#i'm sorry yall

[hyperfixiation-station]

Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Information Pt.3

TW: Blood, Torture, Violence

Summary: You get rescued(finally)

Part 1, Part 2

Silent. From the moment Price had found you in that dingy cell, broken and bleeding, that was all you had been. You were silent when they moved you, though it had to have hurt with how many broken bones and lacerations you had. You were silent when the medics asked you where you were injured, how you had been hurt. You were silent through the debriefings, through the desperate attempts to find out what you had been through, what secrets you had spilled. You were silent through all of it. 

It wasn’t your fault, not really. A mental barrier you had constructed during months of torture to keep secrets from spilling, a dam built with a mantra of DON’T TALK to keep your thoughts at bay as your captors repeatedly tried to draw them out of you. 

Even now, when the rational part of your brain knew you were safe, knew that these men, the men you served with, the men who had tracked you down and saved you, were to be trusted, the barrier would not fall. 

Every ‘what did they want from you, what did you see, did you recognize them, how many of them were there’ was met with silence. Anytime you opened your mouth you were hit with a wave of fear so strong it sent you into a panic attack. 

They understood, in part. They had seen recordings, seen the rooms, seen your broken body at the time of rescue. 

It took them 2 days to get to you after figuring out your location. They went in guns blazing, and tore the place to the ground. They split up, Price and Gaz taking the left with Soap and Ghost taking the right. They shot at anything that moved in their quest for vengeance, breaking down doors and checking every nook and cranny for where you might be locked up. 

Price found you about a quarter of the way into the camp. He took the bottom floor and Gaz took the top as they cleared the building. He had stopped before a door that was different, metal and welded shut with a small little flap in the middle, instead of solid and wooden like the others. It took him and Gaz some prying and metalwork, but they got the door open. 

Price almost cried when his eyes adjusted to the change in light. You lay curled in the corner, back to the wall as you shied away from the light. Your hair was tangled and matted with dried blood, your clothes were torn and dirty and your skin was crusted with so much blood and grime that he couldn’t even see you underneath it. 

“Y/n?” He had called, but there was no response. He crept slowly toward you, keeping his movements as open and relaxed as possible. He crouched in front of you, taking note of your dilated pupils, sunken eyes, obviously malnourished form. He winced at the weird bulges in your skin, indicative of broken bones. 

“Sorry love.” He whispered to you, taking a steadying breath as he slid his arms under you and lifted. Hise expected you to cry out, the action no doubt causing unspeakable pain, but you didn’t. In fact, you didn’t react at all. He didn’t dwell on it then, opting to get you somewhere safe and secure. 

“9 broken ribs, a broken left femur, both shoulders dislocated, pneumonia, dehydration and severe malnutrition, multiple lacerations that required stitches, broken wrists, all 10 fingers broken, right kneecap dislocated, multiple concussions, and a hairline fracture on their skull.” The doctor had said. It hurt all of them to hear how badly wounded you were. 

They gave you two weeks to recover before asking any questions. The first week you were unconscious, in a coma as your body tried to heal you. The second week you spent in worrying silence, saying nothing to anyone, not to your doctors, not to your teammates, not to your friends.

Price sent Ghost in first. He had had similar experiences and Price figured he would be able to relate. However when Ghost came storming out an hour later, slamming the door behind him, he came to regret that decision. 

“I got over it.” He had said, “Why can’t they?” Price reminded him that not everyone responds to trauma the same way and sent him away.

Soap tried next, and came out near tears after sending you into a panic attack after calling you ‘Little Bird’. He was confused until Ghost not-so-gently reminded him of the video they had seen, of the words ‘Pretty Bird’ being used over and over. Ghost pretended not to hear him throwing up in the toilet later. 

Gaz tried, to no avail. He ended up just sitting in silence with you, showing you videos of his cats. He counted it a victory when your busted lips twitched into a tiny grin for a few seconds.

And on and on it went, with refusing to speak to anyone. They were losing hope until the psychiatrist finally spoke with you. 

“GIve them time.” She said gently, “You trying to force a response will just make this worse.” 

So they do. The higher-ups still want answers, of course, but Price manages to dissuade them from asking until you are out of the hospital. They spend the weeks treating you as normal as possible, stopping by to give you updates on missions, show you a video of Soap absolutely biffing it in training, tell you the latest gossip of which recruit is sleeping with who. But even though they are trying, they still handle you with kiddie gloves, afraid that the wrong word or look will make you shatter irreversibly. 

Which brings you to now. It’s nearly 2 A.M, and visiting hours are long over as you stand unsteadily in the bathroom, staring at your pale, pathetic form in the mirror. You open and close your mouth, trying and failing to get words out, the barrier cemented in your mind by blood and tears too strong to break down.  

‘Speak, you stupid fucking bitch!’ You scream mentally at yourself, ‘You have to speak! If you don’t you'll be discharged and you'll never be able to serve again! They already think you’re broken, and if you can’t tell them different they’ll never treat you the same. Stop. being. So. Fucking. Pathetic.’

Tears streak your cheeks as you slide down the wall. You draw your knees up, hiding your face in them as your shoulders shake with silent sobs. Rationally, you know you are safe. Rationally, you know that if you were to speak, nothing would happen. But it’s not the rational part of your brain that is keeping you from speaking. 

Going dark in that hellhole you were trapped in had saved your life, and you couldn’t seem to get past it. Sure, not responding had almost killed you right at first, as Kravchenko became more and more ruthless in his attempts to get you to speak again, but eventually he grew bored. His little plaything had lost its sparkle, and he locked you in a cell and threw away the key as soon as he lost interest. But starving to death was still a better alternative to the all-consuming agony that had been your day-to-day. 

And now, the subconscious, irrational part of your brain was convinced that if you spoke you’d be dragged right back and strapped to a table, that you’d wake up to find that your rescue had all been a dream. That you-

“-/n! Y/N! Y/N!” You flinch, startled out of your reverie. You look down to see rivulets of blood running down your arms, your nails having gouged holes into your skin. You look up to see the eyes of a worried nurse, holding your hands in hers. 

“There you are. We lost you for a minute. Do you mind letting me bandage you up here?” Her voice is soft and gentle and you find yourself nodding, letting her lead you back to your bed where she cleans and bandages your upper arms. 

“What are you doing up so late sweetie?” Her voice is calming, almost hypnotic, “I mean, I’m awake cause I get paid to be, but you should be sleeping all your injuries away, shouldn’t you dearie? If I was you, I’d of been cryin’ too, being awake at 2 A.M. for free.” She laughs, the sound echoing through the room, “Course, I suppose you probably think I’m crazy for agreeing to work this shift anyways. Did you know I was supposed to have this shift off? But Roberta’s kids have the flu and so I agreed-” She keeps talking, her voice soothing your fears and helping you relax. YOu can’t help but mentally thank Roberta’s kids for being sick, for sending this wonderful lady who does not treat you like you're going to break at any moment to you tonight. 

“And that should about do it dearie. Just press that little call button if you need any more help, alright?” She says cheerfully. She squeezes your hand and heads to the door before pausing. 

“Make sure to get some sleep.” She leaves, gently closing the door behind her. Something about her makes you feel safer than you have since falling off that helicopter. Maybe it was her motherly demeanor, maybe it was the fact that she treated you like a normal human being, maybe it was the fact that she could have put you on a psych hold an ddin;t, but whatever it was, you loved her for it. 

And as the door closes and the room stills, you whisper a quiet “thanks.” 

Part 4?

~tags~

@louthedino @scarletdfox @dangerkitten1705 @warenai @spineless-spino @rainy-darling

[pageofthemicocee]

@herosplatling-replica is the one behind the design yeah- shout out to the homie fr fr

So um I told myself I was only going to spectate this au but

Fuck it we ball ig‼️

Here is the results of me having a autistic earworm moment with a song I like a lot

^^^^^^^^^the song inspo!!^^^^^^^^^^

So uh yeah the fella unfortunately suffers against their will......how unfortunate

[three-cheers-for-green-tea]

I'm just going to throw this out there.

I know that we've agreed collectively, as a fandom, that Hozier and Queen are our "Ineffable Breakup" soundtracks just as much as they are Crowley's... BUT

Hear me out on this... HIM. Not a random guy specifically but the Finnish band H.I.M

Just imagine Mr. Anthony J. "Despite everything, an optimist" Crowley on one of his more sentimental days, when he knows he won't have to go check in on Muriel for a while.

Finds a bunch of HIM CDs in a box in his old apartment. Shax had neglected to clear out one of the old cupboards that "Crowley never paid any special attention to. Only his plants."

Opens up a bottle of wine and puts on Tears on Tape because "Fuck it. Nothing better to do. Angel's gone and will stay gone." Sits back and listens.

Some young lady told him about this band in the late 90's but it was still too soon after Freddie passed for Crowley to be interested in taking up new genres. Style is one thing, but music...

He snorts, second bottle and two albums in.

Why, indeed? He'd known the words hadn't needed to be said. Thought Aziraphale understood him in a way neither She nor Hell ever could.

He pours another glass. Pulls out the rest of the CDs.

It's going to be a long day. Then again, what else does he have to do? Little mercies, right?

-

For context. To grossly oversimplify, if you've never heard a HIM song. They're a metal band with a whole carrier of love songs. I'm talking Romeo and Juliette levels of "Undying, unexplainable, Ineffable(if you will)" love songs.

I've been doing a bit if a binge lately and it occurred to me that there's NO WAY Crowley has never heard of them. They were pretty huge in Europe in the early 2000s. I imagine Crowley would have brushed them off as "Too tragic for his liking." originally. Bought the CDs out of curiosity over the years, but never actually got around to listening to them.

-

This turned from a suggestion to a head-cannon. I'm sorry.

[thesixthrandomuser]

I drew this little BITCH again

[l-tothe-og]

Fuck around and post an aemond coochie fic

hmmmmm. shall i?

Aemond is so beautiful like this. His pale hair stands in every direction, but mostly up. His lips open just a bit as he breathes in through his nose and out through his mouth, deep in sleep. He’s the fucking devil, that arrogant, bratty, prick, but be looks downright angelic.

Luke can’t help himself and sweeps a hand over his forehead. He pushes back the sweaty hair there and tries not to imagine a life where he could have this all the time.

Aemond sighs in his sleep and nuzzles into Luke’s hand. His nose runs along the heart line on his palm, his lips meet the middle of his life line. Luke pulls away from the tickling sensation and clenches his fist.

yall really thought i was gon do it? puh lease.

[camiladnne]

MAYANS M.C. (2018 -)

[ao3feed-jonmartin]

i think your feed broke again :(

apparently the applet can't find any of my blogs, i'm. so confused at this point

[randmsapphic]

ak fandom: phantom is so caked up and thicc in the is2 art

me:

[rebiesque]

Your own personal Jesus

Someone to hear your prayers

Someone who cares —

[hyperfixiation-station]

Forever And Always

TW: Death, injuries, angst

Pairing: Ghost x Reader

Note: Listen to this song either before or after you read. Makes the viewing experience 100x better.

Ghost should have been back by now. You had wanted to pick him up from the airport, but he had told you he didn’t know when he was getting in, and that he would just meet you at home. He had texted you 2 hours ago that he had landed, but since then it had been radio silence.

You sit at the kitchen table, worriedly watching the phone, waiting for him to text you. You’d been waiting for hours, the time far later than when he said he’d be home. You knew Simon, knew that something deeper was going on then him just forgetting to text you. Your eyes fall to your phone, the screen lighting up with yet another unread message. After hearing no one had seen him, you’d stopped responding, too tired and worried to think. 

You: Is Simon with you? 

Bubbles: no

Bubbles: he said he wanted to see u rather than go drink with us first day of leave 

Bubbles: why

You:  Is Simon with you? 

Oh Captain My Captain: No

Oh Captain My Captain: Haven’t seen him since he said he was heading towards you

Oh Captain My Captain: Has he not made it back yet? 

Oh Captain My Captain: I’ll see if I can find him. 

Bubbles: Y/n????

Bubbles: where is he??? 

Bubbles: is something wrong?

Bubbles: Y/n???

It’s Raining Men: Captain is having me look for Ghost. 

It’s Raining Men: I’ll find him for ya, don’t worry. 

Bubbles: i’m coming to find u

Your phone rings and you startle, almost falling out of your seat. You snap out of your daze, almost dropping the phone in your haste to answer. 

“Are you y/n, l/n?” The voice on the other end asks.

“Yes.” You whisper, heart sinking.

“This is Bakersfield Memorial. Something happened to Simon Riley. You need to co-” You don’t hear anything else they say, a rushing sound in your ears drowning out all other noise. 

You hurry to your car, not bothering to change out of your pajamas. You peel out of the driveway and speed down the road, ignoring road safety laws. Your eyes fall on your left hand, the engagement ring sitting on your finger glinting in the moonlight. Your mind flickers back to 7 months ago, when Ghost had gotten down on one knee and asked you to be his. 

It was the night before Ghost left for deployment, and you were out on the town, enjoying the last night you’d spend together for over 6 months. Soap, Price, and Gaz were there as well, and while you weren’t 100% sure why, you didn’t mind. 

It hit 1 A.M. and you were about ready to go home. You were getting ready to leave when Ghost called your name. You spun around, mouth to tell him…something. You can’t remember what. Any thoughts vanish at the sight of Ghost on his knee, holding a small box out to you. 

He said a lot of things, told you he meant to ask you after he got back but he just couldn’t wait. Told you how much he loved you, that he wanted to spend his life with you, wanted you to be his forever and always. You remember launching yourself at him, knocking him backwards, the bar cheering around you as you cried.

And you remember telling him that he better stay alive long enough to marry you.

You pull up to the entrance of the hospital, not entirely sure how you got there in the first place. You hurry  inside, car still on, and a nurse leads you up stairs, through doors, down a million halls, twisting and turning in a path you’ll never remember. She talks to you, updating you on what happened, but you can’t hear a word she says. 

You enter his room, biting your lip to keep from crying when you see him in the bed. What you can see of his body is bruised and bloodied, an oxygen mask over his face, wires and tubes crisscrossing every which way. You sit down next to him and interlace your fingers, mindful of the I.V. sticking out the back of his hand.

“Hey luv.” His voice is low and strained, “fancy meeting…you here.”

“Oh Simon, what have you done to yourself.” Your vision blurs with unshed tears as you take in your fiancé's labored breathing, the pain etched into his face, the bloodstained bandages that cover his torso. 

“I’ll be…alright, luv. Be…just fine…in time…for…the wedding.” He squeezes your hand weakly, “That is…if you…can ever pick…a color…scheme.” 

“I was thinking blue. And orange.” 

“Like the…fruit?” 

“I was thinking more rustic.” 

“Hmm.” You pretend not to notice his grimace of pain.

 

“You know,” You say to distract him from the inevitable, “I was looking at houses on zillow the other day.” 

“...Oh? Find one…you…liked?” 

“Yeah, found this real cute farm house, has a wrap-around porch and plenty of land. Plus a couple extra rooms if we ever decide to have kids.”

“I’d love to…have a…couple more…Y/n’s…runnin…around.” He smiles softly at you, and for one moment he looks peaceful. But then the moment passes and the pain returns. 

“That’d be a bit confusing.” You tease softly, trying to act normal, “I’d think you’d want to give them their own names.” 

“Mhm.” He doesn’t respond, but his pained smile tells you he’s grateful you’re trying. 

“I was thinking Rosalie for a girl.” You say quickly, “And…and Thomas for a boy. We’d call him Tommy for short.” 

“You’ve…got…good taste.” He squeezes your hand, voice thick with emotion. 

“Course I do.” You grin weakly, “I’m marrying you, aren’t I?” He laughs weakly, smiling up at you for a moment. And then his breath hitches and your heart drops. 

The nurse bends over him, messing with his oxygen. It feels like all the air has been sucked out of the room, leaving both you and him unable to breathe. It’s an eternity before the nurse hits his chest and he gasps softly, his breathing returning to the labored and raspy rhythm it held before.

“Si?” You cry, leaning over him. 

“ ‘m…okay…luv.” His eyes are closed, his face pale, sweaty, and lined with pain. The nurse gives you a look that you know means there is not a lot of time left. 

“Can you do something for me?” You ask her quietly. She nods, and you tell her what you want to do.

“I’ll be back soon.” She says, smiling sadly at you. As soon as she leaves there’s a knock on the door, a familiar Scottish brogue fills the room. You whip around to find Soap in the doorway, panting and sweaty. He looks at you for a moment before his gaze falls to Simon. 

“Ye scared me little bird. Yer door wis unlocked ‘n yer phone wis on th’ ground ‘n Ah guessed th’ wirst. I’ wis pure happenstance that Ah saw…that Ah saw Ghost’s bike on th’…on th’ ground ’n surroondit by cop cars on mah way back tae base.” His gaze never leaves Ghost, even as he circles the bed to sit at his other side, “Ah’ve git Price ‘n Gaz on their way.”

“We’re just…invit…ing…everyone…then?” Ghost rasps out, “Good…ta…see ya…again..Johnny.” 

“We wur th'gither no’ even 6 hours ago, Ghost.” Ghost laughs softly and you grin weakly at their light-hearted banter, gently squeezing his hand. He slumps back against the bed, eyes fluttering as even that small interaction drains him.

“Soap, can I ask you to do something for me real quick?” You ask him quietly. 

“O’ course.” You lean over, whispering quietly in his ear. He gives you the same look the nurse did as he stands and leaves the room. 

“Wh’t ‘re…you doin?” Ghost slurs. 

“I’m marrying you. Now.” You say softly, eyes blurring with tears again, “I always did like white and silver as a backup option.” 

“Do-” You cut him off

“I want you, Simon Riley. I will always want you. There is no one else on this planet that could take your place, regardless of the time we get to spend together. Even if-” Your voice breaks, “-even if that time ends today. There will never be anyone else for me.” 

“Y/n…” He gets cut off again, this time by a train of people filing into the room. The nurse comes in first, towing the Chaplin you’d asked her to get behind her. Soap is next, followed along by an elderly woman pushing her wife in a wheelchair, holding a pair of wedding rings, with Price and Gaz bringing up the rear. 

The room is crowded and hot, but you could care less. The next few minutes are filled with tearful laughter, condolences and congratulations exchanged in the same breath. Price, Soap, and Gaz sit with Ghost as the Chaplain gets his things ready. 

You step back, giving them one final moment alone with their brother. You go thank the couple for letting you borrow their rings, and you can see the pity in their eyes as they take in the room. 

You learn that the one in the wheelchair is named Margaret and the other’s named Pamela, that they met when they were 12 and 14 respectively, and got married as soon as they were both legal. 

“We’re lucky,” Margaret says softly, “Not a lot of people get to be with each other as long as we do.” The words cut deep, though you know she means well, and you turn away so she can't see your tears.

“Are ya ready, little bird?” Soap gently guides you to the vacated chair by Ghosts bedside, and the chaplain begins the ceremony.  Soap hands you the rings, then retreats to the side of the room, where Gaz, Price, Margaret, and Pamela watch the both of you. 

“Guess I….held to…my…promise.” He chuckles weakly. You shush him, but can’t help but smile. The chaplain stands in front of you and begins to speak, the room silent save for the steady beeps of the machinery and his voice. He finishes his part and steps back, allowing you to exchange vows. 

“I want you forever, Simon Riley.” You say as you slide the ring on his finger, “forever and always. Through the good, the bad, the ugly, for better or for worse, happy, sad, angry. I want you through all of it. We’ll gr…we….I will always love you, no matter the time that passes.” You are crying now, so hard you can barely see him through your tears, “I will love you, forever and always.” 

He squeezes your hand weakly, his breaths coming faster and faster even as his heart rate begins to slow. His voice is low and shaky, but you can hear him all the same.

“I love you forever,” His voice breaks, “forever and always. Even if…when…I’m not…there…I’ll always…love you….forever…and al...ways.” You press a kiss to cold lips, your tears falling on his face. His hand tangles in your hair before shakily coming up to wipe your tears away.

“Watch…them…for me…Soap.” He slurs, eyes fluttering shut. 

“Always.” Soap says solemnly, but you can barely hear him.  You sob raggedly, digging your fingers so hard into Ghost’s hand it hurts. 

“Don’t leave me Si.” You beg as his heart monitor begins to slow, “Please Si, I’m begging you, stay with me. I can’t do this without you.” 

But your pleas fall on deaf ears, his hand going limp in yours. The steady beep of the machinery is replaced by a shrill scream as he flatlines. Then the nurse unplugs it, and your sobs fill the air. 

You lean over him, face resting on his stomach as you sob, the gurney shaking from the force of it. 

“Wake up.” You beg, “Please Simon, this isn’t funny. Please wake up.” But he doesn’t. A hand falls on your shoulder, turning you away from the body. He sinks down to be on your level, drawing you into a hug. You bury your face in the man’s neck, both of you clinging together as you mourn. 

“I should have driven him home from the airport.” You sob raggedly, “I should have waited for him, I should have…should have….sh-sh-sh…”

“Breathe little bird.” 

“I can-I can-I ca-an’t.” 

“Yes, ye can. Breathe wit me. In, 2, 3, 4, out, 2, 3, 4.” He caresses your hair as he talks, a soothing gesture that Simon does. 

Did.

“I’s no’ yer fault, little bird, ya hear me?” He makes you look him in the eyes, but the pain you see in them sets you off again. 

“I’m s-so…so sorry.” you cry, “I am so sorry.” 

“I’s no’ yer fault.” Sopa says, harsher this time, “He shoudnae been drivin’ th’ bike anyway. Ah know ye tol’ him tae stop.” 

“He’s dead Soap, you can’t speak ill of the dead.” Your breath hitches, “He’s dead. Soap, he’s dead. He’sdeadhe’sdead’he’sdead. He’s dead and he’s not coming back. He left me.” You are sobbing almost incoherently now, “He left me, he promised he’d stay with me, he said we’d grow old together, that we’d be together, forever and always, but he left me. Heleftmeheleftmeheleftme!”

“Ah know, little bird.” He holds you to his chest as you shatter, “I know.”  

[starburstshores]

WHAT

[flowerflamestars]

Ok I’ve been obsessed with your acotar analysis but now I’m doubly obsessed with Rhys’ mother. Curious for your take: what do you think public perception of her was like? I absolutely believe she was a badass, and I’m pretty sure she was convincing her mate (and son eventually) to make changes in Illyria (not that I have book quotes to back this up but I seriously doubt Rhys came up with the clipping ban on his own). But as the ONLY Illyrian females who could still fly, how did everyone else think of Rhysand’s mom and sister? Was it a jealousy thing? Were they totally separate? I find it hard to believe that the mom cut all ties to her homeland, despite the scars it left on her. I’m sure she also showed her daughter aspects of the place she grew up in, even if she couldn’t throw her in a training ring. So they were present in Illyria, not some faceless ruler and his family. Were they a source of hope? Like “here is the beginning” and we can fight for our daughters and their daughters? In case it isn’t obvious, I’m enamored with the black hole sized plot holes courtesy of sjm and I’m determined to come up with my own answers 😅

I am also enamored, trust me!

So, to answer your question, I have to first present the nuance I like to jam into my acotar fic that the books just...don't really address: the Illyrian generals and camp lords and men in charge who we meet in canon exclusively to showcase shittiness...aren't the entire Illyrian population? They can't be. So I tend to divide it between the military elite (whatever we want to call them), whose powers are shored up directly by Rhysand's authority (gotta have that standing army), and whoever is falling through the cracks, or just existing in a culture that feels hostile to them (like Emerie).

I think the people in charge could have initially viewed Rhysand's mother as a sort of win- from what I can tell, Illyrians don't even leave Illyria? Unless there's a war on, or they're invited by a member of the royal family. They all symbolically rise with her.

BUT, because so much of her existence- and I have to imagine, personality- went against their core traditions, ultimately it's some flavor of negative reaction.

For everyone else? Bastard children and women and...god, basically anyone who isn't a giant man who likes to obliterate things (have I mentioned, how incredibly one note and BAD the whole Illyrian set up is? Bad.), she's a win. She's hope and her children redouble that, a future where there's more than violence.

I'm sure there's also jealously or misinformation or all-out adoration, she's functionally a public figure.

What I do think was probably VERY important, is what her life said to everyone else in the Night Court. All is Prythian is stratified to the point where people are either High Fae (gentry???) or Low Fae (anyone who doesn't look like human++ but also, probably a huge amount of the population??).

A High Lord publicly took a low fae woman, from an incredibly despised minority, as his wife. His mate. His equal? Rhysand might be ultimately a failure of legacy in every direction, but the fact that he exists at all is probably ground-breaking?

This is, of course, sort of the underpinning for the argument that Daddy Rhysand probably actually cared. Because it didn't have to be that. The Night Court has the exact kind of nightmare sexist culture that would allow him to do whatever he wanted with her, and he choose queen.

Which...actually in retrospect makes Rhysand's whole incredibly stupid here are my wings, we come as we are to...start fistfights on neutral territory and act like children move in acowar extra funny, because it means we're supposed to believe the Night Court is really SO ISOLATED (especially when we're told that the Lords used to have summits and very clearly socially know each other), no one ever knew or wondered about his mom, who at least some of them probably met?? Or, at minimum, saw from a distance with her husband?

God, these books.

Anyway- I think she probably was a big deal, and like most people who draw that kind of attention for breaking the mold, she received both crazy negative and wildly hopeful feelings from the public. She meant something, and the fact that the future she signaled never happened is a tragedy the books aren't prepared or willing to address.

[gaydri]

when I finally get around to commissioning art of my male milgram ocs I'm so sorry for how annoying I will become

[sarahscribbles]

Hey all!

Loki got called away last minute, so he hasn't been able to answer the remaining asks you all sent. They'll be saved incase he decides to come back again!

[corainne]

I may or may not have written another David Mellenby Lives AU

“I’m going to take on a new apprentice,” Thomas announces over dinner one night, in a tone that suggests he has simply ordered a new suit and not made a decision that is going to severely impact both of their lives.

David freezes, spoon halfway to his mouth. “I thought there were agreements in place,” he says and lowers the spoon back into the soup. He’s suddenly lost his appetite for Molly’s Partan Bree.

“Agreements can change,” says Thomas with a shrug, “My latest case has been more difficult and with magic returning of late I’ll need help sooner rather than later”

Magic has been returning, bit by bit, for decades, and only Thomas has been too stubborn and blind to see that. Still, David doesn’t see the need for another practitioner. They’re doing fine.

“A policeman, then?”

Thomas nods. “He recently finished his probation. I think he’ll be a good fit”

“And does the commissioner know about this plan” David has never bothered finding out what exactly was written in those agreement Thomas made with the police after the war - if they had even been written and not just verbal, with Thomas twisting and turning the wording as he see fits, but he does know the Commissioner is somehow involved, he’d had to talk to the then-Commissioner upon his return to the Folly and promise on the grave of his mother that he wasn’t going to set London on fire or something equally asinine.

“Not yet, but we’ll go to see him first thing Monday morning”

“ We as in?”

“Peter and I. You need not be involved”

Somehow he never is, these days. 

*

David meets Peter Grant two days later, when he arrives at the Folly, suitcases and dog in tow. He’s not someone who would have been granted entrance into the Folly a few decades ago, but David suspects that Thomas either doesn’t care or chose him for exactly those reasons. 

“Isn’t he a bit young for you?” he asks Thomas later that night. They are alone in the library, he’s made sure of that, because some conversations shouldn’t be overheard, even now. It’s a comment deliberately chosen to provoke, and he’s sure Thomas knows it.

“I don’t pass judgement on your choice of sexual partners, and I will thank you to do the same,” Thomas simply says and slams his book shut, leaving the library without another word

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[notsodailycake]

At this point I'm just wondering what asks I "can" send at this point since I recall something about a break happening but then things go forth and back and side to side and I miss sending in fluffy prompts~~~

And maybe random ass idea prompts as well since my brain is just going brrr~

Also. Hi. XP

Haha sorry sorry--

Asks were supposed to be closed, but mostly cuz i was tired of having to talk about other aus and stuff, insted of my stories

But some folks came in asking to send these type of asks for my ocs when i introduced more info and i let them (u know who u are XD). I'm more open to just chit chat about theories and well, my stories, whether aus or ocs

Although i kinda forgot to add that in my bio and pinned post, which my bad 😅

I love helping out with yall's aus, but it gets a bit tiresome for me, especially when i also stopped being online to focus on my comic, to ya know

Bring it back. I dont wanna end it on a cliffhanger guys XD

And I've been struggling to fix on some plot holes I've realised i had on my story, only now have i been able to fix them

But having so many aus not even mine on focus to try and react to, i got overwheled and panicked. Not only that i was having a stressful time back in London, it was fun but some badly planned moments took a toll on me and my family and it was a mess

So i decided something without thinking and that was closing my asks.

So I'll leave it at that, I'm probably still just, dont wanna receive asks about aus just yet, but i love talking and discussing theories with yall, and i like seeing and responding to your opinions about my aus and stories, and obviously my ocs! I love talking about them

And well, with that I'll probably shut it off as well on @cakeslildumpster bc i have a pile of asks there I'm yet to answer, and i just dont like seeing it get full

But ya know, i dont mind some fluff promts either, the ones you send are about my stories anyways hehe-

Still tho, I'm so sorry for the confusion- i haven't been clear of honest about what I'm ok with, and just been panicking alot not knowing what to do

I do miss the fluff promts, and the theory discussions and the resposes to my latest post, i missed them all and it's why i opend my asks again :(