lost passage

pssst, emma canonically sailed on the jolly roger before she was even born.

anonymous asked:

Okay I was thinking. And... what if humans are known for our imagination and capacity for art? Like to piggyback off of the stories post, what if we're known for our widely rich imaginations and cultures and painting and music and all these things that make up who we are as a species. Like imagine an alien hearing AC/DC or reading Shirley Jackson or seeing Picasso and what if it's our rich cultures that make us unique?

Interesting, and I think someone should play with this idea because it’s really fun.

I propose, however: thousands of years in the future, humans are well-known for their classic works of art and music that have stood the test of time. Like any artifacts, only a tiny proportion of humanity’s total output is still known, cataloged, and studied; the rest have been lost to the passage of time.

On an archaeological dig on the humans’ former residence of earth, a team finds a beat-up flash drive. Decades later, they are finally able to access the file formats inside. 

Headlines flash across the galaxy. Archaeologists and art historians of all species request to join the ongoing investigation. Essays expound upon the layers of philosophy this art contains. Teachers prepare lesson plans for their pupils to imitate this rediscovered human art form.

Keeper of Beasts

Okay so just a quick preface the inspiration for this came completely from @charminglyantiquated amazing post Elsewhere University. I hope this lives up to the incredible standard of work I’ve already seen. 


When she first arrives at Elsewhere Univeristy, no one is particularly sure of what to make of her. She introduces herself as Mara, the gaelic word for the sea, and she seems all too familiar with the rules of the school almost as if they’re second nature. The crows grow fond of her quicker than anyone has seen before cawing greetings at her as she passes and swooping on mass to sit around her feet as she reads them poetry. Woven into the long tresses of her auburn hair are various beads of silver and emerald green glass that jingle and clink together with the rhythm of her movements as she wanders the campus, she’s a vet student with an uncanny ability to charm almost any animal into her favor. The other students aren’t sure if she’s one of the people who Know Things that they’ve heard whispers about that have some sort of agreement with the Gentry or have earned enough favor to be left well enough alone, or if she’s one of those that was taken and came back knowing just a little too much to be allowed to leave. More often than not if you’re looking to find the girl named after the sea the first place you’ll be told to look is the pool. On many a day she’ll be found there sitting with her legs dangling into the deepest end where if you look down the bottom cannot be seen only a deep descent into inky blackness and the odd flashes of strange eyes peering up from the depths. There she will sit singing songs so old they’ve been thought lost to the passages of time in languages that shouldn’t really be known the strange acoustics of the pool causing her voice to echo in eerie harmonies with itself. If you’re lucky or unlucky, I suppose it depends on your opinion of things, you’ll see the head of a creature that looks just enough like a horse despite it’s odd iridescent eyes peering out from the water towards her as it bobs along in an unseen current. It’s not uncommon for her to disappear for days on end only to return with a little more wisdom in her grey eyes and another token of favor adorning her person. The first time it happened she returned with beads woven into her hair that looked like stars had been plucked from the sky and deposited amidst her auburn curls. Now she walks the ground with fingers laiden with rings in odd shapes and sizes, stones no one has ever seen before nestled within them and necklaces of various objects ranging from flowers to delicate jewels strewn around her neck. There is a constant entourage of creatures following her that if caught at certain angles or in certain lights don’t look quite like the black cat that was there a moment ago and something hulking that wanders the shadows at her back. No one is truly surprised when inevitably she disappears and doesn’t return, packets of creamer and money is exchanged hands for several bets were placed on when she would be taken. That was many a moon ago, though no one is quite sure exactly when she did disappear anymore. On nights when the Wild Hunt runs rampant through the grounds it’s said if you listen closely you can hear her haunting voice singing old songs of battle amidst the baying of the hounds and wailing of the horns. She is the Keeper of the Beasts of the Court and though she is fully aware that she herself is kept, she’s never felt so free.   

peasandlesbeans  asked:

Okay, so, I've said this before... but: I noticed that Matt and Lance's brother looks similar (Hair/Skin- wise) and, imagine when Voltron gets Matt back, Lance just suddenly starts crying and hugging Matt. Matt is all, "Lol, wyd, k..."

Langst

💙

It was like seeing a ghost. The boy in front of him was like a figment from the past, someone he’d been dreaming about night after night as he lost track of the passage of time in the endless empty void of space.

Leo. Leo with his shaggy dark hair, resting wildly at the nape of his neck. Leo with his sharp face and lopsided grin. Lance’s brother.

Rationality told him it wasn’t Leo, of course. It was Matt Holt. He could see it in the lightness of his skin and hair, in his height, in the fact that Pidge currently had a vice grip around his waist. But that didn’t stop hot, raw emotion from flooding his chest. It didn’t stop the tears prickling in his eyes.

Shiro was hugging Matt now, and they were speaking softly in choked but laughing tones. Pidge still clung to him, tears streaming down her face, babbling her joy unintelligibly.

“Lance,” Hunk’s voice was at his ear, soft but insistent. “Are you okay, man?”

Lance found himself surging forward, his throat burning, his chest tight. He remembered the last time he’d seen Leo, a family visit at the Garrison. He remembered him ruffling his hair, congratulating him on him on making fighter class, teasing him ceaselessly. He remembered the brief but tight hug he’d received as they made their leave.

Without thinking, just as Shiro distangled himself from Matt, Lance threw him arms around him in a crushing hug.

“Woah,” the word came in a shocked breath from Matt. “Uh… hello. Um, it’s Lance, right?”

Lance ignored him for a moment, thinking of his own brother, how he so wished he had hugged him tighter and longer when he saw him last, how he wished he’d kissed his mother’s cheek or lifted his sister off her feet. For a moment he poured his emotion into Matt Holt.

He moved back, slowly, flushing as embarrassment started to wash over him. “Um, yeah,” he rasped, his voice strangled with tears. “Lance. It’s, uh… good to finally see you.”

Matt gave him a genuine if slightly uncomfortable smile, and Pidge eyed him curiously but withheld comment. He felt Shiro’s hand rest on his shoulder and flashed his leader a sheepish smile.

He was glad Pidge had found her brother. He was so proud of her strength and so overjoyed that she could finally be with Matt again.

And he was only the tiniest bit jealous.

2

Madama Ixchel, Regent of Ruin

A Demoness granted her own realm within Inferno thanks to her brute strength. Any witch that wishes to contract her shall be bestowed with gifts of raw power and the ability to spread ruin, as well as knowledge long lost to the passage of time. After death, whoever has formed a bond with the Demoness joins her army of demonic Dragonflies and loses their consciousness in the Rebirth Cycle.

- Book of Infernal Demons

Updated Ixchel a bit! I would like to thank my friend @demonangelsplaytime, as she was the one that made my initial design much better! Which in turn gave me ideas for Ixchel’s new appearance. Thank you Korea! <3 

I got a bit lazy with the weaves and the wings lol but I’ve had enough drawing for today

sea of white

the big melt is on. I’m wearing shorts today. in another day or two you won’t be able to find snow anywhere. more will come for sure, but the deep cold is over most likely and we start to think about spring. which means pushing out whatever winter photos need to get out or they get lost to the passage. 

Star Trek K/S Sentinel AU 1/?

With no title, of course. 

Planet Vulcan, Stardate 2238.57

Spock understood that his mother was not Vulcan, and could not be held accountable for her obvious sadness when he came home from school to find her sitting at the table with her hands pressed to her face. He was a child and therefore did not have perfect control of his emotions either, though no less so than his classmates, of that he was positive. He had cried when the shatarr he’d tried to make into a pet had died, so the posture was not unfamiliar to him.

His mother did not look up as he approached, so Spock was left hovering at the table uncertainly. He reached out hesitantly to put a hand on hers. She had removed her gloves at some point, and her skin was soft and pinkish-pale under his fingertips. He felt the sucking depths of her sadness at once, felt it under his own breastbone as though it were his own sadness.

Spock’s breath caught in a sniffle, and then he was crying as well, fat, hot tears streaking down his face. Full-blooded Vulcans did not cry – it was an inefficient waste of resources on a desert world – but Spock was not, as his classmates were so fond of reminding him, a full-blooded Vulcan.

Uncurling from her slumped posture, his mother wrapped him up in her arms and pulled him forward so she could rest her cheek on the top of his head. The embrace was not appropriate, even among close family, and the heat of their bodies quickly made it stiflingly uncomfortable, but she held onto him with the desperate strength born by her grief. Spock sobbed against her chest, and she into his hair, though he still didn’t understand why they were crying.

A rustle of movement drew them apart. Spock looked up to see his father standing in the doorway, tall and severe as ever, his face – of course – emotionless as he surveyed the scene before him. Spock’s mother sat back and let go of Spock’s shoulders. She took a moment to drag her thumbs over Spock’s cheeks, wiping away the hot rivers of saline still leaking freely from his eyes. Brushing her hands off on her robes where they fell over her knees, she repeated the gesture on herself, and then patted gently at her cheeks. She set a hand back on Spock’s shoulder, her thumb resting just above the collar of his school uniform, as though she sought to feel his pulse.

“Husband,” she greeted.

Spock felt a pang of embarrassment rippling through his mother’s grief, though she did not apologize or voice her discomfort at Sarek’s arrival. It was plain to Spock that she had meant to take her grief somewhere private, but had ‘lost track’ of the passage of time. Spock took his gaze away from her swollen eyes and looked up to his father.

“Wife,” Sarek said after a moment. He transferred his dark eyes to Spock, though he did not immediately express his disappointment over Spock’s unwarranted display of emotion. Instead, he looked back to Spock’s mother and observed, “You are… upset.”

The word had no direct translation in modern Vulcan. The closest would be that she was emotionally compromised, but that was not sufficient to express the depth of her grief. Spock approved of his father’s use of the Common vocabulary in this instance.

Spock’s mother took her left hand away from his shoulder and curled it together with her right, setting them both in her lap. Her back straightened. “My mother has died,” she explained, though her words were partially obscured by a hitch in her breath, and she started to cry again. These tears were quiet, slow and thin as they trailed over her cheeks and disappeared under the curve of her jaw.

After a long moment, Sarek crossed to the table and held out his hand, first two fingers extended. “I grieve with thee,” he said solemnly, and then surprised Spock by placing his other hand on his shoulder. It was a gesture of comfort that had not been offered to him since he began primary school.

Far more surprising and unsettling than his mother’s sadness was the sudden swelling of his father’s grief. He did not make a sound, and certainly he spared no moisture in the expression of his grief, but it was just as deep, and far darker – crushing, hot like the sand of the Fire Plains of Raal. It took Spock’s breath away. Even as his mother reached out to run her two fingers over Sarek’s, Spock unthinkingly reached up to cover his father’s hand with his own. He couldn’t understand what he was doing, but he wanted to cool that hot flash of grief.

Sarek jerked his hand away sharply, head tilted to look down at Spock. “What were you doing?”

“You are sad,” Spock answered, simply. “I meant only to assist.”

“Peculiar,” Sarek said. He transferred his attention back to his wife and said, “I will arrange transport back to Earth so that you may pay your respects in the human custom.”

He left without waiting for Spock’s mother’s agreement, his hand held stiffly at his side. Spock knew that there would be a discussion later on Spock’s apparent transgression, though he could not understand what he had done wrong. It was the Vulcan way to strictly control emotion. It was also the Vulcan way to accept aid where it was necessary and warranted. To deny the need for assistance was illogical and a matter only of pride, which – Spock had been assured – Vulcan’s did not cultivate.

“Thank you, Spock,” his mother said into the ensuing silence. “I know embraces are not logical, but your mother really needed the hug.”

Spock tipped his head. “You are human. Humans require physical contact to maintain a state of psychological and emotional balance, is that not so, Mother?” This was the reason his father had given him when explaining why he engaged in significantly more physical contact with Spock’s mother than a Vulcan normally would, even in the confines of the private home.

His mother smiled at him. “It is so, Spock.”

“If that is so, expressing gratitude over the fulfillment of a necessary biological function is not logical,” he pointed out.

(mind the cut)

Keep reading

3
  • Lesbian Rite of Passage - basically one of the rituals that mark your transition from a baby dyke, to a former baby dyke. 

I’m an FBD guys. Well ok not exactly, I’m actually pansexual so I guess that makes me a former baby pike? (cuz y'know, baby bisexuals are baby bikes)

The Gay Women Channel makes YouTube a better place. 

Imagine you’re a girl, at the edge of town.....

Imagine you’re a girl, at the edge of town.  At night the woods are dark and full of fearful things, but you must go to make your deliveries, to receive and take away from the homesteads and the farther neighbors.  A girl alone shouldn’t do such things, most villagers say, but somehow, you are left alone to do it, all the same.  And so you take your red cloak around your shoulders, dark hair tumbling out from under the hood, and grip your basket tight as you walk out under the moonlight.

The woods are full of long stretches of silence, the night peepers and singing insects having long since gone to bed themselves.  Whispers of wind bring snatches of voices past your ear, and you struggle not to listen, to pay no mind to the soft wailing of wolves far distant.

You try.

You fail.

Do not listen, your mother told you, once.  Not to the wailing of wolves, nor the hooting of owls- and never chase a light down into the swamp, nor eat fairy food.  Lest you fall.

You’ve run, helter-skelter, chased like a deer from along the path and into the deep woods.  And now the howls are all around you, though the only eyes you see are right in front of you, where you’ve fallen to your hands and knees.  You look up, and up, and up.

He’s tall, a head taller than the largest man in the village- and you try not to look, but his head silhouetted against the moon is a wolf’s.

Your fingers dig into the dirt, the holy symbol your mother made to keep you safe bouncing against your breast.  You grit your teeth against how good it feels, the cool fall air rushing past your skin, nipples tight and dragging in the dirt as you muffle your cries.  You try not to look, you try, but the hands that grip your hips are so strong, the thick cock filling you past what you can bear- the chase that heated you so still racing in your blood.  The wild things have caught you, and claimed you, and they seem to sing in triumph as they leave you with dirty knees and damp thighs, breathless from release.

You throw on your cloak again and hurry home, your path unmolested by man nor beast.  With the wolf-king’s scent on you- who would dare?

The harvest moon brings festival, and you dance with ribbons as if nothing had happened, as if you were still a good church-going girl who shunned the woods, who listened to her mother and grandmother’s stories.  You lie, and when the sickness grips you in the morning, you hope it is merely bad festival buns.

The next moon comes, and the next, and your blood does not.

You confess your encounter, as much as you dare, to the village priest, and he gathers the eldest of the village to consult with.  Your face burns with humiliation, but a chill settles in the pit of your poor, bloated stomach- you know the stories, some folks have been burnt for less.  Never here, no- but everywhere, one hears the tale of someone who knew someone who ran afoul of when the witch-finders came to town, some few villages over.

“I- cannot name the father.  I did not know him.  Only that I met him in the deep wood, and I feel afraid- and I think it is more than the sin of being out of wedlock that chills me.”

They make you strip down naked, kneeling down in the center of the small church.  The doors are locked and barred shut, and the lights burn low as the old man and the old women confer.  This is not something they want the rest of the village to know about.

They pierce you with a silver ring, to ward off the evil, and the priest prays holy words over your swollen womb.  The babes leap inside you as you kneel, praying fervently and hoping, so desperately hoping, that you are heard.  That the fire in your loins is only the rawness of the new ring, and not some new vileness having made you foul and wrong, to lust so after pain and desire.

The priest seems satisfied.  The village women leave you to dress, nodding to each other- though there are still whispers between their bent heads, having seen the frightful shapes of the things that pressed against your belly.

You throw your shirt on, buttoning with fumbling fingers over your swollen breasts, and hide under your red cloak the whole way home.

Winter is hard that year- and still you must make your rounds, ferrying herbs here and there, retrieving coin where it is set, eggs and milk, and leaving the packages of medicinal plants and scented soap in their place.  No one will say a word to you- they barely acknowledge your blushing cheeks and hastily hidden plumpness, your cloak clutched tightly around your growing form.  ‘Tis only warm wool and winter’s fat, you would say, if they bothered to ask.  A harvest-festival bastard, you would confess tearfully, if they pressed.  But no one ever does.

You hear the wolves outside, sometimes, and shudder.  You throw an extra piece of wood on the fire, though you can ill-afford it, and make sure the doors and windows are shut up tight.

Still, when there is meat left at your door, steaming and red- you cannot refuse it.  It cooks up just as well as the butcher’s sausage, though sometimes, you dread the sizzle and sniff desperately, unable to wait any longer-

-the crunch of small bones, the littlest of meat in the lean cold times, and your mouth drips red with hot, gushing life-

Jack Sprat could eat no fat, his wife could eat no lean, they say.  You eat both, and hunger still as your belly rounds and rounds and will not stay flat beneath your hand.  Bread you can comfort it with, sturdy vegetables and apples saved in the cold cellar down below- but you cannot deny your cravings, when your mysterious caretakers deliver death unto your doorstep, raw and unbled.

You can recognize it, mostly- and that is perhaps the only reason you do not scream.

A man was killed, the other day- you hear, and step out upon the path with your basket in hand, shivering.  The winter draws long, and the wolves are hungry- you do not know what keeps you safe, as you walk along the wooded paths, but you know it is valuable and that you must make your deliveries, sweet lotions, liniments and herbs, and that when people know they are getting a service, they make very little noise about the righteousness of the person from whence it came.

Spring comes.  Then summer.  Your womb swells, filling up and up and up- the midwife in the village will not see you, turns away when you pass her by in the street at the market- but you know you are as big as a woman with two and three yet unborn.  A litter, you think quietly, as you pass by dogs that growl at you, and children who run away from the hand that once gave them candy, mints and honey-drops to chase away colds.  You are shunned, with your red cloak and your big belly full of harvest-bastard- except they know.  They all know, for you are that strange woman who lives on the edge of town, with no family and no man and no true guidance to keep you whole and human.

You run your hand over the fullness that bulges out under your skirt, huffing and puffing as you walk, and hope that the miller will still have flour for you, if you hurry.

The silver ring has done its work- the evil stays within you, and every full moon, you moan as the babes- the pups, you think of them- roll and thrash within you.  The howls echoing in the woods seem to draw them, yearning, against the skin of your belly- you press your hands there, and there, and feel hands, snouts, paws, pressing outward.  You are long past when you should have birthed, you know, and though the ache rolls through you three nights of every month, hips and back screaming- your waters never break.

Some nights- many nights-

every night

-you reach between your thighs, touch where the silver ring burns, and whimper as your rock against it.  It holds the evil at bay- but it does nothing to make yougood again, holy and pure, and you know you are lost as your passage clenches emptily, begging to be touched.

The wolves and wild things have made you theirs, and no matter how you try to hide it, no matter how hard you clutch at your red cloak, everyone can see the swollen curve, the mound of your belly, and knows your sin.

You worry, always, that this will be the night the villagers come for you, with pitchforks and fire- but they never do.  They seem content to have washed you from their minds, that poor strange girl at the edge of the forest, far from their quaint little town- no one has visited you in months, none even come close enough by to see in weeks, and you know they have put you out of their minds as lost.  You could have died in childbirth, been eaten by beasts, burned down with the cottage- and they would have nodded to each other, mouths tight. Shame, shame, they’d say, it’s a shame.  Sad, but what can you do- it’s better this way.

And so you are alone, in the woods, with no one to come for you.  No one to care.  The forest has reclaimed this land, so far as the people of the village are concerned, and you with it.

Thirteen moons.  A full year since you last ran in the woods, breath fogging as you panted, light and fearful as a deer.   You cannot sleep.  You can barely walk.  Your hips ache and creak, and when the bits of meat show up, you cannot refuse them, red gushing down your chin as you devour so hungrily, tears dripping from your eyes as you bolt it raw.

You hear the wolves howling.

You rise from your bed, slow and ponderous, panting as you do- your womb is a great, distended thing, your belly is huge, and you think if the world was right, you would sprout extra teats along the protruding ridge of it.  Swollen nipples dangle from aching breasts as you rise from all fours, swaying and threatening to drip milk like an untended cow’s as you stand on soft, human feet.  Nothing you once wore will fit any longer, and you have not been able to trade cloth nor face the thought of wearing it for months- your bed is a nest of blankets and sheets, everything you own, safe and smelling like yourself and just the faintest hint of the herbs you would store them with, a whiff of the life you’ve left behind.

You throw your red cloak over your shoulders once more- they seemed to like it, or that’s what stories would have you believe, attracted to the red mark of the sinner- and step out the door. The cold air hits, and your nipples stiffen, painfully tight on your milk-swollen breasts as they tilt into the wind.  The trees are orange and black-barked in the night, and the branches sway and creak like your aching hips do as you waddle stiffly down the path, your enormous, moon-like belly leading the way.

The urge to run, to leap, on all fours hits you- and you laugh, because it is as ridiculous as expecting you to dance about the village square, as graceful as a maiden, in the vastly distended state you are in.  No- you will bring the wolf-king his children at your own, stolid pace, chafing fretfully at your arms and starting to shiver as the cool fall night caresses your bare skin.

The howls come closer, and you think you see eyes in the shadows, watching you- escorting you.  A cow, fat with calf, would have been pulled down and torn to pieces by now- a villager, great with wholesome and human child, the same.  You, swollen and ponderous as you are- you hold something sacred to them, and for that alone, they will stay.

You come to a clearing, and the moon shines down- and the pups leap again inside of your belly, clutched and protruding from your cradling arms.  The wolf-shapes circle, coming no closer, and the silver ring tingles and itches and burnsat the apex of your thighs as the cramps come heavy through you again.  You want their help, you cry out, unafraid that they might hear you- but they will come no closer.  Not while that sacred ring keeps their pups sealed up in your belly, keeps their sensitive noses and paws well away.  You get down on your knees, settle into the grass with your thighs spread, and howl.

The wolf-king himself lurks past the edge of the clearing, and you can hear himgrowl as you pant and beg.  I will be torn to pieces, you think, either by them or by the long-delayed birth, and trembling, you reach down past the enormity of your belly.  The ring is there- you grip it tightly, clenching your teeth as you try awkwardly to bend the silver without tearing your tenderest flesh.

It gives- you gasp in the sudden relief- and quick as thought, it is flung away into the trees, and they surge upon you.  For a moment you expect teeth and bright pain and at long last, a silence to the constant struggle in your bloated womb.  What you get is fur and noses and the warm bulk of bodies propping you up as you cry out, belly straining, your water breaking at last and running into the dirt below you.

Your heels dig into the ground, your arms looped around the necks of your new packmates, and their warm tongues sooth you as you moan and strain and cry, delivering at last.  The pink, squirming things that emerge from between your thighs are picked up in hands that are huge and rough and furred, and set against your breasts two at a time, whimpering and suckling from your vast supply of milk.

Your red cloak is beneath you, filled up with the warm, snuggling bodies of your litter. 

LITERARY CHARACTER THEMES: Satan (Paradise Lost by John Milton)

                                   …Hail horrors, hail
Infernal world, and thou profoundest Hell
Receive thy new possessor: One who brings
A mind not to be changed by place or time.
The mind is its own place, and in itself
Can make a Heaven of Hell, a Hell of Heaven.
What matter where, if I be still the same…
Better to reign in Hell, than serve in Heaven.

thisissirius  asked:

17 and 18 :)

17 has been done :)

kisses where one person is sitting in the other’s lap

It’s a minute to midnight. New Year’s Eve. They’re alone, side-by-side, pressed close on the sofa. There’s a party at the Woolpack but they made their excuses. They’ve let Liv go and spend the night at Gabby’s, trusting she won’t get up to too much mischief but are willing enough to turn a blind eye as long as she doesn’t get in any serious trouble. They need tonight. It needs to be theirs. Alone. Together. Starting the new year together, hoping that together is something they can stay.

They don’t count down along with the rest of the country as the TV shows numbers projected onto the side of a building in London. They don’t clutch to each other as Big Ben begins to chime, as if they might get left behind if they’re not holding on for dear life. They don’t sing Auld Lang Syne.

Instead, Aaron moves closer to Robert, shifting so he’s basically sitting in his lap. He cups Robert’s cheek in his hand, stroking a thumb across his skin. He smiles sadly. There’s something mournful about him tonight, like something has been lost in the passage of time. Robert leans in, letting their lips touch for a moment. Their first kiss of the year is gentle and has nothing to prove. Aaron leans his forehead against Robert’s. His breath is warm on Robert’s mouth, and Robert longs to close the distance between them again, but lets Aaron take the lead.

‘Happy New Year,’ Aaron says, a tremor in his voice. Robert knows what he’s thinking. He’s wondering what new heartbreak this new year will bring with it, because what their lives are: tragedy after tragedy strung together with thin threads of joy. He’s wondering if this next year will break them. If they’ll both still be here next year. Not in this house, but on this Earth. Breathing. 

It seems like a lot to ask.

‘It will be,’ Robert promises. It feels like the biggest lie he’s ever told, and he’s an old hand at that game.

Aaron kisses Robert. Fireworks explode around them, both on the television and right outside their front door. They have to believe that this year will be better than the last, because too often it feels like hope is all they have.

And when hope is gone, what else is there?

no place I’d rather be

Summary: Once upon a time, Diana walked with a girl like an apparition on the shores of Themyscira, with moonlight in their hair and love on her lips.

It takes a hundred years, with Etta and Steve old wounds in the back of her heart, before Diana realizes that she was no apparition at all.

Author’s Notes: It’s @eshusplayground‘s birthday (or it was)! So naturally I, without more than a smidge of knowledge about Wonder Woman or her movie (haven’t had the time to watch it) and still recovering from I don’t even know how many days of straight ten hour shifts, decide to deluge the world with Diana x OBFC stuff. *shrugs*

Not a complete story, but more of a ficlet with some run-of-consciousness musings. Also with a smidge of soulmate AU because I’m such a sucker for it. Faceclaim for the OBFC would be Danielle Brooks because fuck, that woman is flipping beautiful. Also comes with an accompanying playlist! :D

Happy (belated) birthday, Eshu!


Your heart doesn’t stop in your chest when you catch her from going headfirst into the street, an arm wrapped around her stomach. It’s simple, instinctive – I have to protect her. It’s how it has always been, an urge that has grown ever so more as you’ve lived your years in Man’s World.

Protecting the women you know has always been a task you have put yourself to, and throughout the years it has become second nature. This world is not like Themyscira, after all. Protecting your fellow women is essential. 

(And sometimes it is all too necessary.)

Ever since Etta brought you into that circle of women, all with skin as dark as her own, who welcomed you in ways that made the homesickness vanish – if but for a moment – you have made yourself a protector of women whose troubles persuade most those watching to turn a blind, unhearing eye.

You manage to turn your thoughts away from dearest Etta (a pain that stings even after all this time, a pain tucked alongside Steve and many other names), but they come back when the woman in your arms looks up at you, a gasp on her mouth that you know is meant for smiles like the sun.

Oh, you think.

Her skin is dark, like Etta’s, but that’s where the similarities end.

No, the familiarity comes from somewhere else.

And you remember being a young girl so many years ago, walking with an apparition in the moonlight, with her hair a dark curl around her face and her skin glittering with drops of the ocean reflecting the silver moonlight.

Not an apparition, you think then. Was she ever?

And oh, how your heart skips a beat when she smiles, as bright and warm as the sun. While all else has changed, what she does to you has not.


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Starter Quote Meme -- "Sons of Anarchy" First Season Edition
  • "All right, everybody contain your shit!"
  • "Somedays you're the Beemer. Somedays you're the goddamn deer."
  • "I'm not that good of a friend."
  • "Got 'em in all shapes and sizes."
  • "You want to touch me, sweetheart?"
  • "We got a garage of twenty-five to life."
  • "I leave you bad boys alone for two minutes and it all turns to shit."
  • "I suggest you turn to Jesus."
  • "It's been a very long night, brotha."
  • "Uh-uh. That's a Bozo No-No."
  • "Ah, Mary mother of Christ!"
  • "I hate you. I hate all of you."
  • "You know any bible passages about lost semen?"
  • "Nothing gets in the way of me and taking care of my family."
  • "I'm gonna dunk my balls in your mouth. You're gonna gag. I'm gonna laugh. We'll be best friends forever."
  • "The solution is always an equal mix of might and right."
  • "I was thinkin' about gettin' my dick sucked twice."
  • "I forgot how clever you can be."
  • "Thats one-hundred and thirty pounds of cut-rate giggity."
  • "This shit don't feel good to me."
  • "That's great! Not only do you stink, but you're a fat bastard, too."
  • "Violence is inevitable."
  • "What kind of nasty shit did your mama do to you?"
  • "This is how you treat an old friend?"
  • "What can I say? I'm a giver."
  • "Gives me a MILF chubby."
  • "The only freedom man wants is the freedom to be comfortable."
  • "Don't ever sit on another man's bike, asshole."
  • "It ain't easy being king."
  • "Somebody call Greenpeace!"
  • "You gotta get right with that."
  • "Bitch has a mouth on her, y'know?"
  • "Kind of a taco twofer thing."
  • "Ah, that sounded nasty!"
  • "Have some respect for the fairer sex."
  • "I love you. I love all of you."
  • "You didn't specify what type of drug."
  • "'Sup, killah?"
  • "I take care of them and they take care of me. It's a family."
  • "On the fringe, blood and bullets are the rule of law."
  • "The only thing worse than everyone knowing is no one knowing."
  • "Why you gotta be that way?"
  • "You can't stop progress."
  • "Big tits. Huge tits."
  • "Transgressions are all I got left."
  • "I freaking hate dolls."
  • "Let's just take it one night at a time, babe."
  • "Pull your pants up!"
  • "He deserves every second of the pain."
  • "You really don't trust this bitch, do you?"
  • "What's mine is yours, brotha."
  • "Relax! Have a cookie."
  • "Stop talkin', son."
  • "This is why I beat hookers."
  • "It smells like old socks and pussy in here."
  • "There's not much more outsiders than you muppets."
  • "I'm all about the service, darlin'."
  • "The Good Samaritan bit's not really playing me. What do you want?"
  • "Don't think too big; small mind suits you."
  • "I think every man's gone there before."
  • "True freedom requires sacrifice and pain."
  • "Asshole! He made me spill my beer!"
  • "I don't know how to get in front of this shit."
  • "I'll gut them dead bitches."
  • "I'm the goddamned Chief."
8

As droplets of rain drizzles, memories flood back bringing about a nostalgic atmosphere.

Poco’s Udon World episode 10 resonates so much. This anime obviously has a familial theme and it touches on many layers of familial emotions. The siblings Souta and Rinko have so many of those “I wish I could’ve done” “I wish I could’ve said” and “I wish I could go back to”. And they also have so many precious memories that were forgotten, lost in the passage of time and in the daily bustle of adulthood. And these memories are all resurfacing with the presence of Poco. While Poco’s real purpose of existence is still unknown, one thing is for sure, he is mending relationships and healing them of regrets and opening their hearts to what’s truly important in life. Poco showed Souta and Rinko that one very special memory of their childhood where their family is complete and happy reminding them of their childhood dreams and their parents’ unending love. In Rinko’s earlier heart to heart conversation with Nakaji, she posed the question “Will he be a good parent?” leaving the question of “What is a good parent?” I guess it is an open question with no definite answer. With the memory Poco showed, Rinko is now ready to be a mother and given confidence by their mother’s words. Nothing is more comforting than a mother’s words. The episode reiterated the fact that “you don’t have to be related to be family” because the relationship between Poco and Souta and between Poco and the other people in the Udon land is definitely one of family. In time, it will be Souta’s turn to relive those childhood dreams and their father’s love.

This episode really touched me because these regrets, “I wish…”, “what ifs…” are emotions and sentiments that almost all people experience making it all the more resonating.

Night Elf Cities: Stranded, Buried, and Drowned

A few remains of night elf civilization before the Sundering exist in odd places around Azeroth. While some, like the ruins near the Emerald Portals in Duskwood and the Hinterlands, can be explained by travelling druids after the Sundering, others turn up in odd locations, such as the Barrens and even the islands where the Exodar originally crashed. And, of course, the majority of the most major cities of the Highborne empire, have been submerged deep into the sea.

The following is a mix of in-game excerpts and personal headcanons, all for fun! 

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