how to care for cast iron

One Breakfast at a Time

upperstories submitted:

(Rough Around the Edges, pt. 2)


Summary: The following morning… 


Boris’s feet felt prickly.

The first thought that dredged up the wolf’s mind from the thick, murky mires of sleep was that there was a foreign, uncomfortable feeling in his toes. It wasn’t quite painful, but it was distracting. Which was a shame; quite honestly, as the rest of him felt like it was swaddled in a soft, warm cloud, like lying on a mountain of fleece. He was dreaming of sleeping on the back of a large, comfy sheep. Maybe if he moved his feet right, he could shoo the strange sensation away and get back to sinking completely into the wool.

His toes twitched, and the tingling feeling went up both his legs completely. That hurt.

“YIPE!” Boris yelped, knees hiking in alarm, eyes flying open.

The first thing that greeted him was strange visual tones and hues, blurred from the sleep in his eyes and the tingling in his feet. They were—oh, whadyacallems?—Blues. And Greens. Only lighter, greyer, faintly cast across the ceiling above him, making him squint. It followed the outline of a windowpane.

His foggy mind thought, not for the first time:

How long will it take before them colors look normal?

Motion at his side had him shaking his noggin, revealing the familiar heads of to his pals, moppy and disheveled from sleep. Alice muttered something under her breath—when had her halo hung itself up on that lamp?— and Bendy snuggled closer into the pillows, a bit of drool staining the soft cushion.

Recognition stumbled into his brain as his eyes adjusted to the dim early morning light.

He wasn’t sleeping on a bed of fleece. He was sharing a bed with Alice and Bendy, feeling mighty cozy in spite of being too long to rightly fit on the mattress length-wise, which explained why his feet weren’t under the covers. The tingling must’ve been because they’d been leaning over the end board all night.

Asleep, his feet were asleep. That’s what this feeling felt like. Except… it was much stronger than how it’d felt before, back in the world drenched in ink.

Dang, the real world felt strange.

Trying his best not to disturb the other two sleeping Toons, Boris slowly pulled his bare feet under the blankets, wincing as he flexed the tingling feeling out of them. They were cold to the touch, as were the ends of his ears and snout, a stark difference compared to the comfy warm bubble formed underneath the covers from his proximity to his friends. If he stayed still enough, curled up a ball, maybe he could go back his sweet, soft, monochromatic dreams…

The door creaked, and Boris was awake.

In the semi darkness, the wolf made out the shape of a figure entering the room, familiar in spite of his loss of Toonification. It was Henry.

Err. At least. Boris was pretty sure it was Henry.

The man had Henry’s almost square-ish head, large ears, surly set face and all, but in place of the man’s wrinkled light green shirt and brown slacks was a plaid patterned collared shirt, all blues and grays, sleeves rolled up to the elbows, and the bottom half of a dark grey jumpsuit, faded at the knees and the top half wrapped messily around his waist. His black work boots were word around the souls. It all smelled faintly of engine oil.

A change of clothes shouldn’t have been completely out of left field for the Toon (as he recalled, Bendy changed his wardrobe a number of times over a wide variety of episodes), but the old animator’s plainer duds had almost seemed glued to him. Seeing Henry in less plain-looking clothes felt like seeing a camel in a bunny onesie. Strange.

He silently watched Henry tread to the bedside table on Bendy’s side of the bed and leave a note next to the lamp. The man looked haggard, but clean. His hair was even combed.

Boris considered keeping his head down, pretending to be asleep. But then, just as it looked like he was about to leave, Henry stopped and turned around, looking back at the bed of Toons. Contemplating, eyes unfocused and glassy—from lack of sleep, perhaps?— grey circles under them. The wolf’s felt his heart clench, and he lifted his head.

“Henry?” he whispered.

Henry jumped and caught himself on the wall.

“JEEZ—” Henry breathed, forced his voice down. “Boris— scared the daylights outta me.”

“Sorry—!” Boris’s ears fell back. “Sorry.”

Henry put a hand to his chest and sighed. His eyes looked less glassy, more awake.

“Agh, I didn’t wake you up, did I?” Did Henry look guilty? Nah, it must’ve been Boris’s imagination.

“Nah,” said Boris, truthfully. “Feet fell asleep. Woke me up instead.”

The corners of Henry’s mouth twitched. If Boris didn’t know any better, he could almost mistake the man’s grimace as a smile. It almost met his eyes.

“Headin’ off somewhere?” said Boris, nodding towards the note.

“Just about,” whispered Henry.

He motioned for Boris to follow him out of the room, finger to his lips. Boris nodded, trying to be mindful of jostling the bed, so as not to rouse Alice or Bendy. The wolf was thankful for his thick coat of fur (ink?) once he was free from the blankets, as the room was fairly brisk without the protection. Boris swallowed a whine and followed after the grizzled animator.

On their way to the den, Henry grabbed a large, dark green jacket from one of the hampers in the hallway. He gave it a tentative sniff to check if it was clean, shrugged, and offered it to Boris. Boris sniffed as well. It smelled of Henry and mothballs. It would do. The sleeves came up an inch short of his wrists though.

“Gotta go plead to the powers that be that I don’t end up unemployed before the day’s end,” said Henry once they were a safe whisper-free distance from the bedroom, sighing and scratching his neck. “I, uh, took a few more vacation days than I’d originally planned.”

Boris’s stomach dropped, guiltily. The studio.

“Oh, golly… wha… that was our fault—”

“S’nobody’s fault,” said Henry, patting Boris’s shoulder. They passed the couch. It didn’t show any signs of Henry sleeping on it. “I might have to work a few extra shifts to make up for it though. My boss, Callum? Not exactly known for being forgiving, but he can be fair when he needs to be.”

Boris nodded, faint memories of his own past experiences with “unforgiving bosses” arising. His tail tucked between his legs, the wound from the harsh look on Joey’s face all those days ago in that office now fresh in his mind’s eye. When the air was thick with acetone and Henry’s open cartoon wounds. His nose twitched, feeling a little sick at the memory.

“M-Maybe I should come with ya,” said Boris, the weightlessness of Henry leaning on him ghosting along his shoulder. He gripped it. “Help explain a few things—”

“Boris,” said Henry. There was no harshness in his voice, but it was still firm. “I… I appreciate it, Pup. I really do. But… you need to stay here. All three of you. Lay low for a while.”

Boris tried his best not to look discouraged. Henry patted his shoulder again and gave it a squeeze. It felt odd, not having to look down on Henry as much as he had when the animator was still a Toon. Henry squared his shoulders, and Boris felt assured.

“It’s… too much, out there,” Henry nodded to the window. A car honked, followed by another, and across the way, some neighbors were opening windows to do laundry. A lady waved out a large red blanket, and Boris had to flinch at the brightness of the color, visible even in the dim early morning. “Too much to get used to all at once.  Besides, I know Callum. I’ll be alright.”

Boris felt like crawling into an inkwell. He knew Henry was right, but it wrung his nerves like wet laundry. He felt so… useless. He was supposed to be the helper, the best buddy. He sighed.

A kettle whistled.

“Oh, shoot—” Henry rushed to the stove and turned the knob, using one of the dangling jumpsuit sleeves to take the metal pot from the heat when he couldn’t find his oven mitt, setting it on his oven mitt so the counter wouldn’t burn— ahh. Found the mitt. Hmm. “Sheesh… I, err, tried making something quick for breakfast for you all before I left, but, well. The mess. Heh. Wasn’t able to get as much done as I was hoping…”

Boris turned to the counter while Henry prepared a quick coffee for himself, and noticed, to his surprise, that the tower of bills and mail had been cleared off, leaving room for three sets of plates, bowls, forks and spoons of varying style and size. Each plate had a couple eggs, sunny-side up, glasses of water, and steaming hot bowls of oatmeal—with walnuts and molasses, from the looks of them. Bois sniffed the air above the biggest bowl (he hoped it was his) and licked his chops. It smelled pretty dang good.

Breakfast wasn’t the only change to the den. The mess from last night seemed to have all been pushed to the side, the floor for the most part cleared of debris, if still in need of a vacuuming. Trash bags sat stacked next to the door, ready for dumping, full of the empty bottles and boxes.

…How long had Henry been up, working on all of this?

“Ya didn’t have to…” said Boris, ears flopping back. “Dunno if we really need to eat.”

“A good breakfast might liven up the mood around here,” said Henry, smirking. At least this time it reached his eyes. He quickly downed the contents of the mug, grimacing. “Aghh, love the feeling of burnt tongue in the morning.”

“Ya do?” Boris laughed.

“Nope,” Henry laughed in turn. He set his mug in the sink, which was filled with other much dirtier mugs as well as pots and pans, and put a small tin reading Express-o, Coffee on the Go away. A cast iron skillet was all that was left on the stove, which looked surprisingly well cared for, considering the state of Henry’s other kitchen items. Guess that explained the eggs. He pointed to Boris. “Tea boxes are on the counter too, should be enough hot water between all of you. Don’t let Bendy drink my coffee. I’ll call you all when I’m on my way back. Don’t answer the phone for anyone else.”

“Wha?? Buh—how-how?” said Boris, getting whiplash.

Henry pointed to the other end of the den. A black, faintly dusty dial-up phone sat on the floor, next to the far wall, with a note taped to the wall over it. It read a variety of instructions in Henry’s chicken scrawl shorthand, and a blessedly legible phone number at the bottom. It looked as if it’d been dug up from one of Henry’s old boxes.

“I’ll call three times in a row. Only answer if you get three calls within a few seconds of each other,” said Henry, grabbing a toolbox next to the couch and as many of the trash bags as he could carry. “Other than that, just let it ring.”

“Whuh- wait, Henry!” said Boris, heart leaping in his throat. “I-I’m not so sure we…”

Boris turned to the window, grabbing the sleeve of the jacket. The sun was raising more and more, the world outside of them starting to wake up. Yellows mixed with grays, turning them brown and sandy. He was sorely missing his dreams, drenched in black and white.

“Hey, hey,” said Henry. His hand was back on Boris’s shoulder.

Boris turned to him, every inch of his face dropping, expecting to get one of Henry’s signature rigid, authoritative glares, waiting to be given the hard facts of their situation. Instead, he got a tired, yet… understanding smile. It was lopsided and rough around the edges, and looked wildly unsure.

“It’s ok,” said Henry, in a voice that, despite what his face betrayed, sounded pretty dang convincing.

The wolf felt something inside him—something that he’d kept bunched together throughout the drive, the climb to Henry’s apartment, the scary few minutes this morning where he first experienced his feet falling asleep in the real world and how real the real world felt and how he wasn’t really a wolf he wasn’t real was he?— unclench and, without thinking, he leaned his head on Henry’s shoulder, sagging weightily. Henry teetered, not used to the wolf having a third dimension’s worth of weight to him, but evened out, and wrapped an arm around Boris’s back, toolbox counterbalancing him.

“This is a lot to take in,” said Henry, gruff voice a welcome sound for the poor, overwhelmed wolf. “Don’t rush yourselves through it. Thing’s’ll get easier. I just…” His grip tightened, strong, grounding. “We just gotta make some things work first.”

The wolf whined.

“I just wanna help,” said Boris, voice feeling thicker than glue. “I ain’t much of a good helper though. I couldn’t even help you or Bendy or Alice when everything came crumblin’…”

“Now now, none of that,” Henry almost laughed.

Boris almost had enough nerve to get annoyed, if not for what Henry said next.

“That’s no way to talk about the guy who saved my life. And Bendy’s and Alice’s. And then mine again.” Henry stopped, smirking when he felt Boris quietly snort. “And Bendy’s, again, about, what? Five more times?”

“Mmmh, you’re just saying that…” Boris didn’t sound completely convinced, but the knot loosened a fraction. He pushed from Henry, trying to stand his full height. His cheeks had their old stylized blush back; his ears almost perking sincerely. Almost. He let them droop, eyes downcast. Henry sighed.

“For now… none of us know what we’re doing,” said Henry. “Not even me. And I’m from here. But we’ll figure it out.”

“…one breakfast at a time?” said Boris, trying to smile. It was shaky. Oh, he felt so shaky.

“One breakfast at a time,” said Henry. He reached up and scratched Boris between the ears, and Boris relaxed. He felt his tail wag, if only just a bit.

“But seriously,” Henry added. He was grinning, almost… devilishly. “Keep. Bendy. Away from my coffee. If I come back and find him bouncing off the walls, I’m hiring an exorcist.”

Boris was so taken aback, he couldn’t help himself. The thought alone was so ridiculous, but seeing Henry actually try to crack a joke? Utterly too much to comprehend. The wolf howled a laugh right out loud.

And it felt scarily, wonderfully real. 



too-music  asked:

Funniest thing ever about emotional abusive parent(s) is when they try to buy gifts and such for you. Like that totally makes up for you being a control freak about my life for some many years.

This is why to this day my mother sends me frying pans in the mail. 

No I’m not kidding. She mails me kitchenware at random, she mails me expensive dresses (usually about 2 sizes too small so when I say to her that it doesn’t fit she is able to make a comment about how I must have gotten fat/let myself go since I left her care which HAhaha 🖕) and little notes that say “miss you baby, come home soon xxx” and while I am always very very careful to tell her thank you and mail her a thank you card, if I don’t sound suitably awed by her (baffling, I mean who the fuck mails a cast iron pan over the ocean???) overwhelming generosity, you can bet your last dollar that I’ll get a phone call the following day telling me I’m an ingrate and I take advantage and how neglected she is and how I don’t love them anymore and blah, blah, blah, blahblahblahblah.

And it’s worse because people who don’t know the situation genuinely just think you’re a meanhearted mother fucker because you’re not gushing over things. Like “wow I wish my mother would send me these things, why are you not more grateful” like yes well Susan, I might be able to enjoy these things if they didn’t come with the unspoken price tag of unconditional forgiveness and a heaping side dish of emotional bullshit, but here we are.

Ok so in regards to that last post I reblogged, here are some resources if you’re a follower and you don’t know a THING about cooking: 

Basic knife safety and skills 

Cast iron cookware: how to use it (srsly cast iron is the best, 25 bucks will get you a skillet that will follow you to the grave if you take care of it)

How to save money by deboning whole chickens yourself + chicken karaage recipe (You can save money on MOST meat by buying large quantities and doing a little bit of butchering yourself! It’s very easy)

How to sear meat

How to roast various vegetables 

And some cooking channels that will teach you even more: 

Foodwishes (my FAVORITE with 1300+ recipes, mostly american ones but there’s some foreign-inspired food. There’s a pun in every recipe, too!)

Laura Vitale (Lots of american, italian, and “pinterest” food lol.)

Tasty (yknow those recipes your mom shares on facebook? They all come from here. But damn if these aren’t the easiest, fastest recipes, and they ALWAYS come out amazing for me)

Maangchi (A sweet korean lady who makes authentic korean food)

Cooking with dog (japanese and japanese-style western food. Doesn’t update often since Francis the dog passed away last november :( )

Hiroyuki Terada (More japanese food, mostly sushi. He has some videos of kitchen skills as well though! He holds a world record for his chopping skills.)

Chefsteps (these guys have recipes that are a little bit more difficult/fancy, and they’re constantly trying to sell their sous vide machine, but their recipes and tips are good :)

bbq pit boys (if you like meat and have a barbecue or smoker, this is the channel for you!)

That’s all of the channels I use, but there’s a dedicated channel for any kind of food from cakes to caribbean. Now go cook, there’s so much more to eat out there than fast food!! 

Does he know?

Summary:  You are invited to one of Tony Starks parties where you run into the last man you ever wanted to see again.

Word Count: 4366

Song Prompt: Does he know by One Direction

Warning: language, angsty (does that need a warning?)

A/N: This is my story for @propertyofpoeandbucky writing challenge. I hope you guys enjoy it.  I want to thank @kjs-s​ and @rohirrimanduril for listening to me and getting back to me, basically just being there. I couldn’t have done this without you guys.

You stare at the invitation in your hand and couldn’t help but frown.

Why was Tony Stark inviting you, of all people, to one of his parties?

The two of you hadn’t spoken since you left Stark Enterprise and he named Pepper Potts CEO. He hadn’t thought about you in the last year, the lack of invites being proof enough, so why the sudden change? It didn’t help that your ex-boyfriend was going to be there, it had been a year since you two broke up, but the pain was still fresh like it happened yesterday.

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Day 20.  A scene you wanted to be in the films

I think Severus Snape is criminally underused in Order of the Phoenix, and I’ve muttered previously about the presentation of Occlumency in the films, and how it reverses the essence of the scenes.

…so if Occlumency was presented in such a rapid manner and with key elements missing or flipped, it is no surprise that the scenes surrounding it were also omitted.

But I would’ve really liked to have seen Severus’ face-off with Sirius at Grimmauld Place over the Occlumency lessons.  Both Sirius and Severus are presented very differently in the films, and neither of them are shown to be the emotional messes that they are in the books.  Post PoA, we didn’t see much interaction between the two men, and we really lost the history between them.

The weird semi-erasure of the Marauders from the series (it is very apparent that the early-mid filmmakers hadn’t grasped just how important those allegiances would later become, and it would’ve been awkward to establish it later) means that we really don’t feel their mutual animosity.

“I’ve warned you, Snivellus,” said Sirius, his face barely a foot from Snape’s, “I don’t care if Dumbledore thinks you’ve reformed, I know better —”
“Oh, but why don’t you tell him so?” whispered Snape. “Or are you afraid he might not take the advice of a man who has been hiding inside his mother’s house for six months very seriously?”
“Tell me, how is Lucius Malfoy these days? I expect he’s delighted his lapdog’s working at Hogwarts, isn’t he?”
“Speaking of dogs,” said Snape softly, “did you know that Lucius Malfoy recognised you last time you risked a little jaunt outside?  Clever idea, Black, getting yourself seen on a safe station platform…gave you a cast-iron excuse not to leave your hidey-hole in future, didn’t it?”

Their face-off is not them having a ‘bad week’.  Their face-off is a culmination of their 20 year hatred.  They’re battling for supremacy over who has power over Harry, and who Dumbledore trusts and favours.  It reiterates their historical connections - not just their feelings towards James and Harry, but highlights Severus’ connection to Lucius.

I always think that last part is important, not just because of the audience later discovering that Lucius had extolled the virtues of Severus to Umbridge, but because of Kreacher’s betrayal of Sirius to the Malfoys.  This scene underpins that moment - that by aligning with James, Sirius lost his standing amongst the purebloods, and the position was arguably filled by Severus.

I also think the essence of their argument is interesting as well.  It’s blatantly obvious that Severus is goading Sirius; he’s been doing so from the start of the book.  But I think sometimes we don’t mull on the truth behind it.  Instead, we focus on Sirius’ plight - he is the epitome of Gryffindor.  He wants to bravely fight, and will recklessly charge into danger, but Dumbledore and the Ministry and the Big Bad Death Eaters have prevented him from doing so.

…but what if Severus’ goading is tinged with truth?  What if Severus isn’t just griping at him because it’s a convenient way of winding him up, but because Severus is inwardly furious that he’s left to walk into danger, and he’s left to take all of the risks on behalf of the Order?  Worse still, nobody apart from Dumbledore seems to acknowledge his efforts - he isn’t accepted by the Order, he isn’t respected by Harry, and all Sirius can do is bleat a hated name that was used to bully him and claim that he’s not reformed at all…

anonymous asked:

You're really good! Do you have any more Ben Platt headcanons?

Thank you! Here are some fluffy ones!

  • Ben is a cuddle machine
    • If he’s tired, he’ll come home after preforming, sit on the couch and text you if you’re no where near the living room. 
      • You turn off the lights and TV, and get the fluffy blanket and cuddle
    • Ben also likes to cuddle whenever you’re feeling down, he’s feeling down or if you’re cooking dinner
      • One time, you were making frittatas and he comes behind you to hug you while you make dinner
        • The salami got burnt but it tasted okay anyways
      • Ben once saw you crying and asked if it was okay to hug you, in which you clung onto him for dear life
  • Ben is a great person to talk to if you feel down, and knows how to handle depressive episodes
    • If you’re having a depressive episode, you can either get cuddles and kisses or wrapped in a blanket, tea in your hands and watch Grey’s Anatomy or Bojack Horseman
      • You’ll mostly want Ben to cuddle you and tell you good things while watching Netflix
        • “You’re so cute I love your eyes I love your hair, I love the way you laugh and when your teeth show because I can see your dimples”
        • “I’m just so invested in you, I want to spend the rest of my life and future with you because I can’t see myself with anyone else honestly you’re so perfect and adorable”
        • “Things will get better, Peachy. We’ll grow old together, have kids run around the house, go to the beach, get married, play monopoly with our kids, and this is gonna pass, I know it.”
      • He’s too cute for you to handle
    • List of the nicknames
      • Peachy
      • Jellybutt (meant to be Jellybean but he thinks its funny and cute in its own sense)
      • Strawberry Vanilla Baby
      • Cactus
        • When you had prickly legs he called you a Cactus
      • Buttbutt
        • He just thinks the word “Butt” is a good nickname for you
      • Bean
        • We all have this nickname but he uses it because its cute and plain
      • Queen Platt
      • Jokey Pokey
      • Sea Lotus
    • He’ll never stop with the nicknames and uses them to his best ability
      • “Hello my little JellyButt!!!!” 
      • “Ben omg stopppp,,,” 
        • “Does my Sea Lotus not like my nicknames? :(” 
        • “Ben I’m talking to my momm,,” 
          • “Okay Buttbutt, tell her I said hi!”
  • Will sometimes sneak you into the set just to get a backstage feel
    • Lauren loves spending time with you while Ben is off on stage. During intermission, Ben will come back to kiss your face and tell you he missed you!!!!
      • “Ben it’s been an hour?”
      • “I KNOW!!!!!”
    • When he has to go back onstage, he dashes to you once the curtains fall
      • He tripped one time and the cast had to make sure he didn’t break his nose or something
  • You loved him during his chub Pitch Perfect days because you’d play with his stomach
    • Pat it like a drum and he’ll start singing
    • When he started exercising, you got upset because yoU’RE HUSBAND HIS CHUB ITS FADING OH NO
  • You make sure he gets enough water during his performance because crying every two-three hours isn’t good for your health kiddos
    • You literally fill up his water bottle and bring in spare Nirvana ones in case he looks dehydrated and his bottle is empty
      • Every intermission, you tell him to drink water and bring in a chicken
        • The chicken is for the rest of the cast too because you feel guilty for not bringing in one for everyone else

A/N: Word of advice kiddos: If you’re dehydrated, drink at least three bottles of water per day. One way you can keep up is downloading Plant Nanny, which is where you take care of a plant based on the amount of water you drink. You put in your weight, how often you exercise, and what units you go by. I personally have to drink 59 oz per day, which keeps me hydrated. The app is completely free

Also make sure you get protein, iron, and carbohydrates in your body because you can’t function without them! Get good food flowing through your body! You can have gentle snacks like skittles, but eat some protein or have an apple once in a while. ITS NOT FUN TO PASS OUT TAKE IT FROM ME!!!!!!

anonymous asked:

Why does nobody like that one guy from the defenders? I don't know anything about the show but I always see stuff about how he's garbage

backstory: the individual tv shows of the defenders (daredevil, jessica jones, luke cage) are great and loved by most people. then comes iron fist. it’s the only show before the defenders and we’re all excited as fuck for it but it turns out to be awful (it was the first marvel thing to be rated poorly on rotten tomatoes, i think. it stands at 17%)

the acting was awkward on finn jones’ part (he plays iron fist (it was so painful to hear him say “i am the immortal iron fist”)), 

his character was a man child and was also whiny. he’s supposed to be one of the best martial artists but you could never tell that from the way he presents himself. he gives off a strong confused surfer dude vibe.

i couldn’t even root for him and didn’t care if he lived or died on the show (having other characters who like the main character is a genuine way to get the audience to care about the main character ((idk if you watch b99 but dan goor literally said that that’s why charles was created, to be someone who liked the fuck out of jake for this reason)) but this show didn’t do that. all of his friendships had some sort of drama going on)

and. holy shit. the fight scenes. they’re fucking awful, painful to watch, almost always shot in the dark (not the ‘cool john wick’ dark, the ‘i can’t fucking see shit when is this gonna be over’ dark), and have way too many cuts.
if you look up “fight scene cuts” on google, this is legit the first thing that pops up.

and in the defenders, he really stuck out like a sore thumb. finn jones is not a great actor and it was p obvious in some scenes. there was this plot point where they separate iron fist from the rest of the defenders and that was. ideal.

sorry this got so long but i hope you got the gist of why iron fist isn’t well liked

OOH, also, have you heard of how much people hate the new marvel show inhumans? scott buck is the showrunner for that. guess what other show he was the showrunner for

Where is Home?

A frozen place, this home… a land the past, of heroes, of justice… a place further than the inky blackness of space, yet as close as the heart of every child… Home, Mr. Steel. You’ll find Ramses’s enemy if you just go home.

We’re told the Proctor meant Polaris Park, but that only points us in a different direction.

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The Dragon and his Fairy

Chapter 3

The dragon and his Fairy

Hope everyone enjoys this newest chapter!

Rated T

Hades looked out towards his kingdom, it was dying, and the people were on the verge of a revolution. He needed a way to make sure that not only they wouldn’t but remain loyal enough to fight for him.

“Your Highness, Azuma and Zancrow are back!” A servant announced. 

“Bring them in,” He ordered. He was in no mood to be disappointed today. He heard the doors open and close with the sound of footsteps on the rich red carpet. 

“Did you get the wings?” He asked, not even turning to acknowledge the two men. 

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Nesta Rant

I received a message on why Nesta was worth being Feyre’s sister. And dear god, did that get me triggered. Here’s the response unedited. My fingers just kind of lost their mind over the keyboard. Good day.

You can bash me all you want. 

But don’t bash Nesta.


Because Nesta is one of the first characters I’ve come across that changes literature in general. And I think SJM is utterly brilliant in making you Nesta-haters despise her in the first place, because, clearly, you must have not endured difficult situations.

Yes, block me. Yes, report me. But do so with an open mind.

Nesta has her steel walls like every single human out there. We cannot all be easy to love like Mor nor the heroine like Rhys. Nor can we be the innocent of Elain nor the outright villain like Tamlin.  We forget that everyone has a broken side, and really, Nesta is broken.

Nesta is neutral. 

Nesta is human. 

Or at least she once was.

Nesta hates her own human body as a victim of rape. This assault transforms the mindset into one of  a victim, but we do not see Nesta crying in the back corners as a weak human.

No. She is the pillar of ice and flame

She did not let Tomas fully break her.

She has learned to hate her own human body, and now she is transformed into something she hates irrevocably more, the Fae. Imagine that you are given a second life, except as in a form you absolutely despise. How do you live with yourself?

But we cannot forget that SJM shatters character tropes. And that the 21st century sees authors across the world contributing. Dark themes seep through regular novels, and killing is commonplace. We tend to turn the other way when one of our favorite characters, such as Aelin, kills, because we hold them with respect and view them with high ethos.

Why not Nesta? The older sister who protects her youngest sister because the middle one can take care of herself? Is that not evolution, or survival of the fittest? The fact that Nesta puts up these iron walls epitomizes how she is not cold-hearted. It takes a broken person to cast these defenses. Being cold is a legitimate defense mechanism.

It’s called coping. 

And for you Nesta haters, how can you forget Tomas Manadray? He is so pivotal to Nesta’s development. Yes, Feyre slew the Middengard Wyrm, and sacrificed her life and happiness like Rhys, but Nesta sacrificed her own contentment or chance at love as soon as she shoved up those walls so that she could protect her youngest sister. 

When males such as Tomas and society have looked you down so much, the only way to survive is for them to not let them touch you at all. So Nesta has these walls to protect herself. Can you blame a girl for trying to protect herself? 

Nesta is not a just a bitch.

She’s a bitch because she was crafted to be one.

So for those who look down upon Nesta bitterly and with scorn: are you arguing against free choices? Sure it’s selfish to not stop a girl who provides food for her family by hunting, but in this book, one of the larger themes is fate, such as mates. 

And it was Feyre’s fate to kill the beast that would bring her to Tamlin. It was Nesta’s fate to not interfere with that as so much as it was Elain’s. Sure, you might excuse Elain because she’s the epitome of innocence, but if she’s the sweetheart as you Nesta-haters believe, then why did she excuse Feyre’s hunting as well?

Feyre is the Huntress.

And hunters do not let the cages of words confine them. This is the 21st century, in which our characters are no longer perfect, because this world is continuously battling perfection and exposing imperfection: the people living in it come as flawed with no outright black or white characterization. We see villains as essential to books, but never quite are they so vital as the protagonist. Now we get another perspective on the slide, with Nesta’s actions. 

I, for one, cannot watch Nesta open up. Because it will speak on personal levels for those who also have been hurt, to show that there is up. That all is not cruel. That is why Nesta needs Cassian. Because now Cassian has now reached his breaking point with the loss of his wings. So now we have two characters, one further broken by a body she did not want, to a character who lost a fundamental part of his body.

Life isn’t fair. And Nesta’s entire life hasn’t been such. She’s learned to breathe rage and settle for it. So when the Hybern King meets Nesta, I cannot wait for her to be the one to end him. Because it’s just how bullies shape their victims into unwillingly figures who have to put up defenses in order to remain sane. Nesta was a victim of her family situation. Never once had she had the experience of true family welcoming, like her other sisters. They never once got their normal life. Pray, tell, when did we meet their actual father other than mentions of him across the sea?

They had no fatherly figure, save for a merchant.

And Nesta, bullied and broken, could not be that fatherly figure. How could she, when she Tomas existed, and her family struggled? How can you be the light when your own had been snuffed out?

I would have found myself despising Nesta’s character if she used sick situations to play the victim, and in that, victimizing others. She’s a damsel in distress, but doesn’t use that to manipulate others. 

It is not Nesta’s tale to be warm, or the be the beacon. She is the vengeance and the facet in life where the victim rises above the bully. Nesta doesn’t need kisses or pats on the back, not when she knows what she truly needs, other than her younger sister’s protection. 

For so long, SJM described Prythian as scared by the Fae. How do you become something your own society feared? And live with it forever?

So, excuse Nesta. Because she is the heroine for me, for those who have been mocked and bullied. She has been touched where she should have been respected. She has been mistreated because she had been protecting herself.

Nesta is the figure in the book I can connect most with. She is fire, she is ice. And I respect that because it shows how much she will still fight, despite all she and her family has been through.

I don’t understand why there are people who cannot accept Nesta. She’s gone through her own tribulations, and they affect her personally. Does she really have to meet Tamlin the tool and go through Amarantha for you to approve of her? If so, then please overlook the fact that everyone is their own person and dismiss individuality. 

Everyone is unique. And that’s why I’m glad SJM didn’t have another Feyre-like sister. Because, personally, siblings don’t like being compared to their other siblings and having to listen to gushing on how they’re quite similar looking. SJM gave us a pair of sisters, unique in their own way.

While Feyre hunts, and Elain adapts, Nesta protects. She protects the hearts. She sent the letter to the queens because she still wanted to defended her land. She demanded that Rhys be prepared to help her homeland. And Rhys is the High Lord of the Night Court? She demanded of the Defender of the Court of Dreams. 

Because she desired to defend the mortals. Because mortality does not deserve to be snuffed out. She places on the cold exterior because she has been hurt by society, and why bother with fake cheerfulness when you know betrayal awaits?

So I applaud Nesta for not giving up, for continuing to continue.

7x03 - “Two of a Kind” (3/18)
  • OUAT/Captain Swan
  • Alternative Season 7
  • Rated M: swearing, implied sex
  • 13k words
  • On AO3
  • On Tumblr: Chapter 1 | Chapter 2
  • Not Revised (sorry for any typos)
  • Summary:  “Once Upon a Time” returns to ABC one last time for its seventh and final season, in a journey where the most-awaited answers regarding our favorite fairytale characters will finally be unveiled. While sheriff Emma Swan and deputy Captain Hook try to conceal their lives as newlyweds with the challenging job of protecting Storybrooke, the startling presence of new residents Morgana, Ethel and Scott unleashes a series of heartbreaking and unforeseen events that will disrupt Emma and Hook’s Happy Beginning.
  • This chapter includes many flashbacks related to new characters. With this being a Captain Swan story, these flashbacks featuring other characters will ALWAYS be relevant/connected to Emma, Killian and their storylines so I advise readers to keep track of all the information the flashbacks provide .

Author’s Note: This fanfic is my attempt at creating an alternative OUAT season 7 that (hopefully) can help Captain Swan shippers get over the real season 7 in the same way writing it has been helping me. This is a continuation of season 6 and follows the adventures of sheriff Swan and deputy Jones. Every week I will be posting casting news, episode descriptions, episode stills, script teases and title spoilers. Visit my blog for more info.

“Mom, you do know I’m old enough to take care of my hair, right?” Henry’s slightly annoyed tone barely noticeable to Emma as she went through his wet hair, tweezers in hand in case they were needed. She had managed to wake up earlier than usual to buy a specific product to kill head lice.

“Sorry kid, but not when you have lice. Hold on a second, I’m almost done.”

“It’s ironic how magic can destroy powerful sorcerers but not kill bugs.”

“It’s a parasite, actually.”

“Did you ever have them?”

“Having lived on the streets and in orphanages for most of my life, those little guys were practically my best friends,” - as soon as her answer left her mouth, Henry cringed, realizing how dumb his question had been, but it was too late now. Thankfully, his mom hadn’t seemed too bothered by it.

“Sorry, that was a stupid question.”

“That’s okay,” Emma said, squinting at a tiny, white speck on his hair before trying to remove it with the tweezers, “the good part is that I now know exactly how to kill these bast- bad boys.”

Henry laughed at her sudden change of vocabulary, “people swear all the time at school, mom. Besides, I’m almost 14. I can handle it.”

“You turned 13 last week,” she muttered matter-of-factly as she playfully messed up his hair before getting back to using the tweezers to get the suckers out.

“Ow, that hurts!”

“Sorry,” she apologized, “just think about the waffles you’re about to eat.”

“Waffles, really?!”

“Yup. Killian’s cooking them for breakfast,” – Emma then took the hair dryer from one of the cabinets and plugged it into the outlet. His hair needed to be dry for the product to work.

Keep reading

The answer to a young witch saying, “Okay, so how do we fly?” isn’t, “Haha, you’re so silly, witches don’t fly!” It’s hours cramped over your grandmother’s notes. It’s foul and sickly sweet herbs hanging to dry. It’s animal fat bubbling down in a cast iron. It’s an iron knife on a hardwood board. It’s a broom, made with straining fingers and sedge, handed over with care. It’s ointment aging in the dark. It’s rough fingers on goosebump covered skin under the black moon. It’s a stomach howling its displeasure at its empty state as flesh goes heavy and limp. It’s a soul, spiraling free into the sky. And it’s waiting, singing softly by their slumbering body, til they return with the dawn.

The Strange and Twisted Tale of Not Being a Fan:  JMo, Swen, and why does anyone care what I think anyway?

You know every time I say something passive aggressive about JMo–usually something that amounts to that I think she’s unprofessional or that I gave up on her a long time ago–someone comes to my ask box to interrogate me on my feelings about her.  I don’t say anything to her on twitter directly.  I try to anti tag the posts.  But someone is always disturbed that I don’t appreciate her.  As if my lack of regard for her is deeply offensive to them.

Usually the conversation starts out with something like “Why do you hate JMo?”  Which is always strange to me.  Because my feelings aren’t hate to me.  They’re disappointment to a degree, because I think she’s a deeply intelligent woman who is in general socially aware, but what I feel mostly is disdain.  I think that she is a woman who has a superficial understanding of something she has not attempted to understand any deeper, yet she has decided apparently to treat in a manner I find incredibly condescending.  

I honestly believe she thinks that she is trying not to give people false hope.  I think what she’s doing is rejecting people many of whom come from minority groups that are routinely rejected every day of their lives by both those close to them and those who don’t know them at all.  So in some ways JMo just becomes another in a long line of people who have rejected many of people like me and like others who have supported her over the years.  There is a saying that giving someone false hope is the worst thing that you can do, and I tend to agree when it applies to life or death, freedom or confinement, love or loss.  But the exploration of imagination in fiction–television and literature–is not one of those realms.  No one should confine your interpretation of things to a prescriptive right and wrong way to read something.  People who have no expectation at all of Swan Queen happening on the show still take hope from the story.  They still see themselves in the show.  They still take bravery from the show.  They still learn to love themselves in the show.  And on some very important levels none of it has to do with who either woman is kissing be it the men in their lives or each other.

So when you say that people are leading us on.  That we are being given false hope.  That they should just let us down.  I just tilt my head and wonder if the speaker understands how media lights the imagination and heals the soul in the first place.  It’s about an active engagement with it not a passive one that sits back and only cares about the story that anyone can see.  It is about identity and imagination and no one has a right to deny that to anyone under the guise of pity or some warped view of compassion.

But these askers rarely stop at defending JMo.  They usually go on to cast Lana either as not fundamentally different in her approach to the Swan Queen question, or ironically once you establish that she is in fact very different in her treatment of the fans that what she does is somehow cynical or harmful.  That when the show ends and Swan Queen hasn’t happened we’re all going to turn on her and call her the false prophet.  Which just strikes me as a completely bizarre thought that comes from the fact that the asker’s concern is in no way genuine or true.  For you see they are right.  Lana never promises Swan Queen.  She promotes Outlaw Queen when the story calls for it.  But what she does do is say that these people matter to her.  That their vision of the story matters if it is being told or not.  That what they take from the story makes them stronger and what they see is beautiful.

That the people who see a Swan Queen story see something brave, and beautiful and true just as much as any of her other fans who identify with the story in another way.  She does not captain our ship.  She celebrates our captaining our own ship.  In telling our own story.   One of these things is dictatorial and limiting and the other of these things is expansive and liberating.  And the only way you think that the former is better than the latter is if you believe the world should be smaller and the story should speak only to you.  Whereas I think the world should be expansive and perhaps even unlimited and it should speak to me … and to you… and to someone whose point of view I can’t even imagine.

But ultimately I think Lana is irrelevant to the JMo question.  The women are not in competition.  And bringing her into conversation is a set up of one woman against another when neither need be measured against the other.  Lana is not JMo.  No one should expect them to behave in the same way.  But equally for one to be right the other need not be wrong.  Women should not be judged against each other but by their own merits.  And the conversation is about JMo and not about Lana.  The question of course being… what do I … insignificant person behind a computer screen feel about Jennifer Morrison.

I think what I have ultimately for JMo is … pity… because I can’t imagine having such a restricted view of the text and the power of fiction.  And that’s when my pity turns into something else because I don’t think JMo is a woman with a small imagination.  I think she is a very intelligent woman who understands the role and history of literature incredibly well.  And so I am left with the idea that it is not a lack of fundamental understanding that has led her to reject so many people, but rather a decision made for professional reasons.  That she has made some calculation–I don’t know what–that it is better for her to beat the drum of this romance and to ignore these people coloring outside of the box.  And either she has decided that whatever pain that causes is unavoidable and thus acceptable or that she has chosen to not see the pain at all.  

I don’t know.  Frankly I don’t care.  

Because this is the point where I stop psychoanalyzing an millionaire actress with dozens of people around her looking out for her best interests and I start thinking about the people she has rejected who do not have consultants and handlers and legions of people telling her that they love her.  I have to think about the person who gets up in the morning and sees a little 1 over the envelope in their tumblr and they get excited at (or they dread because they’ve had this happen so many times) the prospect of opening up this message to discover that someone is telling them that they are sick, or wrong, or pathetic, or delusional, or that they should just go away because they are in the way.  And some part of their life that is already hard becomes harder.  And the person at the other side of that ask?  The one that said that fan didn’t matter?  They’re excited because someone they looked up validated them and their interpretation of the story and not that angry bully they sent a message to.

And that’s the sad thing to me.  Because there is evil in this situation.  Real honest to god evil.  Not something that comes with a wavy dagger or a ridiculous heart prop.  And her choice has been to not see the evil, and to not see the pain because … for whatever reason and it really doesn’t matter to me what they are… it’s easier for her.

And so I have contempt and disdain for the woman.  

I am not a fan.  I do not think she has behaved in a particularly admirable fashion.  

Yet the cult of celebrity worship has said that even my quiet contempt… restricted to a tiny unimportant corner of the internet that she will never see… is too much.  Is wrong.  That she needs protecting from the likes of me even as nothing I say or think will impact her in the slightest.  I can’t even be permitted to think that she has chosen to do something not only not deserving in my admiration, but in my contempt.  I am not permitted to say “I am not a fan” without challenge.  Without a knight defender come to protect the beleaguered princess from the person in the street who says isn’t it a shame that she isn’t very charming.

anonymous asked:

Do the ppl being nasty bc there are two white dudes in BP even get how ironic they are being? You're honestly going to complain that there are two whites in the main cast in a HISTORICALLY significant superhero film with an all black main about not seeing the forest through the trees! They gonna complain if there are white extras in the background? Something GOOD is happening and this is what they focus on? But then again it's very typical of online complainers. Real world don't care

Yeap. It’s so boring, they are so boring and predictable. Like im bored talking about this… let’s all laugh at how much it probably hurt their silly egos that they were having a ball at first because they thought andy and martin didnt get posters and they did ;) i certainly laughed, imagine being so butt-hurt that instead of enjoying BP you are focusing on 2 characters that at least afaik were cast according to the comics.

anonymous asked:

If you're still doing prompts, could you do 48 for Menma x Sakura? (I'd love something dark and scary and hot. It's my guilty pleasure. :x)

well, I tried and no one can fault me for trying.

EDIT: this is now a series.

[HERE] [Part 2]

Sakura curses for the umpteenth time, hating her stubborn streak and Ino’s ability to push all the wrong buttons.

She turns her flashlight once more, examining her rather spooky surroundings. The Kyuubi shrine, destroyed in a fire some decades ago. Sakura transposes pale, smooth walls to the charred, broken remains of the blackened wood. There is an odd, burnt scent that still permeates the air, mixed in with the heady scent of sandalwood.

Dust and soot clings heavily to every part of the once decadent shrine. It is dilapidated and overgrown in some areas with ivy and creepers but Sakura can imagine the magnificence that this place once was; before the War, before the enemy desecrated everything they held sacred. Sakura thinks of the opulence that this place once was, gilded glyphs depicting the Great Fox.

Sakura sighs, slumping into a seated position among the debris. This place was host to splendid feasts, exciting festivals, and dignitaries from the wide world outside.

Now it merely serves as a ghost story to school children. A dare to stay in the haunted place.

Sakura doesn’t feel scared. She is affected by the pain of this place though, the loss of something once beautiful. She feels melancholy, thrumming beneath her skin and in her veins. She stands, brushing her knees free of grime, trekking on.

She enters the small innermost sanctuary, the hairs on her neck prickling.

She gets the eerie feeling that she isn’t supposed to be here.

“Come on Sakura. Snap a pic of the statue and hightail it out of there,” Ino says, eyes bright with challenge. “Easy right?

Sakura gulps, forcing herself into the room.

The room itself is rather bare and appears mostly untouched by the destruction that affects the rest of the shrine. The only item in the room is a cast-iron statue wrought in the shape of a fox with nine tails. Some sort of precious gem, perhaps rubies, make up the eyes. (Sakura wonders, briefly, how they haven’t been scavenged by some teenager.) The statue rests on a pedestal and leaves it resting about eye level with her.

Sakura steps forward, smoothing a gentle hand over the face of the beast. Its lips are pulled into a furious snarl and Sakura’s fingers curl over rather realistic fur.

Sakura leans forward, forehead brushing against the statue. “I’m sorry,” she murmurs, not caring that she speaks to an inanimate object. “You have a beautiful temple.” She pauses, snorting. “I guess I’m not fulfilling the dare after all, Ino-pig,” Sakura says to herself.

The gems glitter and Sakura gets the feeling of being watched.


Sakura swallows drily, backing away from the statue slowly. She feels more than slightly ridiculous but she doesn’t care. Sakura continues moving back only to knock into something hard and warm.

She turns, scream dying in her throat as she takes in the man who stands before her.

He is tall and tan with dark hair and burning red eyes. He wears some sort of traditional garb, the like of which has not been seen since before the War. What draws Sakura’s eyes the most are the red tails that wave freely behind him.


Nine of them.

Sakura’s eyes dart back to the statue, disbelieving. The man’s grin widens and he nods genially.

“You are quick on the uptake my dear,” he coos, stepping forward and grabbing her chin between his fingers. His clawed nails bite into her chin as he turns her head from side to side. “Not too bad. You will do quite finely.”

“What?” Sakura asks hoarsely.

“As my bride,” he replies with wide-eyed innocence. “You are respectful of the old ways…reverent.” His smile, soft as it is, reveals sharp teeth. “A fine bride indeed.”

“K-Kyuubi?” Sakura says.

He shakes his head. “My title. My name is Menma.” He leans forward and Sakura’s senses are overwhelmed with sandalwood and sulfur. “That is the name you will be screaming as I fuck you.”

So saying, he slants his mouth across hers, teeth nipping at her lips, demanding entrance.

Sakura refuses, trying to pull away and finding herself completely at the mercy of his strength. Her brow furrows before she opens her mouth beneath his ministrations, moaning deeply. She can feel his growing smile as his hands come up to cup her face. When his eyes slip shut, Sakura lashes out with her fist, striking him in the throat.

Menma crumples and Sakura totters back, breathless and panting.

Sakura turns away, fleeing from the man…deity…thing. All the while, thoughts fly through her head as she tries to puzzle out what has happened. Escape is at the forefront of her mind as she moves past burnt pillars and overturned tables.

Her heart lifts as she sees the moonlight through the entrance.

Her hopes are cruelly dashed as arms band around her waist, halting her flight. Warmth seeps into her skin as Menma presses his face up by her ear, whispering affectionately, “Boo.”


“What do you mean the souls escaped?”

“If you don’t bring me those souls soon, you will be turned into my next meal.”

“Now go get me those souls now! I don’t care how many of those angels you have to kill to complete your task.”

“Do NOT disappoint me!”

Along with playing an angelic being, Toori is also starring as the main demoness of the hellish world. She is the one that runs her world with an iron fist and isn’t scared of killing off anyone that messes with her plans or disappoints her. She mainly uses the souls to build up her powers and to make her more minions. Since she was a casted out soul, she has been holding a grudge against the heavens and Nao. All she wants is to steal all of their souls so that their numbers will weaken and Nao will die.

Toori again has to be in a revealing outfit and Nao isn’t happy about it. Nao already tried to hit someone for making a flirty comment directed at her wife. I hope this filming is wrapped up soon before Nao sends someone to the hospital for injuries due to a high heel. 

Again, thank you @fiyaras-corner for this lovely rec for Toori to match with Nao’s outfit.

jadorehale  asked:

you already know how i feel about your writing <3. I'd love to see a fic where Stiles gets the flu or something, and Derek comes over and takes care of him, but is so hostile and mean about it that Stiles thinks Derek's there to kill him via alphabet soup burns or give him an overdose of cough syrup. When Derek's just mad because Stiles let himself get sick in the first place.

Enjoy 2k of Derek’s soup assassination attempts! I’m also posting this on an airplane. I am god. :)


Stiles is ninety-nine percentcertain Derek is trying to kill him.

He peers cautiously out from under the frankly obscene amount of blankets draped over him and the couch, eyeing Derek, who’s in the kitchen stirring a pot of soup with so much force, Stiles is half afraid he’s going to break the spoon. Or the pot. The cast iron pot.

Stiles ducks back under the covers and wonders if Derek’s going to try pouring scalding soup over him, considering his earlier attempt on Stiles’ life didn’t work. As if Stiles would let someone kill him with a simple cough syrup overdose! His defenses may be down because he’s sick, but he won’t be killed that easily!

Now if only he could figure out how to get Derek out of his house before things get any worse. Unfortunately, Derek’s here under the guise of kindness and caring for a sick friend, and if Stiles tries to kick him out, there’s no doubt that he’ll end up being the one painted as the aggressor with Derek as the victim.

Fuck. His. Life.

He pokes his head out from under the blankets again as he feels an intimidating presence looming over him. Derek glares down at him, a bowl clutched tightly in his hands. Idly, Stiles wonders if he’s going to have to switch all their dishes to plastic in order to properly werewolf-proof the house. Hell, he probably should have done it years ago.

“Eat,” Derek demands, placing the bowl on the nearby coffee table.

“Okay, but can you really eat soup?” Stiles asks, his throat sore and raspy as he pulls the covers around him again so that only his eyes and nose poke out. “I mean, it’s primarily broth, right? So shouldn’t I drink it?”

“There are noodles,” Derek replies, as if that solves this whole existential dilemma.

Keep reading


It was the first time she had traveled outside of Japan, and the bite of winter cut through her like sharp knives, twisting her heavy blue coat as she trudged along a beaten path through bare forest, dragging her suitcase behind her.

The truth of the matter was she had no intentions of taking on the case. It had landed at her doorstep in the hands of a man she found more than slightly suspicious, but the money was good and she was low on food. Accommodation and travel were already paid for. How could she refuse?

The beaten path eventually stretched out into gravel, and before her stood the cast-iron gates of what was once a mansion turned orphanage. A great, grey building some three four storeys high with more windows that Yako cared to count, and a regality that was both beautiful and cold.

A cold wind cut through, snapping her out of her daze as she dragged herself towards the shelter of the mansion. She could see a playground beyond the gates, and when she looked beyond the glass she swore faces watched her.

She only knew the some of the details of the crime. It was unusual, to her, for her to be given accommodation in an orphanage, and she was certain that it was because the people involved wanted to keep the case as quiet as possible. The crime did, after all, involve an incident with one of their former residents.

The suitcase struck against the granite steps but she hesitated at the door. Was she allowed to just walk in? Was she supposed to use the backdoor? She looked around, suddenly self-conscious. 

‘Maybe I should use the back door…’ She leaned back, measuring the distance she would have to walk to get to the side of the orphanage, and then contemplated whether she had the energy to bother. She did not.

With a sigh, she turned the door knob and stepped into the entrance hall. Wooden floors and a wooden staircase greeted her. Magnolia walls and a distinct feeling of dismissal filled her. It was not a place of love, but there was no hatred either. It was like walking into an ordinary office.

‘Okay… now what?’ Nobody was there to greet her.

“Hello?” She called into the hallway, feeling horribly out of place. She waited for a moment, tapping her foot, checking her watch, before calling out again. “Hello, it’s Yako Katsuragi?”

Papyrus feels sesh 1

(above is a selection of *many* asks along the same line :)

Oh man sorry it took so long to get to this. I don’t even know???? Where to start???? How about how I feel like Paps is the only thing holding Sans together half the time. Most people cast Sans in the role of “protective older brother” but I really feel like without Papyrus’ constant optimism and unwavering support he would fall to pieces. Papyrus is always reminding Sans that *someone* cares if he actually shows up to work, that someone wants him to be healthy and that there’s always hope. 

When I tried to imagine how Papyrus would react to someone like Gaster, his empathy really shone through to me. Jerks like Gaster often suffer a lack of empathy- they cannot (or won’t) imagine how their actions are affecting others. Ironically, growing up with someone like that can sometimes cause a person to over-develop empathy as a defence mechanism. Watching their parent very closely in order to predict a sudden shift of mood, anticipating their needs in order to avoid the worst of their rage. This is not always a good thing; a person like that can often become selfless to a fault. They put the needs of others first so often that they neglect their own needs and desires. They need to re-learn how to speak up for themselves. 

Papyrus’ trademark confidence is another aspect I was interested in. He’d be constantly getting knocked down by Gaster and it will take time for him to be able to show that innate confidence again. Sans, for all his laziness, has a stability and calmness that lets Paps explore his own energy in a safe way. 

Ultimately Papyrus and Sans need each other and I think that’s why their relationship interests me so much :))