stupid face and it's not fair and you monster and everything

{PART 18} Who Are You? // Im Jaebum

Originally posted by sugaglos

Pairing: Jaebum x Reader (ft. Jackson & the rest of GOT7)

Genre: Angst, slight fluff

Summary; As you, Jackson and Jaebum come to terms with what’s happening, you get let out of the hospital and taste freedom for the first time since your accident. However, you take one step closer to come face to face with Jaebum once again - to hopefully, once and for all, figure out how you’re going to spend the rest of your life.

Please note that this series contains mentions of road/car accidents, amnesia and cheating.

I update this series every Sunday between 9pm-10pm (U.K Time)

This scenario contains text message imagines ^_^

{Part 1} // {Part 17} {Part 18} {Part 19: Next Week}

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Cursed Child was dumb and here are some reasons why

(warning: spoilers. this probably won’t make sense unless you’ve read the script. far be it from me to recommend this kneazle-vomit of a play, though, so if you haven’t read it, good)

  • the plot is messy, strange, and childish. there’s only one time-turner left!! how will the characters cope when said time-turner is lost? oh lol they’ll just use this other convenient time-turner. for convenient plot points, see also: harry can suddenly speak parseltongue again, because well he just kind of needs to be able to do that
  • Harry cursing “oh dumbledore” without a hint of irony. like really? really
  • the characterisation was a pile of dragon dung and we all freaking know it. let’s break it down into individual characters here because fuck if I can stop at one bullet point for this
  • Hermione: the brightest witch of her age, the constant crusader for the unloved and the unrepresented, whose successful career and capacity for kindness apparently rest in the hands of her romance with Ron Weasley. oh… but wait. it sounds a little familiar, this story. hear me out. let’s see now, a highly intelligent person who falls in love but doesn’t have that love reciprocated, and who then becomes a really fucking mean teacher at Hogwarts through bitterness. sound like anyone we know? fam, they tried to parallel Hermione and Snape. Hermione and Snape. this being the same Snape who sneered in Hermione’s face when she’d been visibly hexed, and made her cry; the same Snape who bullied Neville Longbottom for years, while Hermione muttered instructions under her breath to help him. if you want to tell me that Hermione would ever allow herself to become a Snape parallel then I will kindly invite you to shove a dirigible plum where there’s no lumos solem
  • Harry: when Harry was at his angriest in OOTP, and he’s yelling at Ron and Hermione, there’s one thing we notice. everything he yells is true. he means it. he’s bitter about it and he’s loud and furious, but he doesn’t have the kind of anger that just says anything to cause hurt, that speaks without thinking, not even at this crisis point in his life. are you really going to tell me that the boy who knows down to his bones what it’s like to feel rejected, and misunderstood, and alone, would ever say - even in anger - that he wishes Albus wasn’t his son? I am going to snap wands over this
  • Cedric. and this one burns. because Cedric was brave and he was true, and he had a sense of justice that led him to telling Harry about the way the golden egg worked, and led him to sharing the winning of the triwizard tournament with Harry. he died, he was murdered at the age of seventeen, embodying a sense of justice so strong, an innocence, a goodness. Cedric Diggory - the boy who believed in fairness with an integrity that is astounding - becoming party to the indiscriminate killing and casual torture of the Death Eaters just because he had his head engorged one time… is about as likely as Hagrid stomping on a dragon egg. it’s an insult to who he was and I am going to engorge the entire bodies of the writers of this fucking play so that hopefully they’ll just float away too, with all the grace and likeability of Aunt Marge
  • Voldemort: can we all agree now that Voldemort would not father a child. the idea of him experiencing lust seems out of character; the idea of him giving into a base urge seems more so. it’s too human, too vulgar, too physical; it would associate him with the common and the mainstream in a way that I contend he would find repulsive. Tom Riddle Sr. was trapped by Merope into sex and romance; to have sex would be to bring himself closer to his parents, down to the level of a Muggle and a witch who lacked power and craved love, two things Voldemort could never, ever stand. no. he wouldn’t have sex just because he wanted to; he’d be repelled by the idea. what other reason could there be for him to do the nasty with Bellatrix? to ensure the continuation of his line? that makes even less sense. achieving immortality for Voldemort was always a question of magic, a personal quest. he wouldn’t go for a messy, physical back-up plan. he always thought that he would win. if anything, he would see a child as a future threat, not a security. another being in the world with the promise of his power? he wouldn’t risk it.
  • what the fuck was that trolley witch scene though
  • “for voldemort and valour” are you serious. is there a Gryffindor spy in the Voldemort camp laughing their ass off because they actually managed to get that one through. and are they ten years old
  • overall, the message of the play infuriated me. Delphi was the child of Voldemort, so she was evil. Albus was the child of Harry, so he was good. Scorpius was the son of Draco, so he should have been evil, but Draco’s actually kind of good now and his mother was nice, so he can be good too. where is the complexity? was five hours of drama not enough to find some shades of morality? where is the hope, where is the resonance, in a story that says that good begets good and evil begets evil, and nothing can really change? the Harry Potter book series was about a boy who grew up with something inside him that was utterly evil, and who rejected it, fought against it, changed the path that fate seemed to wish him to walk. not slytherin, not slytherin. we had Regulus Black and Sirius Black, who rejected their pasts, whose heritage and whose House stood for nothing against their principles, their eventual and separate forms of bravery. we had Remus Lupin, who transformed into a monster but never became one, not even after years of rejection and pain. we had the word mudblood, and we watched Hermione fight it, we knew it was ridiculous to label someone based on their blood. and now… we have the Cursed Child. a play which is flat, and stupid, and tells us that your parentage inevitably dictates your character - and that how you’re treated is how you’ll treat others. dear writers, in the words of Albus Dumbledore, you fail to recognise that it matters not what someone is born, but what they grow to be. you fucks.

mostly gen, background megamind/roxanne

horror with a happy ending, hurt/comfort

K+/T rating? (it’s creepy, there’s mentions of blood, but it’s not gory, and there’s no character death.)

When the people of the Galactic Alliance of a Hundred Thousand Sentient Worlds whisper of the species known as the Glau, this is what they say:

they eat.

which begs the question of course—

what do they eat?

and the answer to that question is always, no matter who is doing the asking,


when the infant in the golden pod crash lands on the underdeveloped planet known as Earth, it already has all its teeth.

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Well! Here’s the thing I’ve been trying to write since October. Very special thanks to @kirbychan234 who helped me write it, both in indulging me when the idea came to me, and then in the actual process itself. Thank you so much! Thanks to @providentially-demonic for proof-reading it for me too!

Related art pieces: Here and Here

“Gosh, this place sure is ominous, isn’t it?” Vivi asked, stars in her eyes as she stepped over one of the ash-black tree roots. The tree leaves were all a dull yellow to orangey-red, though it was difficult to see in the dimming light of the evening.  “Like Halloween isn’t over, and the woods are still celebrating!”

Mystery chuckled as he padded at her side, the corner of his jowls curling up into a wry smile. Arthur rolled his eyes and pointed his flashlight towards her. “Don’t remind me, Vi.”

Her response was to stick out her tongue. “Hey, you were the one who asked to come here. Might as well enjoy the creepy factor!”

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I’m teen wolf trash for two reasons; dylan o’brien and stydia.  I never stray from my normal fandom but what the hell I’ve been wanting to branch out for a while now. I wrote this little thing in honer of the 5th season premiering tonight. It’s on right now and I’m not watching it cause this short drabble got away from me for a bit. It’s ‘smutty’ I guess but nothing compared to the shit I normally write. And it’s 100% not edited and besides the characters my work. 

So without further ado…


He didn’t like how much time Lydia was spending with Deputy Parrish. He didn’t like how the older man looked at her when she’d flip her hair to one side and expose the creamy skin of her neck. He especially didn’t like it when the do-good officer dropped her off at school one more after they fell asleep at his place while trying to find the answer to the mysterious question of what he is.

All of this though put strain on his relationship with Malia. Neither of them really knew how to be in a relationship and the start of their relationship wasn’t ideal. Throwing jealousy into the mix was like adding gasoline to an already out of control forest fire. The only thing they could really do was watch as the fire burnt itself out.

And it did and it was messy and awkward. Scott and Kira and even Liam tried to keep their small pack together but it was looking to be useless. Malia couldn’t be around Stiles and Stiles couldn’t be around Malia. The pair of them couldn’t be around Lydia without feeling the need to put the blame of their failed relationship on her, which she remained clueless about, like she always has been with Stiles’ feelings towards her.

Only that’s what Lydia wanted him to think. She’s known all along that he’s been in love with her since like the second or third grade. He made it so obvious with his awkward way of stumbling over his words and his dorky expressions. The older and closer they got the more Lydia realized that Stiles’ interest in her wasn’t solely based off her good looks. He knew her; all of her talents and flaws and weaknesses. He’s seen her cry, and in battle and in victory. Stiles has comforted her when she lost her best friend, and Lydia has brought him back from the brink of death. The older and close they got the more Lydia realized that her feelings for Stiles weren’t quite as platonic as she thought they were.

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“Oh c'mon love, it’s not even that scary. I’ve experienced more horrifying incidents than a girl running from a killer in the woods. It’s too predictable anyhow! Obviously the lass is gonna trip over a branch or tree root and die.” Fred Weasley argued lightly from his spot on the leather couch throwing his hands around in an obscure manner towards the television. George chuckled heavily in amusement grinning over at his brother.

 "I agree twin, your room is far more bone chilling than this low budget film!“ Narrowing his eyes, Fred snatched a pillow from behind that he was using to support his body and flung it across the room hitting his brother square in the face. 

Y/n, the twins girlfriend and closest friend, jumped in reverberation clearly startled by the action. It was safe to say when it came to horror movies, Y/n was not one for them. In fact, the young witch had a sort of fear over the films and most times refused to watch them. She could remember the first time she watched a scary movie with one of her muggle friends and how highly disturbed she had been after the matter. All the blood, gore, screams and suspense wasn’t exactly her cup of tea. 

"I can’t believe you two! This movie practically makes my skin crawl! I couldn’t sleep for weeks after I first watched this.” Y/n spoke in a flabbergasted tone, pulling her red fuzzy blankets the twins had bought her for her birthday, up closer to her chin. 

 George only shrugged in response looking over to Fred who he shared a quick eye conversation with and then maneuvered himself up from the black leather cushion, only to replace his seat with one next to Y/n. Throwing his arm around her shoulder George glanced down at Y/n and grinned as wide as the bright moon. 

“Do you need me to hold your hand, darling? Or maybe I can sleep in your room tonight? You know… to keep away all the monsters.” A sly wink slipped from his gaze over to his girlfriend whose cheeks were flushed a deep scarlet red. 

The selective comment earned George a quick slap on the chest from Y/n. Faking false hurt, George held his free hand over his chest with a look of pain splashed on his face. “You deserved that one you cheeky bastard!” Y/n exclaimed placing her tired arm around Georges side, leaning into him for a loving hold. 

Y/n glanced around the curve in the couch longing to invite Fred over to sit with her to help calm her arising fears from the film but as she caught sight of where the twin had been planted before, sudden confusion washed over her at the sight of an empty spot. 

 "Wait, George… where did Fred go?“ The comment made George turn his head and take in the bare portion of the furniture that had previously been occupied. With his face twisted in a demented stare. 

"Hm, that’s odd I swore he was just-” In a flash of a second a loud band echoed through Y/n’s home making her dive into Georges side even further, practically clinging onto him. “George what was that? Do you think it was Fred? Is he alright?" 

Questions were flying out a mile a minute as Y/n thought over of the worst possible scenarios for Fred to be stuck in. Y/n’s worried mind raced back to the scary movie and thought about the all-star quarterback who ended up dead with a knife buried in his abdomen, praying Fred would not end up with the same unlucky fate he had. 

"Sh, sweetheart, calm down. I’m sure Fred is fine and just-” A new ear bleeding screech sounded through the house causing Y/n to mimic the sound jumping up from her spot on the couch. Heavy footsteps echoed around from the upstairs floor. 

Y/n coward wanting nothing more than to climb into bed with Fred and George cuddled up by her side and forget that the stupid movie was even made. George eased up from his seat slowly and reached out for Y/n’s hand in a comforting manner when suddenly the house lights burnt out with a quick flick and everything fell silent. 

“George… George…where’d you go? Fred! Guys this isn’t funny, seriously!” No response was given. “Please don’t do this!” Y/n locked her grip around herself. After standing by her lonesome in the darkness for a minute or two, Y/n managed to muster up enough hidden courage to make a sprint for her front door. 

Taking her first step in the pitch black room she quickly found her way around the living room and exited the doorway only a step from the front door. Reaching out for the metal handle, a force latched itself around Y/n’s waist lifting her up in the air and brought her back into the living room throwing her frame over their shoulder. She kicked and screamed and pounded on the back of her attacker but it worked to no avail. 

 "Put me down right now! Stop it!“ She hollered with all her might desperately trying to break free from her capturer. The figure tossed her body carefully on the couch. The second her body hit the leather, the blinding lights turned back on. Y/n’s hands remained covering her e/c eyes. 

"Y/n love, it’s just me! It’s all alright, there’s nothing to worry about, darling. George and I only wanted to play a little prank on you.” Peaking out from the slits between her fingers, Y/n caught sight of bright red mess hair. Without warning, Y/n lunged forward and pranced onto the twin hitting his side and yelling almost every curse word that came to mind. 

George strolled in holding his front as he took in the view playing out in front of him. Y/n darted her gaze to him and pointed her finger, “And you! You didn’t even help me! What were you just sitting to the side enjoying the scare-fest? Because it wasn’t funny! I thought you loved me and you just let your brother-" 

"Beautiful, we do love you! But we also love keeping you on your toes,” Y/n rolled her eyes trying to fight off the slight smile that was making its way to the surface, “And we love messing with you because we love you more than anyone!” Fred explained, giving Y/n his best puppy dog pout face. 

George copied his brothers expression and tilted his head at his girlfriend almost forcing her to give in. “We’re really really sorry Y/n. And we love you so much, please forgive us." 

Y/n rolled her eyes yet again and threw her hands up in the air as if she were giving up. "Fine, fine… I forgive you two idiots, as long as you make it up to me.” She pressed. 

Both brothers glanced briefly at each other with questioning eyes and curious smirks, than nodded to Y/n. “Of course darling, whatever you want." 

"You two owe me cuddles and free massages for the rest of the week. And you have to watch a movie with me.” Fred laughed at the offer and shrugged not seeing any fault in her request. 

George too was onboard for the compromise and pulled Y/n in for a bone crushing hug. “I think that’s fair enough.” Y/n pulled back from the tall boy and raised an eyebrow. “The one condition is we are never, and I mean never…ever watching a scary movie ever again. And just because ‘I love you guys so much’,” She spoke placing her hand on her chest mimicking her boyfriends exact words, 

“the first movie I pick is…hmmm lets go with 'Gone With The Wind’, since I know you two enjoy long, cheesy romance films more than anything.” Neither Fred or George said any discouraging thoughts but Y/n could see they biting their tongue. 

“Well I suppose if that’s what you want, love.” Y/n nodded and planted herself back down on the couch as George went searching for the DVD and placed it in the opening, then sat down to Y/n’s right as Fred occupied her left. 

 "Sorry we scared you, Y/n. I reckon that was pretty mean on our end. I hope you’re not still mad.“ The beginning menu rolled around and Y/n reached for the remote and pressed play, snatching her large blanket up from the floor and spreading it out amongst the three of them. 

"Oh I’m not that upset. Besides a four hour movie should set you two in your place." 

"It’s a good thing we love you bec-… wait a four hour what!?”

-Daizy xxx

Neymar Imagine || Fighting with another WAG

Disclaimer - The request was for a fight with a WAG from a different team. I have nothing against Ana Sofia Moreira. I just randomly picked her. I didn’t even know she existed until today. 

One hundred and ninety seven. That is the exactnumber of minutes until kickoff for the El Clásico. In other words, I have three hours and seventeen minutes to get to Camp Nou, which wouldn’t be that big of a deal, if I weren’t in Paris. My flight to Barcelona, which is going to last exactly an hour and thirty five minutes by the way, is taking off in about forty minutes. I’ve never been good at math and I’ve definitely never liked numbers, but these ones in particular I despise, because they leave me with roughly an hour to get from the airport in Barcelona to Camp Nou. I have a feeling game day traffic won’t be on my side today, but under no circumstances will I go down without a fight. 

Being a model is kind of a glamorous thing, unless you’ve been awake for the most part of the last 36 hours and you have no choice but to pass out on the kind stranger sitting next to you on the plane, in hopes of not looking like the walking dead at your boyfriend’s game. Assuming I make it, that is. I only wake up when we land and I’m the first one up and running to the exit. The flight attendants don’t seem very happy with me, but the game comes way before plane safety on my list of priorities. As I’m running through the airport, my phone starts ringing in my pocket and I answer without checking the caller ID.

 “What?!” I yell, pushing people out of my way like a crazy person.

“I just wanted to know where you are.” Neymar says, taken by surprise by my yelling. “You sound mad. Did something happen?”

“No, sorry. My plane just landed and I’m going to try to get there as soon as possible, but I won’t make it to see you before kickoff.”

“But you’ll be here?” He sounds so disappointed that it makes me hurry even more.

“If you keep me on the phone, I’ll be there just in time for the final whistle.” I joked. “I have a lot of traffic to beat, so I have to go.”

“Y/N” He chuckles. “Your car is in our driveway.”

“Right. I knew that.” I’m already in the parking lot, so I have to turn around. “What I meant was that I have to find a cab driver who will beat the traffic and get me to your game.”

“Choose wisely, I need you here.” As soon as he says that, I hear other voices in the background, probably mocking him. “If you touch my phone – beat it, Dani!”

“I’ll leave you to it.” I say, getting into the first cab that I find. “Good luck tonight. Score a goal for me. Love you!”

 Neymar doesn’t say anything, so I assume Dani must have gotten his phone and they’re too busy being giant toddlers to hear me. I explain to the cab driver how important it is that he gets to Camp Nou as soon as humanly possible, while keeping me alive as well. He refuses to make any promises. I am so mad at myself and my agent and everyone who had anything to do with me being busy until the very last moment today, when they knew how badly I wanted to attend this game. It’s true that I can’t always be there for every one of my boyfriend’s games, no matter how hard I try, but the least I can do is be there for the most important ones and I’m pretty sure the El Clásico qualifies as such. I check the time of my phone every few seconds as we’re stuck in traffic, refusing to give up hope until the game starts. Once it does, I lean back into the seat and stare out the window at nothing, feeling like a horrible girlfriend.

 When the cab finally stops right in front of the Camp Nou entrance, the game is well into the first half, but I’m too happy that I made it to care. I sprint out of the car and into the stadium like there’s no tomorrow. Being Neymar’s girlfriend has its perks as I get invited to watch the game from the VIP section, but sitting behind a glass wall, so far away from the action was never my thing. Also, I tend to yell and cheer a lot during the game, so the people there don’t usually appreciate my presence. I’m given a seat on the 5th row, one of the very few that are still free. The place is swarming with overly excited supporters, cheering on their favorite teams and, regardless of which team they support, I’ve always loved their enthusiasm and dedication. I don’t think I could ever follow a team around the country like they do, watching every game and supporting their every move. I mean, I kind of do that already, but I have an amazing boyfriend that makes it all worth it.

As I make my way to my seat, trying not to bother anyone or block their view for too long, my bag falls off my shoulder and accidentally bumps into a woman. She lets out a loud scream, as if she’s just been punched in the face. In all fairness, this is the only bag I’ve had with me for the last couple of days when I’ve been away and it’s filled with all kinds of stuff, but it is in no way heavy enough to hurt anyone. Drama queen.

 “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to do that. Are you okay?” I ask, hoping for a quick nod or something, so I can be on my way, but as it turns out, the only free seat on this row is right by my victim. Great.

“If you didn’t mean to do that, maybe watch where you’re going next time. I’m probably going to get a black eye.” She pulls out a tiny mirror out of her purse and starts examining her completely unmarked and very familiar face.

“I’m sure it will be just fine. I’m sorry.” I fake a smile and turn my attention to the game

The scoreboard informs me I’ve missed the first goal of the game, which happened to be scored by Neymar and I am yet again furious at the universe for making me late to the game. I tell myself that he will score again and I’ll get to see it this time and turn my focus back on the pitch. Not too long after that, Ronaldo gets the chance to score from a penalty because of a stupid mistake Pique made. I want Barcelona to win so bad that I can’t even watch, so I cover my eyes with my hands and peep through my fingers, just as the ball makes its way into the goal.

 “Damn it!” I yell, standing up, while the not so nice woman sitting next to me cheers and claps, making sure to flash me an unnecessarily annoying smile. “It’s alright. You’ve got this!” I keep yelling to the players, as if they can actually hear me. I really wish they could, though. At least one of them.

“Of course you’re supporting the losing team.” She sits back down, flipping her hair and almost hitting me in the face with it.

“They just equalized.” I say dully. “You just wait.” As much as I love them, Barcelona is playing pretty bad tonight, so I’m not sure I believe myself.

“Talk to me when the game ends and we’ll see who was right.” I’m so tired and done with her rudeness, that it takes everything in me not to slap her.

“Just as long as you shut up until then.”

“Excuse me?” Yes, because you were totally not being annoying on purpose and you have no idea what I’m talking about. Don’t slap her. Don’t slap her. Do not slap her.

 The first half ends with no other interesting events, other than a bunch of other snarky and incredibly rude comments from the monster sitting next to me. As soon as the referee blows the whistle for halftime, I’m on my feet, making my way to through the tunnel and to the locker rooms. I make it there just in time to grab Neymar’s arm and pull him back when he’s walking into the locker room

 “Can I get an autograph, Mr. Da Silva?” I chuckle when he turns to me.

“Y/N!” He picks me up and spins me around for a second, before kissing me.

“I hope this is not your standard response when girls ask you for autographs.” I laugh into his chest, as he pulls me into a hug.

“Just for the really hot ones.” I pout and punch him in the shoulder, so he kisses me again. “I’m happy you made it. I missed you.”

“Me too. I’m glad I didn’t have to miss this game. It’s been great so far.”

“Really? Are you sure you were watching the right game?” Neymar laughs.

“Stop. It wasn’t that bad. You were pretty awesome.” I smile. “But maybe try to be more awesome during the second half?”

“If you try not to punch that woman sitting next to you.”

“I can’t make any promises. Wait, how do you know about that?”

“You were on the screen a lot, Y/N.” He laughs at me. “A wife and a girlfriend of players from opposite teams fighting during the game will make headlines for weeks, so be civil. At least until after the game.”

“What? Whose wife is she?”

“Pepe’s. I think her name is Ana.” He pecks my cheek. “I have to go. I’ll see you after the game. Don’t punch anyone.”

“I’ll try. Good luck out there!”

 When I make my way back to my seat, this Ana person is no longer there. I pray that she found someplace else to watch the game from, so that I can actually enjoy what’s left of it. Of course, she returns a couple of minutes later and purposely steps on my shoes twice before sitting down. Breathe in. Breathe out. Be civil. The second half begins at a hectic pace, with both sides making chances and I know Barcelona will not go down without a fight. In the 48th minute, an unmarked Pepe shoots the ball into the goal, making the score 2-1 for his team. As expected, Ana turns to me with a twisted smile on her face and mumbles something that I don’t care to listen to.

 “The competition is down there.” I say, as she keeps staring at me, probably waiting for some kind of reply to whatever mean thing she just said.

“I almost feel sorry for you.” She smirks at me.

“I’m so going to regret asking this.” I add, mostly to myself. “But why?”

“Because you have to support the underdogs. It’s sad, really. Everyone knows how this game is going to end.”

“Do you get some kind of satisfaction from making people feel bad?”

 She just smirks at me for a few more seconds and I need to remind myself that I am not allowed to wipe that stupid smile off her face, no matter how badly I want to. About ten minutes after that, Real Madrid scores another goal and I hide my face in my hands, feeling so bad for my team. This is going to be a blow to their self esteem and they don’t deserve that.

 “Say something to me right now and I swear I’ll fucking punch you in the throat.” I say between gritted teeth, the second Ana turns to me.

 When the game finally ends, the score is 3-1 and Barcelona lost, but their supporters are still clapping and cheering them on, so I join them. This is just a game. It means absolutely nothing. I walk to the locker rooms again and wait outside the door for Neymar to get changed, so we can leave.

 “I told you so.” Someone says, bumping into me from behind, as I’m leaning against the wall.

“Are you determined to start a fight with me tonight? Seriously, what is your problem?” I yell at her, grateful that there is no one around to hear or see me this time.

“I don’t have a problem. Your pathetic excuse for a team has plenty, though.” She turns her back to me and points to the Barcelona crest that is painted on the wall. My hand instinctively forms into a fist and I am no longer able to stop myself. That is when an arms wraps around my waist and another covers my fist.

“All ready. Let’s go home.” Neymar says and drags me through the halls, away from her. “That is not what I meant by ‘be civil’.” He laughs, once we’re alone.

“You said not to punch anyone during the game. The game is over.” I chuckle. “Plus, don’t pretend you wouldn’t have enjoyed a catfight.”

“You’re impossible.” He laughs. “Let’s just go home before you find someone else to get in a fight with.”

Honeymustard Collection 18

Smells like bad times.

Red felt sick.

It felt like…worry, and fear, and guilt…the usual…but there was something else there too…

“Hey, you wanna get that ashtray off the coffee table?” Papyrus said, dropping a hand to lazily stroke the top of the smaller skeleton’s skull as he passed by where the other sat on the couch, knees drawn to his ribcage. “Oh, and if Sans asks, we weren’t smoking inside, okay?”

Red squeezed his eye sockets shut, brow beaded with sweat. Fuck, he felt sick. Worry. Fear. Guilt. Worry. Fear. Guilt. Worry. Fear. Guilt…and something else. Red clutched a hand to his gut as if he could grip the sourness that coiled there and rip it out. Shit – this almost felt…familiar, but what the hell was it? The room was spinning.

The small skeleton jumped at the sudden shift in the couch’s cushions as Papyrus dropped down next to him having ‘ported straight from the kitchen with a faint ting. The taller monster draped a hoodie-clad arm over Red’s tense shoulders and cocked a brow at him.

“You okay, Red?” Papyrus said carefully, taking in the queasy look on the other’s face.

“I, uh…” Red petered off. His gut roiled.

“Ah,” Papyrus said with a little smile, “I get it. You’re nervous about meeting Sans tomorrow, right? You don’t gotta worry about it, Red. When I talked to him on the phone he was really excited to meet you. He’ll love ya, kid.”

Red forced a lopsided grin, “Heh…yeah.”

Fear. Guilt. Fear. Guilt. Guilt. Guilt…

Pap didn’t buy it for a second. He pulled Red closer and pressed a kiss to his forehead.

“S’okay to be scared,” he muttered, breath warm on Red’s bones, “come upstairs when you’re ready for bed, okay?”

Red relaxed into him…a little.

“Okay,” he sighed. Maybe he really was just…nervous. Fuck, how stupid. But…he really did want to make a good impression on Stretch’s brother. Especially if he was going to be…living here now. So yeah, that must be it.

Papyrus stood. Red immediately missed the weight of his body, but he didn’t follow him up the stairs or down the hall or into his room. He didn’t look after the closing door. He didn’t listen for the click of the knob. Instead he squeezed his knees harder and tried not to think about…shit, who was he kidding? Fuck – this sucked. This whole fucking thing sucked. How’d this happen? Why was he even here right now? This wasn’t his timeline. This wasn’t his home. Stretch wasn’t his Papyrus. He didn’t deserve to feel this fucking good. He didn’t deserve to be this fucking happy. And every time he closed his eyes all he could see was Boss…before he was Boss…back when they were kids and he was just Papyrus…and how tight he’d clung to Red’s hand when they’d shrunk from other monsters in the dark…and how Red had told him everything would be okay and nothing bad was going to happen and he’d be there to protect him so please just stop crying, okay, Pap? Shhh. Shhh. Please be quiet or they’ll hear us

Something tugged in Red’s gut.

His eye sockets flew open.

Shit – he did know this feeling. It wasn’t a sourness! It wasn’t a sickness! It was a pulling. That same split-second pulling in his stomach before he’d botched the ‘port that had yanked him from that dark room and dumped him on Stretch’s doorstep a month ago. Red stood, breath rattling. He’d tried – fuck, he’d tried so hard – countless times to ‘port back home that first week, every attempt leaving him weaker than the last. It was impossible. The machine was the only way. But he knew, in that exact moment, with that pulling in his gut and the ghost of Papyrus’s grip on his hand and whatever timeline glitch or magic spike that had made it possible in the first place, that if he tried right now – he might make it.

He might make it home.

Red’s pupils flicked up to Stretch’s closed door.

He might…


Red lifted his phalanges to the crack on the crown of his skull. He traced the puckered scar where it ran from its root to the ridge of his eye socket. He loved Stretch. God, he loved him. And he loved Boss. More than anything he loved Boss…right? What had Boss been doing this whole time? Did he miss him as much as Red did? Did he wonder what had happened to his big brother? Was this pulling…maybe…some part of Boss calling to him? Crying out for him the way he had back then?

Red froze, every part of him feeling like it was cracking in two.

He gritted his teeth until his jaw ached…


…and then he ‘ported.

With an almighty lurching in his gut and a punch of magic to his soul he ‘ported. Clean out of the living room where he’d woke to Stretch sitting beside him that first night. Clean out of the house that smelled like sugar, and hot chocolate, (and cigarette smoke). Clean out of the timeline that wasn’t his…it wasn’t his…goddammit, it wasn’t his!

And when he landed his kneecaps buckled and he hit the ground like a load of stones, head spinning and a thin trail of blood tracing a line from his nose, across his dummy tooth, and down his shuddering jaw. Magic depletion dimmed his pupils, the world eking through in fuzzy, dark patches. He coughed on the burnt smell radiating around him and his ribs seized with pain.


Red swallowed his coughing and fought to bring his vision into focus. His skull was pressed to the ground where he fell, body curled on his side. It was dark. His soul stuttered. He knew that voice. He didn’t know where he was exactly, but he knew that voice. Oh, god – he knew that voice.

Something heavy rested on the side of his skull. A hand.

Something sharp touched lightly along his crack. A claw.

Something hot hovered near to his throat. A mouth.

“Sans.” Boss hummed.

His scarred face swam at the fringes of Red’s vision.

“I thought you were dead.”

Tears stung the corners of Red’s eye sockets. He’d done it. He’d actually done it! He’d made it home. He’d made it back to Boss. He’d…

“Pity.” Boss muttered. His clawed thumb pressed into the line of Red’s crack. “Things were finally quiet around here. Though…I did miss…hearing you scream.”

Red felt sick.

It felt like…


A timeline away Papyrus shuffled into his living room, groggily scratching at the back of his neck. He’d just been drifting to sleep when he’d heard a loud noise from downstairs. Shit, it’d scared the hell out of him. But he figured it was just Red rattling around in the kitchen. That kid really couldn’t just relax could he? Fair enough. Papyrus could lift him easily. He didn’t imagine Red would struggle too much if Papyrus forced him to bed. Besides he needed a good night’s sleep if he was going to have the energy to face Sans tomorrow…Papyrus pulled up short.

The living room light shivered, shadows dancing on the walls, but no one was there.

Papyrus cocked a brow, shambling toward the dark kitchen.



Papyrus stood alone in the middle of the empty house, his hands hanging heavily. A familiar burnt smell drifted in the air. Papyrus tried to call out again, his voice broke, he swallowed, tried again.


*is still deliriously re-watching season 9 and regrets never flailing publicly about 9x18*

It’s been a year, let’s rewatch the trainwreck that turned me into this shipper mess with some serious hindsight goggles. Fair warning I’m only watching at all because I’m ill and exhausted and it’s making me weird so as always the read more is optional when I’m like this, unless you expressly followed me because my delirious ramblings amused you. :P

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furyeclipse  asked:

I LOVE Your monster headcanons for the overwatch crew! Got anymore for Werewolf!Jesse, Fujin!Hanzo, Raiju!Genji and Cadejo!Reaper being called back from their senses by their s/o. (I have this headcanon that when monsters go into their natural feral form they revert back to instincts. But they can be pulled back to reality by their s/o voice or someone that grounds them. Then once they're back to reality, lots of fluff happens cause their physically/emotionally drained and needing love)

When McCree was still a young pup running with the Deadlock Pack, being feral was just a way of life; it was kill or be killed, or having your alpha on your ass for not committing massacres every hunt. McCree recalls those moments just before the wolf takes over, the agony of the skin being ripped and torn as bones reshape and grow, the pain that made his vision go red and turned everything else into vague black shapes. He would attack anyone near him, it was just a way of protecting himself – and returning into a human being had the same effects, the visceral fear of being overpowered made McCree do nasty things to anyone stupid enough to hang around him.

So as a grown man, he doesn’t worry about going feral. Not until meeting you and watching a hunter pierce your shoulder with a rifle. Everything is painted crimson; the hunter becomes a featureless black mass McCree must kill. It’s easier to kill somebody when you can’t see their face, easier still if they’ve attacked a precious mate. McCree doesn’t feel bad about the kill, just the bad taste that lingers in his mouth as he swerves trying to catch the stragglers. Than there’s another shadow, smaller than him moving cautiously. McCree growls at it, crouching low. Then there’s pressure on his face, familiar hands stroking his cheeks and a soft voice. Colour bleeds back into the world, and there you are. McCree ashamed for only a moment, hunching over you as the last of the bloodlust wears off.

“My hero.” You murmur with a soft laugh. “You did great, Jesse. We’re both fine now. Good job.”

Hanzo does not lose control often, if at all. As a lord of winds, he must always be careful in how he chooses to let loose his anger. From his palace of clouds in the sky, he watches over humankind as a sort of benevolent father figure, sending down small breezes to dislodge kites from trees or push lovers together with whirlwinds, open the clouds for the rain on barren gardens. And yet, perhaps the one thing that irks him more than he’d like is seeing you in service to amoral emperors, forcing you about the country on missions that endanger you more than Hanzo would like. And it is only fitting that seeing you in danger is what calls down the god’s wrath.

You already know the signs of disaster, the air grows cold and the winds swirl and wail like a thousand damned souls, screaming and agonized as tornados wield enough force to sever tree and cut down mountains. But the wind never touches you. Hanzo appears like a figure of mist, cocooning you safely within the folds of his kimono as he destroys your foes. He does not speak.

“Hanzo, enough.”

The winds whip the earth, tearing it apart.

“I’m alright, you have to calm down. Please.”

An immense shockwave of air slams against the ground and it occurs to you that your attackers have nary made a sound.

You turn awkwardly and gently place a hand on his face, guiding his attention down to you. Hanzo sighs and the winds drops, he moves backwards and allows you a chance to see the destruction but you already know what it looks like.

“My apologies,” he murmurs but his voice is still hard and unfeeling.

“What offerings can I make to a being so powerful?”

“I would ask nothing of you.” He breathes, his face fair, his face almost human enough.

“Surely there is something, my lord, that you require?” Tiptoe carefully, his eyes are untamed squalls still.

The kiss is what frees him of anger, he laughs and twirls a hand, arranging the world around him into some semblance of order. The skies clear up again and he throws the remains of his enemies into a westerly wind far away.

“We really must stop meeting like this.” You sigh.

“A good idea, mortal.”

Lightning is a very difficult energy, wielding it takes much patience and control, even if its path is wayward and haphazard. So, for Genji to completely lose his mind and revert to his most primal stage, it must first build up. And when he lets loose, it is quick. Bolting down from the heavens, he receives your message for help and is more than a little peeved at the trio of oni dancing around you. The anger comes swiftly, three completely straight bolts of lightning later and the oni are little more than ash. But he is still incensed. He anticipated all manner of demons and spirts to come looking for you after his rescue, however, having these same deities stalk is something he never intended.


He should’ve been more prepared. What would his brother say?


Perhaps he ought to stay close by, for now at least; there are other Raiju to cover his sector.

“Oi, Genji. Kiss me.”

“Beg pardon?” He looks down at you and then finds your lips over his. Only too quickly does he forget all previous thought.

“I’m fine, OK? I have your robe after all.”

“It would have meant little to the oni. How did they find you?”

“I don’t know. I always walk home this way so…Hey, you don’t look so good.”
Genji stumbles forward, cursing in some ancient tongue before sighing.

“I used much power in that attack, mortal, power I would have used more wisely over time.”

“…want to come home with me then?”

“To your human dwelling? You’d invite me there?”

“Uh, yeah. I owe you one.”

“I would love it. Now, mind yourself, I’m going to fall again.”

Reaper is inherently angry. Black Cadejo mistrust all travellers whether they want to or not, making snap judgements of people and carrying those judgements all their lives. He often leads those of poor character into forests with no exits, to witches with a hunger for human flesh, or even still to those darker ponds where creatures lurk and ruminate in cold darkness.

But you, dear you, at least try to get the bad people out of his forest before they meet untimely deaths. Doesn’t mean they care to listen to you, but you are nothing but determined. So when the vagabonds assume the forest is empty and you are as helpless as a mouse, Reaper makes his presence know. Wet shadows move from tree to tree, dripping noxious pus that burns the ground.

Clever thing that you are, you’ve removed yourself quietly as Reaper creeps along the forest floor as a flat mass that eventually blows up into a menacing black wolf the size of the average fire truck. His eyes are vermillion, his teeth jagged and ivory, and his mouth so large it could very well swallow the moon. (In comparison to the others, he has most control of his feral self). But he does not eat them, he lets them get hopelessly lost. Only when you started coughing does he realize he needs to simmer down and get a hold of himself. The shadows retract beneath his fur and he gathers the poisonous liquid in his paws, absorbing them back into his body.

“Lovely – work – dear.” You wheeze.

“Don’t you have a mask?”

“I…do.” You pluck a vial from your pouch and pull the cork off with your teeth, downing the draught with a sigh. “I was hoping you wouldn’t be so dramatic.”

“As if they didn’t deserve it.” He snorts. “Nobody touches you without facing the consequences.”

“Oh please, I had it handled.”

“Of course,”

A Year Every Minute Pt. 77

Papyrus could feel his father trembling in his arms, but it wasn’t in sadness. No, this was definitely something else. “EVERYTHING WILL BE ALRIGHT. YOU HAVE NOTHING TO WORRY ABOUT.” He repeated, squeezing his father tighter and feeling his still somewhat pliable body give under the pressure.

Slowly the bone in Gaster’s hand dissipated and his arms reached up not to hug Papyrus but to grab his shoulders. He didn’t push him away or wrap his arms around him, he merely held onto him, as though his son was the only thing anchoring him down and keeping him sane.

His gaze was fixed upon the door, his pupils wired and manic. Eventually Papyrus stood upright, blocking Gaster’s stare with the image of his loving face. He took hold of his father’s arms and held him there tightly before noticing the blue glow of Undyne’s spear beside him.

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New followers like nobody's business...

Sooo… Now that I’m sitting at almost 15k… And was at 14.3 last night… I’m gonna go ahead, and do this action:

Hey, folks.
I’m Sean Michael Moreno-Carroll. I’m an actor, a fighter, and a massive nerd with a quick wit, an unending amount of sass, and more ambition than you can shake a stick at. I also have a horrid panache for pissing off tumblr folk by having the unfortunate gift of insight, and an unyielding lack of interest in softening blows for the sake of misplaced comfort.

With that crap outta the way: If you’re still in, awesome. Beyond all the rage-monster, duty-bound, super heavy shit, I’m actually stupid fluffy and happy-go-lucky… Which is most of the time… If you go through my blog there’s more positivity and hope flying around than there is “SEAN SMAAAASH!”… If that makes any damn sense at all…

Anyway, I am 27 years old (28 on November 25th), I’m a believer in the power of intellectual discourse, the sanctity of challenged and challenging thought(s), and the necessity for knowing one’s world, its histories, and one’s own place therein.

I am an Actor, both on screen and stage… I have an agent, I’m union, I’ve worked professionally since 2010, and I’ve done everything from commercials, to multiple seasons on a national series, to industrials, to straight plays, to Shakespeare festivals, to Renaissance Festivals… It’s what I trained a good portion of my life for, it’s what I love, and it’s what I studied in college.
I also draw, paint, sculpt, write, sing (poorly), and dance.

I’ve studied stage combat since I was a wee lad. And have grown up in it, and with the SAFD (Society of American Fight Directors) because my more adulty peers (rennies who did fight stuff) were awesome, and thoroughly better parental figures than my Mom was.

To that previous point, I also grew up at Ren Faires! Which, if you were/are shocked by my frankness and colorful vocabulary, then that’s is the thing you get to blame for my broken give-a-fuck-er… But you also get to thank it for my endless imagination, stupid humor, and sense of honor.

That all said, I should just lay this one thing aside… I’m sorry you followed, and I’ll do my best not to deal the full breadth of my sarcastic bullshit in a day, but I will also try to do cool things that don’t hurt souls on the regular.

All in all, I’m just some jerk of an art nerd who lives in a constant state of his own mental flux. I also know a LOT of history… A ton. Because reasons…

I also game more than any self-respecting adult should, because fuck you, that’s why.

Console, PC, board, D20 anything ever, cards, warhammer… You name it, I have spent too fucking much money on it. And I’m not ashamed of that fact. Not one bit.

Gamer Tag on XBLive is Darth Panda1127.
Hit me up if you want, but I reserve the right to ignore you. No offense. I’m just a social recluse when I wanna be… Which is usually.

That pretty much sums me up. If you want more detail, READ. That’s pretty much the whole point of this whole… Blog… Thing…

Anyway I love your respective faces, and I hope to hear from/make you happy/challenge you to feel and be better, soon.


Part One

Part Two

Part Three

‘(Y/N) I really don’t want to do this.’ Stiles said once again.

He had said every time a pack member showed up at his house for the “Meeting” his A.G.A had called. Not Pack Meeting just a meeting in which most of the attendants are in a pack.

Stiles I know you don’t, but its what’s good for you. They make you hurt, and until they know that they are going to keep hurting you. (Y/N) communicated telepathically.

‘Stilinski why are we here?’ Jackson sighed.

‘Because Stiles has something to tell you, and unless you want to be smited you will listen.’ the angel warned.

‘Smited?’ Allison asked.

‘Angelically killed.’ Lydia explained.

‘Well then what is it and why couldn’t we do this at the loft?’ Derek asked.

‘Why so eager to leave? Not comfortable being in the Sheriff’s house, you know, since he arrested you. Several times.’ Isaac teased.

‘Shut it.’ Derek glared.

‘Can you please tell us what you need to so I can leave? I have better things to do than sit here wasting my time on you.’ Jackson snarked.

‘Watch it pup.’ (Y/N) glared.

‘You know what you guys can just leave.This whole thing is stupid, and I don’t need any help dealing with it. I’ll handle by myself like always. Everyone go home, sorry for wasting your time,’ Stiles mumbled with his head down.

‘What?! Stiles no.’ (Y/N) opposed.

‘Really (Y/N) its OK, I can handle it myself like always. They don’t need to know about any of it.’ Stiles insisted.

‘The way you were handling things before is why I’m here in the first place! Stiles they need to know or things are going to get worse!’ (Y/N) yelled.

‘Stiles what’s going on? Is something here for you? Is it dangerous? Stiles if something is happening then you have to tell us so we can help. Its not fair for you to keep information for us.’ Scott lectured.

‘Fair?’ Stiles’ eyes narrowed.

‘Fair, what the hell does anyone in this room know about fair?’ Stiles glared.

‘Stiles, what are you talking about?’ Scott asked in confusion.

‘Stiles just got his face bashed in by Gerard, but poor Scott and Allison have broken up. Stiles had two hours of sleep this week trying to research Kanimas, but poor adopted by rich parents that love and spoil him Jackson. Stiles doesn’t trust Matt, but that’s just him being crazy. Do you see the pattern there Scott?’ Stiles ranted while flailing his arms.

‘Stiles-’ Scott tried but Stiles cut him off.

‘It’s not fair! But no one cares about what I might be going through! Nobody even thinks about me! But instead of complain and just leave like anyone with common sense would I stay. You know why because at the end of the day AAALLL of this crap is my fault! All of it!’ Stiles yelled.

Everyone was stunned into silence, all shocked by the spastic human’s outburst.

‘If I hadn’t dragged Scott into the woods looking for a dead body everything would OK and Derek could deal with all this werewolf shit by his damn self!’

‘Where is all this coming from man? You were fine yesterday.’ Scott said.

‘No, no I wasn’t Scott, but you wouldn’t know since you were so stuck in Allison’s ass. Scott yesterday I was going die, and none of you would have known or cared.’ Stiles said with watering eyes.

(Y/N) watched as everyone’s eyes widened and jaws dropped.

‘What?! Stiles what happened? Did something attack you?’ Derek asked.

‘Yeah, you guys, the pack. You guys have been attacking from day one, because I’m human. It wasn’t some monster or some killer that almost killed me, it was you. You guys make me feel so bad and so useless that I started think I really didn’t need to be here anymore. I mean anyone can do research right, and that’s all I’m good for.’ Stiles confessed.

‘This is where I come in, for the time being none of you can have any contact with Stiles. No talking, no texting or emails, Morse code or anything like it under any circumstances. That means if a new monster shows up you guys do the research. If Scott needs help or advice then he calls someone else.’ (Y/N) said, leaving no room for argument.

‘Stiles, why didn’t you tell me?’ Scott asked, sounding hurt.

‘I shouldn’t have had to. Even without werewolf powers I could always tell when something was wrong with you, and once upon a time you could do the same for me. Even if I had told you I don’t think you would have helped Scott, you’d have canceled because Allison made an appointment to have you neutered. OK everyone out, get on with you more important than mine lives.’ Stiles said sadly before heading upstairs.

The room was quiet and awkward, no one knowing what to do.

‘I think you should all leave now, Stiles needs me right now.’ the angel said.

Everyone got up and left until it was just you and Scott.

‘Scott leave, I know this doesn’t make you feel better but I think you hurt him the most.’ (Y/N) said honestly.

‘I know, just…just take care of him. Help him, and tell him I’m sorry.’ Scott said with his head hung in shame before leaving.

It was sad for everyone, and the Assigned Guardian hated it, but it had to be done. If it wasn’t Stiles would have never got better, so she had to strip him down to nothing so she build him up again.

Manual of Nethermancer

One of the most curious demonic entities in existence, the Voidwalkers and their greater cousins raise a number of questions, that truly illuminate how little we of the Art actually know of what we summon.

Whether they originate in the Twisting Nether, or the Great Dark Beyond is an unknown. What is known that the massive muscular appearing beings have no direct ties to the Burning Legion, being one of the handful of demonic races ever shown to have this sort of unique independence from the nihilistic horde that threatens Azeroth.

This is due in part to the rigid social case structure of the beings themselves, who maintain and have an odd nobility system in place. Dukes, Lords, such titles are almost out of place compared to other demonic beings, but in truth, explains why these shadowy entropic beings can be commanded with almost suicidal orders. It is of my belief, with little but guesswork to back this up, their code of behavior and social structure demands they obey who is above them, or face true death. While this makes them seem as the most loyal and therefore trustworthy demon, believing such is a folly.

At will, their touch produces an almost psychic feedback of immeasurable, indescribable pain. A collection of every memorable instance of heartache, trauma, and bonecrunching agony you’ve had in your life. Few indeed are those strong willed enough to shrug off this command, almost everything else will turn and devote their attention to the now paramount and demanded destruction of the shadowy monsters, if only to stop that torment.

A feat that is hard to pull off to boot. Easily the hardiest demon, able to take direct damage to its being with nary a sign they even notice it, so devoted to following their commands they think nothing of taking axes and broadswords to fireballs head on as it’s often the most direct path to a targeted foe.

They can then further supplement their forms and defenses by actively pulling and condensing the very shadows around them into shields or their very own matter. Disturbing indeed is witnessing a crypt grow BRIGHTER in the presence of a demon.

The void beings as a whole also have a collective history, and possible oral tradition under a one time banner of a greater voidbeing, known as a ‘Void God’. It’s faction having devoured worlds previously, as well as bathing the Ethereal home world of K’aresh under shadow and arcane magic to their peoples near extinction. 

Do not mistake their odd cryptic speech and slow words as a sign of oafish stupidity. These creatures are shockingly intelligent, and when plied, well spoken. A combination of intelligence, raw might, unwavering constitution; and a hunger that rivals black holes themselves.

They are not, however, without their weaknesses. 
While plying the truename from these creatures is a feat, bribing a RIVAL voidbeing for another’s truename seems fair game in the what surely is the most cutthroat politics of their named courts of dukes and lords.

Approach binding and controlling these with a degree of caution. They only obey so long as you are on top. Clatter down, and nothing at all is whats going to be left of you.

((Credit for Void Crusher goes to artist Skan Srisuwan, and Voidcaller was done by  Robb Shoberg))

The Demigods In
  • Students' types
  • Annabeth, A as in Always Better Than You: She's the girl with perfect grades, the one who flawlessly balances her duties as a demigod and as a student and still manages to have a social life, but the most important thing, she sleeps a minumun of eight hours each day, you have to look fresh as hell to either tackle that Chemistry problem or end a Titan's war right? How does she do it? A mysterie. No one is enterely sure (okay her mother is Athena but-). She's the top of her class, and deadly competitive, don't you dare to take her place unless you're ready to deal with the consequenes. The crown belongs to her.
  • Percy, P as in Procastinator: He's the guy who's too busy kicking monsters's asses to have time to finish that essay, he's the one who relies on Red Bull way too much, sleep? What's that? There's no time for such foolish things, that's for simple humans. It doesn't matter if it's 3 am and the exam is tomorrow, he'll probably be peacefully chilling and watching the latest GoT episode, there's still time after all... and if there's not, he should thank Annabeth because she nicely obligued him to study with her for that stupid exam.
  • Hazel, H as in Hell No: The quiet, nice girl that does not speak in class unless you ask her something. The teachers are fond of her because it seems that she's always paying attention, writing down everything they say, the perfect student. But after taking a closer look at her notebook... those are drawings, not the Born- Haber's cycle, you didn't know it, but she's been drawing the whole time. Thankfully, she always finds someone who's willing to lend her their notes after the class.
  • Piper, P as in Perfect Timing: While most students start studying for their exams at least a week before it, she always starts just a three or four days before the exam. What can possibly go wrong? They were just like... 80 pages to study, no big deal. To everyone's surprise, her grades turn to be pretty good (Although if you ask Leo, he'll say that strongly believes she cheats, or that she charms her professors, there's no way she's playing fair) and during the classes... she pays attention to everything but the teacher.
  • Frank, F as in Fashionable Mess: During the lessons he has a permanent horrified expression on his face, what are those equations? Where did that number came from? He never knows what's going on he gets constantly distracted by that small bee that's is flying around. So he studies, a lot, something admirable that only a few are able to do. The reward, he passes his exams, little by little those numbers begin to make some sense, not much though.
  • Leo, L as in Lmao: He never knows when the next exam is. He never knows when the deadline for that project was. He just knows one thing, that's he's some kind of Chemistry and Physics genius and that it's way too easy to cheat on the rest of the exams, if the professor is taking a nap behind that newspaper as he does the exam, the man is practically telling him to cheat, right?
  • Jason, J as in Jeez Annabeth Stop: Almost top of his class, always. But Annabeth is there, and there's no way he's going to beat the Athena child (not because she's smarter, but because the girl would probably hate him forever). He studies every day, trying to keep up with all his classes as best as he can. His grades? Extremely good, but if you asked him, after studying for four weeks for that Literature exam he deserved much more... thinking about it, he might prefer a lower grade before having to face Annabeth while she's hella mad.
  • Tag yourself >>
The Power of Dark Stories, and Why we Are Not Always What we Write.

Where do you get your ideas from?

It’s the question nearly all artists dread. We try to get round it in various ways, by making jokes (my standard response tends to be; “Goblins bring them during the night”), but actually the answer is simply this:

They come from my brain.

Okay. But what if one of your characters is mean? What if you choose to depict a murderer; a paedophile; a rapist? What if one of your characters expresses racist or homophobic opinions? What then? Where do they come from?

Over the past few years, I’ve found more and more readers expressing very strong views on this. The other day I came across a heated discussion between two readers, in which one reader said that she had refused to read  my books since she had come across “a transphobic slur” in a short story published 15 years ago.

I finally traced the “slur” to its source. It was not alone; in the same short story there was also a racial slur, a misogynistic slur and a slur against mental illness. There were also several usages of the word “fuck.” All of these words had been carefully-chosen to fit the character using them, who happened to be the kind of person who would have used that vocabulary.

But that was a character in a book; different from me in every way. For a start, he was a man; he was much older than I was, and he was using the language of his generation, his era and his social class. Moreover, I didn’t portray him in a very pleasant light. I think I made it pretty clear that he wasn’t meant to be a role model. 

And yet, that reader felt that I shouldn’t have allowed him to use the “F-bomb”, or the word “tranny” to describe a transsexual in the Seventies.

Fair enough. It is a slur. But in that case, what word should I have used? Or was the reader suggesting that I shouldn’t have had my character mention transsexuals at all, in any context? 

Where do our ideas come from?

Well, they come from our brains, of course. But the brain is just an organ designed to process what we experience. Everything a writer sees, everything they hear; everything they suffer; everything that brings them joy is filtered through memory and imagination to create stories that reflect our world and the things we think are important. 

That’s why, if a character performs a racist, homophobic or thoroughly unpleasant act, it doesn’t automatically mean that the writer shares the character’s motives. Creating a racist character doesn’t make you a racist, any more than creating a murderer makes you capable of murder. And to assume that an author shares the flaws (or equally, the qualities) of the characters they have created is to fundamentally misunderstand the nature of storytelling.

Wait a minute, I hear you say. As writers, surely we have control over the characters we create. We can portray whomever we like. So isn’t it our responsibility, as artists, to keep the nastiness under wraps, and to write the world as it ought to be, rather than the way it is?

Well, no. That’s not the way story works. You see, to make a story come alive, we have to make it believable. We don’t have total control, inasmuch as we have to make sure that the stories we write obey the laws of the world we know. In that world, people die; sometimes people are stupid and mean, or racist, or homophobic;  and sometimes people do bad things, and sometimes people say the word “fuck”. To deny those things occasional space in the context of a story is to take that story out of the world; to deny the reader the chance to believe

Of course, all readers have the choice to read or not to read. Some are easily upset by descriptions of bad things, or depictions of bad people. But remember; darkness in storytelling reflects the darkness in our lives. That’s why the original fairy stories by Perrault and the Brothers Grimm are so bleak and challenging. And they show us the darkness of the world because that’s how we learn to defeat it, through stories and the imagination. To limit the darkness in our stories is to take away the very thing that gives us the power to fight back against cruelty; racism; prejudice; fear. The monsters of myth and fairy tale have different faces nowadays, faces that some of us would rather not see. But stories sometimes allow us, not only to expose those monsters, but to show us ways of fighting against them and defeating them in real life. Imagine a story like Roots, stripped of the racial slurs that give it such power. Imagine In the Heat of the Night without the vicious portrayal of racism that lies at its heart. Stories like this give a voice to protest. That voice cannot be silenced.

I’m not talking about gratuitous stuff here. Some writers do use their portrayal of their characters to pursue a toxic agenda. But those are in a minority (and, I would add, not great storytellers either). The rest of us try in our way to show the world in a different light; to make people think; to offer us solutions to our problems.  

So, please, when you next read a story, try to remember: we are not the people we write, any more than an actor is the same as the part he plays on stage. Sometimes, those things are hard to separate, but in the end, if you believe, then we have done our job properly. We don’t make the world we write. That world was already there. We don’t make the monsters - but we do bring them out of the shadows. What you choose to do with them then - fight them, or just run away - is, as always, up to you. 

Trial by Fire #28

Chapter 28: Mayday

  • Code that indicates a firefighter is lost, missing or requires immediate assistance..

summary: When a series of fires unsettles the city of Magnolia, Detective Lucy Heartfilia unwittingly reignites a war between old rivals. But when she finds herself drawn to one of her suspects, the lines between right and wrong begin to blur.

A/N: ….hehehehehe

Rating: M No NSFW in this chapter

read: part I | part II | part III | part IV | part V | part VI | part VII | part VIII | part IX | part X | part XI | part XII | part XIII | part XIV | part XV | part XVI | part XVII | part XVIII | part XVIIII | part XX | part XXI | part XXII | part XXIII | part XXIIII | part XXV | part XXVI | part XXVII | on | all parts


Natsu turned the familiar hallways of the precinct. It was almost sad how well he knew this building. Even sadder was the fact that it hadn’t changed much in almost seven years. Some of the older detectives were a little greyer, while others were gone and replaced by youthful faces.

During his time as Salamander, they had suspected him many times of being an arsonist. He lost count of how many times he had been dragged into these halls for questioning. Back then he thought it was a game, taunting and teasing cops until they were red in the face and ready to blow. His anger at the force had never dwindled, and only seemed to intensify the older he became.

Which made it even stranger that he was here voluntarily.

He navigated hallways with an expertise that would make rookie beat cops jealous. It was weird going through the main desk and filling out a name tag and actually waiting around to be allowed onto the floor.

So now he was slapping a sticker name tag on his chest, decorated with flames and sideways looking dragon trying to eat the words ‘Hi my name is–’.

When he finally arrived on the right floor by using the stairs, to avoid the cops piling in the elevator, he reached the bullpen, barely able to hold back a cringe. The sight of rows upon rows of desks aligned into uniform perfection made him wanted to run over and flip over every last flawless stack of paper they had.

He was here for a reason, and he wasn’t about to be chased out by a bunch of badges and guns.

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