roar of the masses

2

Despite such a black hole being several thousand times smaller than any of the planets, its mass would be several thousand times greater. Thus, any planets unfortunate enough to be caught in its path would be devoured.

By the time the black hole reached the asteroid belt between Mars and Jupiter, things would look bleak for us. The intense gravitational pull of the black hole would have torn our planet asunder, causing devastating earthquakes and supervolcanoes the likes of which humanity has never witnessed before. Upon reaching Earth’s orbit our planet is all but doomed, reduced to a smoldering uninhabitable magma-laden rock, with Mercury and Venus soon following suit.

The final battle, between the black hole and the Sun, wouldn’t be quite so one-sided. A gravitational tug of war would ensue and, depending on the initial mass of the black hole, there’s a chance the Sun could survive in some shape or form. Unfortunately, the most likely scenario is that, like the planets, the Sun is ripped apart and joins the planets in the swirling mass of super-heated dust and gas roaring around the black hole.

Ad Astra

“Through Adversity, to the Stars.”

Red sifting masses of pure energy. Nuclear fusion roaring in a vacuum. The atmos’d worlds glad of the barrier that prevents them from hearing the screaming of the beings that burn for millennia upon millennia. 

The insanity of foreknowledge. Knowing just how small we are, how those great life and death bringers will outlast the minute beings that inhabit rock, soil and sea around it. 

The unending death march of the tango of stars and colonies we call galaxies continuing now and forever until the end of all time, a forever flow going on like a jester refusing to turn off his tune. The whole of the universe dancing to the tune of a timeless madman with no sense of rhythm or beat. And this mad God looks down on us, amused. 

How we yearned to dance with Him and His. We powered our dead biomass and dared to punch through the air that cocooned us in paradise, all because we wanted above all else to see what nothingness really was. We waltzed between the big empty and took our partners hand. The mother who had twirled around us in encouragement for decades, her heart barren and cold, was warmed by our trespassing palms taking her up on her eons long offer to dance.

When our brief intermingling was over, we withdrew again to consider our next move and set our sights on the whole room, now seeing the possibilities that lay out before us. 

Mars, that had once been as we were, skipped heartily around the edge of the hall, her hands extended toward us in invitation. Jupiter, who’s great mass brought partner after partner into it’s embrace, twirling them all gracefully around her in practiced precision. Her belt held the whole solar system in it’s place. Pluto, who skirted the outer edges of the walls, determined to take her time. Hers was a slow, but constant presence. 

The Matron, too! We dared to look at the Forever Light that conducted us all and were in awe when we realized this entire gathering was but her contribution to a dance even greater than all of us. Her kind hopped, skipped and jittered around their expansive promenade, each of them bringing hundreds of partners to the act.

We saw it all for what it was.

And we wanted to be a part of it.

We wanted to dance with them all. Every planet. Every star. Every galaxy. 

We dared to look at the Mad God and laugh with him. We took his hand when it passed over us. We leaned in and whispered in our most sultry, inviting voice.

“May we dance with you?”

And he said yes.

Collateral Damage

Jacob Black imagine requested by anon! “Oh could you do a Jacob x imprint!reader where she’s watching them fight and one of the wolves get thrown on top of here and she has to go to the hospital, cause let’s face it, they’re heavy” Hope you like it!

The sand of La Push’s First Beach was, as it usually was, soaked with rain, the pebbles underfoot shining like metal and stained far darker than their usual terracotta hue. You were alternating your path between the more stable ground nearest to the dunes and the very edge of the sea, watching calmly as the ocean lapped at your already slick sneakers, accepting your fate of another pair of wet socks. The afternoon buzzed coolly overhead as the haze began to clear, warming sunbeams burning through the overcast skies, fighting tooth and nail to reach the earth below and deliver all who walked below from the grips of a relentless storm. You’d only been walking for ten or fifteen minutes, hoping to enjoy the ever elusive sunshine before the inevitable rain washed the warmth from the clouds, ducking out of Emily Young’s kitchen as soon as you sensed the storm’s departure. No matter her hospitality or the pull towards her you felt, spawned of your own loneliness, you couldn’t stay cooped up in her house when you knew Jacob could be running around with a vampire on his tail.

Jacob preferred not to delve into the details of his expeditions with the pack; he understood your anxieties on the subject of his safety, and he harboured his own when it came to you. You’d been by his side as he slowly healed from a newborn attack, your trembling hands smoothing patterns into his. You’d witnessed him break arms and legs from being flung into the cedars at horrifying angles. His injuries, the more severe and obviously agonizing, tending to come hand in hand with vampire hunts. The smaller scrapes and bruises came as a bonus to working with a group of volatile werewolves, the majority of them frozen in their hormonal teenage years, all of them eager to assert their meager claims to dominance by wrestling with the others. Jacob assured you these scuffles were mostly for sport; no one dreamed of attempting to usurp Sam as alpha, and there were never any legitimate plays for power within the pack. People knew their place, and Jacob’s was often peacekeeper. Which, in turn, meant he was batted about like a badminton shuttle every few days when Paul or one of the newest recruits, be it Quil or Colin, lost their temper and decided to go for someone’s throat.

Your phone buzzed dully from within the pocket of your jeans, the backside of your hand scraping against the course denim as you fished the device from the darkness, staring down at the smudges on your screen. An incoming text from Emily Young: Boys home!! :). You grinned to yourself, your teeth grazing your lower lip in an attempt to mask the most of your outward happiness. You began your journey home, the rubber soles of your shoes slipping on the rocks as your hurried gait infringed on your stability, your toes barely grazing grass before your phone was humming once more, this time against the palm of your hand. You glanced downward, your face glowing warmly as you read the two frightfully sharp words: come home. No explanation, no punctuation… something was wrong. You could see it now, playing on the backs of your eyelids as you ran for Emily’s house; Paul’s temperature was rising, his hands quivering at an alarming speed as he fisted them against the smooth wood of Emily’s kitchen table. His lips inched back over his teeth as Jared or Embry continued their assault on him, poking fun at his technique or his speed, Jacob’s hand on his shoulder warning him to calm down as Sam shouted the same from beside Emily, his arm barring her against a counter as her fingers blindly pounded her keyboard, warning you of the danger that awaited you.

You managed a five minute return, your cheeks blazing now from exertion, your lungs constricting heavily in your chest, wringing themselves out like laundry left, forgotten, in the rain. Your sneakers skidded against the rich soil surrounding Emily’s home, your eyes pinpointing the doorway as it was flung open, Jacob’s hands propelling Paul backwards, his gaze lifting quickly from the quaking form of his friend to your face, his expression shifting from one of stern command to a mask of absolute terror. He lifted a hand in your direction, warning you to keep your distance, his eyes bright with fear not for himself, but for you. You’d all seen what can happen when a wolf phases too close to someone less durable.

“Y/n, you need to get out of here- Paul, listen to me, you don’t want to lose it right now, we’re right on Emily’s lawn- Paul! Knock it off, man!” He paused, his hands connecting with Paul’s chest once more, edging him into the woods, the man’s face more feral than civilized, the warmth behind his eyes proving none of Jacob’s words were making an impact. Jacob realized this all too late, his face turning to yours in the seconds before Paul tore free from his skin, erupting into a wolf before you, the shredding sound of his clothes being reduced to strips concealing Jacob’s cry. As soon as Paul’s paws hit the earth, Sam was beside Jacob, pushing him back, barking commands the wolf didn’t seem to hear. Paul pawed the ground, his claws slicing cleanly through the dirt. You’d never been this close to a wolf, not like this. You were used to the warmth of Jacob’s fur, or to Embry running past you, all of them good-natured and entirely safe… but this, this was different. You were staring down the muzzle of a furious animal with teeth longer than your fingers and a body approximately the size of an adolescent grizzly. Jacob’s arm shot in front of you, his hand open before you, his voice slow and quiet as Paul released an ear-splitting snarl. You fought to hear him over the commotion, his head barely angled to yours. “Y/n, I need you in that house, do you hear me? I need you to walk… slowly towards Emily.” Your eyes, though they wanted so fiercely to remain pinned to the immediate threat, darted to the front door, where Emily’s hand was outstretched towards you. She was so far away. “Walk slowly, Y/n, and when you think you can run, I need you to run. You’re gonna be fine.” His hand closed around your waist, his eyes never leaving Paul, inching you in the direction of Emily’s house, his body completely obstructing the sight of Sam’s phase. When you were able to peek around Jacob’s shoulder, the two wolves were locked in each others’ sights, their snouts nearly touching.

You stepped beyond Jacob’s foot, watching both pairs of ears tweak towards the sound of your footfall, Paul’s head unbent, his freewill still active. Sam hated giving alpha commands, and now was no excuse. You had two wolves, one of which had already phased, between you and Paul’s temper tantrum… you would be alright. For a moment, it seemed you would be safe. Your eyes on Emily’s, you took another step, Jacob’s head turning towards yours. Emily’s eyes were shining wetly, horror painting her features. It was obvious she was reliving the day she was scarred, only this time she imagined you in her position. Sam, seeing his job of diffusing the explosive was under control, turned from Paul, watching you walk to the front door, still an eternity away. But Paul hadn’t calmed down. His motives were unknown; perhaps he was irritated that everyone was treating him like a lit firework, or perhaps he was angry with himself and saw Sam as an outlet through which to act on his shame, but he lunged for the black wolf, knocking him backwards. Jacob was on all fours in an instant, taking Sam’s position before Paul as the pack’s leader regained his balance. Emily was on the front step now, yelling for you to run, but you were immobilized by fear. Jacob’s teeth were snapping near Paul’s throat, the both of them quarreling on their hind legs as Sam approached. Paul evaded Jacob’s attack, his back to the woods, trapped. He threw himself against Jacob, who ducked away from the attack as Sam closed his teeth around Paul’s flank. A yelp of pain and an instinctual return left Sam hurdling in your direction. Your feet began to move, to run to Emily, but not before the immense weight of the second-largest wolf collided with the left half of your body.

You heard a cry of terror from Emily, an extended shout of your name, over the roaring battle ongoing somewhere beyond the mass of heat and obsidian fur. You were knocked to the ground as easily as if you were a feather caught in a gale, and Sam landed soundly on top of you. You heard the numerous crunches before you felt them, your torso ablaze with unimaginable pain within seconds. By the time you had registered the sharp snaps as broken bones, Sam was struggling to lift himself from you, his movements spawning another, more solid crunch, and your leg bent at an awkward angle. Thankfully, your pain was rather short-lived, considering the position Sam held above you. Sam had crushed the air from your lungs, and your breathlessness, accompanied by the agony of most of your ribs breaking, submerged your world in ink. You heard nothing more of Emily’s screaming, no more growling and vicious bites. It was quiet. Jacob’s voice filtered over the numbness, if only for a moment, a mere whisper beyond the water.

You woke to the warmth encasing your hand, followed by the sensation of another genre of encasement. Your left leg was unable to flex. You wiggled your toes, your ears picking up on a mechanical beeping, a quiet humming, and a low voice beside your ear. The words were unintelligible, but as they drew you from sleep, you grew to recognize the speaker. You clenched your jaw, inhaling deeply in preparation for a yawn- but the pain, the pain split your body in two. Your eyes flew open, the air rushing from your lungs, your hand moving to press against your side, but you were tethered to a machine measuring the time between heartbeats, a glowing clamp closed around your finger. Jacob’s palm smoothed over your hair, his eyes sympathetic.

“Not so fast. Small breaths, okay?” You nodded, groggy, your vision focusing more clearly on his face. He had a scrape along his brow, and he was sitting in  way that looked like he’d done something to his shoulder, but his attention was fully on you. He sighed, absorbing the state of your body as your eyes flitted about the hospital room, over the lump beneath the sheets that was undoubtedly your broken leg. Your voice crackled and broke when you spoke, your volume barely above a whisper, but Jacob was attentive enough to decipher your speech.

“How… bad… is it?” you grumbled, your head spinning from the effort and lack of air. Jacob grimaced, his warm eyes on yours.

“Your femur is broken, pretty cleanly so it should heal fine. Three fractured ribs and a sprained wrist.” You moved your fingers, feeling the dull ache in your wrist to accompany his words. “If it makes you feel any better, Paul would be in a hospital bed too, if he wasn’t running a temperature that should mean he’s dead.” You furrowed your brows, your head tilting painfully at Jacob’s words. He shook his head slightly, his thumb rubbing circles in your uninjured hand. “I dislocated his shoulder, may have bit him more than was necessary. I thought…” he paused, his voice choking off, his hands going still on yours, trembling almost unnoticeably. “I thought that when he pushed Sam on top of you, when I heard the-” again, he paused, swallowing to bide his time, “When I heard your bones breaking, I thought you were dead. Wolves are heavy, and you’re so fragile… I was gonna kill him, Y/n, but we could hear your heartbeat as soon as Sam moved off of you. You’ve been out for about three hours while the doctors set your leg and patched you up.” You grimaced, your tongue dry and heavy in your mouth. Jacob continued, his head bobbing towards the door. “You’ve got some visitors, too. Emily’s beside herself; if I were you, I’d expect a whole lot of sympathy meals. Paul’s here, too, to apologize. Sam too.” He scratched his head, smiling weakly. “I mean, the whole pack’s outside. We all feel awful. Paul’ll never hear the end of it.” You chuckled, which hurt like Hell, your halfhearted laughter easing into pained exhales.

“Good,” you whispered, watching Jacob’s eyes sparkle dimly, his lips moving over the same word, his hands smoothing the pain from your body in small, sweet circles. Your exhaustion took hold of you, aided by the rhythmic beeping of your heart, carrying you off to a heavily-medicated slumber.

Written On Our Hearts

(A/N: This is for that anon who requested an Alex x Reader soulmate AU! The prompt was that if you write on your skin with ink, it shows up on the skin of your soulmate as well. I’ve decided to make this multichapter, so here’s chapter one. Enjoy!)

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Chapter One: Tampons

It’s such a pain in the ass to have the most forgetful soulmate in the world, Alex realized one morning. He’d wake up to a number of things scrawled all over his arms, from appointments to doodles and honestly was his soulmate ten years old, or what? Today, there was a list up to his elbow of groceries. Alex groaned. He did not want to go down to breakfast with the word “tampons” emblazoned across his forearm, underlined and circled with red pen. He went further down the list, and at the end was the ever present “sorry about this again” from his other half. Some other half, Alex thought. He pulled on a sweater, and went down to breakfast.

Erik was pouring milk into a bowl, and looked up at Alex’s arrival. He raised an eyebrow in greeting, and Alex scoffed derisively in return. After Cuba, Alex always felt vaguely threatened by Erik’s presence, but Charles looked at him like he hung the moon, so he never complained. Out loud, anyway. In all honesty, Alex didn’t really believe in the whole soulmate business until Erik and Charles. Polar opposites, the two of them were, but they gravitated towards each other without even trying.

It happened on the beach, after Charles was shot. Erik was cradling his head in his lap, and Charles just murmured out “2 1 4 7 8 2” and for a moment, it seemed like Erik was the one with a bullet in his back.

“What?” Erik choked out. “What did you say?”

“I’ve had those same numbers on my arm since I was young,” Charles said, smiling through his tears.

“It’s you,” Erik gasped. Charles reached up to caress Erik’s face.

“I found you.”

And then Erik kissed him, and the whole thing made Alex want to wrestle someone in a pool of beer to reaffirm his masculinity.

After they were all home safe, he went to Charles about the words that kept appearing on his skin, and the man just smiled knowingly. Alex understood that his soulmate was supposed to be the great love of his life (ew), but frankly, he was more than a little pissed off at being used as a human notepad. So, he did what he was best at. He ignored her.

Alex stretched to grab a bowl from the cabinet, and his sweater rode up, revealing the list of items on his arm. Erik snorted at him as he poured himself a bowl.

“Tampons?” Erik questioned, lightly.

“Fuck off.” Alex grumbled, shoving a spoonful of cereal in his mouth. Erik grinned.

“Is it your time of the month?” Erik asked mockingly. Alex glowered, but didn’t say anything. Finishing off his cereal, Alex walked down to the lab, looking to brighten his mood. Hank was asleep on his desk, glasses askew. He was surrounded by a myriad of important looking papers. Alex grinned; this was almost too easy.

“FIRE!” he yelled, in the sleeping scientist’s ear. Hank woke up with a roar, and then Alex was on the floor, covered with a mass of blue fur.

“Alex,” Hank, now the Beast, growled warningly. Alex groaned on the floor.

Not as funny as I thought it would be.” he bit out, the wind knocked out of him. They lay there for a moment, Hank and Alex.

“So…” Hank started, breaking the silence, “tampons?”

-

(A/N: And so we begin! Stay posted for what comes next!)

Mr. Lonely

Crowley imagine requested by anon! “Could you do a Crowley imagine where you are let alone in the bunker so you go to talk to Crowley because you got super bored and when the guys get back they ind you two laughing and chatting and then tell you that you should get back upstairs soon (nicely though cause they’re being kinda overprotective not jerks) and then they leave and you sneak a kiss with Crowley and thank him for the distraction and promise to visit again before you follow them? I really love your Crowley imagines :)” This is the first installment to a series, and will be outfitted with links to continuations as they are posted. This imagine has been edited for reposting to add details where I’d left them out, plump up the writing, the usual. Hope you like it!

This imagine has been continued in “Forming Habits” and “Conflicting Emotions”

Life in the bunker was similar to being thrown back to the early fifties with nothing to remind you of the present (excusing your clothing, your cell phone, and your mostly-equal rights). Your world was overrun with antiques, dust, and elderly electronics. You were sat in an ancient leather armchair, pondering the year of most of the furnishings’ creation, your mind occasionally wandering back to the subject you were most desperately attempting to avoid; modern day. Staring up at the ceiling. you would envision the crystal lights and streamers casting the night sky into glorious, abstract colour as the ball dropped in New York. Admiring the strength of the wall’s paintjob would bring your mind to the roar of the masses, everyone’s lips fining a home in someone else’s, the throng of people spanning miles into the distance. In short, you were moping, dreaming of everything you were missing in the dreary absence of cable television. Life was a bore, to be frank, when you couldn’t busy yourself with decapitating vampires or stabbing vetalas, when you were forced to accept the silence of the bunker as your lowly prison. With Sam and Dean gone, you were spending New Year’s alone in the Men Of Letters library, slowly wasting away to add to the dust, fading away without any stimulation, no books to explore outside of the dusty volumes of tedious lore. Tonight was not the night for research. Tonight was supposed to be spent with someone, anyone… not alone. Your family was out saving the world; shooting and swearing and throwing punches, covering themselves in a generous coating of someone else’s blood… nothing outside of the usual, at least for those boys. You felt a slight pang of betrayal, being left to die in this Godforsaken bunker without a soul to share a word with, no company to be seen. You would have given your last breath to be out hunting with the Winchesters, just to take your mind off of your complete and utter separation from the world. Hell, you’d even talk to a demon, if it meant surviving the night without losing every last remaining scrap of your sanity.

And, lucky you, you had one locked away behind an impenetrable wall of filing cabinets.

You shot up in your chair, body rigid as the idea took hold of your muscles. Should you risk conversation with someone as charismatic as the King of Hell himself, someone as dangerous? He was exactly the type to talk himself out of prison, and you were exactly the type to watch him walk free, unknowingly under his spell. The demon had been… less than what you’d been trained to think of his race, and with the right jumble of words, he might grow onto your good side. You knew it wasn’t advised, engaging a demon in conversation, but with the current lack of “respectable” company… the idea was almost mouthwatering. You’d been cooped away from civilization for far too long to make a rational decision on the matter… the days of loneliness were beginning to ebb away at your professionalism and resolve. And of course, what Sam and Dean didn’t know couldn’t possibly hurt them. Or you, for that matter. Crowley was trapped well enough that your hypothetical visit would put you in no danger to any physical advances; the real threat was the demon’s voice. You stood, joints creaking like rusty door hinges as you stretched, hazy black splotches fizzling in and out of your vision as your body adjusted itself to standing after an extended amount of time spent slumped over the armrest. By the time your muscles had uncoiled and your bones remembered their mobility, you were well on your way to the filing room.

You crept with practiced stealth towards Crowley’s holding pen, your feet whispering against the wooden floorboards, ignoring hotspots to ensure your silence remained uninterrupted. Though you knew yourself to be completely alone in the bunker (that was the problem, after all), the need to mask your intentions was strong. You felt as if phantom Winchesters were breathing down your back, preparing to jump atop you and drag you back to the lonely, entertainment-void library, all for the sake of safety. Thankfully, no such figments appeared. You stepped over the threshold and into the dungeon, closing the doors behind you, the off-chance of the brothers’ return spooking you into the simplest precaution you had in your range of sight. You proceeded towards the false wall, cabinets guarding your salvation, your hands fluttering over the chilled metal, body hesitating, though your mind was set in it’s decision. You threw concern to the wind before you pressing your body weight into the entrance, sliding the shelves out of your way to reveal the monster’s downgraded throne, complete with Devil’s trap and chains. In the center of the room, perched with relative comfort on the less-than comfortable chair, was the handsome demon in question, his grin riddled with sarcasm and tinged with surprise. You stepped into his chamber, closing the steely cabinets behind you, locking the bunker from view with the screech of metal on concrete, before turning to face him, a hand awkwardly placed on your hip. He shifted in his seat, chains rattling with a metallic whisper, his lips pressed into a thin smile, chocolate eyes boring into yours with confidence and confusion.

“Come to torture me, have you?“ he began, his scraggly accent exhausted from lack of use, voice crackling like logs on a bonfire as his ocal chords warmed. He smirked, tipping his head to the side, exuding an arrogance that in no way matched up with his circumstances. "I was certain you’d take the holiday off,” he oozed, his voice unintentionally seductive, a trademark you’d picked up on, used solely to endanger the willpower and strength of mind of his… clients. Unfortunately, it was working wonders on your composure. You rolled your eyes, inhaling deeply before crossing the sigil-etched floor to his small table, your palms settling against the smooth metal surface, fingetips absorbing the ice that resided in the material.

“Don’t tempt me,” you warned, your chest rising and falling with the force of your sigh, your threat carrying little power when paired with  the fatigue in your voice. Hell, your posture practically screamed desperation. your petty ploys for power were useless, especially when your endeavor was meant to be friendly. “I came to talk. I figured you’d be as lonely as I was, if not lonelier. No one should be by themselves during the holidays,” you explained, your voice gradually gaining volume as you reminded yourself of your safety, the brothers unable to teleport into the bunker to stop your little get-together. There was no need for secrecy in the fortress when you and Crowley were the only occupants. His eyebrows raised, lips pulling into a fuller grin as he tilted his face to yours. He raised a shackled hand, gesturing to the corner of the table, chains chuckling against themselves as he moved.

“Please, have a seat. Sorry about the mess,” he joked, eyeballing the blood splatters tainting his otherwise pristine suit jacket, the crisp ebony collars speckled with a slightly darker hue. You obliged, sitting on the very edge of the table, all sense of danger fleeing with his cordiality. There were no thoughts of trickery, no sense of concern; Crowley was docile, at least in this moment, and you had absolutely nothing to fear from the man. His lips spread to reveal his teeth as he smiled up at you, your eyes dropping to the raw skin surrounding the collar on his neck, signs of the torturous actions against him, a jolt of pain and regret touching your heart. He seemed to be conscious of your gaze, shifting in his seat util his collar rose to cover his injury, clearing his throat. “What shall we talk about, then, love?” You couldn’t help but grin, relieved that you hadn’t been turned away by the man, or… well, demon, that you had taken part in torturing (even if it was strictly professional), his good graces following you despite your shattered innocence. You licked your lips as you thought, easing into a comfortable position on the table as you did so, your body relaxing in the peaceful environment.

“What’s it like, Hell?” You spoke, voice inquisitive and soft, watching the demon’s reaction to your words. His expressions were far more… open, when a knife wasn’t pressed to his throat. You took note; the man responded well to friendly conversation. “I mean, for you. Can you change everything with, I don’t know, a snap of your fingers? Or do you have to go through renovations… is that outside of your department?” He dipped his head and chuckled, his chains stirring against each other when he moved his head, overwhelmed by your endless stream of questions, your curiosity amusing him. He had such a lovely laugh…

“Darling, I’m the King. I can do whatever I want. If I wanted Hell painted pink, which I don’t, by the way, just speaking hypothetically, the entire place would be drenched with Pepto bismol by the end of the day. That’s what the sinners are for.” He smirked, leaning forward in his chair, his wrists resting on the table’s edge, his eyes locking on yours. “To reiterate, King of Hell. I’m not above slave labour.” You playfully rolled your eyes at his logic, inching closer to him, your comfort levels rising. Your discussion was disrupted by the buzzing of your cell phone, the device humming away from within your pocket. You had set your alarm for five minutes to midnight, just so you could celebrate at the proper time… alone. You silenced your device, refocusing your attention on the demon before you.

“Why spend all that time up here, then? You’re a God in Hell, why settle up here?” you inquired, interested in his reasoning. He snorted, raising his handcuffed wrists, displaying his bindings.

“Well, I had imagined I’d be in a similar position topside. Then you showed up,” he laughed, his hands falling into his lap as you winced, chuckles racking his body. “In all seriousness, love, Hell is Hell, no matter my status. I’d rather be up here. Fewer complaints, less gore. Not to mention the climate’s more… agreeable.” he paused, locking your eyes with his own, a spark of mischief burning brightly within. “Hellfire’s a bit like a perpetual sunburn, you see.” Your conversation continued in this manner; questions met with sarcasm and honesty on both sides, your inquiries fading into laughter. Crowley himself was infected by your giggles, his unsure chuckles transforming into full-fledged bellowing laughter, his body shaking with the force of his voice. Everything was going so well, especially considering Crowley’s reputation, and everything was ruined by the click of a pistol behind you.

“Alright, Y/n, party’s over. Why don’t you head to your room, get some sleep.” Dean, his weapon raised and ready to fire, growled from behind gritted teeth, his eyes focused on Crowley. You had been so distracted by your company that you hadn’t even noticed the creaking of their entry, the earsplitting groan of metal had flown under your radar. Your laughter,, you assumed, had not flown under theirs; thus, you had blown your own cover. Fantastic. Sam emerged from behind the cabinet, gun raised to mirror his brother’s stance, their posture radiating their need to shield you, to wrench you from the monster’s clasps, though his hands were bound. You sighed, turning back to Crowley with a regretful expression, which he returned, ignoring the brothers completely.

“Sweet dreams,” he whispered in farewell, your hips scootching off of the table, Sam and Dean turning as you stood, positive your movement ensured you would follow. You heard a grandfather clock chime the strike of twelve from the library, your eyes flitting to Crowley’s once more, his head turned towards the sound, his eyes on you. The brothers had turned the corner, assuming you were at their heels, clearing the coast for a course of action you couldn’t deny was ripping at the back of your head. Crowley licked his lips… and your instincts overtook your rational thinking. You made a beeline for Crowley’s mouth, your lips molding to his with giddy urgency, body rigid in shock before melting into movement, his hands rattling in his lap as he struggled to bring them to your cheeks, his tongue sweeping over  your lower lip, your head tilting to better fit his embrace. Your lips parted, your mind foggy with the sweet aftertaste of newfound affection, a feeling you couldn’t dwell on, not tonight. You took a step back from the King’s new throne, turning on your heel before striding towards the cabinets, turning back towards the demon only to gaze at his bewildered smile.

“Happy New Year,” you returned, easing the cabinets closed, leaving only a sliver open. His eyes found yours through the slice of open space, his smile broadening. He winked at you, settling back into his chair with heightened confidence, before you shut him away, your hands resting against the metal doorway. You imagined your loneliness would make you well-acquainted with these doors. The clock’s tolls faded into silence, Crowley’s quiet, breathless chuckle filling the silence that followed.

"That it is,” he chuckled, his voice just above a whisper, chains rattling as you walked away from the dungeon, your lips tingling.

[Fic][Drabble/Prompt Challenge] Trample

Title: Trample
Prompt: Move
Pairing: Jikook
Genre: Action, Crossover (sort of; you’ll see), Humor, too, I guess (at least, I found it kind of humorous; but my humor sometimes is well… lol)
Word Count: 1888
Note: Kind of based it off that ‘loses x in a crowd’ meme, and a Jimin/Jungkook version I’ve seen in the Jikook tag.
Warning: Some swearing.

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With its C2 coronagraph instrument, SOHO captured a blossoming coronal mass ejection as it roared into space from the right side of the Sun (Dec. 28, 2013). SOHO also produces running difference images and movies of the Sun’s corona in which the difference between one image and the next (taken about 10 minutes apart) is highlighted.

This technique strongly emphasizes the changes that occurred. Here we have taken a single white light frame and shift it back and forth with a running difference image taken at the same time to illustrate the effect.

Credit: SOHO (ESA & NASA)

DAY 3214

Jalsa, Mumbai .                Jan 15,  2017 .               Sun . 10:29 pm





Birthday - EF - Rasha Zayed//EF Krishna Ramdas  ...greetings my dear Ef’s on your birthday as it comes a day after the auspicious ‘MakarSankranti’, the day of the harvesting after a good crop season .. of celebration and music and dance .. may all this be ever in you lives .. god bless !!!





And so there is Sunday like any other .. another walk down the corridor of the driveway pictures being clicked, and an expression of anticipation and fear ..  anticipation and fear, for the expectation of the presence of them that shower love and happiness ever .. 

The gate doors open, a scream of recognition goes up from them that occupy the front row in the barricade outside the Jalsa gate, and reaches a crescendo of excited screams as I climb onto the platform specially built, so those at the back can see me , and those in fornt can feel even closer, with their banners and likes .. I do love all of you that take the trouble to come each Sunday with hope and a blessing and peace ..I do meet them and oblige them with passess, but getting the passes is an immature method of giving awards to them that have wished to see the ceremonies on the world of film ..

Some of the Ef designated at the special corner of the wooden gate, are immediately recognised - AG, Dipal, Zafar, Prashant and others holding attractive placards .. sweet and so endearing .. a push come shive occurs from the left to the right .. a surge that could become uncomfortable to the people in front …. but it all stabilizes .. some at the back and at the top of the buildings in front get their balconies filled with guests that visit them on a Sunday .. they respond .. they feel I shall not observe them, but I do … I notice all .. even though they may think that I do not, but I do .. some are the regulars, some not so but recognisable .. that excited human holding up my Mother’s picture, needs to come in I think .. he is vociferous in his demand .. but I have guests over and we need to finish the well wishers meet soon .. some Ef that have wished to meet me for days are there, but I cannot .. I do however meet up with Prabir  from Ahmedabad, confined to a wheel chair, earlier in the day .. Fatima had sent requests .. I complied .. hope you are happy Fats .. hehe

Hmmmm .. there is a great amount of ‘hehehe’ and ‘hahaha’ in these posts .. its not that I am going nuts, but is a fact that the space available at times when I respond or reply to some and not to the others, they immediately, having access to other modes of communication, complain or ask pertinent questions ..

‘Do you not see me ..’ ; ‘have you forgotten me or us ..’ ; ‘have we done something wrong, are you annoyed with us ..’

NO ..

I am not annoyed or angry or have forgotten anyone .. you must have patience and do not jump to conclusions .. I have not been on this BLOG till 3214 days non stop to forget people .. you are there ever .. 

Patince ..

And faith in my trust .. 

yes there are many that been permanent and left .. out of anxiety, out of anger, out of the supposed disinterest by me .. but all of this is so completely wrong !

Leave them that design ..leave them to sign and keep abreast of the presence they make their habitat .. leave them that desperately nurture the best for themselves through means other than talent and excellence of creativity .. leave them to work at their achievements in getting recognition .. recognition comes from just one source .. that one source that dissolves the trees of their shade and presents it to us each week, fortnight, month, year ..

It is strange and it is meticulously fortified by guile and cunning .. for the purpose is not to reward .. the purpose is commercial  .. and so be it .. 

That rare photograph that shall be taken shall fetch some dear friends’ existence .. give it to him .. and walk in peace ..

The roar of that special recognition from the mass, is all .. live for that .. nothing more ..

My love ..

Amitabh Bachchan

Procrastination in 10 Ways [pt. 2]: Memory Lane

Part << Prologue // 1 // 2 // 3 // 4 // 5 // 6 // Epilogue >>


Summary: Leaving him was something you should’ve but didn’t do. Loving you with all his heart was something he should’ve but didn’t do. When two procrastinators such as you guys meet and fall in love, you should’ve known the end was coming. And when the end did arrive, you should’ve known that it wasn’t really the final conclusion.

Characters: Park Jimin x Reader (you)

Genre: angst, possibly fluff later on idk hmu

Word Count: 2654

A/N: gahh im sorry for the long wait, i was gonna update yesterday but i got distracted >.< i hope it’s worth it !! p.s. I HAVE SO MANY IDEAS FOR NEW SERIES IM SO EXCITED ASFDGJLFHK PLS LOOK FORWARD TO THEM. FEEDBACK APPRECIATED


“Jimin-ah, you have to forget me.”

“I can’t”


“I’m married.”

Everything in Jimin’s world seemed to come to a screeching halt, and the low hum in his head from the alcohol exploded into a roaring cacophony, the mass of swinging bodies blending into one another in his peripherals. Your face came in and out of focus before his eyes, and he suddenly felt nauseated. Swinging unstably, he felt your cool fingers grip his arms firmly as he threatened to collapse.

“What?”

“I’m married, Park Jimin.”

He heard those words flow out of your mouth again, about as innocent as a forceful shove against his windpipe. He watched the sentence form on your lips, and listened to the vibrations of your voice bring that fact to life, yet it still seemed so surreal, so impossible that you had moved on from him, leaving him standing alone, helpless, in his memories and hopes. Yet everything, the ring, your surprise to see him, pointed to the truth that you now belonged to another man.

You spoke again as his face morphed into an ashy tone, “Jimin, are you okay? You look a little pal–”

Before you could finish your question, Jimin hunched over and vomited on the floor before your feet, making you jumped back instinctively from the pungent spray of alcohol and whatever he had for lunch.

“Oh!” you exclaimed, and Jimin stumbled sideways a few steps away from you, swaying dangerously close to the mess on the floor. To restrain him from embarrassing himself any further, you grabbed at his sleeve, taking a fistful of the material and pulling him up.

But Jimin reacted violently to your touch, ripping himself from your grasp quickly,  “Let me go! You shouldn’t touch me, what would your husband think?” he questioned, eyes wide as if he had just committed a felony. Then the alcohol took over his body again in another wave as he lurched forward again and gagged.

“Stop saying that!” you ordered, and reached for him, this time holding onto his hand, the calluses on his palms rough and familiar. “You’re drunk! We’re taking you home.”

Jimin didn’t reply, but only grumbled a string of words you couldn’t make out clearly. You took that as him vaguely giving you permission to rescue him from the chaos, and guided him away from the bar. You tried to not acknowledge the lingering gazes as you propped him on your shoulder, weighing you down significantly. Leading him out the club entrance, you waved a hand at the bartender and smiled apologetically as you asked her clean up the mess.

Stepping out into the humid August night, you wrinkled your nose as the stench of bile and vomit radiated off of him. You trotted rapidly towards your car with Jimin staggering behind you like a disobedient puppy, pulling against your grip and whining the entire way down the bustling streets of Seoul. As the shiny white body of your car slowly materialized into view, you unlocked the doors and shoved his now tired body inside, then quickly crossing over towards the drivers side. Settling down behind the steering wheel, you casted a slanted glance at Jimin beside you, who was slumped into the passenger seat, eyes shut and lips slightly agape with light slumber. You sighed exasperatedly and placed your forehead on the steering wheel in defeat.

Your phone suddenly beeped, and the screen lit up with a new text message.

Yoongi <3:

When are you coming home, honey? I miss you ): And what do you want for dinner??

Groaning loudly, you suddenly remembered that you had promised your husband that you guys would enjoy a lovely couple dinner tonight. Forcing your brain to work at its top speed, you attempted to create other solutions for sending Jimin home. Maybe you could call a taxi for him? But Jimin isn’t even conscious enough to speak, how will he pay and drag himself out of the vehicle after they arrive? Or perhaps you could get a friend to take him? No, that’s ridiculous, they don’t even know him. And if they do, certainly they will notify Yoongi that you were with Jimin, and, strangely, that was the last thing you wished to happen. As each plan you managed to conjure up was quelled by something that could go wrong, you glared at Jimin’s unconscious figure besides you, gaze so heated that it seemed to be able to burn a hole through his skin. Out of all days, you had to show up today.

But deciding that you had no better choice, you typed on the vibrant screen unwillingly.

To: Yoongi <3,

Sorry, baby ): Something suddenly came up at work. Order something and eat without me. So sorry again… love you

You leaned against the headrest of your seat, desperately trying to think of some way to compensate Yoongi later, but drawing up blank. Frustration coursed through your veins as your phone sounded again.

Yoongi <3:

Okay… I hope it’s not too bad. Don’t stress yourself out, I’ll save you some food.

You stared out the front glass of your car at the night sky, its deep hue enveloping the noisy city, trying to grasp in your head what had made you choose Jimin over Yoongi, your husband, to devote your time to tonight, and why you didn’t have enough courage to tell Yoongi the truth. He had been your emotional fortress ever since your divorce. He cared for you when you couldn’t muster up enough motivation to even complete the simple task of eating, and made sure you were doing well, that you had a sufficient amount of fresh fruit in your fridge and that your clothes were warm enough. Most importantly, while others looked at you as a woman who was incompetent to even keep her own marriage alive, Yoongi couldn’t care less what your history was. All he knew was that he loved you and that would suffice for him. As you sulked in the upholstery of the driver’s seat, guilt gnawed at you, turning and twisting your insides uncomfortably. Shaking away the thoughts that grappled at your conscious, you plugged the key into the slot and turned on the the ignition.

The street lights along road casted a orange glow on Jimin’s features, and you had to gather up everything in your being to keep yourself from getting distracted by him and focus on the wide roads ahead. He looked older, more mature, than the last time you had seen him almost a year ago. Perhaps that was because he had just been fighting with you then. Maybe it was because he had chosen another woman over you even though he swore his faithfulness to you at the alter. You tried your best to ignore the memories that were starting to replay before your mind’s eye and gripped the steering wheel more firmly.

Weaving through the endless traffic and lines of vehicles, you abruptly remembered that you had no idea where you were taking Jimin or where he lived. Letting an irritated exhale escape your lips, you elbowed Jimin a bit.

“Yah, Park Jimin.”

“Mmm,” he hummed and shifted in his seat, his head now leaning against the car windows.

“Where do you live? Give me the address.”

Jimin turned his face towards the direction of your voice, although still refusing to open his eyes, and mumbled a string of barely detectable words. “548 Orchard St. It’s in this city.”

Where the hell is that?


“Yah, Park Jimin, did you gain weight?”

You gritted your teeth together as you struggled to lift him on your petite shoulders, a cacophony of footsteps bouncing off the walls of the narrow staircase as he clumsily climbed up the steps with your aid, his head lolling onto your shoulder. You had thought that after finally finding your way through the maze of streets that fortified Jimin’s apartment, you would be able to easily drop him off in his apartment and head back to your own little haven. But much to your dismay, you found yourself confronted with a looming ten story residential building, his unit being on the topmost floor of course, and a broken elevator.

Bending over to catch your breath, you glanced at Jimin, whose arm was swung your shoulder and face pink with the tinge of alcohol. You then checked the door number of the apartment before you to make sure it matched with the one he told you. It did.

“Where are your keys?”

Jimin managed a drunken grumble and patted his jacket pocket, and you reached into the fabric to retrieve it. The door clicked open with a satisfying click as you turned the lock, and you stumbled inside.

Kicking your shoes at the door, you weren’t quite sure what to expect as you slipped into the rather spacious room, but you knew that you certainly didn’t expect it to be arranged in exactly the same way as the small house you had shared with him during your marriage. Slightly taken back by the similarity, you shuffled slowly towards a large window, inclining forward to examine the various photo frames standing on the white windowsill. Your own face smiled back at you from behind the glass covers, radiating off a kind of happiness that you had forgotten Jimin was capable to triggering in you. You also observed the Jimin’s face in those photographs, and in every of them he was gazing at you, as if completely mesmerized by your presence, your smile. You had not seen those pictures in such long time that you had nearly forgotten they existed, or when you took them, or what the context of those photos were. They used to be spread out throughout your previous house, and seeing them once again triggered a strange, fuzzy feeling in your chest. But it also saddened you a bit to see that Jimin had not thrown them away yet.

A tired cough erupted from Jimin’s lips, and you suddenly felt his weight on his shoulders again as you were snapped out of your thoughts. Recalling the real reason you had come to his apartment, you straightened and turned away from the photographs. Spotting the nearest appropriate furniture to deposit Jimin on, which happened to be his couch, you limped over strenuously and flopped him down on the soft material. He groaned loudly as his body came in contact with the couch with a thud.

You left him on the furniture, trotting around the house in search for the kitchen. Upon discovering it tastefully decorated with modern designs and neatly aligned equipment, you filled a glass with water and brought it to the couch with careful steps as the liquid sloshed to and fro around the rim. Jimin was sprawled out, one leg dangling over the back of the furniture, sound asleep.

“Jimin-ah,” you shook his shoulder, and he stirred slightly, murmuring in response, but showed no signs of wanting to wake up. Sighing, you set the glass of water on the coffee table beside him and stared at his resting figure. His shirt was stained with vomit, and deep creases overtook the starchy white material. Seeing that you had already come so far, it couldn’t hurt to retrieve a clean change of clothes for him right? So despite all the objections from your brain, you padded your way to his bedroom.

His room was not much, consisting of nothing but a closet and a large bed covered in creamy white duvet. Sliding the heavy wooden doors aside, you cracked open a drawer in his closet, and gathered the first shirt you saw into your sore arms. Then, during your search for some comfortable pants for him to change into, you stumbled upon another unexpected sight.

You pinched the dark, worn fabric between your fingers and lifted it out of its storage place. The sweet perfume you used to favor still lingered on the material, although slightly masked by Jimin’s scent, which was still unchanged. Sinking down into a corner of his bed, you gawked at the old sweatshirt, and at Jimin’s inability to get rid of your memories. It wasn’t healthy for himself, or for you, to have him trapped in the past, not capable of pulling himself into reality and moving on, perhaps finding himself another girl who will make up for his lost time with you. You placed the sweater back, not wanting to see what other possessions of yours he had still not thrown away, and turned to trot back into the living room.

Jimin had woken up and was standing in his bedroom doorway, gaze unmoving from your back profile as you shut the drawer closed. You jumped at his sudden appearance, and placed a hand on your chest to calm your racing heart. He scanned your face warily, seeking for a reaction. Running your fingers through your hair, you sighed, profound and long.

“Why did you not throw them away?”

He bowed his head and allowed his weight to be supported by the door frame a bit more, rubbing the grogginess out of his eyes, his head pounding agonizingly from the alcohol.

“I couldn’t.” was all he could choke out.

You closed the distance between your bodies until you were only inches apart, and your warm breath fanned his face. Pushing the pile of clean clothes from your arms into his, you whispered, voice low and firm, “Jimin-ah, you have to forget me.”

Tears began to well up in his eyes, and you watched as he squeezed his eyes closed, praying to whatever greater being out there that when he opened them again everything would vanish like a dream, that you would still be with him, that you guys never divorced. But to his utter disappointment, when his eyelids eased apart, you were still staring at him sympathetically, hand resting on his shoulders as an attempt to comfort him.

“I can’t.”

“Try harder. It will be alright in the end, I promise. Go out and meet some new people, socialize. You can’t do this to yourself, Jimin-ah. It hurts, doesn’t it?”

You examined his face, his expression wavering a tiny bit as your words tried to sway his feelings. He knew that he should do exactly as you say, make new friends, fall in love, get married to someone else. But it all seemed meaningless, negligible, for his heart was still calling out for the one person he couldn’t, and shouldn’t, approach.

“It hurts. But I still can’t do it.”

Your heart dropped, and it ached for the vulnerable man, boy, who stood before you, having been tormented by you involuntarily for the past year. But you couldn’t do anything for him, no matter how much you wanted him to wake up from this useless dream, to snap back into reality. So the only and best thing you could do was leave.

Pushing past him, you paced across the apartment to the door, stepping into your shoes. Against his better discretion, Jimin followed you, and as you pulled the door open to depart, he reached out his hand and grabbed your wrist, keeping you back.

“Can’t you stay a little while longer?”

You glanced at his desperate expression, almost having an childlike innocence, as he gripped you, eyes begging. And you almost obliged.

But Yoongi’s face flashed before your eyes, and you remembered how it felt when his smile could practically melt you into pieces, and the way he held you on sleepless nights when your insomnia kicked in, rocking you in his arms until your eyelids grew heavy. You recalled that night after your wedding when Yoongi tenderly caressed your face, the covers pulled up to your shoulders, and vowed that he would cherish you for as long as he shall live, the way Jimin should’ve but failed to do. You pried Jimin’s fingers gingerly from your wrist.

“Sorry, I have to go. My husband’s waiting.”


Part << Prologue // 1 // 2 // 3 // 4 // 5 // 6 // Epilogue >>

Mass Effect has become more than a franchise, more than a universe constructed of text and pixels, storyboards and code. For players and fans, it’s become something imprinted. Traversing the galaxy, vicariously experiencing the story of a soldier, battlemaster, inept dancer, and unintentional killer of fish, witnessing the triumphs and heartaches of the Normandy crew - all of it has left small subtle scars and lines of wear, evidence of the gauntlet walked and of memories that are often bitter, but oh so deeply sweet.

We’ve been allowed to follow the hero’s journey - to spend numerous hours immersed in the story, becoming familiar with its peoples, with its beauties and harshness, facing ethical dilemas, and in some instances, learning about ourselves and becoming comfortable with our own identity. And the thrill we receive from following the hero is so often the fuel that pushes us to overcome the obstacles and challenges presented in our day-to-day lives.

But what should be noted is that for all that the N7 brand signifies, much of the excitement and empowerment, the inspiration, comes from the collective community - from individuals around the globe who have come together in one manner or another to exchange stories, showcase interpretations in art, fiction, and meta, and simply share the common affection for that whirl and roar of a mass relay.

And there’s joy in that - in being part of all that Mass Effect is and has become.

So when we raise a glass (of Ryncol, of Serrice Ice Brandy, of whatever the beverage of choice happens to be) to Shepard and all the galaxy’s finest, let’s give a nod and a toast to those who contributed in the creation of that universe,… and to one another - for the mutual journey, for the great ride that continues on.

Happy N7 Day. Keelah se’lai.

Essays in Existentialism: Slytherin

I don’t know if you are a Harry Potter fan, but some HP!Clexa maybe?

It was when the weather broke first, completely broke, honestly broke, not fooling around, broke, the genuine break when the snow melted and the sky was blue that promised summer and not another foot of the cold, frozen stuff, that the halls and classrooms and grounds emptied into every inch of grass and sunlight available. Between classes, walking to and fro, venturing out into the world once more, the raucous hoards of students of every age were given new life at the first sign of spring.

Though there was still a chill in the air, no one could be kept indoors. Quills scratched in the lawn, books howled on the benches, games were played beneath the trees as everyone’s only real goal was to avoid the shadows casted by the buildings. Sunlight was a unifying element among the houses and students.

Time ticked by too slowly for Lexa deep in the dungeon during potions. The few windows were obstructed and gave only the most minute assurances that sunlight was here to stay. She could feel her leg jiggle unceremoniously anxious to hear the dismissal.

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It was the morning of December 25, 1941, in Hong Kong. The sun shone bright and warm. Along the road bordered with blood-red flowers strolled a Canadian soldier, steel helmet perched on the back of his head and singing at the top of his voice. Fellow soldiers taking cover in the basement of a house shouted at him, “Take cover - get off the road!” The Canadian shouted back, “It’s a lovely day and it’s Christmas morning.” Then he picked up his song and continued to stroll along the road, to disappear forever.

Who he was, where he came from and what eventually happened to him, the survivors of the Winnipeg Grenadiers who had shouted out to him never did learn. But the unreality of this occasion - the casual, singing soldier strolling along, oblivious to the earth-shaking explosions or the hills of Hong Kong which at that moment were a mass of roaring flames - did not unduly amaze them. It was, so they thought, merely an appropriate part of the greater unreality which was the battle of Hong Kong itself. This does not mean that there was anything unreal about the savage fighting that had gone on for 18 days as 14,000 Canadian, British and Indian troops attempted to hold off 60,000 experienced, superbly trained Japanese troops.

- Toronto Star Weekly, 21 December 1961.

3

39 Hours Inside The Biggest Human Migration On Earth

Looking across this sea of anxious faces, it’s easy to forget this is a holiday. Knotted brows frame weary eyes in a crowd as deep as a football field, all of them waiting to catch a train out of Beijing.

The mass exodus from China’s cities is the roaring crescendo leading up to Chinese New Year, or Spring Festival as it’s known in the country. On paper the holiday can be equated to Thanksgiving, Christmas and New Year’s rolled into one, but on the ground the holiday unfolds on an entirely different scale.
DJWifi BUTTERFLIES Prompt, level 2, Part 2

HOLY FREAKING WORD COUNT, BATMAN!

This took a serious life of it’s own! I don’t even know what happened. I’m just gonna throw away the whole “keep my prompt responses under a certain word count” rule cause, yea, forget that! I’d rather write a story I’m proud of then be held down by meaningless boundaries! This story, I love it. I’m so in love with Alya and Nino even more than before because of it! Next up, LADRIEN LVL 4! SWEET HAWKDADDY, HAVE MERCY!

EDIT: Including link to Part 1.


Alya sat beside her best friend on the bus, scrolling through the submissions fans had made to the Ladyblog. There were so many and it seemed like she’d never make a dent in the numbers at this rate. She had planned on spending the entire weekend glued to her computer in her room, cranking out posts and answering as many questions and requests as she could until a certain black haired friend of hers called her up practically begging her to accompany her on one of her ‘inspiration seeking adventures’.

Alya sighed. She really needed to learn how to say no to that girl. Noticing movement to her left, Alya peeks out of the corner of her eye. Marinette had been fidgeting the entire day, seeming both excited and nervous for the trip to one of the more famous gardens in Paris, but as their bus grew nearer to their destination, the girl seemed downright sick. Her hands were fumbling with her phone, her eyes trained on it like she was waiting for it explode or sprout legs and run away from her. Earlier in the ride, she had received a text message that made her jump and squeak loudly, quickly checking the message before locking her phone and continuing her nervous behavior.

“So…” Alya started, noticing her friend jump at sudden break in their shared silence. “What kind of project are you working on this time? And why the ‘Jardin des Tuileries’? That place is like the biggest tourist attraction around, girl.”

Marinette’s fidgeting intensified.

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PLS HELP ME GET OUT OF THIS FATHER-SON HELL IMAGINE THE UP ROAR THAT WOULD MAKE IN MASS MEDIA ALL MIGHT aLSO SMALL MIGHT BECAUSE SMOL CHILD HELP

ADGGHGFJS I HAVE PAGES OF COMICS DUE FOR MY COMIC CLASS AND EVERY TIME I TRY TO DRAW FOR IT I END UP DRAWING BNHA FANART INSTEAD //yELLS WHY DIDNT MY PROF JUST LET ME DO BNHA INSTEAD OF ORIGINAL *cRIES*

His Hands Were Carved By The Angels

Summary: Katniss Everdeen finds herself desperately searching for presents three days before Christmas. She never expected she’d find exactly what she wanted.

A Christmas one shot and the third installment of 101 Ways To Say I Love You: “No, no, it’s my treat”  

A/N: Rated M for explicit language and sexual innuendo.

With many thanks to my lovely betas @jennagill and @dandelion-sunset and to @myusernamehere for pre-reading.

For @allhailthehutch, who asked for some fluff. Happy (early) birthday, love! And for @lifeloveanddance for the title and inspiration.

@peeta-pit: Tag. You’re it! @yuletideinpanem: thanks for being willing to add this to the collection. 

If you enjoyed this, please stop by and lemme know! And if not… Merry Christmas anyway. ;)

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

His hands were carved by the angels.

Or something.

I don’t know why the thought occurs to me. Blame it on the Christmas carols manically piping over the loudspeakers, because there’s nothing particularly heavenly about my current situation. In fact, this might actually be Hell. It’s three days before Christmas, and here I am, swimming in a cesspool of humanity, dodging elbows and sloppy, uncovered sneezes, as I stalk through the mall in a futile attempt to locate the perfect present from among the detritus of all the shit that’s left.

Maybe it’s desperation, maybe it’s the fact I’m crammed in my thick winter coat like a sausage in its casing, but I’m covered in sweat and ready to say fuck it all when my eyes lock on a kiosk in the middle of the crowded hallway.

Fine. That’s a lie.

They lock on him. And, specifically, on his hands.

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