the skies are full of them

What if, when Petunia Dursley found a little boy on her front doorstep, she took him in? Not into the cupboard under the stairs, not into a twisted childhood of tarnished worth and neglect–what if she took him in?

Petunia was jealous, selfish and vicious. We will not pretend she wasn’t. She looked at that boy on her doorstep and thought about her Dudders, barely a month older than this boy. She looked at his eyes and her stomach turned over and over. (Severus Snape saved Harry’s life for his eyes. Let’s have Petunia save it despite them).

Let’s tell a story where Petunia Dursley found a baby boy on her doorstep and hated his eyes–she hated them. She took him in and fed him and changed him and got him his shots, and she hated his eyes up until the day she looked at the boy and saw her nephew, not her sister’s shadow. When Harry was two and Vernon Dursley bought Dudley a toy car and Harry a fast food meal with a toy with parts he could choke on Petunia packed her things and got a divorce.

Harry grew up small and skinny, with knobbly knees and the unruly hair he got from his father. He got cornered behind the dumpsters and in the restrooms, got blood on the jumpers Petunia had found, half-price, at the hand-me-down store. He was still chosen last for sports. But Dudley got blood on his sweaters, too, the ones Petunia had found at the hand-me-down store, half price, because that was all a single mother working two secretary jobs could afford for her two boys, even with Vernon’s grudging child support.

They beat Harry for being small and they laughed at Dudley for being big, and slow, and dumb. Students jeered at him and teachers called Dudley out in class, smirked over his backwards letters.

Harry helped him with his homework, snapped out razored wit in classrooms when bullies decided to make Dudley the butt of anything; Harry cornered Dudley in their tiny cramped kitchen and called him smart, and clever, and ‘better ‘n all those jerks anyway’ on the days Dudley believed it least.

Dudley walked Harry to school and back, to his advanced classes and past the dumpsters, and grinned, big and slow and not dumb at all, at anyone who tried to mess with them.

But was that how Petunia got the news? Her husband complained about owls and staring cats all day long and in the morning Petunia found a little tyke on her doorsep. This was how the wizarding world chose to give the awful news to Lily Potter’s big sister: a letter, tucked in beside a baby boy with her sister’s eyes.

There were no Potters left. Petunia was the one who had to arrange the funeral. She had them both buried in Godric’s Hollow. Lily had chosen her world and Petunia wouldn’t steal her from it, not even in death. The wizarding world had gotten her sister killed; they could stand in that cold little wizard town and mourn by the old stone.

(Petunia would curl up with a big mug of hot tea and a little bit of vodka, when her boys were safely asleep, and toast her sister’s vanished ghost. Her nephew called her ‘Tune’ not 'Tuney,’ and it only broke her heart some days.

Before Harry was even three, she would look at his green eyes tracking a flight of geese or blinking mischieviously back at her and she would not think 'you have your mother’s eyes.’

A wise old man had left a little boy on her doorstep with her sister’s eyes. Petunia raised a young man who had eyes of his very own).

Petunia snapped and burnt the eggs at breakfast. She worked too hard and knew all the neighbors’ worst secrets. Her bedtime stories didn’t quite teach the morals growing boys ought to learn: be suspicious, be wary; someone is probably out to get you. You owe no one your kindness. Knowledge is power and let no one know you have it. If you get can get away with it, then the rule is probably meant for breaking.

Harry grew up loved. Petunia still ran when the letters came. This was her nephew, and this world, this letter, these eyes, had killed her sister. When Hagrid came and knocked down the door of some poor roadside motel, Petunia stood in front of both her boys, shaking. When Hagrid offered Harry a squashed birthday cake with big, kind, clumsy hands, he reminded Harry more than anything of his cousin.

His aunt was still shaking but Harry, eleven years and eight minutes old, decided that any world that had people like his big cousin in it couldn’t be all bad. “I want to go,” Harry told his aunt and he promised to come home.

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raythebrutallyhonestguy  asked:

I saw your blog and I must ask one thing for people I know: Why didn't they take the eagles? It's a question, not a way to piss you off.

Hello! Thank you for asking.  :D Gotta love the Eagles.

Lots of reasons!!! 

We all know that the fantasy genre is all about suspending your disbelief. When you’re reading a work of fantasy, you can accept anything….as long as it’s given an explanation that’s consistent with its world’s rules.  The explanation doesn’t have to perfect, it just has make enough sense for us to buy it. The “real” reason the Ring can’t be destroyed by an axe is because then we wouldn’t have a movie. “The Ring can only be destroyed in the Fires of Mount Doom because Evil Power Magic”–we accept that because it’s the premise of the film. “The Fellowship can’t take the Eagles to Mordor because these reasons”; that’s also something we’re supposed to accept. 

And the thing with the eagles is…we are given plenty of acceptable reasons/explanations? Reasons that might not be perfectly realistic (because nothing in fiction is perfectly realistic) , but are logical enough for you to suspend your disbelief.

In fact:

Hey, any fellow Tolkien Dorcs! 

Reblog this post with Reasons why the Fellowship couldn’t have taken the eagles to Mordor?

If you feel like it. You don’t have to but it could be fun.

My favorite is:

1) Mordor has tons of Anti-Eagle Defenses, making it impossible to enter by eagle

As screenwriter Philippa Boyens said during the film’s commentary: 

 "Why does everyone always say that(they could’ve taken the eagles)?! The flying Nazgûl on their Fell Beasts would have stopped them! How much more obvious does that need to be?! Mordor has flying creatures too!“

Originally posted by mirkokosmos

And in addition to the Fell Beasts/Nazgul, Mordor has plenty of orc archers at the ready. This is the universe where even a  powerful dragon like Smaug could be killed by a single arrow.  (Just one arrow! Killing a dragon ten times the size of a Great Eagle, and covered in armor-scales!) The book The Hobbit confirms that eagles fear archers, because arrows can grievously wound them. Gwaihir, the Lord of the Eagles, nearly died from an arrow wound.

 And even if you don’t buy that a single normal arrow could kill an Eagle (which it could) remember that Mordor weapons are often poisoned (like the arrows that nearly killed Faramir) or cursed (like the Morgul Blades the Ringwraiths carry, or in the Hobbit-film-canon the “Morgul Shaft” arrow that almost kills Kili.)  And Mordor has catapults! 

“But we see the Eagles in the Battle of the Black Gate and they seem to hold their own against the Fell Beasts!” Yeah, but 1) most of Sauron’s ground troops are occupied with fighting Gondor’s army– so there are no archers to shoot the eagles. 2) Sure, the Eagles can fight the Fell Beasts…..but would they be able to do it while people are balancing on their backs????????? Watch that final battle scene again and imagine Frodo on one of the Eagle’s backs, flopping around trying to hold on as the Eagle does all those cool spiraling-sideways and upside-down moves. Frodo would fall off and die. Splat. The end. Roll credits. 

There’s also the fact that “the broil of poisonous fumes”  Sauron creates can’t be all that safe to fly in.

TL;DR: A flock of eagles isn’t discreet– they couldn’t sneak in. They’d be spotted from miles away. 

And a military tens of thousands strong excited to begin war, thousands of archers, skies full of poisonous fumes, the War-Bats referenced in the Hobbit (book and film) and at least nine horrific-dragon beasts…all the might of Mordor…would fall upon on the group at once.

Only one Eagle would need to die for the Fellowship’s mission to fail– Frodo’s. And with all Mordor attacking them, either it or Frodo certainly would. 

I leave you with this:

All Hands on Deck (m)

Summary: You go all day with a budding heat between your legs and return home with the idea of taking care of it yourself however, when Taehyung arrives home a few days early from a business trip, you decide to let him join- but only after you make him watch. 
Pairing: Taehyung x Reader
Genre: Smut, Romance
Warnings: PWP, masturbation (w/ toys), foreplay, dirty talk, multiple orgasms, teasing, oral sex, edging, etc.
Rating: M
Word Count: 6,119
A/N: This is a (sort of) sequel to Helping Hand

Originally posted by taestiny

From the very first moment you woke up, a hunger and a desire incurable by normal food settling low in your belly, you had known the day would be nothing but long and tiresome. The alarm had not gone off, (no doubt caused by your late-night phone call with Taehyung in which you had fallen asleep to the sound of his voice before you could reset your alarm), leaving you with nothing but twenty minutes to rush through your morning routine and no time at all to spend five extra minutes in the shower quenching the heat and ache working its way through your system.

You had made it to work on time, thankfully, but your day had not improved. Instead of an eight-hour shift full of nothing but paperwork and a few phone calls, you had been forced to sit in on several meetings, all the while ignoring the way pleasure thrummed through you as you clenched your legs just a tad tighter. It was possible the ache between your legs was due to almost having to go a week without sex however, you knew it was mostly caused from the dream you’d been deeply invested in when the sun and the birds outside had pulled you back into consciousness; the dream had been rough hands sliding across your body, teeth and tongue scraping over sensitive skin, pulling small gasps and moans until you were nothing but a desperate mess beneath his touch.

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Captive Nine (Part 2)

SUMMARY: You were held captive by Hydra for years and had only just escaped when the Avengers find you. You’re beyond terrified of everyone and everything around you, but the thing the terrifies you the most is yourself. The things you can do with your “abilities” are beyond what anyone could possibly imagine.

Chapters: 1 ~ 2 ~ 3 ~ 4 ~ 5 ~ 6 ~ 7 ~ 8 ~ 9a

Word Count: 1,408
Warnings: Cuddling and arguments?? I hate these 

Originally posted by strictly-bucky

The days grew shorter as winter came upon you, bringing grey skies with them, but it didn’t seem to make you feel anything but happiness while you were with the team. Christmas was heading your way at full speed! Only three more days until you would experience a Christmas without fear.

The team had decided to watch a classic Christmas movie called White Christmas with Bing Crosby… who you thought was very attractive, despite how short he looked. And somehow, you had fallen asleep with your head in Wanda’s lap, her fingers tangled in your hair, and Steve massaging your feet, while Bucky sat immobile under your torso. Crosby’s voice floated through your dreams, soothing you into a deep sleep.

But you were abruptly being pulled from your slumber, when someone shook your shoulder.

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Night talks

Peter Maximoff x Reader

Summary: Just one more sleepless night for two teenagers in a school full of mutants

Word count: 1,186

Warnings: None

A/N: Surprise surprise, it’s not a ski jumping imagine! It’s also the first one about Peter I wrote so I hope it went good.

For those who don’t know my blog – I hope you’ll like this imagine, and if you do, please leave a note, it means a lot. Really, a lot. Also sorry for the mistakes, English is not my native language.

For those who know it already – I never planned to write only about ski jumpers, but it doesn’t mean I’ll stop writing about them. Feel free to request anything and I’ll try to do my best!

Originally posted by imaginecabin

Jean’s clock, almost unable to be heard during the day, now was resounding loudly in your shared room. It wasn’t, of course, disturbing her, she was sleeping for a few hours already. But it was annoying you more and more with every single tick and tock.

After a few more minutes, you slid your legs out of bed and put on your trainers. You got up quietly and reached for the hoodie hanging on the chair. Then you opened the door and walked out of the room, trying not to wake your friend up. You slowly started to walk through the corridor. During the day, X-mansion was always full of life. A building full of teenagers with amazing powers couldn’t be calm. There was always something happening, even the lessons weren’t boring. You liked this school. It was the first place you didn’t feel different in. In your previous schools you were always the weird one. People were afraid of you, you were actually afraid of yourself as well. You didn’t understand your powers or how to control them, so you tried to hide them. You thought you will never find a place to feel good in, until you’ve met Xavier. He told you that there was nothing wrong with you and brought you to his school. And from the first day, you felt that it really was your home. Mainly because of all the people you’ve met here. Jean, Scott, Jubilee, Kurt… Peter. Yeah, you could say that Peter was one of the main reasons. Since the moment you’ve met him, you knew that you’ll fall for him. Really, really hard. There were no butterflies, fireworks or anything that time. It was on your first day here, you were walking with Jean and she was showing you the school, when you saw a boy with silver hair at the end of the corridor. He was smiling and waving to you enthusiastically, and a second later you felt a blast of air next to you. It was really unexpected, and you would fell on your back if he hadn’t caught your hand, helping you to catch the balance again.

“Peter, you can’t just suddenly show up next to people like that, you’ll hurt someone one day” Jean rolled her eyes.

“Yeah, whatever” silver boy smiled and shook your hand, which he was still holding in his. “Peter Maximoff, also known as the Amazing, Wonderful and Unique Quicksilver. You are the new one, right?” he asked. And that was pretty much how it started.

You smiled to yourself when you thought about that moment. You and Peter got really close to each other since then, but you still didn’t know if he liked you back. And you were afraid to ask, so you didn’t.

You raised your head up. You were walking around the corridors without paying attention to where you were, so it took you a few seconds to recognize the place. You were next to a kind-of-living room, a room with a couch and some armchairs, where the students could rest after the lessons. You entered the room and walked to the armchair next to the window, the one you were always sitting in. From the window you could see a beautiful view of the park outside the school, and it was always helping you to focus and calm down.

“Y/N?” you heard suddenly and jumped, turning around scared.

“Oh my god, Peter” you sighed, placing your hand on your chest, feeling your heart beating fast. “You scared me”

“Yeah, sorry” he said, but without his usual smirk. He wasn’t generally looking as usual. More… calmly. Without his goggles on, sitting on the couch quietly. You sat next to him and two of you just looked out of the window, without saying anything for a while.

“Why aren’t you sleeping?” he broke the silence after a few minutes.

“I can’t. Insomnia or something. Nights like this just happen sometimes” you answered and he nodded his head.

“It sucks”

“Yeah, it does. Same with you?” Peter ran through his hair with his hand and sighed.

“Not really. It’s not like I can’t sleep. I just… don’t want to” you frowned, not really understanding what he was saying.

“Why?” he shrugged his arms.

“Nightmares, I guess?”

“Oh. I am not really good at comforting people, but… do you want to talk about it or something?” you asked, turning your sight at him. You couldn’t tell why, but it was something so miserable in him. Maybe that was this unusual thing that you noticed at the beginning. His hair seemed more gray than silver, and eyes lost their happy sparkles. You felt a need to hug him really tight, but you didn’t know if that was what he needed, so you stopped yourself. “You know, I am not just talking about now. I mean in general, if you ever need to talk with someone, you can come to me. Even when there is nothing I can do, even if I am useless, I am here”.

“You’re not useless” he said. “You are actually very important, even when you don’t notice this” you felt a warm feeling inside. So he appreciated you. “Really, sometimes I feel like you are the only permanent thing in this whole mess that I call my life. And I am sorry that I don’t tell you that as many times as you deserve it” you were a little surprised by this honest words. This was so much different from the words you’ve usually heard Peter say. From the jokes, sarcastic comments or singing. But yeah, it was honest. You felt that.

“There’s nothing to be sorry for” you answered. Peter didn’t say anything and the two of you just sat there in silence. But it wasn’t awkward. There was just nothing more to add. It was the first time you saw Peter so quiet and calm, and you were glad that you did. He was always so happy, running everywhere, talking to everyone, laughing all the time. Seeing him like this made a huge difference, but you also felt kind of… relieved? You didn’t know how much that happy side of Peter was worrying you until now. He never seemed serious about anything, it was even strange. And the way he looked and behaved now… It was heartbreaking to see him this way, but it also made him look more like a real person to you.

A clock on the wall showed 3:43 in the morning, when Peter slowly placed his head on your arm. It made you turn your eyes from the point on the wall you were staring at for probably past half an hour. You looked at his face. He still seemed calm, but not in a worried way like before. No, now he looked just peaceful.

“You said that it is nothing, but you being here is pretty much all I need” he whispered with a sleepy voice. “So if you could just stay…”

“I will” you answered, gently running through his hair with your fingers. “I am here, Peter”.

Here’s to the ones who are not brilliant. Here’s to the people who question the very purpose of their existence, like I do. To the ones who feel like they do not belong, to the ones who feel they were born in the wrong century, in the wrong galaxy. Those who are full of insecurities, worries, doubts and fears. Those who feel crippled with paranoia and trapped in a meant coated skeleton. There are people like you and me, equally messed up, their souls equally complex and bruised. They too spend Sunday afternoons gazing at clear blue skies, trying to connect to their real self, looking for something to free them, to save them, waiting for miracles while sipping coffee. These people too are lost like you and me, their minds wandering aimlessly through forests and alleys, and places and countries, hoping to make sense of their own existence, hoping to be significant. Trying desperately to love themselves with the self-love they are told is the only cure, but failing miserably, horribly. So, on those evenings when your body and soul seem like two separate entities, when you feel exiled from the home within your own heart. Know, I have been there too and it will be okay, it will get better. It has to, right?
—  Kopal
One Last Try (Gaston x Reader)

Part 2 of “Another Look Around”

Originally posted by good-gay-sherlock

Word Count: 2,123

Warnings: None

Tags: @with-a-hint-of-pesto-aioli @lovelylpevensie

A/N: Ok wow so the amount of love on my last post was incredible. Really. You got no idea. I never expected such a positive response to my first ever Tumblr fanfic, so THANK YOU TO ALL THE LOVELY SMOLS WHO LIKED/COMMENTED/REBLOGGED. YA’LL MADE MY DAY. Originally I had no plan to continue this story, buuuut…after several requests, I present to you, part 2 *dramatic overture*

  You waited with bated breath until the sound of Gaston’s boots on the stone stairs had receded into silence before allowing yourself to draw air. With a gasp, you wiped a hand across your forehead and pushed yourself off the door.

   Belle was still staring at you in befuddlement. She placed the loaf of bread in her hand on the table, then mounted her hand on her hip. “Honestly, (Y/N), what’s gotten into you? You’re face looks like a tomato.”

   “Does it?” you panted, raising your palms to feel the heat in your cheeks. You giggled breathlessly for no reason. As hard as you tried, you couldn’t seem to stop yourself from smiling.

   “Wait a minute…” Belle began suspiciously, moving towards you. “Was that Gaston that you were talking to?”

  You swallowed, dropping your arms to your sides. Belle gasped loudly. “It was, wasn’t it!” Looking completely aghast, she rushed forward, gripping your shoulders and looking you directly in the eyes. “Tell me what happened. Every bit of it.”

   With much difficulty, you were finally able to force your lips out of their grinning state, returning Belle’s gaze. Your heart was still relentlessly thudding against your chest, and you covered her hands with your own as you admitted rather timidly, “Oh, Belle you’re going to kill me.”

   Her eyes bugged. “Did he propose?”

   You raised an eyebrow and said, “When does he not?”

   “You didn’t say yes!”

   “No, of course not!”

   “Then what happened?”

   You bit your lip. “Well, he asked to have dinner.”

   “And you said yes?!”

   You frowned. “No.” Then you paused before adding, “But I didn’t necessarily say no either.”

   Belle threw her hands up and sighed. “Well if it wasn’t a yes or a no, then what was it?”

   “I don’t know! I guess it was a maybe, we’ll see.”

  Belle’s face said it all: she couldn’t believe the words that she was hearing. How could she? You and her had spent many days in the past mimicking some of Gaston’s most ridiculous lines and gestures. Belle would imitate his voice and stick an imaginary bouquet in your face while you clutched your stomach and nearly fell backwards laughing. You would make her choke on giggles by miming his smirk and wiggling your eyebrows. You had spent some of the merriest times in your friendship joking about Gaston and his infatuation with you. No wonder it was shocking for her to now hear you say that you had practically accepted a dinner date from him.  

   “Are you insane?” she finally squeaked. You wiped your sweaty hands on your skirt. “Probably,” you muttered back, stepping past her to the table and tearing off a chunk of bread from the large baguette. You popped it in your mouth as Belle began pacing across the room.

   “But - I don’t understand, (Y/N). You’ve always said that Gaston was wasting his breath with you. That he was utterly absurd and you would sooner court Madam Roux’s old tabby cat. Besides, you know what he’s like! He’s rude, and conceited and -”

   “Belle,” you interrupted. She froze where she was and looked at you. “Hold still before you wear a hole in the floor.”

  She exhaled exasperatedly and crossed her arms almost sulkily. “I just don’t understand what’s gotten into you,” she mumbled.

    You pursed your lips and raised your hands in a clueless gesture. “Neither do I.” The smile began to return as you continued, “I wouldn’t be able to explain it if I wanted to. There was just something different this time. For a moment, I was looking into his eyes and I actually think I saw..”


   “Well, something along the lines of sincerity.”

   Belle scoffed. “Oh, I don’t doubt that he’s sincere. Sincerely full of himself.”

  You tossed her a disapproving look and shot back, “No one’s without their good qualities, Belle. Besides…I think there’s more to him than meets the eye.”

   Belle faced you with a stern expression. “You honestly think that there’s a chance that Gaston is a decent man underneath all of his peacock feathers?”

   You grinned at her and answered, “Call me crazy if you like.”

  Your best friend shook her head. “You’re completely crazy,” she lamented before snatching the baguette, ripping off a large piece and stuffing it in her mouth.

   The rest of the day dragged by uneventfully.

  You’d left Belle’s after eating a large lunch, then headed straight to your own house. After running the rest of your errands and taking a long bath afterwards, the jitters in your stomach had begun to grow.

  Essentially, you were meeting Gaston tonight. You were walking straight into the thing that you’d been trying to avoid for the past four years, but instead of dread, you felt only nervous excitement.

    Your earlier encounter with Gaston had undeniably changed something in your mind. Thinking of him - his looks, his voice, or even just his name - gave you a new feeling that you weren’t familiar with. It made your stomach tighten, but in a good way. It made your breath catch in your throat and your thoughts go fuzzy. Right at the moment, you weren’t sure if you liked it. But there was no going back now.

   The sun had reduced to a formless lake of burning orange hanging on the horizon by the time you left home for the final time that day. The skies to the west were a deep, silky navy dusted with stars, and the full moon was proudly standing out against backdrop. Villeneuve’s streets were lit with flickering lamps, and the amount of people milling about them was dramatically reduced due to the impending night.

   The tavern was only a three minute walk from your neighborhood, and your heart thumped a little quicker with every step you took. Every stride carried you closer to a night that would either live in your memory as a nightmare…or a dream.

   Well, you thought as the bar came into view, here goes nothing. Inhaling shakily, swishing your skirt out behind you and blinking a few times to clear your mind, you finally pushed through the door.

  The smell of ale and smoke dropped over your senses in an intoxicating veil. The light inside the tavern was dim and golden, and though the noise was jarring, an odd sense of calm settled in your stomach upon entering, soothing the nerves.

   Without wasting a moment, you weaved your way around the boisterous crowd to the bar, where you spotted the familiar face of Louisa as she filled two heavy metal steins with beer. She happened to glance up as you made your way to her, and she gave a startled smile.

   “(Y/N)! What brings you to this neck of the woods?” She questioned, sliding the full mugs to the end of the bar. You returned her smile as you leaned against the counter. “Girl can’t get a drink in this town?” you joked. Louisa cocked an eyebrow, reaching for another mug as she replied, “Last I knew you weren’t exactly a frequent to our fine establishment, dearie.”

    You traced circles in the wooden tabletop with your fingernail, saying, “Well, you’re right, I’m not. Just needed a change in scenery for once.”

   Liar, liar, a little voice inside you sung. You shook it away as if it were a pesky insect.

  “Now that I can understand,” Louisa said before placing the mug in front of you. “Careful now. This stuff’s strong enough to make steam come outta your ears.” You laughed lightly and thanked her, wrapping a hand around the cup. You then turned and leaned your back against the bar, taking a sip of the alcohol and letting your eyes wander casually around the packed pub.

   You nearly choked on the beer as your gaze snagged on one man in particular who was sitting near the roaring fire with his friend, LeFou at his side.

   Gaston reclined in his chair with his legs spread and his arms draped lazily over the armrests. His position caused his shirt to strain over his muscled chest, and his head was tilted to the side, a bored expression on his face.

   Until his eyes caught yours.

   You swallowed not-so-subtly.

   He blinked, a surprised smile flitting onto his face as he smacked LeFou on the arm, who nearly tumbled off his own chair before he too noticed you. “(Y/N)!” he welcomed loudly over the noise, beaming happily. The momentary lull of anxiety vanished, and your pulse shot back to a dangerous pace.

    Since there was no way to escape him now that he’d caught sight of you - and since you didn’t feeling like leaving either - you knocked back one more gulp of beer, thinking that you’d need it, then placed it on the counter.

   Your palms were sweaty as you stepped away from the bar and slowly worked your way around the many tables and bodies. You could feel Gaston’s gaze on you the whole time. When you finally navigated your way to him, you watched as his chest rose with what could either be an inhale, or pride. He shifted his shoulders.

   “(Y/N),” he greeted, almost savoring the sound of you name on his tongue. “You came.”

    “I’m a woman of my word, Gaston.”

  His smile deepened to a smirk, and he straightened up as he said, “Well, it’s a great pleasure to see you again.” You rolled your eyes and crossed your arms. “I’m sure it is,” you returned sarcastically. By this point Gaston had risen from his seat and advanced towards you until you stood separated by two feet at the most. Your heart flipped as his eyes briefly scanned your form before returning to your face. He then extended his hand and offered smoothly, “Drinks are on LeFou.”

   Despite your insides being a mess of butterflies, you couldn’t help but laugh. You took Gaston’s hand and asked, “Does he know that?” Gaston made a face that said who knows? and replied, “He won’t mind.” He flashed you a winning smile and then, his fingers laced through yours, led you to one of the only empty tables on the opposite side of the place. He politely gestured for you to sit first, then called towards the bar, “Louisa! Another round for the most beautiful girl in town!”

   You suppressed a blush as Gaston sat down backwards on the bench next to you so that his back and elbows rested against the table, enabling him to face you. “You weren’t kidding about saving the flattery for this evening, were you?” you teased.

   Gaston gave a short, low laugh and answered, “I’m a man of my word, dear (Y/N).”

  You continued the small talk until Louisa arrived with two more beers for each of you. She gave you a sly smile before returning to the bar, which you tried to ignore by quickly averting your eyes to the first stein.

   After several more minutes of chatting with Gaston, the rigidness started to melt off your body, and you relaxed, switching positions to straddle the bench and face him. Perhaps it was the alcohol, or maybe it was simply the ease of his company, but as the minutes wore on, a warm, electric feeling began to bloom in your stomach, working its way through your chest and into your head.

  You were unable to look away from his burning whisky eyes. You began to appreciate just how deeply attractive he was, and when you realized it, you didn’t try to banish the notion from your brain as usual. You let it linger, let it take over. You relished the sound of his rough voice and laugh, memorized every facial expression, every smug little grin, and even the slightest shift in his body language. Your body subconsciously drifted closer to his, feeling a strange need to be in some sort of physical contact. The most noticeable difference was that for once, he wasn’t trying to impress you or pepper you with compliments. For once, he was actually talking to you. Asking you about your family, your ambitions, and your daily activities. He remained flirtatious as always, but in a subdued and intimate way that was a hundred times more attractive than flowers and chocolates.

  If you’d been paying attention, you would’ve heard those little alarms in your head that warned you against falling for anything stupid. But it was too late. You were in too deep, and though it was something you’d never dreamed of admitting to yourself, all you wanted to do was stay trapped in this moment with Gaston, legs brushing, his arm extended behind you on the table, his fingers casually twisting a strand of your hair, and his eyes looking so deep into yours that you imagined he must be able to read your every thought.

   This was it. This was his second chance. One last try at winning your affections. One last try at achieving the ultimate goal. One try at earning your love slowly and purposefully the way it deserved to be earned. And as the hours dwindled away, Gaston could somehow sense that it was working.

Angelic Affair (Part 1)

Summary: When England questions his lonely place in the world, magic steps in to solve problems with more problems. What’s the harm in taking advantage of being an angel in order to fall into a loving devil’s arms? Well, for starters, despite the fact that America’s never made a move, he’s not the sharing kind. England’s sudden disappearance rocks the world, but can America find him and convince him to return before the so-called angel, quite literally, falls from grace? Moreover, can he woo him away from the devil who got there first?

Pairing: devil!America / England, America / England, etc.

(( A long-ish short fic, in parts. ))


England’s tired.

It’s a self-pitying, melancholic slowness that drags out centuries and then years and then days, until it’s a crawl, each hour measured by how long it’s been since his last cup of tea and how long it’ll be until his next. Bureaucracy and politics, reluctantly installing applications on the smartphone he doesn’t like in order to keep pace with the busy lives of the world. He follows America on Instagram, at the nation’s insistence, only to have the program suggest to him Canada and France and Italy and so on.

He’s by no means enthused with the tools one has access to in order to track others, although his government thinks otherwise and tasks employees with a constant browse of social media. ‘What did Russia mean by that status update?’ or 'Is China’s purchase history cause for concern?’

In meetings, England vaguely thinks over what he’s learned and seen through these screens as he observes the other nations. America, in particular, interests him for obvious reasons. Skiing with his northern brother being on full display online brings sense to comments between them, a question regarding wine from that selfsame brother to France also has known context. Even words between Germany and Italy or Greece and Spain are illuminated by posts online.

Are their lives that entertaining that England’s missing out? Or is it perhaps some kind of ruse and exaggeration?

It isn’t as though England’s unaware as to why he’s not invited. He makes no effort to speak to most nations outside of official business and he has a habit of turning down invitations left and right. Has that progressed to the point where he’s missed the boat on establishing these media bonds? Perhaps.

He’s old. Or, at least, he feels old. In his bones, the tech is not natural to him. It doesn’t arouse his wonder, like it might for others. Magic has always been the source of his awe and no amount of electric screens can steal that away from him. Few understand that.

Yet, there’s an accumulation of tension inside of him.

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Charming eyes, murderous looks.
Sensual voice, curse words.
Broken finger, moved mountains.
Long legs, short tempered.
Fragile body, strong heart.
Somebody’s everyday wish, somebody’s terror.
She was an irony, still unloved.
She wasn’t like others, yet their friends.
Her nights were dark, her soul even darker.
She played with words, burned them in fire.
On nights of full moon, reaffirmed her aura.
Magic in her hands, futile wishes on her mind. 
Deep hidden secrets of the living bodies, friends with the walking dead.
She was she, who we never knew, a witch on her craft, on her broom, unafraid of you.
—  BINI //witchcraft

Just One Dance?

Art By: @xla-hainex

More about Sentinel Nathaniel Owen

As the sun sets over the Commonwealth, the cloudy skies turn into a soft grey. The music from Diamond City Radio swells over and around the crowd. Soldiers from the Brotherhood of Steel on leave, crowd the landing pads of the Boston Airport for the yearly Holiday Party.

Nate, with a full glass of whiskey in each hand, wades through the crowd greeting every soldier he sees.

Glasses clink between brothers, between sisters, between friendships, between rivalries. Camaraderie spreads like wildfire as each soldier cheers to the next, embracing the year ahead of them. Stories are shared. Past victories celebrated, sacrifices mourned, and peace enjoyed. Boisterous laughter and drunken cries of celebration drown out the music.

“There he is!” A group of men and women scream out, “Only the best pilot in the Commonwealth.”

Nate takes a shallow bow before taking a shot of whiskey. “Now, now. There’s no need to brag about completely true and honest facts.” Nate raises his final glass, “To future victories…” he pauses. “Because we are too busy getting drunk in the present.”

The music softens and slows as the moon begins to appear in the sky. The last remaining rays of sunlight illuminate the clouds in a spectrum of orange and purple. A peaceful ambience settles over the remaining soldiers as conversations begin to lull.

Nate scans the crowds for any remaining pilots, but none are to be seen. I guess they all headed back to the barracks for the night. He contemplates to himself. Continuing to scan the remains of the crowd, Arthur catches his gaze. Nate smiles as his eyes begin to widen. Arthur looks his way and their eyes meet; Nate sits upright on the edge of his seat, when suddenly a realization came over him. We can’t, not here. It wouldn’t be right.

All Nate wanted to do was to be with Arthur, to hug him and hold his hand. He wanted to not have to hide the fact he was in a relationship with the Elder. What would people think? He wondered. The Elder and Second in Command? Together? People would talk, they’d speculate. Nate slumps back into his chair and takes a second shot of whiskey.

Disgruntled, Nate slams his glass down onto the table. He sees Arthur slowly making his way through the crowd towards him, his face plagued with what appears to be anxiety. Instinctively Nate rises to his feet to greet a superior officer.

Arthur finally approaches Nate. “Elder? Is everything alright?” Nate asks concerned.

Arthur tenderly grasps Nate’s hand, “Just once… one dance?”

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jane eyre, on helen burns

  • “what a smile! i remember it now, and i know that it was the effluence of fine intellect, of true courage; it lit up her marked lineaments, her sunken gray eye, like a reflection from the aspect of an angel.”
  • “resting my head on helen’s shoulder, i put my arms round her waist; she drew me to her, and we reposed in silence.”
  • “first, they glowed in the bright tint of her cheek, which till this hour i had never seen but pale and bloodless; then they shone in the liquid lustre of her eyes, which had suddenly acquired a beauty more singular than that of miss temple’s – a beauty neither of fine colour nor long eyelash, nor pencilled brow, but of meaning, of movement, of radiance. then her soul sat on her lips, and language flowed, from what source i cannot tell; has a girl of fourteen a heart large enough, vigorous enough to hold the swelling spring of pure, full, fervid eloquence?”

jane eyre, on blanche ingram

  • “blanche was moulded like a dian. i regarded her, of course, with special interest.”
  • “the noble bust, the sloping shoulders, the graceful neck, the dark eyes and black ringlets were all there”
  • “she was the very type of majesty: then she was accomplished, sprightly. most gentlemen would admire her, i thought”

jane eyre, on mary and diana rivers

  • “both were fair complexioned and slenderly made; both possessed faces full of distinction and intelligence.”
  • “diana had a voice toned, to my ear, like the cooing of a dove. she possessed eyes whose gaze i delighted to encounter. her whole face seemed to me full of charm. mary’s countenance was equally intelligent – her features equally pretty”

jane eyre, on rosamond oliver

  • “perfect beauty is a strong expression, but i do not retract or qualify it: as sweet features as ever the temperate clime of albion moulded, as pure hues of rose and lily as ever her humid gales and vapoury skies generated and screened, justified, in this instance, the term. no charm was wanting, no defect was perceptible; the young girl had regular and delicate lineaments; eyes shaped and coloured as we see them in lovely pictures, large, and dark, and full; the long and shadowy eyelash which encircles a fine eye with so soft a fascination; the pencilled brow which gives such clearness; the white, smooth forehead, which adds such repose to the livelier beauties of tint and ray; the cheek oval, fresh, and smooth; the lips, fresh too, ruddy, healthy, sweetly formed; the even and gleaming teeth without flaw; the small dimpled chin; the ornament of rich, plenteous tresses – all advantages, in short, which, combined, realised the ideal of beauty, were fully hers. i wondered, as i looked at this fair creature: i admired her with my whole heart.”

jane eyre, on edward rochester, the “love of her life”

  • “the incident had occurred and was gone for me: it was an incident of no moment, no romance, no interest in a sense”
  • “i knew my traveller, with his broad and jetty eyebrows, his square forehead, made squarer by the horizontal sweep of his black hair. i recognised his decisive nose, more remarkable for character than beauty; his full nostrils, denoting, i thought, choler; his grim mouth, chin, and jaw – yes, all three were very grim, and no mistake.” 
  • ’you examine me, miss eyre,’ said he: ‘do you think me handsome?’ i should, if i had deliberated, have replied to this question by something conventionally vague and polite; but the answer somehow slipped from my tongue before i was aware, ‘no, sir.’

Here’s to the ones who are not brilliant. Here’s to the people who question the very purpose of their existence, like I do. To the ones who feel like they do not belong, to the ones who feel they were born in the wrong century, in the wrong galaxy. Those who are full of insecurities, worries, doubts and fears. Those who feel crippled with paranoia and trapped in a meant coated skeleton.

There are people like you and me, equally messed up, their souls equally complex and bruised.

They too spend Sunday afternoons gazing at clear blue skies, trying to connect to their real self, looking for something to free them, to save them, waiting for miracles while sipping coffee.

These people too are lost like you and me, their minds wandering aimlessly through forests and alleys, and places and countries,hoping to make sense of their own fucked up existence, hoping to be significant.

Trying desperately to love themselves with the self love they are told is the only cure, but failing miserably, horribly.

So, on those evenings when your body and soul seem like two separate entities, when you feel exiled from the home within your own heart. Know,I have been there too and it will be okay, it will get better.

It has to, right?

—  Kopal
Refreshing || Part Two

Originally posted by conormaynardaf

Part One can be found [ HERE ]

Requests are currently [ CLOSED ]

Masterlist can be found [ HERE ]

Word Count: 1k+

A/N: This is mainly for my baby @conorpmaynard who has been desperate for this since I posted this yesterday; but I know quite a few of you guys wanted a part two so here it is!!xo

Keep reading

Gimme Shelter



Dean yanks open his bedroom door to find the bunker bathed in cool darkness, the sound of the driving rain sending echoes bouncing off all the walls, punctuated by a violent clap of thunder. The lights flicker on for just a second, just long enough to illuminate Castiel, standing pinned to the wall outside his own bedroom, eyes wide with fright, before the darkness returns and with it another loud crash of thunder. He hears a pained yelp come from Cas’ direction, and the rain lashes against the building with more fervour.

“Cas, buddy, it’s just a storm. It will pass.”

Dean fumbles around on the table near his bedroom door in search of the flashlight he knows is there, and manages to turn it on. He shines the beam of light down the corridor towards Castiel’s room, and finds his angel just where he was before: clinging to the wall with his chest heaving and his skin ashen grey. For a second he wonders if something else has happened, if the sound of the storm drowned out some other noise he should have been listening for; Castiel can’t be this scared of thunderstorms, surely.


His name leaves the angel in a fearful, broken whisper, and Dean beckons to him, unable to stand the petrified look in his clear blue eyes for a moment longer. Cas hesitates, then crosses the few steps to Dean’s room as though he were walking across a disintegrating bridge over a canyon, and collides brutally with Dean in his desperation to get inside and get safe. Dean’s arms automatically come up around the angel, and feels the tremors racking through him. He almost smiles; almost. If Cas wasn’t so completely shaken by all this, it would be mildly amusing. Adorable, even. But right now the angel needs reassurance, not ridicule.

“Dean, what’s going on? It sounds like the sky is falling!”

Cas is still standing in Dean’s arms, his own wrapped tightly around the hunter’s waist, his terror overriding every social skill he had spent so long learning, and Dean finds himself rubbing Cas’ back to try and transfer some comfort though his touch into his shaking friend. It’s so bizarre that Dean wonders for a moment if he’s dreaming: the famed Castiel, angel who had commanded thousands and fought in battle over centuries, is frightened by thunder.

“It’s just a thunderstorm, Cas. You’ve experienced these before, surely?”

Another clap of thunder splits the air and Castiel yelps, loudly, right by Dean’s ear. The lights flash on and off again, the wind and rain outside playing havoc with the power lines, and for a moment Cas’ white face is illuminated, only inches from Dean’s. All humour in the situation dies as Dean sees the tears in his friend’s eyes and the tense, defined lines between his brows and crossing his forehead. Cas is really scared, and it’s not so funny any more.

“Hey, come on. It’s OK.”

Dean manoeuvres them both back into his room and kicks the door shut. Cas is still clinging to him, reluctant to let go, so it takes Dean a minute or two to get them across the room to sit down on the bed. Thunder splits the air again and Castiel tenses violently. Dean sets the flashlight dow on the bed, angled so that it casts the room into as much light as possible, and reaches over to turn his iPod off. He had been listening to a little classic rock, trying to wait out the storm, when he had heard Castiel cry his name from down the hall during a light instrumental. Shadows are jumping across the walls, and probably not helping Cas’ nerves but the only other option is total darkness and that’s less than preferable right now.

“Dean, what’s happening? This is what a thunderstorm sounds like on earth?!”

“Yeah, Cas, what did you think it would be like?”

“It’s so loud. Does it sound this loud to you?” Cas’ eyes are wandering fitfully around Dean’s room, evidently trying to work out if the hunter finds it all as overwhelming as he does. It’s normally Castiel and his angelic powers making the weather storm like this, knocking out electricity and sending rumbling shockwaves through the air. Dean supposes it makes sense for the loss of that control to knock him for six.

“Yeah, Cas, it’s loud. But hey, after thirty-something years of experiencing them, you kinda get used to it. Maybe your angel mojo is magnifying-“ Dean is cut off as another rumble splits the air between them, twice as loud now. The storm is directly above them, and the lights flash and flicker on and off sporadically, making Cas tremble and Dean has to admit that this is one of the more violent storms in his recent memory. The wind is screeching outside, and he’s pretty sure that when they eventually venture out into the main area of the bunker that the rain will have seeped in under the door. Cas has his head in his hands, trying to calm himself down, but Dean can sense it isn’t working. He reaches over and grips his friend’s shoulder, rubbing gently and murmuring nonsense to him.

“It’s OK, Cas, it will pass. The thunder can’t hurt you. It’s the lightning you have to worry about, and we’re safe from that in here. It’s fine, you’re fine.” He shifts closer to Cas on the bed as another rumble crashes through the bunker, and the air between them is thick with Cas’ emotion. He brings his other hand up, moving Cas to face just a little away from him, and starts to massage his shoulders with gently but insistent fingers, trying to work through some of the tension. Cas leans back into his hands with a low sound of relief, tensing and cringing again at another crash. Dean moves closer, running his hands up and down Castiel’s upper arms, feeling tremors rock through his angel and trying to shush and calm him with his touches and low murmurs into his ear.

He doesn’t know how they end up lying back on his bed together. He doesn’t know how his arm ends up under Cas’ head, the angel using it as a pillow while Dean plays with his hair, or how his other arm ends up thrown over his friend’s waist, pulling him close. He can’t work out how their legs got tangled together, or how Cas’ hands are fisted in his flannel overshirt, his too-blue eyes studying Dean’s face, dropping down to his lips then back up until ocean-blue meets sparkling green. Being so close to his hunter is calming Castiel; the sound of the thunder seems to be fading into the background the longer he looks into Dean’s eyes, and his heart rate is steadily dropping back to somewhere near it’s normal region. Dean’s calm, controlled presence is exactly what he needs, and he’s staring back at Cas with an unreadable expression on his handsome face. Castiel thinks, not for the first time, how beautiful his hunter is, especially this close.

Dean doesn’t know what passes between he and Cas at that moment. Cas is looking at him strangely, an expression of awe and longing on his face, the fear all but ebbed away, and as Dean gazes at him he feels one of Cas’ hands come up to brush over his jaw with feather-light fingertips. Then over his cheekbone, temple, then back down…to his lips. Cas passes a thumb lightly over Dean’s full bottom lip, watching the movement of his own hand curiously as though he’s powerless to control it. His breathing is slow now, deep and controlled, and his brows are furrowed with intrigue rather than nerves. Dean’s hand plays gently in Cas’ hair, his other stroking circles onto the angel’s back as they lie and study each other in the semi darkness, warm and safe in the bunker, the driving rain and crashing skies all but forgotten. Minutes or hours pass them by, lost in each other as Cas traces the lines of Dean’s face and Dean pulls his angel closer and closer, and it’s only a matter of time before the inevitable happens.

If asked, Dean would have no clue who made the first move, who kissed whom. It just happened, the crescendo of their years of skirting around each other and swallowing their feelings. It was gentle but deliciously explosive, the feel of Castiel’s mouth against his, his chapped lips soft but persistent; Dean can feel him holding back years of want, trying not to push too hard with their first kiss. Maybe he’s worried Dean will pull away. Maybe he’s worried he will pull away. That’s when Dean takes control; he tangles his hand firmly in Castiel’s hair and locks their mouths together with a low, drawn out moan of pure joy. Cas’ lips part beneath his and Dean dips his tongue in curiously, tasting Cas and pouring all his love and adoration into his kiss. He holds Cas close, tight to his body, and Castiel returns the embrace and that’s how they stay, pressed together in an intimate embrace, using their mouths to memorise each other and commit this moment to memory, even as the thunder splits the skies above them.

He’s kissing his angel, and his angel is kissing him right back and this right here is what heaven truly feels like.

AO3 Link


♈ ARIES // A fiery inferno. An organ set ablaze. Unimaginably hot and wildly untamable, fervently consuming all it is fed; the good and the bad. It radiates a heat that can thaw cold cheeks and frost from shivering lips – or engulf you, swallow you whole and leave you as nothing more than smoldering ash. This heart needs generous kindling and constant stoking. Never to be smothered or snuffed out. It beats in booming thunder, and bleeds in plumes of smoke.

♉ TAURUS // A whittled heart of knotty pine, with intricate floral patterns etched deep into its wooden surface. A lacquered finish makes it sleek and glossy. A natural beauty. Carved and hollowed out, so that it can collect all the beautiful trinkets it finds, and lock them away. This heart needs an antiqued key, and reliable eyes that can cherish each and every lovely treasure they’ve buried so deeply in their chest. It beats in gentle echoes, and bleeds in sweet, sticky resin.

♊ GEMINI // A gilded, golden cage, with ornate engravings on every spindly, metallic bar. Glinting and gleaming in playful light; it dazzles and draws many admirers near. However, if they step too close, or extend their fingertips to touch – the hundreds of tiny, frightened finches inside release shrill and frantic chirps from silver beaks. A flurry of ruffled, rosy plumage. This heart needs a patient hand to release the latch. To let the feathers fly, and simply listen as the birds sing. It beats in the flutter of wings, and bleeds in pastel sunrise.

♋ CANCER // Tessellated sea glass and elegant vintage lace; smooth and embellished with pearls that glow soft and argent like the moon. It contains the entire ocean, with all it’s depth and warmth and comfort. Churning, swirling, salty waves flood the arteries and fill it will the soulful beauty of the seas. A home for many – a drowning place for some. Love flows uncontrollably, unconditionally. This heart needs lungs that can breathe underwater. Hands both strong enough to carry it, and so gentle it won’t shatter. It beats in the ebbing of the tides, and bleeds in soothing moonbeams.

♌ LEO // Lustrous sunlight encased in crushed red velvet. Luxurious and sparkling. Bold and rich. It transfixes others adoration and desire with the scintillating light that leak from its seams. It brightens and blinds all those who gaze upon it. Illuminating only the pleasant things, and melting the affection it is fed. This heart needs amorous eyes that have never beheld such a wonder, and will never forgets it’s beauty. It beats in boisterous trumpets, and bleeds in liquid gold.

♍ VIRGO // Precision cut and polished clockwork. Burnished brass and copper coils. Silver springs and cogs and gears that mesh and mash in a complex, synchronized rhythm unlike any other. When well-oiled, love ticks and tocks effortlessly; consistent and hypnotic. It winds and unwinds as it chooses. This heart needs feet that can get lost in a waltz, but still keep time. It beats like a syncopated metronome, and bleeds in bubbling amber.

♎ LIBRA // A twinkling, paper lantern; thin as the wings of a butterfly, and just as weightless. It emits a faint glow from the romantic light flickering inside, yet drifts listlessly through the chest cavity – as though no love can pin it down. It can be folded and creased to look like all that intimacy should be – but isn’t. This heart needs real romance. To be held with grace and loving balance. It beats in charming laughter, and bleeds in floral perfume.

♏ SCORPIO // A twisted labyrinth of thorny vines and ruby flowers. Dark and intimidating, but oh-so alive and growing. Roots constrict and thorns prick to fend off deceitful lovers. But if they’re willing to bleed – each rose that blooms will do so just for them. An endlessly beautiful garden; secluded and full of the richest reds and luscious greens. This heart needs love that is true and unafraid of hurt; that will not let the petals shrivel or wither. It beats in whispered “I love you”’s, and bleed in twilight skies.

♐ SAGITTARIUS // A gluey patchwork of auburn leaves and borrowed things. Stitched together from pieces of foreign hearts to form a hot air balloon-like contraption. Tethered only by heart strings, and fueled by an single spark. Always eager to take flight, to feel new heights, and caress the clouds. This heart needs a skyscape that never ends. A spirit with no map. It beats in whistling fire crackers, and bleeds in afternoon sunshine.

♑ CAPRICORN // An impenetrable exterior of compressed coal; smoky black and unattainable. However, if one stays and chisels for years, they’ll discover this hardened stone is a literal diamond in the rough. A glittering, jewel encrusted cavern. Its walls and arteries lined with vast riches; emeralds and rubies and sapphires. Resplendent and full of love. This heart needs one worthy of holding such a valuable chasm. It beats in refined symphonies, and bleeds in the boldest red wine.

♒ AQUARIUS // A sparkling prism lodged ambiguously in the rib cage where a human heart should be. It’s crystalline surface clarifies the cloudy, and gives the dull new splendor. It isolates and captures the smallest, most imperceptible glints of light, only to reflect and dissect the spectrum of color in it no one else would ever notice. This heart needs eyes that can peer through a kaleidoscope and see new rainbows every time. It beats in neon flickers, and bleeds in cosmic stardust.

♓ PISCES // Wispy gossamer and creamy silk, loosely woven together like a dream catcher. A tattered tapestry of delicate, warm fabric; embroidered with strands of silver thread and tiny beads of amethyst. This heart absorbs all forms love, and unfortunately, all sorrows. It is stained with the fingerprints of every hand it’s held. Soft and sensitive; it should be handled with the most tender care. It beats in soothing lullabies, and bleeds in shimmering, lavender bubbles.

My body’s a garden,
From bone and up,
Grow daisy flowers and buttercups,
Full of beauty and grace,
But yet so plain,
Compared to the memories,
I’ve sworn to never speak of again,
Because deep in my soul,
Right in my core ,
Lies the remains of beauty,
That grew once before,
Roses so delicate,
Yet so strong,
Though nothing compared,
To the storm that raged on.
Butterflies drowned,
Flowers dying,
Clouds are angry,
Skies are crying.
Everyday I bottle up all this pain,
Deep within me,
Like a hurricane.

But sometimes this storm comes out of place,
The tears of the sky stream down my face,
And when screaming roses become too much,
I set them free,
The red petals escape through cuts.
But some remain trapped,
They die in my throat,
When I try to speak of it,
I begin to choke.
It’s hard to breathe
Before I know it,
I collapse to my knees.
I’m lying alone here,
The walls feel like they’re closing,
And I’m crying raindrops,
And bleeding roses.
All it takes is a garden of wildflower so no one will see that,
My body’s a garden of painful remains,
And there’s a storm inside of me.- (Sofie.B.Rose)

—  A poem I wrote when I was 14

I like the idea of Maglor surviving long enough so that he eventually lives during the 1800s in the American South. He involves himself in the Underground railroad, helping runaway slaves into the North.

Where they can’t find quilts or trails, when they lose the path, they listen. Listen for a music, so unearthly, so angelic that the stars seem to brighten above them, the Northern star the brightest of them all. The forest seems to still, and there is a voice in the song which tells them where to go.

Where to continue.

And they can’t understand it, not physically at least, but emotionally, spiritually.

Some say that he’s an angel, their prayers answered, their deliverance. Others say he’s a witch, some hoodoo spirit that got stuck in the woods after a ritual gone bad. Some say he’s the ghost of an old southerner who got killed for breaking the law.

In actuality he’s a sinner repenting for the blood he’s spilled ages ago. But to them, eventually, he is just  the Station Master.

Few see him, a pale face, tall figure looming in the woods, vigilant eyes ever watchful. A sword hangs on his side, a musket on his back, and without a word, he extends his arm and points to the North.

He has his assistants, children usually. The children too weak to cross over, the children of slaves killed before they could make it over. The children who’re lost, yet made the journey on their own.

And failed.

Some say they’re souls, say they’ve seen their graves, seen them killed and left for dead for trying to escape.

Until they see them up in New York or Canada years later, eyes old and knowledgeable, full of wisdom from another time. From another world. They’ve got strange clothes too, but no one ever questions it.

Seldom do they speak about the man in the woods, the spirit in the trees, the Station Master.

They don’t speak because they sing. Sing his otherworldly song. Sing it to the North so that it carries to the South, so that it resonates in the wind and clears the skies, guiding those who’re lost into the light.

Eventually the song dies though, dies with the Civil War and the dawning of a New American age.

Though the memory is still there. And those lost in the old, Southern woods, need only listen for an unworldly tune to find their way once again.

—                                                                                                                           when you can’t study so you just mix a hc with your heritage               

A station master was the person in the Underground Railroad who helped slaves escape. They pretty much kinda guided them.
-So if the quilts part is strange, a huge part of the underground railroad was quilts. Certain quilts meant that certain people were a part of the system.

-It’s not a literal railroad, it’s a system and network of houses.

-hoodoo is southern magick, black magik (not in evil, but African American magic).

-I had wanted to write this into an actual fic a while ago but I never got the time, but hey, summers coming up so who knows? It’s been bugging me for a while, and I just had to get it out now.

Ok I got it,,,

For the Spooky Scary Fake AH Crew AU:

Monster types:

Geoff - Vampire

Jack - Slime lady

Ryan - Skeleton

Michael - Demon

Gavin - Zombie

Ray - Ghost

Jeremy - Immortal being

Matt - Demon

Lindsay - Angel

Kdin - Fairy (shes a big fairy, not like tinkerbell or nothin)

Mica - Werewolf

Meg - Siren (evil mermaid)

Caleb - Angel (and also a martyr)

Griffon - Vampire (Millie is also a vampire)

Stuff about each person:

Geoff - Became a vampire sometime in the 80s, tolerates Mica despite the vampire vs werewolf thing, tries his best to keep Griffon and Millie out of heist stuff, dresses like it’s the 1900s

Jack - Very loving, refuses to miss out on a heist, doesn’t usually go outside do to the bugs and leaves that fly onto her and get stuck

Ryan - Keeps on his skull mask despite the face that he’s a skeleton, wears gloves so his bones are concealed, wears thick jackets 24/7 to look fleshed out

Michael - Has been nicknamed “The Jersey Devil”, met Lindsay when there was a Heaven and Hell “meeting” between God and Satan, Left Hell promising to wreak havoc

Gavin - Was only dead for about a day, grave was dug up and suddenly he became conscious again (still hard to talk though), the first member of the crew he met was Michael

Ray - Killed during an amateur store robbery, Usually doesn’t engage in heists, seen floating around the HQ a lot, if Jack does leave the HQ (maybe to go shopping or something) then he has to go with her

Jeremy - Thinks he’s mortal, is ok with knowing his friend’s will never die, after he wakes up from dying Jack offers him food either made by her or bought straight from the store

Matt - Works behind the scenes, gives different heist plans to the rest of the crew, thinks Jeremy is an ok guy, left Hell around the same time Michael did

Lindsay - After falling in love with a demon she was pronounced a fallen angel and banished from Heaven, wandered the streets for weeks and months and years until she finally came across Michael again, watches over heists and makes sure that they go as planned

Kdin - A charmer, able to get gangs to back off of the crew by either threatening them or by using her cuteness to distract their minds, has very big pink and blue wings

Mica - Most of the time she works like Lindsay and Matt, During full moons she’s used as an extra weapon to fend off cops an harm bystanders

Meg - Stays in water at all times, mysteriously appears in different places (from a stream, to the ocean, to a puddle, to inside of a pool, etc.), Sets up get away boats and jet skis, spies on opposing crews and gangs

Caleb - An angel sent by God to make sure Lindsay had learned her lesson, ended up being the crew’s go to when someone has a broken body part, has no plans to return to Heaven

Griffon - A stay at home mom with her vampire daughter Millicent, knows a lot about Geoff’s crew but refuses to let Millie know about it, chainsaws are her favorite

How they joined the crew:

Geoff - Wanted to one day have a vampire gang to scare people with, ended up having a crew of other monsters, sadly not all vamps

Jack - After emerging from a drain in Geoff’s apartment, she was allowed to stay (so long as she didn’t touch anything)

Ryan - Was recruited because he tried to mug Geoff in an alleyway, the deal was fully sealed once Geoff saw that Ryan’s skin mask covered yet another real skull

Michael - Wandered the streets for days looking for ways to fuck people over, Jack spied him setting tiny fires to leaves while she was in the park, and she invited him over. Geoff agreed that he’d rather have Michael on their side than against them

Gavin - Came knocking on Geoff’s door one night asking for his arm, Geoff was like “oh fucking cool, you can’t die either, awesome!” and therefore Gavin became target practice

Ray - Just showed up one day in Geoff’s bathroom, Geoff let him stay b/c he wasn’t doing any harm

Jeremy - The whole crew decided that he was just great at faking his death, so they let him join

Matt - Sneaked out of Hell to join Michael on Earth, when he found Michael, he was offered a place in the crew, but not wanting to bring too much atention to himself, he stayed behind the scenes

Lindsay - After being forced out of Heaven she looked restlessly for Michael, and one day, while telling Caleb that she just couldn’t go back to Heaven, she spotted him and told him she’d do anything to be with him

Kdin - Gavin noticed something shiny zoom past the windows of Geoff’s house, and when he looked out he saw a beautiful fairy, awestruck, he let her in and Geoff made her a distraction

Mica - A girl Jack saw in the park, she thought something was off about her, and so she contronted her and flat out asked if she was  a supernatural being. When Mica said yes, Jack introduced her to Geoff, at first they got along, but Geoff was honestly continuously planning to kick her out, that is until she seriously went IN during a heist

Meg - Gavin was walking along in the rain, confused and trying to find his way back to Geoff’s house, when a very pretty lady appeared in a large puddle and told him exactly where to go. Once Gavin arrived back at the HQ, he told Geoff all about Meg and she unknowingly became a member of the crew

Caleb - Couldn’t just leave Lindsay alone on Earth, and it’s in his nature to take care of people, so Caleb stayed put and once again unknowingly joined the crew

Immigrants should be in your house -- right now

We’ve made a lot of strides in on-screen diversity in the last couple of years. However, one thing I need to see from TV right now, in this time when immigrants are being demonized just for existing – is more fucking immigrants. Look, I’m biased as fuck, because I grew up as a little immigrant kid, and you know you’re different from your friends, and that your family is different from your friends’ families, but you don’t know how to appreciate the gift of living and growing in two cultures yet. However, it’s honestly not about little kids seeing reflections of themselves on the TV screen right now – it’s about potato small-town midwesterners. whom the right wing has deemed “real Americans,” seeing immigrants on their screens as characters that they root for. 

I want immigrant characters on every show – characters whose cultural background is an important part of them, but isn’t necessarily part of their plot. I want to see immigrants who are naturalized citizens and immigrants who are undocumented. I want to see immigrants who have accents and immigrants who moved as children and speak with the same California burn or Southern drawl around them. I want to see refugees, years after they’ve calmly settled into their new communities, living their lives. 

I want to see first generation kids who were raised bicultural – Latinx characters like my coworkers, who speak perfect English and switch into perfect Spanish to share chisme; Chinese-American characters like the kids I went to school with, who visited their grandparents in China every break and went to Chinese school on weekends. I want to see first generation kids who don’t feel connected to their family’s culture at all – ones who feels sad about it, and ones who don’t. 

I want to see immigrants whose families left their mother countries to escape religious oppression or to seek economic opportunity, immigrants who came to the US for school and stayed for love, immigrants who liked the idea of America’s wide-open skies, immigrants here from want and from necessity. I want, selfishly, for once in my life, to see something represent that a hell of a lot more Russian and Eastern-European immigrants are engineers (many of whom are here on H1-B visas…) and doctors than trafficked sex-workers, assassins, and mobsters. 

I grew up in one of the most diverse places in this country, surrounded by families living every possible version of the immigrant experience, including my own. Immigration is only one story in a life full of them. If more people who find themselves swayed by right wing, nativist rhetoric could see more immigrant stories that aren’t about immigration, but the ordinary, extraordinary American life that comes after, they wouldn’t be so afraid. 

Demand immigrant representation in all your media – it literally doesn’t have to change anything about the story, but it does add depth to characters AND help to humanize a vast, diverse group of people who apparently terrify a lot of U.S. voters.