothing more than make her talkative. “You do remember that she’s mortal, Lucifer?”

“Far too well, thanks,” he mutters tersely, wondering if it would be too conspicuous if he rushed over pretending to have an urgent phone call from the station, some tragic pudding-related incident of Daniel’s, and dragged Chloe out. At least she’ll have sense, at least she’ll keep talking to the suspect they set up a meeting with here, at least she won’t –

Oh bloody, buggering hell. She’s coming over.

Lucifer’s frantic attempts to signal to her that he has the situation under control do nothing to deter her, as she steps up in front of them and glances between them with that particular kind of raised eyebrow she always reserves for anyone of the female variety she catches Lucifer chatting with. “Hey, so, who’s this?”

“Nobody,” Lucifer babbles. “Absolutely nobody important. Old – definitely not friend, who was just passing through briefly and is leaving tonight. Was supposed to be already gone.”

Azrael looks inordinately amused. Tosses her long, ink-black hair over one shoulder, offers a silver-ringed hand, and says in that husky, strong-whiskey voice of hers, “I’m his sister.”

“Sis…?” Chloe has heard enough about the family by now to have some guess as to who that is supposed to be. She looks – good girl – rather leery of taking Azrael’s hand, as Lucifer debates the merits of body-slamming his sister through the glass rack. He shifts his weight, determined to prevent any physical contact between them, just in case. “So, is that Ms. Morningstar, or Ms. God?”

Azrael looks judgmentally over at Lucifer. “Certainly not the former. Azrael is fine.”

“And you’re here for?”

“My little brother was very careless with something that belongs to me.” Azrael’s gaze is as dark and starless as the sky before a storm. There seems to be a cold breath of air running through Lux by virtue of her very presence, as Lucifer prays that none of the clubgoers will, oh, choke on a cocktail olive and force her into an abrupt execution of her professional duties. “I understand that you, as a detective, might be helpful in locating this item?”

“I’m a homicide detective,” Chloe says, more than a little coolly. “Unless someone’s dead, I can’t help. And it sounds like something you should take up with your brother.”

“I could.” Azrael shrugs. “You will have noticed, however, that he is not very…forthcoming with information.”

“No.” Chloe snorts. “That he is not.”

Lucifer finds it even more unsettling to watch his terrifying sister and the detective having something remotely approaching a moment of female bonding over his failures, than he did with Chloe hitting it off with either Maze or Amenadiel. He clears his throat. “Already told you, Az. I sent it away with Mum. Not here. So flutter off somewhere else and – ”

“Do you know where you sent it?” Azrael interrupts.

“Well… no.”

“And what could use it to come through?”

“Somehow I’m guessing the answer is not a fabulous parade of America’s Next Top Model winners?”

Azrael whirls to pin him with a stare that makes Lucifer’s witticisms shrivel up and die squeaking in his throat. Bloody hell, he will personally pay her bar tab if it gets her out of here. He shifts again, trying to keep himself between the two women, even as Chloe is standing on tiptoe trying to peek over his shoulder. Azrael, for that matter, is looking even more amused. “Not your human?” she says. “Could have fooled me.”

“Yeah, I think I can see the family resemblance.” Chloe puts a hand on Lucifer’s side, trying to edge him out of the way, but he still doesn’t budge. Over his dead body (not at all a figure of speech, given that he has ended up that way twice where the detective is concerned) is he going bloody anywhere. Where the hell is Amenadiel? Probably upstairs hiding under the bed, lionheart that he is when it comes to Az. Though if an immortal can have heart failure, especially given that Chloe is touching him, Lucifer is definitely about to have it.

Azrael’s gaze flicks between the two of them for a moment longer. Then she shrugs and steps back. “I’ll be back tomorrow,” she says. “And both of you will be helping me look for it.”

With that, she turns and – doesn’t walk across the club toward the door, entirely, so much as she just isn’t there anymore. Lucifer remains rooted to the spot, staring after her, arm instinctively outstretched in front of Chloe, who herself seems slightly rattled – but only slightly – by her first full-frontal experience of a member of his sodding family who isn’t sodding Amenadiel. “Your sister,” she says at last. “Well, nobody’s going to accuse you of having a boring home life.”

“Not at all,” Lucifer mutters. “Detective, just… just stay away from her, all right?”

“Why?” Chloe looks up at him with her blasted usual pragmatism. “If she’s supposed to be the Angel of Death, she can’t actually kill me, can she? Just take me away when I’m dead?”

Lucifer winces. “Detective, please don’t talk about that.”

“About what?”

His voice feels caught in his throat. “About… about you dying.”

Chloe seems about to say something else, perhaps to remind him that it’s rather odd for him to be squeamish about dead humans, given both his day job and his former day job. But instead she glances down, catches his hand quickly in hers, and says, “Lucifer, I promise. I am going to be absolutely fine.”

“I certainly hope so.” He manages a nod. “Just. Still. Don’t go near her.”

“We’ll see.” Chloe’s eyes remain focused on the spot of Azrael’s departure. “I have a feeling she meant it when she said she’d be back.”

Most unfortunately, Lucifer does as well. He’s already shielded Chloe from the murderous wrath of one of his siblings before, and while he doesn’t think that Azrael is about to follow Uriel in this regard, it does nothing to ease the crushing, scrambling terror he exists in every time there’s any kind of a threat to Chloe’s person. Az wants the blade. They’ll find that. Then she’ll go away.

Then she’ll go away.


Feeling left behind by her more successful, settled friends, Emma Swan moves to Scotland on a whim. Sure, she’s winning at Instagram, but something is still missing from her new life. Fortunately, her friends back home are on it. #FindEmmaSwanAFriend goes viral. Enter Killian Jones, reluctant columnist, who is on the hunt for his newest subject, and may just have found her. CS AU

also on

PSA: This is not a chapter of #FindEmmaSwanAFriend, but a complementary work, Killian’s column in the May edition of Saorsa. I hope you enjoy it anyway.

Tagging: @katie-dub, @wholockgal, @kat2609, @whovianlunatic, @optomisticgirl, @ladyciaramiggles, @the-lady-of-misthaven, @emmaswanchoosesyou, @ilovemesomekillianjones, @cigarettes-and-scotch-whisky, @biancaros3, @ms-babs-gordon, @ab-normality, @andiirivera, @fangirl-till-it-hurts, and whoever else asks me.   

Killian Jones

May 2017

Hello there. This month’s missive comes to you direct from the crowded sands of Portobello Beach, where I am currently wrestling deadlines whilst on the constant look out for opportunistic young families from West Lothian who circle like buzzards, ready to exploit any signs of weakness to depose me from the prime piece of beachfront real estate where I’ve staked my claim. It’s a tricky business, and with the mercury edging ever closer to twenty degrees centigrade, a sure sign that summer is finally on the approach.

It is a beginning, to be sure. Of near constant sunshine and a few months reprieve from beanie hats and long johns. But for some, it can also be an ending. For the not-insubstantial student population of Edinburgh, it marks the end of a gruelling exam period before they disappear back to the loving clutches of their childhood bedrooms for the summer. And for one Emma Swan, it presents the opportunity to mix with her co-workers at a succession of events designed to farewell the academic year.

Which brings us to our latest guide to making friends as a stranger in a strange land: Exploit your working relationships.

Now, since I have carelessly revealed Emma’s place of work to you previously, I should stipulate that I have, in fact, sought approval from the relevant people to tell this little tale. There were forms, signed in triplicate. It’s all very above board. Names have been changed and obscured to protect innocent and guilty alike. Mostly.

Alright, now we’ve gotten the obligatory legal nonsense out of the way, let us return to the event at hand, in fair Lugton Bogs, where we lay our scene. A rather unattractive name for the sight of perhaps Edinburgh’s premier laser tag facility, set amongst a small thicket of trees just beyond the city bypass.

Indeed, in their infinite wisdom, the heads of the School of Classics, Archaeology and History thought there would be no better way to unify their department, than to let them face off against their colleagues from the School of Social and Political Science. In the woods. With lasers.

And in the spirit of scientific inquiry, I was reluctantly brought along.

Now, in theory, laser tag is marginally less dangerous than its more colourful cousin, paintball. After all, no one is copping a pellet to the face. And there is little need to dress in unflattering human-sized condoms to protect one’s clothing from paint splatters. But those who would consider it a harmless kind of team-building exercise, have clearly never seen Emma Swan at work in faded fatigues, clutching a fake rifle.

She is, in short, a force to be reckoned with.

Over the course of two hours, I saw this woman decimate her competition, capture and hold flags, and evade enemy snipers like some sort of lithe blonde ninja. The running group certainly seemed to be paying dividends.

By the end, there remained only a single obstacle in her path, a fellow on the opposing team I later discovered had actual combat experience. We’ll call him… Grant.

Now I’m sure a lesser man would be troubled by the woodland prowess of this upstart American, but when the two hours wound to a close and the game was declared a draw, I witnessed something truly remarkable. A genial smile at the hands of our stubborn heroine. A handshake that spoke of mutual respect. And most tellingly of all, a drinks invitation to follow.

A fine lesson to all of us, I’m sure, in not tempering one’s abilities to appear more likeable to the group. To be exceptional is no bad thing. And if we are lucky enough to find someone who appreciates us for our talents, even in the most unlikely of circumstances, so much the better.

And for the rest of us, the less remarkable? The ones whose disabilities might mean they aren’t terribly suited to the handling of small arms, plastic or otherwise? Well, I’ve heard there is graciousness in defeat. And that’s not such a terrible quality in itself.

Phobias and Fears (Eddie Kaspbrak x Reader)

Originally posted by stlinskim

I feel too little and I think too much.

It shouldn’t have been this hard… All (Y/n) asked was could she hold his hand, yet Eddie’s mind was whirling. His chest felt like it was constricting him and he had to resist the urge to take a puff of his inhaler.

Eddie didn’t want to be like this, but his mother. All those things she’s always told him circled his head like buzzards. Waiting for a moment of weakness like this to strike at him. He gazed at (Y/n) for a moment swallowing nervously.

She looked away. Her cheeks turning a slight pink color. “It’s alright if you don’t want to Eddie,” She soothed flashing him a small smile.

Eddie frowned slightly and before he could think too hard took her hand. “No I really need to get over my fears,” He stated. His skin crawled slightly at the thought of all the ways he could contract a disease or how unsanitary this was. He couldn’t care less though, because there was this slight warm feeling spreading through his body trying to soothe his fears.

(Y/n) found herself smiling slightly and squeezed his hand. “Take your time Eddie. I’d gladly wait,” She replied slightly.

Eddie’s cheeks flushed red as he studied (Y/n) for a moment. He quickly pecked her cheek despite his protesting thoughts. He smiled slightly and tugged her slightly as they began walking down the street. “Come on you Dork. Let’s go meet the others.”

Forever Tags: @gryffinclaw-marauder @tomholllandsquackson

“How can a man six inches high train a bird like that?” she asked as the buzzard circled again for height.
“Ach, all it takes is a wee drop o’ kindness, mistress,” said No’-as-big-as-Medium-Sized-Jock-but-bigger-than-Wee-Jock-Jock.
“Aye, an’ a big dollop o’ cruelty,” No’-as-big-as-Medium-Sized-Jock-but-bigger-than-Wee-Jock-Jock said.

– on training the buzzard | Terry Pratchett, The Wee Free Men

10 days of Pratchett
Day 6. Tifanny and the Wee Free Men - Hamish

‘How can a man six inches high train a bird like that?’ she asked as the buzzard circled again for height.
‘Ach, all it takes is a wee drop o’ kindness, mistress,’ said Not-as-big-as-Medium-Sized-Jock-but-bigger-than-Wee-Jock-Jock.
‘Aye, an’ a big dollop o’ cruelty…’

/Terry Pratchett, The Wee Free Men/


I feel like this started off strong, but the quality tapered off toward the end. Anyway, this is based on the comment @raphaelhatesbugs made last night about the fact that the “hug” from Krang would have done a lot more damage to Mikey than we saw. Also, all the fights the boys had with each other was excellent angst fodder. Tagging @ltcommkat @call-me-the-cooky-one @azurenika because they are my muses when it comes to headcanon and fic. 

Some wounds heal, while others grow, but time will heal all

Warnings: angst, mention of blood and injury, Mikey tears, TMNT 2 SPOILERS

“That guy was a jerk,” Mikey said as he got to his feet, reflexively placing a hand against his chest as a pain that adrenaline had previously masked surged through him. “His pun game was on point though, heh. Hug goodbye,” he continued, trying to ignore the way he wheezed with each syllable. His brothers weren’t convinced, and soon they were circling him like buzzards. Mikey tried to shove them away playfully, but was soon wiping away blood and mucus from his chin with an embarrassingly charming laugh meant to hide the utter terror that was spilling into his veins like ink into water.

That was strike one.

Strike two came when he neglected to apply the chlorhexidine that Donnie had given him to the crack on his shell twice daily, and the rot began to settle in. It was easy for him to forget Doctor Donnie’s “discharge instructions” when the purple banded turtle kept spouting medical terminology at him like pleural effusion and pulmonary contusion at a rate he was sure not even a computer could catch up with. Leonardo had been the first to notice it, pointing out the odd smell surrounding Mikey (yes, more odd than usual, Raph) and prompting Donnie to examine the sizable crevasse in Mikey’s carapace once more. According to the sounds his brothers made as the tape was peeled away, the infection had gotten pretty gnarly.

Apparently it was only two strikes you’re out in this game, and so Mikey found himself on bed rest with Nurse Raph hovering over him whenever he moved, threatening to tie him down and gag him if he got up one more damn time. His bed only stayed comfortable for so long, and the ridiculous mechanism Don had scrapped together to keep Mikey’s posture conducive to the healing of his broken ribs was giving him blisters.

He had learned to keep his mouth shut after the first week, because his complaining began to fall on deaf ears. By the second week, the sounds of his brothers laughing and shouting jovially as they trained in the dojo had begun to make him more nauseous than the pain medicine. By the third week, when his ribs were nearly healed and the infection was finally beginning to slow its progress, something else had begun to fester within him. It took root in the back of his mind, eventually spreading with long icy tendrils until the cold, dull ache of it was all he could feel. Leo’s hurtful words filled his head nightly, building up and congealing until every other thought was muffled by them.

Donnie had the brains, Raph had the power, Leo had the warrior’s mind, and Mikey had the heart.

Heart meant nothing in a fight; something the pain in his chest was all too eager to remind him of any chance it got.

One afternoon, when Splinter had dozed off while watching his soap operas and Leo and Raph were sparring, Mikey clambered out of his bed and found Donnie in the garage. Though logic usually prevailed with Donnie, every once in a while Mikey was able to appeal to his brother’s softer side. He hoped this would be one of those times.

Lifting his goggles when he noticed Mikey enter, Donnie furrowed his brows and set aside his tools.

“What are you doing, Mike? You shouldn’t be up just yet.” His gold eyes travelled to Mikey’s hips where his weapons were nestled and to his back where his skateboard was holstered. “Why are you geared up?”

“Thought we could do some training,” Mikey responded, trying to sound cheerful.

“No way, dude. You need to stay as immobile as possible.”

“I’m good!” Mikey pleaded, gesturing at himself as if to reassure his brother that he was indeed whole and unscathed. “At least let me back on my board. I’m dying!”

“You had a flail chest, Mikey. That would have killed a non-mutant. I know you don’t understand the technical aspect of—“

“Man, whatever,” Mikey interrupted, the rage that he had become so familiar with over the last few weeks slipping through his teeth. “I’m not a kid. You don’t have to dumb stuff down for me.”

Donnie turned to face him fully now, acutely aware of Mikey’s distress. “What’s wrong?”

“Ever since our fight with Krang, I’ve been getting the shaft, bro.”

“What do you mean? You’ve been recovering!”

“I’ve been recovered, man,” Mikey said, doing a flip and landing in stance as if to punctuate his statement. He gritted his teeth and prayed Donnie couldn’t see the agony in his eyes as pain ripped through his chest. “I’m ready,” he added, though regret filled him instantly as he heard the desperation oozing from his own voice.

“It isn’t up to me,” Donnie told him with trepidation in his voice.

“Right. It’s up to him.”

“I thought we were all over this.” Donatello chuckled nervously.

“Yeah well maybe I’m not!” Mikey yelled, his cracking voice echoing off the tunnel walls as if to mock him. Shrinking slightly, he lowered his voice. “In case you haven’t noticed, bro, while you three have been out team building, I’ve been stuck down here in your shitty excuse for a hospital bed, choking on Splinter’s gross ‘healing tea’ and thinking about all of the pats on the back I haven’t gotten yet.”

Donnie blinked once, twice, and again a third time for good measure. His cheek slipped between his teeth, the way it did when the cogs were turning in his head, and Mikey realized he hadn’t expected this. He hadn’t seen this coming, and that stung Mikey worse than the pinching ache in his ribs.

Little Mikey can’t take care of himself, Mikey isn’t smart enough to contribute to the team, Mikey’s all heart and no brain, well who says that’s a bad thing? What does Leo know anyway? I do just as much for this team as the rest of you, and I don’t get crap in return. He thinks he can toss me aside just ‘cause I slipped up and got hurt? What, like he’s never made a mistake?

All of the thoughts he had gathered in silence during his recovery poured out of his mouth in a waterfall of emotion. His eyes prickled with weeks of unshed tears but he would be damned if he would let them fall now. He threw his chucks to the ground with a clang and kicked his skateboard with as much force as he could muster. Donnie flinched slightly, but kept his composure.

“If you all think I’m so useless, why didn’t you just let Krang finish me off?” he screamed, gripping at his head with both hands and sliding down the stone wall until he was in a crumpled heap on the ground. The pain was impossible to ignore now, so he allowed the tears to spill down his cheeks and a wail escape his lips.

Donnie was at his side in an instant, gripping his arms and futilely trying to tug him into an upright position. Mikey had become dead weight, the feeling of abandonment heavier than anything he had ever felt in his life. Giving up, Donnie settled for cupping Mikey’s face and wiping away his tears with his thumbs. Mikey wrapped his own hands around Donnie’s wrists and sobbed freely.

There were words in the gentle strokes of Donnie’s thumbs beneath his eyes; words of comfort and love and reassurance that Mikey knew Donnie had trouble saying out loud. The genius was blabbering about stress resulting from traumatic near-death events, but the only words Mikey focused on were the ones spilling from his fingertips. They screamed in silence, not of doubt or pity, but of a deep and desperate desire for Mikey to know that he needed him. They all needed him.

Mikey briefly recognized the sounds of footsteps entering the garage and the clang of sword and sai against stone before two more sets of hands joined the silent conversation.

Mikey realized then that this was the only apology he would ever need.

Strangetown Gothic

The air is heavy with sweat and dust as you step off the un-airconditioned bus. Instantly you think of buzzards, circling lazily overhead as they wait in line for death, and you nervously check the empty blue sky.

The Smiths’ lawn is a false oasis, a mirage, the only living green in the whole town. The only colors you can see for miles are the yellow-orange desert and the achingly blue sky - and a patch of green behind a blindingly white picket fence, filled with rows upon rows of stoic grass blades standing bravely under the pressure of the sun.

You’d heard there were some strange homes out in the desert, but the castle and the multi-story telescope platform take the cake. The only thing more obvious is the row of cooling towers, remnants of the old nuclear plant, looming ominously along the side of the highway. The low hum of the powerlines in the sweltering night wispers of ashes, of fear a half-century old, that soaked into the soil with the infrequent rains.

Another house has a graveyard next door, stones blank and ominous, with names worn soft by the sandblasting wind. In front of one stone sits a single cactus flower, thrown there like an offering. When you lean forward you can just make out Willow and Creon Nigmos, and you taste rank, brackish water in the back of your mouth. The old woman in black sees you staring and chases you away.

No one seems to know much about anyone else, which is quite odd for such a small town. Everyone is related to the green-skinned man who lives in the house with the white picket fence, but just like the black-clad old woman in the house next to the graveyard, he will tell you nothing. 

There is another shade of green in town: army green, a dull olive drab that is alarming in its unobtrusiveness. The fear in the water no longer lurks underground. 

not to be That Girl, but using Triggered Jokes and backpedaling by saying “it’s about FAKE ptsd victims” makes you sound less like someone who cares about people with PTSD and more like a buzzard circling overhead to find PTSD sufferers you deem to be illegitimate

but hey, it ain’t like you cared anyway; the joke’s just “i’m having a traumatic flashback over something you think is petty! isn’t that funny?”

it’s like the Vietnam Vet Stereotype for millenials, tbh

Bonny the Flying Ape

A story from my friend’s campaign, we’ve been traveling through the forests of an island named Boris to get to its capital. After being jumped by monsters straight from the Thing, we were, kinda saved by a massive gorilla with bird wings.

Me: Holy crap, is this thing, like, the guardian of the forest?

After almost entering a fight with the creature, we managed to calm things, and it told us to leave its forest.

Cadence: (skeleton spellsword) Don’t you worry sir, we’ll be right outta your hair!

Takeo: (a human diplomat from a distant land called Taikoku) If I may ask, may I sketch you in my journal?

DM: Roll persuasion.

Takeo: *rolls a 19*

DM: He not only accepts, he poses and flexes for the picture.

Afterwards, we found this ape creature was named Bonny, and Bonny really wanted a chance to fight something. Through a series of circumstances, Takeo was strong-armed into dueling the creature. Simple put, he nearly died, lucky we managed to convince him to hold off, and come back when Takeo was stronger and would present more of a challenge. Bonny agreed and launched into the sky, circling overhead like a buzzard. Later on, we came across a monster slaying Goliath by the name of Tokimere, who was a mentor of one of our party members. Takeo figured that this hulk of a man could stay Bonny.

Takeo: Excuse me, do you know this creature? *shows picture*

Toki: OOOOOH! That is Bonny! He is good friend, have known him long time!

Takeo: Crap….

Later on, we came to the capital and our party got thrown in jail due to a new character causing a fight with Takeo. In jail, Takeo was questioned, and then he brought out his sketch book.

Takeo: By any chance, would you recognize this creature? *shows sketch*

Jailer: Oh… That’s Bonny, he’s a bit of a celebrity around here. Helped the city once. You should steer clear of him, he likes to fight

Takeo: *Facepalms*

Our party was let go and sent along our way, where we went to a tavern known as the Bastard Boar. The inn was owned by Toki’s sister, and just as we came to the door, Toki busts out giving hugs. Takeo then explained how the new character in our party had threatened to kill him.

Toki: Ooooooh, I do not trust you. You harm good friend. Do not cause trouble in my city.

Noboru: (New character) Or what?

Toki: BONNY!

With a thunderous thud, Bonny lands on the roof and stares Noboru down with bloodshot eyes. It goes without saying that any glimmer of an idea of hostility disappeared. After a quick rest in the tavern we came downstairs to see the humongous ape chugging a keg of vodka.


Bonny: *finishes the keg and beats on his chest whooping loudly before collapsing on the floor, unconscious and unfathomably drunk*

Me: Is Bonny okay?

Toki: Oh, hohoho, don’t worry, dis is normal.

Post Session

Cadence: You know the best part of that, was knowing Bonny was absolutely nothing but pure improvising.

DM: Yup.

Once Upon a Dream: Part I

A Soulmate AU with Cinderella elements, as promised. I think there’s going to be three parts–maybe more. Rate T for now, but will probably be M in later chapters ;)

Elena Trevelyan rubbed absently at the tattoo curling around the inside of her right wrist. The elegantly looping word was an annoyed ocher. Since it had appeared on her skin on the eve of her fifteenth birthday, it was more often than not some shade of black, grey, or, occasionally, red. In truth, she was never more worried than when it turned crimson and the ink seemed to bleed into the skin around the mark.

All the races of Thedas, save the dwarves, had the soulmarks—a tattoo displaying the first name of your one true love. It varied from person to person where and when the mark appeared on the body. Some were born with their soulmarks, while others didn’t develop them until puberty or later. And they always changed color based on your soulmate’s feelings.

“Cullen, Cullen, Cullen, please be alright,” Elena muttered as she traced the letters with her thumb.

Cullen. Her soulmate.

Keep reading

My name tag reads: Monday.
My shirt says: Haters gonna Hate.

Hello blogger,
and poet!

How’s your revolution
coming along?

I myself am getting dizzy from
this constant re-cycling,
circling, like buzzards,
like broken records,
like these vinyl
hipster fashion trends.

Everything old is new again,
like racism,
like opression,
like inequality,
like injustice,
like suffering.

Be the change you seek,
spare, sparse, pocket.

This endless trying,

Green blades of grass, we are,
undulled by drought, by time,
still useless
as weapons.

Morphine drip, this voice,
this scream, this fist in the air.
How sweetly it dulls the pain,
the reality, the impotent rage.

A poem, a false sense
of accomplishment.

It is Tuesday,
May 12, 2015.

It’s Sunday morning
and my roommate goes to church.
My roommate goes to church and I go
to the bone yard.

Autumn is in full swing
and the wind whispers through my hair,
“This is no place
for the living.”

I bring a flower because I hate
to come empty-handed to the people
who have lost so much.
I bring a flower because I have so much
to be thankful for.
I bring a flower because the buzzards circling
never seem to want something alive.

And I am here.
I like to think they wouldn’t mind,
and I have my reasons.

I’m here because poets are meant
to love the dead.
I’m here because the living world
has forgotten how to be still.

I’m here because my roommate
isn’t the only one
who wants to be forgiven.

—  Sunday
Between 1985 and 2004, the amount of people reporting they had no one to confide in tripled
We, those without fangs or claws, survived as social creatures
Loneliness is the dark blood of modern society’s skin
People circling like buzzards
like wheels of a busting car
or bolts of a skateboard
shaking loose.
I took LSD and imagined killing myself
Everything became sharp
I looked at the shelter I’d written around my personality
& was disappointed I couldn’t admit to myself
in sobriety
my own delusions & rejections
of constructive relationships
& shotgun shells
hidden in the fires
of positive thinking.
I go to Reddit
& stroke envy and longing
like personifying your dominant hand
in the shower
and quietly dying.
There is so much to be furious of
& yet the hands are broken down
scrambling for opportunity
Love, any constellation of meaning
& when the streets erupt
& when the Internet is taxed
& when there are cameras on every street corner
When the atomic face of Justice
is the most feared set of lips
What the fuck will we do?
Where the hell will cradle
We are not lost in a desert
We are not alone at sea
We are wired together
holding hands
hearts beating

Looking out the window again Ke’lani noticed the buzzards were still circling.  had been at it for hours.  She had first noticed the birds around the time that a group of dirty boys had come to the tavern.  They fought each other, hitting and one jumped on another’s back.  They were is high spirits.  Never had she seen such violence in public.  The one who was riding the other was thrown off.  Slamming into her, causing her to drop her tray and spilled the drinks.  He turned around to face her and sneered.  “Clumsy ain’t ya.”  Shoving her hard she stumbled back, stepping on a glass breaking it underfoot.  The pain brought a tear to her eye.  The Village master rushed out shoving her behind him as he served the larger nameks.  

When her Master returned to the kitchen he told her she would have to work late to help pay for the wasted drink and the broken dishes.  Angry she stomped off to the village square to get water from the fountain. That was first when she noticed a lone buzzard circling a trail of smoke.  She felt sorry for what ever animal had been hurt by the ‘boys’s rough housing about in the desert.  She had wanted to go help the poor abuse creature but was not allowed to leave till her chores where done.  It was dusk as she lifted her skirts and took off on a run into the desert.

In the distance she saw a large lump half buried.   One of the buzzards landed and bent to feed.  Hearing the moan of pain, Ke’lani grabbed some stones, throwing them at the birds as she ran to the lump.  It was no animal but a male Namek.  Or she was pretty sure it was one.  Its skin was blackened and blistered bright red from exposure to the desert sun.  It had tried to bury itself but ad been unable to finish the job,  Ke’lani removed one of her veils and wet it placing the damp cloth over his chest to cool him off while she gently set his head in her lap.  Placing the water to his lips she murmured softly for him to drink.  

Once he had drank a little of her precious water she summoned her healing magic.  She had very little.  But he needed it so very badly.  

For now she only healed what was life threatening.  He was conscious but out of it.  Too sun sick too fight her.  She got him standing and they stumbled across the sand to her meager hut.  She stripped him down and lay him in a stone tub.  the cool marble would help lower his temperature,  She re wet the veil and law it over his groin as she began to wash and treat his wounds.