Hi, Christine/Kasu here. 21 years old but mentally more like 5. Sometimes I draw. I'm a Fine Arts Major.
MOSTLY SPN HERE BUT I LIKE A LOT OF THINGS. YOU DON'T UNDERSTAND I HAD THIS URL BEFORE SEASON GR8.
The Fili to my Kili: http://www.themusikabox.tumblr.com/
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Inspired by those hilarious drawings of Sherlock, Doctor Who, and Supernatural on hiatus.
“Everybody up!” Sherlock barked shortly as he stalked into the living room. Supernatural startled and grabbed for the shotgun on the floor beside the couch. This, thought Sherlock, was at least a reaction; Doctor Who was still lying on the carpet, muffled sobs sounding through the orange shock blanket she was wrapped up into, rather like a burrito.
“What’s the matter?” Supernatural exclaimed, after suspiciously checking the doors and windows, still safely lined with salt. “We having a visitor?”
“Mm,” said Sherlock, “more of a… hanger-on. Finale aired last Thursday.” Supernatural’s eyebrows shot into his hairline, and he darted a quick look at Doctor Who; she moaned miserably. “Yes, he’s always been rather… strong-minded. Much like me.”
Supernatural very kindly did not mention The Winter After Season Two.
“And he’s getting here by himself?” Supernatural asked, still looking dazed. Their location was not very easily found. “The Hellatus House,” Supernatural had called it, in one of his more lucid moments, “get it? Because it’s a house and we’re on h-hiat-” and then had devolved into mumblings about an “Adam.” Sherlock had sighed and gone for the linen closet.
“Yes,” Sherlock said, exasperatedly, “my little brother is arriving shortly. I’ll need to have Doctor Who removed to the top floor, in case she decides to have another… episode.”
“Alright,” said Supernatural, heaving himself off of the couch. He had greatly improved over the past few days, ramblings having quieted and slowly veered into more legible, intelligent mutters. Just yesterday he had ventured into the kitchen, where Hannibal was quietly and calmly making dinner – and, actually, where was Merlin? Sherlock hadn’t seen him for a few days… “I can move her, just lemme…”
He whipped out from under his pillow a raggedy-looking trenchcoat and gently wrapped it around Doctor Who, shock blanket notwithstanding. “I may not be able to carry the burden of these trials for you, but I can carry you,” he whispered, and they went up the stairs.
Sherlock simply pinched the bridge of his nose, and wished briefly for a nicotine patch.
The doorbell rang a moment later, and Sherlock glanced up the stairs, making sure the two were out of sight. He moved into the foyer, and steeled himself for a moment. He opened the door.
“Good afternoon, Elementary.”
Once upon a time, long ago when the earth was filled with wonder and magic, there was a prospering kingdom named Erebor. The kingdom sat atop an enormous mountain crag, and the rulers were firm, but just in their actions. However, the dreaded gold-sickness overcame even the most gentle of the line of kings, Thorin Oakenshield; and the madness consumed him, until the desire for riches blinded him to the pleading of his people, and he destroyed the flourishing mountain, delving deep into the ground in search of precious stones. He became crueler with every jewel he unearthed from the stone, and the land around Erebor grew cold and barren.
Dwalin thrusts his warhammer into Ori’s hands, and the goblins and their screeching horror fall away. Ori hefts it, and the iron boils in his veins, resonating within the heavy mallet head, and Ori understands the weight of it. It is nothing like holding his meager slingshot, weak and light in his shaking hands; Ori holds the warhammer and fills to the brink with the strength of dwarves in his soul.
Fili started up a steady, quick beat with the butt of his sword against a nearby log. Kili swept his bow up and the forest was filled with a cheerful jig; Kili jumped up to his feet as he played, his fingers flying across the fingerboard. Dark hair tumbling about his face, Kili started to sing jauntily.