it's been one of those nights man



The legend of Captain Flint died in that moment. It disappeared without a trace, leaving only the memory to forever be carried and retold by the very man that had set him free. He was smothered, suffocated beneath the press of palms and wandering fingers, the touch of those sun swept lips against his own. They belonged to his first love. His truest love. The man that had brought forth a warm light to a troubled young officer, strong in his resolve but empty in his heart, only for it to be snatched away by lies and betrayal.

Yet here it was, shining again, and James wept beneath the weight of it. He wept from the years that black shroud had expended to fill the empty recesses of where his heart once laid. Miranda had kept the darkness at bay, and after her death John Silver had begun to force it back. And now… Now it seemed to burn away beneath the strength of that blinding light. Those rays of sunshine that warmed his skin and seemed to almost burst forth from the man himself.

For that was who Thomas had always been. He was the sun to his darkened night; one that had been so carefully watched over by the silver glow of the moon in its absence. Now that moon had been eclipsed, by its own hand, and so he would go forward into that blinding light and never face the shadows of night again.

I wrote a creepypasta and it's baaaaad

The girl was running as quickly as she could, bobbing and weaving between the trees, coarse and rough denizens of the forest, bearing witness to her flight.

Her black hair and grey hoodie gave her some cover in the night - but it could see her.

As she slowed and stopped to catch her breath, she felt a moment of relief- heard nothing in the silence of the night.

But it was silent because the owls were gone.

The crickets weren’t chirping.

And the cicadas had been eaten, ripped from their shells and devoured. They had long since stopped buzzing. 

But she didn’t realize until she felt the arm, and she faced her creation, a tall man with a contorted face. She shuddered at its unseeing eyes, at those proud star arms that lookedlike contorted ears.

Dogi looked upon her monstrous creation and screamed as the Markistar lashed out.

Its squat mouth sat ajar, and it only said one thing in the midst of the carnage.

“spongebob pls”

- @markihost


IEGREHENORNN “spongebob pls” im laughing so much

i love this holy shit

Pocahontas Starter Meme
  • "You think they'll give us much trouble?"
  • "She/he/ect goes wherever the wind takes her/him/ect."
  • "Don't you think we're getting a little old for these games?"
  • "What were you doing up there?"
  • "Quit playing around."
  • "Oh, he's so handsome."
  • "Seeing you gives me great joy."
  • "For many nights now, I've been having this strange dream."
  • "The water's always changing, always flowing. But people, I guess, can't live like that."
  • "Is all my dreaming at an end?"
  • "Listen wth your heart, you will understand."
  • "Don't think I don't know what those backstabbers say about me."
  • "I've never been a popular man/woman/ect."
  • "Hundreds of dangers await and I don't plan to miss one."
  • "No, wait! Please! Don't run off. It's all right."
  • "You have the most unusual name."
  • "How can there be so much that you don't know?"
  • "You think the only people who are people, are the people who look and think like you."
  • "If you walk the footsteps of a stranger, you'll learn things you never knew, you never knew."
  • "You shouldn't be out here alone."
  • "You're hiding something."
  • "I've never really belonged anywhere."
  • "[Name], the tree is talking to me."
  • "He has a good soul. And he's handsome, too."
  • "I haven't had this much excitement in 200 years."
  • "They want to kill us! All of us!"
  • "I lied for you once, don't ask me to do it again."
  • "Once two sides want to fight, nothing can stop them."
  • "This place gives me the creeps."
  • "If you go out there, you'll be turning your back on your own people."
  • "Sometimes the right path is not the easiest one."
  • "It would've been better if we never met, none of this would've happened."
  • "I'd rather die tomorrow than live a hundred years without knowing you."
  • "If I never held you, I would never have a clue how at last I'd find in you, the missing part of me."
  • "In this world so full of fear, full of rage and lies, I can see the truth so clear in your eyes."
  • "I'm so grateful to you."
  • "I thought our love would be so beautiful."
  • "I never knew that fear and hate could be so strong."
  • "The only thing they feel at all is greed."
  • "If you kill him/her/them, you'll have to kill me, too."
  • "We/I/They never should've listened to you!"
  • "No matter what happens, I'll always be with you. Forever."
Seth MacFarlane’s “The Orville” to debut on FOX this Fall

by Daryle Lockhart

Seth MacFarlane, one of the only people in the business how can say they have a hit animated series (”Family Guy”) and an award-winning science program (”Cosmos”) on their production resume’, is also a huge science fiction fan and has long  been vocal about his passion for Star Trek.  

His new show is an opportunity to combine his two passions -  science fiction and comedy. It’s a sci-fi comedy called “The ORVILLE” and it has been scheduled for Thursday nights at 9pm this fall on Fox. The first trailer was been revealed at the TV Network’s upfront presentation. 

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Peter- Less So

Request-  Hey love! I was wondering if you could write an imagine about Peter helping a newly turned werewolf during their first fully moon but the pack were slightly hesitant about letting you alone with him because you were like the mom of the pack but eventually after the fool moon, they see how Peter actually loves her, thankyouuu <3

“Are you ready, Y/n?” Scott asked gently, causing you to glance behind you.
You pulled your fingers away from the lakehouse blinds and looked away from the moon that was rising higher in the sky. You sighed as you glanced over at the young Alpha and from the look on his face, you knew you didn’t have much time before he had to chain you up.
“Yeah,” you told him.
“I’m really sorry,” he admitted sheepishly. “You know we wouldn’t be doing this if we didn’t have to…”
“I’ve seen enough werewolves on a full moon,” you reminded him. “I understand. I’m just glad I have someone here to do this for me. I don’t know what I’d do without you, Scott.”
You reached up to ruffle his hair and he smiled. “Who do you want to stay down there with you?”
You frowned. “No one.”
“What?” Stiles asked from the couch. “Y/n, you’ve gotta be kidding me.”
“You should have someone there,” Lydia agreed. “I’ll do it.”
“What if I break out and hurt one of you?” you asked.
“Then I’ll stay,” Scott said. “I can heal.”
“I can do that too,” Malia interjected. “So can Kira.”
The Kitsune nodded from where she sat on the couch, but you could tell she was a little uneasy at the thought of being left alone in a basement with you.
You frowned and looked over at Scott and his pack, who were staring at you expectantly. It wasn’t that long ago that the Alpha had been forced to bite you, after Kate had nearly killed you in Mexico. You had known the Hales for a long time and you had grown up with Peter, and known Derek ever since he was born. Your families had always been close, and you were training to be an emissary right around the time of the fire.
Your whole family had been ripped away from you in a blaze of flame and smoke, and after Peter slipped into a coma, the only people you had were Derek and Laura. Peter could act like a cocky asshole sometimes, but you always managed to put him in his place. Talia always liked to say that you two argued like an old married couple, which always made you and Peter roll your eyes at each other. Despite how annoying he could be sometimes, he had always been your best friend, and you were devastated when he was trapped in that coma. The whole thing had seemed like a nightmare.
When the local animals started acting strange and dead bodies began to appear in Beacon Hills, that nightmare seemed to start all over again. There was another alpha running around, killing people and destroying the town you grew up in. You remembered your first face to face encounter with it, when you had gone to visit Peter one night. The nurse taking care of him had promptly barred you from entering the long-term care facility and you had stomped back to your car in anger, only to whirl around when you heard something approaching in the dark.
It was a huge, hulking shape that vaguely resembled a large wolf, and after taking one glance at the red eyes, you knew it was the alpha. You had mountain ash and wolfsbane in your car, but you were too stunned to try and unlock the door as the thing came closer. Your back hit the metal and you realized the thing was boxing you in, just as one of its huge paws slammed into the metal beside your head. You were sure it was going to kill you, but the only thing it did was sit there and stare at you for what felt like hours.
It finally pulled its paw away and disappeared off into the night. You quickly jumped into your car and peeled out of the parking lot, all while dialing the one person you knew would pick up. You hated to bring him back to Beacon Hills, to dredge up all those horrible memories that you had wanted to protect him from, but you knew you didn’t have a choice.
“Derek,” you had breathed. “We’ve got a problem over here.”
Imagine your surprise when you realized that the Alpha was Peter, the man who used to be your best friend, and the one you had been in a coma for the past six years. Surprise was quickly followed by horror when you realized that Peter had been the one to kill Laura. His own niece. Of course you mourned him, but you were relieved when he died. The only thing you were mourning was the person he used to be.
When he came back to life and showed up at your apartment, it had taken you three seconds to throw up a line of mountain ash and order him to stay away from you. He had seemed hurt, but not surprised, and you had watched as he slinked away down the hall, ashamed.
It had taken months for him to convince you to finally let him in, just so you could talk. He told you everything, how he had used Lydia to bring himself back to life, how much he regretted the fact that he had caused your distrust.
“What do you want from me”?” you had demanded one day. “Because I’m not going to help you kill people, or any of the crazy shit that you’re planning. Whatever you want-”
“Y/n,” he had said softly. “I just want my best friend back.”
With everything you and Peter had been through together, you never thought he would be leaning over you as you bled out, begging Scott to save your life. After Kate confronted you at Tezcatlipoca and nearly slashed you open, Peter had heard you scream. He ran for you and thankfully Liam and the others had managed to coax Scott back into a human before you died.
Scott bit you right there, on the ground in front of the ancient temple, and before you knew it, you had claws, fangs, and super strength. Now you were standing in the living room of Lydia’s lakehouse, trying to keep it together as the Pack argued over who would stay in the basement with you.
“Guys-” you said, trying to get a word in.
“I think I should do it,” Scott said. “I’m the Alpha.”
“So?” Malia demanded. “I’m just as strong.”
“I’ve known her longer,” Lydia pointed out. “It should be someone she’s close with.”
“Well, if you want someone who’s close to her,” Stiles began. “Then it’s Pe-”
The doorbell rang suddenly, causing everyone to look toward the door.
“Lydia,” Scott said with a frown. “Were you expecting someone?”
The Banshee shot him a sharp look. “Why would I invite someone over on Y/n’s first full moon?”
Scott shrugged. “Should we answer it?”
“Uh, I think we should pass on that one,” Stiles told him.
Normally you would have agreed with Stiles, but thanks to your new super senses, you could hear the person outside. You knew who it was, and you knew that even if you couldn’t hear his familiar heartbeat, you would recognize him by his dramatic entrance.
“No,” you said with a groan. “Answer it.”
“What?” Stiles asked, looking at you with raised eyebrows.
You sighed. “Trust me, just answer it.”
Scott walked over and opened the door to reveal none other than Peter himself. He was standing there with his hands in his pockets, and when he saw the look on everyone’s faces, he grinned.
“How kind of you all to call me,” he remarked.
“We didn’t,” Scott said, glaring at him.
“Oh, come on,” Peter said with a role of his eyes. “My best friend is about to turn into a homicidal monster. No one thought to call me?”
“We can handle it,” Malia growled. “How’d you find us here?”
“Lucky guess,” Peter answered.
“Oh, shut up,” you snapped.
He stood in the doorway for a few seconds and his expression softened as he glanced at you. “Aren’t you going to invite me in?”
“You’re not a fucking vampire,” you said with a roll of your eyes.
Peter smirked and stepped inside. “Someone’s grumpy.”
“I would be too if I had to put up with you,” Stiles muttered.
“I didn’t really want to admit this,” Peter announced. “But the hostility in this room is hurting my feelings.”
“Jesus Christ,” you swore, pinching the bridge of your nose. “Scott, get the chains before I kill him myself.”
Peter shot you a shocked glance, feigning hurt as you glared at him. You shook your head in exasperation as you walked over to Lydia’s basement door, and headed down into the dark with Scott behind you.

“I can’t believe you didn’t call me,” Peter remarked as he sat on the couch in Lydia’s
“You’ve never been the best at calming me down,” you told him spitefully, closing your eyes and trying to resist the urge to lunge at him.
Peter chuckled softly. “More like egging you on…but something like this…you know I’m going to make sure you don’t do anything stupid, right?”
“I thought that was my job,” you remarked.
Peter smiled fondly. “It used to be.”
“Yeah, before you snapped,” you retorted.
Peter’s face fell and he swallowed thickly. “My family died.”
“So did mine,” you growled. “You didn’t see me going on a psychotic killing spree.”
“I was sick,” Peter insisted, jumping up from the couch. “You don’t know what that was like, to be trapped in a coma for six years, to be able to hear everything, to be able to see everything. I heard your voice when you would visit. You’d tell me about your day. You had no idea how badly I wanted to answer. It drove me insane.”
“You could have come to me when you woke up,” you snarled. “You didn’t have to hurt all those people.”
“I did that for revenge!” he insisted. “Not just for me, but for you and Derek!”
“You killed Laura,” you stated.
Peter shook his head. “I had no idea what I was doing-”
“You wanted power!” you snarled. “You wanted to be an alpha. You wanted to be stronger than everyone else.”
“That isn’t true!” he cried.
“It was all you ever wanted!” you yelled.
“That isn’t true!” he repeated, walking closer to you.
“No, don’t,” you growled. “Get away from me. I’ll hurt you, Peter.”
Peter laughed. “Y/n, I know you’d never hurt m-”
He cut himself off with a yelp as you swiped out at him, barely missing his chest. Peter cleared his throat and took a deep breath. “Okay. Just calm down. I know you’re trying to fight this and to your credit, it would be a lot easier if you saw that there was nothing to be upset about.”
“I can’t trust you,” you insisted, shaking your head.
“Why?” he asked. “Because I went off the edge once? Just once?”
“I’ve seen it more than once,” you told him. “Ever since we were kids.”
“Maybe I got a little carried away,” he agreed. “But it was never toward anyone who
didn’t deserve it.”
“What about Bobby Shackelford?” you demanded, thinking back to your high school years. “You beat the hell out of him, Peter. All he did was ask me out.”
Peter thought back to his basketball teammate from all those years ago. He hadn’t planned on hitting him, but when Peter slammed him against the lockers and demanded that he stop talking about you, he didn’t. That was all Peter needed. He liked to think of himself a reasonable guy, but he did only ask once.
“You don’t want to know the things he was saying about you in that locker room,” Peter informed you. “You were my best friend, Y/n. I was never going to let anyone talk about you like that.”
You paused, and you felt the bloodlust flooding through you begin to dissipate. “What? You never told me that.”
“It was years ago,” he said haughtily. “You wouldn’t have believed me anyway.”
“Yeah, because you were insanely overprotective,” you reminded him. “Because you never thought anyone was good enough for me.”
“No,” he agreed. “They weren’t…because they weren’t me.”
You froze and blinked at Peter. “What?”
“You were wrong before,” Peter said softly, stepping closer to you. “I didn’t always want power. The only thing I’ve always wanted is you.”
Peter leaned forward and grabbed you by the wrist, tugging you closer to him. His lips captured yours so suddenly that your eyes went wide, and you stood there in shock for a few seconds. Peter Hale had been your best friend since you were children, but now it appeared that he had always wanted to be more. Your claws began to shrink back into your skin, quickly replaced by your regular nails. You teeth lost their sharpness and returned to normal, and as Peter pressed you against the wall, you couldn’t find it in you to push him away. You didn’t exactly want to either.
When he finally pulled away from you, leaving you breathless, you asked “Why did it take you so long to do that?”
Peter frowned. “Because you were angry with me.”
“I’m still angry,” you informed him. “But…less so.”
Peter smirked. “Am I that good of a kisser?”
You rolled your eyes. “I wouldn’t go that far.”
“But you are in control now,” he pointed out. “Because of me.”
You huffed. “Hale, are you trying to piss me off again?”
Peter smiled. “Always.”
“Just let me out,” you ordered.
“Fine,” Peter relented. “Just promise you won’t try and kill me again?”
You shot him a look. “Don’t push it.”

When the door to Lydia’s basement opened, everyone shot to their feet. Scott and Stiles jumped from the couch, Lydia scrambled up from the armchair, and Kira and Malia bolted up from the floor.
“What are you doing?” Stiles demanded, looking at Peter.
He shrugged. “She’s fine. What? You think I’d unchain her and let her terrorize the town?”
“Yes,” everyone answered at once.
“Guys,” you told them. “I’m fine. Really.”
Scott frowned. “Are you sure, Y/n?”
“Positive,” you confirmed. “I’d rather just go home if that’s okay with you guys.”
“And, uh, you don’t have any homicidal urges do you?” Stiles asked. “Like for instance, you don’t wanna rip my face off, right?”
“I want to do that every time I see you,” Lydia muttered.
Stiles’ mouth fell open as he looked over his shoulder at her. “Wow, ok-”
“I’m fine,” you promised, cutting Stiles off. “I’ll see you guys later, okay? Call me if you need anything.”
The pack watched, wide-eyes as Peter followed you out of the house with a smile on his face. The door shut behind you, and Stiles blinked. “Okay, am I missing something here? What happened in that basement?”
“Maybe she found her anchor,” Kira said with a fond smile.
Stiles pursed his lips and sighed, looking back at the rest of the pack. “You know, I have a feeling I don’t wanna know.”

Just thinking today..

Sadly, I feel like so many girls get wrapped up in the fantasy of being married to a military man, yet don’t have the first clue what it takes to actually be with one. You see, for us real wives & gf’s this is not just a bragging right, a status update, or a chance to wear cute little shirts that say “I’m married to a marine,soldier, etc”. Our loved one’s don’t walk around topless with their duty belt on, like some scene out of a movie you’ve seen a hundred times. The truth is, being a military gf is rarely glamorous. It’s extremely lonely nights, followed by long days. It’s having to be mom and dad (for those who have kids), even when you know some times you just can’t fill those shoes. It’s trying to convince your family, friends, and yourself, that you are still in a relationship even though you have been to every family function and holiday get-together alone for the past 3 years. Being a military gf/wife is understanding that even when your man is home, his mind may not be. His body may be tired and knowing he truly wants to see his family and spend time with them, but he desperately needs sleep, because tomorrow starts another 8, 12 or for some of us 16 hour shift. Most importantly, its being able to tell when he walks through the door, that last night was just one of those nights. He doesn’t mean to be moody or distant, but he just hasn’t been able to suppress those images or memories of the things he cleared from just hours before. It is not easy. It takes understanding, compassion and an unwavering love for the man behind the uniform. You see we didn’t marry a military man. We fell in love with a man who happens to be one.
If you get in to this life just for the uniform you will never make it. There is a reason there are more ex-wives/gf of military man than there are current wives/gf’s. But for those of us who are here to stay, we would not trade this life for anything in the world. We will take the bad with good everyday, because we know being a military man isn’t just our significant others job, it’s their calling.


Originally posted by tobodlygo

Prompt: “I’m too sober for this.”

Pairing: Kirk x reader (friendship)

Warnings: Unbeta’d, as the others have been 

Words: 536

A/N: Man, I miss this game. Tags, as for all drabbles, under the cut!

Being friends with James Kirk had its perks. You always had a great wingman if you needed it, and a fake date if you didn’t. He’d make sure you were fed on nights you’d forget, and he knew a million different ways to have fun, even if most of those ways weren’t entirely legal. However, James Tiberius Kirk was also eccentric in ways you never saw coming. Like right now.

“Come on, Y/N! We can squeeze one more player in here!” The mess of limbs in front of you suggested otherwise.

“What the hell is this?” You asked, having been paged by Jim that you were needed.

“It’s a classic Earth game! You’ve got to try it.”

“It’s twisted, is what it is.” You replied as he had the computer spin the arrow, telling him and, God that was Bones hidden in there with Chekov, to move their right hands to blue circles that were projected onto the floor.

“No, actually, it’s called Twister.” Bright blue eyes met yours and you shook your head.

“Unbelievable. Just how did you get this many people to join you in this?” You put your hands on your hips, not budging from the doorway of the lounge. A few others were scattered around, watching the debacle in front of them.

“He promised me a very large bottle of whiskey at the end of this, which is the only reason I’m still in this damned game.” You could hear Bones mumble, but his head was buried somewhere in the tangle of bodies on the playing field.

“You’re playing next game!” Kirk exclaimed, ignoring your question as the next move was called. You watched as he struggled to contort himself correctly, and the tense mass in front of you finally collapsed.

“Captain, sir, you are crushing me!” You heard Chekov manage to gasp out some words from underneath Jim, and you hurried over to help them all untangle. Once they were all standing, you watched Bones shake his head and stalk off, muttering something about being too old for games like that.

“Now we’ve got an open spot. You’ve got to play.” The grin on Kirk’s face was one he knew you couldn’t resist, and you rolled your eyes, standing on one side of the mat. Uhura stood to play after seeing you take your place, and once the four of you had all stretched on your sides of the playing field, Kirk instructed the spinner to start.

“I’m too sober for this.” You grumbled as you placed your right foot on a red circle.

“That’s the spirit!” Kirk winked at you, and you let out a quick laugh. After a few more moves, you couldn’t help but giggle as Chekov tried to maneuver his arm under Jim to get to the right spot, accidentally brushing some more intimate parts of Kirk’s anatomy. The yelp he’d let out had you laughing so hard, you caused the whole pile of players to fall. As the four of you laughed, the rest of the room joined in, and you supposed this made it one million and one ways to have fun.

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zauns-insane-secret  asked:

Jack would wake up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat as he once more had a nightmare. Slowly in his unhappy state, he would make his way to Lilith' room. Once there he would lay next to her on her bed, gently taking her arms and wrapping them around him before falling back asleep.

Feeling change of weight on her bed she opened her eyes, seeing her arms drapped around the boy. was one of those nights wasnt it ?  Giving soft sight assassin leaned down to gently peck top of his forehead . ITs been two months since she found the boy and began training him One thing she had to admit boy had natural talent and learned quickly. 

Silently humming a tune she gently stroke his now much more trimmed hair in  her usual soft voice. 

“Are you, are you
Coming to the tree
Where they strung up a man they say murdered three?
Strange things did happen here
No stranger would it seem
If we met up at midnight in the hanging tree. ..”

Title: Strike while the iron is hot

Summary: Izaya receives an unexpected visitor.

Pairing: One-sided Shizaya

A/N: Spoilers for Izaya and the Sunset, the Izaya novel. New spoilers.

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anonymous asked:

For the art request, how about some of that Polyguard (those three are so darn cute together!)?

Anonymous said to livelivefastfree:  Can we get something with Julie, Chuck and Mike please? I don’t see much of that around, and that’s sad because those three are adorable.

Well y’all know I can’t resist Mucklie or poly or bodyguard(s)/CEO shenanigans so MORE POLYGUARDS IT IS!  OvO

secret behind-the-employer handholding technique???!


You know what I want from this??? that thing that happens in sports anime where somebody gets tackled and they end up all face to face sprawled on each other and blushing and stuff

but with gunshots and drama and three people involved

…and post-drama “we’re all alive oh my god” hugs

Gas station hoe

Went to the gas station the other night and seem the lady checking out my bulge. Went back today and talked to her for a min and got to feel her ass. Got back in the car and pulled up to the side of the building, is in of those small ones that only deals through a window noone can go in so its very small, by the door and she says i never been with a white man and i was trying to get a good look at u through ur shorts the other night. I was like well if u wanna see it ill pull it out, so i pulled it out she bit her lip and i asked if i could see something. She said i cant just pull my pants down so she stepped half way in the door and pulled her shirt up….
Deff gotta go back to that gas station!


“It is a great gulf, and if once a man were within the gates, he would not reach the floor until a whole year had reached its end, but cruel blast upon blast would carry him this way and that. And this marvel is awful even to the deathless gods…”

White shadows float before my eyes. Brief flashes, red and black. The chill of heavy, still air. My heart races, twinges. Groaning, like colossal pieces of marble grinding against one another. The land is ice cold. I hear ghostly echoes reverberating from a ceiling higher than heaven, darker than the bowels of hell. I can feel my body, frozen, my heart pumping thick blood through my veins. I cannot move. 

A soft, prickling, grating feeling is now apparent. My eyes roll around their sockets, behind wooden eyelids. My dreams are of vultures, their bodies rustling, muffled, as though this were someone else’s dream, a dream upon which I am intruding. 

There is a sound in nothingness. I am sure of that. Silence becomes the sound. It weaves around, between, back and forth, like the tides under the goddess moon. 

I am becoming aware. 

I crawl to the surface. The well from which I rise, deep beneath the waking world, is, I believe, leading me to another plane, another reality, between neither sleep nor wake. But where is it? 

Where am I?

I tense my muscles. They seem to have been atrophied, blanketed by some soft, fine paralysis. I feel a light, tickling, nauseating sensation. My body surely is screaming for sensation. How is it possible that I could be awake, in mind, but not so in body? Could this be…death? Am I…truly?

With all my strength, I push upwards against the blanket, push against the weight, which must surely be death incarnate, making some final, fabled attempt to ward it off, to bring me back to the world, to life. 

My fingernails have been scrabbling at the stone beneath my body. Slowly, with aching, jellied movements, I raise my arms. They quiver under the strain of my lifeforce. 

My breathing becomes rapid. I struggle. My eyelids are covered in mortar. Using all of my strength, I try to lift them. They shudder. I lift, refusing to relinquish even for one second. Slowly. Slowly. They rise. 

I gasp. 

My eyes are open! I have done it, I am sure of it! My eyes are open! And yet, and yet, I see…nothing. The same, rich, eternal, black. I blink. Don’t I? How to tell, whether one is sleeping or awake, dead or living, in this reality or the next, if one cannot even discern what it means to possess the most basic human faculty, sight?

Yet I can feel the stone. The stone beneath my body, my naked form, smooth and covered with the lightest layer of soot. My hand sweeps against it. It is cold, cold as the layer of ice which creeps over landform at the advent of winter. My body, readily coming to, in this new, unknowable world, recoils from it. My flesh tightens against it. Cool air, air carrying the odor of iron, settles around me. 

I begin to sit up. I am weak, infant-like, as though I were experiencing my own, new, birth. But what child knows first of the black, and the cold? What sort of inhuman womb do I reside in? This place does not nurture life. 

I speak. Warm syllables billow up from my throat. At the border between body and air, the words freeze, leaving reluctantly. My voice travels off, into the night, searching. I hear it bounce from the walls, the ceiling. It returns to me, feeble, empty-handed. 

My hands traverse the land. The stone is the length of my body. At the edges it drops off into cool abyss. My fingers contemplate the edge. What could lie below? 

If I step off, will I plunge forever?

If I remain here, will I wait forever?

Even if I were to fall, do the laws of the world still apply? Will I meet death at the bottom? Or have I already met death? 

Still, frozen wind lays her hand on me. Encouraging me to go, or warning me from remaining.

I kneel. 

My breath whispers. 

I lean. 

My heart shudders. 

I fall. 

My soul screams.

My mind, quick as an arrow, realizes in less than one second of free fall, that this was an error: I am to fall forever. 

My body lands, heavy, against stone, more stone. My breath surges out from my lungs. My mind reels. Utter confusion assails me. I am lost, sorely lost, in this universe of stone and darkness. I am forever doomed to scour the land, to find no vegetation, no water, no sunlight. This is my prison. Alone. 

I return to my original stone, my personal bed. The beginning of my hell. I find it is still there. It still exists without me. I am refreshed. At the very least, I can become familiar with this land. 

My hands turn out, looking searching through the darkness. What else exists, without me? What else have I been damned with? What else will I find here?

I walk, my feet stepping, tenderly, cautiously, across the earth. My hands outstretched, eyes open, as wide as they will allow, as though I could catch a single ray of light. This, I know, is mere habit. The gods are absolute. They would not allow any light to soothe me, to abate my nerves, in this existence. My punishment is to be whole and unconditional.

I reach a wall. My toe notified me. As though there was not enough, more stone met my person. But my hands cannot feel it. Reaching down, I find the edge: another table, another bed of rock, just like mine. 

Just like mine. 

My hands fly back to my body. I tremble. The table is a doppleganger. It exists here, in the deepest canyon of mystic, the same as my own does, the same as I do. But what exists on this table?

After some amount of time, if time truly does exist, I decide to discover. The air rattles in my lungs. My hands reach out into the total and complete unknown. They travel (do they?) through blank space, every second reaching nothing, and I wonder, wonder, if they will ever-

Cold. Dry. Softer, much softer, than stone. My fingertips tremble, pressed against this substance, waiting for an answer. Sweat rolls from my head, blinding me. I pray to the gods. I beg the muses. I gasp for mercy. I cry for forgiveness. 

My fingers travel up, up, along the icy surface. My very flesh crawls. And then- AND THEN- 

I know where I am. 

I trace the outline, through the unseeable darkness, through the very basin of acrid blackness, the outline, of a face. A human face.

A moan rumbles into existence, a sickly, fearful mewling, which seems to be emitting from the very seam of the atmosphere. 

The noise builds, strengthens, moaning, whimpering, louder, building, louder, shouting, builds, louder, screams, screaming screaming screaming and I know it is coming from me because I know where I am and I know where I will remain for all eternity I know 

I stumble back, a blaze rising in my body, my breath choked in my throat, my heart on the verge of bursting, falling, leaning into another table, my hands outstretched, and I fall onto that table and my face inches from that condemned face, invisible in the black, and I shriek and fall away, tripping over a third, landing on a fourth, flesh against icy flesh, cringing away, running now, SCREAMING, meeting another, another, another, corpses, a domain of corpses without end, the rotting damned of the Underworld, the persecutors of Tartarus, the place only the poet Virgil has seen, the unknowable, the eternal night, the 

Land of the Dead. 


The guards unbolted the door at dawn. The mortuary was silent; each body lined up on the table and floors where they had been laid. All except one. A table towards the back was vacated, its occupant missing. They soon uncovered the lost man: slumped in a corner, his hands clutching his heart, his eyes wide and his face contorted in horror. The expression reminded the shocked guards of the faces they had seen in their books at school, depicting those poor, tortured souls, doomed to the Underworld, Tartarus. 

amariemelody​ said: *whispers* Dearest friend. May I request a sleepy toddler Dami snuggling into his daddy Jason’s back? And daddy Jason is just snoring away a storm, used to his baby boy climbing into bed with him? OMG, would you so indulge me, friend? @__@


i figure jay’s so used to it, it doesn’t freak him out (bc UNKNOWN PERSON TOUCHING HIM MUST GRAB KNIFE OR GUN) so he just wakes up so he can smother damian with kisses and cuddles

It was one of those nights where Jason felt the exhaustion in his bones. He was only in his twenties, and he felt like a seventy-year-old man with the aches and pains in his body. He thought the pit would have fixed him enough to make him good as new, but that was just wishful thinking.

The pain was bearable most days, but his nightly activity - which had been limited to two or three nights a week, now that he was devoting his life to being a single dad for Damian - took its toll on his body. When he peeled his armor off and fell into bed, he found himself in a deep sleep that nothing would wake him up from.

Nothing, except the familiar kneading that belonged to his toddler.

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anonymous asked:

Imagine Claire wakes up from a nightmare (maybe the car crash her parents died in?) and Jamie has to comfort her. I love your stories!

Dreams are funny things. Sewn from the cloth of past and future, they unravel their spools in the dead of night, slow-fingered but sure in the weaving of their tale. Tomorrow’s seeds plant themselves in the slumbering mind while yesterday’s weeds are plucked from its soil. What is memory and what is imagination when bygones sprout to life beneath the mists of dawn? When ghosts and birds sing the same tune?

And though these dreams can haunt you beyond the darkness – a voice in your head, a hand on your back – even then they are not complete. Fragmented images, maybe; a collage of fact and fiction. All vaguely familiar – but only fleetingly whole come the rising of the sun.

“What did ye see, Sassenach?” Jamie asked into the nape of my neck, arms engulfing me. His body absorbed the force of my trembling, and the two of us lay bound and moved by the small ripples of my fear. I sighed into his touch, warmth suffusing the icy fingers still pawing at my bedclothes. I swallowed, trying to gather my wits, but the visions of my dreamscape assailed me even now as they had in sleep: a man dancing at the foot of my bed, low-voiced and shadowed, keeping vigil over my sleeping form. And my parents just down the hall, alive but blissfully unknowing.

Taking a deep breath, I offered only a nondescript, “I – I’m not sure exactly.” I could only think to take stock of my limbs – each one was present, each one unmarred – to free my mind from the haze that fogged it.

It had been a night terror, certainly. Peppered with distorted figures and too-sharp angles, it belonged in a museum among Picasso’s geometric faces and Schiele’s contorted limbs. I could make no more sense of its shape or palette – entirely monochromatic, save the odd burst of saturated blue, red, or green – than I could the grip it had on me. For beyond the immediate strangeness of it all, lurked a nagging sense of déjà vu…Hadn’t I lived this scene already? Heard that conversation, known those faces? And the man, the mysterious sentinel – had I not met him once before?

A ghràidh,” Jamie said, sensing my anxiety. “Nothing will harm ye now; I’m here.” An affectionate hand rubbed my back. “When I was a just boy, my Da told me how ye might drive away the brollachan that torment ye. ‘To kill the brollachan, bhalaich,’ he said, ‘ye must bore them half to death.’”

The brollachan. The shapeless ghosts of the night – and our steadfast bedmates. For years, they had stolen into our bedroom and shared our pillows, working a darker magic than even the blackest November midnight. They left no evidence of their visits but for the sweat-soaked shirts and purple half-moons beneath my husband’s eyes.

“And how does one bore the brollachan?” I asked, undeniably curious.

“Why, by repeatin’ everything they told ye, of course! Over and over again until you canna even bear the telling of it yerself.”

“Oh. Naturally.” I replied, amused by the matter-of-factness with which my husband treated such age-old superstition. But his voice was serious, and his arms tightened around me.

I dinna ken if ye’ve met him, Sassenach, but do ye recall me speaking of a man called Arthur Gibbs?”

I did as a matter of fact. A miniscule stable-hand with a hunchback, what Arthur Gibbs lacked in stature, he more than made up for in conversation. Endless, bumbling and – for reasons unknown to me – passionate conversation on the subject of dung beetles.

I nodded.

“Weel, everyone knows that if ye say but a word to auld Artie, ye willna make it home to yer supper – or to yer breakfast, for that matter. He’ll talk yer ear off until ye either collapse w’ hunger or die of boredom.” He shifted me so that I faced him, pressed nose to nose. “And it’s much the same w’ the brollachan.”

“Hmmm,” I said, planting a light kiss on his jaw. The distress borne from my sleeping imagination had yielded to the immediacy of my reality – but still it hovered at the edges of consciousness, a ripped and oozing scab.

“It was…odd,” I said, struggling for an explanation. Where to even begin?             

“A dream, obviously. One minute I was standing on the stairwell, and the next I was flying backwards, lying in my childhood bedroom. A man was there.”

Jamie’s brows drew together, concerned.

“But it was a memory, too. I’m sure of it. Something I’d forgotten, but…”

Understanding softened the hardened planes of my husband’s face.

“Aye, Sassenach. Ye told me of such things before, when I’d wake from my own nightmares and feel as though I’d lived them once already. ‘Suppressed memories’, ye called them.”

I nodded absently, my mind still half-removed. 

An inherent defense mechanism, the human brain will shy away from the unbearable, pulverizing faces and words and sounds until not a trace of them remained. But now, teeming with the resurrected spirits of my past, I began to navigate the labyrinth of my denial. Key in hand, I gave it a name and I set it free.

You need not fear me. We were friends once.

With a sudden burst of electricity, lightning coursed through my veins. The missing pieces of the puzzle that had scattered upon my waking fell rapidly into place. A scene, previously broken, began to take shape, surging forward with an astounding clarity.

“Tell me about the dream as best ye can, mo chridhe,” Jamie encouraged. “And I’ll help ye scare the brollachan away.” We both sat up then, legs crossed and hands intertwined, as we faced each other and my demons together.

“Well,” I started, sinking into the rhythm of my tale. “I was four years old and listening from the stairwell…”

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10 January 2016 – The Worst Next Day

I was sound asleep in a hotel room in Toronto when my phone lit up around 2 am with texts every second. The messages were more or less the same thing – ‘David Bowie has died’, something I had been dreading for a year. Strangely, I said to myself, ‘Oh God’ and fell back to sleep (Holy Holy had played an exhausting show the night before). My roommate, saxophonist Terry Edwards, woke me up gently around 7 am whispering, “Tony, something terrible has happened.” A few minutes later Woody Woodmansey came into the room and tried to console me. My band, Holy Holy, hadn’t any idea David was terminally ill. I had signed an NDA a year earlier (which was unnecessary) vowing I wouldn’t reveal any details about the recording of Blackstar. The shock was obviously greater to them. Just two days earlier they were overjoyed to hear that the album was released – as I was. (We had been paying tribute to David since 2015, playing The Man Who Sold The World in its entirety along with other great Bowie songs, specifically ones that Woody and I had a part in making. I showed David a video of us playing The Width Of A Circle live at the Shepherds Bush Empire and he tacitly approved.)

Looking back a year I realize I was so fortunate I was with my band when the news broke. If I was on my own I would have been totally devastated, totally. We were asked to do a second show that evening to accommodate those who couldn’t get in the night before. We had to discuss whether it was better to end the tour then and there or play this one final show. Considering our feelings and love for The Great Man, and the beautiful audience in Toronto who came for the first ecstatic night, there was only one right answer. We played, but it was a very different show. Woody and I addressed the audience before we played and said we felt it was appropriate to celebrate our dear friend’s life together (rather than scatter to the four winds in our own private grief – that would come later, of course). Of course some of the audience couldn’t hold back the tears, but we the band and the audience were all there for each other.

So, grief is a very real thing. There is no control over it. I have been on an emotional roller coaster all year and I know most of you have been too. I talk to David in my head all the time. It’s still very hard to come to terms with. In the last year of his life he was so vibrant and creative. Making Blackstar wasn’t a haphazard affair, we knew every minute we were making something akin to constructing a Gothic cathedral. This was a very special album from day one. David was so happy and energetic making The Next Day but on Blackstar he was so much stronger, more positive and bursting with creativity. Our team, the band, the technicians and everyone who visited us in the studio kept shooting glances at each other – is this really happening? When the singles Blackstar and Lazarus were released, and then the album, we were right there cheering along with the public! At last we could talk about it (albeit very little). A worldwide celebration exploded with the news of new David Bowie music.

I will end here. I will try to accept that David has passed. I’ve been through every stage of grief in the past 365 days, including anger. Of course, he never left us in spirit. We are fortunate to have lived in the same time as him. We’ve seen him, we’ve heard him sing and speak, we’ve hugged him, we’ve worshipped him and we are constantly reminded of him daily. He was a legend in his lifetime and he will be a legend until the end of time. But he was my friend too. I miss him dearly.

—  Tony Visconti’s Facebook page, David Bowie’s longtime producer and collaborator
DAY 2188

Jalsa, Mumbai             Apr 12/13,  2014             Sat/Sun  3 : 11 am

There is a desperate need now to be in possession of a ‘fevicolled’ manager or assistant or business manager along with me during the entire day of my day ..

The schedules, the meetings and the events and appearances that one encounters in the course of a day week month year, now catch up and with diminishing geometric progression, take away that, which I would have in normal circumstances been capable of handling ..

Not perhaps anymore though .. I need a human ready reckoner .. !!

The early morning shoot for the promos of the fresh season of KBC were accomplished, and rushed then to the PVR to attend the cleaned up version of 'Bombay to Goa’ by dear friend Anwar Ali, brother of Mehmood bhai one of the greatest we have had .. to quickly battle the traffic after to greet another dear friend and now family, Prem Chopra who releases his biography … that over a meet with people from distant worlds, admirers that have long been desiring a personal interaction .. switched soon thereafter to a make up room for the look test for Balki’s film, which I start shooting within a week .. followed by the most exciting moment of the day - 'Bhoothnath Returns’ at the private theatre at home with the kids and family .. watching their expressions and their squeals of laughter and their moments of silent emotion ..

But within all this .. a moment with music .. the piano in the office .. and I wonder why I just felt that some notes needed to be pressed and heard. The heart spoke, the body felt, the breath perfumed in its exhaling and the mind set itself with a whiff of achievement ..

Trouble with achievement is the moment that it is spoken of you lose it .. so best to avoid its mention ..

Sundays have been structured to give me an off day by the schedule team, but alas tomorrow there will be an all night shoot for the serial and permissions being the problem, we shall have to comply ..

One of the great qualities of success is the power and the strength to hold back … hold back the feel of the pounding heart that wishes to share but dare not .. it is self disciplined demeanour … one that identifies the man from a man ..

I am man enough to admit it … and acknowledge it … so help me God ..

Love forever .. ( yes … its one of those days .. !!)

Amitabh Bachchan



I recognized the tune from a really old toy my grandmother had that I grew up playing, like a music box. A few google searches later and I discovered the songs title and lyrics. Here they are below: 

My grandfather’s clock was too large for the shelf,
So it stood ninety years on the floor;
It was taller by half than the old man himself,
Though it weighed not a pennyweight more.
It was bought on the morn of the day that he was born,
And was always his treasure and pride;
But it stopp’d short — never to go again —
When the old man died.

In watching its pendulum swing to and fro,
Many hours had he spent while a boy;
And in childhood and manhood the clock seemed to know
And to share both his grief and his joy.
For it struck twenty-four when he entered at the door,
With a blooming and beautiful bride;
But it stopped short — never to go again —
When the old man died.

Ninety years without slumbering
(tick, tick, tick, tick),His life’s seconds numbering,
(tick, tick, tick, tick),It stopp’d short — never to go again —When the old man died.

My grandfather said that of those he could hire,
Not a servant so faithful he found;
For it wasted no time, and had but one desire —
At the close of each week to be wound.
And it kept in its place — not a frown upon its face,
And its hands never hung by its side.
But it stopp’d short — never to go again —
When the old man died.

It rang an alarm in the dead of the night —
An alarm that for years had been dumb;
And we knew that his spirit was pluming for flight —
That his hour of departure had come.
Still the clock kept the time, with a soft and muffled chime,
As we silently stood by his side;
But it stopp’d short — never to go again —
When the old man died.

Ninety years without slumbering
(tick, tick, tick, tick),His life’s seconds numbering,
(tick, tick, tick, tick),It stopp’d short — never to go again —When the old man died.

((My Grandfathers Clock by Henry Clay Work, 1876))

Now I dont know what this really has to do with anything, But seeing as everything in the first game would point towards the secret plotline,  this song has to be important.