I'm Elen. Or Peanut, if we're friendly enough. This blog may (will) contain the following: videogames, books, movies, cats, fanfiction and art. There's a good chance of nudity and foul language mixed with occasional showers of OPINIONS.
If you have issues with any of that then this is probably not the best place for you.

13th March 2014

Question reblogged from Surrie's Random Stuff with 86 notes

scribblesome asked: Could you please do a ficlet about how Fenris and Donnic ended up friends?

todisturbtheuniverse:

This fic wandered a bit away from me, but nevertheless, I hope you like it! Takes place during Act 1, not long after Fenris is recruited.

*

Fenris was not a fool—for a fool would not have evaded capture by one of Tevinter’s most powerful magisters for three long years.

His fugitive-born habits were what kept him safe, even when he went to ground in Kirkwall. He didn’t come and go from the estate during daylight hours. The neighbors would gossip about the branded elf squatting in a vacant mansion. Perhaps Danarius had even warned them to be watchful or tempted them with coin. He came and went from the alley, where the ivy was too thick for the nobles to spot him, and used only the fireplace in the backmost room for light.

He needed nothing else for drinking wine and sleeping, anyway.

Within a month of taking possession of the estate, though, there was a brisk rap on the door—thwack thwack thwack. It wasn’t Hawke’s whimsical, patterned knock, the one she used to let him know it was safe.

He staggered up from his wine-soaked haze and picked up his sword. Briefly, he considered dousing the fire and scrambling out the window, but the alcohol made him resentful. He’d declared that he was done running, had he not? He would stand and face this challenge, whatever it brought.

Read More

so cute

Tagged: dragon ageda2donnicfenrisficlet

Source: todisturbtheuniverse

10th March 2014

Quote reblogged from MindTheLSpace with 72,270 notes

The prince fought valiantly.
He slayed the dragon.
The princess cried for days.
She loved that dragon.
— The stories fairytales don’t tell (via shy-fawn)

Tagged: ficlet

Source: caliginosity-

27th January 2014

Photo reblogged from the night is dark and full of terrors with 5,801 notes

livesandliesofwizards:

Headmistress McGonagall was nowhere near as controversial as her predecessor. She was given a thankless task, but rose to it with aplomb. Her work rebuilding the school was lauded even by the Prophet. And she never once had a salacious biography published about her early romance with some budding Dark Lord. Young wizards and witches mourned the loss of her presence when she gave up her post, cheered her retirement, and toasted to her good health. Their parents, however, raised some complaints. McGonagall had a habit of hiring young, untested staff. Longbottom for the Herbology position. Thomas to cover a year of transfiguration. Granger as a contentious visiting professor of Muggle Studies; she stuffed the children’s heads with anti-establishment notions, and proved to be difficult grader, besides. And, as if this was not bad enough, sometimes these young radicals did not merely visit or stay for a year. Longbottom was gifted Head of Gryffindor in short time and proved to be a fixture, patient and smiling and impossible to oust even at the efforts of school governors who swore up and down that his wartime actions were a fluke brought on by desperation. In truth, screamed parents and governors, he had very little magical power, quantitatively speaking, and ought to have been driving the Knight Bus, not handling magically powerful children. 
But nothing could induce Professor McGonagall to fire him. And so too with his fellows, for Thomas and Granger came and went as they liked; and, worst of all, on the eve of the Headmistress’s retirement, flighty adjuncts Vane, Chang, and Brown were awarded tenure.
Awful! Vane was a bubble-headed creature, as arrogant as her name suggested, who was far too gossipy to be an effective librarian. True, she seemed to know instinctively which books which children desired, but often these were books on young love and skincare and fashion, not the proper thousand-page Instructional Tomes of yesteryear. And Chang was given to emotionality; everyone knew that. As flying instructor, people whispered that she let her adoration for a long-lost Hufflepuff override natural house pride. Accordingly, she was distressingly fair when it came to judging matters of Quidditch, putting down anyone from any house who looked to spice up the game with a little cheat here or there. And besides, she seemed more interested in teaching escape tactics and defensive flight from Dark wizards than manly feats of derring-do like the Wronski feint; blending flying and Defense in ridiculous new ways, entirely ignoring the Ministry-approved syllabus. As for her friend, that near-werewolf Brown? She used Divination not so much to foretell the future as to instruct the children on how to weed out charlatans and liars. She whispered that the point of teacups and tea leaves was fun, and also knowing when someone was having you on. She claimed that nine out of ten prophecies had no real point; they always came true, whether you knew about them or not. But knowing where to find the excitement in magic, where to let yourself enjoy it, even if it was wooly? She could teach them that.
Oh, these girlish beings were unbearable. Governors and parents could not abide them; it was not simply that they failed to care much about testing and studying, but that they were failures as witches. They did themselves up in Muggle fashions instead of pointy hats, flaunted boyfriends (and girlfriends) in Hogsmeade, and cheerfully gabbed to students about using Mugwort to make lipgloss, of all silly things! It was terrible of the Headmistress to lock them into their positions. The Headmistress! Formerly so sensible.
Of course, in the year leading up to the Headmistress’s retirement, she had considered gently sending them away. She did not dislike them, but they were not as clear-headed, as stiff-lipped as her favorite students. They had recommended that she hire Daphne Greengrass (of the very much still blood purist Greengrasses) for the Potions position, purely because they’d met and admired her hair at some mixer in Diagon. And they went to mixers in Diagon! They did not don long, professorly nightshirts and patrol the halls like the staff of yesteryear. They tossed on dangly earrings and danced the night away in these new nightclubs, and then quaffed hangover remedies and exhaustion-curing potions before their morning classes. True, they knew their subjects and taught them well. But this was still very cavalier behavior.
But then, over Christmas, Yasmina Yaxley went missing.
Yaxley was a silly little Slytherin. Her family was dreadful, her father imprisoned, and yet the daffy little creature seemed not to notice. She floated through the halls discussing Witch Weekly to anyone who would listen; she cared very little about politics or current affairs; and she had begun a strange kind of dungeon sorority that ran on networking and gossip. It occurred to the Headmistress that of course Yaxley would go missing for no reason; Yaxley was just the type to cause trouble like that, not at all a rational, sober, and shrewd child. 
Protocol was followed by most teachers. Search parties dispatched to the forest. Owls sent home. Students send to their dormitories. Rote, sensible procedure, carried out with methodical accuracy.
But Vane, who’d had long, girlish talks with Yaxley and seen her check out books on the war alongside books on haircare, immediately conferred with Chang. And Chang had lent an ear to Yaxley when she’d seemed down, and helpfully flown her near certain still-cursed section of the grounds that Yaxley had seemed particularly interested in. So she suggested they take what they knew to Brown. And Brown confirmed it. Yaxley saw particularly morbid things in tea leaves; she had a kind of secret fixation she rarely revealed to her fellow students, but she would come out with it, if you happened to be her favorite professor.
So Vane seized up her owl to send for help should they need it, a sensible notion. And Chang grabbed her broomstick to get them to where they needed to go — also very clear-thinking. And Brown? Just to make sure, she cross-referenced school records, and also brought along a certain book by Horace Slughorn, a book not much noticed in these postwar days, for it discussed the role of Slytherins in the war, and the truth was: much of the Wizarding World longed to pretend the worst of the war had never happened.
Then, when they found Yaxley, they gave her the book, and also cocoa, and also they looked each other in the eye. They privately decided that, the student having been unhurt, despite straying into a place very badly affected by Dark Magic, and in fact no one having been hurt, perhaps they ought to take this cause up with the Headmistress. Perhaps, in this case, it would be fairer to leave off point-taking and detentions.
"She’s really not so very silly when you get to know her," said Vane to the Headmistress. "The truth is, the silliness is a bit of an escape."
"Speaking of," said Chang, "That’s just what her brother did. You know, in the war. Escaped. And then after that he was struck down here at the Hogwarts grounds, blown to pieces by some curse."
"Slughorn has the time and place of death recorded," said Brown, "And it appears to be right where Yasmina likes to go. Of course, she didn’t realized the full extent of the trapping hexes there, and she got herself caught by one."
"Well, that is foolish in the extreme!" said the Headmistress. She was horrified and angry, scarcely able to believe that some child in her care was obsessed with the resting grounds of a Death Eater. Silly little Yaxley had probably made an idol of him, as foolish little girls were wont to do. “An in-dungeon suspension should—”
"Deter her not at all," said Vane.
Chang gave a delicate cough. “Begging your pardon, but it didn’t deter her brother. After you sent him and his housemates back down to the dungeons, he came right back up. And fought. For us.”
All words dried up in McGonagall’s throat.
"Speaking as someone who was there, professor, you weren’t wrong," said Brown. "But you rather are now. See, sometimes I think we assume we know the measure of people, when really all we know are silly little details. Houses. Colors. What they read. Not who they are."
"So we recommend tutoring in hex defense,” said Vane.
"And therapy," said Chang.
"And perhaps a shoulder to lean on, a fellow Slytherin. It’s been so long since we had a Slytherin on the staff," said Brown. "Still longer since we had a nice one with nice hair."
In the end, McGonagall decided to keep these three girlish creatures on a more permanent basis. They were new thinkers, in their way. Good for the school. And Yaxley received her tutoring and therapy. And Greengrass, in short time, was hired.
Which was lovely, because she made an excellent hangover remedy.


So lovely

livesandliesofwizards:

Headmistress McGonagall was nowhere near as controversial as her predecessor. She was given a thankless task, but rose to it with aplomb. Her work rebuilding the school was lauded even by the Prophet. And she never once had a salacious biography published about her early romance with some budding Dark Lord. Young wizards and witches mourned the loss of her presence when she gave up her post, cheered her retirement, and toasted to her good health. Their parents, however, raised some complaints. McGonagall had a habit of hiring young, untested staff. Longbottom for the Herbology position. Thomas to cover a year of transfiguration. Granger as a contentious visiting professor of Muggle Studies; she stuffed the children’s heads with anti-establishment notions, and proved to be difficult grader, besides. And, as if this was not bad enough, sometimes these young radicals did not merely visit or stay for a year. Longbottom was gifted Head of Gryffindor in short time and proved to be a fixture, patient and smiling and impossible to oust even at the efforts of school governors who swore up and down that his wartime actions were a fluke brought on by desperation. In truth, screamed parents and governors, he had very little magical power, quantitatively speaking, and ought to have been driving the Knight Bus, not handling magically powerful children. 

But nothing could induce Professor McGonagall to fire him. And so too with his fellows, for Thomas and Granger came and went as they liked; and, worst of all, on the eve of the Headmistress’s retirement, flighty adjuncts Vane, Chang, and Brown were awarded tenure.

Awful! Vane was a bubble-headed creature, as arrogant as her name suggested, who was far too gossipy to be an effective librarian. True, she seemed to know instinctively which books which children desired, but often these were books on young love and skincare and fashion, not the proper thousand-page Instructional Tomes of yesteryear. And Chang was given to emotionality; everyone knew that. As flying instructor, people whispered that she let her adoration for a long-lost Hufflepuff override natural house pride. Accordingly, she was distressingly fair when it came to judging matters of Quidditch, putting down anyone from any house who looked to spice up the game with a little cheat here or there. And besides, she seemed more interested in teaching escape tactics and defensive flight from Dark wizards than manly feats of derring-do like the Wronski feint; blending flying and Defense in ridiculous new ways, entirely ignoring the Ministry-approved syllabus. As for her friend, that near-werewolf Brown? She used Divination not so much to foretell the future as to instruct the children on how to weed out charlatans and liars. She whispered that the point of teacups and tea leaves was fun, and also knowing when someone was having you on. She claimed that nine out of ten prophecies had no real point; they always came true, whether you knew about them or not. But knowing where to find the excitement in magic, where to let yourself enjoy it, even if it was wooly? She could teach them that.

Oh, these girlish beings were unbearable. Governors and parents could not abide them; it was not simply that they failed to care much about testing and studying, but that they were failures as witches. They did themselves up in Muggle fashions instead of pointy hats, flaunted boyfriends (and girlfriends) in Hogsmeade, and cheerfully gabbed to students about using Mugwort to make lipgloss, of all silly things! It was terrible of the Headmistress to lock them into their positions. The Headmistress! Formerly so sensible.

Of course, in the year leading up to the Headmistress’s retirement, she had considered gently sending them away. She did not dislike them, but they were not as clear-headed, as stiff-lipped as her favorite students. They had recommended that she hire Daphne Greengrass (of the very much still blood purist Greengrasses) for the Potions position, purely because they’d met and admired her hair at some mixer in Diagon. And they went to mixers in Diagon! They did not don long, professorly nightshirts and patrol the halls like the staff of yesteryear. They tossed on dangly earrings and danced the night away in these new nightclubs, and then quaffed hangover remedies and exhaustion-curing potions before their morning classes. True, they knew their subjects and taught them well. But this was still very cavalier behavior.

But then, over Christmas, Yasmina Yaxley went missing.

Yaxley was a silly little Slytherin. Her family was dreadful, her father imprisoned, and yet the daffy little creature seemed not to notice. She floated through the halls discussing Witch Weekly to anyone who would listen; she cared very little about politics or current affairs; and she had begun a strange kind of dungeon sorority that ran on networking and gossip. It occurred to the Headmistress that of course Yaxley would go missing for no reason; Yaxley was just the type to cause trouble like that, not at all a rational, sober, and shrewd child. 

Protocol was followed by most teachers. Search parties dispatched to the forest. Owls sent home. Students send to their dormitories. Rote, sensible procedure, carried out with methodical accuracy.

But Vane, who’d had long, girlish talks with Yaxley and seen her check out books on the war alongside books on haircare, immediately conferred with Chang. And Chang had lent an ear to Yaxley when she’d seemed down, and helpfully flown her near certain still-cursed section of the grounds that Yaxley had seemed particularly interested in. So she suggested they take what they knew to Brown. And Brown confirmed it. Yaxley saw particularly morbid things in tea leaves; she had a kind of secret fixation she rarely revealed to her fellow students, but she would come out with it, if you happened to be her favorite professor.

So Vane seized up her owl to send for help should they need it, a sensible notion. And Chang grabbed her broomstick to get them to where they needed to go — also very clear-thinking. And Brown? Just to make sure, she cross-referenced school records, and also brought along a certain book by Horace Slughorn, a book not much noticed in these postwar days, for it discussed the role of Slytherins in the war, and the truth was: much of the Wizarding World longed to pretend the worst of the war had never happened.

Then, when they found Yaxley, they gave her the book, and also cocoa, and also they looked each other in the eye. They privately decided that, the student having been unhurt, despite straying into a place very badly affected by Dark Magic, and in fact no one having been hurt, perhaps they ought to take this cause up with the Headmistress. Perhaps, in this case, it would be fairer to leave off point-taking and detentions.

"She’s really not so very silly when you get to know her," said Vane to the Headmistress. "The truth is, the silliness is a bit of an escape."

"Speaking of," said Chang, "That’s just what her brother did. You know, in the war. Escaped. And then after that he was struck down here at the Hogwarts grounds, blown to pieces by some curse."

"Slughorn has the time and place of death recorded," said Brown, "And it appears to be right where Yasmina likes to go. Of course, she didn’t realized the full extent of the trapping hexes there, and she got herself caught by one."

"Well, that is foolish in the extreme!" said the Headmistress. She was horrified and angry, scarcely able to believe that some child in her care was obsessed with the resting grounds of a Death Eater. Silly little Yaxley had probably made an idol of him, as foolish little girls were wont to do. “An in-dungeon suspension should—”

"Deter her not at all," said Vane.

Chang gave a delicate cough. “Begging your pardon, but it didn’t deter her brother. After you sent him and his housemates back down to the dungeons, he came right back up. And fought. For us.”

All words dried up in McGonagall’s throat.

"Speaking as someone who was there, professor, you weren’t wrong," said Brown. "But you rather are now. See, sometimes I think we assume we know the measure of people, when really all we know are silly little details. Houses. Colors. What they read. Not who they are."

"So we recommend tutoring in hex defense,” said Vane.

"And therapy," said Chang.

"And perhaps a shoulder to lean on, a fellow Slytherin. It’s been so long since we had a Slytherin on the staff," said Brown. "Still longer since we had a nice one with nice hair."

In the end, McGonagall decided to keep these three girlish creatures on a more permanent basis. They were new thinkers, in their way. Good for the school. And Yaxley received her tutoring and therapy. And Greengrass, in short time, was hired.

Which was lovely, because she made an excellent hangover remedy.

So lovely

Tagged: harry potterAUficlet

Source: cherrywoodgirl.blogspot.com

10th January 2014

Photo reblogged from I have a turian fetish. with 3,196 notes

lome-lindi:

veritinme:

lome-lindi:

Headcanon - Thranduil’s face when his messengers return from the Council of Elrond without his son. He knows where Legolas is going.

Thranduil counted heads as the elves he had sent to Elrond’s Council returned. Two, four, eight, twelve, thirteen—  Thirteen, twelve, eleven, eight, six, three, two—
One.
One was missing. One familiar blond head, still wearing a child’s braids, only recently awarded the elegant knots of a warrior.
(All the elves of Mirkwood are warriors born, he spat. You need not paint yourself so confirmed.)
"My lord," the head of the delegation began, kneeling, not meeting his king’s eyes.
Thranduil cut him off with a sharp gesture. “No,” he said. “You need not explain. I can see that Legolas has not returned with you.”
The hall was silent, still, in the way no forest should ever be. Thranduil turned on his heel, the soft buckskin shirring quietly against the stone floor, and swept away. Behind him, thirteen elves still knelt, one knee to the ground, one hand to their chests, not an eye raised. The captain of the guard hung in the background, frozen in place, her pretty blue eyes dark, her hand hovering just shy of the hilt of her sword.
As Thranduil’s feet found the elegantly-shaped curve of the stair to his private chambers, she called out.
"My lord!" she said. "Shall I prepare a delegation to—"
"No!" Thranduil said, not turning around. He took a breath, and then repeated, more gently, "no. My son has a journey he must complete." His hand tightened on the railing, knuckles whitening. Unbidden, one finger traced the notch in a carved elf-maiden’s hem, the reminder of the gift of white knives, given far too young.
Steeling himself, Thranduil released the stair rail and looked past the rich green canopy to the stars beyond. “He has a journey he must complete,” he whispered. “He will return when he is done.”

You’ve made me fucking cry, you beautiful person. My post is now infinitely better. Thank you!


Perfect :3

lome-lindi:

veritinme:

lome-lindi:

Headcanon - Thranduil’s face when his messengers return from the Council of Elrond without his son. He knows where Legolas is going.

Thranduil counted heads as the elves he had sent to Elrond’s Council returned. Two, four, eight, twelve, thirteen—  Thirteen, twelve, eleven, eight, six, three, two—

One.

One was missing. One familiar blond head, still wearing a child’s braids, only recently awarded the elegant knots of a warrior.

(All the elves of Mirkwood are warriors born, he spat. You need not paint yourself so confirmed.)

"My lord," the head of the delegation began, kneeling, not meeting his king’s eyes.

Thranduil cut him off with a sharp gesture. “No,” he said. “You need not explain. I can see that Legolas has not returned with you.”

The hall was silent, still, in the way no forest should ever be. Thranduil turned on his heel, the soft buckskin shirring quietly against the stone floor, and swept away. Behind him, thirteen elves still knelt, one knee to the ground, one hand to their chests, not an eye raised. The captain of the guard hung in the background, frozen in place, her pretty blue eyes dark, her hand hovering just shy of the hilt of her sword.

As Thranduil’s feet found the elegantly-shaped curve of the stair to his private chambers, she called out.

"My lord!" she said. "Shall I prepare a delegation to—"

"No!" Thranduil said, not turning around. He took a breath, and then repeated, more gently, "no. My son has a journey he must complete." His hand tightened on the railing, knuckles whitening. Unbidden, one finger traced the notch in a carved elf-maiden’s hem, the reminder of the gift of white knives, given far too young.

Steeling himself, Thranduil released the stair rail and looked past the rich green canopy to the stars beyond. “He has a journey he must complete,” he whispered. “He will return when he is done.”

You’ve made me fucking cry, you beautiful person. My post is now infinitely better. Thank you!

Perfect :3

Tagged: lotrthranduillegolasficlet

Source: lome-lindi

10th January 2014

Question reblogged from Enkindle This: with 106 notes

righteous-maximus asked: Zaeed, best mission ever.

antivanrogue:

"tell us about your best mission ever, uncle zaeed!"

the small ragtag group of children — turian, krogan, quarian, asari, even salarian and drell — shuffle closer, looking up at him with the widest collection of eyes he’s ever seen.

"i, er — yeah, alright." he scratches his head for a minute, then smirks. "they called it the suicide mission.”

there’s a collective gasp, and one tiny turian pipes up. “were you the only one to make it out in this story, too?”

zaeed’s smile gets just a little nostalgic. “nah, not on this one. this was the best one, tykes, ‘cos in this one everyone made it out.”

*Actual tears*

Tagged: mass effectzaeedficlet

Source: antivanrogue

11th November 2013

Post reblogged from get a bread but not too big with 3,113 notes

nintendogamechoi:

imagine like ten years after the movie raleigh and mako are married and raleigh finds a spider in the bathroom or smth and he screams and makos like “for fucks sake ill fuckin kill it” and she takes off her shoe to crush the spider

but then raleigh is like “wAIT MAKO U HAVE TO ENGAGE ELBOW ROCKET ! ! !!!”

and mako sighs and just says completely deadpan “engage elbow rocket” and goes “pchoooo” as she slams the shoe onto the spider

and raleigh starts fuckin cheering

this pleases me

Tagged: Pacific Rimficlet

Source: actualtendochoi

7th November 2013

Post reblogged from May Be Tumblin' with 19,396 notes

Imagine a Muslim Witch

maybethings:

petrichorlore:

Her parents are severely alarmed at her first incident of accidental magic, when she’s a baby and summons the apple slice right out of her distracted mother’s hand. They read Quran over her and throughout the house to ward against djinn, but the accidental magic continues, so the write ayat-ul qursi and put it in a locket for her to wear to protect her from the evil eye and sihr.

Nothing stops, and since she doesn’t act possessed, they decide its just a miracle from God, makes sure she reads Quran and does her prayers, and make dua, and she grows up well-adjusted and slightly worried about this ability of her. Her parents make sure she doesn’t get a big head and think she’s a saint or something.

Then she turns 11, and McGonagall comes to tell them about Hogwarts. The parents are sceptical and demand some kind of proof that this woman isn’t about to spirit their daughter away. McGonagall is taken aback that the issue for these Muggles isn’t the magic so much as the ‘invisible boarding school we can’t tell is safe or not’. 

So she gathers other Muggle parents to testify that their daughter is going to a real and proper school, and that’s that, she’s off to Hogwarts. She gets sorted into Ravenclaw (but almost into Slytherin for all that ambition she has). 

Through the years, though, things she never considered comes up. Like how she’s basically a vegetarian at Hogwarts in her first year cause the house-elves don’t know about halaal meat, or how everyone looks at her funnily when in Third Year she gets special permission from Dumbledore to break from classes for prayer (and she learns to be quiet for Fajr when her roommates complain).

Or how Madame Pomfrey gets worried about her fasting in Ramadan, and the house-elves are insulted when she won’t eat their food until she explains, and then stuff her full of food half an hour before Fajr and at Maghrib.

Or that she takes to healing the muggle way because not all those potions have ingredients that she can ingest, and she talks to a sheikh for advice on if salamanders and bat eyes are actually halaal. 

And then its a struggle to be the only hijabi in the school, and she makes friends with the Baron so he stops Peeves from trying to pull it off all the time.

And how annoying it is when the only holidays that get celebrated are Christian ones, and that’s when she makes friends with Anthony Goldstein, who agrees that there should be more religious diversity so he can really enjoy Hannukah at school. 

She gets in trouble for saying her spells in Arabic, to the consternation of all her professors who don’t understand the language and insist that its dangerous if they can’t govern her spell-casting.

So she starts a duelling club, and Padma joins her and casts spells in Punjabi, and Anthony who does his spells in Hebrew (they’re not making up spells, just changing the language, and isn’t it funny that the spells are always a teensy bit different?), and others trickle in, and new magic gets practiced under the supervision of a Ministry hire who encourages them and speaks sixteen different languages.

Then people claim she’s a frigid freak because she keeps turning down boys who want to date her (even though she really likes them), until she puts the gossipers in the Hospital Wing, and then no one says anything after that.

She worries about the practical non-existence of Muslims in Wizarding Britain, and will that affect the jobs she can get, because wizards and witches are a bit funny about religion?

I am way behind here, but I like this tag.

This is very awesome

Tagged: harry potterAUdiversityficlet

Source: petrichorlore

5th November 2013

Photo reblogged from Enkindle This: with 18,076 notes

bioticbooty:

eleneripenneth:

bioticbooty:


#martial arts #excuse me while I imagine Kaidan doing this #and adding biotics

but why did you have to add these tags and kill me

I wanted to share with you, darling! Why should I be the only one with these images running through my head? ;)
Pst! Totally open to collaborating on a drabble or something… I really do plan on writing Kaidan as he develops a biotic martial art midpoint during ME2.

Develops a biotic martial art as a way of coping with Shepard’s death. Because he can’t openly grieve since no one is supposed to know they were together in the first place. Regs and all that and even most of the Normandy crew didn’t know, not really. Not extensively. 
And if he wants to keep his career on track he has to keep his mouth shut but that pain, oh god that pain needs to go somewhere and so he starts training. Looking into martial art forms he doesn’t know, something to empty his mind and help him focus.
Something to keep him from thinking of Shepard every second of the day.
And if he doesn’t really succeed on that last one, well, he does with the first and it becomes intertwined with his grief. He spends hours training because it’s the only way to fight back the tears, to quell the howling of his soul, to mitigate the void in his heart. 
It’s why he ends up being chosen to teach the biotic students. Because he’s mastered his art and if no one really knows why he does it, they see the effect it’s had. He’s stronger, his biotics are stronger, and his mental fortitude can rival an asari. They only see the good and don’t realize it was born of an internal struggle that brought him to his knees.


This is too close to how I imagined Kaidan would cope with Riley’s death…cannot handle  ;n;

bioticbooty:

eleneripenneth:

bioticbooty:

  

but why did you have to add these tags and kill me

I wanted to share with you, darling! Why should I be the only one with these images running through my head? ;)

Pst! Totally open to collaborating on a drabble or something… I really do plan on writing Kaidan as he develops a biotic martial art midpoint during ME2.

Develops a biotic martial art as a way of coping with Shepard’s death. Because he can’t openly grieve since no one is supposed to know they were together in the first place. Regs and all that and even most of the Normandy crew didn’t know, not really. Not extensively. 

And if he wants to keep his career on track he has to keep his mouth shut but that pain, oh god that pain needs to go somewhere and so he starts training. Looking into martial art forms he doesn’t know, something to empty his mind and help him focus.

Something to keep him from thinking of Shepard every second of the day.

And if he doesn’t really succeed on that last one, well, he does with the first and it becomes intertwined with his grief. He spends hours training because it’s the only way to fight back the tears, to quell the howling of his soul, to mitigate the void in his heart. 

It’s why he ends up being chosen to teach the biotic students. Because he’s mastered his art and if no one really knows why he does it, they see the effect it’s had. He’s stronger, his biotics are stronger, and his mental fortitude can rival an asari. They only see the good and don’t realize it was born of an internal struggle that brought him to his knees.

This is too close to how I imagined Kaidan would cope with Riley’s death…cannot handle ;n;

Tagged: mass effectkaidanficlet

Source: gimmefire

2nd November 2013

Post reblogged from but I knew him... with 1,091 notes

dewreckhale:

okay so i know at least half this fandom is american so people don’t really care about european football but stop what you’re doing for a second and just imagine an english premier league sterek AU

stiles is that genius scouse kid from that small suburban town near liverpool and has been a liverpool fc fan since he can remember 

he used to go to the games with his mom before she got too sick to be able to handle it, and she dressed him in his xs red jersey that was still too big for him and they cheered their hearts out and he knew all the chants by heart

she also bought him his first football boots and brought him to their neighborhood club so he could learn to play  

and when she dies he falls head first into the game and gives it everything because it’s the last link he has to her; and he gets so good someone spots him and this is the story of how stiles stilinski starts playing for the lfc youngsters. 

everybody knows the hales. they’re practically football royalty. talia hale owned newcastle united before the tragic fire that decimated their family. her son derek is one of the few survivors and a prodigy on the field. he’s the star striker for manchester united, with his uncle peter as his questionably well-intentioned manager. 

now, before we go on, man u and liverpool hate each other. like, you thing the red sox and the yankees have a rivalry? well you’ve never watched a manchester/liverpool game. i’ve seen almost fist-fights on the field. it’s a ~~serious thing~~, guys. anywAY

so stiles and derek’s first interactions would most likely be short and not really friendly, to put it lightly.

stiles first big game is a derby. okay, he’s technically just on the bench, but hey!! he’s on the game sheet!! and stiles is not just a player, he’s a fan. so he’s freaking out a bit, and he’s also in a super aggressive mood because the team in front of them today is the enemy. then he bumps into derek in a corridor and it’s the start of the end. 

they despise each other. they’re both really loyal and take their club’s pride and history very seriously, and that means they automatically disliked each other. on top of that, derek thinks stiles is the most annoying human being he ever encountered, and for the love of god he’s not even that brilliant why is he in every fucking sports newspaper i see, and jesus christ, look at this cretin with no filter on national television, laura, he’s a disgrace to this sport. and stiles can’t stand derek, really, i get that he’s the best player the world has ever seen since kenny dalglish but goddamnit, scott, does it give him the right to frown at the camera 24/7? 

but they’re both english and fucking good, so of course they get called on the national team. and bam, it’s a revelation. they just click. oh, they still hate each other plenty in private, but when they’re on the field together, it’s magic. they get nicknamed the golden duo. the first year they play together, they bring the three lions to the final of the euro cup, and when they lose and stiles cries, derek is just behind him, a comforting hand on his shoulder. 

and i don’t know okay, just gimme a fic filled with denial and anger and internalized homophobia (and also not-so-internalized homophobia because yeah, this is world class football, what do you expect) and hate-sex that slowly turns into making love and—-

juST GIMMEEEE 

You almost wrote it already : )

And it’s glorious <3

Tagged: teen wolfauficlet

Source: nerdjim

10th June 2013

Photoset reblogged from the masochist who has stolen my first name with 15,139 notes

qhuinn:

detectivebuttcop:

swingsetindecember:

halffizzbin:

HE COACHED HIMSELF ON THAT IN THE CAR

“Melissa McCall calling me seven times in five minutes,” Derek grumbles at a red light.

“Gotta go save Scott and Isaac,” as he merges.

“Why are they even at the hospital,” as he puts the car in park.

“They’re seventeen, they should be in homeroom,” as he takes the stairs two at a time.

“I should say that, I should say something about truancy,” as he follows his nose and ears to the elevator.

“I should be like, ‘Aren’t you supposed to be in English right now?’” as he waits by the elevator, flicking his claws in and out.

“No, maybe that’s too specific, he shouldn’t know that I know his schedule,” he amends when the elevator grinds to a stop.

He listens for a moment to Scott and the alpha fighting. “I’m an alpha,” he hears the alpha say.

“Hey, me, too,” Derek mumbles, and then giggles to himself.

“Ding,” says the elevator.

he shouldn’t know that I know his schedule

This is an awesome thing

Tagged: derekteen wolfficlet

Source: obroseys

27th February 2013

Question with 2 notes

normanee asked: ♥

“Daddy! Uncle Correm is here already! You’re going to be late if you don’t hurry!”

Amelie fussed over her parents, hustling them out of the door while hading out scarves and gloves and various bits and pieces she thought would be vital. Quinn, as usual, had been ready well in advance, it was Danny who was the object of her mothering.

“I’ll be done in a minute, darling, I just want to speak to Uncle Correm before we go, OK? You go and make sure that the boys don’t run out the door,” he ushered her out of the hallway and turned to his oldest friend.

“I’m not going to bother giving you a list of do’s and don’t’s - you’re going to spoil her rotten anyway…but just so you know, she hasn’t been sleeping well for the last few nights, keeps waking up in the middle of the night and will crawl into bed with you. We’ll be back sometime in the afternoon, but call me if there’s an emergency, OK? Have fun you two,” he blew a kiss to Amelie looking in through the glass door and a clap on the shoulder for Correm, “is Noah coming round tonight?”

“Nah, he’s got a thing - some showing or another - no need to worry about him being a bad influence on the little one,” Correm’s relationship with Noah Sokoll was volatile to say the least, but they somehow always ended up together after breaking up - usually in public.

“You know I don’t think that Core, and I doubt he could be any worse of an influence than you already are,” he dodged a playful punch from Correm and laughed while walking out the door, “alright then, you behave yourself young lady and maybe, just maybe we’ll bring something back for you.”

Him and Quinn were going to visit Danny’s sister Maria and her family in Starkhaven, it was a chance for them to have some time alone too, and Correm was always happy to babysit his goddaughter.

“Right, are we ready to go?” Quinn had watched the exchange with good-natured amusement, knowing there would be no point in rushing Danny anywhere, he had said his goodbyes to Amelie earlier anyway.

“Mmm…I can’t wait to see Mari and the kids, wonder if Sebastian has finished the extension yet? He’s been building it for like four years now…and,” he kissed Quinn tenderly before getting in the car, “what I really look forward to is spending time with you, my gorgeous.”

“Oh Danny,” Quinn laughed and hugged his partner tight, “I am looking forward to that too. Come on then, love - you’re driving!”

Tagged: ficletwip

27th February 2013

Question with 1 note

milodrums asked: ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ :D

It’s a shitty job but a hyperactive sixteen-year-old with no prior experience can’t be too picky. But really, Stiles sighs as for the hundredth time today he flashes his best smile at some dowdy middle-aged housewife, did his dad have to be friends with Mr Lansdowne who runs the department store? And really, was the perfume counter the only position available? 

His dad had been insistent though, either Stiles took the job or he would be grounded for the next year. And by grounded he meant going nowhere apart from school, not even to see Scott! So he had agreed, as dad had pointed out, the six grand Stiles had managed to spend on their credit card would not pay itself.

Though, the job had become vastly more interesting the past week with the opening of a new store across the road, selling denim and leather jackets and cowboy boots, and the appearance of a devastatingly handsome guy to model it all. 
He was a few years older, with dark hair, green eyes, a constant two-day stubble and a figure to die for: at least six-two, about 190 pounds of solid muscle, just the type to inhabit Stiles’s daydreams. 

Not that he’d managed more than a few hungry looks in the guy’s direction when he wasn’t looking, wondering if he’d ever pick up the courage to open his mouth and introduce himself.

Tagged: ficletwip

11th February 2013

Photo reblogged from Yes homo with 1,080 notes

Isaac used to walk around shoulders hunched and eyes cast down, wearing oversized hoodies and in general making himself as invisible as possible.
A few weeks into being a werewolf and you could see the difference. He stood tall, shoulders squared and head held high. The hoodies were still there but now they fit instead of swallowing him whole. No longer did Isaac flinch every time anyone addressed him or avoid looking people in the eyes. 
But then again, he didn&#8217;t get beaten at every imagined slight or wrongdoing. He wasn&#8217;t locked up in a dark, cramped box every night for a week for failing a test. He wasn&#8217;t alone any more.
And if Scott had anything to say in the matter, he never would be.

Isaac used to walk around shoulders hunched and eyes cast down, wearing oversized hoodies and in general making himself as invisible as possible.

A few weeks into being a werewolf and you could see the difference. He stood tall, shoulders squared and head held high. The hoodies were still there but now they fit instead of swallowing him whole. No longer did Isaac flinch every time anyone addressed him or avoid looking people in the eyes.

But then again, he didn’t get beaten at every imagined slight or wrongdoing. He wasn’t locked up in a dark, cramped box every night for a week for failing a test. He wasn’t alone any more.

And if Scott had anything to say in the matter, he never would be.

Tagged: teen wolfscottisaacficletwritingmine

Source: pinknam

26th January 2013

Photoset reblogged from "Suddenly... I'm Mr. Sex." with 992 notes

sex or food?

Or the one where Derek finds Stiles’ YouTube channel where he works his way through all the memes currently making rounds on the internet.

"Sex. Not that I have much in the way of personal experience in the matter, you know, with another person that is, but I’m sure it’ll be way better than any food in the world."

Stiles moves on to the next question but Derek barely registers any of it, it’s hard to concentrate from the blood rushing in his ears, he can feel his heart beat at least a hundred and there’s the familiar tightening in his jeans as always when Derek thinks of Stiles. Or sex. Or especially Stiles and sex in the same context.

Damn but the kid was brain-meltingly gorgeous. A maddening mix of innocence and precociousness and Derek wanted him, so bad it was driving him slowly insane. Something would have to give, and soon - before someone else snapped the kid up and that would not do.

Tagged: teen wolfderekstileswritingmineficlet

Source: oh-dylanobrien

20th December 2012

Photo reblogged from but I knew him... with 1,680 notes

stiles-whf:



I am yours



I&#8217;m yours.
It&#8217;s barely more than a breath, buried into his skin and muffled by Stiles&#8217; hood but Derek hears every word crystal clear and doesn&#8217;t miss the emphasis. He can&#8217;t find the words to respond, to tell Stiles how the confession fills him with some unnamed and untamed emotion, how every fibre of his being sings as if to say &#8216;yes, you are mine and I am yours&#8217;. So instead he just holds Stiles close, buries his head in the crook of the boy&#8217;s neck and closes his eyes.
Me too.

stiles-whf:

I am yours

I’m yours.

It’s barely more than a breath, buried into his skin and muffled by Stiles’ hood but Derek hears every word crystal clear and doesn’t miss the emphasis. He can’t find the words to respond, to tell Stiles how the confession fills him with some unnamed and untamed emotion, how every fibre of his being sings as if to say ‘yes, you are mine and I am yours’. So instead he just holds Stiles close, buries his head in the crook of the boy’s neck and closes his eyes.

Me too.

Tagged: teen wolfderekstilesartficletwritingmine

Source: stiles-wtf