look i now do stuff like this

youtube

170727 Vlive with Super junior ~ (Must watch ^^)

When the vlive started SD was like ooh start and henry was like “start? has is started? omg are we starting :^) start? no it hasnt started"  

When donghae came to the vlive (in the background)
Henry: Oh mark! Hey mark
DH: hey
Henry: Come here mark
DH: I’m not mark (all in english) 

Donghae kept repeating "is this live?” then Henry said “hyung we looks like idiots”

Henry made donghae salute and then leeteuk came and sat on donghae, they’re such a mess
Henry: Go now
Donghae: Ah why?
Henry: You’re still awkward, ur only just back from army
DH: (ignores) Hello everyone, I discharged 170714

Henry imitating Donghae’s expression, Donghae teasing them and Hyukjae popping up to annoy them
Hyukjae: byong byong byong
Henry: Dont do stuff like this now hyung, you’re old now!
Hyukjae (ignores): I’m Eunhyuk 

Henry was shouting for the manager like “this is our broadcast! manager!” but eunhyuk and donghae just started singing growing pains & stole the camera

Eunnhyuk and donghae: being annoying
Leeteuk: Come quickly!
Hyukjae, suddenly polite and listening to leader: Yes!
Shindong : Donghyuk ! who is Donghyuk?
Henry : Donghyuk ! Donghyuk ! Aaah Donghae & Eunhyuk

Eunhaeteuk finally left then Shindong said "they’re my members, but sometimes it’s hard”

cr:emzhaek, shinshin_wings, teukables,eunhae_sjbabies.

2

our cheeks are fluffy bc they are full of love 🤧

so like… I was tagged by @amaxing-daes a while ago for this and I think @killeryixing like 84 years ago but I never did it rip. I’m posting this now bc the more I look at that pic of my the more I hate it BUT I also keep getting distracted by look at yixing what an angel

tagging: @1adyluck @yixingsecondalbum @2baekxing @faeryixing @bbhsthighs @squynhty @yixingminseokjongdae @kokobaeq @callmeminseok @my-bobohu @exheaux

So my new house has a cockroach problem.

Actually, it’s not really a problem, not like the buckets of water seeping into my west wall every time it rains is a problem, but that makes me sick to my stomach every time I think about it so I’m going to not think about it very hard right now.

And to be quite fair, it’s really a very reasonable number of cockroaches for a house from the 60s (about one a week), but they’re those big inch-and-a-half wood roaches that just look like the stuff of nightmares, and I do not enjoy seeing them in my house and especially not in the dark when I’m not ready for them.

Which–is all to say that just now I was in the bathroom and saw a shadow at the edge of my vision the same instant something tickled my foot, so I shrieked and kicked real hard and knocked over a huge thing of soap and my entire Jenga tower of toilet paper and artistically arranged bath salts, only to discover it had in fact been my work badge providing the shadow and my own dragging of a strip of toilet paper over my foot to provide the tickle.

It was a real eventful six seconds, I tell you what.

Writers Wanted

We’re looking for adventurers, observers, and storytellers who want to bring knowledge to the masses. The Royal Courier strives to be everywhere to cover the important events and happenings. We need people like you to help accomplish that mission.

Contact Risri Elthron at The Royal Courier offices today to discuss how you can be a part of the news cycle!

(Okay so now the OOC stuff-

I’m looking for freelance writers. People who want to share a story here or there from events around the server. You witnessed the guard do something cool, write it up from your perspective and submit it to us. You attended an event that you thought was cool, write it up and submit it.

Your character would not write it? But you would? That’s okay make up a pseudonym reporter name and send it in anyway.

You don’t have to join the Royal Courier guild, I just want and need your help to cover interesting things happening out there in Azeroth.

Contact me in game or over tumblr @risrielthron​ to chat about how and what kind of stories you might write.

Note: We still reserve the right to edit and determine what will and will not be published to the paper.

View our guidelines here: http://the-royal-courier.tumblr.com/post/162598737780/courier-reporter-guidelines-ooc and reach out to Risri if you would like to help! )

i was feeling SO DISCOURAGED about this house stuff yesterday, but now we have TWO really, really promising leads in great areas and I am feeling way better. This area is getting expensive, fast, so we have to lock it down soon. But the places we can afford in the area we like tend to need a lot of TLC (that we cant afford right out the gate) and the places we dig in general are like 20-30 minutes from a grocery store. 

It will happen, we will find a place, I will get my food garden and dog and down the line a shed. When I was little and we would go to tractor supply loved to look at the sheds and stuff, I thought it would be the coolest little hideaway. I still do. Apparently thats a thing now though, a She-Shed. Cringe factor aside it’s good to know I’m not alone. The Ultimate Dream is to have a few chickens for eggs in the back too (the garden comes first of course). My goal is to never have to mow and also be able to feed myself and my people when shit hits the fan, climate wise or like, society wise. Which ever comes first. A soft-prepper, if you will :p The farm I work with has an abundance of fowl so it would be very easy to get chicks once I have a set up and can get tips from folks because like. Everyone in this action group has a chicken or five. 

Today is my Friday! And I have really bad Friday Brain!!!! I cleaned up the room and we both cleared out the fridge so tonight I have no chores. Well, I have background chores but I can change over laundry during face masks and hair toning and wine drinking :) 

do you think there’s posters of the most popular players in hq!!’s Volleyball Monthly? because the thought of certain characters having posters of other characters is super funny to me. Ushiwaka has an Oikawa poster. Oikawa has an Ushiwaka poster, but with a mustache and other silly stuff drawn on him with sharpie. Bokuto has posters of all the other top 5 aces so he is motivated to practice to become better than them. Yaku gave Kuroo a poster of Daishou for his birthday specifically to piss him off. Hinata has every Bokuto poster to ever be released, hung up next to his posters of the Little Giant. things like that

RFA TRIES PROMPT 1 AND GETS CARRIED AWAY

Anonymous submitted:

1. a Bachelor type show where Hope is the Bachelor and Lightning is a contestant because Serah/Fang convinced her to do it and the rest is history! 

RFA: I’m going to be a bit creative with this and try the Chinese If You Are the One format where there are 1 bachelor and 24 female contestants. The bachelor introduces himself in sections as the women deliberate over him and choose to keep their lights on (maintain interest) or turn them off (reject him). He gets to choose from the women who remain after the final round.

>Lightning: be bored.

“Why did you reject contestant number 3, Miss Farron?” The host asks, all smiles on his face and gesturing with his mic, no doubt hoping for another controversial comment from her.

“He won’t last two seconds against a proto behemoth,” she responds, rolling her eyes at the camera because she knows everyone is watching at home, “I’d sooner not have that kind of burden in my life.”

A few gasps in the crowd. The man looks just the right amount of wounded. She shifts her weight impatiently at her stand, glimpsing a sign in the crowd - does it say something along the lines of GO LIGHTNING FARRON, THE ICE QUEEN OF MY HEART? She won’t be surprised. Her crudeness has made her surprisingly popular, and Serah gushes constantly about the amount of fanmail she receives (and reads) on the behalf of her sister. Lightning doesn’t have the time for that kind of thing. Lightning would sooner not be here at all. Lightning’s only here because she lost a bet to Fang and she was getting a bit tired of Snow and Serah pestering her about her single status like five times every day.

I’m pretty sure the kind of man I’m interested in won’t be into these kinds of shows anyway, she thinks to herself, sullen, as the rejected man bows to the women and walks off the stage. I know I hate these kinds of things. It’s people like Serah and Vanille who worship them like religion.

“Let’s welcome our next contestant! Mr. Estheim, director of Academy Research, team alpha. 24. Born and raised in Palumpolum.”

Oh no, another boring one, she groans internally, balancing her weight awkwardly in her flowing rose dress. She hates wearing dresses for these shows, too. If only -

“Mr. Estheim!”

“Wait, is this the Hope Estheim?”

“Wasn’t he rumored to be in a relationship with the daughter of the Primarch?”

Lightning perks up ever so slightly. So he’s famous.

“Thank you for the introduction, Mr. Meng,” the man responds politely after the crowd has died down - his voice is strangely familiar somehow - and when he performs the customary preliminary scan of all the female contestants, Lightning notices that his gaze lingers on her for a second more than everyone else. Long enough for me to notice, but not anyone else. And he knows I only noticed because I’ve been trained in the Corps with minute reactions and quick assessments.

What has been his eye color? Green? Serah used to tease her about green-eyed boys when they were younger. Not that she hasn’t passed up plenty of them on this show.

“Let’s see the first segment,” the host announces, and Hope Estheim settles comfortably into his chair, seemingly completely unfazed by the stage. A few contestants have already declared for him.

The figure of the silver-haired man glides onto the screen, surrounded by a line of scientists and marching machines.

“I am a scientist. I have been fascinated by machinery and the inner workings of the world since a very young age, and I find it awarding to improve people’s lives through inventing new tools, structures, and ways of thinking. I was behind the overhaul of Eden’s transport system and also oversaw the construction of the new Academy headquarters.”

Respectable, Lightning muses, remembering the terrible traffic jams that used to plague Eden. But still boring.

“Lately I’ve been working on a prototype for a brand new Guardian Corps gunblade.” All eyes zoom to her, including the stage lights; she blinks, turns to Hope Estheim - and sees him sitting as calmly as ever in his seat, although there’s a mischievous glint in his eyes. “Automatic target selection, the highest grades of precision and accuracy, as well as being foolproof - it will allow someone as inexperienced as me to match a veteran like Contestant Farron.”

“Well, Mr. Estheim,” the host takes his cue on a silver platter and turns to Estheim, “This is certainly a new development. Will we get to see you make a case for your claim, here on our show?”

She smashes her light. Estheim’s smug confidence is ticking her off. Who is he to challenge her? Plenty of men have thought themselves capable of taking her down a notch, put her into her place. This of all places is not where she’ll back down. “No one can beat me,” she hisses, “scientific cheats or no.”

“I do not speak of beat,” Estheim corrects, and suddenly his face is so soft that it catches her off guard, “I speak of match. But yes, sir, I would like to demonstrate the effectiveness of my invention. I have brought my prototype with me to the show today.”

The host smiles. “And we have brought you your gunblade, Miss Farron, just for this special occasion.”

She grits her teeth as she walks forward. Estheim doesn’t look like a marksman - he’s too lean, too polished, too pretty along the edges. She wonders if he’s ever seen real battle, felt anyone’s soul depart from under his hands. He’s always had it easy. One real obstacle and he will crumble. She raises her arm to aim, almost tempted to shoot the pillar next to him so as to get that stupid smile off of his face.

He isn’t smiling. His face is somber instead as he raises an opposing arm, a strength in his eyes that makes her blink in surprise. He knows, she realizes, and he’s practiced with this, too. “I lost my mother when I was fourteen,” he says evenly, to her and to her alone. “I’ve been looking for things worth protecting.”

She shoots to get the significance of his words out of her head. He shoots right after her.

The crowd is silent. She doesn’t look up. For the first time in her life, she’s afraid of having been defeated.

“Two 9.9s,” the host announces, and there’s something resembling victory in the elderly man’s eyes. Ah, yes, the ratings. “A perfect match.”

She can feel Estheim’s gaze on her. She’s failed her shot - she usually scores above a 10.5 - and she knows he’s capable of more than that, a 11 if he wanted. Perhaps a 11 even if he’s shooting with a normal gunblade. But he’s pulled back, chosen to match her instead. Why?

“I quit this show,” she blurts out, sheathing her blade and walking off the stage. In the shock that follows, no one chases after her.

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

“You were too harsh on Hope Estheim,” Serah admonishes, shoving a plate of fruit into her face. “It’s dead obvious that he’s head over heels over you.”

“Well, I don’t care,” she spits, crossing her arms together behind her back. It’s not completely true. She’d caught a glimpse of his face as she walked off and there had been a deep sadness there, a loneliness that hurt her where no previous male contestant had hurt her before. “He can sleep with his pile of guns and machines.”

The doorbell rings.

“You don’t have to - ah.” Serah’s annoyed voice suddenly stops as she answers the door. “Come in, please.”

She closes her eyes and hopes she can just take a quick nap.

“Miss Farron?” That voice speaks up behind her and she jumps, unsheathing the gunblade in under a second and pointing the tip of it at his nose. Hope Estheim is standing in front of her in the flesh, sweat on his brow and dark circles under his eyes, and he’s holding a huge package. “I, uh, wanted to apologize. I’m so sorry for what I did to you the other day. But I wanted you to have this.”

She stares at him as if he’s crazy. “What?” Serah has apparently already fled the scene. Damn those meddling younger sisters. “Why - ”

“A gunblade,” he says quietly, still catching his breath. “Fresh from the lab. But it’s not a prototype anymore. I’ve added a few more things, to take into consideration how your movements change when you’re anxious. But I just want you to have it. Because I don’t want you to get hurt anymore protecting children from monsters.”

She studies him. This time, he looks almost like a child, simply wanting to please. There’s an idealism in his eyes that she wants to punch out even as she wants to hold it in her raw palms. “That injury never happened.”

Frustration enters his face now exactly where she thought it would. “But - ”

“Thank you,” she says, and extends a hand out. He stares at her for a long time before taking it. “And my apologies to you, too. Let’s go find a shooting range.”

Les Chevaliers…

there he is, that space defending dude keith

Some Gochi for my followers, love you guys! Thanks for being there, enjoying my fanart and my blog :)

2

Now I’m just messing around ‘cause I like throwing  these sparkles and screen tones everywhere—-like I know what I’m doing ahahaha I really don’t.
           
Any who! Some Vanilla Promptis for your dashes today! 
I drew the smooching girls, so this time I drew the smooching boys, but in their high school days! Their kisses would totally be cute and vanilla until they get the hang of getting too know each other huehuehue~
          E
njoy the cute squishing faces if these two losers lol 

9

kacchako comic thingy i was working on for a few weeks but was too lazy to finish *blushes* but I finally found the motivation! There’s a couple more pages but the whole tumblr limit thing made me have to chose the more important ones so thats why its a little choppy. D:  However, maybe in the future i’ll format it correctly and post the whole thing. 

anonymous asked:

What do you think about an “i picked up your bag at the airport but i can’t find your number so i’m about to embark on the largest scavenger hunt of all time by using your strange belongings to track you down” au with charmer or nurseydex or zimbits or something??

Well, I don’t know if you expected three mini fics, and I didn’t fully follow the prompt, but here we are.

1. Charmer

Look, Chris knew it was dumb. He knew that everyone on earth had a plain black suitcase, he knew he should have double-checked the luggage tag, he knew it was important to be sure abut these things. But knowing what he should have done couldn’t help him when he finally got his suitcase home and opened it up to find mostly yoga pants and sundresses. 

Fuck.

He zipped the bag back up and flipped open the luggage tag. It was cute, pink with some metallic lettering saying “I’m outta here!” in a handwritten font. Chris blamed jetlag and the redeye flight for making him miss the fact that it wasn’t his Sharks tag. He blamed the bag’s owner for not filling out any of the information on the tag.

Dammit.

Well, sorry random girl, he thought. He opened the suitcase up again to try to see if he could find anything that would give him a clue as to who the suitcase owner was. He moved a makeup bag aside, and hit gold immediately. Well, Samwell red. A Women’s Volleyball tshirt– mystery suitcase girl had to be on the volleyball team.

“Hey Ransom!” he yelled. “You’re facebook friends with all the volleyball team right?”

“He’s friends with everyone on campus!” Holster yelled back.

“Ask their captain if anyone flew in from the Bay Area and lost their luggage!”

_X_

“Is Justin here? My captain said he’s got my suitcase.” Chris overheard her at the door. He grabbed the bag and started hauling it downstairs. As he set it down at the bottom and caught sight of the girl in the doorway, he froze. She was pretty. Like, really pretty. 

“Um, hi,” he said.

“So you’re Justin? Oh my god, I’m so glad it wasn’t some total rando who got my bag.” 

“I’m actually Chris, Justin was just the one who was friends with your captain. Um, I’m sorry, but I kind of had to look through your stuff? Your luggage tag wasn’t filled out.” The girl laughed.

“Yours wasn’t either! Me and my teammates were like one minute away from googling the record holder for most San Jose Sharks merch, but it totally makes sense that you’re on the hockey team.” 

“Since we both forgot to write our numbers down, maybe we should do that now?” Chris suggested. The girl grinned, grabbed his phone out of his hand, and opened up a new contact. She punched in a number, and when she handed it back he saw a text of several random emojis addressed to the new contact of “Caitlin Farmer” with a girl farmer emoji and a volleyball emoji.

“Text me sometime, and maybe we can get dinner?” she said, and she was gone with her suitcase. 

Chris collapsed on the couch, a dreamy look in his eyes.

“Chowder? You get your suitcase back?” Bitty called out from the kitchen.

“Yeah! and I think I’m in love now!”

2. Nurseydex

“Cheryl, I’m telling you, I had a ton of inspiration on the plane and I wrote some great stuff for act three. No. No, it wasn’t just me thinking it’s great because I popped some melatonin and got really sleepy. It’s like, legit. Yeah, I’ll send it over as soon as I get home and–”

Derek slammed into something. If he’d been holding his phone in his hand (bluetooth is a blessing when you drop stuff easily) it would have launched across the airport. As it was, his post-flight latte was soaking through the nice white shirt of the handsome stranger in front of him.

“Shit,” the stranger said, looking down to survey the damage.

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t have trusted myself to make a phone call and not be clumsy after such a long flight,” Derek said. He set his briefcase down and pulled a wad of napkins out of the outside pocket. The guy took a deep breath, going from murderous to calm in a few seconds. 

“I wasn’t looking where I was going either, it’s not your fault,” the guy said, setting down his own briefcase and accepting the napkins. He blotted at his shirt.

“Let me pay for the dry cleaning. Or a replacement,” Derek offered. The man shook his head.

“It’s fine, it probably needed to go to the cleaners anyways.” He checked his watch. “If I run, I can probably get a new one before my meeting.” He wadded the napkins into one big ball, picked up his briefcase, and walked towards the exit with a terse nod. Derek, feeling terrible about the whole thing, picked up his own briefcase and walked to baggage claim.

By the time he was reunited with his home office, a cozy bookshelf-lined room in his brownstone, he had almost forgotten about the coffee incident. He was focused on sending the manuscript to Cheryl. Unfortunately, that was going to be difficult, considering he pulled a PC laptop out of the bag instead of his Mac.

Derek stared at the computer for a full minute. He almost couldn’t believe that this was happening to him. Hesitantly, he opened the laptop. On one side of the keyboard there was a weird thing that a few seconds of phone googling told him was a fingerprint scanner. Shit. He hit the space bar experimentally. Something flashed on the screen, and then was replaced with just a plain black screen with red text: ACCESS DENIED

Derek swore. He started to look through the rest of what was in the briefcase, but was disappointed to find it empty except for the laptop’s charger, three packs of gum, and receipts from a lobster shack in Maine. Shit. Nothing in here would tell him anything about the redhead he’d launched a latte at. 

He closed the laptop dejectedly, ignored his editor’s text messages, and went into the kitchen to make himself lunch and feel sorry for himself. This was the universe punishing him for covering a cute guy with coffee. If he had just kept his focus and waited to call his editor later, he could have sent the draft along and saved it and not be desperately trying to remember his inspiration.

Just as the self-pity spiral was really taking off, the doorbell rang. Derek sighed, put down his tea, and walked to the door. When he opened it, it wasn’t Girl Scouts or Jehovah’s Witnesses, but the guy from the airport.

“Cancel whatever you’re doing today, I need to teach you the most basic principles of digital security,” the guy said, pushing past Derek into the dining room. He shoved a stack of papers onto a chair and pulled Derek’s laptop out.

“I’m Will, by the way, I make software that’s hopefully a step ahead of viruses.”

“Is the draft still there?”

“The draft of what?” The guy looked confused.

“My third act breakthrough. I’m a novelist, I need to get it to my editor and I couldn’t remember if I saved it,” Derek explained.

“You know you can set up an auto-save every five minutes or so, right?” Will asked.

“This might be surprising to you, but I’ve never had a cute guy storm into my house and yell at me about computers before.” Will looked up from Derek’s computer, blushing.

“I haven’t had a cute guy dump a gallon of coffee all over me and steal my laptop before, either, but here we are.”

“Maybe you can yell about computers over lunch with me?”

3. Zimbits

Button downs. Tank tops. Slacks. Shorts. Three rolling pins. A pie tin. A half-emptied multipack of sharpies.

No lucky puck. No clothes in his size. No jerseys.

Jack sighed. It would just be too much to ask for anything to go well today. He picked up his phone to call someone with the Falconers, in the hope that they could talk to the airline and sort all this out. At the same time, his phone lit up with Tater’s face.

“Zimmboni! Look on twitter. Small internet baker has your suitcase!” Tater hung up before he could reply, so Jack just opened twitter instead. 

omgcheckplease: A bunch of pucks, some dirty jerseys, and a history textbook. Either I’m back in college or this isn’t my suitcase.

omgcheckplease: .@falcsofficial please tell your #1 player to DM me and come get his shit

omgcheckplease: and @falcsofficial tell him to give me my shit back. my hockey days are in the past, I need rolling pins, not a mouthguard

Jack smiled and laughed in the way a person laughs when they’re alone, just blowing more air than normal out of his nose. He looked through the twitter for a minute– the guy, Eric Bittle, was a Providence-based chef, whose latest tweets were mostly greetings to the various cities he’d been visiting on tour. Jack clicked the media tab on the account, and looked through the pictures. Bittle was cute. He wrote a reply.

zimmboni: .@omgcheckplease how do I send u a DM

omgcheckplease: .@zimmboni you don’t deserve to be verified, oh my god #verifybittle2k17

A few seconds later another notification popped up, and he tapped it to be brought to a DM window.

omgcheckplease: hey! sorry about the mixup. I can only imagine how confused you were to find all my book tour stuff.

zimmboni: Probably as confused as you were finding hockey stuff?

omgcheckplease: I wasn’t joking in my tweets, I did play hockey before I got into the whole cookbook/food show thing

zimmboni: Exactly, I did a book tour last year in the off-season :-)

omgcheckplease: oh my gosh, isn’t it the best and the worst?

zimmboni: I know. It’s great to meet people and talk about your work, but it’s exhausting.

omgcheckplease: that’s why I’m so excited to be back in Providence! at least until the next cookbook.

zimmboni: Well we should probably meet up to trade suitcases. Want to meet somewhere for dinner?

omgcheckplease: don’t trust me to learn where your house is?

zimmboni: I mean, if dinner goes well enough…

omgcheckplease: OH. okay, then, Mr. Zimmermann, it’s a date.

Jack smiled to himself, and got ready for his date.

when you fuck up his lovely face..


anonymous asked:

I know you probably have a lot of requests with the gods and monsters - but would you ever do an Ares based one?

Zeus’s mistress Io remains in her form of a cow, guarded by Hera’s servant Argus, and Hera is content.

She will remain in that form until her death. Hera hopes that lying with her husband was worth the sacrifice.

Zeus won’t speak to her, unwilling to admit the cow is actually his lover and ensure her death, and equally unwilling to stand against his wife to try and rescue her. Hera has him just where she wants him, and it can’t last, it never does, but she intends to enjoy it while it does.  

Then Artemis comes to her, gold and fierce. She never flinches away from her queen, staring her in the face as if she is nothing more than another of her huntresses. If Hera did not hate her for being her husband’s daughter, she thinks she might actually like the girl. “Io has a destiny,” she says, “you must let her go.”

“I don’t care for her destiny,” Hera says idly, “especially when that destiny involves getting with my husband’s child.”

“She is to give birth to a new line of kings,” Artemis hisses, “to be the wife of a death god, to be mother goddess of a whole new people. She is not meant for us. You must let her go.”

“I am Hera,” she says, “I am Queen. I must do nothing.”

Artemis growls, hand twitching for her bow, but Hera only raises an eyebrow. Let the girl try. There are few that can stand against her, and the huntress is not among them. Artemis lets out a low breath and says, “Do it, my queen, and I will grant you what it is you most desire.”

“Some peace and quiet?” Hera asks.

“A child,” she answers. “Let Io go, let her fulfill her destiny as a goddess of the Black Land of the Nile. If you do that, I, the patron goddess of childbirth, will personally use every ounce of power I possess to ensure you conceive and deliver a child of Zeus.”

Hera’s eyes narrow, “Neither my power nor his has ever been able to achieve this. What makes you think you are any different?”

“We all have our domains,” she says, “just as you cannot command the sea, just as your husband has no power over the art of weaving, so can I ensure a healthy child when you could not.”

She taps her fingers against her throne. They call her a mother goddess, though she’s raised no children. Hephaestus may be her precious son, but he doesn’t know that it was not her that threw him from Olympus. Very few people know that. And she didn’t raise him regardless, that honor belongs to Hecate.

A child, of her and Zeus. A child she can raise.

“I accept,” she announces. “You may take her, and Zeus may fulfill her destiny.” She leans forward, brings the oppressive weight of her power to the fore and lowers the pressure of the air until Artemis is left shivering. “Know this, Patron Goddess of Childbirth. If Io births a son of Zeus before I do, I will travel to the Black Land of the Nile and slay her and her children with my own two hands. Not even Hades will be able to put her back together again.”

“Yes, my Queen,” Artemis says, unable to keep her teeth from chattering.

~

Hera is true to her word. She allows Hermes to think he’s tricked Argus and to steal Io away. She pretends to be outraged at the audacity, at the pure white cow traveling to the sands of the Nile.

Artemis is true to her word. Hera lies with Zeus, like she has so many times before, and a child grows inside of her. One day she stands before her husband and brings his hand to the swell of her stomach, “This is your child.”

Something almost like happiness steals across his face. She forgets, sometimes, that they hate each other only as much as they love each other. After so much time together, many would think it would be one or the other. They simply opted for both.

Artemis is there during the birth, her easy confidence more comforting then Hera will ever admit. Delivering Hephaestus was easy compared to this. She screams and cries and Hestia’s hands on her shoulders are all that keeps her from collapsing and begging someone to just cut the child from her. She doesn’t think she can die in childbirth, not with Artemis between her legs. She wishes she’d thought to ask before this began.

But she does not die. Her son is born, just as healthy and beautiful as Hephaestus was. “Well done,” Artemis says softly, placing the squirming child into her arms.

Zeus touches her hair and kisses his son’s forehead. “We shall call him Ares.”

“Very well,” she agrees, so tired her eyes struggle to stay open.

She hands her son to Hestia, and finally allows sleep to take her.

~

Ares grows into the spitting image of his father. Same copper-red skin, same silky black hair. Her husband keeps it short, but her son lets his grow long. The minutes Hera spends every morning brushing his hair are among her favorite.

He has an eager smile and a soft heart. Hera doesn’t know where he got it, since it’s certainly not from her or Zeus. Demeter tolerates his bumbling after her, though any time Kore attempts to meet her cousin Demeter’s temper frays. Poseidon allows Ares to explore the depths of the sea with a minor sea god acting as his guide. Apollo plays for him, and Artemis teaches him to hunt. Zeus’s lightning doesn’t burn his son, and when storms rage he takes Ares to the top of Olympus and teaches him to throw lightning bolts.

Hera selfishly does not allow Ares to go to the underworld. She knows he would be safe there, that Hades would protect him as he protected Hephaestus, but that’s precisely why she won’t allow it. They got to raise one of her sons already. It pains her to share Ares with them now.

He is happy, and kind, kinder than anyone would expect a child of her womb to be.

“He must choose a domain,” Zeus rumbles, watching Ares shoot arrows with perfect accuracy.

“He is a child still,” Hera says, “let him remain so for a little longer.”

“If he does not choose a domain,” Zeus warns, “one will choose him. We are gods. We must be gods of something.”

She flickers her gaze at him, and he scoots an inch away from her. “He is a child, and for now a child he will remain. We are not Demeter. We shall not thrust the responsibilities and power of a deity on a child who is not prepared for it.”

Zeus disapproves, but says nothing more.

Her son will be the god of something patient, something soft. The god of lost children, of heartbroken suitors, of forgiveness. Something where his gentle heart will aid him instead of hurt him.

She traded her happiness for power. She doesn’t regret it. But Ares doesn’t need to do the same – she’s the most powerful goddess that still walks the earth. He’s her son, and he’ll want for nothing she can provide.

~

Ares is almost fully grown, long hair reaching his hips even braided, and the strength of his limbs is such that he can keep up with Artemis on her most vigorous of hunts, that he can throw his father’s lightning bolts halfway across the world.

He’s been to every place, and met every god of the earth, sea, and sky.

Except for one.

 It’s not hard to find the volcano. He’s strong enough and old enough to take care of himself, and his mother does not worry when he says he’s going to the earth. But he did not tell her where, precisely, on the earth he was going.

He has strong legs.  It’s easy for him to climb to the top of the volcano. He’s almost made it there when something grabs his shoulders, stilling him. He turns, and stares into a single large eye. “What are you doing?” the cyclopes growls.

“I’m looking for Hephaestus,” he says, “He’s my brother.”

“My master has many brothers,” the cyclopes says.

Ares shakes his head. He is not the product of his father’s fling with a sprite or mortal. “I am Ares, son of Zeus and Hera. Just as Hephaestus is. I came here to meet my brother.” The cyclopes hesitates. He asks, “What’s your name?”

“Brontes,” he answers, surprised.

“Brontes,” he smiles, “I just want to meet him. I’ve never met him before. I won’t linger.”

There’s a moment where Brontes looks conflicted, and Ares tries to look as unassuming as possible. “Fine,” he huffs, “but don’t get angry at me if he dips you in lava.”

“That would be fun,” he says brightly. Lightning doesn’t burn him. So far the only thing hot enough to cause him pain is Hestia’s fire. He probably could go swimming in lava.

Brontes looks at him as if he’s slightly unhinged. He just keeps smiling.

~

There are more cyclopes underneath, and bright glittering machines that Ares can’t even begin to wrap his mind around. “Who are you?” someone demands, and a hand grabs his wrist and yanks him away from a boiling vat of lava that he’d been peering into.

He looks up at a man taller and broader than he is. He has skin almost as dark as the obsidian of his volcano, but lighter eyes. They are the color of dark amber, of molasses. “We have the same eyes,” he says happily.

Hephaestus releases him instantly. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“Why not?” he asks, “The mortals talk of you. No one else will. But you’re my brother, right?”

“You shouldn’t be here,” he repeats, “Does Zeus know where you are?”

He shrugs, taking a step closer. His brother takes a step back. He wonders if he’ll have to treat Hephaestus like a spooked horse.  “Father doesn’t keep track of where I am. Mom know I’m on earth.” Hephaestus flinches, small enough that he almost doesn’t notice. “We have her eyes, you know.”

He can’t stop starring at Hephaestus’s skin. They do not work like mortals – Demeter, Hestia, Zeus, and Hera are all different shades despite coming from the same parents. But – Ares looks so much like his father. Kore looks like Demeter. Yet Hephaestus looks nothing like their father. He can see their mother in him, in the eyes and shape of his jaw, even in how angry he is right now. He looks like Hera does when she’s about to lose her temper, lips pressed into a thin line and the careful stillness of his shoulders.

“I wasn’t trying to make you angry,” he says plaintively, “I only wanted to say hello.”

Unlike their mother, Hephaestus lets out a deep breath and seemingly all of his anger along with it. “I’ve been avoiding you.”

“Why? You don’t even know me.”

Hephaestus kicks him lightly in the shin, the pretty gold and copper of his metal legs catching his eye. “You have legs, and I do not. Hera did not throw you from Mount Olympus as she threw me.”

Ares looks hard at his brother’s face. The stories say his mother threw her son away for being ugly, but he seems just as handsome as any other god Ares has seen. His features are strong and chiseled, and he supposes that could have looked unattractive on a baby, but –

– his mother loves him. Hera loves him with a ferocity only matched by her temper, she loves him at his most mischievous and irritable, loves him when a stray thunderbolt sets Demeter’s hair on end, loves him when even Artemis and Apollo have grown tired of his antics, loves him when Athena can tolerate no more of his questions. He is her son, and so her love comes without conditions.

He doesn’t think Hera would have loved his brother any less just because of how he looked.

He also knows that if he tries to say that, it’s likely Hephaestus will push him into a lava pit.

“Well, that’s not my fault,” he says, “If you don’t want us to be brothers, can’t we at least be friends?”

Hephaestus’s face softens. He looks like their mother then too.  He crosses his arms, “You can’t tell your parents.”

Our parents, he thinks but doesn’t say. “Obviously. Where did you get so many cyclopes?”

The last remnants of his brother’s stern façade shatters as he throws back his head and laughs.

~

Ares is very near maturity, more adult than child, and his father constantly pressures him to choose a domain. He usually quiets with one sharp glance from his wife, but the fact remains that it is time for Ares to take his place among the gods of the pantheon, to have temples in his name and worshipers like a proper deity.

He doesn’t really want any of that.  He wants to continue hunting with Artemis, learning with Athena, building with Hephaestus.

His brother lets him help out in his workshop sometimes, if he’s very careful and does exactly as he’s told. Otherwise he sits on a table, legs swinging, and watches his brother work and tells him about what he does in the time in-between visits. He talks about their mother enough that Hephaestus doesn’t flinch at her every mention, which Ares can only consider an improvement. Sometimes Brontes will stand beside him and they’ll eat sweet buns together.

Unfortunately, all things, good and bad, must come to an end.

~

There are two giants, Otus and Ephialtes, who grow tired of hearing of the golden boy of Olympus, who grow jealous of his kindness and his beauty.

These two giants sneak onto Mount Olympus in the middle of the night, sneak into Ares’s room, and kidnap him. They’re not stupid enough to attempt to kill him. Instead, they stuff him into an urn, and seal him inside. Ares rages and fights, uses every trick he can think of to break out his prison, but none of them work.

Stuck at the bottom of the urn and seething, he can’t help but think that if he’d listened to his father and chosen a dominion he might be strong enough to free himself. But he didn’t, so he can’t, and instead he waits.

And waits.

And waits.

Days turn to weeks turn to months. He knows they’re looking for him. He knows his mother will tear apart the whole universe attempting to find him if nothing else. But – what if they can’t? What if he’s stuck in this urn for the rest of eternity?

In his darkest moments, his sorrow turns to rage. He is a god, son of Hera and Zeus, how dare they do this to him?

Then, one day, the urn opens.

Hermes peers down into it, then his face splits into a grin. “We’ve been looking for you!” He reaches down and hauls Ares out, and for a moment all he can do is blink at the glaring sun. Then his vision clears, and he sees they’re in the midst of a battle. The giants are fighting against the gods, against his parents, against the twins, against his brother. It’s bloody carnage, but – he can’t help but feel touched that all these people came looking for him. “Almost everyone offered to help find you,” he says, “but Hera didn’t want to draw too much attention to ourselves trying to sneak into their territory.”

No sooner has Hermes finished speaking than a giant barrels into his mother with sickening snap. Her shoulder slopes at a grotesque angle, but it hardly even slows her down.

“I have to help,” he says, a desperate urgency filling him. They came to help him, and now they’re getting hurt. That’s never something he’d wanted.

“Ares, wait!” Hermes calls out as he goes hurtling toward the battle. He doesn’t wait. Fighting on the ground can only do so much good, they’re strong but they’re outnumbered one hundred to one. He darts to Artemis, twisting around the bodies she’s throwing over her shoulder. “I need your bow!”

“Ares!” she says joyously, then, “What?”

“Trust me,” he says, “give me your bow.” A giant comes running towards them. Artemis flips him over her shoulder while continuing to stare at him in confusion. He’d be impressed if he wasn’t so worried. “Artemis, please!”

She hands over her bow. She moves to give him her quiver of arrows as well, but he’s already moving away from her. Next it’s to his father, who’s hurtling lightning bolts towards the swarm of giants crowding him. They’re deadly, but only so effective at close-range. He grabs a sizzling lightning bolt right from Zeus’s hand, the only being on the planet who could do that and survive, and keeps running. “Get clear!” he calls out over his shoulder. “Everyone move!”

He runs up past Hermes, needing to get to high ground for this to work. “Get everyone off the battlefield,” he says to Hermes. “Now.”

Hermes pulls a face, but by the time he makes it to the top of the mountain, the gods have shaken off most of the giants, are far enough away that he doesn’t have to worry.

He can do this. He’s Ares, the son of Hera and Zeus. He’s been trained in archery by the great huntress herself. He breaths in, and strings his father’s lightning bolt like an arrow. He pulls it back, breaths out, and lets the lightning bolt fly.

It lands in the middle of the battlefield full of confused giants. With a great clap of thunder and a burst of light, they’re all gone.

All that remains of the traitorous giants is a crater.

The gods are approaching him, his mother at a limping gait that makes his chest ache. Zeus gets to him first, grin stretched wide as he grabs him by both his shoulders. “My boy! That was magnificent!”

“Thanks,” he says. The smell of charred flesh is in the air, and it makes his stomach roll.

They kidnapped him. They stuffed him in an urn for over a year. They hurt his mom.

That doesn’t mean he enjoyed it. He never wants to do anything like that ever again.

“This was destiny,” his father says enthusiastically, and Ares has no idea what he’s talking about. “This is what you’re meant to do, son.”

He stares. He hopes it’s not.

The other gods are still at the bottom of the mountain. Artemis and Apollo each have one of his mother’s arms slung over their shoulders and are helping her up the mountain. Hermes and Hephaestus aren’t far behind.

He’s never seen his father look so proud of him. There’s a leaden pit in his stomach he can’t explain.

“In honor of my son’s great feat,” Zeus booms, his voice carrying across air, speaking with the voice of the king of the gods so his words become law, so they spread to every corner of the world, “I declare him Ares, God of War.”

Ares can’t breathe.

This isn’t what he wanted.


gods and monsters series, part xvii

read more of the gods and monsters series here

urbuddylance  asked:

I was looking through your headcanons, and i noticed you mentioned Shiro and Lance's similar humor ;) want to give us some (platonic) Shiro and Lance headcanons?

hell yea i do

  • The Inspiring Anime Speeches Duo
  • [shiro leaves lance alone with keith] “…oh shit i’m the responsible one now”
    • lance when shiro’s around: “okay so coran says this flask is either full of juice or fancy altean perfume and he can’t remember which… hey keith-”
    • lance when shiro’s not around: “keith blowing stuff up is never Plan A get back here!!”
  • shiro legit has no idea lance thinks he’s cool
  • “what’s the pl-” [shiro runs in, beats people up with robot arm] “alright so the plan is no plan cool cool cool”
  • lance: “so you say ‘when i say ‘vol’ you say ‘tron!’ vol!’ and then we say-”
  • shiro has like a spidey sense for when lance is gonna hit on someone. he’s always ready and waiting with a judgmental look
  • Those Guys that always get way too physical playing video games
    • lance has pointy elbows that he will jab anywhere he can reach
    • shiro can play with one hand and will play entire rounds with his hand shoved in front of someone else’s face
  • shiro: “lance” lance: “oh no lance in b-flat. you’re disappointed.”

I got a request to explain how to apply a doodle gif texture, and since I couldn’t find a tutorial, I decided to make one myself! I will be explaining (with lots of pictures) how to apply the hearts gif shown in the banner. I used the hearts gif from this doodle pack.

What you will need: photoshop. I use cc 2015.
Difficulty level: ★★☆☆☆

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