mark iration

anonymous asked:

Heline/Blackthorn family fic! (tda)

A/N: Yay, a request!! Thank you, anon! :D  It truly means the world to me when y’all send me things to write about- keep ‘em coming!  Even if it takes me a while (blame school and work), I promise that I’ll get it posted asap!

For the fic’s sake, this will be set in 2012 (around the time of Lady Midnight).  Helen and Aline are back in LA (permanently or for a visit) and Mark is back with his family (since I’m assuming that happens in TDA).  Their ages are: Helen, 23; Mark, 21; Julian and Emma, 17; Tiberius and Livia, 15; Drusilla, 13; Octavian, 6.

Again, I’m not sure how well I wrote this, but I hope you like it!  Once again, so sorry for the wait! <3

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“I TOLD YOU SO!”

The morning silence of the L.A. Institute was ruined by the shouting of two very agitated teenagers who apparently couldn’t be bothered to keep their noise to a dull roar.  Helen groaned and covered her head with her quilt, snuggling closer to Aline who was (mercifully) still sound asleep.  However, when a few minutes passed and she couldn’t drift off again, she hauled herself up and away from the warm bed and snuck out of her room.

Instantly, the smell of burning bread and the wailing of a smoke detector assaulted her senses, prompting the once-tired Shadowhunter to break into a jog towards the kitchen.  She arrived to see a sheepish-looking Mark, confused Livia and irate Ty attempting in vain to disarm the alarm with a screwdriver.  Mark finally gave up and banged the white plastic disk on the countertop, where it beeped once and died.  Helen quirked an eyebrow at them.

“I told you we shouldn’t have buttered the bread first.” Ty muttered to Mark out of the corner of his mouth.  Mark rolled his eyes.

“Does this mean we don’t get to go to the beach?” Livia asked, noting the you-all-are-so-in-trouble look Helen was giving them.  Helen grudgingly smiled at her (not-so-little-anymore) sister.

“No, we’re still going to the beach,” she said.  “But only if you clean up this mess.” Mark gave Helen a joking look of loathing while the twins scurried to rectify the mistake they made.  “I’m going to go wake up Jules, Emma and the little ones.” Helen told Mark, who was inspecting the smashed smoke detector.  She turned on her heel and almost ran into Aline, who was blinking sleepily in the doorway.  Her nose was wrinkled and her hair was still mussed from sleep, which didn’t help her cuteness factor.  Helen wanted to kiss her right there, but something that was rated so PG wouldn’t have gone over well with the twins at all.

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Here is a critic who says with low blow
Sherlock’s no brain-box but become double-O.
Says the Baker St boy is no man of action—
whilst ignoring the stories that could have put him in traction.

The Solitary Cyclist sees boxing on show,
The Gloria Scott and The Sign of the Fo’
The Empty House too sees a mention, in time, of Mathews,
who knocked out poor Sherlock’s canine.

As for arts martial, there’s surely a clue
in the misspelled wrestle Doyle called baritsu.
In hurling Moriarty over the torrent
did Sherlock find violence strange and abhorrent?

In shooting down pygmies and Hounds from hell
Did Sherlock on Victorian niceties dwell?
When Gruner’s men got him was Holmes quite compliant
Or did he give good account for The Illustrious Client?

There’s no need to invoke in yarns that still thrill,
Her Majesty’s Secret Servant with licence to kill
From Rathbone through Brett to Cumberbatch dandy
With his fists Mr Holmes has always been handy.

— 

Mark Gatiss, 2017

a poem in response to a critic saying Sherlock has turned into James Bond. 

pinkuwapinku  asked:

Percy/Nico; bad weather.

“It’s gonna be okay, Percy,” Nico whispers, bent low, his body wrapped around Percy’s like a protective blanket. The ship tosses around them and if Percy were awake—if Percy wasn’t two steps from being a corpse, bleeding out all over Nico’s lap—then this wouldn’t be too much of a problem. Percy could just yell at the ocean and it would still for them. Probably. Nico knows that if Jason were here the storm would listen to him.

It’s just him and Percy though, stranded on an old Japanese freighter that shakes around them like it’s about to capsize. That would truly suck, death by drowning with a son of Poseidon at his side. He wonders if this is how Annabeth felt in Tartarus.

“Please wake up,” he pleads shakily, his fingers trembling in Percy’s hair. He leans over and presses a shaky kiss to Percy’s forehead, an inch or so to the right of the gigantic gash that spans half of Percy’s face. He’s tried to keep his hand sealed tight to the wound, but his hand is slick with blood and it’s hard—head wounds bleed a lot when they’re just a scratch, not claw marks from an irate harpy.

“Please,” he sobs as the ship gives another lurch. He could shadow travel, maybe, but he has no idea how far from shore they are. He’d be taking a blind leap of faith and… he’s scared.

It’s another ten minutes of Percy’s blood on his palms before he finally steels himself, because if he doesn’t, Percy is going to die, and where would Nico be without the dumb jerk?

“A leap of faith,” he mutters, keeping one hand pressed to Percy injury and  wrapping his free arm around Percy’s chest. “I can do this.”