perilous land

2

Long before the shopkeeper was the wise one, he was the reckless one. He did not care for himself, landed on perilous situations. “It’s fine, other people matter more” he would always say, with that kind look on his face. It was not okay, but the shopkeeper couldn’t care less. They matter, not him.

Unable to see his worth, his master called in the guardian. The guardian who gave him half of his eye when he lost his The guardian who gave him his blood when he needed it. The guardian who gave him his descendants so that he wouldn’t be lonely. Everything the guardian did, he did it for him. The shopkeeper whom he cherished the most, the shopkeeper whom he’d give his life for. The shopkeeper whom he loved irrevocably that it hurt.

The Guardian did (and would have done) all of this for the shopkeeper without asking anything but for the shopkeeper’s safety. However, with the path that the shopkeeper took, it was in vain.

P.S. this is a computer background. Feel free to use it if you want! :)

anonymous asked:

I wish you would write a fic where CAPTIVE PRINCE

Damen sleeps deeply and fitfully, which, if you ask Laurent, is an infuriatingly symbolic reflection of an infuriating aspect of Damen’s personality: too trustful for his own good, though by no means so trustful as to be considered naive.

Laurent sleeps neither deeply nor fitfully. Out of the two of them, he’s the one most likely to wake up during Damen’s bouts of tossing and turning. Sometimes he’s already lying awake when the sheets start rustling beside him, a cuffed wrist landing perilously close to his head as Damen forcefully changes position–heaves himself from his back onto his stomach, or from one side onto the other–without waking.

It’s not like Laurent particularly minds, though. He’s always been prone to wakeful nights, and he enjoys the opportunity to observe Damen at leisure. To watch his brow furrow and the corners of his mouth twitch, his fingers curl and uncurl into the sheets; to listen to his chest rumble as he exhales, or to him mumble half-formed words in either of their languages.

Laurent enjoys knowing from experience that Damen’s hand would stop flexing restlessly if he covered it with his own, and that Damen’s brow would smooth out if he stroked his thumb down the center. He enjoys knowing that, were he to respond to Damen’s unconscious murmurings, Damen would sigh in his sleep and (softly, sweetly) mumble Laurent’s name.

The California’s neutralization fire was meant to keep enemy gunners from shooting at the UDT, and also to interdict Japanese troop movements down from Garapan. But even after rehearsing with real live ships at Kaho'olawe, Kauffman wasn’t prepared for this. When he saw splashes in the lagoon landing perilously close to his men, both ahead of and behind them, he thought the Navy needed work on its marksmanship. He radioed his executive officer, Johnny DeBold, and said, ‘Blow Pistol, this is Blow Gun. For God’s sake, tell the support ships they’re firing short.’
Slowly and calmly, DeBold answered, 'Skipper those aren’t shorts, they’re overs. They’re not ours!’
Kauffman’s reply fell flatly from his mouth. 'Oh.’
—  James D. Hornfischer, “The Fleet at Flood Tide”
9

Scorpio x Sagittarius

There is a shared fearlessness of the unknown in these two signs. Fixed, watery Scorpio and mutable, fiery Sagittarius share the kind of energy typical of a traveler, eager to set foot in perilous, mysterious lands: but while Sagittarius are very likely to cross the borders of an exaggerated number of countries during their life, Scorpios could remain for the whole time in their home town and still become incredibly wise and well-experienced, since their choice of exploration Is the human soul. Reminding respectively the archetypes of an oriental monk and a high priestess, here’s another thing that Sagittarius and Scorpio share: the love for metaphysics - more generally speaking, philosophical and religious discussions. One looks at the macrocosm and sees the microcosm,  the other looks at the microcosm and sees the macrocosm.

As friends, Sagittarius love being conversation starters, and their best virtue is that, whether they’re being serious or joking (no matter how idiotic their jokes might be), they tend to show character and thought. A Scorpio may find them either unnerving or funny, basing on their respective natal charts and taste, but they’d surely be lured out of their barrier of silence pretty quickly. They would talk and discuss, and it’s not guaranteed that they’d agree or even like each other at first, but Sagittarius is usually hanging out with practically everyone, and even if Scorpio is the super selective type when choosing his company, they both would surely end up being together more than often and they’d get to know each other better. They don’t need to be each other’s sweetheart to spend quality time together: Sagittarius are honest, even aggressively blunt, and even if Scorpios generally have a controlling, private and haughty attitude, they would deeply appreciate people that don’t hide their true self and opinions with them. Occasional fights are likely to happen, since both tend to be affectionate to their point of view, but also a sense of partnership in crime might ensue from time to time, whenever they’re up to something together, and that might create a strong bond over time.

As lovers, it’s very likely that they’d start as a friendship with benefits. Sagittarius offer very few guarantees to Scorpios, and they usually don’t put their heart at risk with people they’re not 100% sure to be able to count on for things that matter, so whatever relationship they’d start with one another, it would be a fruit of disordered passion. They usually have different fantasies in mind when it comes to who their ideal partner should be: while Scorpios are searching for the special person that won’t run away when they will show their true self, and that won’t judge or question, but instead love even the negative traits of their personality, Sagittarius are jumping from one bed to another in the search for that one person that will make them feel accomplished, the treasure at the end of the dungeon, the perfect creature that will make them definitely satisfied in what they have and they won’t search anywhere else anymore. Both obviously need to realize that every relationship can work if both the participants choose to make it do so: Scorpios will want to trim down their worst sides anyway, since nobody’s supposed to become anybody’s punching-ball, and Sagittarius will have to decide for themselves they want to stay, world’s too vast and life too long for the simple feeling of “this is it” to last autonomously – in short, their dream scenarios are just too insanely rare to come to happen like that, by chance. If they realize this, and they commit to make their relationship work instead of expecting it to simply be perfect by itself, their story will be deep, passionate, adventurous, and both their mind and their heart will grow mature through it. If they don’t get that relationships are made of compromises, though, any sort of disaster might happen to them: Scorpios are prone to become overbearing psychopaths, while Sagittarius are unfaithful, and those things are exactly what these specific signs hate the most to experience with other people.

As enemies, this is one of the most ferocious showdowns ever. It will be noisy, dramatic, overcharged with spite, political incorrectness and miserably low blows – they will throw at one another everything they’ve got or can think of, and they’ll mercilessly devour each other like piranhas. They will become a disgrace for all the friends they have in common, because whenever they happen to come in contact, they’re going to fire shots of any sort at each other and they will pollute any atmosphere, no matter how fun and friendly. Sagittarius usually tend to come out as winners: surely Scorpios are deadly when their revenge machine  starts plotting, but while Sagittarius simply switch to another environment when they’re unsatisfied in something, threatened Scorpios react with wrath-blinded jealousy, by pulling the people they consider their friends/possessions away from their enemies, and nobody ever likes to be deprived of their freedom. This way, even if Scorpio actually succeeds in seriously hurting Sagittarius, he’ll find himself to be isolated and deprived of every friend he frantically tried to keep for himself at any cost, and that may possibly be a worse defeat anyway.

Sun in ScorpioSun in Sagittarius
SIGN COUPLES MASTERPOSTAbout requests

andtheywerehausmates  asked:

drunk kiss for jehanparnasss????

Meme is here –> x

Gotta love when you try and do something short and cute and end up with five tabs of poetry and far more than the 300 words you intended.

Half an hour ago, Montparnasse had been complaining. Something about frivolity and not wanting to break into the park after dark because “that wasn’t the kind of thing he did.” Half an hour ago, Jehan had sniped back some comment about how Montparnasse was practically the living embodiment of frivolity on a half-decent day and that a change from the “things” he did would be good for him. Montparnasse had asked what was in the bag; Jehan had told him he’d find out in a minute and to give them a boost over the wall.

Now, after a bottle of some very good and probably expensive champagne, Montparnasse figured that Jehan’s idea of fun was worth it. He stretched out on the blanket, his back arching in that odd, feline way that usually drew a comment, and rolled over. He expected Jehan to be staring skyward, watching the stars and repeating the names of immortalized heroes, but found them laying on their stomach instead, arms at odd angles and one ear pressed to the ground.

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8

Doctor Who episodes | Story: 061 | season 9 [2/5]
↳ The Curse of Peladon

“It concerns the royal beast of Peladon, now extinct. It is written, Mighty is Aggedor, fiercest of all the beasts of Peladon. Young men would hunt it to prove their courage. His fur trims our royal garment. His head is our royal emblem. It is also written there will come a day when the spirit of Aggedor will rise again to warn and defend his royal master, King Peladon. For at that day, a stranger will appear in the land, bringing peril to Peladon.”

I need more gay fairy tales. let me watch a film about a princess running off bc she doesn’t want her parents to arrange a marriage between her and some crusty ass prince, and on her travel she meets this lady knight. they go on an adventure together… and slowly… while facing the perils of the magical land,… they fall in love. and at the end they live happily ever after. i want a film genre selection as extensive as the het one.

Read Chapters One through Four here.

Our Story

Here marks the middle of our tale, that vast, perilous land between the beginning and the end. The going is treacherous in these parts—the wayward couple must heal on their own, tread the sea of two decades with arms and souls akimbo—but still, it is not unnecessary. The middle is never aimless. Always, always, it has one goal: the ending.

When the lights go up and the curtains close, you clap—perhaps, should the couple reunite (which, of course, they will), you shout “Encore, encore!” But then, at last, you return to your car. You catch the train, or you grab a taxi. At last, having started at the beginning and waded through the middle, you reach the final destination. The night is over; you go home.

Home. Whether a place, a person, a feeling, or a thing—it does not matter. Home is always the goal and the ending, the northernmost star we pray to and walk towards.


[December 24th, 1996]

Two weeks’ vacation in a cabin, tucked deep inside a fold of mountains. Here, amongst the stretches of living nothingness, even the silence has a voice. Owls hoot in the night. The pines’ chatter, their needle-whispers pierced by caws and shifted air—a hawk swooping to ensnare her prey. And if one listens closely enough, one can hear the hunter breathe—a shaky, traitorous breath which launches the doe across the snow—and the echo of his heartsong, the drum to which the doe’s hooves beat. Come back, come back, come back.

This is why Jamie has come here: for the endless conversation between man and mountain, more steadfast than the chill in his heart. In the past four years, Jamie has sold the twin cot (it lies in a salvage yard somewhere, all broken springs and dreams). A different couple has moved into the studio, and when they had spoken of paint jobs—“Perhaps mint green, what d’ye say, hon?”— Jamie had thought, Thank God. He’d happily offered them the keys when they turned to him, pupils dilated with youthful optimism. By that point, there was no space for Jamie and Claire inside that Edinburgh Eden, and so he’d chimed in, “Aye, a bonny color.” (Indeed, the walls are mint now, though a forgotten strip of marigold shines in the northern corner.)

For two years, Jamie has lived with Murtagh in Glasgow, having shed not just his home but his editorial career in publishing. He has grown tired of fixing other’s mistakes—too many of his own in need of correction—and so here he sits on this Christmas Eve, writing towards redemption.

The Grampians are a peaceful place, big hulks of rock scattered with trees—bouquets of fir, oak, and pine cradling other cabins. At dark, their windows flicker, candlelit with dreams of the guests therein: aspiring novelists, essayists, playwrights. Men and women, all bowed before the cleansing hum of nature’s speech. Like Jamie, they had seen the fliers: WRITER’S RETREAT, TWO WEEKS IN THE MOUNTAINS—and so it was. A small colony taking its temporary leave, hoping to reconstruct the world according to their own, more favorable terms.

Over supper, the group gathers and shares their ideas: outlines, pieces of dialogue, an inspiring poem they’ve loved since childhood. And while Jamie is generous with his advice, he holds his notebooks against his chest. Enraptured by this warm aloofness (for is it not the way of all great wordsmiths?), the others whisper behind their palms, “Have you read Fraser’s story?” Into napkins, “No, have you?” 

But among the fifteen guests, only one has read Jamie’s story—and tonight, Jamie waits for her inside his cabin. His latest draft is fanned around him, some sections highlighted and others slashed. They are not unlike Claire’s old strike-throughs, which had snipped the would-be Dalhousie and, eventually, Jamie’s own name from her life (a reclamation of Beauchamp, a transformation to Randall). Among Jamie’s scribbles are his friend’s edits, which are much more forgiving, much less forceful than the lines of his own red pen. Each comment reads like a bashful request: “More clarity?”, “Switch the verb here?”, “Too many adjectives?” as if she needs permission to occupy the margins. Should I really be reading this?, she seems to say, the bare-backed rawness making her squirm.

But she is helping him, his friend. And so she sees Jamie’s drafts before John, his agent, and before Fergus, his assistant and most loyal advocate. With each comment, she brings him closer to understanding, to the better beginning, middle and end. Inch by inch, to the way his story (their story, for it can never be Jamie’s alone) should be. All rhymes and logic, had it not veered off-course.

Is Alexander too cold here? Shouldn’t he say something? (He should have.) 

It seems out of character for Alexander to never visit his daughter’s grave? (Grief carves cowards out of heroes.)

Shouldn’t he try to win Elizabeth back? (God, yes. He should have tried harder.) 

The knock comes three minutes later, as expected. 

“Hello?” 

“Door’s unlocked.”

“Oh!” A muffled apology, embarrassment for the delay. “Sorry,” the visitor says. “It’s late. Didna ken if ye still wanted to talk or not. I brought—well, I finished reading yer last chapter.”

And now another player enters this fifth act, tip-toes quietly onto the stage. Only slip of a thing in the cabin’s doorway, cheeks pinked by the storm’s sharp nip. She is Jamie’s friend-cum-critique partner, and even her entrance is punctuated by a question mark. The score of owl, pine, hawk and hunter swells, buffeted now by new notes: the crack of chapped lips smiling, the anxious shuffle of papers, and:

“Dinna fash, I couldna sleep anyways,” Jamie assures her. “Did ye like it, though? The new ending?” 

His friend inhales sharply, stealing as much oxygen as the room will allow. Everything—the threadbare futon, the TV’s antennae, the welcome mat and Jamie’s body—bends towards some invisible presence. A ghost between between all.

“It was…a bit different from the last one.”

“I’ll take that as a ‘Nay, I didna like it.’”

She looks shyly at the ground, one foot treading nervous circles into the planks. Around and around, melt and muck, like a muddy cycle of life (Jamie’s, perhaps muddier than others).

“It was a bit too sentimental is all. After everything. All that time and silence…D’ye really think Alex and Lizzie could make it?”

Her words are a blow to Jamie’s stomach, and the pages are fire in his hands (the ever-burn of a man, ever-longing). He puts them down, wants to thrust himself under a blanket of snow to freeze the flames.

“In a fairy tale, maybe…but life isna a fairy tale. And d’ye no want to write truths?” She looks up, and her eyes gore him. “This story isna a fairy tale either, Jamie. Yours never are.”

“Aye…aye, I s’pose they’re not,” he replies, thinking of his other novels and short stories, essays and poems. Each accepted by John’s gimlet eye, only to meet their end in a publisher’s slush pile. (“Too dark, too wallowing,” an editor once wrote.)  

“Give it another go. I’ll help ye tomorrow, if ye’d like,” his friend offers. “Three days left. I reckon we’ve time to sort the kinks, right the wrongs.” (Three days will never be enough for Jamie’s wrongs.)

“I’d appreciate that, lass. Verra much.”

His friend looks behind her and at the moon, a shy sickle in the sky. It draws her toward the door, to the snow-covered mountainside.

“Weel, it’s a long walk back,” she says. “Wanted to give ye that before the morning, so I guess I’ll just…” 

“Will ye stay with me tonight?” Jamie blurts. And he hates himself for saying this, the way it sounds outside his mouth and inside his cabin, landing on the unmade bed. Its despair makes it ugly. But.

But if his friend stays, Jamie thinks, perhaps the emptiness will leave. If his friend stays, perhaps his story will correct itself, falling into its natural pentameter, by the force of whatever solace she can give him.

“It’s Christmas Eve,” he continues, “and I…I dinna want to be alone.”

She pauses, thinks it over before saying, “Okay. Just for a bit?” (Just for a bit? Another loaded question, and one he doesn’t want to answer.)

“Thank you,” Jamie whispers, and Mary McNab removes her coat.


Long before daybreak, Jamie wakes. He gathers his draft, made complete by that final failing chapter, into a single stack. He retrieves a box from his suitcase, swathed in his old holiday sweater, and it speaks to him. A quiet loudness, like the murmur of the Grampians. You mean your lager-stained pullover? With the Santa looks that looks like he’s got vomit in his beard?

Inside the box is a gift—a vase, azure porcelain—though Jamie has no plans to send it across the Atlantic, to the Boston apartment where his ex-wife kisses another man. No. This vase will stay with Jamie, forever hidden on the high shelf of a closet, or exiled to the back corner of a desk drawer. Like his grief, it is something that he owns—this small cut from a cloth of unraveled dreams—to be kept and locked safely away. There, there, always there. All fancy people have vases.

Jamie wraps the box with his manuscript. One by one, he folds the pages over and under, seals the edges with tape to form an inch-thick layer. So much history around this small, delicate thing—their story, with the ending Jamie cannot use and which cannot be the truth. At last, he cuts the string of wool, which still drips from his sweater after all these years, and it rasps, Do we have time? Of course we do.

And finally, Jamie weeps—a mournful sound that joins the chorus of this great, big mountain—and ties a frayed, red bow.


(Jamie does not realize that Mary watches him from the bed. “Tell me about her,” she wants to say—for once a statement and not a question—but she does not. Instead, she calls to Jamie, presses her goosefleshed nakedness to his. And as they move together, slow but unfeeling, she pretends she is a vessel. Closes her eyes. Makes room for the ghost. I’m Claire Beauchamp. Just plain Claire Beauchamp.)