gangling

Suppose there was a species that was very peaceful, very good at diplomacy and just generally very nice— but they also happened to look really terrifying to humans. Sort of an opposite to that ‘humans are cute space orcs’ thing— species X is perfectly friendly, but just happens to look like they walked out of a human horror movie.

We don’t blame them for it, it’s not their fault (and we’re slightly too afraid to talk to them about it anyway) we just quietly avoid ships where they are stationed and stay away from areas where they live and, over time, it just becomes accepted that, for whatever reason, you don’t put humans and species X together. Captains turn down human applicants if they’ve got a member of species X on their crew and visa versa. They barely notice that they’re doing it, it’s just how things are done.

Then one day a human crewed ship breaks down in species X space so that one of their ships picks up the distress signal. Being such lovely people, they offer to help and the humans can’t think of a good enough excuse to refuse.

The repairs take about a week and, the whole time, the species X crew members are loving the human ship. It’s so spacious, you barely even see other crew members! (They don’t realise that all the humans are constantly ducking out the way whenever they see them coming.)

The humans, meanwhile, just spend the entire week in Hell. The species X crew members like to take shortcuts through the ventilation shafts, so you can constantly hear them skittering around above your head; the ship is full of this low key but very distinctive smell— rotting meat, the smell of death (apparently they give it off when they’re happy); half the crew have goosebumps, despite the temperature controls working perfectly.

The ones working in the engine room directly alongside the species X crew have it hardest though, they can’t run away— and it’s very hard to relax and do your job when, suddenly, you hear this noise above your head and a hairless, milk white creature with no eyes and a huge mouth filled with razor sharp teeth and long gangling limbs with fingers and toes that look human but like they’ve been stretched, leaps silently with catlike grace from the rafters, lands right next to you, flicks out a forked tongue, holds out a long taloned hand and asks “can I borrow your spanner?”

When I was nine, possibly ten, an author came to our school to talk about writing. His name was Hugh Scott, and I doubt he’s known outside of Scotland. And even then I haven’t seen him on many shelves in recent years in Scotland either. But he wrote wonderfully creepy children’s stories, where the supernatural was scary, but it was the mundane that was truly terrifying. At least to little ten year old me. It was Scooby Doo meets Paranormal Activity with a bonny braw Scottish-ness to it that I’d never experienced before.

I remember him as a gangling man with a wiry beard that made him look older than he probably was, and he carried a leather bag filled with paper. He had a pen too that was shaped like a carrot, and he used it to scribble down notes between answering our (frankly disinterested) questions. We had no idea who he was you see, no one had made an effort to introduce us to his books. We were simply told one morning, ‘class 1b, there is an author here to talk to you about writing’, and this you see was our introduction to creative writing. We’d surpassed finger painting and macaroni collages. It was time to attempt Words That Were Untrue.

You could tell from the look on Mrs M’s face she thought it was a waste of time. I remember her sitting off to one side marking papers while this tall man sat down on our ridiculously short chairs, and tried to talk to us about what it meant to tell a story. She wasn’t big on telling stories, Mrs M. She was also one of the teachers who used to take my books away from me because they were “too complicated” for me, despite the fact that I was reading them with both interest and ease. When dad found out he hit the roof. It’s the one and only time he ever showed up to the school when it wasn’t parents night or the school play. After that she just left me alone, but she made it clear to my parents that she resented the fact that a ten year old used words like ‘ubiquitous’ in their essays. Presumably because she had to look it up.

Anyway, Mr Scott, was doing his best to talk to us while Mrs M made scoffing noises from her corner every so often, and you could just tell he was deflating faster than a bouncy castle at a knife sharpening party, so when he asked if any of us had any further questions and no one put their hand up I felt awful. I knew this was not only insulting but also humiliating, even if we were only little children. So I did the only thing I could think of, put my hand up and said “Why do you write?”

I’d always read about characters blinking owlishly, but I’d never actually seen it before. But that’s what he did, peering down at me from behind his wire rim spectacles and dragging tired fingers through his curly beard. I don’t think he expected anyone to ask why he wrote stories. What he wrote about, and where he got his ideas from maybe, and certainly why he wrote about ghosts and other creepy things, but probably not why do you write. And I think he thought perhaps he could have got away with “because it’s fun, and learning is fun, right kids?!”, but part of me will always remember the way the world shifted ever so slightly as it does when something important is about to happen, and this tall streak of a man looked down at me, narrowed his eyes in an assessing manner and said, “Because people told me not to, and words are important.”

I nodded, very seriously in the way children do, and knew this to be a truth. In my limited experience at that point, I knew certain people (with a sidelong glance to Mrs M who was in turn looking at me as though she’d just known it’d be me that type of question) didn’t like fiction. At least certain types of fiction. I knew for instance that Mrs M liked to read Pride and Prejudice on her lunch break but only because it was sensible fiction, about people that could conceivably be real. The idea that one could not relate to a character simply because they had pointy ears or a jet pack had never occurred to me, and the fact that it’s now twenty years later and people are still arguing about the validity of genre fiction is beyond me, but right there in that little moment, I knew something important had just transpired, with my teacher glaring at me, and this man who told stories to live beginning to smile. After that the audience turned into a two person conversation, with gradually more and more of my classmates joining in because suddenly it was fun. Mrs M was pissed and this bedraggled looking man who might have been Santa after some serious dieting, was starting to enjoy himself. As it turned out we had all of his books in our tiny corner library, and in the words of my friend Andrew “hey there’s a giant spider fighting a ghost on this cover! neat!” and the presentation devolved into chaos as we all began reading different books at once and asking questions about each one. “Does she live?”— “What about the talking trees” —“is the ghost evil?” —“can I go to the bathroom, Miss?” —“Wow neat, more spiders!”

After that we were supposed to sit down, quietly (glare glare) and write a short story to show what we had learned from listening to Mr Scott. I wont pretend I wrote anything remotely good, I was ten and all I could come up with was a story about a magic carrot that made you see words in the dark, but Mr Scott seemed to like it. In fact he seemed to like all of them, probably because they were done with such vibrant enthusiasm in defiance of the people who didn’t want us to.

The following year, when I’d moved into Mrs H’s class—the kind of woman that didn’t take away books from children who loved to read and let them write nonsense in the back of their journals provided they got all their work done—a letter arrived to the school, carefully wedged between several copies of a book which was unheard of at the time, by a new author known as J.K. Rowling. Mrs H remarked that it was strange that an author would send copies of books that weren’t even his to a school, but I knew why he’d done it. I knew before Mrs H even read the letter.

Because words are important. Words are magical. They’re powerful. And that power ought to be shared. There’s no petty rivalry between story tellers, although there’s plenty who try to insinuate it. There’s plenty who try to say some words are more valuable than others, that somehow their meaning is more important because of when it was written and by whom. Those are the same people who laud Shakespeare from the heavens but refuse to acknowledge that the quote “Some are born great, some achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon them“ is a dick joke.

And although Mr Scott seems to have faded from public literary consumption, I still think about him. I think about his stories, I think about how he recommended another author and sent copies of her books because he knew our school was a puritan shithole that fought against the Wrong Type of Wordes and would never buy them into the library otherwise. But mostly I think about how he looked at a ten year old like an equal and told her words and important, and people will try to keep you from writing them—so write them anyway.

fic: Of Sunsets and Swings

title: of sunsets and swings

genre: reality/tiniest bit of angst if you squint

word count: 2300

description: a little getaway cements an idea they’ve had for a while now and brings a sense of relief they never expected to feel. (ft. mother lester, some jetlag and a couple of swings)

“I find some irony in being in a kid’s park while we make this very grown-up decision.”

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anonymous asked:

Domestic jupeter headcanons?

  • it is cold on mars, and peter a) doesn’t own many warm socks and b) is a thief. so he just steals juno’s, which has the added benefit of forcing juno to buy new socks and do his laundry a little more often because before that peter was complaining constantly about the state of the socks which he had stolen, peter
  • when peter has a place he’s actually returning to, he becomes a squirrel. there are caches of various tools and clothes and food items everywhere in juno’s apartment. it is actually kind of a problem. there are knives in the couch, peter. peter.
  • “I can’t take you anywhere,” juno says, somewhat impressed, as peter empties at least four tables’ worth of silverware from the restaurant they went to out of his pockets (and also a doorknob, and a dog collar, and someone’s wallet, which juno makes him return.)
  • peter is, so far unsuccessfully, trying to teach juno to break out of handcuffs (it doesn’t help that juno probably enjoys being in the handcuffs a little too much)
  • they flirt by bickering
  • constantly
  • “can you please stop feeding every animal that shows up on the fire escape?” - juno, frequently
  • “when you buy some groceries worth feeding to a human being, darling,” - peter, usually
  • peter thinks juno’s penchant for tasteless art is the single funniest, most endearing thing he’s ever seen. he occasionally shows up with pieces whose previous owners are probably glad to see them gone. juno is equally touched and annoyed that his boyfriend wants him to hang stolen goods on his walls
  • juno gets back at peter for stealing his stuff (like his toothbrush, and his last expired PI license, and his socks) by pilfering peter’s jewelry, mostly stud earrings and any rings that look like they could break a nose. peter retaliates by painting juno’s nails when he has things he needs to be doing with his hands
  • casual touches!!! all the time!!!
  • c a s u a l  k i s s e s
  • “move out of the doorway I need to get through” “not until you kiss me”
  • peter is always careful to be uncharacteristically loud when he’s approaching on juno’s blind side so that he doesn’t surprise him
  • living with juno is basically like living with an alcoholic cat, including the bits where the cat starts running around like a maniac for no reason and then stares at the wall for three hours
  • peter’s good at expressing affection through words and gifts. juno gravitates more towards doing things for and with peter.
  • juno starts cooking a lot more often. he was always good at it and now he makes a bit more of an effort, getting rita to help him scrounge up recipes from places peter has mentioned he’s visited, places he’s mentioned he wants to. he doesn’t want hyperion city to close in too much around peter, does his best to bring a little of the universe in.
  • juno is exactly the right height that peter can sneak up behind him while he’s cooking and put his chin on top of juno’s head, like the smug gangle he is
  • peter usually enters via the windows (there are so many cameras at street level). this makes juno yell a lot
  • they honestly just like being together and sitting on the sofa half on top of one another and swapping stories for hours
student info: Junk, the student assistant librarian

The library is an odd place, and the librarians are an odd bunch. There’s the research librarian who hunts monsters; there’s the one who smells like fig newtons and seems to live and breathe books and only books, as if bound somehow to the library itself; there’s the… some guy, you think, who helps with reshelving (and “some guy” is not at all an accurate description of… whoever or whatever he is, but you don’t dare risk any other description) and, of course, the head librarian. The head librarian is called Irons, and her name suits her. Mrs. Irons is rarely seen, but when she does show up, everything- everything- falls silent. They say Mrs. Irons once shushed the Wild Hunt. You almost believe it. They say she learned the true name of one of the Gentry, and put him to work in the library as an unpaid intern. You don’t know about that, but you don’t look up when you hear some guy shuffling a book cart around the shelves.

And then there’s the student assistant librarian.

The student assistant librarian is exhausted and stressed all the time. Usually she says her name is Junk, but sometimes she gets confused and introduces herself as something else instead- not ever her true name, no, just whatever she happens to blurt out. She’s used to false names. She wears boots with iron hobnails and sweaters inside out and cargo pants with a hundred things in their pockets; her hair is usually uncombed but always smells of witch hazel. She’s tall, but she has the sort of permanent stoop you get from keeping your eyes on the ground all your life. She’s personable, but she doesn’t do well when conversations go off script. She never makes eye contact, and her dark eyes move oddly when she looks around- as though there are things in the room she wants to avoid seeing. She lies as often as she tells the truth, seemingly without reason. Her lies are always either entirely inconsequential or unconvincing to the point of absurdity, but she always delivers them with the same impossibly straight face.

The job is minimum-wage work study; you’re not sure how many hours they’re even allowed to give a student each week, but it seems like Junk is always in the library. There’s a dingy old microwave behind the circulation desk and a pile of clothes from the lost and found that could conceivably be a bed, if you’re an exhausted college student who doesn’t want to risk the trek back across campus at three in the morning. (Any time but three in the morning, freshmen quickly learn- you can be a night owl all you like, but three in the morning is not our time.) 

The student assistant librarian, whose name is usually Junk, is on the brink of flunking all her classes and always behind on reshelving. This is understandable. She is a student and an assistant librarian, but the real task of the student assistant librarian has little to do with either of those things. The library is an odd place and it is full of odd things, things odder even than the librarians. It is the task of the student assistant librarian to provide protection between the library and the students. She wanders the shelves with silver studs in her ears, washers on a chain around her neck, salt in her boots, a hand-crank flashlight in her pocket, and a crumpled guide to the Dewey Decimal system in her hand. She recites a poem as she walks, not because it keeps her safe but just because it’s her favorite stim: feeling the rhymes and rhythms on her own tongue, finding the patterns, finding the sense. It helps keep her calm- and she needs to be calm when she walks the shelves. 

She finds the students who have wandered into danger; she finds the danger that has wandered into the library. She sorts things out. She chews her lips bloody inside every time she goes into the deep shelves, but she sorts things out. She knows exactly how to deal with the Gentry, and exactly how to avoid dealing with them. She is not all-powerful, nor does she think of herself as particularly heroic, but she is smart and she is stubborn and when you are in her library you will be safe.

There’s a rumor that Junk was born with the Sight. You’re not sure if that’s true- you’re not sure if that’s possible- but when you look at her, this strange gangling girl who strides into the deep shelves every night for minimum wage and strides back out again with lost students at her side, this girl who knows every rule for every interaction with the Gentry, this girl that lies as easily as breathing and once accidentally introduced herself as Captain Kirk, this girl that you once saw crying into a cup of E-Z Mac behind the circulation desk… when you look at her, you think that if anyone was ever born with the Sight, it was probably Junk.

You do not envy her that.

She has a cat, officially registered with the school as a support animal for her autism. It is grey, a bit chubby, incredibly loving, dumb as a box of rocks and about as energetic, and all in all one of the most aggressively mundane animals you’ve ever seen. Perhaps that’s why the Gentry have never messed with it- or maybe that’s because Junk has always ensured that the cat is as protected as it is possible for any animal to be: an iron-buckled collar of brass bells, fur washed with witch hazel water she’s left in the moonlight, salt packets sewn into its support animal vest, no name given, and always at her side. It does not chase mice in the library. It does not chase anything at all, nor has it ever attempted to drink or eat from the offerings that students leave out. Maybe, upon reflection, it isn’t actually that dumb.

On the occasions she actually manages to make it to class, she usually falls asleep on her tiny desk within ten minutes. Even in small classes, most of her classmates don’t want to wake her. Student assistant librarian is not an easy job, and it is only decency to allow her rest where she can find it. Her grades suffer, but she will return to the library for her shift, and when you are in her library, you will be safe.

Junk doesn’t have a major. Even after two years, she’s still muddling through her gen eds. She doesn’t often talk about her family- at least, she doesn’t often tell the truth about them- but that doesn’t mean she doesn’t love them. Sometimes, at Elsewhere, it’s best to keep the things you love secret. Her family, whoever they are, wherever they are, are proud that their daughter made it to university. They do not know about her job, or the duty that comes along with it. They especially do not know about her grades.

Finals week is hard on everyone, but it also means that the number of students in the library increases tenfold- and so does the number of other things. Finals week is the most dangerous time of year, more dangerous even than the ravages of Spring Break, and it is the duty of the student assistant librarian to provide protection between the library and the students. She stays up all night herding the desperate studiers out of the unsafe places; she takes her exams as quickly as she can (too quickly) and then races back to the library to fetch those who have gone missing in her absence. It is not uncommon to see Junk full-on sprinting down the campus sidewalks during finals week, lanky limbs akimbo, hair wild, cat peeking out of her backpack. As hard as she runs, though, she never cuts a corner from the safe pathways. 

Not a single student has been Taken* from the library since she started work- an unprecedented record. She’s proud of that, even and especially on days when she’s too exhausted to put three sentences together, let alone write a timed essay. It seems unfair to give a job like this to a full-time student, and it is- but there is something about it that’s vital that the student assistant librarian must be both student and librarian. They must be a go-between. They must walk both worlds. They must provide protection.

(*She found a philosophy student halfway to the Barony once, miles past the marble palace in the reference section. He was lost and glamour-dazed, but not yet Taken, not all the way. She gave him half the sandwich she had in her pocket (the other half went back into the pocket, just in case) and led him back to the circulation desk in time for the end of night shift- the journey had been several days, she was certain, but time passed differently in the library. Two weeks later, the same philosophy student went missing from a party, and never reappeared. Junk couldn’t do anything about that; he wasn’t in her library. But no one gets taken from her library.)

Junk never asks for anything in return from the students she rescues from the deep shelves- it is her duty, after all, and duty means a bargain bigger, more binding, and more sacred than any trade between students. Still, it might be a good idea to help her with her classwork. After all, if she flunks out, the school is unlikely to get another student assistant librarian like this one.

-

((Hope this is alright! Wasn’t sure how to submit this but… Junk and Mrs. Irons are original characters of mine, sliding into Elsewhere University AU-wise. Anyone who wants to can find out more about them and their other lives (and talk to Junk!) at my blog @deweydeadcimal.))

do not ask me where this came from. it just appeared in my mind fully formed and i wanted to write it and considering i haven’t wanted to write anything properly in months, well… i decided to go with it.

basically, this is how i imagine the post-reveal discussion happening once the dust has settled and the fighting has stopped (aka how i dream it happening because lbr we won’t ever be this lucky!)


He stood in the doorway, watching as Aaron slipped out of his jeans and climbed into bed. They hadn’t spoken in an hour. Robert knew because he’d been glancing at his watch every few minutes, waiting for Aaron to erupt and kick him out. He had been expecting it all day, but even as Aaron raged, hands balled into fists, eyes watery with tears, he hadn’t told Robert to leave.

A miracle.

“Stop hovering and get over here.”

Robert jumped, hitting his shoulder off the door-frame. Aaron glanced up for a moment and then slowly, cautiously, patted the duvet. His feet moved without him, desperate to be closer to his husband even if he was just waiting for the rejection he knew was coming.

He clambered onto his side, limbs awkward and gangling, feeling like a teenager waiting to be scolded. Even in the narrow bed there was still a gap between them. Robert felt sick.

Aaron sighed and then slid further under the covers, lifting his arm and looking to Robert who just stared back.

“I’m not gonna bite. Come on.”

He stayed staring for a moment, too dumbfounded to move, and then felt himself falling into Aaron’s embrace, gravity doing the work. Tentatively, he pressed his lips to Aaron’s bare, tanned chest and then pillowed his head there, listening to the heavy metronome of Aaron’s heart just beneath his ear.

“We’ve gotten through worse,” Aaron said into the darkness, his voice a low rumble and a little faded at the edges, drowsy. Robert rested a hand on his shoulder, squeezed out of reassurance for them both - I’m here, we’re here, together - and tucked his nose into Aaron’s neck.

“You shouldn’t have to put up with this. With me,” he whispered into soft, warm skin, and Aaron’s arm immediately curled tight around Robert’s waist, pulling him in closer.

“Don’t say that.” It was a warning, a hazard light flashing, but Robert pushed on.

“It’s true. You could be happy right now and instead-”

“Who says I’m not happy,” Aaron cut in, pushing himself further up the bed into a half-sitting position, dragging Robert with him. And even in the darkness Robert could see the stubborn set of his shoulders, the sharp line of his jaw jutting out. It was at once endearing and heartbreaking, the sheer strength of will Aaron seemed to possess, his utter refusal to give in even when… even when it would have been better for him.

“Aaron,” Robert began, elbow digging into the mattress so he could keep his balance, “don’t play it down. Don’t make out like your okay with this.” It was one thing to see Aaron resilient, but it was another to have him forcing a smile. Robert couldn’t cope with anymore lies, and especially none that were designed to spare him pain or guilt.

He wanted to feel it. He needed to. It was currently the only thing keeping him anchored.

“I’m not okay,” Aaron answered, and even though Robert knew it already, the raw honesty of the words lanced through him, sharp and merciless.

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I always thought there was no reason why nureyev should have stripped the police officers down when he escaped. it’s that much added time in his (very fast) escape and there’s no implication he used it as a disguise, as though this ridiculous gangle-man would probably fit in their uniforms anyway.

but now, of course, there IS a potential reason: they threatened juno in front of him, and peter is sufficiently petty and dramatic that the humiliation of just escaping and tying them up wasn’t enough retaliation. (and maybe he thought it would please juno just a little bit lmao.)

when ppl say ron can’t be bisexual bc he’s ‘canonically straight’ i’m just like ??????????

where ?? does it ??? say that ???????

like i’m sorry i must’ve completely skipped this part of the book: ‘He was tall, thin and gangling, with freckles, big hands and feet, and a long nose. He was also the biggest heterosexual to ever heterosexual. “No homo!” he yelled when Harry approached, waving his straight pride flag in Harry’s face.’

fangirlofcookies  asked:

any headcanons about the height difference between mal and evie for malvie

I have to thank you because things I didn’t know about myself? That I can make angst out of height. Also, I eventually had to stop myself because I could’ve kept going.

  • Mal always knows she’s going to be short. It’s a point of pride because her mother, the most terrible and powerful villain on the Isle, is also short. They’re compactly evil, Maleficent says once. They’re fae.
  • When Mal’s small and still growing, limbs too thin and lanky and nothing at all like her mother’s, she worries. Magic green eyes catch on the humans that fill the Isle and she thinks of her father. What if she’s not dainty and cruel and sharp? What if somehow her blood betrays her and makes her tall and gangling?
  • (And Mal does grow taller than her mother. Mal slouches, careless and villainous, trying to hide the height that marks her not quite fae.)
  • Evie just hopes she’ll be the right height. What that is changes by the day with her mother’s whims. Tall and statuesque with a classic nose to look down. Or petite and slender with dark eyelashes to peer up through. Or…
  • Instead, Evie disappoints them both by landing somewhere in the middle. At sixteen she is neither tall nor short. For months her mother measures her, for if she cannot be petite than she shall be statuesque. When it becomes clear that Evie has ceased to grow the Queen has her minions retrieve a pair of broken glass slippers from the Auradon garbage barge.
  • (And Evie learns to push back her shoulders and sway her hips as her heels clicking down lonely castle hallways. It’s the price to be fairest.)
  • They meet. Mal glares up with eyes green like magic but never straightens from her slouch. Evie stares down with eyes brown like earth but never bends her posture. They almost hate each other.
  • Until they don’t. Hate each other, that is. It’s suddenly commonplace to see Evie with one arm slung around Mal’s shoulders, porcelain cheek pressed against violet hair, lips curled into a pouting smile. To see Mal curl a possessive hand around the curve of Evie’s hip, compact fae cruelty in the sharp lines of her face, lips pressed into a challenging sneer. To see power where there used to be insecurity.
  • (And Mal teaches Evie to take off the broken glass slippers while Evie teaches Mal to stand tall and fierce. They live Happy Ever After.)
Worth the Wait


FFXV Nyx/Reader Fic (Complete)

Word count: 11,089

Rating: Explicit (NSFW)

Summary: You had never gotten along with your fellow Glaive Nyx Ulric; everything about him grated on your nerves, from that mouth of his that never knew when to shut up, to the way he always seemed to be right in your path whenever he wasn’t wanted. The two of you were like oil and water. But he finds you irresistible, and he won’t stop until you finally give in.

(Originally posted on Archive of Our Own.)

Disclaimer: I do not own FFXV or any related characters, nor do I own you. No money is made from the writing of this story.

Inspired by @hypaalicious and her Gladio fic “F**K You”. It got me wanting to write some angry smut of my own, and this is what came of it.


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AHHH

here are quite a lot of very self-indulgent and excessively poetical cyborg AU vs. medieval AU thoughts.

…………..I was writing a raymanthia AU and thinking about universe swaps (because of a certain SOMEBODY you know who you are).  So I was thinking idly about how maybe they have magic in Raymanthia but their tech is basically nil and their medical/scientific skills aren’t the most advanced and their wars are fought differently and etc. etc. etc. 

And then I thought about the different burners switching into their places in the realm and I have a lot of thoughts about Mike seeing the army his other self leads, the men who respect and admire him, and getting really emotional!   BUT THAT’S NOT THIS POST (mostly)

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Hush

Fluff request by Anonymous with Yondu.  Hope this is within the confines of the user’s request.

((Author’s note:  This fic is not alluding to verbally abusive behavior; however, I understand if it could be taken as such.  If mention of hurtful comments triggers you, please proceed with caution.))

“He’s an idiot,” you mumble quietly to yourself.  The sound reverberates, producing the faintest echo in the sequestered corner of the ship.  At times, Yondu was not the easiest being in the galaxy to be around.   Years of leading a group like the Ravagers tends to toughen up the softest fair.  Like any other couple, you two bumped heads.   But this time the cause of the argument wasn’t the issue.   What was said dug deep even if it was a comment shot out while tempers flared.   Words failed you after the incident, so here you were sitting alone, staring at the rusting grey of the ship.  

Hours tick by and no word from the captain.  Not even a half assed apology delivered by his first mate.  Seclusion and a jagged grate for a cushion fail to properly balm your wounds.  Defeated, you shuffle to bed, partially hoping that he would be there.  

No such luck.  

After a shower, you crawl into the empty bed.  Sleep claims your mind and before long a dream commences.  You’re running, from what you can’t discern, but it is imperative that you get away from the silent terror stalking the rim of your consciousness.    Your legs begin to slow, and the unspeakable edges near, its breath hot and menacing on your neck.  Panic sets in making your pulse ascend; it’s growing closer, the dream is getting darker. A gangling arm brushes against your shoulder jolting you awake.  Sweating, you shoot up, a scream threatening to rip the silence of the room apart. Suddenly, an arm wraps itself around your stomach, pulling you down to the bed.  Yondu gathers you up and presses your brow to his lips.  

“Shh.  I’m here, it’s okay.”  

Is he still asleep?  This was…honestly more of a shock to your senses than the nightmare had been.  You don’t stay confused for long, not wishing to mar this rare display of unabashed tenderness.  The hushed rasp of his voice continued to gently mutter that you were safe within his arms.  Calm overcomes panic and eventually allows you to drift back into a peaceful slumber.

The following morning you rose and made your way to the bridge.  Yondu was there, silently going over the scrolling marquee of his halo pad which briefly detailed the highlights of the day’s news.  Propping yourself on the back of his chair, you glide a hand over his fin.  Instinctively he reaches up, catching your hand he plants a kiss in the middle of your palm.  

“Y/n…about the other night…”

“I know, Yondu.  Let’s just make today less eventful.  Deal?”

With that promise expressed, he gently squeezes your hand in agreement.   You nestle on his lap, savoring the rare tranquility of a sleeping ship.

Scary Stories

Eleventh installment of the Jacob Black “Home” series (“Home” - “Familiarities” - “Reunion” - “Pitching Fits”- “Grand Gestures” - “Jail Break” - “Ice” - “Head Trauma” - “Changing Tides” - “Sunshine”) requested by so, so many of you. As always, more installments will be rolling in to follow the events of the series, so keep an eye out for the next installment or two, as they’ll be wrapping the events of Twilight and sending us blazing into New Moon territory. Hope you like it!

All past and future installments of this series can be found on the “The Story Continues…” page. Songs to accompany the series are available on the “Playlists” page.

Jacob was all but glowing beneath the sun, an image you could hardly tear your eyes from as you basked in the novelty of the uncharacteristic weather. His hair, tied with a rubber band at the nape of his neck, shone like polished obsidian, and his gangling walk made the sunlight dance along the crown of his head. He was in the middle of an anecdote, and one you were far too familiar with; he was spinning a rather exaggerated tale based loosely around the time when, at the ripe age of seven, you had pushed his older sister Rebecca into the tide pools at First Beach. He paused every few sentences to stare at you with eyes darkened by fabricated loathing, the betrayal you had dealt his beloved sister clearly weighing heavily on his broad shoulder, despite the many years that had passed since she’d gone flailing into the glorified puddle. Although this was technically your first date (Jacob had made sure to stress the technical bit, stating all boredom and lack of adventure on this such quote-end quote “date” was subject to the peculiarity of the “date”), your time with Jacob thus far seemed nothing out of the ordinary; perhaps, you thought, it was the matter of his personality and your own familiarity that made today seem so… normal. There was hardly anything you could think of him doing that would make a date of this nature seem anything more than a romantic spin with your best friend, but there was absolutely nothing wrong with that.

“And then, wearing nothing but rain boots and a cape, I jumped out from a cloud of smoke and sunk my teeth into her neck, killing her instantly.” You snapped your head to attention, prying your eyes away from the warmth that clung to the high plane of Jacob’s cheekbone, redirecting your gaze to lock on his eyes, glittering as they were over a wide, dramatic snarl. “There she is. How was your trip?” he jested, leaning into your side as he walked, chuckling to see you roll your eyes, your face ducked to conceal the blush that raged beneath the delicate skin of your face. “What were you thinking about?” he pried, his eyes raking over your face as it lifted from hiding, his eyes warm and attentive on yours. You shrugged, stepping pointedly over a divot in the earth, your eyes scanning the salted horizon, following the swells of the waves as they roiled inward toward land.

“Just… I don’t know, daydreaming I suppose,” you confessed, calculating carefully before speaking to cover the worst of your truth with the simplicity of a partial lie. Although your thoughts were primarily occupied by, well, by Jacob (though not entirely by his words, at the very moment), there was a part of your mind that remained firmly locked in thought, turning in and over itself trying to unscramble the enigma that was the Cullen boy. How did he manage to stop that van with just his hand, and how was he able to send you flying backward with so little effort? Although the hand print had all but faded from your flesh, the injury lingered like a bruise on your brain. There was something about him… so absorbed in Bella, and yet he wouldn’t join her on the juniors’ beach excursion. To be fair, you would have avoided Mike Newton like the plague, too, if given the chance, but it seemed… out of character for Edward Cullen to want to keep his distance from Bella, especially after their little get-together at lunch and the resulting carriage ride home. Jacob waited patiently for further explanation, knowing too well your character… and though you wanted so desperately to relay to him the truths that had kept you awake nights turning over details instead of sleeping, something in you forced you to withhold the information. Instead, you opted for a similar topic to Edward Cullen, hoping somewhat blindly that you could ease the conversation in the right direction and release some of your pent-up frustration without revealing the exact capacity your brain had for insanity. “It’s just… I feel kind of guilty leaving Bells with Mike Newton. She invited someone else, but they didn’t show.” Jacob grimaced regretfully, sharing in your sympathy for Bella.

“I can’t see why anyone would turn Bella down, especially with her being so… new to town. With a population the size of Forks, it’s a wonder she hasn’t been swarmed yet.” You shot a look in his direction that implied how severe the swarming had been already, and he winced playfully. “Yikes. So, who’s the outlier?” Leave it to Jacob to flip the turn signal when you were turning the wheel. You tread carefully, both physically and mentally, as you drew nearer to the beach.

“Edward Cullen.” Jake snorted, shaking his head in understanding. “What? Am I missing something, here?” Jake raised his hand, waving it absentmindedly in the space between you, dashing your inquiry from the air. You weren’t backing down so easily; he had you hooked like a salmon on Harry Clearwater’s fishing line. “Jake, come on. What is it?” Jacob’s warm eyes fell on your face then, his pace slowing to a lazy shuffle, his hands diving deep within his pockets as he lead the way down a crumbling sand dune, his direction aimed at the group of juniors huddled around a dazzling driftwood fire.

“Well, I mean… I was gonna say the Cullens don’t come here. They’re not allowed on the reservation… well, they’re not supposed to come here. It’s stupid, really.” You opened your mouth to speak, confused by his cryptic language, when Bella spotted you approaching, all but leaping from her seat and dashing to your side. She extended her arms to encircle Jacob, eyeballing you maternally over his shoulder, her face hinting at all the teasing to be expected with sisterly love, holding him at an arm’s length before addressing the both of you.

“Hey, Y/n, could I borrow Jacob real quick? I just had… well, there’s a boy over by the fire-” she jabbed a thumb in the direction of a staggeringly tall Quileute boy, his hair far shorter than Jake’s, but tied in the same manner. Jacob interjected, supplying the name “Sam” before allowing Bella to finish. “Right, sure. He was talking about… do you know any good Quileute legends?” Jake raised his eyebrows at you as Bella began to lead him away from the fire, her brow knotted in concentration. As she passed, her lips by your ear, she spoke in a voice so low you could barely hear. “Give me five minutes?” You nodded, shuffling your way towards the bonfire, accepting the sandwich Angela passed in your direction. You settled in by her side, extending your palms toward the flames, hoping to chase every remnant of the week’s icy history from your fingertips. Angela’s conversation was an appreciated shift; her quiet, serene voice was easy to grasp, and her talk of the upcoming school events kept your mind occupied, for the most part, on something other than the Cullens… and their strange ban from La Push.

Bella, as always, was good on her word; she kept you waiting no more than five minutes before returning Jacob to your care, his laughter giving him away long before their approaching footfall could cue their entry. He slid onto the log beside you, his body close enough to touch at every perimeter, Bella’s eyes darting to the lack of space between you both before raising her brows in your direction. You rolled your eyes, shifting slightly to the side, watching Bella bite her lip to keep from laughing aloud. Jake, oblivious to her watchful eye, minimized the distance between you again, shifting to compensate for your movement, his hands snagging the unclaimed triangle half of a sandwich from where you had balanced it on your kneecap. You elbowed him playfully, sharing the briefest of smiles before averting your eyes, hyper-aware of your sister’s gaze dissecting your every move.

“Tell any good stories, there, Jake?” you prodded, watching his shoulders shrug, his head tilted in your direction as he whispered his response. “Hopefully something better than the time I pushed Rebecca into a tide pool and you murdered a woman in cold blood.” Jacob’s eyes perked up at the mention of blood, his eyes dancing dangerously as they locked on yours.

“No, nothing could top that and you know it, but now that you mention blood, your sister seemed really interested in the stories of Quileute ancestry; you know, the spirit warriors who hunted as wolves and the cold ones that drank the blood of the innocent.” He tore a chunk from his sandwich, wiggling his eyebrows as he continued, his hand lifted to conceal the majority of his mouth to keep you from spying the food he was chewing. “Apparently Sam mentioned the Cullens, and she wanted to know why they weren’t allowed here, too. I swear, you guys must be twins. Are you sure you didn’t just… hang out in your mom too long? Like, you’re sure you didn’t just sleep through the alarm, there?” You laughed, somewhat halfheartedly, your mind distracted in every degree. Either Bella was digging for dirt on the Cullen boy (and his strange rejection when he seemed so smitten), or she had not forgotten the bizarre events that aided her narrow escape from death either. You stood from your seat, standing before Jacob as you dusted the crumbs from your hands on the rough denim of your pant legs. You needed to talk about something else, anything else. You were done destroying your brain over the Cullen boy.

“You wanna go revisit those tide pools?” you offered, watching Jacob dart up from his seat, his eyes eager as he, too, rid himself of crumbs. He mumbled something about being more than willing, so long as you didn’t push him in, your eyes rolling as you stepped around Angela’s feet. He gestured for you to lead the way, his hand brushing against the small of your back as you turned to leave the fire pit, your skin tingling at the touch. It was still such a strange concept, Jacob as anything but a friend, but you couldn’t say you didn’t enjoy this new side of him. He followed you away from the gathering, your sister’s eyes burning a hold in the back of your head as you climbed the dunes and receded out of sight. You turned to check for prying eyes as you stumbled forward, Jacob matching your pace easily, his shoulder rubbing against yours as you walked toward the treeline. “You know, we don’t have to go to the tide pools if you don’t want to, I just wanted to get away from the fire.” Jacob raised his eyebrows at you, tacking-on the nonverbal and your sister you didn’t want to admit. You sighed, smiling as you exhaled, nodding in confirmation. Jacob’s hand brushed against yours as you walked, twisting at the wrist and twining his fingers with yours, the warmth of his palm buzzing with electricity. You grinned, meeting his gaze in the silence of the moment before bursting into laughter, Jacob’s voice tangling with yours in the space between you, his cheeks wide with his smile. It was… strange, this sensation; the lightness in your chest, the burn beneath your skin, but with Jacob it all felt so… natural, even if it was a bit silly, given the extent of your familiarity.

“Hey, this isn’t so bad, is it? Not as weird as we thought it’d be,” he chuckled, swinging your hands between your bodies, your shoulder leaning against his as you walked, stopping just a few feet into the forest, your back against the trunk of a pine tree. Jacob held your hand, suspended between your bodies, the toes of his shoes touching yours, his teeth biting his lower lip to keep his smile in check. You beamed, your skin humming where it touched his, the sun that sifted through the emerald canopy above painting his cheeks with patches of golden light, crowning him before your very eyes.

“Not at all. It feels…” you trailed off, your voice failing you as Jacob drew nearer by a fraction of an inch, his hand on yours shifting just slightly to the side to allow for his advance. You tried again, clearing your throat nervously before parting your lips to speak. “It feels…” Jacob stepped close to you, then, his eyes flickering once between your eyes and your lips. He inhaled slowly, his voice soft with a gentle conviction.

“Right.” He ducked his face to yours, his lips a breath away from yours when Mike Newton’s voice rang out through the trees, startling you from your close proximity, your hands abandoning each other with the swiftness of criminals caught huddled over the body of their victim, blood staining their clothes. Mike’s face appeared by the path into the forest, a few feet from where you stood with Jacob, now at a comical distance, his hood pulled up over his carefully gelled hair.

“Hey, Y/n, we’re headed back to the store. Sky’s gonna open up any minute now, so Bella wanted me to come get you,” he explained, his eyes flickering between your face and Jacob’s, watching as your best friend toed at a stone, his eyes averted, one hand tucked away in the pocket of his jeans, the other absentmindedly scratching at the back of his head; the picture of a guilty party feigning lack of involvement.

“Great, Mike. I’ll be there in a second,” you sighed, your ears picking up on the splattering of raindrops as they struck the leaves overhead. Mike ducked out of sight, Jacob’s eyes lifting as soon as he had gone. You winced at the boy, his hand leaving his pocket to offer a shrug of powerlessness and faux-sympathy. “Guess that’s my cue. I’ll… I’ll see you around, Jake. I’m sure there’s a game on this weekend, so if you want to come over then, I’m sure we could steal some time away from the old men.” Jacob grinned, a little halfheartedly, his eyes burning on yours. You walked forward, your arms outstretched for an embrace, Jacob shuffling forward to fill the space between your bodies, his hands planting securely on the small of your back as yours wound around the back of his neck. “I’ll see you soon, Jake,” you whispered, pressing your lips to the curve of his cheekbone before detangling yourself from his arms, his smile halfway between bewilderment and contentment, his teeth biting down once more on his lips to keep his smile from overpowering his features.

“Sure, sure,” he whispered, grinning in your direction, returning your wave as you walked off towards the parking lot, leaving Jacob beneath the cover of the trees, catching a glimpse of his beaming smile, full to bursting with joy, just seconds before losing him to the forest. The rain beat down on the roof of Mike’s car as he shuttled the group out of La Push, Bella’s arm crushed against your side as you traveled homeward, your silence persisting even after you had bid farewell to the rest of the students. Despite all you had heard during your stay in La Push, not a single word was spoken in regard to the Cullens. Not a single word was spoken, period. You drove home in silence, listening to the steady fall of rain on the windshield of Bella’s truck, the wipers smearing water uselessly as the skies continued to bleed onto the earth below. Whatever Bella had learned on the beach was clearly distracting her, occupying her thoughts enough to bar her from making conversation, or even from asking you about Jacob Black’s so obvious interest. You couldn’t help but wonder if she knew more than she was letting on… or if, perhaps, she was just as lost as you were.

  • I’m having a lot of eileen prince feels
  • girl was trapped in an abusive relationship and had to watch her son escape to a magic castle every year while she stayed behind
  • she was a bigot and raised her son a bigot and yet she married a muggle???
  • super powerful witch probably because look at snape, who whatever you may think of him, was an undeniable badass
  • she was most likely at hogwarts at the same time as tom riddle but she wasn’t in his fan club in slughorn’s memory so yeah
  • and she won potion awards and shit like wow she wasn’t conventionally pretty or popular and screw that why should men have a monopoly on being gangling sociopathic assholes and still having tons of sex appeal?
  • how about more female characters who have kind of shitty personalities because they’re hard as nails because for some people that’s what you have to be to get by
  • SNAPE’S MOM FANDOM

“ A detective, his brother had said. An experiment of some sort. John wondered, sleepily, just what sort of experiment required living on the streets, filthy and half-starved. He was still turning the question over and over in his head, his own little mental Mobius puzzle, when a heavy weight dropped into his lap, startling a grunt from him.

His hands caught at silky fabric and long limbs, along with a wealth of warm, bare skin and John opened shocked eyes to find Sherlock straddling his lap, wearing only the top to his pyjamas. Tall as he was, they barely brushed his upper thighs and it was painfully obvious he was naked beneath them and…Christ.

He’d never seen Sherlock without his ever-present layer of grime and to suddenly have him soapy-clean, pale and fresh-faced and *on top of him* was a bit of a shock. Beneath the shabby clothes and dirty hair he was surprisingly healthy, cheeks flushed from the shower and his mouth was soft and plush, tasting of minty toothpaste and pressing against John’s, the tip of his tongue sliding wetly over his lips and—

"What the hell are you doing!?” John blurted and he shoved at Sherlock hard enough to send him sprawling on the floor, all gangling legs and scowling face.“

I commissioned shootbadcabbies for a scene from one of my fav fics: ”Strays“ by Keelywolfe. It is fantastic. Go read it (again).

She did wonderful as usual. I love her art!! Thank you so much!

There is a splendid podfic of this, read by the very talented magicranberries (listened to it dozens of times!!). You should check it outif you haven’t already.

Phantom Alumni Appearing in Beauty and the Beast 2017
  • Harriet Jones (Christine in West End) as the Queen
  • Simone Sault (Ballet Chorus/Meg u/s in original Australian tour) as a villager
  • Sofia Escobar (Christine in the West End) as Madame Garderobe (Portuguese dub)
  • Claudia Cota (Christine in Mexico City and Buenos Aires) as Madame Garderobe (Latin American Spanish Dub)
  • Irasema Terrazas (Christine in Mexico City) as Mrs. Potts (Latin American Spanish dub)
  • Nando Prado/Pradho (Raoul in Sao Paulo) as Gaston (Brazilian Portuguese dub)
  • Bianca Tadini (Christine in Sao Paulo) as Plumette (Brazilian Portuguese dub)
  • Cidalia Castro (Carlotta in Sao Paulo) as Mrs. Potts (Brazilian Portuguese dub)
  • Tomas Ambt Kofod (Raoul and u/s Phantom in Copenhagen original and revival) as the Beast (Danish dub) (thanks @operafantomet!)
  • Susanne Elmark (Christine in the original Copenhagen production) as Madame Garderobe (Danish dub) (Thanks @operafantomet!)
  • Emmi Christensson (Christine in the West End and Stockholm) as Belle (Swedish dub) 
  • Yoni Amar (u/s Phantom in the cancelled Paris production) as The Beast (French dub) (Thanks @azuraathenax)
  • Dmitry Ermak (Phantom in Moscow) as Gaston (Russian dub) (Thanks @azuraathenax)
  • Damian Alexander (Phantom in Poland) as Gaston (Polish dub)
  • Ekaterina Lëhina/Lekhina (Carlotta in Moscow) as Madame Garderobe (Russian dub)
  • Daniel Engman (Auctioneer in Stockholm) as The Beast (Swedish dub)
  • Karolina Andersson (Carlotta in Stockholm) as Madame Garderobe (Swedish dub)

Including Love Never Dies and the 2004 Movie:

  • Jak Allen-Anderson (Gangle in Love Never Dies Hamburg) as “The Alchemist’s Son” (he can be seen dancing on the table in the blonde wig during “Gaston) and Lumiere motion capture.
  • Megumi Hamada (Christine in Love Never Dies Tokyo) as Madame Garderobe (Japanese dub)
  • Luca Velletri (Phantom in the Italian dub of the 2004 movie) as the Beast (Italian dub) (thanks @vl-blackswan!)

Also Sandy Strallen (father of LND London Meg Summer Strallen) appears in the ensemble

I suspect there might be alumni in the Czech, Norwegian,  Flemish, Korean or Romanian dubs, please let me know if you find any.