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I call upon the fan fic writing gods to bless you with the perseverance to finish one of your unfinished drafts. 

May your fingers dance along the letters upon your device with ease, may the devil of distraction stay far from you, and may your work not need much editing.

I pass this blessing upon every fan fic writer out there.

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reblog or reply with your love song. you know, the one that you think is what love sounds like

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Please make a post about the story of the RMS Carpathia, because it's something that's almost beyond belief and more people should know about it.

Carpathia received Titanic’s distress signal at 12:20am, April 15th, 1912. She was 58 miles away, a distance that absolutely could not be covered in less than four hours.

(Californian’s exact position at the time is…controversial. She was close enough to have helped. By all accounts she was close enough to see Titanic’s distress rockets. It’s uncertain to this day why her crew did not respond, or how many might not have been lost if she had been there. This is not the place for what-ifs. This is about what was done.)

Carpathia’s Captain Rostron had, yes, rolled out of bed instantly when woken by his radio operator, ordered his ship to Titanic’s aid and confirmed the signal before he was fully dressed. The man had never in his life responded to an emergency call. His goal tonight was to make sure nobody who heard that fact would ever believe it.

All of Carpathia’s lifeboats were swung out ready for deployment. Oil was set up to be poured off the side of the ship in case the sea turned choppy; oil would coat and calm the water near Carpathia if that happened, making it safer for lifeboats to draw up alongside her. He ordered lights to be rigged along the side of the ship so survivors could see it better, and had nets and ladders rigged along her sides ready to be dropped when they arrived, in order to let as many survivors as possible climb aboard at once.

I don’t know if his making provisions for there still being survivors in the water was optimism or not. I think he knew they were never going to get there in time for that. I think he did it anyway because, god, you have to hope.

Carpathia had three dining rooms, which were immediately converted into triage and first aid stations. Each had a doctor assigned to it. Hot soup, coffee, and tea were prepared in bulk in each dining room, and blankets and warm clothes were collected to be ready to hand out. By this time, many of the passengers were awake–prepping a ship for disaster relief isn’t quiet–and all of them stepped up to help, many donating their own clothes and blankets.

And then he did something I tend to refer to as diverting all power from life support.

Here’s the thing about steamships: They run on steam. Shocking, I know; but that steam powers everything on the ship, and right now, Carpathia needed power. So Rostron turned off hot water and central heating, which bled valuable steam power, to everywhere but the dining rooms–which, of course, were being used to make hot drinks and receive survivors. He woke up all the engineers, all the stokers and firemen, diverted all that steam back into the engines, and asked his ship to go as fast as she possibly could. And when she’d done that, he asked her to go faster.

I need you to understand that you simply can’t push a ship very far past its top speed. Pushing that much sheer tonnage through the water becomes harder with each extra knot past the speed it was designed for. Pushing a ship past its rated speed is not only reckless–it’s difficult to maneuver–but it puts an incredible amount of strain on the engines. Ships are not designed to exceed their top speed by even one knot. They can’t do it. It can’t be done.

Carpathia’s absolute do-or-die, the-engines-can’t-take-this-forever top speed was fourteen knots. Dodging icebergs, in the dark and the cold, surrounded by mist, she sustained a speed of almost seventeen and a half.

No one would have asked this of them. It wasn’t expected. They were almost sixty miles away, with icebergs in their path. They had a respondibility to respond; they did not have a responsibility to do the impossible and do it well. No one would have faulted them for taking more time to confirm the severity of the issue. No one would have blamed them for a slow and cautious approach. No one but themselves.

They damn near broke the laws of physics, galloping north headlong into the dark in the desperate hope that if they could shave an hour, half an hour, five minutes off their arrival time, maybe for one more person those five minutes would make the difference. I say: three people had died by the time they were lifted from the lifeboats. For all we know, in another hour it might have been more. I say they made all the difference in the world.

This ship and her crew received a message from a location they could not hope to reach in under four hours. Just barely over three hours later, they arrived at Titanic’s last known coordinates. Half an hour after that, at 4am, they would finally find the first of the lifeboats. it would take until 8:30 in the morning for the last survivor to be brought onboard. Passengers from Carpathia universally gave up their berths, staterooms, and clothing to the survivors, assisting the crew at every turn and sitting with the sobbing rescuees to offer whatever comfort they could.

In total, 705 people of Titanic’s original 2208 were brought onto Carpathia alive. No other ship would find survivors.

At 12:20am April 15th, 1912, there was a miracle on the North Atlantic. And it happened because a group of humans, some of them strangers, many of them only passengers on a small and unimpressive steam liner, looked at each other and decided: I cannot live with myself if I do anything less.

I think the least we can do is remember them for it.

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what the hell is going on with texel sheep

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While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a slapping,

As of some one gently flapping, flapping at my chamber door.

“’Tis some fairy,” I muttered, “slapping at my chamber door—

            Only this and nothing more.”

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Is this anything?

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How many stand-alone works do you own written by a single author?

take "stand-alone work" to mean books not related as a series, the series can count as one work (ie me owning all of NK Jemisin's Broken Earth Trilogy and The City We Became would count as two stand-alone works, even though it's 4 books). Owning multiple copies also only counts as 1 stand-alone work, sorry edition-hoarders

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dazzling (shimmering, shivering)

She was his mate, she had wholeheartedly accepted that claim, and who was I to stick my nose in where it clearly wouldn’t be wanted? // I couldn’t put my finger to it, couldn’t figure out what it was - couldn’t figure out why on earth I was so invested in my moody brother and his besotted human either. // The only logical solution was, of course, to stalk them. Febuwhump2024, day 04: obedience. Twilight, AU.

cw: mind control pairing: bella/rosalie, past bella/edward.

fill for @febuwhump day 04: obedience

I hadn’t thought about it, not really - I mean, of course I knew Bella was beautiful, I have eyes and I’m not stupid, despite my hair colour. It didn’t quite register, however, considering how Edward had made his claim on her clear from the very beginning.

She was his mate, she had wholeheartedly accepted that claim, and who was I to stick my nose in where it clearly wouldn’t be wanted? 

That is, until I saw them together. There was something off about it - she adored him, that much was clear - but she wasn’t fawning over him the way she should have. I had seen Carlisle and Esme find each other, and I saw how Jasper treated Alice, and it was nothing like the dynamic that was Edward-and-Bella. 

I couldn’t put my finger to it, couldn’t figure out what it was - couldn’t figure out why on earth I was so invested in my moody brother and his besotted human either. I talked to Emmett about it, he was my best friend after all, but he was of absolutely no help - he just stared motionlessly at me for a minute before breaking out in great honking laughter. 

The only logical solution was, of course, to stalk them. Easier said than done, of course, considering one of them is a mind reader, but I did have several decades' worth of experience avoiding Edward’s intrusive gift. The key was to simply think in several layers, where the topmost layer was so annoying he would never go digging deeper. In my case, I just kept the script to Bee Movie running on repeat through my mind. He hated that movie.

The only reason I followed them that day was that it was sunny. We usually all went hunting when the sun was out - as rarely as that happened in Forks, Washington - but that day, Edward had begged off. Carlisle hadn’t questioned him, just accepted it straight off the bat despite how Edward’s eyes were turning darker almost by the hour. 

In and of itself, Edward not going along for a family hunt wasn’t all that unusual, he had that whole lone wolf schtick going for him, but the weird part was that Bella had called in sick at school. She had seemed fine the day before, and it was incredibly unlike her to in any way neglect school, so like any concerned friend would be, I was worried. 

Swinging by Bella’s house revealed that she and Edward had already left - luckily, I’m a decent tracker, and I could have followed Bella’s scent even if I was the worst tracker in vampire history.

Coming upon the Volvo parked at the end of a secluded forest road, Edward and Bella nowhere to be seen, actually made me slightly worried. It was probably just superstition, but it was also the exact kind of scenario like half of all murder mysteries ever began with. 

Trekking through the woods, carefully following their tracks while doing my best to not alert them to my presence, did nothing to lessen the unease in the pit of my stomach. At the same time, I was also arguing with myself - it’s not like I had any business following them, they’re mates and want to be alone, it would be so much easier to just turn around and leave them be.

And yet. 

Something pulled me forward, Bella’s scent filling my nostrils, my entire being demanding I track the two of them through the forest. 

I reached the edge of a large clearing, and there in the middle, I found them. It was a beautiful clearing, and I could fully understand why Edward had led her here - it was beautiful, in a monstrous way, the way his skin glittered in the sun, throwing reflections across the entire clearing. 

I settled down, twenty feet up in a tree where the branches had grown to make a quite comfortable little nook for me to hide in. I could certainly hear them, and if I craned my neck a little I could see them as well. 

Bella was facing in my direction, and there was something about her expression that put me on edge. Despite her vicinity to Edward she looked almost uncomfortable, a glint in her eyes that I wasn’t used to seeing. 

“Don’t you love me?” I heard Edward say, in a tone I hadn’t ever heard him use before - and Bella’s face lost the uncomfortable expression as if it was a slate wiped clean, and the glint in her eyes turned to a cloudy, unfocused gaze, almost as if she was sleepwalking.

“Of course I love you,” she replied dreamily.

Honestly, I’m not entirely certain what happened next, because all of a sudden I was standing before Bella, eyes trained on Edward, the thunderous sound of me hitting him still ringing out through the clearing. It looked almost like I’d tackled him, considering how he’d been thrown back several feet, but I genuinely had no idea how I’d ended up where I was. I knew why, though.

“How dare you, Edward Anthony Masen!” I hissed, venom flying like spittle from my mouth. 

“What the fuck are you doing, Rose!” Edward said, still lying prone on the forest floor where he’d landed. “What are you on about?”

“You’re mesmerizing her!” I yelled, still carefully keeping Bella behind me. She wasn’t doing anything, just standing there. It was like she was in a fugue, and how had I not seen it before? “How dare you mesmerize your mate!”

“Leave it, Rosalie,” he replied, tone suddenly much harsher than it had been. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“The fuck I do! You’re mesmerizing her, does she have any idea what you’ve done to her?” 

“She’s mine, Rosalie, don’t you dare do anything to her.” He crawled his way to his feet, eyes intently trained on her. 

“Me? I won’t do anything to her, it’s all what you have done to her!” Edward started circling us, and there wasn’t much else for me to do but start circling as well. He was much faster than me, I knew that, but I hoped I would be able to protect Bella anyway. “I know what mesmerized humans look like, but I’ve never seen someone mesmerize their mate before - it’s always been the prey that’s been mesmerized.”

That sentence was enough to make him stop in his tracks and straighten up from the crouching stalk he’d been using to circle us. 

“I don’t - I wouldn’t - I love her,” he said beseechingly, sounding and looking most of all like a lost little boy. 

“Not a good way to show it, Edward,” I bit out, cautiously straightening from my crouch. Behind me, Bella stood stock-still, neither moving nor speaking. “Look at her, she’s so lost to the world she’s not even reacting to either of us! Is she even your mate?”

“I don’t - ” he violently shook his head before turning on his heel and running off. I knew there was no chance of me catching him, and for that matter - Bella was still lost to the world. Turning to face her, I could tell she hadn’t registered anything of mine and Edward’s exchange, but then again - she wouldn’t have registered if a clown was dancing the macarena in front of her either. 

I inched closer to her, as slowly as I would close in on a spooked horse, carefully lifting my hands to place them on her shoulders. What I didn’t expect to happen when my hands made contact with the skin bared by the tank top she was wearing, was the zing that went through me. 

Static electricity wasn’t usually something a vampire experienced, but it did happen. Weird though.

“I hope you’ll forgive me for this,” I said to her, all while knowing she couldn’t hear me. The easiest way to snap someone out of hysteria, panic or what have you - the way I’d learnt when I was a human, anyway - was to slap them. It gave them a shock and something to focus on, rather than the spiral of thoughts that had brought them to the state. 

Of course, I’m a vampire and she’s a human, and while I do have a lot of experience regulating my strength in normal interactions, I really don’t want to take the risk of snapping her neck in the process of snapping her out of her fugue. 

That just leaves the other way. The other way, unless you had tranquilizers on hand, was to kiss them.

The first thing I noticed when my lips descended on hers was the sheer warmth she was emitting - I hadn’t felt this warm since before my turning, and it was absolutely beautiful. The second thing was that the static electricity hadn’t abated, and actually, wasn’t that one of the signs of meeting your mate? 

Third of all, Bella was a really good kisser.

I broke the kiss with an unnecessary gasp, breath heaving despite having no need for it, and was gratified to see Bella looking back at me, gaze clearer than I’d ever seen it - in hindsight, someone should have seen what Edward was doing to her. 

“You’re welcome to do that anytime,” she murmured, hands tightly clasped behind my back. At some point, I had apparently buried my hands in her hair, and it was even silkier than I’d thought. “What happened?”

“Edward’s been - well, it’s a way of catching our, that is to say, well… prey, really,” I replied, well aware of how horrible it must sound to a human who had not that long ago learnt about the existence of vampires. “Hypnotizing, in essence, so that our prey will follow us to a more secluded area - and we can hide our nature. It keeps them pliant and unafraid.”

I could see the revulsion in her eyes and tried to take a step back, mindful of hurting her with the tight grip she had on me. In spite of what she was clearly feeling, however, her grip tightened further - she didn’t have a chance of stopping me unless I let her, but I wasn’t of a mind to let go either.

“It’s not you, Rose, that terrifies me,” she said, raising one hand to feather it through my hair. “It’s what he did to me that disgusts me, and that I did nothing to resist him.”

“You couldn’t have,” I said soothingly, trying not to arch into her hand like a pleased cat. “It’s not something any human could resist, even if they wanted to. It’s like a drug, insidious and turning you against your very self if necessary.”

“Well, I should hope so - I’ve never been interested in men, before, and to be entirely frank - that first day in the cafeteria? You were the one who caught my attention.”

If I still could, I would have blushed. I was used to people looking, but the frank admiration shining out of her eyes would be my undoing. 

“I’m hoping I’m not the only one who felt the jolt when you kissed me?” Bella said teasingly, looking like she knew exactly what she was doing to me. 

“I - didn’t want to say anything, I don’t want you to feel pressured - not this soon after what he did to you,” I replied bashfully. Bashful wasn’t a word I’d ever used to describe myself, certainly not a word anyone else had ever used either, but in that moment, it was the only applicable one. “I think it was, well, it is often one of the more obvious signs of meeting your mate, especially when one isn’t a vampire.”

“Yes, I did read some of Carlisle’s literature on the subject - I didn’t think much of how I’d never felt it with Edward, I just assumed it was because I was human.”

“I think he just… mesmerized you into not caring.” 

She hummed thoughtfully, one hand fiddling with my hair. I was fairly certain that if she kept it up I’d melt into a boneless puddle, but I wasn’t complaining. I certainly wasn’t complaining when she kissed me again. 

“What do you say to getting out of here? I hope you know the way back to your car, because I have no idea how we got here in the first place. I would really like to be anywhere else but here, to be honest.” She looked around, a faintly repulsed look on her face. 

“Of course,” I said, not letting go more than absolutely necessary to swing her onto my back, gratified to hear her surprised squeal turn into helpless peals of laughter. 

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poppy milk (darkness ever present)

“I really don’t like the look of this,” Óin muttered, more to himself than to anyone in particular, and the déjà vu hit her like a war hammer to the chest. She’d received one, from the orcs in the battle, so she knew all too well what it felt like. Febuwhump2024, day 03: "bite down on this". The Hobbit trilogy, AU.

cw: infection, drug use, fem!Bilbo. pairing: Bilbo/Bofur

fill for @febuwhump day 03: "bite down on this".

“This feels all too familiar,” Briar muttered in the general direction of Óin, despite knowing he probably couldn’t hear her. He had her foot in his lap, and while she wanted nothing more than to stand up and run away she knew she couldn’t. She’d probably be able to run about three feet before her legs would buckle, and if she against all odds would be capable of remaining on her feet for longer, Dwalin stood like an ominous sentinel at the opening of the tent. 

“I really don’t like the look of this,” Óin muttered, more to himself than to anyone in particular, and the déjà vu hit her like a war hammer to the chest. She’d received one, from the orcs in the battle, so she knew all too well what it felt like. 

Despite the war hammer and all of the other blows she had received during the battle, the worst was still her foot. She’d burned it on the molten gold, during the flight from Smaug, and it had not fared well being exposed to mud, blood and gore. She should have worn boots, no matter how disquieting it felt, but there just hadn’t been any time for her to put the wretched contraptions on. 

So far, Óin was the only member of the Company who had even spoken to her since Azog met his end on the river. She had betrayed them all, so it wasn’t exactly unexpected that they’d shun her, but it nevertheless pained her. She’d taken the only way out she could see, and maybe it was selfish of her, but she was fairly certain that if she hadn’t bartered that bloody stone away the entire Company would be dead, never to see Erebor restored.

It was a weak comfort, to know that everyone had survived the battle, even if some were still fighting for their lives. It was not far from pulling teeth, but Briar had managed to pull that much information from Óin, in-between his disparaging muttering about her intellect and self-preservation.

“There’s nothing for it,” Óin suddenly said in a much louder voice, clearly meant for her to hear. He stood up, being achingly gentle when he lifted her foot and placed it down on the bed - no matter how gently he handled her, however, the pain that shot through her like lightning was enough to make her gasp for breath. Out of the corner of her eye, through eyes gone cloudy with pain, she saw Dwalin make an aborted gesture, attempting to reach for her but stopping himself. 

Briar tried to force the pain away by focusing on something, anything else, but considering it was either Dwalin and his imposing glower, or Óin and his hurried bustling, there wasn’t much for her to think about other than how thoroughly she had ruined her own life.

“Here,” Óin said gruffly, thrusting a roughly hewn mug at her. It was half-full of a milky liquid, and she couldn’t resist sniffing it curiously. “Poppy milk. Ye don’t want to be fully aware for what I’m going to do, lass.”

“Oh dear,” she mumbled, knowing if the healer suggested to knock her out it would not be a good time. 

“I dosed it for a dwarfling, I don’t know how receptive yer lot is to poppies.”

“Rather receptive, but I’ve never had to drink poppy milk back in the Shire, so I wouldn’t know the dosage,” Briar replied, looking between the cup and Óin before she grimaced and drank it all down. 

“Good,” Óin said, grabbing something bundled in canvas from the workbench installed along one of the sides of the tent. He placed the bundle at the end of the bed, far out of reach for her to kick it - the bed was ridiculously oversized, clearly made for one of the tall folk rather than the more sensibly sized beds the dwarrow had provided. He handed her a thick chunk of leather. “Before ye start feeling too loopy, bite down on this.”

“Oh no,” Briar said, for the first time since the battle ended feeling very afraid. There was a slight haze lowering itself over her, but she wouldn’t say she was feeling loopy.

“I don’t want ye to bite yer tongue off, lass.” There was a hint of sympathy in his tone, but he was unyielding with the leather chunk. It’s borne out of care, Briar knows that, but it didn’t exactly feel reassuring when she tucked the leather between her teeth.

The poppy milk has time to make her very loopy before Óin has settled back at her feet, too many surgical instruments for her comfort spread out around him.

“Ready?” he asked and didn’t wait for her to reply before he started lifting the bandages from her foot. 

She was thankful for the poppy milk, and even more thankful that she passed out from the pain before he had time to put the knife in his hand to her foot. 

“Hold her still, she’s thrashing too much!”

“She’s running a high fever, I don’t know - ”

“Hold on lass, ye can’t let an infection take ye when the dragon didn’t…”

“It looks like she’s just sleeping…”

“It’s looking better - “

When Briar woke up again, it was to a stone ceiling above her, rather than the canvas she had passed out to. She also felt rather comfortable, but kind of like her body was too heavy for her. She tried to move but only managed to confirm that she couldn’t lift her arms. She could wiggle her fingers, however, so she did - and noticed that something was holding her right hand tightly. 

Turning her head to look to her right was the effort of a lifetime, but the reward was incredible - there, on a stool next to her bed, was Bofur. He’d put his hat on the nightstand next to the bed, and laid his head down next to the hand he was clasping tightly with both of his.

“Bofur,” she tried to say, but couldn’t make a sound other than a raspy breath that first made her wince and then started her coughing. Beside her, Bofur shot up like he’d been stung, looking wildly around the room before he realised she was the one coughing.

“Briar! Ye’re awake!” he said, surprised joy shining out of his eyes, raising her hand to his mouth to press a whiskered kiss to the back of it. Suddenly he jolted, carefully putting her hand down before bolting to the door and yelling for Óin.

“About time ye wake up, lass,” the gruff healer said as he entered the room.

“How long…?”

“Three weeks, lass, and it was touch and go for a while there,” he replied, not looking up from where he was removing the bandages on her foot. “However, I do think this was the best outcome - if ye’re in a coma ye can’t be up and about, running around on this foot of yers and ruining all my hard work.”

He gestured for her to look, and while she really didn’t want to see, she gathered up what bravery she had left and lowered her gaze to her feet. She couldn’t help but let out a gasp when she saw it, however. The most shocking part was just how normal her foot looked - the scar tissue was much shinier than the rest of her skin, of course, and the hair hadn’t started growing out just yet - maybe wouldn’t grow, considering how much of her foot was a scar now, but other than that… her foot looked, maybe not fine, but like it eventually would be.

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I'm looking to see how much influence "Twitter refugees" have actually had on the culture of this site.

**Pease reblog! I want to get the biggest and most varied sample I can!**

[isauntervaguelydownwards]

solitude (in neat little boxes)

Rusty’s never been a fan of the dark, he’d assumed it was something about how in every shadow there can be anything hiding - but in this darkness, there aren’t any shadows. There’s no light to cast shadows by.

cw: sensory deprivation, solitude, hallucinations pairing: unrequited(?) Rusty/Danny

- fill for @febuwhump day 02: solitary confinement

The room - the box - the space he’s in is utterly dark, entirely silent and so small he can’t turn around or stand up. He wouldn’t be able to, anyway, considering how tightly his hands are bound behind his back. Rusty’s never been a fan of the dark, he’d assumed it was something about how in every shadow there can be anything hiding - but in this darkness, there aren’t any shadows. There’s no light to cast shadows by.

He’s not afraid of the dark, of course not - Rusty would admit to one fear in his life, and that was losing Danny - but he’d strongly prefer if the space he currently occupied was slightly more well-lit.

As if the darkness wasn’t enough, he’s also hungry.

He hadn’t been without food within easy reach since he left the streets, twenty years and countless heists ago - he had sworn to himself that never again would he go that hungry.

Danny had made sure of it. 

He’s self-aware enough to realise that every thought he’s having - especially the nonrelevant ones - is all in a vain hope to distract himself from the fact that he’s been bound, put in a dark and tiny space, all without any knowledge of it happening.

Rusty went to bed in a large, extremely comfortable hotel bed, in the room next to Danny’s, and woke up here. Wherever here may be. 

He had spent an enjoyable five (was it five? Was it more or was it less?) minutes trying to figure out who he had pissed off badly enough recently that they’d go to these lengths to get back at him, but the list was so long it didn’t exactly give him anything to go on.

He’s got high hopes that Danny will find him soon.

Unless Danny is in a similar predicament.

In which case… they’re screwed.

After a while, Rusty had started wondering if it was some kind of sensory deprivation tank he was in - there was no sound, no light, only what little of his surroundings he could physically feel - but he’s pretty certain those are supposed to be salt water? And he’s not in water.

The worst part, he thinks, besides the darkness, the hunger and the being tied up, is that he’s got no idea what time it is, or even day. How long has he been wherever it is he is? Outside, on heists and in general, he’s got a good grasp of the passage of time. The only thing he can do here is count heartbeats, and considering he’s on the verge of a panic attack constantly his heart rate isn’t all that steady.

He thinks he might have fallen asleep, for when he opens his eyes again it is to light so bright he can’t see anything.

Never pleased, his mental Danny-voice says, tone the kind of fond Rusty can only hope to hear from him.

The light, once he’s gotten used to it, reveals that he was right - he is inside a box. A plexiglass box. He can see that every side of the box - just the right size to not quite let him sit comfortably, because of course - is plexiglass, too, because the room the box is placed in seems to be made entirely of mirrors. The floors aren’t, as far as he can tell, but every wall and even the ceiling? Mirrored.

All he can see, no matter where he looks, is his own terrified eyes staring back at him from his pale face, all from a slightly hunched posture inside a plexiglass box. 

Suddenly, he has an entirely different view of zoos.

The room isn’t large, but the box he’s stuck in doesn’t occupy much of what space is available - if he weren’t tied up in a box, the room would be an ideal size to pace in. 

He thinks the mirrors might be one-way, and then considers what that means - somewhere, there is someone watching. Someone has put him in this box, in this mirrored room, for a reason.

It’s cleverly done, he gives them that - weren’t it for his hands being tied and him being stuffed in a box, there are no sensations to give anything away. There’s no draft, there’s no heat - everything is just the right temperature to give him no stimulation whatsoever. 

The only thing he has to look at is himself, and he’s never been that vain - and if he can see the despair creeping into his eyes, so can anyone.

He’s not sure how long it’s been when the lights suddenly go out and is replaced by the same impenetrable darkness he’d woken up in.

Again, he is floating in a nothingness unlike any he’s ever experienced before, and again, he’s as discomfited by it as he’s ever been.

There are several of the dark-then-light cycles, and at no point does he manage to figure out how long either period is - it might be hours, it might be days - he spends as much time as åpssoböe sleeping, because when he’s asleep at least he doesn’t see things. 

As far as he knows, there’s no history of delusion in his family, and he’s certainly never been one for hallucinations (except for one bad acid-trip in his mid-teens), so why he’s seeing shapes in the darkness that’s so complete he wouldn’t be able to see his hand in front of his face… it might be the solitude, might be the hunger.

He’s got a feeling that at one point or another, he’s been drugged into unconsciousness rather than just falling asleep because while he is hungry and thirsty, it’s nothing like what he’d expect after the amount of time he’s spent in his plexiglass box,

The worst part, still, is how much he’s missing Danny.

He’s even started talking out loud to his internal Danny-voice, just to feel a bit of normalcy - as if he wasn’t pathetic enough already. 

Of course, it’s all hallucinatory, which is why he can swear he sees Danny lurking behind him the next time the lights go on. The Danny-visage doesn’t do anything, doesn’t speak, doesn’t raise a judgemental eyebrow, (doesn’t hand him a snack,) which is how Rusty knows it’s not actually Danny. 

He likes to think Danny wouldn’t leave him in the cramped plexiglass box, either, but then again - sometimes Rusty is a bother, he knows he is, so maybe sometimes Danny just wants to lock him up in a box so he knows where Rusty is. 

That thought nags at him for several more cycles, until suddenly - during one of the light-cycles - one of the mirrored walls bursts into thousands of shards, courtesy of a sledgehammer - and Rusty’s never been as glad to see Danny as he is then. 

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desecrated (sister, don't put your habit away)

It is slow in dawning on her, the realisation of who the victim (culprit, her traitorous mind whispers to her, the inflexion changing from suspicious to accusing) is. When it does, though, it is obvious.

cw: demonic possession, religious imagery. pairing: frenchie/kate (background)

- fill for @febuwhump day 01: helpless

It is slow in dawning on her, the realisation of who the victim (culprit, her traitorous mind whispers to her, the inflexion changing from suspicious to accusing) is. When it does, though, it is obvious.

Frenchie, poor Frenchie, who helped her in Saint Cartha - who there fought with the demon for her life - had brought Valak with him to Tarascon. Had brought Valak along inside him.

Maybe it is that - the fact that once upon a time, Frenchie - Maurice - saved her life from the very demon currently possessing him - that keeps her from hating him as he tries to burn her alive. It is not him, she repeatedly chants in her mind, and she does not hate him. She hates the demon, her Lord preaches love thy neighbour and to let go of hatred, but in this case, she cannot, she will not let it go. 

Sister Irene is burning, Sister Debra is hiding, and across the wine cellar, Maurice-who-is-Valak laughs.

Sister Irene drops to the hard floor, her very breath burned out of her, and Sister Debra pulls her to what safety can be found.

She knows that Maurice would be horrified if he knew what his body was doing - mayhaps he does know - and she swears on her very faith that she will free him from this possession. 

Sister Irene had seen how he looked at her, Kate the school teacher, but also how he looked at her daughter - once, Frenchie had looked at her in the way he watched Kate, and he remained the one man Sister Irene had considered turning her habit in for. Her love for her Lord was, is, and will be insurmountable, but for a moment, maybe even a day, her love for Frenchie almost measured up to it.

Then - post Saint Cartha, post possession and almost-drowning alike, after ten ghosts of nuns long since dead had been put to rest - Frenchie put her on a train and stepped on another, and he did not ask her to turn her habit in. Perhaps she loved him even more after that, simply for not asking her to change. 

She did not change - she joined the convent in Italy, put Frenchie out of her mind, and dedicated herself to her Lord and to trying to forget what had happened in the desecrated catacombs beneath the haunted convent of Saint Cartha, tried to forget that the most horrifying moment of her life had turned into a ghost story told around campfires and in convent kitchens.

Now, however, now she is burning at an imaginary stake, the demon she had spent years attempting to forget trying to make her burn for a relic that could give it powers more ungodly than any ever seen.

It tries to burn her.

It…

…fails.

Sister Irene does not burn and instead, she falls to the stone floor, landing in a heap from which Sister Debra pulls her away. They are both covered in wine, the demon inside Maurice is clutching at the case containing the eyes of Saint Lucia and - they are covered in wine, Sister Irene realises. Wine long stored on consecrated ground, ground once blessed by the monks who lived there - it may now be a school, but the ground is sacred.

 She looks at Sister Debra, and wonders if the same thought has struck her as it has Sister Irene.

“Sister Debra,” Sister Irene says, tone as slow and measured as she can make it while panicking the way she is. Sister Debra looks at her, eyes wide and panicked, but she is listening. “Sister Debra, have faith and pray with me.”

It is as if they are one when they start praying, as if they have never done anything else than pray together - without lead, without prompting, they both fall into the communion prayer.

“Hear us, O Heavenly Father, and with thy Word and Holy Spirit bless and sanctify this wine that it, also, may be the Sacrament of the precious blood of thy Son Jesus Christ our Lord, who took the cup and said, “This is my Blood.” Amen.” They take a deep breath each and then they keep praying. “Hear us, O Heavenly Father, and with thy Word and Holy Spirit bless and sanctify this wine that it, also, may be the Sacrament of the precious blood of thy Son Jesus Christ our Lord, who took the cup and said, “This is my Blood.” Amen.”

At the second sanctify, the demon starts screaming as it is showered in wine blessed to be the Blood of Christ.

When all is done, when the demon is expelled from Maurice and when the demon goat has returned to whatever Hellscape it came from - and had that not been a surprise, when Kate informed them that while Sisters Irene and Debra were praying the wine into Blood of Christ to expel the demon, Kate was trying to save the schoolgirls from a demon in the shape of a goat man.

As they stand in the courtyard of the old monastery. Frenchie with his Kate and Sophie on one side, Sisters Irene and Debra on the other, the pale faces of schoolgirls peek through the windows of the dorms.

They do not say anything to each other, there are no words left to say - there are only wan smiles and the remains of terror, none of it leaving any room for conversation.

They leave. 

Maurice goes with Kate and young Sophie, and Sister Irene hopes he will find happiness and peace now the demon is expelled - hopes his gardening will continue to brighten his day, hopes that he will have the direction in his life that he has missed as he lives his life with Kate and Sophie - she expects him to live his life with them, for stronger, more mutual love than the three of them feel for each other she has never encountered.

Sisters Irene and Debra get on a train, and they go back to their Italian convent. Sister Irene hopes that now she will be allowed to live out her life in the service to her Lord that she has hoped for since she first donned a habit.

She knows that the nightmares will follow her through her life, but hopes that will be all the reminders she encounters - hopes that Sister Debra will be able to live with her experiences. She knows that after the wine cellar, Sister Debra’s faith has grown in strength, in the way only miracles can cause in people who experience them.

More than anything, Sister Irene hopes she will be able to forget the helplessness she felt as the demon tried to burn her alive.

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“IT’S A SWORD, IT’S NOT MEANT TO BE SAFE.” My favourite scene from The Hogfather. ___ See how this comic was made here.

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Procrastinating on writing Time to Orbit: Unknown by making Time to Orbit memes instead

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What a year this week has been.

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this guy suuuucksss he can't catch anythingggg