they took it way too far

He scanned through the crowd with intense eyes and finally, he spotted the black haired girl at a table in the corner of the bar. Immediately, he pushed his way through the dancing crowd.

He gave her a soft pat on the shoulder, calling out to her. Slowly, she turned to him and smiled sheepishly at him. 

“You’re finally here…” her voice shook a little, “…let’s have a drink!”

“No, you drank enough,” he took the empty shot glass from her hand, grabbed her arm and started pulling her up from her seat, “so let’s get you back home now. ”

She shook her head and whined in a slurred voice. She tried to push him away but she was far too drunk. Sighing, he slung her arm over his shoulder, wrapped his arm around her waist and brought her out of the bar, all the way to his car.

He opened his car door and helped her into the front seat. He took a look at her sleeping face for a moment before leaning in to fasten her seatbelt, his fingers accidentally brushed against her side.

Her brows twitched at his touch and her lids drifted open to half-mast. She fixed her gaze on his face. The face she would find in crowds. The face she could not go on a day without thinking of. The face she could not possibly forget. Unconsciously, she gripped his shoulder and opened her mouth,

“…I love you.”

It was a mere whisper, but it was audible enough for him to hear and to freeze in place. He turned to meet and hold her gaze.

“You’re drunk.”

She tightened her grip on his shoulder and pulled him closer to her,

“And that’s exactly why I have the courage to tell you that I love you,” she said, giggling between hiccups,

“And my feelings will remain unchanged when dawn breaks,“ her voice noticeably changed, growing quieter, more serious as she spoke before she gave in to sleep’s powerful pull,

“I love you all the same, whether I am drunk or sober.”

—  Lukas W. // Forgotten Words #142 // Gently, he caressed her head with a smile, and leaned in to lay a soft kiss on her forehead.
“I love you too.”
4

It’s the beginning of the bkkweek too!!!! First prompt was New which was kind of yelling at me for bakunari fluff I’ll be honest with all of you

anonymous asked:

Hi, 7goodangel. I am here to ask you about PaperJam as a shy, smol and innocent being (mainly thegreatrouge made him be). There has been some conflicts regarding his trait. Some said his canonical personality is a jerk, like what you wrote in his bio / info and some said that is severely wrong and being shy, (which made him shipped with Fresh), is his canonical personality. What are your thoughts about this? I mean, it is your character and people are taking control of it. Don't you disagree?

Well… I have talked to people and seen public conversations and this has happened several times to me over months. I guess I’ve gotten a little numb to it now… or maybe it’s due to school that I haven’t given it the attention that it deserves. Probably due to school. 

I just can’t update constantly like others - even though some others in school were and are able to update constantly. I can’t keep going around and holding up my bio of PJ and police people. It’s exhausting to me… it really takes up the small bit of free time I have. 

I think after I get a solid job that I’ll be able to go around better… but anyway - back to your question. 


While I love seeing interpretations and do not want people to be limited by something and have their imaginations go forth… it’s proving that a huge con comes with that mentality - which you have pointed out. A lot of people swear that PJ is the cute, innocent interpretation that really, did get PJ popular in the first place. While I did have him as a jerk from the beginning - I kinda kept that info to my RP blog - so you could say it is my fault this is all happening and I do think that. I could of done something to make it not as bad as it is now… 

It’s just like the NSFW stuff… people just assume the first thing and run with it. And it really does make me feel like I really am not needed for my own character at points. 

It’s a struggle - I don’t want to have people stop interpreting PJ within AUs… but I also don’t want people to just see him as an innocent child to ship with Fresh. 

And I’m still trying to find the best solution to it. 

But… I feel like the damage is already done. It’s too late for me to talk to all of these people going around swearing on their life that PJ is canoncally like Rouge’s interpretation/AUs. It feels like an hopeless battle to me. 

And I guess I needed someone to ask me this question so then I can fully say my thoughts on this. 

So in short, while I love creativity and don’t want to snuff it out (considering some people would probably think I’m doing that already with saying “No Sin”), I still don’t like it. It irritates me, irks me, frustrates me, and I feel like even as the person who thought of PJ in the first place, my voice isn’t enough. Communities seem like they don’t care about artists unless they reach a ‘certain goal of popularity’ or seem like they have a more professional style of art. I know I do not reach either of those titles. 

People misspell my username all the time - I actually claimed ‘7goodangle’ on tumblr for that reason.

People still say “I’m too lazy to find who made PJ” when they clearly mentioned they looked at the bio on the wiki. 

People still go around arguing others on the canon ship of OmniPJ and swearing that FreshPaper is the true canon ship, when all people are pointing out is that they need to keep the canon ship in mind when going around with information.

Even just basic personality traits… and these things are happening on sites that I do not nor want an account for. 

I still want others to have fun - to be happy; but I don’t know… I guess I’m cutting out my own happiness to get everyone else happy? I want to eventually write a version of PJ within his own universe and story… and he is more like the version I created within the UT verse. Not exact - but close. Though who knows… I might shove PJ to the side and replace his role with another character. I’m still weighing options.

Cause PJ was the first character I ever put this much time and thought into… my first character that was balanced, well rounded…

And what happens?

…well.

You said it Anon. 

They took it - changed it (initially as an AU but now people think it’s canon) - and I can’t do much about it. Due to school and not much free-time… due to how many don’t know the true creator… and just back talking anyone who is just mentioning it to people who swear by it. 

As an artist and a character designer…

It makes me not want to show designs, characters, and stories ever again online.

Considering if this is how I was treated on the first one… why even take a chance at a second one? If it has brought me so much stress, frustration, and time… why even try it again?

I said I was only going to do fanart so if anyone stole it, it didn’t really matter. 
I think I should have stuck with that thought process. 

In conclusion, there are some major things to take away here. First – that yes, I do not like how it has skewed this far to the point of arguing over a fandom version with the canon. Canon is canon and I get the different AUs – this is too far. Way too far. I am emotionally drained from this – from this whole mess that I have been defending throughout majority of PJ’s lifespan. I will state this – Paper Jam is my character. He is my original character that I created more than a year ago. And the UT AU fandom took my character and warped him to something he is not and all of his original meaning is lost. I do not like to hurt others or make other sad – but I must put my foot fully down. This miscommunication needs to stop. I am tired of repeating things over and over and I have past my breaking point time and time again. I just want people to see PJ how he really is… and I wish that people could be focusing more on the reality of him instead of the alternate that they all claim as truth.

Final words: I still like Undertale – I still like creating characters and having fun – but the Undertale AU fandom is ridiculous now. The Amino UT community is insanity in an app, and there is a lot of stuff that has made many artists and creators to their breaking point and leaving the fandom entirely. Everyone in this fandom needs to take ten steps back and look at what they are doing. Go back to the game. Play it again – watch your favorite let’s player’s videos of it again. 

And just… food for thought… please don’t jump the gun on someone else’s OC’s personality and actions. 

I do not want anyone to experience what I had.

trippster890  asked:

I just want to say that your drink mix posts inspired me and two of my friends to go to 5 guys and try combinations until we literally couldn't continue. I have to say that Sprite 2 was by far my favorite, and Brown Sprite was a close second. Also, Cursed Beverage should never have been created, how dare you. Thank you for being the cause of one of the most entertaining afternoons and please don't stop making drink mix posts!!!

I tried “Acrid Citrus Requiem” today at Jack in the Box

I took one sip and couldn’t handle this. This shit was just way too intense for me. I had to dump it out and when I tried to put regular rootbeer in that cup? Fuck dude, the entire cup was just tasting like orange. i couldnt get any drink to taste normal again after being tainted by the acrid citrus requiem

2

An early morning doodle that I went way too far with. I love designing new costumes for my girls, though. ✨✨✨

2

EY HAPPY SUMMERWEEN FOLKS :D LET’S TALK GHOST SHIPS

So less the physical ship being the one haunting them and more a memory of the past. Could be multiple things: a night terror? Bill playing tricks and corrupting Stan’s memory? An actual haunting (maybe they’re someplace like the Bermuda Triangle?) So this is more the showing of that little idea, but after discussing it with @impishnature, she took it a bit further in what could be an actual ending to this story (below the cut!)

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A Good Brother

Since he was a little boy, Charles Weasley saw Voldemort as his personal boggeyman. Even if  he’d never met the man in person, little Charlie was terrified of that person who’s name shouldn’t be said that made his parents sad and angry. He would ask every night for his  parents to check under his bed if he wasn’t there. The idea of a mass murderer hiding in his son’s room always started an ugly laughter in Arthur Weasley’s throat. But every night, he complied and assured Charlie he was safe and had nothing to fear. It was a lie of course. They both knew it.


Charlie knew he was right to be scared when he was eight and he saw his mother cry for the first time. He entered the kitchen one morning and saw her curled on her chair, a piece of parchement resting on the table. Charlie sneaked in to try and read the paper. His first fear was that something happened to one of his brothers. Because that was what his dad and mum often talked about when they thought Bill and Charlie were asleep. The words were small and complicated, but Charlie could decypher two names, Fabian and Gideon. His parents hated lying to their children, so they told them that their uncles were fighting You-Know-Who and died.  They didn’t say they were killed, but Charlie kind of understood that. He wasn’t sure what death really was just yet, but Bill told him it meant he would never see his uncles again. When he saw the twin caskets, a couple days later and watched them disappear in the ground, Charlie cried. He didn’t make a noise, because no one was talking, and you’re not supposed to be loud if everyone else is quiet. He simply gripped Bill’s hand and followed him around. For years, Charlie would dream of twin caskets in which his siblings were resting.


At school, Charlie was gentle and popular enough that people didn’t make fun of him if he ever got surprised crying because he was missing his brothers and sister. They would simply go look  for Bill, and later Percy, and either would comfort him and help him write letters home. Charlie was terribly bad with words and never knew how to get his thoughts across. In return for his letters, he would get drawings and pictures. He kept them preciously in his bedside table.

When he was thirteen, Charlie kissed a girl. She was pretty and smelled nice but even he didn’t feel much. There was no butterfly or firework in his belly like he’d been told he’d feel. At sixteen, Charlie kissed a boy, and though it was nice enough too, it wasn’t special enough to have him wanting to do it often. He’d learned about dragons the previous year though, during a class of Care About Magical Creatures. That lit his eyes up and made him daydream far more than any kisses could.


Charlie left Hogwarts the summer before Ron entered it. He left home in August, and headed to Romania to study dragons. He’d already read every book from the Library and was ready to meet people who’d understand his passion. Charlie made friends, and was teased for chosing a hermit life  in forests with giant lizards over becoming a Quidditch star. He didn’t mind, because at the end of the day, he got to see dragon eggs and share hot cocoa with his colleagues. The highlight of his year was still when his parents and sister came to visit. He also managed to get Bill to drop by. They got drunk and Bill listened to him cry about how much he missed all of their siblings. Charlie kept the drawings and photographs in a tiny box in his trunk. When spring came around and he received Ron’s letter asking him to smuggle a baby dragon, all his friends exploded in laughter and were ready to go before he even finished his explanations. They already knew Charlie would do anything for his siblings.


Charlie wasn’t there when Ron got hurt saving the world at the end of his first year. He came back for summer and bought Ron as many candies as he could eat. Sometimes, being a good brother is in discreet celebrations.

Charlie wasn’t there when his baby sister got possessed and left for dead in a mythical chamber. When summer came and Ginny left school, paler and more silenced than ever, Charlie kept a vigilant  eye on her. He didn’t go back to Romania for months. And when Arthur won the Daily Prophet Grand Prise Galleon Draw, Charlie was the one to suggest they should all go visit Bill. Sometimes, being a good brother is knowing your presence and a change of scenary are the best medicine.

Charlie was there when the Death Eaters attacked supporters celebrating a victory - or drinking the bitter taste of loss away. He went to fight alongside the Ministry to protect his siblings and everyone who needed it. He also stayed the rest of the summer in the Burrow. Sometimes, being a good brother is making sure your siblings and their friends have an open ear if they need to talk their fears away.

Charlie wasn’t there when Harry, his adopted but estranged sibling, watched Voldemort come back from the dead. From Charlie’s childhood nightmares. He learned about it in one of Ginny’s letters and got his worst burns when her words resonnated in his head as he was tending a dragon. In his head, Ginny had that same terrified voice as when she was twelve and asking him if Tom would come back. Charlie felt like he’d been lying to her for years, telling her she was safe and had nothing to fear. That Tom would never come back. Sometimes, being a good brother is forgetting how life doesn’t always follow your hopes.

Charlie wasn’t there when his father got attacked by an evil snake. Charlie wasn’t there when Dumbledore’s tiny army raided the Ministry. He came back to see the greying hair on his father’s head and the scars on Ron’s arms. Ron laughed it off. Charlie cried it out. Sometimes, being a good brother is shading tears other people won’t cry.

Charlie lived in Romania. He loved it, loved the people, the country, and above all his job. But when Charlie came back to Bill’s comatose and broken face, he considered never leaving again. Bill had always been his best friend, his safety in the chaos that was their family. Charlie hugged Fleur and helped her chose her wedding dress. He was Bill’s best man and joked, more than once, that Bill was actually the best man he knew. The three of them got drunk at a pub a few miles from the Burrow and he recalled every embarassing moment of Bill’s childhood. Sometimes, being a good brother is making your sibling blush and hit you in the face as their fiancée is bending in laughter and coughing beer out of her nose.


Charlie wasn’t there when Fred died.

Charlie was there to see his mother cry and his brothers collapse.

Charlie was there to see Ginny stand, tall and proud and clutching Harry’s hand so she wouldn’t get lost.

Sometimes, being a good brother is knowing that there are days when you can’t be the good brother.



Charlie was there when Victoire was born.

Charlie was there to see Bill cry and his siblings scream.

Charlie was there to hold the tiny baby and let her grip his finger.


Charlie was there when Ginny wrote that she was pregnant and wanted to see him. Everytime.

Charlie was there when Fred II asked to learn how to fly and neither George nor Angelina had the heart to teach him.

Charlie was there when Lucy got in another fight with her parents and needed a place to let her anger out. He was also there to bring her back home and make sure she’d apologize to Percy.

Charlie was there when Hugo felt inadequate and lonely in their giant family.

Charlie was there to talk about kissing boys and girls, about how sometimes people liked it and sometimes they just didn’t care.

Charlie was there to give pets as presents, as siblings and in-laws pretended they didn’t know about it.

Charlie was there every step of the way in his nieces and nefews’ lifes.

He quickly needed a larger box to gather all the drawings and pictures he kept receiving. (Hermione gave him an enchanted one)

Sometimes, being a good brother is being a good uncle.

Quickly (Smut)

MASTERLIST

Request: Airplane sex and some fluff.  

Word count: 4,5745

Faint, slightly irritating rumbling sounds rang in my ears, slowly pulling me out of my otherwise heavy sleep and forced my sore eyes to blink a few times, before being able to open them fully. At first, everything seemed blurry and the noises surrounding me seemed rather unfamiliar. 

Slowly, waking up fully, I found myself laying in Shawn’s lap with my feet across the empty seat, I should have been sitting in. 

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BTS Reaction | You being scared.

Anonymous said: Hello, how would bts react to girlfriend being scared of them when they are mad/jealous

Anonymous said; BTS reaction to you flinching during an argument

A/N: I decided to combine to two, I hope that’s okay ^-^

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Star spangled brushwork

Summary: You need help painting your apartment, and the weather and Bucky Barnes are both hot. Sniping and sexy times ensue.

Characters: Bucky x Reader
Word count: 3,220
Warnings: NSFW, 18+ ONLY. Seriously. If you’re not of legal age, go away, this is not for you.

A/N: It’s my first attempt at smut and smut is hard (no pun intended). Any advice and/ or feedback is always more than welcome. 

Originally posted by maddiekittenlover

After years of saving pennies, working multiple jobs, and one too many nights of boxed wine and Ramen noodles, you had finally, finally, saved enough money for a down payment to buy your own apartment. Sure it was small and on the top floor of an elevator-less building, but it was yours, and that’s what mattered.

In a bid to save money like a responsible homeowner, you also decided to paint the place yourself, and with a little cajoling and a little blackmail concerning that time you filmed him singing ‘Beauty and the Beast’ while he made a PB&J, Bucky grudgingly agreed to help as well.

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2

“You better not flip kelpie and try to drown me.”

wow this took way too long, i started this when that chapter came out btw. anyways if you’re still in the dirkjake fandom and you haven’t read this please go fix that. super super IC accurate canon characters in a very not canon setting, obviously. not just dirkjake either, awesome wholesome alpha friendships too.

for him. (after tronnor broke up)

We were runnin’ so fast
And we never looked back
And whatever I lacked, you made up
We made a really good team
Said I’m never gonna leave
We had this crazy chemistry
Between us

Jumped into your car anytime we were bored
Wearing anything and everything that you ever wore
Making new clichés on own little tour
Let’s ride

You never should’ve said I love you now I’ve left you blue
Remember all the shooting stars and all the silver moons?
Dirty, messy shades of purple out of red and blue
Bet you wish you didn’t know me, now you’re lonely
I’ll always miss you
I’ll always miss you, you

We were staying up late
On our private little dates
Staying over your place, how cheesy
And we took jokes way too far
Cause sometimes loving’s too hard
I think we might be better apart
We are, we are, we are

You never should’ve said I love you now I’ve left you blue
Remember all the shooting stars and all the silver moons?
Dirty, messy shades of purple out of red and blue
Bet you wish you didn’t know me, now you’re lonely
I’ll always miss you
I’ll always miss you, you

We weren’t a commercial for everyone else
We went out for coffee and kept to ourselves
We made little homes out of 3 star hotels
And I know what you’re feeling
Hope you’re healing as well

You never should’ve said I love you now I’ve left you blue
Remember all the shooting stars and all the silver moons?
Dirty, messy shades of purple out of red and blue
Bet you wish you didn’t know me, now you’re lonely
I’ll always miss you
I’ll always miss you, you

andreil: baltimore

happy baltimore day! here’s my contribution to fandom on this beautiful day, the day neil josten is finally in the system to become a real person

“Thank you. You were amazing.”

The words echo in Andrew’s head as soon as they leave Neil’s mouth. He doesn’t say anything else, but Andrew can tell there’s something more he’s itching to get out. There’s something in his eyes, something in the way they flicker from the rest of the foxes to Andrew, that stops Andrew from pressing for more. This isn’t the place, not right now. Maybe on the bus. They have all the time in the world for answers. And Neil promised Andrew anything for shutting down the goal.

As they’re shepherded out and towards the bus, the chaos that surrounds the team jostles Andrew and he blindly follows the orange uniforms. He can’t look out for the others, for Neil, and he spares a moment to hope that they’re capable enough to survive one rowdy crowd. As long as Kevin makes it to the bus, it’ll be okay. Andrew isn’t responsible for anyone else’s safety. Neil isn’t under his protection anymore.  

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Out numbered, out gunned, never out fought

My first real attempt at a humans are space orcs story. Written on my mobile, so excuse any spelling errors, I have proof read and tried to correct, but some may have slipped through the cracks.

Queen Krillix clicked her mandibles together in anticipation as he surveyed the situation upon his scanners.

The Vespula fleet consisted of five hundred dreadnoughts, two hundred heavy support vehicles, one hundred attack fighters, and one flagship; a Nova-class heavy bomber, a type aptly nicknamed by their enemies “planet smasher”.
The fleet of the United Sol fleet however, was a dozen warships, half a dozen battle cruisers, and a hundred mongrels; ships which had previously cargo haulers, research vessels, and transport ships meant to carry colonists to new worlds, all of them had been stripped down and retrofitted with heavier weapons and armour. They were not ascetically pleasing but were serviceable enough. For humans.

From her throne room aboard the planet-smasher “Iron Sting” (loosely translated into galactic common.) the queen extended her will to her army. The hive was not of mindless drones, her soldiers could think for themselves, their intelligence, their instincts, guided the hive to victory. But their will was the queens will and the queens will was their will. She guided them, drove them, gave them reason to live. The hive without their queen was a bunch of soldiers without a cause, without desire to do anything to eat and procreate. With billions of mouths that feed already the hive was running out of food in the handful of systems their already controlled. Expansion was the only key to their survival. So the queen drove them on, ever forward, ever outward, to new worlds and new foods.

So it had passed that the hive had found this small system, with an unassuming little star. Colonised worlds and strange fleshy-bipeds running around their little homes and growing food. No armies, no defences; none that bothered the hive anyway. Not even space worthy vessels.

The hive had descended and claimed this world. There had been but a paltry resistance from the bipeds. But farmers with pitchforks and lasers were no match against a single attack ship and the well trained soldiers of the Vespula when the will of the queen was behind them.

There in the ashes of the settlement, the hive had learned the name of the bipeds; humans. They had come to learn the name of their world; New Earth. They came to learn the fleshy bipeds were not born to this planet but another.

They were much like the hive, in their own primitive way. They dominated their homeworld and had spread. First across their own system and then, when they ran out of room, to others. Anywhere they found suitable they planet their two feet and claimed it for their own. Yet they also did something the hive did not. The humans called it Terraforming; to force a world to be suitable for your kind. The science caste had put their minds to this terraforming as a way for the hive to claim more worlds. But the process was slow, taking several hundred cycles. Dozens of queens would come and go before even one world was made suitable for the Vespula. An unnecessary waste of resources for too long a goal. Expansion of suitable planets was deemed the only true way forward.

The queen acknowledged a slight kinship with the humans, despite them being fleshy bipeds of dull colouring, and the Vespula were the great insectoids of the royal black and noble yellow. Like the Vespula, they were driven as the hive was driven, by the need to grow and survive.

The feeling of kinship did not make the queen stay her tarsal claw. If anything it encouraged her. These humans were not just prey, or a nuisance, they were competition. They needed worlds and food as did the hive. They had great, ever expanding numbers, as did the hive. How long before they came to battle over territory? The queen considered and decided to strike first. These humans were primitive. They had only recently discovered the means to travel faster than light. They had strange notions of peaceful exploration and learning. They took only those worlds which were not already owned by sentient beings. This was surely a hindrance. It was a weakness, if nothing else. When something stood in the way of your food you should strike it down. It was the only way to be strong. The only way for the majority to survive. No wonder they hadn’t expanded too far.

“Status?” The queen asked and the solder of the tactician caste responded.
“Scans show no other human ships in the sector.”
Then this paltry number was their whole fleet.
“Weapons appear to be high intensity lasers. Radiation signatures on the warships and battle cruisers indicate nuclear weaponry”

Primitive. Nuclear weapons, such a barbaric people. Yet effective enough in its own way. If it were not for their shield generators the queen might have been worried.

If the humans concentrated fire on one ship at a time the humans could break the shields and take down a dreadnaught or two. Such ha tactic would have even worked against the planet smashing Nova-class vessel. But during that time they would be taking fire from every other ship around them. They would surely be destroyed before any shields collapsed.

As it was, all the Vespula ships had shields and the human weapons would crash against them as they tried to attack ten times their number. The Vespula would cut through this pitiful fleet with their quantum cannons and proceed through this Sol system, claiming every inhabitable planet along the way until they reached the human homeworld. Glory to the hive!

The queen bent her will, her fighters felt her and obeyed as her will became their own. The weapons began charging, their ships took positions for attack. In a few more seconds the humans ships would be in range of their cannons.

Then there was a voice she had not expected. “My queen.”
It came from a drone of the technician caste, manning the communications station. He seemed confused, this concerned the queen. “We are receiving a message from the flagship of the human fleet.”
Thirty seconds until the ships were in range.

The queen waved a claw dismissively. “I have no patience for long speeches about how they will not be defeated how they will make their stand and-” the technician interrupted her, another unexpected thing.
“My queen, the translator states only two words.”
The queens antennae raised upwards- the equivalent of a smile to their race. “Let me guess, ‘we surrender’?”
Ten seconds and the ships would be in range.
“No my queen.”
The queen looked at him expectantly, “no?”
The technician looked again at his screen, which had translated the strange language of the humans into a written transcript. “It says, 'Leeroy Jenkins.’”
The queen’s mandibles clicked, her antennae dropped, the signs of confusion “Leeroy Jenkins?”

The ships came into range. The human ships raced at great speed. The Vespula ships fired. The human ships did not engage them?! They did not slow to attack speeds! They did not shoot. They charged onwards. Their movement was too fast. The quantum cannons missed! The targeting combat computers of the Vespula worked best on ships that had slowed to a proper attack speed. This was the speed of fleeing, but the humans were still heading toward them?! The queen was confused as were her soldiers, but their wills were found one thought, one desire; shoot the human ships.

Some ships hit, but they were only glancing blows off the armour of the speedy and agile human vessels. Then a luck shot! One human vessel, a war ship, exploded as the quantum laser caught its nacelles. The other vessels raced past, igniting their fallen comrades. They didn’t fire against the attack fighters, they ignored the cruisers and dreadnoughts. The puny human vessels penetrated into the very heart of the seam of hive ships.

Too late the queen realised their course; they were targeting the flagship, only the flagship. HER SHIP!
“All power to shields!”

Half a dozen nuclear weapons were launched at once, less than 500ft from the hull.

Just in time did the technician pour the auxiliary power into the shield generators. The shockwaves of the explosions made the shields rumble like a violent ocean. Radiation detectors signalled that the outside of the ship was already a hotbed of fallout. Their thick hull and shields were keeping the interior safe.

A second wave of missiles were launched. A third were close behind. Before those nukes even hit their shields, the ships of the first wave were in range and launching another wave.

Where was her ships? Her soldiers? Their powerful weapons? The queen already knew the answer, the hive was too afraid of the swift and agile
Human ships. They couldn’t fire upon them for the risk of hitting the flagship.

The fourth wave of missiles impacted. Alarms signalled the collapse of the shields and radiation penetrating the outer layers of the hull.

The tiny human ships were massing again, launching their fifth strike. Nuclear missiles and lasers fired simultaneously. All their fire was concentrated one one place; the bridge.

***

Far and away, across the void of space. The princess Noxi was torn from her rest in her sleeping chamber. Emerging from the warmth of her cocoon she scrambled to an opening and looked to the stars. For the hive they had always been warm and inviting, promising new planets, food and resources for the glory of The Hive. Now they looked cold and frightening. Promising unknown dangers and darkness. She felt a shiver run through her thorax.

Across the hive cries went up as the realisation dawned on each member of the Vespula race. Males, females, and larvae were all feeling as one the terrible loss and grief not only of so many brothers and sisters, but their beloved queen.

Princess Noxi felt an ache in the back of her head. There was no stopping it. It began instinctively as soon as her mother had died. She felt the ache grow in intensity, almost searing her brain, as her connection to the hive grew and solidified.

Within minutes the pain faded. Queen Noxi looked upon her hive with fresh eyes. The will of the hive was her will. Her will was the will of the hive.

These Humans. Not long ago their desire had been to destroy these fleshy bipeds. They were supposed to be primitive. They were supposed to be weak. They were supposed to fall to the hive like so many had before.

The soldiers in the sol system. Her soldiers now. Their fight was on hold. Their shock was fresh. They had just witnessed the death of their queen while they’d been stuck, helpless, lest they harm the queen they were trying to protect. They needed her guidance now, more than any other in the hive. They were waiting for it. Waiting for the will of their queen to guide them.

Queen Noxi gave her will out to all of the hive across all their worlds, the billions of minds received her, “Run. Run from the humans.”

She hoped it was enough to save them.

Extra Sugar

Originally posted by somethingincrediblyright

Requested: By myself honestly, but this is also my (pretty late) fic for Day 1 of the Hamilton Write-A-Thon, hosted by @hamwriters (thank you!!)

Pairings: Lin-Manuel Miranda x Reader

Summary: The Reader works in a coffee shop, and she feels a bit territorial about her favorite customer  {Coffee Shop AU}

Warnings: I don’t think so

Word Count: 1,285

A/N: I hope that you guys like this, I was super unsure about it until @secretschuylersister was the sweetest person ever and read it for me. Sorry that this is being posted so late, I was traveling yesterday. 

Your customer was back.

Saying that felt unfair, but you couldn’t help but smile every time he came back. Most of the time, he looked even more worse for wear than he had the last time. His hair was constantly disheveled, the bags under his eyes were worrying, and it looked like he owned one sweatshirt that he might have lived in. And somehow, he seemed genuinely happy to be there.

And when you were working with Corrine, he was one of the few people that was able to pull you out of the sour mood that you inevitably fell into after working with her for more than a few hours. You had opened that day, all by yourself. It wasn’t like you were scheduled that way, either. A few minutes after the morning rush, Corrine waltzed in. She looked well rested and pleasant. It took everything that you had in you not to choke her out.

Lin was making his way up to the counter, and you had already started his two shots of espresso.

“Hello, sir. Can I help you with anything?” You glanced behind you to see Corrine actually attempting to help a customer. But something felt off. She was leaning too far over the counter, and her voice sounded more like a purr than a barista helping a customer.

You mouthed his order to yourself as he responded. “Vanilla latte with a double shot, please.”

“Of course, I’ll just get that started for you.” Corrine said, tapping a few buttons on the register before rushing over to where you were putting the finishing touches on his drink.

“I’ll get this one.” She said, making it sound like she was doing you a favor by taking credit for your work. You watched her in disbelief as she handed Lin the cup, holding onto his hand for a few more seconds than really necessary and then stood watching him make his way out of the shop.

You sighed to yourself, thinking that at least she wasn’t going to show up this early two days in a row.

You were sadly mistaken when you arrived to work the next morning to find Corrine behind the counter. Not only had she beaten you there, but she was sitting behind the counter doing no actual work.

“Hey!” She called, head snapping up from her phone when she heard the door open.

You chose to simply smile in return, not wanting to add fuel to the fire.

“So tell me, who was that man who’s order you knew by heart yesterday?” You held your breath, hoping to allow yourself at least a few seconds to calm down. “Because he is going to ask me out if it’s the last thing he does.”

You fought to keep the confused expression off of your face. Somehow, you felt more hurt than annoyed. Usually you rolled your eyes at Corrine’s antics, but this time felt different.

Oh God. You liked him. And somehow you had managed to be completely oblivious until Corrine wanted him. Typical.

“I don’t know much about him.” You said, taking off your coat and tying your apron around your waist. “His name is Lin-Manuel and he likes extra sugar in his coffee, even if he is a little bit embarrassed to ask for it.” You realized Corrine was barely even paying attention to you anymore, so you chose to stop talking, allowing silence to fill the room again.

“Well then, I guess that I will just have to take it upon myself to do some investigating.” Corrine said, tapping away at her phone.

You struggled through the morning rush, Corrine lounging in the back room while you somehow managed to spill not one but two cups of coffee on yourself.

By the time that Lin walked through the door, you were looking a bit worse for wear. “Hello!” you called, still feeling a sense of relief when he walked through the door. He fixed you with his blinding smile before making his way to the counter. “Vanilla latter with a double shot, right?”

His eyebrows drew together, confusion clouding his features. “You know my order?”

The blush was nearly instantaneous. “It is kind of my job to know your order.”

“Most people don’t bother, I guess.” He shrugged, and you were more than happy to let the subject drop.

Before you could say anything else, Corrine sat a cup of coffee in front of him. “It’s on the house.” She said, winking at him. You noticed a phone number scrolled along the side. Your heart suddenly felt a bit less fluttery, the butterflies abandoning their home in your stomach.

“Oh, well thanks!” He said, fixing her with a grin before grabbing the coffee and heading out of the shop.

“I think that my work here is done.” Corrine laughed, slipping on a coat and throwing her bag over her shoulder.

“You are scheduled for another four hours today.” You said meekly, gesturing to the cork board where the owner posted your schedules.

“I have to get ready for my date with Lin tonight.” She was talking to you like she was explaining a perfectly simple concept to a child.

“He already asked you out?” You were fighting not to feel defeated, but the doubt was swallowing you whole.

“No, but I’m sure that he will now that he has my number.” And just like that, she was gone.

Even though you were left alone for the foreseeable future, the morning rush was over and it would be nice to have some time to yourself. You had just begun to gather up the dishes left over from that morning when the bell over the door rang.

He was back.

You struggled to find words as he approached the counter, but they were all getting caught in your throat.

“I’m really sorry, I don’t usually do this sort of thing, but this is the worst cup of coffee that I have ever had in my entire life.” Lin said, chuckling. He sat the latte on the counter, shoving his hands in his pockets sheepishly.

“I can honestly say that I have never seen Corrine make a latte in the entire time that I have worked here, so that doesn’t sound very farfetched to me.” You tossed the cup into the trash can, starting two new shots of espresso for him.

“So that was her number on the cup then?” He asked. You might have just been projecting, but it almost sounded like he was disappointed.

“Yeah… sorry if she made you uncomfortable. Corrine can be a bit entitled at times.” You poured the espresso in the cup and gathered up all of the materials that you would need to steam his milk.

“I wasn’t uncomfortable with her giving me her number, but I might have been hoping that a different girl had written her’s down as well.”

“I- I think that we might be able to work something out.” Your heart was going insane, but you felt like you were going to float away. You added the vanilla and some extra sugar to his latte, scrolling your name and your phone number on the side of the cup.

“I’ll see you later.” Lin said, accepting the latte and taking a large sip.

“I haven’t agreed to anything yet.” You called after him.

“I have confidence.” He laughed, giving you one last smile before pushing the door open.

You got a text message a few minutes later. It was from an unknown number, but you knew exactly who had sent it.

From: Unknown Number

Can I pick you up around seven? I promise we can go for something other than coffee! :D

Stories

never submitted anything to a blog like this before and it’s not going to be near as good as everyone else’s but I couldn’t get rid of the idea

Back home, you used to be known for storytelling. Not the wild and unbridled force of creation that builds and destroys entire worlds in moments, that fearsome superpower – though you have that too, but that is for you and you alone thus far, and you haven’t gotten the courage to share it – but rather the ability to retell a memory in the most entertaining way possible.

People seemed to like it when you took your memories, pieces of yourself, and told them as a story. Back home they did, at least.
At school, your roommate mutters something about not sharing so much personal information as she turns her socks inside out. In the classroom – where you can never quite remember what you’ve learned, but you always leave with more stories creeping about in your mind – occasionally students listen with a gaze just a little too sharp, the feeling of more eyes than you can see on your back.

But storytelling is in your blood, it’s part of who you are, and so you tell your stories. Happy ones, funny ones, tales of adventure and mischief that you thought were mundane until you grew older. Actually, compared to Elsewhere, they are mundane.

There’s one story you haven’t told yet, one that everyone in your family pretends not to know. It’s the tale of why you came to Elsewhere, the tale of the Thing you saw as a child, that took your cousin when the two of you played in a forest, and promised to return for you. Why you decided to go to college upstate and not attend the local university. You thought you were escaping the madness. (Sometimes you see the shadows at the corner of the stairwell and hear horns on the quad at night and wonder if you leapt from the frying pan to the fire)

It’s why you twine iron wire through your curls in decorative spires and carry salt packets sewn into your clothes, and carry old things from your grandmothers that you aren’t sure will help you (but grandmothers can be so very stubborn)

You’ve started to hear things on campus. Students who disappear and come back Different, if they come back at all, or other students who make the brave but foolish journey Underhill to rescue one of their own. Everything you’ve learned since coming here suggests that asking about it is pointless, if not outright dangerous, but at the same time you can’t help wondering if they’d know anything about the Thing that took your cousin. You know that one day you’ll find one of the students who made it There and Back Again, and when you do, you’ll tell your story.

Close to autumn you find yourself in one of the thin places on campus. It was an accident, you were simply too preoccupied with an upcoming exam to notice the air turn unseasonably warm and humid, and before you know it, you’ve walked three times the length of what the hall should’ve been, and each time you find yourself back at the lockers, the air is warmer, heavier, and the ground is softer. Somehow you instinctively understand that you must keep moving. To stop here would be a grave mistake. So you keep walking, and the air feels like the breath of something huge and moist, and you’re pretty sure there’s mud squelching beneath your feet now but you really don’t want to look.

It’s when you do look that the tiles, soft as mud and unyielding as stone, swallow your feet to the ankles and you are trapped. You curse your foolishness in three different languages – two of which are fictional and one of which was invented by you. This one feels stronger, and when you say “Flames take it!” you can almost feel a spark of phantom heat by your legs – and hear something laugh in the darkness.

“You are stuck,” it says.

You demand to be set free, even as you twine a strand of iron-wrapped around your hair and clutch your necklace – from your grandmother, a tiny bottle filled with salt and mustard seeds. You’re not sure if mustard seeds have any significance or if she just liked them – and try to look anywhere but shifting, oily shadows that smell of dust and moss. You suspect that demanding anything from one of Them will be a fruitless endeavor, but you’re frightened now and the liquid tile is sucking you down further. It’s up to your knees here. It occurs to you that you might die like this, that you might disappear just like your cousin and all those other students disappeared.

“What will you give me?” It asks.

Before you can think, you answer, “A story.”

There’s a bubbling silence before It makes a hiss that sounds too pleased to mean anything good. “Yes,” It says, “A story. But I’ve heard all yours. Make it one I haven’t heard before.”

This is tricky. The wrong story could mean death, and when It says It’s heard all your stories It probably wasn’t exaggeration. You could tell It one of your original tales, the stories of pirates and dragons and giants, but those feel too personal. There is too much of you in those stories, and that is your world, with your characters. You can’t help feeling a bit protective of them.
That just leaves The Story.

So you tell It a story about two children playing in a wood. About a thing like a skinless horse with the torso of a man grafted into its back. About fleeing in terror as the Thing chased you both through the trees, and your cousin’s squeal of fright as it grabbed him, just missing you as you splashed across the shallow creek. You go into greater detail than you ever have before, telling It things you didn’t even tell your family before they called the police.
You remember the color of the Thing’s rolling eyes and glistening muscle.
You remember the way its head seemed to wobble back and forth like it was attached to the wrong body.
You remember it promising that water would not always save you.
You remember knowing that running water might be the answer, even if you don’t have the question it goes to yet.
You didn’t want to tell this story, but you can’t stop the words now no matter how hard you try.

All is silent when you finish your tale, and for a moment you fear you were talking to the air. Then, with a slurp, the tiles spit you back out again and you’re standing on solid ground.

“That is a good story,” It says, “I think I’ll keep it.” with these cryptic words and directions to simply follow the hallway, he leaves you and you find yourself running all the way to the stairwell. You thank your lucky stars that you got out none the worse for wear and you are astonished that you managed it at all.

When you tell your roommate, she is concerned. “What did you give Them in exchange for Their help?” she asks you.

“Just a story,” You answer.

Which story? You have a million.”

“It was the one about-” and you stop. Not because you never decided whether or not to tell your roommate. Not because you’re preoccupied or distracted.
No.
The words wedge in your throat, sticking to the back of your tongue, coating your tonsils like thick dust. They won’t come out. For a moment you’re afraid that you might not be able to speak at all. So you try to tell a different story, and that comes out loud and clear. But when you try to explain again that you told the story of how Something took your cousin away – presumably Underhill if not someplace worse – your tongue seems to shrivel in your mouth and the words lodge in the soft parts of your throat like little needles.

That’s a good story. I think I’ll keep it.

It isn’t your story to tell anymore. For once, words do not obey you. Your roommate sees your rising panic, sees the tears welling up in your eyes, and takes pity on you.

“Tell me a different story,” she says, “A made-up one.”

She used to scold you about telling stories all the time, so at first you don’t understand what she’s doing. Then she asks, “What story didn’t you tell?”
The rather obvious wink when she says this gives you and idea.

Words are your tools and they always have been. Until today, they have always obeyed you. You know how to make a truth sound like a lie and a lie like truth. And so you carefully craft a lie so close to the truth, using characters so close to being you and your cousin, that you are sure your roommate understands.

Forever after this, you season your stories with lies in case you must trade them, so that the truth remains yours to tell. You learn say nearly anything and keep it just close enough to fact to fool someone.

You don’t realize that you’re learning to talk like Them until you find one trapped in the snare an upperclassman set near the library, all salt and iron. It yowls like a cat and screams like a child and its three hands scrabble for purchase. It wants out, you know this.
You cock your head and say, “What will you give me if I release you?

It’s only fair, you think. A story for a story.
You’re playing a dangerous game.

[x]