Humans and Terraforming

If there is one thing that can be said, humans are very good at changing their environment. Now regardless of your views on climate change or greenhouse gases, it cannot be denied that humans have left a big and very literally mark on our planet.

We’ve been doing it ever since our primeval ancestors figured out that fire can be used to clear forest, and that the grasslands created by such burning attracts grazing animals and gives us a clear line of sight for our throwing spears and nets. We have been doing it ever since the ancient humans figured out they could damn creeks to make ponds that lured in waterfowl. That if you repeatedly burned a clearing, the berry bushes would keep coming back ever year. That if you created stone walls along the low tide line, you could create sandy terraces that are perfect for clams. We managed our resources, only fishing at certain times, only hunting certain types of animals, or only cutting certain types of trees.

Then we invented agriculture and we wrought even more changes on the planet. We cleared forests to make room for our fields, pastures and cities. We terraced entire hillsides to allow us to grow crops. We drained swamps and cut the landscape with irrigation canals to provide our crops with water. Often we changed the very course of rivers and altered the soil we relied on, sometimes for better and sometimes for worse. Forests disappeared as our cities and emerging states needed timber for construction, ship-building, and fuel to make pottery, smelt metals, cook our food, and keep us warm.

But we didn’t just change the landscape, we also changed the plants we grew so that they suited our needs. We changed the animals we relied on. We turned wolves into dogs, auroch into cows, ibex into goats, jungle fowl into chickens, and wild boars into pigs. We called this process domestication, and soon quickly forgot that we had ever been without these domesticates.

We made artificial hills for our rituals, built mountains out of cut stone to mark the tombs of revered rulers, carved symbols into the landscape. Sliced into mountains to carve roads, mine metal ores, and quarry stone. We made monuments so astounding that people thousands of years later thought they must have been made by the gods, and buildings of the modern age that dwarf them.

We’ve also traveled. We’ve crossed all our oceans, bringing with us the animals and plants of our homelands, and returning home with the animals and plants of other lands. Some is intentional. New crops that offer new advantages. Animals from far away to awe visitors or remind us of home. Some is unintentional. Plant seeds lodged in the tread of our boots. Insect larva in the bilge of our ships. Rats that scurry and stay out of sight, and hitch a ride on our sailing ships and outrigger canoes. Some we regret bringing, intentionally or not, others have settled in and carved their own place in their new home.

And now we look to the stars and wonder if we could do the same to other planets. To bring our life and our world to the stars. To turn a red planet green and blue.

And what if we succeeded? What if a red planet turned green, and flushed with our success, we turned to other balls of rock orbiting distant stars.

And what if we encountered other life. Life that was like us, but also very different. What if they had never seen life like ours before, that spread to the stars turning red, grey, and brown planets blue and green.

What if some are fearful. What if they seen our domesticated animals, our sculpted landscapes, and our diverse nations and fear that we will assimilate and change them and their world like we did to our ancient animal enemies and our distant home planet.

But what is some our awed, and look at us and see a species that can not only adapt itself to new and challenges and environments, but that also changes the challenge and environment itself. Often changing and adapting to the changes they themselves wrought. For better and worse, humanity sailed the stars on the crest of a wave of change that they themselves have been creating since their distant ancestors set fire to the underbrush and realized they could use this.

do you? (reddie)

Type: One-shot

Summary: After years of not speaking after a break-up, Richie finally gets to talk to Eddie over the phone.

Pairing: Reddie

Word count: 1.6k

Warnings: N/A

A/N: okay so i know i’m supposed to be writing rain and doing request and my blogrates but after hearing my favorite song by neyo called do you, i got so inspired and had to write this. i had to. i actually cried a lil writing this one. it’s probs sucks bc i didn’t edit it and wrote it in an hour but i hope you guys like it!

The gravel of the road cracked underneath Richie’s boots, his tread slow and hesitant.

Once he reached the booth, his hand reached out to touch the cold glass, staring at the phone on the inside. Did people even use these anymore?

This was a terrible idea. No, scratch that - it was the worst idea he could ever have.

It was selfish. It was disrespectful. It was low.

He just needed to hear his voice one more time.

The tall, curly headed boy finally stepped inside of the booth, not bothering to close the door behind him as he picked up the phone and deposited a coin inside.

Richie’s heart was beating so fast that he felt like it would explode out of his chest. Would he answer?


The sound of Eddie Kaspbrak’s voice on the other end brought tears to Richie’s eyes. A shaky breath sounded into the receiver on his end, doing his best to hold it together. It was a voice he wanted to hear for years now, and god, did it still sound just like a song.

“Hello? Is anyone there?”

“Hey Eds.. It’s me.”

Eddie froze when he heard that voice, one of his hands slapping down to rest against the counter in front of him so that he wouldn’t fall.

He almost didn’t believe this was real, just like he almost didn’t believe Richie had been trying for weeks to reach him.

“Hi…” Eddie’s greeting was flat, but that was purely because he didn’t want Richie to know that he still had an immediate effect on him.

The other line was silent for a few other beats, and Eddie’s heart started racing at the idea that it had disconnected. It frustrated him to think that he was actually upset at the prospect.

“Maybe.. maybe this wasn’t a good idea. I know you probably don’t care about anything I have to say.”

Eddie remained quiet, hanging onto the sound of Richie’s voice. He’d heard it the other night, listening to one of the five voice mails that Richie had left because Eddie refused to answer the phone.

“But you’re listening so.. thank you for that.”

It grew uncomfortably silent again, and Eddie could tell that Richie was waiting for him to say something.

“Why are you calling me, Richie?” He finally asked quietly, unable to hide the wariness in his voice. Before Richie could answer, they both flinched at the sound of a voice wafting over from Eddie’s living room.

“Eddie, who’s that?”

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God’s Own Country is Britain’s answer to Brokeback Mountain
From the Berlin Film Festival, this outstanding debut film is a ‘thrillingly real story of gay love’, writes Jessica Kiang.
By Jessica Kiang

Under battered Yorkshire skies, with grime beneath its nails and soil clodding up the treads of its boots, Francis Lee’s outstanding feature debut God’s Own Country is a work of rough-hewn alchemy. But instead of gold, from the muck and straw it spins a thrillingly real story of gay love. It will inevitably invite comparisons with Ang Lee’s Brokeback Mountain — at times it almost actively courts them — but seldom has a film or its characters felt less derivative.

In any case, this isn’t only a love story. It is also an immigrant tale and an unflinching portrait of rural farm life where the war between tradition and change is bitter and has real casualties. And in Josh O'Connor (Peaky Blinders) the film finds a central performance of such authenticity and naturalism that is feels like it grew there, planted some years ago, with a root system that extends for miles under these forbiddingly lovely moors.

The film’s sense of place recalls Andrea Arnold’s viscerally damp and windswept Wuthering Heights

This sense of place, and of tactile immediacy in the detail and dirt of its wild location, at times recalls Andrea Arnold’s viscerally damp and windswept take on Wuthering Heights, but there is nothing ethereal about Lee’s vision of rural life. Instead he finds beauty in details of skin, fur, ordure, spit, vomit, semen, mucus and afterbirth. Here the ‘miracle of birth’ and the ‘circle of life’ are captured in shots of chickens pecking at eggshells, ewes licking the mucus from their newborns, or, during one exceptional sequence, a dead lamb being briskly skinned and its hide used to clothe a runt, so that it will be accepted by the bereaved mother.

In fact the first animal birth that happens here is an abortive one: Johnny (O'Connor) is away bringing a cow to market, and having an anonymous, illicit sexual encounter with a young man he meets there, while back on the farm the pregnant cow to whom he had been tending, dies in the process of giving birth to a half-dead calf. His father Martin (Ian Hart) whose failing health necessitates the use of two walking sticks, unambiguously blames his son and leaves the mercy killing of the calf to him.

‘Animalistically sexual’

Surly, scowling Johnny lives on the inexorably failing livestock farm with his father and grandmother (a terrific Gemma Jones) in an atmophere of mutual hostility and barked-out orders reluctantly followed. Martin, all but incapacitated, hires a Romanian migrant worker to help out for a week during lambing season and when Gheorghe (Alec Secareanu) arrives, it seems at first like he will be just another reason for resentment. Johnny, who gets so blind drunk in the pub most nights that his mornings are spent vomiting, is openly hostile to him, as well as sneeringly dismissive of his old friends from the region who have gone away to college. The only hint we get that there was ever anything more to Johnny than this unprepossessing truculence is at the pub, when an old acquaintance urges him to join her and her college mate for a drink: “He’s really funny. You know, like you used to be.”

For his part, Gheorghe takes uncomplainingly to the privations of this isolated location, sleeping in a chilly caravan in the courtyard and passing the days working with Johnny mostly in silence. But he is good at the tasks required of him, not just the fence-mending and wall-repairing but the real business of lambing. And during a few days spent away from the farmhouse, in the hills looking after the sheep, living on off-brand pot noodles and sleeping next to each other in a ramshackle outbuilding, Johnny and Gheorghe’s relationship becomes first animalistically sexual (their first roll in the hay is notable for the lack of hay: they rut in the dirt) and then, astonishingly to Johnny, loving. Under the influence of sudden happiness, manifested in night-time trysts and secret smiles (though perhaps not so secret to Nan’s sharp eyes) Johnny’s imperceptible ugly duckling transformation is a quiet joy to behold.

Maybe it’s time to let gay love stories be gay love stories, to apologise for their themes as little as God’s Own Country does

In the past, when faced with ‘gay films’ of the calibre of Moonlight, Carol, the upcoming Sundance wonder Call Me By Your Name or, now, God’s Own Country – films that tell their stories with tenderness and insight and without a scintilla of camp – the tendency in reviewing has been to somehow claim them ‘for everyone who has ever loved’ or ‘for cinema’, in such a way that defines ‘cinema’ as a broadly heterosexual endeavour, and denies their essential queerness. There is a place for that project – there is sociological importance, not to mention a financial imperative, in presenting gay stories in a way that universalises that experience for a wider (read: predominantly heterosexual) audience. But it can’t help but feel like maybe the time for that fastidiousness is past. Maybe it’s time to let gay love stories be gay love stories, to apologise for their themes as little as God’s Own Country does.

Unlike so many films in this category, this is not about coming out, at least not in the traditional sense — Johnny’s sexuality is a pre-established fact, however unspoken it may be in that household. If anything, it portrays a painfully, magnificently real character coming out as worthy of love, like it’s a gift he didn’t know he wanted and could never have believed he deserved. It’s not despite Johnny’s gayness, but because of it that the journey is so captivating.

A Million Reasons

Characters:  Dean x Reader, Sam

Summary:  Dean keeps pushing the reader away.  Will she stay?

Word Count:  1442

Warnings:  Angst

A/N:  I’m currently obsessed with A Million Reasons by Lady Gaga, which inspired this. 

Tags are at the bottom. As always, feedback is welcomed and appreciated.

Originally posted by won-der-land89

A Million Reasons

Rolling over in the bed, you sigh, realizing Dean isn’t next to you. Not that you’d expect it, not lately. You know where he is. Either at a bar or in the library drinking whiskey, or passed out on whatever surface seemed the most appealing in a drunken stupor.

You can’t remember the last time he’s smiled at you, or held you or said a kind word. Lately, it had been a constant stream of arguments and tears. The pain was bone deep, the hurt, the rejection that you felt on a daily basis, it was wearing you down.

Trying to wait it out, trying to be supportive, giving him space, it was taking a toll on you. It was breaking you. You were running out of reasons to stay.


Sam hears her sobs through the bedroom door as he makes his way to the kitchen. He hesitates, his hand on the knob. He doesn’t know if he should try to comfort her or if he should give her the dignity of privacy.

What he does know is that it can’t keep going on this way. Dean is lost is his own grief, angry and bitter, hiding in his cups and taking his pain out on the both of them. She gets the brunt of it, and it kills Sam. She doesn’t deserve it.

Sam is just about to turn the knob when he hears the bunker door swing open and the heavy tread of Dean’s boot on the staircase. He shifts back and forth from foot to foot trying to decide which direction to go.

With a heavy sigh, he removes his hand from the knob and turns to confront his brother.

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Fic: Foresight (Vax, Vex, ensemble)

[AO3 | FFN | More Fic]

In his memory, Vax is forever locked in a moment (in a moment in a moment).

Major spoilers for episode 102.



In his memory, Byroden is forever locked in springtime.

Warm light glints off sun-dappled leaves, distracting the eye from even the most vivid of wildflowers that pitch and sway with the wind-blown grasses. He’s young, sitting in the dirt and watching his sister methodically pull up strands of grass and release them into the wind to flutter and flicker away. He’s thinking about Jerren, the kindly old man next door who’d died last week. He’s thinking about his mother leaning in close with tears in her eyes and saying, “I’m so sorry, but he’s not coming back,” he’s thinking about what it means to end and to make other people feel sorry, he’s thinking about what it means to go and not come back.

“I never want this to end,” he says.

Vex just looks at him, pulling up another handful of grass. “I’m getting hungry. We gotta go in sometime.”

“I mean, I’m gonna remember this when I’m two hundred years old,” Vax says. “This day, today. The way the sun looks and the grass looks and the sky looks.”

She grins. “You’ll definitely forget.”

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anonymous asked:

Can you post some zookeeper must have items? Like work boots and khaki pants? Rain gear?

Alright, let’s turn this into a mini How to Zookeep because man do I need to continue that series… anyways…

Here’s some of the most helpful things a zookeeper can have…

Rain Gear

Originally posted by biscuitsarenice

What kind of rain gear you get depends on climate and your level of comfort, but in general you’ll at least want a good rain coat. You can either go for a lightweight shell that layers on top of other coats (I have a Patagonia torrentshell) or a heavy duty coat like a large PVC one. Either way, you want something that is strong and not going to rip apart - cheapo ponchos are not a good option here. As for rain pants, that just depends on your level of dedication to not getting wet… If you’re alright looking like a bit of a dork (what keeper isn’t?) and your legs won’t turn into an oven, go for it.


Originally posted by angelicaprocrastinates

Even if you think “I don’t care if my shoes get wet!” or “I just don’t have a use for them!” …the day will come… when you NEED boots… Yes, you will care when your shoes get wet and you get trench foot. You’ll have a use for them. It will happen. If you think you don’t need boots, get the $10 Wal-Mart ones and store them somewhere and forget about them till the day you decide oh-lord-i-need-friggin-boots. And if you DO think you need boots, go ahead and splurge on some comfy, flexible ones like Muck Boots.


Originally posted by astrorhea

The verdict is still out on shoes - do you splurge or save? The thing is, in our line of work, shoes wear out fast. You’ll always here the anecdotal tale of some mythical zookeeper who bought Red Wing boots at a thrift store for $5 and they lasted for 10 years and he was put in his grave wearing them but… Shoes, even the $200 ones, rarely last longer than a year. Most have about a six month lifespan. Many keepers, ‘cause you know, we’re poor, buy the cheapo shoes and let them get worn down to shreds. Some keepers are able to get the nicer fancy shoes (waterproof, good tread, hiking boots, etc.) and they last a while, but still, usually not longer than a year. So if the cheapo shoes are comfy and last you at least 3 months, I say go for it.

Also, invest a few bucks in this:

This stuff is seriously amazing. It’s not a cure-all, but it has extended the life of my many different pairs of boots and shoes by at least a few weeks to months. I’ve used shoe goo to fix everything from a straight up giant hole in the sole of a steel-toed boot (used them for another two months) to minor stuff like small tears in fabric. They also have a plumbing version (called “Plumbing Goo”) that is super waterproof and strong, which I have used in a pinch to patch everything from my rain boots to my car bumper (3 years going strong!)

Pants and Shorts (probably khaki)

Originally posted by huffingtonpost

You’ll need some most-likely-khaki pants and shorts for your day. Unless your work is extra fancy and provides pants as well as shirts. Seeing as our profession is mostly women, we run into the problem of most clothing manufacturers thinking that women’s pants should all be paper-thin, skin-tight, lacking pockets, and generally enforcing the patriarchy.

So shopping in the men’s area (and writing a strongly worded letter demanding POCKETS) is probably your best best. Honestly, I’ve found some of my best pants (including flannel lined khakis) at the thrift store. Time to pop some tags.

Originally posted by dontspeakbitchjustdie

Other places to check out include sporting goods stores, Old Navy, and outdoors stores. You’ll want lightweight pants/shorts for the summer and heavy duty in the winter. Also either buy some liquid stitch or learn how to sew because you’re gonna get some holes in them.


Originally posted by sachinteng

Multi-tools are incredibly handy for zookeepers. You’ll probably want the fold-out kind with pliers like a standard Leatherman. Gerber multi-tools are also pretty good if you want a more affordable option. It’s easiest to get a carrying case that attaches to your belt loop. If you don’t want or need the bulk of a multi-tool, a small utility knife or swiss army knife can still be very useful.


Originally posted by aetna

Y’all. Most of us are outside all the time. Or at least outside more than the average office worker. We need to wear sunscreen. If you’re outside a lot in direct sunlight, please wear sunscreen. I started getting into the habit of it last year and it’s annoying to remember and sometimes I forget but it’s good to at least try. 

Originally posted by giphy

I recommend keeping a couple of sunscreen sticks around at work as a start. Try to put some on before you leave the house. Obviously if it’ll be downpouring or you work in a basement, you might not need it as much. But still. Protect yourselves.


“I’m heading to the games, I’ll see you there.” Jughead called into the empty house, his voice echoing off of the tin roof of his trailer. He wasn’t quite sure why he bothered, his father was never home and his mother preferred to act as though he didn’t exist.

He walked the streets of district 8, his hands shoved into his pockets as he coughed. Working the mines was really getting to him, the smoke and coal filled his lungs and his hands were callused and burned, this wasn’t the life he would have chosen but in Panem, well there really wasn’t much of a choice, your life was determined by your District and he just happened to be born into the most grueling one.

On top of his nonstop work schedule he hadn’t gotten any sleep, he couldn’t stop thinking of the games, thinking of Jellybean, of Betty. The blonde had burrowed her way into a place deep in his mind, he found himself worrying abou her nonstop, no good could come of it,he knew that but still… she was so… good.

Joaquin appeared beside him so suddenly he nearly dropped the heavy chunk of charcoal he was weighing in his hands.

“Jesus Joaquin, do you not have any tread in your boots.” He shook his head and shoved his friend teasingly.

Joaquin grinned for a moment before his face dropped to something much more serious
“The plans in action, after the games today we’ll all stay, we won’t move. Let the peace keepers do what they want.” He shrugged a mischievous smile playing in his lips

Jughead nodded, the rebellion was starting in district 8, the Miners were on board when he casually mentioned fighting the system, everyone was aware of the risks but they wanted this, they wanted freedom, wanted the fighting to end.

Veronica was slumped in her seat when they arrived, Jughead squeezed her shoulder reassuringly and she looked up at him exasperated

“I want to help you guys, I want to be part of the rebellion!” She sighed angrily

Joaquin shook his head
“No Ronnie, with your dad being the mayor it isn’t safe for you to rebel, give it time.”

She mumbled something under her breath before dropping even lower in her seat.

Jugheads eyes scanned the crowd and landed on his father, he was leaning against a railing beside some of his friends from the mines, he caught Jugheads eyes and stared intently, he wanted his son to know he knew what he was planning, it was the talk of the mines. Jughead shook his head abruptly and averted his eyes, he couldn’t go back now, what’s done is done.

The screen lit up and the whole of Pops quieted, Jugheads fingers went to his seat as he prayed Jellybean and Betty had made it through the night.

Sure enough Jellybean was the first one the camera zoomed in on, she was perched in a tree, Kevin Keller beside her a protective arm wrapped around her as they both stayed silent.

The camera then panned to Finnick and Betty, weapons raised as they scanned their surroundings

“Come out now, we know you’re here, fight this like the careers that you are.” Finnick growled, his eyes flicking to Betty’s, she nodded her head towards the bushes and they both slowly made their way over, shoved back instantly when Cheryl and Jason Blossom leapt out, twisted smirks on their faces.

“It’s so sad you have to die this way, although it’s kind of sweet, dying together. Of course you know all about death, right Finnick, you’ll be with Annie soon.” Cheryl blossom grinned

The beautiful boy growled, his trident poised directly in the redheads face. Betty was beside him her knives lifted as she kept her eyes steadily on Jason Blossom.

It all happened too quickly, a jumble of red hair and explosions, the bombs were underneath there feet, they hadn’t noticed they had been too busy preparing to battle.

Betty screamed as an explosion singed her arm

“Jellybean run! Finnick get them someplace safe.” She begged as Cheryl lunged at her using the commotion to her advantage. Jughead was leaning forward in his chair, biting his lip so hard until he tasted blood.

“Kill her. Please Betty kill her.” He whispered desperately.

Bombs were exploding beside them as Cheryl straddled Betty her hands tight around the blondes throat, her bright red lips snarled.

Suddenly Cheryl was falling off of Betty and screaming, a hunting knife sticking out of her side as she clawed at it, pointed fingernails covered in blonde.

Jason ran for his sister but was quickly stopped as a blonde exploded directly under his feet ending his entirely.

Betty stared for a moment at Cheryl before looking to the sky and mumbling and running off.

The massacre they had all just seen seemed to stun the entire district 8 into silence. They stared at the screen and watched Cheryl Blossom take her last breath. Jughead was standing now, moving closer to the screen, waiting.

The screen panned to the four tributes now as they threw themselves on the floor.

Finnick panted and gripped his trident,

“That’s it. It’s done it’s just us.”

Jellybean was clutching Betty and Kevin nodded somberly. They knew what came next, it was then end.

“No” Betty whispered, her eyes hard as she stood

“No” she growled “we won’t kill each other, you can’t make us. You can bomb us, you can send mutts but you can’t make us kill each other. You can try and burn us but if we burn, you burn with us.”

The act of defiance was met with a black screen, the games were over, but they had really just begun.

A Little Persuasion

Gif Not Mine

Hello fellow Tublermites, this idea kinda popped into my head when I was listening to Heaven in Hiding by Halsey which is what I recommend you listen to while you read this. This is also another smut fic which I rarely do and probably suck at so be easy on me. Anyway, you all enjoy :)

Warning: This contains mature themes involving sex. If you don’t like then don’t read.

Word Count: 1934

The sweet buttery scent of popcorn wafted from your kitchen into your small living room as you quickly threw together a simple pile of pillows and blankets. The soft hums from the other room filled you with a sense of excitement. You had been waiting for this day for weeks now, and finally, Star City had calmed down, and you could spend a Friday night with the man you loved without him running off to save the city. Oliver had wanted to take you out to a fancy restaurant and treat you to a night of luxury however you opted to spend a night wearing one of Oliver’s long dress shirts while cuddling on the couch watching cheesy Rom-Coms. The perfect date you had explained.

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[A/N: Just some dad!Hopper feels for you, post S2. El tries to figure out what she should call Hopper.]

Read it on Ao3

It’s Thursday night dinner at the Byers house and she’s curled up in the corner with a book.

Mike and Will had begged her to play Dungeons and Dragons with them, and normally she’d play, but she’s on the last third of this book and she wants to finish it and give it to Nancy before they all go home, so she just shakes her head and retreats into the chair in the corner.

Halfway through the last chapter, an argument explodes in the middle of the room between the boys.

She waits for it to quiet back down – it’s hard to concentrate on the words on the page when Dustin is screaming “son of a bitch” every other sentence and Lucas is just screaming.  

Two minutes later, when it seems like the noise has only gotten louder, she puts her book down and wanders towards the kitchen, where Jonathan and Nancy are washing the dishes and putting them away.

Nancy smiles at her, then gestures towards the increasingly loud argument in the living room.

“Want me to tell them to shut up so you can read?”

Before she can respond, she hears the front door open, the heavy tread of boots on the floor.

The argument immediately stops.

It’s silent for a long moment and she can’t help but smile as she pictures the glare the boys must be getting right now.  

Someone – Lucas, she thinks – coughs before she hears Dustin say, “Sorry – we’ll shut up.”

The door swings back shut just as Nancy bursts into laughter, the sound echoing in the silence as she leans into a smiling Jonathan.

“It’s like he’s everyone’s dad instead of just yours,” Nancy says, grinning over at her.

The smile fades, and she looks back towards the hallway, turning the words over in her mind.

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shady-swan-jones  asked:

drabble prompts: i thought it would be fun if you did a combination of 57 and 62. <3

I’m sorry for taking so long with this Sophie, thanks for being so patient with me, I hope you like this <3

57. “Will you just shut up for a moment so I can say something nice to you!” + 62. “That came out wrong.”

Killian can barely feel his limbs by the time the chase is over and the criminals have been apprehended and brought in. He puts all his weight on his right leg, wary of his left that was injured in a tackle last week appears to be throbbing now.

He slumps down in his chair. It rolls a little backwards under his pressure and he can’t be bothered to drag it back to its original place. Not right now anyway; he’ll give himself a few minutes to collect himself and then proceed with the paperwork.

It’s late enough that it’s just him at his desk, their drug bust stretching out for longer than either him or Emma had expected. But he has nowhere to be, so he might as well get a head start on the documentation.

He hears footsteps and despite being turned away, he knows it’s her. He could recognise the heavy tread of her boots anywhere. It was only a matter of time before she sought him out to chew his ear off. He’s been preparing himself for this for hours.

“Jones, what the hell was that?”

He tilts his head to the side to regard her, a vision with her expression fierce and her hands on her hips. She’s tied her hair up and slid out of her signature red leather jacket. She looks like a marvel, and he laments for every instance she’s shot his teasing flirtatious down, every invitation for a celebratory drink she’s declined, and every smile she’s given him that’s disappeared before it’s even fully formed. Killian sighs and launches into his explanation, “I know, Swan, I didn’t follow the plan. But quite frankly I believe I was in the right. I saw an opening and I took it.”


“And I know we talked about this and drew up a clear method to infiltrate them, and I know it was a risky move to bust in the way I did with the state my leg is in. It was not the brightest idea, I agree.”


“But had I insisted on following through with our initial plan of attack, there is no doubt that one of the men would have found us out and have had us by our necks in an instant. Not to mention–”

“Damnit Killian, will you just shut up for a moment so I can say something nice to you!”

Killian’s mouth hangs halfway open, his words cut off instantly. His brain doesn’t make the connection to close it, not until Emma sighs and runs a hand over her face.

“Go on, then,” he mumbles after a moment. He sure as hell was not expecting her to sing his praises after he did what she specifically told him not to do.

“You are such an idiot,” she huffs out, and Killian makes a noise of resignation in the back of his throat. Emma squeezes her eyes shut and tilts her head heavenward. Under her breath, he hears her say, “That came out wrong.”

He sits up straighter when she opens her eyes and moves to lean on his desk, right in front of him.

“What I mean is,” she pauses, chews on her bottom lip, and then finally says, “thank you. If you hadn’t did what you did, that guy would’ve shot me. And then you. And then this whole thing would’ve been over.”

Killian furrows his brows, not sure how to take her sincerity despite it making his heart thud harder and chest feel warmer. “I was only looking to protect you,” he says, his hand automatically going to scratch behind his ear in a nervous tic he despises.

“I know.” She nods and looks at her crossed arms. “But it was still a stupid move, your leg is jacked up and now you’ve probably made it worse.”

“Ah, and the true Swan returns,” he teases at her ability to throw insults at him in quick succession.

“Someone’s gotta keep you in check.”

“I thank the heavens every day that you’ve taken it upon yourself to do that job,” he smirks.

Emma rolls her eyes and stands up. “You should really get home, you’ve had a long day. And you should rest your leg.” She’s still giving him orders but the earnestness in her eyes betrays her.

“As much as I appreciate the concern, love, I think I’ll stick around for a little while.”

She hesitates for a second before giving him a stiff nod, and disappearing into the kitchen, no doubt to grab her things and be on her way. He knows how she works, her flight instinct a blazing alarm in her mind. There’s something about her walls that remind him so much of his own, something about her pain that makes him want to erase it.

He’s still musing on his infatuation with his partner when she comes back into his line of vision. She carefully places two mugs of coffee on his desk and slings off her messenger bag before heaving out a stack of papers.

She’s rolled over a chair and seated herself on the opposite end of the desk before Killian catches on to what’s happening.

“Forgive me if I sound rude, but what are you doing?”

“I figured you could use some company.” She doesn’t meet his eyes, instead opting to unnecessarily sift through her papers. “Besides, I thought we could have a celebratory drink.”

Killian’s eyes move from her to the mugs, and before he knows it, he’s opening his drawer and uncorking his flask of rum. He raises his eyebrows in question and she nods.

“You keep alcohol in your desk?” Emma asks, a smirk forming on her lips.

“You don’t?” he shoots back.

She hums, but doesn’t say anything else. She lifts up her mug in a toast when he’s done and he follows suit. “To getting the job done.”

“To us,” he amends, “we do make quite the team.”

Emma smiles. “Yeah, I guess we do.”

(And when she kisses him after a few hours of conversation and laughter, tasting of caffeine and rum, there’s no doubting how good of a team they do make.)


Originally posted by 94londonstreet

You’d seen him around. For the last three weeks, he’d been in the studio you worked at almost every day. And almost every day, he’d pass you at your post in reception. The first few days, he’d give a small smile and hello. Then he’d asked for your name and you his, even though you knew who he was, not just from his time in a wildly successful and famous boyband, but from the fact you worked reception at a recording studio and part of your job was to know the people who recorded there. Next, he began stopping by for a chat either on his way in or out. Then he always stopped for a chat on his way in and out. Your knees grew weaker every day as your interactions with him progressed.

You had a proper crush on Harry Styles.

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The Curtain, part 4

Steve Rogers x Reader

Summary: You had been Steve Rogers’ best girl for many years, until he took down SHIELD and proclaimed his allegiance to Hydra. And that was when your world came tumbling down. Now you were part of the Underground - a group of rogue heroes and civilians that wanted nothing to do with Hydra. The Mount was the secret headquarters where you lived now, as you all try to find a way to get the world back. And where you try your hardest to forget Steve Rogers or at least the man he is now, but could you ever?

Characters: Hydra! Steve Rogers, Clint Barton/Hawkeye, Natasha Romanoff/Black Widow, Miles Morales/Spider-Man, Amadeus Cho/Hulk, Viv Vision.

Warning: If you don’t like the Hydra Steve currently in the Marvel comics, don’t read. Won’t be tagging anyone unless they asked to be tagged. Spoilers for Secret Empire.

A/N: This is mostly based on the comic Secret Empire and most of the characterization is based on comic book counterparts - or at least a mix of the two for those also in the MCU. Also, this is just a mini-series - not sure how many parts.

Part 1  Part 2  Part 3  Part 4 Part 5 Part 6

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I Got You Part 5

Characters:  Dean x Reader, Sam

Summary:   Dean and Sam rescue the reader from torture.  Who kept her and why?

Word Count:  1353

Warnings:  Language


I Got You Part 5

You spend the next week at the bunker, giving Sam time to recover. You ask why don’t ask Castiel to come heal them. Sam shrugs it off, joking that it’s only a flesh wound. Dean tells you that they only call Cas when shit gets really bad.

Dean called Cas for you when you needed to be healed. You knew you had been in rough shape but it must have been far worse than you realized.

While the physical scars are gone, you find that you are on edge mentally. Since being tortured and then almost killed again, you’ve been a bit skittish. Sudden sounds set your heart racing. More than once you’ve woken up in the middle of the night, sheets twisted around your body, heart pounding.

Dean provides much-needed distraction and you spend your days helping Dean restore his car. It’s the most amazing thing, to watch him loving repair the car, bit by bit. He knows where every piece goes. He knows how to coax the metal just so. He knows this car down to every nut and bolt.  

He teaches you as he works, he enjoys it, sharing his love of this car with you. He’s naturally patient and encouraging. You can’t help but feel a twinge of pride when he praises you. You also can’t help but shiver when his hand covers yours, helping you twist the bolts tighter.

It seems so intimate, Dean letting you see this side of him. He lets you see it because he trusts you.

It feels like a very special and important thing to have Dean Winchester’s trust. You sense that his trust isn’t tossed about freely, it’s earned and valued. You feel a fierce tug of emotion, it’s almost protective in nature. More than anything, you want to be worthy of his trust.

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Two inches taller

“The things I do for friendship” Raven said to herself. There was just only so many times she could say no to Starfire.  Her exuberant alien friend was like an elemental force, overpowering and persistent. So now she was in the never-ending purgatory of the ‘Mall of shopping’.

Seriously how many stores does it take to sell overpriced clothes and useless junk? It seemed that Starfire was on a mission to find out.  Four department stores, half a dozen boutiques, and for some reason a kitchenware store where she had to try everything. The worst part was that she wanted Raven’s opinion about every top, pant, and vegetable peeler. The lingerie shop was going to require hours of meditation to deal with those mental images.  

Raven was starting to get a pounding headache. It didn’t help that the one bookstore in the mall was recently replaced by a shop selling perfume, cause the mall apparently needed a 5th. Still Starfire was happy. Raven reminded herself that It wasn’t just about buying pretty things. Starfire held a genuine curiosity about earth, about people.  It was one of the things the two women had in common.  While Raven preferred to explore a cultures literature Starfire preferred to explore what they created, and how it was used…


And what they wore.

Starfire’s exclamation upped the tempo of the base drum in Raven’s head. The Young alien found a massive shoe store and was quickly flying between isles looking at footwear each pair more convoluted then the next.  She was ecstatic, Raven needed a break. While her friend was distracted by the myriad of choices she slipped away looking for a quiet corner. She just needed a few minutes to re-enforce her mental barriers and little quiet and privacy before this quest could continue.

Raven ducked down a vacant isle thinking she could claim on the benches and chant for a few minutes.  She found herself surrounded by black leather.  At first, she thought she wondered into the men’s section, these were not the dainty, strappy insanely made foot torture devices Starfire was cooing over.  Some looked like work, or military combat boots. Others had soles almost 4 inches thick, some were so tall they would go all the up to the thigh.

The cloaked woman turned to head back down the aisle when a pair of boots caught her eye.  They were more practical then some of the others. Rich black leather with chrome eyelets for the laces. The treads on them looked like it belonged on a construction tire.  She gingerly extended her hand not understanding her new fascination, it was just a pair of boots.  But there was something about them, a mix of beauty and utility.  

She picked up one and nearly dropped it, they were heavier then they looked and once she was examining it in her hand discovered that they had steel toes.  She stood there running her fingers over the leather, and cord style laces.  The next thing she knew she was sitting on the bench and the boots were on her feet.  

“Starfire must be rubbing off on me” She said to the air.  This was silly she didn’t need shoes. She didn’t need really anything. This was a useless indulgence.   She was going to take them off and go find her friend before she bought something crazy, like the time she bought the leaf blower thinking it was a kitchen tool.  She was not going to buy these boots.

She reached down to undo the laces yet something pulled at her.  There would be no harm in looking would there? I mean if she could just see how out-of-place these things looked on her it would just prove her right. Raven looked up and saw a full-length mirror at the end of the isle.  She stood up and was slightly off balance.  The soles were not extreme but were thick enough to move her center of gravity.  

“So, this is what 5"4 feels like, okay” she said to herself as the carefully tried a few steps.  At first, she felt like there were weights around her feet, but by the time she got to the mirror she had adjusted.  The heft made her strides bolder.  When she faced herself in the mirror she even looked different.  The boots came up to mid-calf, and despite covering much of her legs they somehow looked longer.  For some reason, she was taking a wider stance then usual and is squared and pushed back her shoulders.  The woman in the glass looked older more confident than the Raven she knew.

“They look good on you.”  

Raven knew that voice, and had to fight down the urge to scream.  

“I take that back. They look great on you”  

She pulled her cloak closed to conceal herself and the boots and turned around.  Beast Boy in all his annoying greenness stood there his hands behind his back pure amusement on his face.

“Rae your taller” he quipped.  It was true Beast Boy was slightly shorter than her, but with the thick tread of the boots she could see clearly over the top of his head.  

"What are you doing here?” Her monotone voice leaking rage.  

Beast Boy held up a small plastic bag with a colorful logo of a game controller.  "Monkey night II return of the Chimp came out today” he said with a smile.

“You didn’t buy a video game in a shoe store!”

“I saw you and Star wonder in. Thought I would say hi!”

“Yes, cause it’s not like we live together and going to see each other in a few hours” She turned away bending her knees slightly to make sure that her cloak completely obscured the boots.  

“To be honest I am not crazy about leather, but if the cow saw how you look in those I think it would make the sacrifice willingly.” That goofy grin of his

“Beast Boy I always knew one day I would have to kill you, didn’t think it was going to be in a shoe store!”

“Then can the condemned have a last request?” He asked and Before Raven could respond. “Can you open you cloak again? Cause you really do look great on those.”  

Rage and embarrassment quickly debated homicide or escape.  Raven pushed back Beast boy and had the boots back on the shelf and her shoes in her hand. She has stormed away before Beast Boy knew what happened.  She quickly caught up with Starfire whose attention was being captured by a small jewelry stand.  

For the first time in her life she was grateful for Starfire’s shopping habit.  It was a welcome distraction from the encounter with Beast Boy in the shoe store.  "They look great on you" in Beast Boy’s voice kept echoing in the back of her mind.  The whole experience brought up an avalanche of emotions that was not use too.  

Maybe it was because the whole shopping expedition had worn down her control, or the surprise of Beast Boy had catching her.  "They look great on you" was not a phrase that she was accustomed too.  At least not when it came to her.  

When the two women got back to the tower Raven went straight to her room.  She meditated for nearly two hours carefully rebuilding her control. When she felt like herself again her eyes opened and unfolded herself out of the lotus position.  Her eyes fell on a rectangular box sitting on the bed.  In her haste to put her mind in order she had not noticed it when she came into her room.  

She walked over to the bed. On the box was a yellow post it, a short note that read 'I am sorry’.  The size and the shape of the box hinted at its contents but Raven was still cautious opening it.  There they were the boots she had tried on in the store.

Beast Boy laid his bed. The game he just bought sit still in its packaging still in the bag all but forgotten on the floor. He stared at the ceiling not sure what he did wrong and starting to wonder if what he did might have made things worse.  

A knock came at the door.  "Cy yes you can play the game” Beast Boy shouted grabbing the game back and going to the door.  It was Beast Boy’s turn to be surprised when instead of his large metal friend he saw Raven’s amethyst eyes.

“uh Hi Raven” He said quietly carefully saying her name in the what she preferred.  

Raven stood there her hood up and in her smooth monotone asked, “Did you mean it?”

Beast Boy covered his mouth with both hands afraid of something smart ass leaping out of it. Then he slowly nodded his head.  

“Then thank you for the gift” She said quietly and turned to walk down the hallway, but after a few steps turned back toward Beast Boy still looking after her.  Raven casually lowered her hood and unclasped her cloak and pulled it from her shoulders. She folded it neatly over one of her arms and walked away from Beast Boy in nothing but her unitard and the boots he just purchased for her.

Beast Boy watched her stride away and with every step he could feel his heart thunder in his ears. The way she walked that slight sway in her hips, those long legs would stay with him. Suddenly video games didn’t seem quite so important.

I would like to thank @loubuggins and @there-is-one-mirror-in-my-house for there input. On this one. I was trying to reach a bit out of my comfort zone. I wanted to be in Raven’s head and her trying something that wasn’t really her.  A woman buying shoes is very stereotypical but how would someone that is very atypical do a typical thing.  How would she react if she was found out indulging herself? 

Yondu Week: Day Seven: AU - Old West AU

Saloon girls and the piano player scatter as fourteen-year-old Peter Quill smashes into the piano, and then headfirst into the wooden bar, upsetting a spittoon. He scrambles away as the brownish black liquid sloshes out of the container. He raises his sleeve to wipe it across his bloody nose, and stops just in time. Ma will kill me if she has to wash another bloody shirt! He ducks to avoid a fist, and the owner – a local rough-and-tumble named Autry – smashes it into the wood.

As he howls in pain, Quill pushes a table over to try and stop Autry’s fellow, Dempsey. It stops Dempsey, but unfortunately the pair’s leader, McKittrick, corners Quill before he gets any farther.

“Goin’ somewhere, boy?” he spits, and all Quill sees is a fist coming for his eyes, and everything turns into darkness, screams from patrons fading away amidst noises of breaking glass and wood.

When he comes to, the saloon is empty. He tastes blood in his mouth and groans. He tries to sit up, but his hands are tied behind his back and he’s laid out on his side.

“Well, well, look who’s finally awake. Here, let me help you sit up, boy!” Autry grabs a handful of curls and yanks Quill upright. He yells, kicking out, and catches Autry in the knee. He swears and hops up and down while Dempsey laughs.

“Stop that foolin’ around,” McKittrick snaps. He bends down and squeezes Quill’s cheeks in one hand. “Now, boy. I’m gonna ask nice, one more time. Where’s my damn money?”

“I don’t have it!”

“Well that’s gonna be a problem.” He draws back his coat and rests his palm on his gun. “If ya don’t have it, then I’m gonna have to start shootin’ off fingers.”

“You hurt me anymore, and you’re gonna be real sorry,” Quill warns. “Just you wait. My Pa-”

“I don’t give a damn about your pa. He ain’t here, and-” he breaks off in mid-sentence and cocks his head. He turns to Dempsey and Autry, who are arguing with one another. “Hey! Shut up! Listen.”

The two of them stop, watching McKittrick as he straightens up. There’s a slight clatter as the wind outside blows against the shutters of the saloon, and in the distance a dog barks.

Then, a low whistling sound meets their ears. It’s too near to be a train, too steady to be a bird.

“The hell is that?” Dempsey whispers.

Quill spits at Dempsey’s boots. “That is my Pa. And he is gonna-”

McKittrick advances on Quill, pulling him up by his collar. “You shut yer mouth.” He shoves Quill over into Dempsey’s arms, and the three of them back up against the bar. Autry pulls out and cocks his rifle.

There’s the increasing noise of hooves outside – just one or two horses, but glare of the sunset on the dirty windows doesn’t allow much view to confirm the number. There’s the jostle of reins, the thud of someone dismounting. A steady, hollow tread of boots sounds across the creaky boards of the saloon’s walkway, accompanied by the clank of spurs.

Quill grins and spits blood out of his mouth. He knows those spurs. “Y'all are in trouble now,” he says with a grin, and with a scowl, Autry rears back to hit the boy with the butt of his gun. Quill squeezes his eyes shut in anticipation of the pain when there’s a sharp whistle. 

Autry screams as a metal arrow pierces his hand and flies through barrel of his gun, effectively cutting it in twain. He drops to his knee, clutching his bloody limb to his chest.

Dempsey and McKittrick leap backwards, their eyes bugging at the strange, hovering weapon. It twirls idly in the air, shifting positions and rolling as if deciding what to do next.

“It’s – it’s a ‘witched injun arrow,” Dempsey stammers nervously.

A long whistle with an upturned note at the end sends the arrow streaking back the way it had come.

The bloody orange light of the sunset streaming under the saloon doors is cut by a dark shadow. The doors slowly swing open, a sturdily-built man enters.

It’s immediately apparent that he’s no ordinary man. He’s an Offworlder, one of hundreds that came to Terra at the turn of the century. His black Stetson hat is drawn down low over his blue face. His duster trails down nearly to his ankles, the tails of the dark maroon fabric spattered with mud and coated in a thick layer of dust. On his shoulder is the stitched picture of a flame in faded gold thread. The arrow, still spattered with Autry’s blood, flits back and forth above his shoulders like a scarlet hummingbird. He strolls in, leisurely taking in his surroundings and the beaten form of Quill. He comes to a stop at the other end of the bar, and reaches behind the counter to grab a heavy bottle of whiskey. He pulls the stopper out with mismatched, jagged teeth and takes a swig.

A slight creak alerts the others to the entrance, where a tall, skinny young man now stands. He looks Terran, like them, but there’s something off, something about his crystal blue eyes and the way he moves that tells them he’s an Offworlder too. He parts his duster to reveal a peculiar long-barreled revolver, and as he hides it again, McKittrick spies a knife slipped into a pouch at his wrist. The young man settles against the far wall, hand resting on the butt of his gun. 

“In trouble again, son?” the blue Offworlder asks, his voice harsh and raspy.

Quill offers a chuckle, then coughs, blood dribbling over his lip. “Yeah, ya know how it is.”

“He cheated us at cards,” Dempsey spits out, then cowers as the Offworlder raises the brim of his Stetson to look at them. His eyes are a startling red color, bright as rubies even under the shadow of his hat.

“That so, boy? Ya cheat them at cards?”

“It wasn’t hard,” he replies.

A fleeting, proud grin passes over the blue man’s face. He whistles, and the arrow flits before him, dancing above the bar. “Now,” he says, taking another swig of the whiskey, “I ain’t gonna deny that Quill probably deserved what he got, but it’s yer own damn fault that ya let him cheat ya in the first place. And,” he says, holding up a finger as Dempsey opens his mouth, “He’s my son, so I can’t let ya hurt him no more. His Ma would be awful broke up ‘bout it, and I can’t have that.” He braces his hands in the lapels of his duster. “So. I aim to give ya one chance to let him go, peaceful-like.”

Dempsey begins to release Quill, but McKittrick grips the boy’s collar and pulls him back towards him. "He ain’t goin’ anywhere ‘til he gives us our money.“ His fingers brush against the butt of his revolver. 

There’s a soft pair of clicks, and the Terran trio turns in surprise to see the young Offworlder man leveling not one, but two of the long-barreled revolvers at them. Their attention had been so drawn to his fellow that they hadn’t noticed him creeping up.

“Yer gonna let my brother go,” he drawls, “Or I’m gonna blow yer damn brains out.”

“Who in the hell do you think you are?” McKittrick demands, looking between the two Offworlders.

“I am Yondu Udonta of the Ravager gang,” the blue man says, “And this is my boy, Kraglin. He’s mighty protective of his brother. If ya don’t let go a’ Quill, he is gonna shoot y'all dead. That is, if my arrow don’t get ya first.” He whistles, and the arrow weaves between Quill’s head and McKittrick’s nose. 

McKittrick yells in surprise, letting go of Quill, who falls to the floor with a groan.

With a neat twirl, Kraglin holsters one of his revolvers and bends to drag Quill back his jacket. His eyes never leave the trio, and neither does the aim of his other gun. He stops at what he considers a safe distance away. “Ya all right, Peter?”

“Yeah, Krag. Ouch, watch where you’re grabbing!”

“Shut up,” Kraglin hisses, flicking out the knife in his sleeve to slice his brother’s bonds. He hands him a clean handkerchief. “Ya know how mad Ma was when Milano came trottin’ up to the house withoutcha?”

“Powerful mad, I reckon.”

“That there is the understatement of the century.” Kraglin pulls Quill up on his feet as Yondu steps between them and the Terrans, and he holsters his other revolver. “Ya got this, Pa?”

Yondu nods. “Get the horses, meet me out back. You two don’t gotta see this.”

“Yessir.” Kraglin pulls Quill out of the saloon, and he hears Yondu speak.

“I tried to do this peaceful. Remember this was yer own damn fault. Shouldn’a tried to pull a gun on my boy.”

Kraglin climbs onto his horse’s back and pulls Quill up behind him, then clicks his tongue, leading his chestnut mare and Yondu’s black stallion to the back of the saloon.

Yondu’s already waiting for them, his duster spattered diagonally with blood. He straightens up from where he’s been coating his hands with dirt, trying to rub the blood off. “Mer’s gonna kill me. Second coat this week,” he’s muttering. He swings up into the saddle, and walks the stallion over alongside the boys’ horse. He takes Quill’s chin in his hand, turning his face from side to side. “Ya all right, boy?”

“Yessir,” he says, dabbing at his lip with Kraglin’s handkerchief.

“Be more careful next time,” Yondu says, squeezing his horse’s sides gently with his heels. “If ya got caught cheatin’, that means yer gettin’ sloppy. We’ll work on that.” He sighs as he urges his horse into a canter. “Come on, yer Ma’s probably gettin’ supper on. She’ll tan all our hides if we’re late.”

 A/N So I’ve watched two Westerns this week (The Good the Bad and the Ugly, and the Magnificent Seven (2016)). I absolutely love this AU and there’s a possibility it will turn into a full-fledged fic eventually. Basic plot is that Yondu is sort of the wandering lone gunman, split off from the main Ravager gang led by the Ogords. He finds Kraglin, adopts him, and then settles near a town where Meredith Quill works as a prostitute at the local saloon, destitute after her family was killed by the local gang. Yondu falls in love with her, always leaving money for her but never paying for sex – that is her choice to give or not. Meredith Quill is run out of the town because the locals think she’s pregnant with an Offworlder’s baby. The head of the local gang, Ego, who’s a frequent customer of Meredith’s, is furious and wants to kill her for sleeping with an Offworlder. Yondu saves her, takes out the gang, and agrees to be the father of the baby, regardless if it’s his or not. That baby of course is Peter, and after a few years, Yondu and Meredith get married to seal the deal once and for all. This one-shot was just a little peek into their lives. PS – Yondu’s stallion is called Eclector, and Peter’s mare is Milano – but I need one for Kraglin’s mare. I was gonna name her Soup, but thought that was just a little too silly :P EDIT: Kraglin’s horse will be named Cawl, which a reader suggested (I tried finding the note with your name but couldn’t find it but thank you! ) It is Welsh for "soup”.

76 loved hurting you. You knew he did.

He thought that mask hid everything. That you wouldn’t notice the real reason for all the “punishments” he gave. Sure, he was enigmatic and mysterious once. Unpredictable, even. But now you could read him like a book.

You heard the excited panting in his voice when he drove his fists into your stomach. Saw how he subconsciously bucked his hips as he would press his boot against your face, keeping you pinned to the floor. That was a favorite of his. Keep you there until you apologized, until you admitted that you loved and needed him. Sick fuck.

You didn’t need to see his face to know he enjoyed every second of hurting you, no matter how much he tried to convince you that he loved you. That was why he was doing all this, keeping you locked up, cutting off all ties, hurting you. All out of love, he said. You felt at least somewhat comforted that when he forced you to say “I love you” back to him, neither of you truly meant it.

Since the individual rooms no longer properly locked, your prison was the entire west wing of the complex, a small hallway composed of a few dozen private quarters. He kept the main door locked, only coming in to deliver food or whenever he wanted something. Sometimes he left it unlocked as he left, but you’d long since learned that he never does it accidentally. He just wants you to make a move. Give him a reason to punish you. He couldn’t hold up the façade of affection if you didn’t give him a reason.

You had inspected the first few rooms, but lost hope quickly after discovering that all of them were identical. No supplies left behind, no secret hatches. After you combed over the very last room, at the very end of the corridor, you realized it was a fool’s errand. There was nothing here of use.

Not even being eccentric worked. Every plan you attempted with what meager resources you had, he would capture you. Punish you. You were getting pretty sick of it.

You slept in a different room every night, trying to avoid the possibility of any traps left overnight or other altercations Soldier could have made. Tonight, as you tried to tuck away for another morning of hell, you realized that a draft was blowing through your room. With a groan, you pulled the blanket up to your chin and rolled over, prepared to ignore it and go to sleep.

Then, suddenly, your mind sprang to alertness and you sat up. A draft could only mean one thing.

You threw the blanket off and looked around the room in the dark, trying to find the source of the breeze. Then, behind a tall cabinet, you found the answer. A half-window, positioned at the very top of the room. You nearly cried.

Wasting no time, you grabbed the nearby end table and dragged it beneath the window, using the boost to push your body up and into the tiny gap of the window. There was dirt just outside, and you realized that the compound must have been mostly underground. You clawed your fingers in it, digging for purchase as you wiggled your body out of the window and out to freedom. The air outside was freezing, but you didn’t care. You scrambled to your feet as quickly as you could and began to run.

The base’s outside searchlights were on, a result of 76 repowering the station, but you knew the defenses were unmanned. You two were the only ones here, and soon it was about to be only him. You just had to get past the gate and you were free. You could go into hiding yourself, far away from here. You had to wipe the happy tears from your eyes, clearing your vision so you could run.

Your eyes were adjusted enough to see the fence in the near distance, riddled with no trespassing signs and warnings about government property. You slowed down to gawk in a second, hoping to confirm that this was real and not just a fanciful dream.

You wish you hadn’t. You wouldn’t have heard his footsteps if you didn’t.

Without even looking back you broke into a sprint again. How could he have known so quickly? How could he have found out? You reached the base of the fence and wrapped your fingers in the chain-links, trying to frantically scale the 10-foot behemoth of a barrier. You could hear him closing in rapidly, you swore you heard his excited breath. This was a reason. This was a big fucking reason. You couldn’t get caught, it just wasn’t an option this time.

You were halfway up, your feet scrambling against the thin metal, when his hand wrapped around your ankle. You screamed helplessly, desperately trying to wrench your foot out of his grasp, but you knew it was already over. He was too strong.

As a last ditch effort, you lowered yourself enough to drive your heel into his face. He wasn’t wearing his mask, so your foot hit him straight in the nose. He grunted, but his grip didn’t let up. You were fucked. He ripped you down from the fence before anything else, your body crumpling into a pile at his feet.

“You really don’t value your life, do you?” he huffed, blood bubbling out of his nose and over his lips. He looked like a terrifying monster, blood pooling in between his teeth and dripping down his mouth. He looked like he wanted to eat you alive, and you knew he would.

“I wouldn’t have run if I didn’t,” you quipped, and he drove his foot into your hip, knocking you onto your stomach. You wheezed in pain, grabbing onto what would surely be bruised flesh soon. While you winced at the minor energy, Soldier worked his way around you, until he could press the tread of his boot against the back of your head. You grunted.

“Ungrateful punk,” he spat, kneeling down until he could grab your hair. Both pressures on your head were enough to make you scream, but you bit your lip. You knew he wanted to hear it. “Four months of feeding and loving you and you go and run on me?” He ground his boot harder against your scalp and you winced.

“I didn’t ask for this,” you whispered, afraid to raise your voice any higher. You immediately regretted the words, and you felt your heart sink when you heard him chuckle. You’d almost hoped he didn’t hear it.

“I bet you didn’t ask for this either.” He let go of your hair, and immediately drove his palm into your spine just between your shoulder blades. You cried out, trying to roll out from beneath him, and he only let you get as far as onto your back before he shoved his boot back down on the center of your chest, pinning you in place. You could feel the bones shifting beneath his foot.

“Oops. Did that hurt?” he asked. You could practically taste the dry humor behind his statement, could detect the faint wisp of a smile that pulled at the edge of his lips. As he stood with his one foot on you, he made a small show of removing his jacket, nothing more than a black tee shirt underneath. His muscles, which you knew were more than capable of breaking every bone in your body, strained from barely concealed adrenaline.

When the first punch came barreling across your jaw, you hadn’t realized just how much he’d been holding back.

You spat out a lost tooth, the tang of blood on your tongue distracting you enough to miss the second punch, which slammed into your side. You screamed into your teeth, and 76 wriggled his fingers into your mouth to shut you up. You bit down, unable to get through the material of his gloves, and he laughed humorlessly at your attempts. His voice was bitter.

“You need to stop,” he said. He wrapped his free hand around your torso and squeezed. Your ribs began to give under the pressure, and you screamed into his gloves. The sound only encouraged him, and your entire body convulsed when you heard the first crack. His grip didn’t let up, even as he leaned down to whisper in your ear.

“You shouldn’t have run from me,” he hissed, licking the shell of your ear before he continued, “because now I have to break you to make sure it doesn’t happen again.”

theazureesper  asked:

What are your opinions on design and aesthetic in regard to superheroes? We all know that Superman has one "correct" costume, but what about the rest of The JLA? Particularly, Batman. He's a real fashionista.

For the most part I think Chris Sims hit the nail on the head with his old article on the subject, but obviously I have some thoughts of my own. I don’t think simplicity is itself the key; Spider-Man’s pretty overdetailed, and Spider-Man’s costume is Spider-Man’s costume. If I had to set down a rule in that regard, it’d be more along the lines of try and keep it sleek, unless you have a good reason not to.

This would be a reason suits tend to work pretty well as superhero uniforms, while other ‘normal’ clothes don’t tend to as much. Same with tights. With someone like Doctor Strange on the other hand, you’ve got the elaborate design and cape, but that’s because he’s supposed to be weird and arcane.

For Superman and Batman, since you mentioned them specifically, I think that - aside from Batman getting the ‘60s New Look revamp shortly before his first huge mass-media exposure, building in the idea that he could change his look on occasion - it’s that the color balance isn’t quite as delicate with him. Superman struck a really nice balance between the red yellow and blue, whereas with Batman he’s always a sea of gray and either blue or black; a little more or less yellow in one or two spots doesn’t alter it nearly as much. And both come down to simple shapes without too many extraneous details, with just a handful of major defining elements - cape (straight or scalopped), logo, trunks/belt, boots, and for Batman the mask and gloves.

And of course there’s the cardinal rule of superhero costumes, that they’re supposed to say something about the character. For Superman, he has circus and strongman iconography, but it also looks sturdy and with the cape slightly regal; he looks like a bizarre, larger-than-life protector with nothing to hide. With Moon Knight above, the suit denotes class and a certain degree of authority, as well as his nature as a detective, but the creepy featureless mask makes him a ghoul, with whatever law he enforces not being something mortal men would quite understand. Spider-Man’s flashy and gaudy as a guy who draws attention to himself, but while the expressive eyes let a lot of emotion show through, they’re also distinctly inhuman as a reminder that he has the power of something that creeps people out. And then there’s the gold standard:

Flash has the best superhero outfit flat-out, and it isn’t even a contest. Not only is it sleek and simple while remaining distinctive, everything about it communicates that this is a guy who moves fast; the treads on the boots, the lightning bolts, the Hermes wing ears, and the yellow of the lightning mixed with the red-hot bodysuit that screams heat and velocity. He’s where all the principles come together in the best possible way, and for over 50 years the rest of the genre has had to settle for no more than second best.

mass effect writetober || day eleven

prompt list ► CHAOS: a distinctive area of broken ground

[dedicating this one to @biotictrash and @renlyslittlerose <3]

Kaidan has never met anybody quite like Shepard.

He thinks about that more often than he might like to admit. He thinks about it over his morning coffee with Shepard’s bark of loud laughter rattling the table, filling him with a warmth he can’t explain. He thinks about it before getting to work on his afternoon reports, Shepard sprawled out on the seats in the starboard observation lounge where Kaidan likes to linger. He thinks about it on the shuttle ride to their mission, Shepard’s gaze boring into him across the cabin but always drifting just as Kaidan looks up. 

Most of all, he thinks about it when Shepard’s not around. 

Because when Shepard’s not around, Kaidan can see the chaos in Shepard’s wake, clear as day. Broken ground where his boots have tread, and Kaidan always seems to be following these trodden paths like he has nowhere else to go.

And Kaidan knows that isn’t true. He could have left the Normandy behind, gone to work with Hackett and stowed away the best part of three years to some forgotten corner of his mind. He could’ve gone silent, underground, fully within his newfound Spectre capabilities, and hunted for his biotics division to aid the war effort in his own way. 

He didn’t have to follow Shepard.  

Kaidan tells himself that every day, as if it’s an essential part to an equation he can’t quite solve. He runs the same algorithm, the same sequence of logic, always to an answer that doesn’t make sense. Not at first.

Slowly, though, Kaidan manages to find reason in the places he never thought to look.

It’s in the way Shepard always fixes him with a smile after his laughter dies out, as if to make sure he got the joke. It’s in the way Shepard always seeks him out, deliberately spending time in that quiet observation lounge to be with him. It’s in the way Shepard, for all his bravado and his bluster, won’t look at him before they touch down on a mission that could go so badly wrong.

Kaidan follows sequences, reason, rhyme; things that make sense. Shepard chases after the unknown with a ferocity that shakes a galaxy to its core.

For every neutral ground, there must be chaos. Kaidan understands that. 

But Kaidan never quite considered that it applied to people, too. 

“Our Own Traditions”

My second offering for the CS Halloweek event, though it is now a day late and may not get on the list. Hopefully, people can still get a kick out of the fun of this one on November 1st as well as October 31st!  I really wanted to do several more, but time just wouldn’t allow.  This is meant to be set in the time between the Season Six finale and Henry’s leaving to go seek his own story.  I have had Killian and Emma have a child much sooner, but other than that, I don’t think things are too out of line with canon.  Of course I don’t own them, or we would get to see a lot more fluff like this onscreen!  Please enjoy – I’d love to hear what you think!!

“Our Own Traditions”

By: snowbellewells (TutorGirlml on


           “Morgan, come on!” Henry’s exasperated 17-year-old voice, deepened and lowered over the last couple of years in a way that sometimes surprises his stepfather still – to say nothing of the mother who can’t believe how fast the few years they’ve had together have flown and has to constantly remind herself not to hold on to tightly as Henry looks at colleges for the following fall – rumbles with impatience and fond consternation as he kneels next to his three-year-old sister to wrangle her into the black and white striped leggings she had been determined to wear not even an hour before.

           Killian Jones is already on the way to rescue his poor, beleaguered stepson before even Henry’s almost-endless well of patience is exhausted, but he can’t help pausing to shake his head with a chuckle at the petulant response he hears from his stubborn daughter before he does so.  His booted tread in the upstairs hallway stops just beyond the open door of Morgan Ruth Jones’ room, listening for a moment to the sounds he never dreamed he would get to hear – not after his life had spun so far off course for so long, longer than any mortal man should be allowed to get back on course – the voices of children of his own, his family.

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emanationman  asked:

Ok ma let's get you day started off right! Lol. How's about 54! *Because I'm a messy bitch that lives for drama gif*

You sure got my day started off right, cos I’ve been thinking about this prompt half the day now! You really know how to get the drama going – as you didn’t specify and had no preference for who this was gonna be about, I made it about Kastle and I made it hurt a bit. Hope you enjoy! 💗

54. Why’s there a pregnancy test in the trash?


He has been quiet all evening. Some people would say that Frank Castle is always quiet, but she knows better than that. He’s the soft tread of combat boots on her carpet. He’s the tinkering noises in her kitchen when he fixes her a cup of coffee. He’s the huff of breath after a nightmare, the gentle “ma'am” when she’s staring off into space, the knock on her door in the middle of the night. Frank Castle is never truly quiet. Not where it counts. 

Tonight, though, he is perfectly still. Sits on her new couch with his legs positioned as though he might bolt out the door at any second. Takes the proffered cup of coffee from her hands with no more than a vague inclination of his head. Listens to her ramble on and on about work as though the Punisher has nothing better to do than listen to a journalist’s misgivings about being asked to cover the gossip column for a coworker who’s on extended leave.

He’s been quiet all evening and she’s had enough of that, thank you very much.

“Okay,” she says, at the end of her long-winded rant about how Rand Enterprises can go drown in quicksand for all she cares, “I give up. I really, really give up.” Fixes him with the best stare she’s got in her repertoire. “Would you mind telling me what the fuck’s going on with you tonight?”

He has the audacity to blink at her. His eyes shift away from her face when he says “nothing” in reply, which really means that there is a whole lot of everything going on in that head of his. She hisses out an exasperated breath. Shakes her head. Doesn’t give up. (She’s a dog with a bone when it comes to these matters. He knows it. She knows it. The rest of the world is slowly catching up on that.) She presses him again. Asks what’s wrong in softer tones, gentler eyes, a hand on his knee.

“It’s nothin’.” He rasps the words out as though they have physically hurt him. “Don’t you worry.”

“This doesn’t sound like nothing.” She’s insistent. More than a little pissed, too, if she really stops to think about it. “If there’s nothing wrong with you, then there’s gotta be something wrong with me.” She shakes her head at him when he starts to argue about that. “You’ve been ignoring me all night. Staring into space and avoiding ever having to look at me. You jumped almost five feet into the air when I touched you just now. So I repeat: what the hell is going on?” She’s aware she’s practically yelling at this point. Doesn’t care what her neighbours will have to say about that in the morning. “Damn it, Frank, just talk to me!”

It takes a long time for him to put the words together. He opens and closes his mouth half a dozen times and she dimly thinks this is the first time she’s actually seen him totally speechless. When the words finally tumble out in a way that makes sense, she closes her eyes in silent prayer. “Why’s there.. uh.. why’s there a pregnancy test in the trash?”

She’s pretty sure she’s having what constitute as warzone flashbacks right now. Suppresses the laugh that’s threatening to bubble up inside of her. Laughing right now would be bad. Bad idea. “There’s a pregnancy test in the trash,” she confirms, “because Marci had a monumental 2am freakout and roped Trish into freaking out with her which meant that they both wound up on my doorstep at three in the morning clutching half a dozen of those tests in their hands and shouting about if Foggy would faint if he heard the news or not.” She smiles wryly, then. “The jury’s out on that one because Marci did all those tests and got a big fat nothin’. For now, anyway. So, if you see them in my trash in future.. she’s had another conniption.”

“So.. you’re.. not..”

She shakes her head at him. Understands the turmoil that’s swirling in his gaze better than he does. “I will gladly pee on a stick if it means you’re gonna talk to me again,” she comments. Wrinkles her nose a second later. “Forget I said that. I’m not pregnant. Not now. Possibly not ever.” She looks him in the eye and wraps her hand around his. “I’m okay with that. I got you. Don’t know how to deal with screaming kids, anyway.”

“You, uh, you sing for them.” Ever the father. “Sometimes, you just tell them to stop the drama and talk to you.”

“Like I do with you?”

He almost rolls his eyes at her. “Yes, Page. Like you do with me.”

“I can handle that.”

“I have no doubt.”

He’s not quiet anymore.