is it too early to post this

Hey there! I finally got the OK to post this picture I contributed to @ofishenod‘s BNHA zine, so of course I want to share it. ^^

I’m really happy with how this came out, so I hope you guys like it! Check out her page too if you’re interested in checking out that zine. :D

anonymous asked:

Holly can you make a fic off of this gif set please?captainpoe).)tumblr).(com/post/167608761924/emma-watching-killian-with-their-baby-girl

Hey there, Nonnie! Thank you for the request! This gif set gave me all the feels and much love and thanks to @captainpoe for blessing my endeavor to answer your ask.

If you’ve read my other works, then you know fluff usually isn’t in my wheelhouse, so here’s my best attempt. Killian is singing his own version of Hush, Little Baby. This is unbeta’d, written EARLY this morning, with a dose of humor, because as Regina said last night, “Too much sugar will kill you…”

Pirate Lullabies

Emma’s heart swelled as she took in the sight before her. A content, yet slightly giddy, smile pulled at her lips as she listened to her husband finish the final few lines of the lullaby he’d been singing to their daughter before starting a new tune to help her fall asleep.

She loved it when he sang to their little bundle.

He’d started doing it almost immediately after she’d been born. Cleaned off, checked and measured, and then placed into his arms, Killian had just stared at her in awe and wonder until she began to squirm and fuss. With soothing little shushes that Emma had been on the receiving end of a time or twice, he’d begun to hum a little tune. The hum flowed into mutterings which became lyrical prose of a lullaby that had Emma staring at him in awe and wonder.

Captain Hook knew a lullaby. Who would have thought?

“My mother used to sing it to Liam and I,” he’d confessed later that first night when they’d finally gotten their daughter settled for a few hours sleep. “Liam would sometimes sing it to me after our father left us. Helped to lull away the nightmares on cold, dark nights. I like to think that singing it to our little lass will somehow help her to know them.”

He hadn’t stopped with the family lullaby. Not long after, he’d asked David to help find songs native to this realm as well. Bedtime became his ritual, his special bonding time with his little love, and Emma cherished that as much as he did. Some nights the songs were soft and sweet, other nights they were playful and silly.

Like tonight’s final offering.

“And if that pirate ship won’t sail, Papa’s gonna turn the winds to a gale, and if that gale should start to storm, Papa’s gonna tell it ‘that’s bad form’, and if bad form you should face little lass, Papa’s gonna kick it right in the-”

“Killian!” Emma quietly admonished with a laugh causing him to shoot her a playful smirk as he finished.

“In the mast,” and then continued to coo in a sing-song voice at the sleeping babe in his arms, “because I’m talking about sailing and treacherous weather on the high seas, not whatever it is your mother’s mind seemed to think I was singing about…”

Emma shook her head with a smile and huffed an amused sigh at her ridiculous husband and his pirate lullabies. Lullabies she wouldn’t trade or change for anything in the world.

What Comes Next (pt. 3)

Part 1:

Part 2:

Her headache was almost unbearable, pounding rhythmically behind her eye sockets and cutting painful crisscross patterns across the top of her brain in a cacophonous symphony of hangover. Beca squinted, recoiling further into the bed as the early morning light was too bright and burned too hot on her tired eyes. She pulled the covers over her head and reveled in the comfort of her home.

The spell was broken, however, when the fabric of the sheets was suddenly too rough on Beca’s skin, the mattress fighting to conform to a body that wasn’t hers, the pillows misshapen and oddly formed. She shot upright but immediately regretted the decision as the room began spinning, and the nausea set in with a vengeance. Details of the room slowly emerged as Beca adjusted to the light. Her grey walls were now replaced by yellow, by ceiling beams, and by jewelry boxes. By knickknacks and photos of a family that Beca didn’t recognize. She could only find comfort in the functionality of her own room, not the coziness of this one.

A mess of red hair pulled back into a lazy bun caught her attention. She could only see it through the crack in the bedroom door, but her eyes couldn’t seem to leave it. The hair stirred, bobbing then rising to knock softly on Beca’s door.

“Hey, are you up?” The voice asked quietly.

Beca rubbed her eyes to clear the lingering remnants of blurriness. “Yeah,” she replied, her voice hoarse, her throat dry.

The redhead opened the door timidly, peaking at Beca before walking into the bedroom and perching herself on the end of the bed. “How are you feeling?” she asked to break the silence that had permeated the space between them.

Beca scratched the back of her head. “Honestly, I’ve never felt better, top of my game.” The woman across from her frowned. “I feel like shit,” Beca continued, dropping her sarcasm. “Like the grim reaper punched me in the stomach.”

The redhead laughed, nodding sympathetically. “Yeah, that makes sense.” She tugged at her earlobe absentmindedly. “I did have to wrestle the bottle of tequila away from you at the bar last night. How you actually got the entire bottle is beyond me.”

Embarrassed, Beca buried her face in her hands with a low groan.

“Hey,” the voice went on, chuckling to herself, “it’s ok. We’ve all been there. A few years ago, I got so drunk at my sister’s wedding that I knocked over one of the buffet tables and tried to make out with one of the other bridesmaids.”

Beca snuck a look at the redhead sitting on the bed with her and allowed a smile creep along her lips, pulling the corners of her mouth upwards. She sighed, returning her hands to her lap. “That’s pretty bad, dude.”

“I know,” the woman smiled. She gave Beca a lingering look before continuing. “I’m sure you have a lot of questions about last night.”

Beca furrowed her brow and tried to pick some memories out from the creases in her brain, but she ultimately came up empty, holding a disquieting nothingness behind her eyes. “I do,” she said slowly. “You’re… Zoë, right?”

Zoë looked surprised. “Yeah, I’m Zoë. I’m kind of shocked you remember my name. You kept calling me Chloe last night.”

Beca wrinkled her nose, charging forward with her barrage of questions as to avoid thinking about Chloe. “Did we, um…” she trailed off, not sure how to continue.

Zoë frowned in confusion, but realization quickly shot through her. “No,” she answered, shaking her head vigorously. “We didn’t have sex. You were so drunk. It didn’t feel right.”

Beca sighed, relieved.

“Do you want to get coffee?” Zoë asked. “There’s a bodega on the corner of the block. I know the owner, Abdel, and his cat, Sanza.”

Beca nodded. “Coffee sounds incredible.”

Twenty minutes later, Beca shuffled alongside Zoë down the sidewalk, wearing borrowed track pants and a borrowed sweatshirt.

“Here we are,” Zoë chirped as she opened the door of the bodega for Beca.

The smell of coffee washed over her in a soothing wave, and Beca closed her eyes to properly revel in it. It singed the tips of her nose hairs and began to pull her body out of the vice-like grip of her hangover. A memory came to her, slowly at first but building with intensity. The sleepless night that had preceded weighed heavily on her tired shoulders as she stumbled down the stairs of the Bellas’ house. The smell of coffee wafted from the kitchen and tugged Beca’s drooping eyelids open, rousing her spirit and livening her stride. A single cup of coffee sat in the middle of the counter, still hot enough to send jets of steam swirling to the ceiling. A note lay next to the mug, Chloe’s smooth handwriting flowing gently over the page in a delicately feminine script: “Good luck on your exam today, Becs! You’re going to do aca-awesome!” It was simply signed “C.” Beca had never known such kindness, and she allowed for a solitary moment of overwhelming emotion to take her by the shoulders and wrap her in an unfamiliar, yet not unpleasant embrace. No one saw her cry.

Beca’s eyes fluttered open as a warm hand wound lightly around her upper arm.

“Are you ok?” Zoë asked.

Beca nodded quickly, swiping the moisture roughly from under her eyes. “I’m just, like, super passionate about coffee.” She took the cup Zoë offered her. “I get choked up sometimes.”

Zoë narrowed her eyes in knowing suspicious didn’t press Beca. “Let’s go sit outside.”

“I’ve got some more questions for you,” Beca said as she followed Zoë out of the bodega.

“Go for it,” Zoë shot over her shoulder.

“Where are we?”

Zoë took a tentative sip of her coffee, trying to gage the temperature. “Brooklyn. Greenpoint, to be more specific.” She found a nice stoop and plopped down, gesturing for Beca to sit next to her.

Beca eased herself down onto the steps. “How did we get here last night?”

Zoë laughed softly. “Wow,” she mused, “you really don’t remember anything.”

Beca could only offer her a self-conscious shrug in return.

“It’s alright,” Zoë continued, taking another sip of coffee. “I don’t mind filling in the blanks. You got too drunk at the bar last night, let’s start there. I went to the bathroom at one point, and when I came back there were so many empty shot glasses on the bar in front of you.”

Beca nodded as she traced the rim of her coffee cup, unable to make eye contact with Zoë. When the redhead had left her alone at the bar, the thoughts in Beca’s head became unreasonably loud, drowning out the music and the shouts and the friction of skin on skin. Questions of her sexuality, of her motivations, and of her wasted time congealed in a sticky mass of thought so disruptive that she tried to drown her insides in tequila.

Zoë kept going. “I realized pretty quickly that you weren’t alright. I put you in the back of a cab to try and take you to your apartment, but when I asked what your address was, all you said was ‘Chloe’s room.’”

A blush exploded from Beca’s cheeks and swept along the tips of her ears and the sides of her neck. This wasn’t unusual. In college, she had a habit of always finding her way to Chloe’s room rather than her own when she was drunk.

“I obviously couldn’t tell a cab driver to take you to Chloe’s room, so I took you to my place. This is where things got really interesting.” Zoë took another sip of coffee, pausing for emphasis. “You confessed that you were in love with me? Well, not me, I guess,” she corrected, “but in love with Chloe.”

“Oh my god,” Beca murmured.

Zoë stopped for a minute. “You have it really bad for this Chloe girl, Beca. If you keep trying to avoid your feelings with alcohol, your liver’s going to fail by the time you’re thirty.”

“I don’t know,” Beca said. “I’ve only ever dated guys.”

“Were you happy in those relationships?”

Beca was caught off-guard by how pointed Zoë’s question was. She wouldn’t describe her relationship with Jesse as happy. It was tolerable, sure, even enjoyable at times, but Beca was only existing beside him, filling some void that societal norms told her she should have.

“Happy is a strong word,” Beca sputtered, clumsily sifting through the messy thoughts in her head. “I mean, I wasn’t miserable. At least not all the time, you know?”

Zoë raised her eyebrows.

“Oh my god, I hated dating men,” Beca groaned, letting her head fall into the palms of her hands.

“Welcome to the club, baby gay.” Zoë gave her a soft smile.

“Do I get a shirt or something?” Beca asked wryly.

Zoë nodded. “After you pay your dues. It’s a softball jersey that just says 'lesbian’ on the front.”

The two women smiled at each other, allowing a comfortable silence to settle between them. Beca looked out to the street, eyes skimming the tops of cars, the intricacies of brick work decorating the surrounding apartments, the wisps of translucent clouds that swept over the spring morning. Something awoke within her. What it was, she wasn’t sure, but she could feel it stirring at the base of her stomach, urging her forward. It compelled her to make new memories where the old ones ended. She looked at Zoë. “What now?”

Zoë shrugged. “That’s up to you. If I was in your shoes, I would tell Chloe how you feel.”

“But what if she doesn’t feel the same way?” Beca’s voice cracked.

Zoë slid her hand into Beca’s, giving it a light squeeze. “Life is about taking risks. You’re the only one standing in the way of your own happiness. If she likes you, that’s amazing. But if she doesn’t like you, that’s ok, too. Chloe isn’t entitled to have feelings for you just because you have feelings for her. Respect her, and whatever happens next will be alright.” Zoë sighed contemplatively. “But if I were Chloe,” she continued, tracing her thumb along Beca’s knuckles, “I’d definitely give you a shot.”

Beca smiled to herself, a renewed blush creeping up her cheekbones. “Thank you so much for this,” she began. “For all of this.”

Zoë took her hand back, waving it in the air dismissively. “You don’t have to thank me. All in a seasoned lesbian’s day’s work.” She tapped the sides of her coffee cup with her fingers. “I had someone sit me down and help me confront my own sexuality when I was younger. I’m just returning the favor. Now stop being a stupid asshole, and talk to Chloe.” She nudged Beca playfully.

Beca laughed, reaching into the pocket of her borrowed sweatpants to fish out her phone. “Ok, ok, I’ll text her.” She pulled up Chloe’s contact information and started a new message. “Hey Chlo,” she typed. “I know it’s been a while since we talked. I miss you. Can we catch up?”

“That sounds good,” Zoë said, reading the text over Beca’s shoulder.

Beca’s thumb hovered over the send button, hesitating when she felt her phone vibrate. It was a text from Emily in the Bellas’ old group chat.

“Hi, ladies! The current Bellas are performing at the Georgia Aquarium next weekend, and we wanted our alums to join! Who’s in?”

Chloe’s response was almost instantaneous. “I’ll see you pitches there ;)”

“I guess you’re going to Atlanta,” Zoë mused.

Beca blinked.

anonymous asked:

Can we expect the fic tonight ???

It’s possible that I get it done tonight (Saturday).

If I had buckled down I might have been able to get it done yesterday but Ao3 was having some issues so I wouldn’t have been able to post it there anyways.

It’s never too early to think of a title and you all gave some really great suggestions.


Sebastian Stan In Every Decade
For @steverogersnotebook + the anon


🎃 🎃  (Even more) Quintessential  Halloween movies and chill? Because once again, it’s just about that time of the year. Les get spooky. 🎃 🎃 


Happy Birthday Pidge Gunderson / Katie Holt ( April 3rd )

“I bet my bottom dollar you’re gonna be part of something that makes the whole universe sit up and take notice.” 

happy birthday (part 1) to my favorite character ever, you deserve the world baby

Ravenclaw Headcanon

Ravenclaws are perfectionists and when it comes to learning something new they can become frustrated. Especially if it’s a new skill they want to be good at. They are frustrated that their work isn’t their best, but haven’t learnt the skill enough to know how to fix it.

This can cause some Ravenclaws to give up and try something new. So they become notorious for hobby hopping. Other Ravenclaws become extremely driven to get better and put all their effort into trying to make their best work, but they still find flaws in their work.

(Technically it’s the 15th since it’s 1:38am)

So there’s one bit near the end of the Genocide Run that hit me pretty hard, personally. And as with most things that hit me very hard emotionally, it was a random almost throwaway line that wasn’t written to be focused on that much. But whether it intentionally held the meaning I took from it or not, it doesn’t change the fact that I DID take meaning from it.

When Flowey is monologuing near the very very end of the game and explaining what he went through, he talks about how he lacks the ability to feel anything for the people around him, and how desperately, frantically, he wishes he did. He talks about how, at first, he tried to help people. He talks about how at first it seemed to help, but every time it was time to let go, to move on, he got scared and couldn’t do it. He’d panic and reset instead. And how then he’d be right back where he started. And he would try helping everyone again.

But it became hollow. Everyone always said the exact same things, and did the exact same things. And nothing changed. And nothing new ever happened.

And eventually, just out of sheer desperation for SOMETHING new, he decided to kill everyone. And how that was at first a relief, but even that grew stale and empty as he did it over and over again. Until he was left with nothing, and there was nothing to care about, either for better or worse, but he couldn’t let go either. So he was trapped in this world where nothing ever changed, and he couldn’t make himself leave.

It’s a sad story, but it’s also a bit of a gut punch because of its implications.

Maybe in time, the person playing the game, the actual human being behind the keyboard, not the pixel character they control, would find themselves in the exact same situation. Eventually, things in a game stop changing. Characters always say the same things, do the same things. And maybe in time, as boredom takes over, the player would also try a genocide game just for SOMETHING new. But eventually even that will become empty and lead to nowhere after you do it enough.

I can’t really say if that’s true or not. I can’t say it’s false either.

But It’s 2 years now. And a lot of us are still here. And more importantly a lot of us still care. Quite deeply in fact.

And maybe we won’t care forever, maybe the same thing will happen, or more likely, we’d be the ones able to let go and move on to other things and let go. Maybe there’s no escaping that.

But it’s been 2 years, and at least for now, we’re still here.

There is also the possibility I’ve considered, that since the insane success of the game was never expected or anticipated at all, that the level of love it caused in gamers was a complete and utter surprise, maybe their ability to never fall into that cycle of apathy and just how long they can keep going, caring as hard as ever, will also be a complete surprise that was never foreseen.

Or even more simply, maybe Flowey just needed to be shown, as with so many things, he was wrong about that too.

Who knows. Honestly I can’t say how things will look in time. It could either way.

But at least by year 2 we were still here.