iron inside

Spoilers for Flash issues in January!  The cover is for Flash #39, natch.

THE FLASH #38
Written by JOSHUA WILLIAMSON
Art by HOWARD PORTER
Cover by BARRY KITSON
Variant cover by HOWARD PORTER
“A Cold Day in Hell” finale! The Flash and an unlikely ally must discover who is behind the death of one of the Rogues before the murderer strikes again! But Flash is trapped inside of Iron Heights with one person blocking his exit: Captain Cold!
On sale JANUARY 10 • 32 pg, FC, $2.99 US • RATED T

THE FLASH #39
Written by JOSHUA WILLIAMSON
Art and cover by CARMINE DI GIANDOMENICO
700th Anniversary variant cover by TONY S. DANIEL
“The Perfect Storm” part one! In the 700th tale of THE FLASH, Barry Allen wants to make amends to the people he’s hurt, but Gorilla Grodd has other plans! If Grodd’s shocking attack on Central City wasn’t enough, the reason why—and how it connects to everything The Flash has faced since the Speed Force Storm—will rock our hero to his core…and change everything he thought he knew!
On sale JANUARY 24 • 32 pg, FC, $2.99 US • RATED T

Griffin: There is one present left underneath the Candlenight shrub and it has a tag on it and it says “For: Taako, Merle, and Magnus.” It’s wrapped up in a very ornate paper, very shiny, glossy, silver paper. And it doesn’t have a “from” name on it. Doesn’t say who it’s from, just says it’s to the three of you.

Clint: Hmm.

Travis: I open it!

Justin: Of course.

Griffin: You run up, tear the box open and it explodes, you die. You tear the box open, it doesn’t explode, you don’t die.

Travis: I’m fine either way.

Clint: So which is it?

Griffin: Uh no, it’s safe. It’s a safe box, you tear it open and inside is a small, sort of fine, velvet, almost like a jewelry gift box. And as you pop it open, and the three of you are sort of looking over into this uh, this package as you open it up, you see there are three iron-on badges inside of this box. They’re these dark blue circle like, iron-on emblems and inside of each of these blue fabric circles, there is, there are 12 more circles. All different colors sort of around the outside of each badge. And in the middle is a word that is written in a language that none of you recognize, you cannot read, you cannot make out what the word is, what these badges are for because you can’t seem to read this word in the middle. And tucked in between these three badges is a note that says “For your eyes only.”

anonymous asked:

I have a character who did not have much interaction with others during her childhood. Would this have any lasting effects on her?

Being around other people is CRITICAL for a child’s development.

Okay. So I’m going to talk about two levels of isolation here.

The first level is going to be the Romanian Orphanage level of neglect.

The backstory is a bit complicated, but the upshot is that Romania suddenly had a hell of a lot of unwanted children, most of which had to be raised in institutional orphanages. There were not enough caregivers for the amount of children they had to deal with.

So what ended up happening is that babies were left in their cribs, 24/7, and fed and changed on a strict schedule. The babies learned not to cry, because it didn’t make a caregiver come running any faster. They didn’t have toys; all they could do is stare at their hands or the ceiling.

That lack of stimulation was found to have pretty significantly negative effects as the kids grew up. These kids are often physically stunted – they’re not as big as they should be for their age. Their brains are often actually physically smaller. They have lower IQs. They struggle with language. They also have problems with attachment.

Things do start to get better if the character is put into a foster home quickly, but they may still have emotional and psychological problems (there are some links below for further research).


Now. The other level of isolation I’m going to talk about is, for lack of a better term, the horror stories. These are children who were raised in extreme isolation by severely abusive caretakers, if they had caretakers at all.

Most children who are completely isolated or severely deprived of interaction have not learned, or have extreme difficulties with, language.

They also have difficulty with basic motor skills. There’s something in our brain called “mirror neurons.” @scriptbrainscientist will be able to elaborate more, but basically it boils down to “Monkey see, monkey do.” We learn how to do things because we mimic the behaviors of people around us. If there’s no one around the character, they won’t know how to do things. The character won’t know how to put on clothes or tie their shoes. They won’t know how to use a fork or knife. They may not even know how to walk.

Even if the character does have some social interaction, if they are mostly isolated, the level of interaction they get isn’t enough to foster normal development.

Now. That’s not to say that the character won’t ever be able to develop language and learn those skills. This kind of thing is not seen often enough for psychologists to make that kind of a conclusion. But every report we’ve seen so far says that feral or isolated kids never reach the level of functioning of same-age peers.

The best-studied case of a child being raised in isolation is that of a girl who was nicknamed “Genie.” 

I’m putting the rest of this post under the jump because what was done to her is nothing short of horrific.

Keep reading

“…as you open it up, you see there are three iron-on badges inside of this box. And they’re these dark blue circle, like, iron-on emblems. And inside of each of these blue fabric circles, there are twelve more circles, all of different colors around the outside of each badge. And in the middle is a word that’s written in a language that none of you recognize. You cannot read, you cannot make out what the word is, what these badges are for, because you cannot read the word in the middle. And tucked in between these three badges is a note that says, ‘for your eyes only.’”

The Importance of Iron in Witchcraft

So, I got a lot of really positive feedback about my post about salt in witchcraft, so here’s another one just for you about iron!

Iron, like salt, has been used for many thousands of years as a potent tool in the practices of witchcraft. Iron is one of the most abundant metals in our planet, and is also a really great metal for making into tools. It’s tough, hard, ductile and with a high melting point that makes it ideal for situations in which you might need a tool to work under extremely hot conditions. It’s also one of only three ferromagnetic metals (along with nickel and cobalt), making it an essential part of most magnets and compasses.

In astrophysics, iron is extremely important in the life cycle of stars. Iron is one of the most atomically stable substances in the universe, and it’s also unique because it’s the first element in the periodic table to require more energy to MAKE it than it gives out from atomic fusion. This is important, because when a star gets older and fuses hydrogen to make helium, helium to make beryllium and all the rest, once it starts fusing atoms to make iron, the star begins to die. So, iron is an element that signals the death of stars, and any element that weighs MORE than iron (atomically speaking) can only be made in supernovas - that is, the explosion that takes place when a really BIG star dies.

In biology, iron is one of the most important elements in mammalian, reptilian and avian blood, because it’s the element that we use in the chemical haemoglobin. This is the chemical in our blood cells that binds to oxygen and keeps us alive. Crustaceans like lobsters don’t use iron - they use copper, and instead make haemocyanin, which makes their blood blue! However, just like in stars, iron can mean death for humans as well. If we overdose on iron, we suffer from iron heavy metal poisoning; when we get crushed by a heavy object we can suffer a disease called traumatic rhabdomyolysis or Crush Syndrome, caused by vast amounts of myoglobin (another iron-based compound, found in muscles, which gives them extra oxygen to use) entering our kidneys and killing them, and as a result killing us.

Iron in science is an element of life, death, and of many points in between. But what about its uses in witchcraft?

Witchy Facts about Iron!

  1. Iron is stable. Iron’s stability, both atomically and magickally, makes it a fantastic magickal conductor, and also means that magick doesn’t seem to affect iron very much. Enchantments on iron are never as strong as on other metals, and even the best witches will have difficulty making an enchantment or other spell anchor properly. However, this has the advantage that iron doesn’t pick up negative magick from background sources, and it’s extremely unlikely that there will be issues with ritual or altar tools made from iron. Keeping your magickal supplies inside an iron or steel box, or a box that’s been nailed together with iron nails, will prevent them from leaking out and attracting spirits that might cause harm.

  2. Iron is protective. Along with silver and a few other little bits and bobs, negative spirits and fae folk cannot touch iron lest it burn them and cause them pain. Additionally, negative magicks targetted at someone wearing an iron pendant will be attracted into the pendant and then dispelled. This makes it an ideal protective charm for everyday carry or everyday wear.

    This is why horseshoes are considered lucky
    - back in Medieval times, when protection against negative spirits and magick was much more widely practiced, poor families would often be unable to afford much iron. However, a horseshoe is made of iron, and comes with holes already cast into it, which allow you to nail one over your door easily, which keeps out harmful spirits, magick, and fae, who might seek to hurt you or your family.

  3. Iron is inconspicuous. Anyone can carry an iron nail after all, and a little piece of iron wrought and twisted into a small pendant is far from a traditional witch’s item. Those secret witches who perhaps do not live with accepting families or within an accepting community or country can find great solace in the use of iron as a protective charm.

  4. Iron is cheap. Iron nails, iron rods and iron knifes are pretty easy to get hold of and relatively quite cheap. They’re versatile and not especially likely to draw attention to you - after all, nobody’s likely to question why someone has a couple of iron nails twisted into a pendant, and if they do question it, why it’s just an artistic display! And of course, easy to replace with $5 worth of string, iron and a hammer.

  5. Iron is ancient. Iron is one of the oldest protective charms out there, right up with salt and sage. It’s been used for literally thousands of years to protect people against everything from wolves to armies to poltergeists. That’s a pretty impressive history!

  6. Iron is practical! The best cookware I’ve ever used has always been my cast iron cookware set, which makes better food than I’ve ever tasted, and it’s very easy to clean. It’s also extremely hardwearing - I wholly expect to one day be able to pass on my cast iron frying pan and wok to my grandchildren, and it was already been owned by my mother and father before me. Iron knifes are sharper and cut cleaner than almost anything except obsidian, and high-carbon steel (an alloy of iron and carbon) is the best cutting edge known in bushcrafting circles, where all the best knives are made from it

I hope this helps all you lovely witches and magick users out there!

– Juniper

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.))

The Last Letter of a Kamikaze Pilot,

My Thoughts,

I am keenly aware of the tremendous personal honor involved in my having been chosen to be a member of the Army Special Attack Corps, which is considered to be the most elite attack force in the service of our glorious fatherland.
  My thoughts about all these things derive from a logical standpoint which is more or less the fruit of my long career as a student and, perhaps, what some others might call a liberal. But I believe that the ultimate triumph of liberty is altogether obvious. As the Italian philosopher Benedetto Croce has proclaimed, “liberty is so quintessential to human nature that it is absolutely impossible to destroy it. "I believe along with him that this is a simple fact, a fact so certain that liberty must of necessity continue its underground life even when it appears, on the surface, to be suppressed—it will always win through in the end.
  It is equally inevitable that an authoritarian and totalitarian nation, however much it may flourish temporarily, will eventually be defeated. In the present war we can see how this latter truth is borne out in the Axis Powers themselves. What more needs to be said about Fascist Italy? Nazi Germany too has already been defeated, and we see that all the authoritarian nations are now falling down one by one, exactly like buildings with faulty foundations. All these developments only serve to reveal all over again the universality of the truth that history has so often proven in the past: men’s great love of liberty will live on into the future and into eternity itself.

Although there are aspects to all this which constitute something the fatherland has reason to feel apprehensive about, it is still a truly wonderful thing to feel that one’s own personal beliefs have been validated. On every front, I believe that ideologies are at the bottom of all the fighting that is going on nowadays. Still further, I am firmly convinced that the outcome of each and every conflict is predictable on the bases of the ideologies held by the opposing sides. 

  My ambitious hope was to have lived to see my beloved fatherland—Japan—develop into a great empire like Great Britain in the past, but that hope has already been dashed. If those people who truly loved their country had been given a fair hearing, I do not believe that Japan would be in its present perilous position. This was my ideal and what I dreamt about: that the people of Japan might walk proudly anywhere in the world.

  In a real sense it is certainly true that a pilot in our special aerial attack force is, as a friend of mine has said, nothing more than a piece of the machine. He is nothing more than that part of the machine which holds the plane’s controls—endowed with no personal qualities, no emotions, certainly with no rationality—simply just an iron filament tucked inside a magnet itself designed to be sucked into an enemy air-craft carrier. The whole business would, within any context of rational behavior, appear to be unthinkable, and would seem to have no appeal whatsoever except to someone with a suicidal disposition. I suppose this entire range of phenomena is best seen as something peculiar to Japan, a nation of spirituality. So then we who are nothing more than pieces of machinery may have no right to say anything, but we only wish, ask, and hope for one thing: that all the Japanese people might combine to make our beloved country the greatest nation possible.

  Were I to face the battles that lie ahead in this sort of emotional state, my death would be rendered meaningless. This is the reason then, as I have already stated, that I intend to concentrate on the honor involved in being designated a member of the Special Attack Corps.

When I am in a plane perhaps I am nothing more than just a piece of the machine, but as soon as I am on the ground again I find that I am a complete human being after all, complete with human emotions—and passions too. when the sweetheart whom I loved so much passed away, I experienced a kind of spiritual death myself. Death in itself is nothing when you look upon it, as I do, as merely a pass to the heaven where I will see her once again, the one who is waiting there for me.

  Tomorrow we attack. It may be that my genuine feelings are extreme—and extremely private! But I have put them down as honestly as I can. Please forgive me for writing so loosely and without much logical order. Tomorrow one believer in liberty and liberalism will leave this world behind. His withdrawing figure may have a lonely look about it, but I assure you that his heart is filled with contentment.
  I have said everything I wanted to say in the way I wanted to say it. Please accept my apologies for any breach of etiquette. Well,then.

—Captain Ryoji Uehara

Uehara was killed during an attack on the US Fleet at the Battle of Okinawa, May 11th, 1945. He was 22 years old. Among his personal effects was a book on philosophy by Benedetto Croce, in the cover of which he had written,

“Goodbye, my beloved Kyoko-chan. I loved you so much;but even then you were already engaged, so it was very painful for me.Thinking only of your happiness,I suppressed the urge to whisper into your ear. That I loved you. I love you still.

Moon of Fire Part viii (Sastiel Sequel)

I hope you guys enjoy this next part of Sastiel’s story! Don’t forget I’m running a Sastiel competition with amazing prizes. All you have to do is make an edit/fanart based on my Sastiel fic to be in the draw to win!

If you haven’t read A Court of Fire and Dreams:
Part I, Part II, Part III, Part IV and Part V.

Moon of Fire:
Part i, Part ii, Part iii, Part iv, Part v, Part vi, Part vii

Keep reading

[lmaooooo so i stumbled across this blog two days ago and immediately fell in love. I may have accidentally contradicted established canon in here b/c i haven’t read everything and i really wanted to join in, so i really hope i’m doing this right.]

——

You think it was, perhaps, a bad idea to name yourself after your characters. You think it was, in fact, a bad idea to go to Elsewhere at all. It wasn’t even the university you wanted to go to; you had wanted somewhere close to home, where you could maybe visit on weekends and call up your mom whenever you managed to fail at doing adult things like laundry, as you knew would inevitably happen.

And yet…when you found Elsewhere University, it was in your state. It was not thirty minutes’ drive from home. And it was intriguing. You still probably wouldn’t have gone, would have chosen the college you’d been dead-set on for two years, would have slipped the net and been normal

Except you saw one of Them. You saw a flash out of the corner of your eye, and you didn’t know the rules, so you spun to do a doubletake, and you saw it, saw Them.

You aren’t sure what happened after that–it gets a bit blurry–but the next thing you knew you were sitting at orientation, your things already in a dorm guarded by salt and an iron horseshoe.

You have been told you’re one of the lucky ones.

You major in animation. Or you had wanted to. The memories of your classes don’t stay in your mind all that well, but you manage to churn out the same A-to-B grades you had produced in high school. You aren’t sure how you’re doing it.

You try to follow the rules. You try to remember. You have seen the consequences. For once, instead of trying to stuff everything into your head and hoping your shit brain won’t forget something, you write them down in a notebook that never leaves your backpack.

This is probably a bad idea. It may even be a disastrous one, but if it is, you haven’t heard the rule that warns away from it, and you are scared enough as it is that you, with your autism, might miss a social cue or be unable to pick up an unspoken rule and end up offending the Gentry anyways.

You once read a tumblr post that said changlings were the explanation people came up with to explain kids with autism in the far distant past. Obviously, this is not completely true, because the Fair Folk are real and real changlings are too, but you take some measure of comfort in that post and pray your own autism will endear you to the Gentry instead of offending Them.

But the real problem is, you became an animator (or wanted to, at least) because you are a creator. You invent things, weave worlds, and when you came to Elsewhere University you came already carrying a large, elaborate tapestry of a world, filled with magic and a fey that had its own internal systems, thought out, explained in depth, and with the sketches and maps to go with it, formed over four, five years of loving care and writing and drawing.

You have your own magic, and your own fey, and they do not mesh well (they barely mesh at all) with that of Elsewhere. Nobody knows about this, and you have put your world to the side, because everything in you screams DANGER at having something like this around the Gentry. You keep all you have of it in your closet, and you salt the edges of the closet plus a circle around the bag you keep it in, then scatter iron nails inside the circle. That world is precious to you, and you will take no chances with it.

So it was probably a stupid idea to name yourself after one of the characters in it.

That isn’t even the only problem, or necessarily the true problem. The true problem is you put yourself into the characters you create, and this makes that name almost as dangerous as a True Name after you get used to it.

You didn’t realize this until you looked into the mirror, and your hair was several shades lighter than it should be. You were able to puzzle out the problem, fortunately, and in a spasm of panic you switched your alias to a different character before it got too far and you became your character.

Except, because you’re a moron, you switched it to a character just as close to you.

This carried on for a while, and your eyes got bluer, and then your skin got darker, and then you got taller, until finally, in desperation, you ran a name generator until you found something with no association to your characters, but still felt nice as a name. Not too nice, of course.

By then, though, you didn’t look much like yourself anymore. You curse your idiocy, but the only way you can think of getting your original appearance back is to use your real name, or else the name you used on the internet. You aren’t that stupid. And it’s nice, sometimes, the way you look now.

You really, really hope the name you generated doesn’t end up being a True Name for this other you.

You are learning the true dangers of being a writer, artist, creator, in Elsewhere University. You are far too close to your stories. And if you write yourself into them, you worry that story will become Truth.

The Gentry are like that, you’re fairly certain.

So you watch your words and make sure your characters don’t resemble anybody (or anything) too closely when you sketch them idly in class, and when you write, you do it inside a circle of salt. It isn’t exactly comfortable, but you need your words, your art, your stories.

You do not know if you are doing this right.

You really, really, really hope you are.

 [x]

SMITTEN KITTEN BONUS CHAPTER!!!!!!!!

This little blurb is for my darling @t-starkasm who sent me this picture of a very obvious Smitten Kitten!!

So I added another little bit to the ORIGINAL STORY to include this darling little scene!!!

Enjoy!!

********************

The ringtone of Steves phone completely interrupted the mission briefing, and absolutely made Agent Coulsons jaw drop.

Who let the dogs out? Who who who who! Who let the dogs out?”

“Oh my god.” His face flamed red and he scrambled to mute it. “I am so sorry, Agent Coulson, Colonel Rhodes, its um—”

“Captain Rogers.” Rhodey was trying his damnest to keep the snmirk off his face. “Captain Rogers.” he cleared his throat. “Would I be correct in assuming that Seargent Barnes is the one calling you right now?”

“I–I–” the Lion shifter swallowed back a growl of annoyance. “My mate changed my ringtone, I apologize.”

“Sorry, but Seargent Barnes chose that as his ringtone?” Agent Coulson asked in that quietly, polite way of his. “Seargent Barnes, the Alpha Wolf shifter?”

“Not that mate. My other mate, Tony.” he breathed a deep sigh. Tony had changed his ringtone because hed been upset Steve couldnt stay with him all day today. Not that Steve had wanted to spend his whole day locked in the conference room talking about missions and personell. No he would much rather be snuggled up in bed with both his mates. He missed Tony and Bucky so much he nearly ached. He needed a break from all this. A break from being Captain America. A break from being Steve. He needed to just be Bucky and Tonys mate, and let them take care of him.

Steve shook his head and pushed those thoughts away. He had been feeing down for weeks now and didnt really know what to do about it.

“If you’ll excuse me.” he said politely. “I need to take this.”

“Ah. Of course.” Coulson said with a little smile. “By all means, take your mates call.”

“Thank you. Just a few minutes.” Steve stepped into the hallway and opened his phone. “Bucky, I swear to god. You know I am in a meeting, I will muzzle your–”

“911, Steve.” Buckys voice was stressed, nearly a whine. “911, our room. Its Tony.”

“Oh shit.” Steve only stepped into the conference room long enough to snatch his shield, and took off running, no apology or explanation or anything.

“ I havent been around the compound much since this all happened.” Coulson commented mildly. “Does this sort of thing–”

“Tony is the most high maintenance person in the world. Also the most high maintence shifter. Steve and Bucky have their hands full all the time.”

“Tony only weighs eighty pounds.” Coulson raised his eyebrows and Rhodey just started laughing.

“Phil. You literally have no idea how much of a handful Tony can be.”

“Isnt his shifter form a cat?”

Phil. You have no idea.” The colonel collapsed back into his chair, shoulders shaking.

“But both Rogers and Barnes are Alpha–”

“Phil.” Rhodey was full on cackling now, wiping his tears away. “You have no idea.”

Keep reading

For a great part of its early history, its secret status made it of little consequence in the wider world. But in time it grew, eventually emerging as a power almost without rival.

what a good city for arya to be associated with