Hey! I love that you help so many people find new fics to read. I was wondering if you new of any Stiles and Peter fics where their relationship isn't really all lovey dovey and its basically just them taking on the world and/or destroying everything in their path. I've been looking for something like this for a while and have been unable to fine one. Please use your amazingness and help me. Thank you!!!
After years away, Stiles returns to Beacon Hills just in time to put Isaac’s insides back where they belong.
It’s cute how people think he’s trustworthy.
Peter can smell the violence inside him, the urge to do something grand and possibly cataclysmic. It’s there—mixed with a balance and natural calm, but in the undercurrent, it’s there. He has seen things beyond the scope of Beacon Hills’ petty horror show. He has learned things.
The last time Peter was locked up and abandoned, he went crazy and killed a bunch of people. Stiles can’t understand why anyone would consider it a good idea to repeat history. So he decides to do something about it.
Basically what it says on the label. Hunger Games type fusion. Stiles doing way better than anyone anticipates. Peter finds him intriguing. Ruthless, devious assholes working together to ruin bad guys, as the Steter ship is meant to be.
Oh nice, my mom isn’t speaking to me. Is it because i, 1) bought something with my own money, 2) am bad at focusing on schoolwork, or 3) she’s angry at something else and taking it out on me via the silent treatment
Wild Speculation Wishlist: Amonkhet Gods, Colors, and Creature Types
OK, so my Wild Speculation Wishlist for Amonkhet basically boils down to three main categories, which I’ll list off in just a second, and then I’ll get into some specifics.
Keep in mind that I’m not trying to convince anyone that my speculations here are correct (I’ll leave others to making realistic and reserved predictions) but these are things that I think would be cool, and that I could see as possibilities not outside the realm of plausible.
OK, so everything below hinges on these three wishlist items:
Five factions built around the three-color shards
My main reasoning for believing this is plausible is the fact that we know Nicol Bolas is going to show up at some point, and I would be VERY surprised if he isn’t in his signature blue/black/red color identity. If Bolas is already going to push players to build around three colors, why not include the other four shards in the design as well? (Plus, it’s been almost a decade since we left Alara.)
Two-color themes built around the ally-color pairs
If there’s one design lesson I learned from the Tarkir block, it’s that designing wedge factions means that experienced players will want to draft enemy-color pairs, because that gives them the most flexibility to go with one wedge or the other, depending how the draft goes. Maro has also stated in the past that there’s not as much design space in the three-color shards as Alara gave the impression of. Putting some of that pressure back on ally-color pairs could take some of it off the shards.
Tribal themes with anthropomorphic animal creature types
In all fairness, my love for tribal-themed decks means that I could add “tribal themes” to just about any Wild Speculation Wishlist, and for those of you that have been around my blog for a while, you’ll know that I’ve been dreaming about an anthropomorphic tribal set for a long time. But that’s not to say this idea doesn’t have ANY merit beyond just wishful thinking. We’ve already seen some art that suggests there are at probably Aven and some jackal-variant of Ainok on Amonkhet. And it looks like each of the gods have animal faces, so this could be the time!!
OK, so with those three main categories acknowledged, I’m gonna break down my speculation into some more specifics. I’ll break these into groups using the primary color of the factions tying them together, and I’ll say the god, theme, common creature type, and rare creature I’d love to see for that faction.
Cat God Colors: White (primary) Green (secondary) Blue (tertiary) God of Sight, with white representing light and truth, green representing knowledge of the past, and blue representing knowledge of the future
Common Creature Type: Cats (leonin) Primary in white, secondary in green
Rare Creature: An all-seeing Archon in White/Green
Bird God Colors: Blue (primary) White (secondary) Black (tertiary) God of Judgement, with blue representing exactness, white representing order, and black representing retribution
Common Creature Type: Birds (aven) Primary in blue, secondary in white
Rare Creature: Classic Sphinx in Blue/White
Crocodile God Colors: Black (primary) Blue (secondary) Red (tertiary) God of Hunger, with black representing avarice, blue representing thirst for knowledge, and red representing passion and hunger
Common Creature Type: Crocodiles (new race) Primary in black, secondary in blue
Rare Creature: Nightmarish Demon in Black/Blue (maybe Razaketh?)
Hound God Colors: Red (primary) Black (secondary) Green (tertiary) God of Journeys, with red representing individuality and courage, black representing determination, and green representing destiny
Common Creature Type: Hound (jackal-variant ainok) Primary in red, secondary in black
Rare Creature: Crocodile-like Dragon in Red/Black
Snake God Colors: Green (primary) Red (secondary) White (tertiary) God of Fertility, with green representing vitality and growth, red representing love, and white representing life
Common Creature Type: Snakes (more like the naga than the orochi though) Primary in green, secondary in red
Rare Creature: Cobra-headed Hydra in Green/Red
WHEW!! OK, that was a lot to unpack. If you’re still here with me, let me know what you think! Obviously I don’t expect to be 100% right with these guesses, but honestly I’d be happy with 10% right!
How about you?! Any of these predictions you’d like to see show up in Amonkhet?
A little while back I asked Risa if I could take one of her posters and animate it in 3D. We both settled on this design, a great piece of typography, with enough other fun animatable bits to warrant making the design move.
I had so much fun making this! Figuring out how each element animates to correlate with the particular fandom.
My life means everything to me. Freedom means everything. […] This is one of these times when we’ve come to pause, it’s time to keep your belief pure. […] Having a respect for my life, a desire for freedom, and an unyielding love for that belief means I can see past any doubts I may have. Putting my life on the line is not just the only thing I can do, Don. It’s the right thing.
I actually really didn’t like how this episode played out. I thought that the mock-hunger-games type scenario was a poor way to wrap up this conflict. I think it was blocked really well, the actors did a really good job, and cinematography looked good, but other than that, it felt weak. This character development of Clarke, Luna, and even Octavia was poorly done.
Clarke is the one that I have the least problems with. Clarke has always done whatever it took so that her people could survive. Throughout three whole seasons, the writers have made that very clear. This didn’t seem too out of character to me. The problem I have with her is that she always tried to do what was right in these situations and this time, that really wasn’t the case. It’s obvious that when Clarke has to make decisions alone for the sake of her people, she makes bad ones. Not to be blarke trash™ but that’s one of the reasons why the theme of “together” always comes back into focus. The next episode is going to bring that back around, I hope, which is why I’m ok with this.
As far as Luna’s development goes, I think that’s where I am the most upset. For two seasons, the writers have written Luna as this peaceful, saintlike warrior woman who believed in the good in humanity. She believed that people were worth saving. This character was so important to the narrative of The 100. Luna’s barge was a safe place for the people who didn’t want to fight anymore. To bring her back as a vigilante murderer who doesn’t care if humanity survives is completely out of character and a terrible wrap up to her plot line. It would have been more in character for her to say she was fighting for herself, and fighting for those who are good. I would’ve been ok (well not OK but I mean, less pissed) with Luna fighting in the conclave and dying if it meant that she was dying for a good cause. But the fact that the writers painted her as the villain in this episode just like they did in season three when she refused the flame, made me really mad. How can they take this character who just had three whole episodes in Becca’s lab, helping with the peaceful development of Raven and Murphy, and turn her into some heartless warrior?? I’m so?????
That brings me here, to Octavia Blake. I didn’t think I could dislike her anymore than I did before, but when she killed Luna and said she wasn’t worth saving, I officially lost all of the love I had once held for her. Everyone is talking about her in this episode like she is the savior of her people and some peaceful commander-like saint. I hate the fact that for an entire season Octavia’s character development showed that she 1. literally didn’t care about her people, and 2. Was constantly blaming other people for her problems, and nooowwwww all of a sudden she’s their hero? Their victor? No thanks. I don’t want that. I’m not here for it. The thing that made me the most upset about Octavia however, was the scene between Roan and Bellamy where Roan says Octavia is lucky to have Bellamy and Bellamy says that he’s the lucky one. Really?? Bellamy Blake, the literal sunshine of the earth, who is surrounded by people who love him, who have shown over and over again that they would die for him, or even die WITH him, is lucky to have an abusive little sister?? I think the hell not. At what point since season three, episode one has Bellamy Blake been lucky to have Octavia as a sister?? Can you find it??? Cuz I can’t.
Allison comes back on a Thursday. It rains like the sky is personally
punishing the population of Beacon Hills for pretending there’s nothing
weird going on in this freaking town, and Stiles is home because he has
nothing better to do right then — his applications for about a dozen
different scholarships seem so silly now, now that he knows he wants to
stay in Beacon Hills and be a cop like his dad. At least, that’s what he thinks he wants. That’s what he thinks he wants till he hears the knock on his front door.
Beacon is just an endless stretch of grey beach. The
sky is grey and the sand is grey and the sea is barely ever blue. It’s
the kind of place where hope is bruising and opportunities are few and
far between. If you want a life, the real kind with money and friends
and a place that feels like a home instead of a trailer park that people
avoid, then you have to get out of Beacon. You have to leave if you
don’t want to turn into something as grey as your surroundings. Stiles
knows this. He hopes that Derek does too. (Stiles is in love with Derek,
who is under the thumb of his Uncle
Peter. These are the bits in between, where they lean on each other.)
(48,148 I Explicit I WIP) *chris/stiles, chris/peter, peter/stiles, chris/stiles/peter, ptsd
It’s been five years since Stiles heard Chris’s voice, two days before he was taken prisoner while serving in Afghanistan.
has moved on. It’s been hell to rebuild his life after he had
everything he’d ever wanted, but he managed and he’s fairly happy. His
fiance, Peter Hale, is smart and gorgeous. He has the job he’s wanted
for five years. They have a good life.
But still in the quiet moments, when he sleeps, he’s haunted with the lingering bitter sweet dreams of Chris’s face.
Basically what it says on the label. Hunger Games type fusion. Stiles
doing way better than anyone anticipates. Peter finds him intriguing.
Ruthless, devious assholes working together to ruin bad guys, as the
Steter ship is meant to be.
Last fic for SpiritAssassin Week. Late as usual, because I kinda burned out yesterday & the day before, lol
Thank you everyone for reading. & many thanks to @fyeahspiritassassin for hosting. I had great fun doing this but man I’m so relieved it’s over. this was hands down the most difficult writing thing i’ve done lately.
SpiritAssassin Week 2017 Last prompt: celebrations
There are ghosts in Chirrut’s eyes.
colour mostly, or the memory of colour. Jedha City, or the memory of it. When his eyes were still functional, when the world pin-bright broke into seven colours and flipped upright on the screen of his retinas. And that was sight for him.
Nowadays the only eyesight he has are old visuals. He sees with ghost eyes. Useless.
when he was still a novice at the Temple, when the Temple still stood, when his eyesight worked fine, and yet he kept missing things. Muddling up. And Baze would tell him where everything was, where to look.
Where are my prayer beads? In front of you.
Where is the datapad? You’ve been looking right at it for ten minutes.
Where did I put my shoes? You’re practically stepping on them.
I know I left my prayer beads here! You did, and they are still there. What is that saying you always use?
Gwai am ngaan! Ghosts covering eyes.
When Chirrut lost his eyesight, he said: “Remember what I used to say?”
Baze never found it funny again.
The holopad powers up. A buzz. The harsh phosphorescence of the screen makes shadows spatter onto his grey featureless vision. Incoming message.
There is a crackle of interference and then the steady hum of a line. Connection. Nobody speaks. The silence is heavy with a familiar presence.
“You can start,” says Chirrut gently, “by telling me the time.”
“It’s early,” Baze answers. “Your time, that is.”
It’s strange that they’re far enough apart that they can split time between them. Yours and mine. Your half and mine.
“Have you eaten?” says Baze.
Chirrut remembers that he hasn’t. He hums a note in both reply and dismissal.
“Just because I’m not there,” says Baze, testily, “doesn’t mean you can forget to eat. Don’t pine too hard for me.”
“I was going to meditate,” Chirrut says. “There are other types of hunger besides the one that you speak of.”
“Who said anything about hunger? It’s basic self-care. But I forgot you know nothing about that.” There is a clatter of movement from the other side. A hiss and a sputter. Clacking. Something being dismantled. For cleaning. Perhaps a weapon. A shush of air, like an exhaust pipe.
“The Force–,” Chirrut begins.
“–will not feed you. You should eat something.”
Chirrut sighs. “It’s been three years. And you’re halfway somewhere across the galaxy. And you’ve gone right back to your nagging self.”
“I’ve lost count of the years,” Baze says. There is a lie in the falter of his voice. A flinty note of defiance.
“I’m going to meditate.”
“Wait,” says Baze.
“Leave the connection running.”
“I don’t talk much when I meditate.”
“You don’t have to.”
There is a festival (there is always a festival) going on in Jedha City and people have begun lighting tapers and burning sticks of incense in the many street braziers.
You’re supposed to do acts of compassion. Pray for the dead. Feed the hungry. People bake bread, boil vats of porridge, distribute food to the homeless, to the pilgrims, to anyone who asks for food.
Chirrut sits beneath an archway on a back lane, running his fingers along the worn beads of his prayer necklace. Sandals shuffle, the scrape of fraying leather. The hems of robes touch his knees and ankles, stray butterflies of fabric. The crowds move and he feels their wingbeats and their edges. The wake of their movement. The rotund vowels of a muezzin’s call. A minaret in the distance. The wind snapping the tarp. The souk, a heaving organic entity of commerce.
There are more unwelcome sounds now. Heavy boots. The presence of Imperials, their conversations in staccato, voices standardised into a nasal flatness by the inbuilt vocoders in their helmets.
Someone presses a roll into his hands and a flask.
“Eat and drink, uncle,” someone says, performing their act of compassion for the day.
Chirrut thinks of Baze. Of course he does.
“Are you asleep?” says Baze.
“What do you think?”
“Sorry,” Baze says. “I need sleep.”
His voice is thick, like textile, as though he’s lying in bed somewhere, one corner of his mouth pressed against rough sheets. Perhaps he has lain awake all night. Is it night where he is?
“Will you tell me where you are?”
“On a planet. There’s a lot of water here. Marshes. The speeders here are shaped like dragonflies. I haven’t been dry in days. When I took the job I didn’t know I’d have to become amphibious.”
“Like any other job,” Baze says, evasive.
The connection sputters. But it holds.
“Night time on this planet is longer than Jedha’s nights. About three times as long. People sleep three times as long, too.”
“You should get some now.”
“What is that?” Baze says suddenly. “There, on the side of your face. Turn your face to the left.”
It’s a cut. Healing, though. It must have been just a thin smudge in the holographic display of his face, but Baze’s sharp eyes had caught it.
“I was cornered,” Chirrut admits. “In a cul-de-sac. By five Imperials.”
Baze swears. “You took on five Imperials without backup?”
“The Force was with me.”
“Of course it was.” Baze scoffs. “So you had no backup. You idiot.”
“So says the true fool, who is faithless,” Chirrut shoots back. “So gwaa.”
Chirrut passes through the forms of zama-shiwo, ghost-eyed, with the slow silk movement of his arms and legs. There is no end or beginning to the forms. Perpetual transition. Keep your mind still. Absolute. Nucleatic. The body is not yours. The body is your environment. You are part of a larger body. Only the negligible pinprick of Chirrut’s mind shimmers, edged with feelers, hungry for messages, for a grid of sense.
The sun, he remembers, is frail and dewy, angling away like errant vapour from the domes and the glittering mosaics in the murals. Useless light: the city’s solar dishes had to coax heat out of it, old, old dying light.
But now that his mind and his body are sharp with the recent practice of zama-shiwo, he can feel the sun’s heat, amplified. The sun is a hot salty coin at the back of his throat when he tips his face upward. Sunlight is swallowing metal. The scrape of thirst.
Where Chirrut is standing on this rooftop, he should not be able to feel this much warmth. Not at this time of the day, because this time of the day, the shadow of the Temple would have stretched over it, blotted out the sun.
The spire of the Temple is no more, though. And its shadow fled with it.
The holopad buzzes as Chirrut puts the porridge to boil on the portable stove.
“Look,” Chirrut says when the transmission comes through, “I’m eating. Or at least I’m going to.”
Baze makes a noise of approval on the other end. There’s silence for a bit.
“There was–” Baze begins. And then changes his mind. “This marshland planet, it’s got a very high evaporation capacity. Whole lakes can vanish in days. Then it will rain and rain somewhere else until there are floods, and there’ll be a new lake. All within such a short span of time. They call this the planet of Leaping Lakes.”
Chirrut imagines it. The transient landscape of it. The lakes leap faster in his mind, faster than Baze, slogging through marshes that dry out as he walks, his skin old and cracked from sand. Unamphibious. Dragonfly speeders zipping over dead reed beds.
“I had to–the job involved–,” Baze begins.
“You don’t have to tell me,” Chirrut says. “About the jobs that you do. I can hazard a guess. Or three.”
“What if I want to talk about them?”
“Then tell me how you’ve changed. How they’ve changed you.”
The porridge boils over. Chirrut hisses and Baze lets out a long, slow sigh. Too long and slow to be sincere.
“Your fault,” says Chirrut testily. The porridge has thickened into a layer that clings to the bottom of the pot. A skin of rice. Carbon bitter.
Baze fled not long after the Temple was sacked.
“I will never put on those vestments again,” Baze told Chirrut all those years ago. “They have been burnt.”
Chirrut reeled. He’d known the slow crumble of Baze’s faith. But still. “I won’t let you. You can’t go. You are the most devoted of all the Guardians.”
The words broke out of him, splinters of pleas.
“Then come with me,” said Baze. “The Temple is gone. The kyber crystals are gone. There’s nothing sacred here any longer.”
“The Force is still here.”
“Yes it is,” Baze started to walk towards the gates of the Temple. Across the half-uprooted courtyard. “The Force is here and there and everywhere and it is dead. We breathe in its deadness every day. We celebrate its death in the deaths of everyone else. So. Are you coming?”
Chirrut steeled himself. “A match.”
Baze laughed. “I’m not a Guardian. I don’t play with sticks any longer.”
“If you beat me, you can go. You can leave.”
“And you’ll come with me.”
Chirrut didn’t say anything.
“Fine. Just to humour you, then,” Baze said.
They sparred in that ruined courtyard and Chirrut won.
He brought Baze to the ground, kicked his knees in, elbowed his throat and slammed his staff into Baze’s abdomen.
Baze lay on the ground, panting. How Chirrut would have liked to straddle him, lick away the blood from his teeth. He’d hit Baze on the jaw.
“Well,” said Baze. “I guess I stay, then.”
Chirrut hated the hostility of his laughter. He put the end of his staff at Baze’s neck, tipped his chin upwards.
“No,” Chirrut said.
“Are you still angry at me?” Baze asks. The sound of thunder in the background. But not thunder. Just a downpour in the marsh planet, in some distant corner of the galaxy.
The generator in the room that he lives in is old. It rattles. It smells like breath. There are probably small dead things caught beneath its casing, things like rodents and moths, fossilised inside.
“No,” Chirrut says. “Are you?”
“Not at you. Never at you.”
There are countless things to be celebrated in Jedha City. Apart from the big festivals. There are weddings, births, engagements, various milestones of growth. Deaths, sometimes, depending on what you believe in. Seasonal shifts. Phenomena like rain.
The Imperials have put a damper on many of the Holy City’s festivals, and declared that permits need to be granted for the rest.
But here’s the thing about people: they remember. They remember when celebrations are due, when rituals start calling to them, feast days notched into their internal calendars. The secret way which they measure time within themselves.
And so people find other reasons for celebration. New acquaintances. Extra rations. Finding lost things. Finding lost people. And so on.
The reasons for celebrating anything become smaller and smaller. Until Chirrut finds himself rejoicing at coins on the street. Or coins in an alms bowl. A call of a bird far out beyond the city walls. Clean washing brushing against his face as he wanders through the alleyways and courtyards. A day without the sound of blaster fire in some quarter of the city or other. A memory, an old visual of the inner sanctum of the Temple, stored in his ghost eyes. Still vivid. Preserved even after the destruction of the building.
He goes home in the evening, his stomach a whorl of hunger. The pot with the burnt crust of porridge is still sitting on the stove. The smell is thick and disheartening. Outside, wind. Sand scours the window.
The sting of saline. There are ghosts in his eyes. And sometimes they weep.
But then. Then he remembers something. He reaches for the holopad. Trusts in the Force. Prays for connection.
A crackle and a hum. There is transmission. There is a line, the thinnest thread across the galaxy, but steady. It feels like a celebration.
“I was finally getting some sleep,” Baze grumbles. But it’s a glad sound. Relief to be woken from the lonely press of sleep.
“So,” says Chirrut, “when are you coming home?”
bou din waa zuk - literally translates to ‘boil telephone porridge’. means when you talk for hours on the phone. except there are probably no phones in R1