Crystal lights twirled around the bedpost like vines, creating a lukewarm hue over the white comforter. A few blankets, beige and forest green, were lazily thrown on top, and mounds and mounds of all the pillows Adam could find were neatly organized in front of the headboard. He had sprinkled some fake rose petals—because he’d be damned if he even thought of using real ones—near the bottom of the bed and some on the floor. Small white candles were meticulously placed on each of the side tables, out of the way of anything that could catch on fire. Adam made a mental note to blow them out before any…actions took place. It would be unfortunate to have to call the fire department in the midst of love.
Nevertheless, everything came out perfectly, from the warm lighting to the subtle smell of peppermint and cypress trees. The bed looked amazingly fluffy and comfortable, and Adam grew excited at just the thought of sinking into it with his husband hovering over him, giving him thank you kisses, whispering sweet nothings into skin, rolling his hips against his….
The idea that Luke would fedex overnight ship grogu to din without even like an in person explanation or at the very least a note.. akfndnnrgnnfnnfnf?? In my brain Luke was like all ready in the x wing and punched in the coordinates and saw tatooine and was like oh absolutely not fuck this
i’ve never seen spn but i want aziraphale and crowley to rescue castiel and give him a stern but loving talk about wasting his precious heart on straight dudes
I’m obsessed with the idea that they adopt Castiel as their recently uncloseted gayby and take him to farmers markets and the opera
the horrifying/hilarious part is when you realize that Castiel has a type and that type is “scruffy homophobic dudes who hunt supernatural entities,” which can only mean one person in Aziraphale and Crowley’s world
cue another stern but loving talk about standards, dear boy, you simply must develop some
***AAAAHHHH!!! THANK YOU MY WONDERFUL COCONUT FRIEND!!!!!!***
Present (Friday, continued)…
Jones’ piercing cry throbbed in the new bruises scattered across Emma’s face, arms, and gut, but her own pain was the least of her concerns.
She’d heard the stun gun go off and watched her friend fall, transfixed by the very device meant to protect him. But not even the close-range shooting could account for his pure agony right now, not if her own Killian’s pain threshold was anything to go by.
In a panic and out of her mind with worry for both Joneses, she once again yanked fruitlessly against the slaves holding her captive. Despite apparent signs of their terminal neurological condition, they had no trouble, between the three of them, keeping her contained. She could only watch as Jones’ thrashing weakened, his cries turning to piteous moans. The Master had its back turned to her, but she could only assume it was reveling in the energy flowing all around it, probably healing its wounds and giving it even greater control over all of its helpless followers.
This rescue plan had been doomed from the start, and they were fools for having gone through with it. She’d told Jones. She’d given him clear warning: he had no protection, no Dark One residue or whatever the heck it was that granted her and Killian immunity. Two steps into the church, and Jones had been groveling, submitting to the vile thing currently soaking up his screams. And now they would die, all three of them. Storybrooke, the United Realms: all doomed. And Hope would grow up without a family, just as Emma had done. Okay, Belle would do her best, and the toddler seemed to like Gideon, so she would be okay… until Belle’s death. Followed by Rumple’s sacrifice, in whatever messed-up timeline it occurred. Where would she be then?
As always, Emma tried to squash her feelings into a rage-box. She was mad at Rumple for helping them with the plot. She was mad at Killian for undertaking it, for talking her into it, for making her suffer this month past, all for nothing. She was mad at herself, for not putting her foot down and demanding a better plan. But most of all, she was furious with this hideous monstrosity before her. This bloody bastard that had taken so much from her, from her friends, hell, from all the countless people she didn’t even know. And it was going to win?!
But then, inexplicably, the Vocivore took a step back, then another, and all of its upper limbs curled in toward its chest. Its low groan seemed to shake the very foundations of the shabby sanctuary as it turned toward the altar. Emma read desperation in its eyes, and fear, and confusion. It reached a trembling claw in her direction, and the guards readied themselves for a command that never came. Emma saw with shocked bemusement that a sickly green glow emanated from the center of the creature’s heaving chest. And then the crab legs gave way.
The scream-eater crashed to the paving stones, its pointed legs folded awkwardly beneath its bulk. Emma could only gape as it tore the bow tie from around its neck in an attempt to get more oxygen. In obvious excruciating pain, it wheezed to no one in particular,
“What… is… this?”
The green light in the middle of its chest doubled in intensity, and the monster hunched forward, howling in pain.
The slave to Emma’s left abruptly stumbled backward, clutching his head. His partners soon followed suit. Whatever the reason–whatever confusion and fear they were facing–Emma didn’t care. She had her freedom: time to destroy this monster once and for all. Emma snatched her pistol from a sobbing slave’s hand, and he made no move to stop her. Whirling, she stalked straight up to the writhing spider-crab, whose eyes reflected a mute, baffled panic.
“What’s the matter, Mr. Krabs? Choke on a sound wave? Two Killians more than you can handle?”
The thing looked deflated somehow; certainly it no longer towered in presence and appearance. On wobbly legs, it pushed itself up and scrabbled backwards, clumsy, suddenly unable to find purchase on the stones over which, just moments before, it had been so self-possessed.
Emma leveled her gun at the beast. She was going to enjoy this. She knew she should really deal a fatal blow up front, while she had the advantage and the creature was distracted by whatever currently affected it. But after all Killian had been through at its claws… after all she had endured, helplessly listening to him suffer… it deserved a little pain, and she deserved a chance to inflict it.
“I don’t know where you came from,” she growled, ruthlessly firing one bullet into a churning leg, “or how you got here.” A second bullet tore into a tentacle coiled in agony. One left. “Your reign ends today. And you will not be causing anyone any more pain… ever… again.”
Flecks of spittle flew from the Vocivore’s mouth as it gasped for breath. Each soulless black eye leaked copious tears, which rained down on its now-filthy waistcoat. The green light radiating from its thorax grew brighter with each backwards step toward the altar. Despite its other wounds, the monster’s upper limbs were all pressed over the pulsing light as if trying to massage away excruciating pain. The damaged leg buckled, the massive bulk wobbled, nearly tipping sideways, and Emma took aim at its repulsive, desperate face.
The monster performed a clumsy half-turn, its right hand reaching pathetically toward its favorite slave. “Tri…pod…”
An especially intense strobe of verdant light shone between its spasming fingers. A horrible, keening sigh groaned from its lungs, half whimper, half growl. Emma stepped closer, the barrel of her pistol pointed straight at the beast’s temple.
“That’s Killian, you bastard.”
Then she pulled the trigger.
Immediately, while the echoes of the shot still rang in the rafters, the Vocivore’s legs gave out and it crashed to the floor. Still upright, balanced on girth and a low center of gravity, but quiet and motionless. A trail of violet raindrops led all the way to the stone wall, where a yellowed parchment advertised a long-done charity drive. Or used to, before it was splattered with monster brains.
The green glow faded from view. Emma held her breath, half expecting the cursed thing to surge back to its feet with a roar of rage, ready to take out its anger on an unresisting Killian. But it stayed down. 10 seconds. 20. Emma slowly expelled a breath. Creeping forward, she boldly prodded the nearest armored leg; as expected, there was no response.
“Hope you like brimstone,” she muttered, all the acid in her voice 100% genuine.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Jones struggling to sit up. She holstered her weapon and hurried to offer support, noticing as she crouched that the green light had also vanished from his chest. Wincing, Jones clapped a trembling hand over the blood staining the tunic covering his shoulder. He nodded weary thanks for her assistance.
“I’m okay.” He sounded dazed and in pain, but otherwise lucid. He studied the inert form a few yards in front of him, shuddered, then focused farther away, to the other end of the room. “Go to him.”
Emma steeled herself and stood. In the whole time since entering the church, she had not seen one sign of life from her husband; she fully expected to reach out and touch a cooling corpse, yet also clung to the tiny chance that he could still be alive, and as long as she didn’t know for sure one way or the other, she could entertain hope. But she was out of excuses now. If he was alive, he needed urgent help. So she had to be brave now, and face the moment of truth.
today i’m sad about that one line from the creator’s commetary about how zuko is a tsungi horn prodigy and the little letter zuko, aged 7, sends iroh in “legacy of the fire nation” where he very politely requests that iroh come home and teach him pai sho tricks, because that casts such a different light on their interactions in book one. it was never iroh trying to push his own favorite things - pai sho and music night - on an uninterested zuko, it was iroh desperately trying to reconnect with zuko by recreating the activities he knows zuko used to enjoy. zuko, aged 7, once begged iroh to come home and play board games with him and now zuko wants nothing to do with him and you know that eats iroh up alive
I’m gonna ask nicely: Can someone please draw Zarya’s kid, all grown up, competing in Olympics and winning so hard she got everyone shook? I need it I’m off my meds and this will cure all my ailments.
Let me address you all to something. Seokjin hurt his neck during save me at kcon france. he repeatedly put his hand to his neck at the end of kcon, you can watch a fancam here. (x)
Now, bangtan are back in korea and the recent airport pics shows that there is still something wrong with jin’s neck:
yet what i’ve seen is, well, NO ONE TALKING ABOUT IT. his neck is injured, and people are STILL ignoring it. why is it always jin that’s ignored?!?!?!
can someone spend time kissing my tdick and calling me a good boy while they do? doesn’t even been to be with the intention to cum, I like the idea of being worshipped
Can’t stop thinking about pinning a pretty boy under me and making him say he’s my good boy over and over while I fuck him until there’s no thoughts in his head
