#font is from taskmaster

[whothey7]

[likerealpeopledo-on-ao3]

Oh goodness, 84 + David x Patrick, pleeeeease.

Unbeta’d and written while watching Taskmaster.

The prompt is: the key was under the mat.

++

The rain pounds against David and, most notably, against the phone he’d just accidentally flung into a puddle, his umbrella reduced to a metal stick with the inside-out nylon acting as a flag of surrender.

But Alexis’s brownstone is around the corner—allegedly, because she is the worst with directions—and if he can make it one more New York block, he can make it anywhere. Or whatever that cliche is.

Finally arriving at her steps, he’s forced to root around under the soggy mat which reads: Where Everybody Counts, over a drawing of a calculator. Maybe Alexis liked the font, or something, because it’s truly unfortunate and not at all her vibe.

“We are taking a side trip to IKEA if it kills us,” David announces to the mat and the stoop at large.

He finally locates the key, opens the door, and proceeds to walk directly into a damp, curly-haired man wearing only a pair of dark rinse mid-range denim.

“Well well well, Alexis didn’t tell me she had company.” David surveys the pale sparse hair scattered over the man’s chest, probably doing nothing to hide his leer. At first glance, the stranger is firm and compact and not overly muscular, but he’s not hard to look at, either. Big eyes, big hands, oh, hello, big feet too. “I’m David.”

“I’m Patrick,” he responds, hands planted on his hips, eyes questioning. “Who is Alexis?”

David thought Alexis was past the days of not giving her real name to conquests but New York bars are loud and—wait, Alexis is dating Twyla and it’s fairly serious. David looks around, conjuring up what he’s seen on FaceTime when he and Alexis talk.

He recognizes nothing. No Alexis Rose Communication placards, no floral arrangements, no framed photographs. Everything here is brown and blue and grey, muted.

Patrick, currently half-naked and puzzled, nudges toward the table in his entryway, his hand resting near a large candle that he probably plans to bludgeon David about the head with, in self-defense.

“The key was under the mat!” David shouts, protecting his wet hair and precious skull with his forearms. “Please don’t murder me for breaking and entering because, not to nitpick, it was primarily entering.”

“Not to nitpick either but I think the crime you’re committing might be trespassing. Granted, I am not a lawyer, so don’t quote me.”

“Are you a killer?” David slowly lowers one arm.

“Not lately?” Patrick has a nice voice and a straight nose and eyelashes that belong on a Disney princess, so it’s a shame that David might get arrested soon. Another time, another place…

“What if I just slowly back away and we pretend that my sister isn’t an idiot with directions and that I am dry, first and foremost, and that this—“ David gestures between them to encompass the incident, “—this never happened.”

“I don’t think so.” Patrick picks up the cell phone that sits next to the bludgeoning candle and starts to unlock it.

“Or!” David is an excellent negotiator, he can make this work. “Or, can I ask for a one minute head start on the cops? I do not do well with running.”

Patrick’s face changes then, from puzzled to bemused to something that looks like snark, which is blatantly unfair when David is trying desperately to appease him. But then the snark softens, and it catches David off-guard, as geared up as he was for a fight. Or at least a banter. “In the interest of keeping you out of the clink and away from strenuous cardiovascular activities, what if I don’t call the police and instead, call your sister.”

David’s mouth falls open. Is he being propositioned? Is this a sex thing? Should he appalled? Excited? “What for?”

“To help you find her. Since she doesn’t live here.” Patrick seems to be reconsidering his offer, but instead he cocks his head and wiggles his phone in David’s direction. “Or you could call her.”

David accepts Patrick’s phone and dials Alexis’s number. Of course she doesn’t answer, because she has no regard whatsoever for his safety, or his propensity to involve himself in embarrassing situations. He leaves a tense, rambling message that may or may not begin, hi David, this is Alexis, and hangs up with his face burning. “I swear I have a sister, that wasn’t just a line.”

“Sure.” Patrick is back to amused. David is getting tired of not looking at Patrick’s bare chest, so he just brazenly stares at his left nipple for a second to center himself. “Everyone who breaks in here says that.”

“It’s trespassing!” David says to the nipple and Patrick’s phone rings just as Patrick is responding, almost assuredly with something biting.

It’s Alexis, thank fuck, and he gets the correct address and a promise that she will not tell anyone this story for any reason, not even upon threat of death. Or in his inevitable unauthorized biography.

During the conversation, Patrick wanders away to put on a shirt, which is unfortunate, but the turn gives David an opportunity to see the curve of ass under the mid-range jeans, and he’s momentarily mesmerized.

When David hangs up, Patrick is back in a pale blue button-up and brown Oxford shoes. A curl hangs down his forehead and David suddenly wishes they’d met in a bar, or at a gallery, and not as part of his new life of crime.

“Everything good then?” Patrick asks, not taking back the phone that David is trying to hand him. “You have the address? Is it close? I have an umbrella you can borrow, if you want.”

This is too much niceness now, and it makes David nervous. Maybe there’s still time for murder. Who murders who does not matter at this point. “Why?”

“So you don’t get wet?”

David nods in such rapid succession he’s worried his head will roll right off. “Okay, that does make sense now.”

“Or…or I could walk you there in the interest of keeping you from trespassing at my neighbors’ homes, and take you for a cup of coffee. Or something stronger.” Patrick smiles and it’s even brighter than David expects. It’s like turning on a light in a dark room and the impact warms David from his head to his toes. “It’s for everyone’s safety, really, since there seems to be a burglar on the loose.”

“The key was under the mat!”

“Yes, that part was on me.” Patrick grins again, then reaches for his phone so his hand grazes David’s. David wouldn’t call it lightning, but there is a buzz of electricity. “So, up for a walk?”

“Is the umbrella still invited?”

Patrick takes a long handled golf umbrella out of a stand in the corner and hands it to David with a hopeful look on his face. David accepts.

It ends up taking David and Patrick six hours and one slow, sweet kiss goodnight to walk across the street to Alexis’s apartment, trespassing forgiven.

Thanks to @alysiswriting for the gorgeous art; I can’t choose between them either!

[steppin-on-the-last-train]

The Blood and Bruise

Part Two of The Damnation of The Flawless (1)

Natasha Romanoff x Taskmaster!Reader

4800 words

Summary: You try to accept Natalia’s decision to lay down arms. Two fights later and you’ve jumped off the deep end with her.

“Let your death be a message to SHIELD. Do not fucking come after her again.”

a/n: blood and guts this chapter + innuendos of sexual assault

One major perk of a job professionally done - time off. Occasionally, you wouldn’t immediately be called back to the Academy or another rendezvous after sending in the mission report, always complete with a success marker at the end. Instead, you receive a ‘job pending’ status and are told to be readily available for the next update. 

You also know for a fact that even most other full fledged agents didn’t receive the same freedom, that for some reason they trusted you not to run. While it’s true you’d never considered desertion a viable option, you’d never quite figured out how they knew this about you. Then again it wasn’t your place to know, you leave the thinking for the politicians and the strategists. All you need to worry about is who you’re going after next.

For now, you have an entire city to explore, to map, to watch. Instead of doing any of those things however, you immediately begin scouting for a place to engage in your second favorite activity: drinking. 

Every city has at least one of these places. You don’t know exactly how to label it, bar, lounge, whatever. Open twenty-four hours, always serving, impossible to find. Well, impossible if you don’t know what to look for. Thankfully, you have a high expertise when it comes to spotting them. 

First, you stuff a wad of cash into your pocket. You take it out of your bag from where it was situated in between a variety of identification papers, a Glock, and an array of small knives. Pretty much the only rule with these places is that you have to have cash to get in. You can’t drink if you don’t pay. 

You set off out of the residential area and head towards the city center. The sun has risen enough to fully promote the morning, and the city is already busy with traffic. People are everywhere, walking, driving, biking to get to their jobs. Most are bundled in heavy winter gear, with hats and giant coats. The wind is somehow even more biting than it was when you arrived last night, cutting through the sleeves of your relatively thin t-shirt and raising the hairs on your arms. You continue on, wishing for the cold to let up and cursing this city for its energetic brightness. 

A few blocks down you spot a small set of businesses tucked around a corner that sits at a dead end. One is a meat shop, advertising local sausage and fresh cuts. Another has a big sign that says “Welcome” in cheesy pink font, accompanied by a mannequin dressed in attire you imagine would fit one of the Madames if they were, well, normal. The third storefront, or apparent lack of one is what grabs your attention though. Heavy curtains block the windows and there are no signs or markings. Faded paint peels from the walls and the door and there’s a layer of dust on the window sills. Someone doesn’t want curious civilians to come around. 

You walk up and knock on the door. Your fist lands solidly each time, creating more of a demanding pound than a polite inquiry. It’s only a moment before you’re greeted by a less than friendly man. His head is bald and round and he has muscles that you can practically see despite the thick sweatshirt he wears. He’s only standing in the doorway, but you’re already analyzing and subconsciously memorizing his typical fight patterns. He doesn’t need to engage often, usually only having to manhandle and throw drunkards around, but when he does it’s a typical brawl. He definitely packs a hell of a punch, but what he gains in strength he sacrifices in speed and agility. He’s ready to tell you off and shove you away now, but he’s also sizing you up. You understand the tight shirt you have on shows your strength as well.

“What do you want?” His voice sounds exactly what you’d expect, low and rough.

“I want to come inside, of course.” You don’t have a problem recalling the language or matching his exact regional accent. Courtesy of whatever the hell you were born with. The scientists have always called it photogenic reflexes. You grin up at him, making sure to show all of your teeth.

He turns wider, blocking the doorway and squaring his shoulders. “I will say this once. Go away before I make you.”

“Calm down, calm down,” you say, putting your hands up and making sure not to let your smile fall. You reach into your pocket and feel him brace for a fight. All you do is pull out the money and spread it for him to see. “Now can I get in?”

He relaxes a little before tensing up again. Great, he’s confused. The accent deems you a local, but he knows the regulars by name and he’s never seen you before. You look young and clueless, but you’ve got hard cash. His focus shifts to the bag slung over your shoulder, wondering if there’s more stuffed in there.

Eventually he lets up, opening the door wider and gesturing you inside. “Remember I am watching you. Do not start any trouble and I will not have to throw you out,” he warns.

“Don’t worry. I will not be getting thrown out.” You bite back a bitter laugh. Like he thinks he could take you. He doesn’t know anything of what you’ve done.

You walk in and are immediately hit with five different kinds of smoke. The stench of cheap nicotine, fine tobacco, and concentrated marijuana mix together and assault your senses. There’s a thick haze that messes with the already dim lights scattered around the room. It’s a small place, maybe accommodating a couple dozen people comfortably. A bar sits in the corner, a few wooden stools stand empty and lined up. There’s also a low coffee table with a couch and a few chairs around it. They remain occupied, a group of intimidating thugs playing cards and providing the smoke that threatens to choke you out. Well, intimidating to old women and small children. The complex tattoos and raggedy cut sleeves don’t do much to impress you.

They look up at you as you pass by them, but remain silent as you ignore them, beelining for the bar. The man who had been at the door is now behind the bar, appearing to clean up as you choose the corner stool and sit.

“Strongest vodka you have. Make it a triple.” He looks at you with disbelief, but turns to grab a bottle off the shelf anyway. 

Your mind wanders off to the reason you’ve ended up here in the first place. How she’s started on her slow march to death, wondering where exactly she is now. You think about your part in it all. How your inaction makes you inherently complicit in her choice. You might as well have been the one to push her off the edge. You might as well be the one pulling the trigger and watching her fall.

Three shot glasses are placed roughly in front of you and your hand picks the first up on its own accord, your mind busy trying to figure out where you went wrong. The liquid burns a little, but it’s nothing compared to Russian drink. If there are two things you would classify yourself a snob about they would be liquor and blades. The second is quick to follow, and soon, all three sit pooled and warm in your stomach. You miss the impressed look on the bartender’s face as you continue to stare into nothing.

“Job troubles?” He asks. 

It takes a moment for your brain to process the jumble of syllables your ears provide. 

“No,” you shake your head and gesture for him to pour another.

“Your girl leave you?” His tone is unserious and you realize how deceiving your looks are. He assumes heartbreak for you is a botched one night stand or a fling that lasted a couple of months. He assumes he’s seen and lived more than you. 

“Yea,” you scoff humorlessly. “Something like that.” More like the only person that could make you feel human is dead set on ending her life.

“Well,” he says, pouring you two more. “You have my condolences kid.” With that he moves out from behind the bar, joining the game of poker being played across the room.

You knock back the rest of the liquor and close your eyes, leaning back against the wall. Suddenly the thought of never waking up again doesn’t seem so bad. New waves of smoke enter your lungs at every inhale, the room warm and stuffy. Eventually, jet lag and lack of rest from the past few nights catches up with you and you fall asleep.

—

It was your first mission. You were in America. Those are the only two facts you would be able to tell someone about what your mind labels “The Incident”. The rest comes only to disturb your peace in the darkness as assaulting colors and gut wrenching sensations. 

Everything was fine, routine, until it wasn’t. You’re trapped now and it’s dark and you can’t breathe and you can’t move. You’re being suffocated and shattered and stripped. He smells of sweat and cologne that makes you want to vomit. His palms are moist and fear-sweat runs down your back. No matter how much you thrash and scream it doesn’t stop, you can’t wake up. You reek of violation and it angers you so. When you’re free you see red and his neck in your teenaged fists. Then it’s his head on the ground and his brains on your boot. Red rings through the air in the form of your cries, it stains your vision as blood floods the floorboards, it permeates the air with the stench of iron. 

You want to go home.

As soon as you touch down in Russia you let a heavy exhale go. You remember seeing Dreykov waiting in the foyer of the Academy. Home. You wince, expecting shouts and punishment for being compromised. Instead he takes your face in his hands and kisses the top of your head. He tells you that you are stronger than everyone else and that you are destined to cleanse the world. Then he asks if you understand the mission. You nod and force the lump in your throat down. Yes you understand. Yes you will be the enforcer. Gladly.

—

You wake. Something is wrong. A cool liquid runs down the back of your neck. You jolt and turn around, grabbing a wrist that had been too slow to move. You’re up faster than you can process what’s even happening and the man’s arm is about to be broken at the elbow. The beer bottle he had been tipping over your head crashes to the ground and shatters, glass and alcohol sticking to the floor.

“What the hell, man!” He shouts, twisting and straining for release. His friends stand up from where they’d been watching, unsure of how to approach.

“Just let him go,” one of them says. He’s short and muscular with a stocking cap over his bald head.

You blink, otherwise unmoving as your mind races to catch up. You’re in a bar. These people are not a threat to you. No one is a threat to you anymore because you’re grown now and you’re stronger, smarter, faster. You let him go and he stands back, grasping his arm and dramatically rubbing the soreness away. He has an overcomplicated lion tattooed in the crook of his elbow. You watch him warily, you can already tell he’s not going to let this go.

He swings a clumsy right hook at your face. You step back then forward with lightning speed and kick him in the gut. He staggers back toward the circle his friends have made behind him.

“Back off,” you warn. “I don’t want to fight you.”

“Yeah. Because you know you’ll lose. What do you think you can do against the five of us?” He gestures cockily back at the group.

The bartender stands with them. “I knew you were a troublemaker. Leave, or I will be making you leave.”

It would be so easy to walk away. You could throw your hands up and curse them and walk out unscathed. That’s not who you are though. You figured that out a long time ago while you were thriving in the pits of hell.

You put your hands up in faux surrender before stooping down and grabbing a shard of glass from the broken beer bottle. With a flick of your wrist it’s embedded into the thigh of the man that had been sipping out of it five minutes earlier. He goes down cursing and clutching the wound, caught between trying to stop the blood flow and being too scared to pull it out.

The already fragile peace breaks then, his three friends and the bartender rushing forward to attack you. They form a half circle in front of you, fists raised and muscles tensed. Boots scuffle and scrape against the ground in agitation. It’s mostly posturing however, you pick apart the subtleties in their body language and they tell you how at least two of them have never truly fought anyone before. A thumb caught inside a curled fist, arms raised too high, feet set in a stance that wouldn’t allow for explosiveness.

You pick on the man on the far right first, feigning a rib shot before popping up and jabbing him in the neck. It’s almost comical how fast he crumples, sometimes you forget not everyone has been trained to be unbreakable. He lays on the ground belly up, vulnerable to attack as his hands fly to his neck. You raise a foot and stomp, hard. The crack of multiple ribs is the pre chorus to his strangled screams. They force their way out of a bruised throat - music to your ears.

Upon seeing this the remaining three run at you, finally deciding not to let you pick them off one by one. Your head pounds as the adrenaline spike from being startled awake starts to fade. You really need a drink of water.

“Alright,” you mutter to yourself. “Let’s go.”

You back up toward the bar and blindly reach for the shot glasses you’d emptied earlier. Your hand connects with one and you hurl it at the head of the bartender who stands in the middle of your trio of attackers. It doesn’t shatter on impact, but it’s enough to distract him as you slide and hit his knee, allowing you to move out of the corner. The short one pulls a pocket knife from his pants and flicks it open. The blade glints and you’re forced to recalculate your approach. He runs at you and slices toward your abdomen, you narrowly dodge, but are met with a fist to the gut from the last guy. The wind is briefly knocked from your chest and you breathe in a strained gulp of air before hurrying to duck a punch aimed straight at your nose.

You bounce up a return the favor, sending a mean uppercut his way. You can feel the bones in his nose give way as you connect and he staggers back, blood gushing from his face. The man with the pocket knife dives toward you and you sidestep, grabbing the back of his shirt as he sails past you. You yank him towards you and the counter momentum throws him off balance. You kick his knee in for good measure and he flies into the row of stools, knocking a few over as he falls. His arm twists at an awkward angle on impact, freeing the pocket knife from his grip.

You turn around as the bartender swings and you duck, chasing after the dislodged knife. You slide and pick it up, cutting upward as you turn around and stand. The blade slices through the right side of the bartender’s face. He shouts in agony as blood spurts from his eye and he staggers away.

Nose bleed guy is back in your face, yelling as he charges with nothing but a raised fist. He’s persistent, you’ll give him that much. You use the now blood soaked blade to stab him in the gut as you sidestep his wild swing. It slides in silently and his shouts dim as it tears through more and more of his insides. You yank it out, one hand on the back of his neck to keep him upright, and stab him again. You lose count as you ram the knife into his gut over and over, only stopping when the body slumps completely over.

Your hand is coated in red, and you know your face and shirt are flecked with it. You shove the body away in disgust and guts leak out of the mutilated torso.

The man you had thrown into the barstools struggles to get up, watching you with wide eyes. His lips tremble and his arms shake so bad he can’t push himself up.

“Mercy.” He utters a word roughly meaning ‘demon’. “Mercy, please.”

You squat in front of him, looking him in the eyes.

“Shhh.” You put a finger to your lips and drop the knife before patting his knee affectionately. Then, your arm darts to his neck, holding it in a deathly grip. His eyes widen again and he thrashes wildly. His hands try to rip your arm away but it’s no use. Your forearm is a vice, forged in dark rooms with experimental serums. Long after he’s stopped breathing and his face is a sickly blue you let go, flexing your hand a bit to get the blood flowing.

You stand and move to claim your bag. It sits nice and clean in the corner, waiting. There’s a water bottle inside and you take a much needed drink, exhaling loudly when it’s drained fully. God your head hurts. Then you walk to the back and wash up. You hum an old Russian folk tune as you scrub your hands and wipe your face clean. The water turns pink before running down the drain.

You need a new objective, you feel free from the weakness that had plagued your body a few hours ago. The dragging weight of emotions that threatened to distract you. You step back into the bar room and scrutinize your work. It reminds you of who you are. It’s also very sloppy, blood everywhere and broken furniture. Not to mention the dull aching in your side from where you’d tanked that punch who should’ve seen coming. You have a shit ton of alcohol to thank for that error.

On a last thought you decide to strip the jacket off of one of the less bloody men. It’s cold here in Berlin after all; and you reckon it will be even colder in Moscow.

—

After a long journey of switching trains and stealing various vehicles you find yourself in Moscow, now hangover free. You had a lot of time to sit and think, and somehow your mind decided on bringing your body here. 

Full gray clouds hang over the city and provide a steady drizzle. The cobblestones underfoot are slick with water and the crowd of people out have umbrellas and jackets to ward off the chill. You’re thankful your new jacket has a hood to help keep yourself warm. You stand in the back of a surprising turnout of onlookers considering the weather. They chat excitedly about the weather, their families, and most prominently, the person that was capable of pulling them out of their cozy homes this morning.

There’s a man at the front of the square. He stands aside a podium, speaking last notes to a few colleagues. He wears a professional gray suit with a white undershirt and shiny blue tie, and over that he wears a giant poncho. Somehow, despite the drab weather and the odd way the poncho messes his hair, he holds an air of charisma and charm. You understand how he’s drawn so many people to hear him speak. You also understand why the Kremlin wants him dead.

You peel your gaze away from the awfully democratic statesman and scan the crowd for his assassin, and her assassin on top of that. You have a gut feeling things are about to get real messy. 

The crowd is a mass of dark blurs, far too easy to blend into. Coats conceal body language and weapons and the sheer amount of people make it impossible to properly analyze every one. You’re running out of time too. She’s likely not even down here. Tall buildings sit just down the street, they look far enough away, but you know better.

He’s taken the podium properly now and clears his throat. Silence rushes through the crowd. Any moment now you think, carefully surveying the people once more.

“To the people of Russia,” he begins when a bullet whizzes by, mere inches from his head. It crashes through the storefront a ways behind him, shattering the glass in a resounding note. It takes a moment for the audience to realize what had just happened. Then the screaming starts. The crowd bows their heads a bit as if that would protect them and they scatter like cockroaches in the light. Some slip on the slick cobblestones underfoot, scrambling with wild eyes to resume their rush for cover.

Amongst the mob you stand unmoving, people rushing in a current around you. Personal guards cover for the politician, ushering him to stay low and beelining for the nearest building. You look past them and towards the shattered storefront window. Inside stands a frazzled old woman, eyes wide at the chaos outside and watching the downpour stream into her previously dry shop.

You replay the moment in your mind, watching the bullet’s spiral, seeing it miss the statesman, his colleagues, and the store owner. You see it again, but watch the angle this time and try to pinpoint the direction and the height from which it was fired.

Turning to look down the street you spot a hotel four blocks away. You take off running. The rain has soaked through your jacket and your damp shirt sticks to your skin. Water streams into your face as a resounding thunderclap announces a new phase of the storm. You wipe the water off of your face in a futile gesture. You let your bag go, convinced you can run faster without it. As you near the building you spot a window on the fifth floor, cracked open despite the weather. You get inside, waterlogged boots squelching against the clean tile and race up the stairs.

You finally arrive at the room to find the door already busted open. You don’t think you’ve ever run faster before. Chest heaving and lungs burning you take quick stock of the space, hand resting on your holster. Muddy footprints litter the carpet and a lamp lays unplugged and destroyed on the ground. There are bullet holes in the wall and the ground is damp from where the window was left open. No one is here. Panic wells up in your stomach, hot and heavy. She’s already long dead and being dumped in a river somewhere. You shake it off, spraying water droplets from your hair.

You tear back out into the hall, spotting signs of struggle you blew past before. There’s blood on the handle of the stairwell door and more heading up when you stop to look. You take the stairs two at a time. The trail continues, with both bullet holes and marks from another weapon littering the walls as you go. Dread winds its way through your mind; it freezes the blood in your veins. Eventually you get to the roof, another bloody handprint stain on this door.

You don’t stop before shoving the door open and running out. A man stands with his back to you near the edge of the roof. His arm is locked around the neck of another person. The clouds make everything radiate shades of gray and black. He drops the body to the ground when he hears you burst through onto the roof. She falls limp to the ground. Your eyes track to her chest, watch the rise and fall. She’s not dead. Relief flickers through you like a warm flame. It quickly turns to burning, untamable anger at the man in a covert tactical suit standing above her. It rages a familiar wildfire in your mind, your pulse picks up and you want your knuckles bloody.

In one seamless movement he turns, pulling out a bow and arrow and firing two arrows in quick succession right towards your chest. You were expecting bullets, so the beginnings of a smile creep onto your face as you watch the arrows fly. Then, right before they hit their mark, you’ve caught them. One in each hand, the shafts feel warm from the sheer amount of kinetic energy that had been propelling them. You can see his eyes widen marginally as he reassesses the oncoming fight.

You twirl the arrows around and launch them back at the man, running after them across the roof. He snaps his bow into a staff, you hear the hinges lock into place. He slides below the arrows and tries to trip you up, feet kicking for your ankles. You jump, but he knocks your foot away as you’re about to land.

The slick tile underfoot slides away on impact and you fall. You knock your chin on the ground and the force jolts your jaw all the way up to your temple. Your teeth click together painfully and you’re glad your tongue wasn’t caught between them. You shoot back up, kicking away the staff swinging for your head. He brings the other end up to tag your ribs and you dodge, drawing two pocket knives from your belt.

Before he realizes you’re fighting with more than your fists he’s bleeding from a deep cut on his shoulder. The blade in your left hand is dripping wet, and not just from the rain. He hisses, air whistling through his teeth. 

To his credit the fight doesn’t change pace, and you don’t detect his style changing to favor his arm. For a couple minutes you match him blow for blow, toying with him as you memorize his fight patterns. He’s right handed, but can switch to his left relatively seamlessly and he uses a combination of mixed martial arts with a bias towards strike attacks.

A giant bolt of lightning cracks the sky open with a vengeance. With a scowl etched onto your face you tire of the fight, figuring a near weak point in his coming movements. You slip behind him and kick the back of his knee in. Your arm wraps around his throat and squeezes. He drops his staff to the ground and it lands in a puddle, splashing a new cold wave up into your boot. You lean down by his head as he tries in vain to free himself.

“Let your death be a message to SHIELD. Do not fucking come after her again.” The words leave your lips in a scathing whisper. His body is warm against the winds that whip around you, but not for much longer.

Just as you’re about to break his neck there’s a sound, booming and powerful. It echoes twice across the lonely rooftop. At first you want to believe it might be thunder, but you know better. You grew up with it punctuating your days and haunting your nights. Then there’s pain like you’ve never felt before in the lower part of your torso and more near your right shoulder. You drop the agent and roll to the left.

The pain blossoms like a grand firecracker until it’s all your brain can process. You’ve never been shot before, you were too good. You zig zag across the roof as more shots ring out, it’s getting harder and harder to stand. You’re about to tackle the shooter when a new pain erupts at the back of your skull and you black out.

[belleski]

forging the niche-ist of crossovers by combining two of my favourite British comedies, stellar firma + taskmaster   based on these

[image description] three drawings of stellar firma characters saying quotes from taskmaster. Image 1: two drawings of trexel and david. Trexel is a white man wearing a lab coat with black hair with a bright blue streak. He is viewed from the shoulders up and is standing in a grey room with wires and vents on the wall. At the bottom of the screen there is black text that says “David has never had a shower or a bath“  the second shows the same scene but zoomed out, revealing David -7, a blue clone with short blue hair and 4 eyes who is wearing a black and white onesie. Trexel is gesturing at him and david is looking forward with a deadpan expression. At the bottom of the screen there is black text that says” i make him clean himself like a giant cat.” Image 2: a drawing of david 7 viewed from the waist up. There is a black screen above him that says “David’s fun fact science corner” in a pink pixelised font. David is looking directly forwards with a concerned expression and is holding up a whiteboard that say “only humans and armadillos cam catch the awful disease leprosy.” image 3: Two drawings of Hartro and trexel drawn from the waist up. Hartro is a black woman with pink hair. She is wearing a pink suit with a black undershirt and a bronze corset. In the first drawing she is pointing to the left with her other arm folded while standing in a grey room with tubes and screens on it. At the bottom of the screen there is black text that says “Listen, I’m telling you now… ” The second frame is zoomed out, revealing trexel standing to the side and looking at hartro with a grumpy expression, while hartro gestures at him with both hands. The text at the bottom of the screen reads : “You fucked that” [end ID] 

[faye-tale]

I haven’t done one of these in a while but I can already tell I’m going to need the distraction today. So I’m bringing back Random Question Wednesday for the day.

If you have a favorite tv show, what is your favorite episode of it?

Is there one thing you wish your body would never do again? Like if I never got a stuffy nose again a day in my life I would be very happy.

What is your default font you use?

Do you prefer gold, silver or rose gold jewelry?

What is the best shaped noodle?

Do you sing, win arguments or practice your Oscar expectance speech while in the shower?

Ignoring age would you run and jump off a dock into a lake right now if you could?

Hi lovely! 🧡🧡

Ooh I love the sound of random question Wednesday! Thanks for including me 😁 I also hope your day goes well 🤞

Fave TV show/episode

This is so difficult. I have a number of shows I love for a whole variety of reasons. Today I’m going fave comfort TV, which is probably Taskmaster. Best episode is probably one from season 9.

One thing wish body would never do again

I’m going to say turn my hairs gray haha. Or stop my shoulder aching. I have recurring rotator cuff injury and tbh if that would just go away I’d be grateful.

Default font

Helvetica or proxima nova if I can get them. If not Arial is ok.

Prefer gold, silver or rose gold jewelry

Of those, silver. Most of my wear daily jewelry is platinum though. That’s my fave. I love the way it patinas and it’s so much more harder wearing so I don’t have to baby it.

Best shaped noodle

In this heat, I’d say a pool noodle haha. I’m sure you mean pasta though, so I guess penne? Easiest to eat.

Sing, win arguments or practice Oscar acceptance speech in shower

Lolol, of those I guess sing, but that’s pretty rare. I have a terrible singing voice. Mostly I listen to podcasts as I shower, so most likely to laugh or think. Sometimes I come up with writing ideas and need to get them into my notes app before i forget them lol.

Would you run and jump off a dock into a lake right now if you could

HELL YES I WOULD. That is actually one of my fave things to do. I love swimming and I would do anything to have a lake house. Or even an in ground pool. I am part fish.

Thanks for this, it was a lot of fun 😁😁

[panelshowsource]

links to everything i use when making gifs!! yay

hi all, based on some asks i got this week, i thought i would post all the resources i use to make gifs in case they help you with your own :)

01. here’s my gif with no sharpening, no colour, and no adjusted speed setting. so far, all i’ve done is crop out the logo and resize it!

* pulled from this youtube video

02. first step is to sharpen it! i use this sharpening action — adjust the opacity between 48 and 65 depending on how sharp or soft you want the gif to be. i used that action with an opacity of 58, so here’s how my gif looks now:

* you can go here to learn how to install and access actions

03. colour your gif! here are the exact and imperfect settings i used for this specific gif. curves, select colour, and exposure are your best friends. i’ll also post more psds at the end of this post, so try them out and see if you like them :’)

04. now change the speed of your gif. i set this one to 0.05, and generally 0.04 or 0.05 is just right. you definitely want to make sure your gif isn’t too slow, as the smoothness of the movement can hide some imperfections in quality. the slower your gif, the lower quality it looks. i don’t make the rules ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

05. add some text!!! if you’re like me, you might also add a watermark. i always make sure the text isn’t too close to the bottom of the gif, but that’s my own pet peeve. here are my text settings!

all done! it’s not the perfect-est gif in the world but tbf it’s 2:41am and i am delirious :)

i really have no secrets at all — download everything i linked to above and you can make this exact gif in about 4 minutes!

additional psds & resources below the cut and happy giffing!!

as for psds... unfortunately i’m always adjusting my psds because the quality of video we panel show giffers deal with is always changing, or a series changes its set, or different episodes are lit differently, or skjhfslkgdhfghrgdsas. so these aren’t necessarily perfect for slapping on to any ol’ clip, but they should only require mild curves, exposure, and saturation adjustments before they work for you! or so i hope...please let me know if these are actually trash when you try and use them lmao

taskmaster psd

catsdown psd

* i use this psd with adjustments for pretty much everything because, for some reason, most panel shows have neon blue-ish sets? inh, room 101, celebrity juice, big fat quiz, argumental...

wilty psd

misc resources:

my favourite gif making tutorial

this is my favourite black & white psd and this is my favourite psd for colouring something that is already black & white

i download all of my “special fonts” (like the one i used here) from dafont.com

i generally use this site to download videos from youtube (720p with sound or 1080p without sound, because i don’t need the sound to grab a clip for photoshop)

i don’t usually use topaz clean for panel shows gifs, but here’s where i got it, here are some installation instructions and keys, here’s how i learned to use it, here are the default settings i use or if i need serious clean then i adjust edges to 4/1.46/0.48, and this ask cleared up my questions about ps crashing when saving a file with topaz effect

* i use photoshop cc 2015

[writingfortoomanyfandoms]

2K Writing Challenge!!

Yeah, that’s right guys! I hit 2K followers!!!! Thank you all so so so so so much for following me - it means the world that so many of you are out there reading my writing and sending me lovely messages

As I did with my 1K celebration, there are two parts to this - one is a blurb week (more than a week lads just saying I write for too many characters eek) and the other part is this: a writing challenge!!

This time around I decided to do a British Comedy Theme (yeah I was watching an episode of Outnumbered when I decided on this) so under the cut are the prompts, the characters and the rules!!

The Rules

1) You don’t have to be following me but it is a follower celebration so it would be nice :)

2) If your piece of writing is over 500 words, please use the ‘read more’ feature

3) Reblog this post to get the word out (and tag anyone who may be interested!)

4) It’s going to be one person per prompt but if needed I can add more prompts

5) Smut is fine but please leave warnings as appropriate

6) On the back of that one, no inappropriate pairings pleaseeeeee

7) Also please make sure you leave appropriate warnings at the beginnings of fics if any sensitive subjects are brought up (e.g. mental health etc)

8) Ships and OC’s are welcome

9) Tag me in your writing!

10) Use the hashtag #courts2KBCWC

11) If you want to enter send me an ask with the prompt you want and the pairing you’ll be writing it with

12) The deadline for this is 3rd August (this can be extended if y’all need it)

Happy writing guys!

Characters/People/Pairings

1) Ben Hardy (+ Warren Worthington)

2) Joe Mazzello (+ Eugene Sledge, Gardner Langway, Pat Murray, Dr Tim Murphy)

3) Gwilym Lee (+ Charlie Nelson)

4) (BoRhap!)Queen members (Freddie only platonically)

5) Roger x Reader x Ben

6) Joe x Reader x Ben

7) The Hargreeves Children (older!Five only)

8) Richard Madden (+ David Budd, Robb Stark, Prince Kit)

9) Taron Egerton (+ Eggsy)

10) Rocketman!Bernie Taupin and Ray Williams

11) Smosh Members 

You can write for other characters who I may have missed off the list just send me an ask asking if that character is okay and I’ll let you know :)

Prompts

1) “Can you get him to address his fascination with sulphuric acid?” Outnumbered

2) “This is for you. It’s a dream catcher. It’s made by the native Americans and it catches all your dreams to keep them safe forever.” “I had a dream about weasels eating me last night and I don’t want that one again.” Outnumbered

3) “I don’t like salmon, it’s too orange. I don’t eat anything orange. Except for oranges - because they admit they’re orange” Outnumbered

4) “Women can do things men can’t. Women can have babies” ''Yes, but I’d rather have a moustache than a baby. Then if you change your mind you can just shave it off. You can’t do that with babies” Outnumbered

5) “Imagine being mummified in an embarrassing position. Because you would have thought at least one person would have been on the toilet” “If a volcano’s exploding I imagine most of the town would be on the toilet” Outnumbered

6) “You have to treat everybody’s views, no matter what they believe, with respect” “What, even idiots?” Outnumbered

7) “One day of niceness doesn’t make up for thousands of days of horribleness” Outnumbered ( @writing-of-a-british-bitch w/ Warren Worthington)

8) “I’ll give you a cookie now, shall I?” “In England we call them biscuits” Outnumbered ( @davidbuddbg w/ Richard Madden)

9) “Well you shouldn’t be prejudiced against fat people, thin people… men who have turned into women, women who have turned into men, gay people, ginger people… people from Liverpool” Outnumbered 

10) “Do you think you could stop being so cheeky?” “Do you think you could stop asking stupid questions?” Outnumbered

11) “Stand back kids, this school’s insurance policy doesn’t cover blown minds” Bad Education

12) “The only thing you could contribute to science is your body” Bad Education

13) “If I was a font, I’d be comic sans” Bad Education

14) “How about you ‘fuck off’ and stop ‘trying to ruin my life’” Bad Education

15) “I gave this speech on our wedding day. Now I’d like to give it again with clothes on and you, our family, present.” Cuckoo

16) “I stopped believing in God when I realised it was just dog spelt backwards” The Inbetweeners

17) “I spend my entire life around people. As much as I would like to, it’s almost impossible to avoid them” The Inbetweeners

18) “At best I am ambivalent towards most of you, but some of you, I actively dislike” The Inbetweeners

19) “We’re very hufflepuff here, wouldn’t you be happier in slytherin?” Fresh Meat

20) “People with my accent make foreigners shit themselves” Fresh Meat

21) “It’s not that we don’t like you - obviously, we don’t really know you - it’s just that we think we won’t like you” Fresh Meat

22) “Is it a bacon sarnie or another one of your lies?” Fresh Meat

23) “If you open a car door it’s not… technically a car” Phil Wang, Taskmaster 

24) “I genuinely once returned to my flat to find her in my bed, eating biscuits and watching a documentary on Colditz” Greg Davis, Taskmaster

25) “What’s the best way to make friends “Tell a woman you love her, and she says ‘I think we’re just friends’” Jimmy Carr, Jon Richardson

26) “The only dance I do is YMCA, that’s more spelling than dancing” Jon Richardson

27) “Every triangle’s a love triangle when you love triangles” James Acaster

28) “There’s four things you can be in life: sober, tipsy, drunk and hungover. Tipsy is the only one that you’re not crying” James Acaster

29) “All of us hate ourselves on some level - that’s not weird, just to let you know” James Acaster

30) “Most people don’t realise the bell is called Big Ben and not the clock. The clock is called Tickety-Ted the Time-Telling Bitch” James Acaster

[letsjustbecatsok]

[ID: Two gifs from Taskmaster of Sophie Duker, a young black woman, standing outside a building. In the first gif, she looks at someone off camera and says "I've never duelled anyone." In the second gif, she looks down, then back at the person, and says "And I didn't think I was gonna have to duel you." The gifs are captioned in a decorative, old-western evocative font. End ID]

It sounded like an actual Clint Eastwood line.

[marcosoropoet]

EXECUTION SQUAD GIGGLES  ~  Marcos Oro

Seeds of fire and light, crackling logs, quasars, confusions of candy-colored raindrops and black moss fingernails make it something fiery in your eyes unknown in this world most heightened, sentient candle light haze november fuschia century.alone in this world — one sentient circuit. Feather on skin, droplets of rain flashing wet glowing amber blinkers. Glasses ping in the sea-tang background of a hallucinatory black shadow puppet eyelash. Radio: ...day and night I sit at home and I cry, (1234), wonderin' maybe if this is all just a lie...babybaby I — ((( grit silt undergroundcomix city street laces tied tight, rainstorm soundtrack ))) ...well, maybe u know if u had been around some: as some would say, and then stand around, looking down we are stretching out into two outward directions on the outskirts of night city deluge regression looking down onto the vision path of the distant glittering vine city that makes one or two cry tonight. solo bassiest sitar floated out from the open window, curtains flapping softly in time. you & i process time differently today. i here, u there. without the filmic boundary of universe knife-edge time, timelessness evolves into the new desired seasonal color, the new magazine cover rolled up to hit a rat — meandering mass malfunction tremor gaping swallows. vacuum. blackhole. microcosm. more rapid imagery. helicopter. red propeller hard-flung repetitive sound, blue siren screeching fast, flying fists, siezure of vehicle & chocolate-yes time machine — I went to the show instead of sitting around, Joe The Kug kicked out an alright rocknroll show that was alright sonic loud retro rocked on over and over, around and around, whistled spilt a bucket of harmonica, amplified the blues guitar warped bent heavy s o u n d: up here on the fourth floor the wind is awhippin' up & ahollerin loud rain and deep fresh thunder matrix outburst: crowd. Black and white storm drain gush, widens e x p a n s i o n x perfect disaster movie (((still))) behind frosted glass — the sky clouds mountains luminous, suffused planetary trickery — space opera e x p a n s i o n z — you spent an ominous delusional deep eye-unravel, a walk through the clear stilled cut stone gazebo of timely caricatures. Of cut stone time. No time behind bars. Handling blurred black polka dot conveyor vertigo screams; official institutional business paranoia office politics are veering out to you, girl / girl / girl girlyouknowthat busdriver he KRAY-ZEEgirl? he just say: "i'm a po' boy hmmm lost run up into the wind a while fly up hmmm to the moon fixin' to go anywhere's I pleases, sistah yezhmmm...mmm" nawnawnaw don'tcomewiththat it takeone to know one blasé blasé He is actually fuckinG de-fucking-ranged ominous delusional deep eye-unravel, i am a very practiced, precise, dark sycophant; thus having left many with a deep amazement, and such an addiction to the elaborations of my highly esteeming fizzing fervor over such sloppy sorry dupe fucks; No! Well just retract renege whatever the fuck! day or time, but mostly distracted, celebratory and important in the q u a n t u m i l l u s i o n of filmic derivatives in elitist lingo, craving for some peripheral excitement tonight. some feral excitement. Choppers swoop down low with a searing spotlight blasting white rays of simple pure technology propeller hums loud yes, i think "being hard on yourself" is a staged fake-out very quietly not making too much noise. too much white noise. too much scratch selfhelpbook many please yes 451...451...451 the siren shuffled its screech around the rusty tectonics of the foggy rainy city. M: Can't you see? I can't think straight with your graphics splattered all over the kitchen, I'm sorry but they are too wild and stark, I — M: — well myself for a long time now. I ((( uh ))) actualize myself in the artistic endeavor program you see. "I" feel more genuinely human. Having the same thoughts come clear to me, as well. This delicate skill is rather enhancing, I find. Distracting oneself from the quantum illusion, you are an illusion, so I will display all of my pieces in the livingroom instead of the chocolate crunch time machine. I am a very technique-heavy practiced, precise, dark sycophant; thus having left many with amazement, and an addiction to the perfect "interviewee", "media-ready", "mindless"... yeah so the rock show's on then? we gonna do the Nutley gig eh? yeah next week right? ok straight off somethingweirdiswrongwith the phone. no no problem. no problem...no es problemático. The Artist as Servant to the Taskmaster: Art or, "Up in Here" - location finder of the psyche. AS SEEN ON TV. you are talking to yourself constantly, and everyone else as well is speeding up, this is too telling of the Pomegranate Program bank...uh real parchment documents...written up legal cases, dark crates of bristling oily tarantulas, these comments/moments.repeating fruit reds ...would you like the egg soft boiled? The spy motions with his long 24K pinky nail. Dry constraining skills, of bad mother persona place bitch's shelter, don't gimme no mama. Noir : That's place-fight risk forged ahead very practiced, celebratory and enjoy "quicksand" sure. Sure, the neon prickly cactus place (zone) is quiet "media-ready" and I of course just flipped out! No more clowns and vagrants on TV. Get it? — ...these comments are under smoky lasered scrutiny in the tricked-out surveillance clown center of the sociopathic sheltered elite urban mutation basement sector composite. Do not find me there please tonight no. Not ever! Cigar touting clowns, in formal barbed wire attire, and fiberglass Bow-Ties. Entire walls and windows covered in aluminum foil glaring eye of metallic skin; a searing metallic light, that is seen as it pours out smoke from whole gaps and cracks; from afar the prolonged vibrato of one syllable — A distant gaurantee of otherwordly nano-visions. donuts dunked in a coffee pool. Sauntering in, vivid pristine holograms of nocturnal mutagen beasts lumbering, climbing down to sleep in their warm centered world something is very odd and ((( off ))) the sky clouds mountains luminous, suffused the old lake with warm light: i'm a po' boy hmmm-hmmm lost run into the wind a while fly up hmmmyezmmm to the moon the immediate earth artificial gelatin intelligence resists rendering my Möbius Loophole, is contiguous manic nihilism perpetrating plagiarism. Time loophole escapee loot party gone way wrong, man. The turmoil of the money-craving zombie industry brand, with its truly myriad iterations, a million jealous flashbulb moneyshots of dry-ice frozen three dimensional strobes pulsating on grinding grin trashcan collage alley moneyshot font/color graffiti to boot grind down to grey ash, silt slides off of the cracking inset lines around the zombie's gluey opening eye. Who wants a birthday cake to be a conceptual unraveling inversion of rampant unrelenting candleflames? Flashing a quartz stilleto badge, running through artficial fiery ebbing mobs of protesting automatons. Yanking out drawers filled with heavy coins, and throwing slinging them all over pillow fight showering flecked thick coins (cracked a window with a corner of the flung drawer)...jagged glass made our room now seem much more serious, unfinished. Distracting, disturbing. No blood though... This is the very same earth of eyes blurring out of the picture into vivid blades of green country grass under brown cattle sinew, focus bright white razor-sharp clouds entitled gradually to the false artifice of data vicinity night — The quintessence of mile-down mountain valley drop is catching quick down my attention Running on auto pilot as projection of sparkling dust motes, in bright beams of day: no no I've ate already officer — did you know I'll read them, yeah, red passing laden glare of a red light beam splash head on into the please remember that I never lied crosshair eyes of execution squad giggles.

[ecotone99]

[OC]{FN} History and Myth from my OC fantasy world. Looking for constructive criticism.

Hi all, First ever post here, very amateur at writing with no formal training in it, and nervous about sharing this as i know it needs work and lots of editing, but here goes. Any critique about style or story points is greatly welcomed. Im keenly aware there may be grammar and spelling issues.

​

On ‘The gambit of the Noskan pantheon’ - A recounting of the fall of the Land of Noska by Morranzi of Havvasted, Court Bard of Count Bheric Von Aren'Vetch.

The mortal plane and its infant races, strife ridden and all but kneeing to the oppressive will of rust and ruin, and its favored ‘children of blood’. All the while, the gnawing yowls of the primeval broods, stemmed as they were due to the ever-escalating conflict between the coalition of order, and the blood legions of the hell-scape, remaining ever present and stoked by unseen benefactors despite their waning numbers and strength.

The signs of ending for the firstage were obvious and foreboding. Constant reminders to the forces of order that while they themselves may be mighty, their conflict will inevitably spell disaster for the fragile sources of life bestowed upon the mortal plane. And the Blooded legion knew this, and extorted this weakness in all opportunities. The gods fought hard for their children, and as carrying the very bastions of life upon them, the gods were fighting a war ‘one-handed’ as a result. Like a benevolent giant holding tenderly a defenseless creature, the gods were forced to be defensive and reserved in all actions for risk of crushing that which they sought to protect, and as such, they were losing.

Such was the malevolence of the enemy, that a desperate act was necessary to tip this war in the favour of Order. A choice. One which would corrupt... but ultimately save the mortal realm. A choice, which would require an ultimate toll for those who paid it.

Descending upon the mortal plane, the Noskan gods chose their final stand, deep within the homeland of their protectorate children to orchestrate a desperate gamble. The Noskan people and its lands, the largest of the very few Human civilisations, decimated by the rampaging hordes of blood, the civilisation almost at the brink of collapse. This land was chosen to be martyred, its people accepting of what was to come and willing to be the hunting net which finally brought low the beasts of blood. A testament to fables of their people, one last great hunt before joining their gods in the eternal hunting lands of Veld.

Aided by the young children of Bahamut, the fledging forces of mortal empires, and bolstered by the mortal champions and avatars of the gods themselves, the forces of order, led by the Noskan Pantheon, lured and clashed with the Blooded Children upon the mountainous and life rich lands of Noska. Bravely daring to help etch out a future for the descendants of the world to come.

The Battle's toll claimed lives quickly as mortals courageously tried to match the horrors of the hells and abyss blade for tooth and claw. But alas, victory in conquest was not their goal. Each and every warrior accepted the price to be paid. With their lives, the toll would be collected to ensure a future for Sel, and an honoured place within the hallowed halls of Veld for all. A battle for time, not lives. As waves of horrors methodically and viciously swept the battlescape clean of mortal life, resisted by the fervour of the mortal battle lines, the Noskan gods enacted their task.

Aware and willing to join their children in the oblivion that would follow, the promise of an afterlife was not a promise they could keep. Merely one to provide martyrs a meaningful death. False reassurance to ensure courage would stay fervent until their task could be accomplished. Divinely fated to forever drift the astral seas without closure; for if this task was to succeed, the realm of the Noskan Pantheon would also need to be sacrificed. Forever closing the afterlife to all future generations seeking its eternal lands.

For the hordes of the Blooded Children, the power they sought here in the snow-covered landscape of Noska was one they were aware was profoundly key to the efforts of both sides. For what dwelt deep within the glacial footed mountain of Kkellibjorfjall was a font from which the purest resource of creation flowed, and with it, boundless potential for a being who could possess such a power. Unbeknownst however to the forces of order, that the first among the siblings, Avarita, spurred on by his greed had been here long before, learning of the font’s properties, and had set plans in motion to ensure the font would be his. His malicious and devious plans going beyond his original task. For he and his siblings had grown tired of the prattling and simple desires of those from which they were birthed. They desired to secretly etch out a new realm, for themselves.

The Noskan pantheon, now only 7 of their original 5 and 20, had fought hard through the in-numeral hordes, and had now slipped away from the battle and ventured deep into the heart of Kkellibjorfjall, its stone and earth trembling with the might of the forces embattled outside. The avatars of the remaining gods bled freely from wounds that refused to heal, and mangled limbs a divine being should be able to regenerate refused to yield, as the entities could feel the effects this demonic scourge was having upon the world sap their power, and weaken the tenuous tether they had with the prime material plane. Pressing on, the 7 skulked silently into the depths of the ancient mountain, lead on by the sweet smell the font exuded to those who were naturally attuned. The darkness, no match for their innate vision, and footsteps so light they made no sound through sheer will.

Slowly the 7, drifting between the gaps in the worlds as they stalked ever forwards, came upon a great cavern, and within which a lake existed between them and their destination. A door of glass emblazoned with the words of creation. The lake between lay still as glass, fed from a source unseen, and from which emanated a shimmering blue-gold light that invigorated the 7 by its mere proximity. The 7 approached before collapsing to their knees and each imbibing of the lake’s waters to embolden themselves for what was to come.

The 7 took up arms, driven towards their goal by the sacrifices made and still to be paid. Each rested a hand upon the great door, its glass’ appearance masking its true nature, but upon it the signs of corruption could be seen. The 7 thrust open the door easily, further evidencing what their Kin feared, and within the 7’s eyes fell upon him.

Standing on a plinth of raised stone between the 7 and their objective, the figure embodied his name and wore it upon himself as armour, for all knew him, and for all who pray to him embolden and engorge his power. He stood hunched, cloaked in the unending edifice of sorrow and cruelty. And upon his head, the figure wore a crown wrought of a thousand crowns, for this was the tyrant of all who rule rather than lead. Greed – Avarita – Tyranny.

To his sides stood the figures of his brothers and sisters. And the 7’s eyes studied each.

She, wreathed in shadow of whispers and secrets worn as a mantle. Her trueform the snake, her visage the beautiful duality of mortals. Envy – Invidia - Treachery.

He, who wills and endures above all, his form bristling and powerful. His trueform the hulk, his visage the shapeless. Pride – Vana'glorifi - Tythe.

She, without limits as she burns through all, radiating with a heat threatening and cold. Her trueform the scarred taskmaster, her visage the gladiator. Wrath – Ira - Terror.

He, ever present despite indifference or purpose, keeping watch ever and always. His trueform the swarm , his visage the sentry . Sloth – Acedia - Trifling.

She, of all things, and from all is more, she and her writhing children dripping with bile. Her trueform the parasite, her visage the rake. Gluttony – Gula - Torpdity.

And, He with the desire of the world, wielding it at his side as a spear, tipped sharp and deadly. His trueform the mourn, his visage the formless. Lust – Luxuria – Thirst.

The 7 moved quick, sparing no time in enacting their goal.

The Hunter drew fast, crippling her prey before they could act.

The Shield proved ever the bulwark, unyielding and stalwart.

The Smith struck hard and practiced, with a melody of his craft.

The Rake exploited and snatched every opportunity, a testament to his love.

The King commanded loudly, without fear and without malice.

The Mother glowed brilliantly, a whirling dervish of matronly fury.

And lastly the Keeper Thundered unchallenged, through the chaos and the pain. For his task was the most important. His frosted spear, a gift from The Nomad, tightly in hand. He would find his mark if he had the will to succeed, a task which meant no small ask.

The Keeper broke free from sword and claw, and dove beyond the battlelines towards his goal. He lept atop the edifice of stone and looked down towards the glow of the well below. Its light pulsing with a garish fell hue which stabbed like a dagger within his heart as it was a bad sign, a sign he may be too late, as his eyes behled something else deep within the well too. A ball of alien darkness his divine eyes could only just make out, something barely noticed that seemed to cause torment and suffering within, something that enveloped his senses, muting the cavern’s commotion to him. A shout sounded at the back of his mind as a part of him tried to shake him back to sense, and in that moment the Keeper acting as he only knew he could, he took aim and summoned the very storms within, projecting the spear towards the world heart, feeling at the same moment the burn of something foreign protruding from his abdomen.

For those in the in the material plane, the lands of Noska split and crumbled. Vast swaths of Sel’s grand North Western lands were swallowed by the sea, its effects felt around the planet as an entire continent was sundered and vanished from the world in mere instants.

The frigid lands became an eclectic archipelago of volcanic islands, largely inhospitable and unrecognisable. Its people, and those who fought on the slopes and planes of Kkellibjorfjall eradicated along with the treat of the blood host they sought to hold in place. The sacrifice made, and utilitarian nature of the task completed.

The world quaked and groaned for years following the battle. And those its knowledge would eventually be lost to he annals of time, greater magic and species who thrived upon it faded from the world in the centuries to come. The natural gates to the feywild, shadow fell and other mirror planes of the material greyed and closed. Further sealing Sel from them forever.

And as only those rare few familial with the subject can recall, following the age of arcanum, magic would eventually all but vanish from the world entirely. To where today, the myth of Noska and its sacrifice to the world of mortals is a legend ad fairy-tale hitherto undreamt of.

The words that met the Keeper’s ears wrung with venom and cruelty, of anger and frustration, accented by a hint of desperation. The surge hit the Keeper from where his spear pierced the heart below. A tendral of pure creation and arcane so profound it threatened to tear him asunder from within.

His task complete he could only wait for the effects to begin swallowing the world, but upon seeing several dark figures encroach upon the well’s boarder, the Keeper summoned what little will his dying form possessed and allowed his instinct to react. The power surging from within, his will drifted from him in fingers of energy manifest and outside of his normal ability. Of the 3 of the dark figures intruding upon the well, all he warped and shifted. Their profain souls screaming as their forms were stripped and their essence banished form the plane to the places of dark which, upon the Keeper’s instinct, now existed between the realms of hell and abyss to lie in torment and anguish. But the being who struck the Keeper from behind was unaffected, having reached for the tendril at the Keeper’s chest and begin drinking upon its energy too. The keeper called to his 7, replied in turn by less. His sorrow began to fester as he felt aid from the remaining begin to rip the Fiend from the Keeper, like a leech from its feeding place, but too late to quell the fell lord’s influence. The heart was corrupt, and its power spilling forth exponentially, threatening all. Cries of pain erupted from around the Keeper as the remaining Fell lord fought against the injures survivors of the 7, the fiend’s form emboldened by his brief time in the light of creation. As the Keeper could feel the well’s power threaten to kill him with each press of his will upon it to craft and hold it, he attempted to enact his original intent with hopes to ensure this costly endeavour wouldn’t not be for naught. With a final exertion of will, the Keeper’s thoughts moved. His mind reaching for the spear still moving deeper in the depths of the well, he forced out his incantation, feeling the spear respond to his touch as though it were in his hand. The cold soothed him, and his many pains. Comforted his form which felt as though blades pierced him from all sides. His thoughts caressed his forlorn memories of his people’s lands and the resting place of those who gave their lives past and present, taking solace in the knowledge none will know the loss after his mission was finally done. And with a final command, the spear’s enchantment burst.

The effects were less immediate than expected. A brief moment past before, nothingness.

Within that moment, The Keeper saw all, still connected to the heart he felt himself engulfed in it. He watched as all the hundreds of thousand souls in his charge watched in wonder and horror as a wall of darkness quickly swallowed those who already resided in Veld, and the keeper took solace as he watched those souls who arrived fresh from the battle upon the slopes of Kkellibjorfjall were swallowed before experiencing the fulfilment and happiness of Veld, knowing they would be lost pure and blissfully ignorant of the loss. His experience seemed to last hours, despite the near instantaneous the event actually occurred in. And in his ruminations, he began to weep in a manor warriors and fathers and brothers weep for lost loved ones. But his mourn was quickly still, noticing a trace of belonging amongst the still collapsing of the plane around him. Looking closer he recognised the source, a great beast consuming souls and emitting an aura around him. The Keeper approached as he could, but the shape lingered ever further. The keeper’s vision shifted, the sound of rapture erupting around him, and then…nothing but time.

The machinations of time drifted, the Keeper as helpless in its movement as a drifting leaf upon the centre of a river.

The years fell away, long and endless. Ages past, and the keeper remained blind to the worlds. Sightless in the void…until one flicker of light emerged ahead. A pinprick appeared, showing very little, but that of a demure ruddy dark skinned young elf, upon which a drift of cloud lay overhead, and a spark of defiance and fate dwelled within. Glittering faintly within her hand was a pendant, from which the Keeper felt the warmth of her callused hand.

He watched as she pocked the pendant and his ‘pinprick’ dimmed slightly. The Keeper grew curious and fearful the pinprick would vanish, but moments later it grew once more as her curiosity and soul drew to the pendant, thumbing it with thumb and fore finger.

The woman appeared to be distracted by something, and ventured further to the source. The Keeper’s essence grew as he moved himself between her emotions. Learning and imbibing from her instincts and experiences.

As the she-elf’s emotions flared slightly upon realising the situation infront of her. The keeper recognising the encounter grew rageful, his inate godly ideals roaring to life for the first time in what felt like eons. His emotions drifted into the She-elf has he has already entwined with hers, and as she lept into the throws of battle he felt alive. His essence flowing freely into her, infusing into her, and he h=felt his avatar begin to take shape. The sensation of being upon the material plane once more, the freedom of movement, the liveliness of being physical and free materialising around her as he, himself smote the final assailant with his hammer sending the fiendish mortal careening sideways, watching as its immoral and evil soul screamed on its way into the depths of the planes, where the endless abyss and the burning hells awaited.

His consciousness grew stronger and his power blazed ever slightly, but more so than ahs for a long time, within him as his consciousness retreated unwillingly back to the void once known as Veld.

The Keeper, involuntarily silent lacking influence enough to manifest further, grew prideful of his new vessel and worshipper as he felt his connection grow stronger within her. His window to the material plane growing larger. But as it did so, his senses grew too, and his peripheries touched upon something he had forgot to fear in his voluntary excommunication. Something he dreaded, and upon realising it knew with his slow return, so too it was likely the other will return too.

For the years to come, the Keeper known by another name of his, ‘the gavel’ to the she-elf, emboldened her and strengthened her, providing comfort where he could and attempted to guide her towards a fate he knew she would be instrumental in, as in his current state, he himself was helpless. And so, the She-Elf named Thia would act as the Keeper’s body and enforcer upon the world, unknowing why his plan failed and fearful of what his continued consciousness means for the fate of the material plane of Sel.

submitted by /u/ThatOneIngram [link] [comments] via Blogger http://bit.ly/2Xv3NYT

[poetryofchrist]

Nun

Aleph Bet Gimel Dalet Heh Vav Zayin Xet Tet Yod Kaf Lamed Mem Nun Samek Ayin Peh Tsade Qof Resh Shin Sin Taf נא please (196) if you (132) now (31) it (2) pray tell (2) for us (1) uncook (1) נאד bottle (6) נאה lovely (12) haunt (10) loveliness (2) נאם oracle (371) נאף adulterer (9) adultery (6) commit adultery (5) committed adultery (4) commits adultery (3) adulteress (1) committing adultery (1) נאץ spurn (24) blasphemy (5) blaspheme (1) נאר nullify (2) נבא prophesy (113) prophecy (2) through prophesy (1) נבב hollow (4) נבזב award (2) נבח woof (1) נבחז Nibxaz (1) נבט take note (39) notice (11) took note (10) takes note (4) look (1) notability (1) see take note (1) taken note (1) taking note (1) took notice (1) נביא prophet (304) prophetess (5) prophets' (1) נבך fountainhead (1) נבל corpse (49) lute (22) senseless (22) wither (15) senselessness (11) skin-bottle (8) demean (1) jar (1) senseless women (1) נבע ferment (8) tumble (2) bubble (1) bubble up (1) font (1) zealous (1) נגב south 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partiality (1) show partiality (1) shows partiality (1) such take (1) wave (1) נשׂג overtake (30) afford (10) overtook (6) affordable (2) overtaken (1) נשׂק ignite (2) נתב pathway (25) נתח piece (13) cut (3) cut piece (2) cut piece piece (2) נתיב ways means (1) נתך poured forth (19) pour forth (3) נתן give (802) gave (402) given (279) position (83) assign (81) consign (61) permit (54) yield (39) daub (23) put forth (11) grant (10) connect (7) demonstrate (6) donation (3) give up (3) prevent (3) -- (2) chant (2) take (2) tighten (2) gave permission (1) give here (1) giving due (1) let (1) net (1) play (1) refrain give (1) responsible (1) though give (1) though permit (1) נתס disfigure (1) נתץ broke down (14) broken down (10) break down (9) break off (5) broken off (2) breaks off (1) broke off (1) נתק snap (18) scurf (14) detach (5) gallery (5) נתר release (8) alkali (2) נתשׁ deport (17) blot out (2) blotted out (1) from Blogger https://ift.tt/2P0lvz4 via IFTTT

[ber39james]

Monday Motivation Hack: Make the Hard Choice

Whether you’re a decisive taskmaster or someone who struggles to choose what to eat for breakfast, you will eventually have a decision that stumps you. Sometimes, these are big life choices like taking that job, choosing that partner, or moving to that new city. Other times, seemingly small decisions like which font you should use in your presentation can trip you up.

Never fear, future decision-makers! There are several hacks to help with decision-making, but let’s start with the most basic element of a decision—your baseline. In other words, what measuring stick do you consistently use to make decisions? How do you measure yourself?

Finding an “Anchor” for Your Decision-Making Process

Let’s say you had to decide whether you would get a new car. You do your research, find a car you think is cool, and purchase that car. The next day, one of your friends posts a picture of their expensive, flashy car on Facebook. How would you feel?

The Self-Comparison Trap

If that made you feel uncomfortable, you may fall prey to the classic trap of comparing your decisions to those of others. This is an example of what motivation experts call an “anchor”: the baseline you use to make decisions. Common examples of “anchors” are colleagues at work, family members, classmates, friends, and even people you don’t know but look up to.

If you compare yourself to others when making decisions, you’re not alone. In fact, many psychologists have theorized that social media has only made this problem worse. Whether Facebook or good old-fashioned bragging is to blame, it’s clear from the number of searches for “compare yourself” that this anchor isn’t going away anytime soon:

https://ssl.gstatic.com/trends_nrtr/1015_RC09/embed_loader.js trends.embed.renderExploreWidget(“TIMESERIES”, {“comparisonItem”:[{“keyword”:”\”compare yourself\””,”geo”:””,”time”:”2004-01-01 2017-05-12″}],”category”:0,”property”:””}, {“exploreQuery”:”date=all&q=%22compare%20yourself%22″,”guestPath”:”https://trends.google.com:443/trends/embed/”});

In a world where we’re constantly benchmarking ourselves against one another, how do we make good decisions?

Anchors Away! Changing Your Baseline

The answer to this comparison conundrum is easy: you need to change the anchor you use to make decisions. Instead of comparing your professional success, personal goal completion, and self-image to others, you can use yourself as a baseline. Once you stop making “social” comparisons and begin using your past performance as the anchor for future decisions, you’ll find decision-making becomes much easier and less fraught with stress.

There are a number of techniques to make yourself your decision-making baseline, but it all starts with questioning how you measure a successful decision. Do you compare yourself to others, or do you focus on your past decisions and use those to inform future ones?

What do you think about comparing yourself to others? Tell us in the comments below!

The post Monday Motivation Hack: Make the Hard Choice appeared first on Grammarly Blog.

from Grammarly Blog https://www.grammarly.com/blog/anchor-decision-making-hack/

[dawnajaynes32]

A Woman's Cosmos In A Man's World

 A Woman’s Cosmos In A Man’s World

By Tom Wachunas

    Without waxing too technical about the specifics of Henrietta Leavitt’s (1868-1921) contributions to our knowledge of the cosmos, suffice it to say that in her tireless work as an astronomer at Harvard College Observatory in the early years of the 20thcentury, she essentially paved the way for deciphering how we determine the age and size of the universe. Inspired by Leavitt’s life, playwright Lauren Gunderson’s Silent Sky is a truly remarkable accomplishment. Gunderson’s lovingly crafted masterpiece of equipoise is an emotionally gripping look at an insatiable pursuit of arcane science amidst equally compelling yearnings of the human heart. For a more comprehensive look at the play and its history, here’s a very useful link: 

http://silentskyplay.tumblr.com/

     On the cusp of Women’s History Month, this current production is directed by Brian Newberg, Associate Professor of Theatre & Theatre Director of the Kent State Stark Theatre Program. He has assembled a sharp and sensitive ensemble of five gifted individuals who deliver a wondrously nuanced performance, replete with both pathos and humor that’s, well… stellarin every sense of the word. Even the elegant simplicity of the scenic design by Louis Williams – with a stage set made up of a few pieces of furniture and a raised, railed platform that doubles at one point as the deck of and ocean vessel – is often infused with projections of starry nights and Milky Way panoramas.

   The timeline is 1900-1920. Cashing in her dowry, Henrietta Leavitt (Morgan Brown) leaves her home where she’s been living with her musician sister, Margaret (Emily Weiss), and father, a Congregational Church minister, to live her dream of doing serious research as an astronomer at Harvard College Observatory. There, she’s quickly mortified and frustrated  to learn that she was hired only to count stars and measure their luminosity as recorded on glass plate photographs made by the grand telescope which women are not allowed to use. She and her co-workers, Annie Cannon (Breanna Morton) and Williamina Fleming (Jacki Dietz), are regarded by their male bosses, including their immediate supervisor, Peter Shaw (Jesse Fulks), simply as “human computers” – bean counters, as it were. Ever undaunted – even obsessive - in her insistence on finding the truth and meaning of her/our place in our galaxy (and beyond, as it turns out), Leavitt discovers not only significant physical realities, but much about herself as well. The education of head and heart. Just so, she sacrifices much, in the process eschewing society’s traditional expectations of romance and domestic family life.

   Imagine the cast as a solar system, with Morgan Brown’s radiant portrayal of Leavitt as the center, holding the other characters – luminous entities in their own right – in orbit. Brown is not just believable, but also wholly magnetic as she articulates Leavitt’s longing and struggle to affirm her identity in an unsympathetic, indeed oppressive patriarchal milieu. She forges an increasingly sturdy bond with her office colleagues. Breanna Morton, as Annie, is at first a distant and demanding taskmaster, but visibly softens as her understanding of, and support for, Leavitt grows. No doubt her softening is greatly aided by Jacki Dietz’s charismatic portrait of the feisty, no-nonsense Williamina. In her startlingly authentic Scottish accent, Dietz provides many of the evening’s wisest observations and funniest passages. 

   Meanwhile, Jesse Fulks, often a target of the ladies’ ridicule, brings an exquisitely crafted awkwardness and shyness to his reading of Peter Shaw, apprentice to the observatory’s head scientist, Dr. Pickering. His respect for, then infatuation with Leavitt,  blossoms into a matter of the heart, the hope of a nervous suitor, as he at one point asks her, just before embarking on a research trip to Europe, if they could “…continue the experiment of our mutual compatibility” when he returns.  So OK, he’s a scientist, not a poet. Still, this play has as much if not more poetry than astrophysics.

   Through it all, Emily Weiss convincingly presents Leavitt’s sister, Margaret, as a faithful homemaker while caring for their ailing father. Gentle and patient if not occasionally resentful, she’s the picture of sincerity as she desperately tries to grasp the depths of her sister’s impassioned search for answers to cosmic questions.

   In fact it’s Margaret’s playing a lilting melody on her piano that spurs Henrietta to ultimately see the music of the spheres, as it were… to discern an order and pattern to those puzzling pulses of light visible from across impossible distances. The play concludes on a bittersweet albeit tender note. It’s an altogether inspiring remembrance of Leavitt’s legacy.

    More importantly, in these volatile times, the play is a timely beacon and an urgent reminder. Gender bias should never be permitted to squelch our pursuit of knowledge, the affirmation of our purpose, or the realization of our destinies. 

      Silent Sky, at Kent State University At Stark Theatre / Located in the Fine Arts building on Kent Stark campus, 6000 Frank Ave. NW in North Canton / Performances Feb. 25, March 3 & 4 at 7:30 p.m. / Feb. 26 & March 5 at 2 p.m. /Tickets: $10 for adults and $7 for non-Kent State students and senior citizens. All Kent State students admitted free of charge with current student ID. For more information about the show and ensemble members, or to reserve tickets online, go to www.kent.edu/stark/theatre or call the Kent State Stark Theatre Box Office at 330-244-3348, Mondays through Fridays from 1 to 5 p.m.

   TOP PHOTO, left to right: Emily Weiss, Jesse Fulks, Jacki Dietz, Morgan Brown, Breanna Morton

A Woman's Cosmos In A Man's World syndicated post