“Vhenan,” he says, a plea, a prayer.

“That is not my name.” The barest whisper of a breath, weighted with sadness and all that she had lost. So much. Too much. “My name,” she begs – but she never begs. Asks, takes, stoic ice and quiet command, demanding respect without a word. She just was – but she never begs.

“My name,” she says again, and it is the sound of a broken beast, howling the loss of its spirit. Wrenching. Horrifying. Devastating.

He cannot say it. To force it past his lips would be to admit she was real, this was real, and how could he -

She was some wayward imagining of a lonely soul that cried for comfort. A symbol. She was never real to him – except she was and how -

She was depth and memory, feeling and living and real but she wasn’t, but she was and how desperately he wanted things to be different.

He was only a wolf, lost and wandering the roads of time, of mistakes and curses and what if I had done it differently? Alone, always alone – a choice.

And she?

She was the moon. Oh how she drew him with only a glance, a light and friend on the darkest roads he walked – illumination on his wearied soul. A guide, clarity, wisdom, his, but not.

“Vhenan,” he chokes – she is not real. This is not real.

“That is not my name.” But it is.

“It is what you are.” So real. It changes everything.

“But it is not my name.”

But it can’t.


Only humans request home delivery. Machines don’t understand why people want delivery that takes this amount of time. The senders are human, so the recipients are too. I don’t know what’s in the packages. They’re probably not for information transfer.

One might surmise that the sentiment of not using teleportation, could be the only way to convey true feeling. Initially, when instant teleportation became as widely used as household articles, it was unthinkable that such degenerate methods would still be used. Or, so humans have recently stated. The only time teleportation was thought to be convenient was the very beginning.

The feeling of adoration toward the furthest country, the romance beyond the Milky Way - all lost; the simplification of going anywhere as if it were merely the next room made everything go from being  three-dimensional to flat-surfaced. Human feeling…deteriorated. The adoration toward distance and time is not something machines can comprehend.  Rather, the last pride of humanity may be that which comes from the impotence of machines.

This adoration toward distance and time is probably…similar to the pulsing of a heartbeat to a human.

The Whispering Star 2015 ‘ひそひそ星’ Directed by Sion Sono

eliasbaekkoush  asked:

noraaa i want an elias clip so badly like can you imagine? elias bakkoush trying to figure out his life and what he wants to do and spending time with his friends and smiling but when he's alone he's all lonely and frustrated and lost and also he's always worried about sana even tho he knows she's happy now atm

imagine it ,,,, like elias having the biggest smile when sana gets home and they joke around but the moment sana enters her room his smile dissapears and then there is a shot of his computer where you can see that he didn’t get in the college he wanted (i really think he stressed about work/college) and you see him losing a little bit hope and then sana comes out her room she sees it and is like and tells him the school didn’t deserve him in the first place and they just lost the chance to have the elias bakkoush the smartest and coolest guy she knows at their school and gives 20 new schools to apply to and she obviously pulled ‘it is because they saw your last name’ and elias starts laughing and they apply together for the new schools

anonymous asked:

I don't know if you already talked about it, but Magnus never told Dot about what happened with Valentine, right? When she came over she still thought she helped out the real Magnus who temoprarily lost his power and not involuntary Valentine again? And when she commented on his go-to heartache drink, he only told her about Alec and the DNA testing. Didn't Harry say in one of the interviews some people involved in this mess will never find out?

i haven’t touched on it in detail and i don’t recall harry saying something about that in his interview (i prob just forgot tho lol) but yes you’re right, magnus let her believe that all that happened was that he lost his powers after azazel blasted him.

i’d like to see dot learn the truth, but i suspect that won’t happen just due to time constraints and she simply isn’t a main character. it’s mildly disappointing as it would have been great to explore, but i’m okay with that since magnus is a main character and so given the time limits i’d prefer the focus to be on him. i can understand magnus not talking about it, though, since it’s pretty clear he was unwilling to discuss…any aspect of what happened with him to anyone. it’s only been a day or two, after all, which is hardly any time.

i’d like to think magnus will tell her some time in the future when he’s ready, even if we may not see it on screen.

Harry Potter / Reader One-Shot


Requested by: Anonymous

Parings: Slightly Reader/Harry Potter


Words: 1117

A/N: I hope you like it lovely Anon. I really enjoyed writing this one. <3

Tips: Y/N = your name, Y/L/N = your last name, Y/H/C = your hair color, Y/E/C = your eye color, Y/B/N = your brother’s name, Y/M/N = your mother’s name, Y/M/L/N = your mother’s last name, Y/F/N = your father’s name. The reader is a Gryffindor and a female.

‘‘there is a variety of sadness that makes a home in your guts and never quite leaves.’’

When the Hogwarts Express stopped it was like the whole new kind of hell unleashed itself on Platform 9¾. Many families gathered on the King’s Cross Station to greet their children and relatives. And in all that confusion, Harry managed to lost Hermione and Ron. He was supposed to meet them when they exited the train, but he only saw rows and rows of unknown and familiar faces.
Letting out a long sigh he was keeping in him, Harry’s hand tightened slightly around the handle of a single piece of luggage he was dragging behind him.
Somberly looking away from parents that were hugging a first year Hufflepuff boy, he felt something tightening in his chest. After a long time, Harry felt many buried emotion starting to emerge once more. He was feeling like eleven years old that found himself alone in the same place. It was always at the same place. Harry’s thoughts echoed in his mind like a broken bell.
Still trying to make his way from all the people and find his friends something else stopped him in his tracks; a voice. “Father, over here!”

He knew that voice. Harry loved hearing it during his Transfiguration classes. It always sounded soft, but at the same time firm and well spoken. No wonder professors love her so much. And truth to be told, the Boy Who Lived would lie if he said that he didn’t love it as well. All these years he only exchanged few sentences with you, however, he can always clearly recall perfectly the few special spots in that Y/E/C eyes.
Harry adored you, yet now, he just wanted for you to go away. He needed your perfection to disappear for this moment.  After your voice, he saw your Y/H/C standing out from the crowd. You Gryffindor uniform was fully loose as you run towards your parents and older brother. Y/B/N finished Hogwarts two years ago, but he always had time to greet you every time you stepped down from that train. First who embraced you was your mother. Her gentle eyes were full of tears of joy and pride; in her eyes, you and Y/B/N were her whole world. Nobody was more proud than her when both of her children achieved so much during their first few years at Hogwarts.
The second who hugged you was your father, Y/F/N. His hug lasted shorter but it was full of warmth. “Nice job, Y/N. We are all proud of you.” His smile could light up hundreds of stars. And lastly, your brother gave you the greatest ruffle that even the best magic trick couldn’t fix. “Y/B/N, you twat!” You desperately yelled as your brother playfully laughed. “Language, young lady!” Your mother scolded. And Y/B/N, leave your sister alone. The poor dear must be horribly tired from her trip back.“ Your brother only snickered as he watched you trying to fix your now ruined braid, "Of course, mother.”
Harry felt his heart silently tearing as he watched (against his better judgment) a family.

You gave your brother one final dirty looks, which he only shrugged off with a simple wink. He’ll pay for that. Just you wait, Y/B/N. After all, Jelly-Legs jinx was one of your most specialized ones. Finally giving up on trying to fix the ruined mess of your hair, you felt a strange sensation of being watched. Which was not strange by itself, after all, you were staining on the train platform. No, this was a different kind of being watched. Turning you gaze towards left, you saw emerald orbs you knew so well. They were filled with sadness and something else you couldn’t quite place.
When young Potter locked his eyes with your Y/E/C one, he quickly looked away obviously trying to find some kind of escape. But you hated giving up, so next thing that came from your mouth was his name, “Harry! Come here, I want you to meet my family!”
The poor boy was trapped. He didn’t have much of a choice to escape. Your parents were already smiling in his direction expecting from him to come over. So, the Boy Who Lived took a deep breath and slowly walked over towards you. Harry felt like he was fighting a dragon again. His inner self was battling his own envious feelings with new ones he tried to recognize.

“So, you are the famous Harry Potter.” Your brother said while shaking his hand when Harry approached all four of you saying a small greeting. “You must be Y/B/N. Y/N mentions you a lot.” Harry replayed and only received cheeky grin in return, “She mentions you a lot in her letters too.” At that, you promptly shoved him with your elbow in the ribs. Harry’s cheeks took pinkish color quickly, but turned completely red when your mother enveloped the boy in what you called her ‘mother hen hugs’. “We are so glad to meet you, dear. Oh, sweet Merlin!” She suddenly exclaimed in realization. “When is the last time you were fed properly? Y/N, darling, you didn’t mention they don’t give you dinners anymore at the school like they use to in my days.” Y/M/N asked worried keeping her right hand on Harry’s shoulder. You shrugged and gave Harry sly smile. “Well, no matter.” You mother continued giving the emerald eyed another soft-motherly gaze, “You are coming with us, young man. I prepared more than enough homecoming food for us.”

Harry found himself surprised, “That won’t be necessary, Mrs. Y/M/L/N, but I-”

“No buts,” She stated firmly, which lured small smile in corner of Harry’s lips. The woman reminded him of Mrs. Weasley. Not by looks, but by her motherly warmth that she projected to people around her. “You are coming with us. Y/N can show you around our home. You will be always welcome there, dear. Feel free to stay with us as long as you like.” Y/M/N happily replayed while your father and brother nodded offering him welcoming smile.

“Welcome aboard,” Your brother said before starting to walk ahead with your father and mother. You sheepishly moved over to still blushing Harry, “I hope you like honey pie.”

“I love it,” Harry said happily suddenly feeling like a part of something. Feeling no alone anymore. “Great!” You chirped taking hold of his hand and pulling him towards your family. “My mother does love to bake it every Sunday.” The Boy Who Lived laughed. It was first genuine laugh this year; and your hand in his felt like he caught the best Golden Snitch yet. Now, he only had to remember to send a letter to Ron and Hermione explaining why he lost them at the train station.

nilesdaughter  asked:

For DWC, and a pairing of your choice - vacivity.

Thank you for the prompt! :) for @dadrunkwriting

Vacivity—The Lonely Quiet
SFW, Lavellan/Solas, Post-Trespasser

The silence was unbearable.

It had been months since the Exalted Council. She had remained—longer than she would have liked—in Orlais, in Val Royeaux, aiding with the transition as the Inquisition was absorbed into the Chantry as Divine Victoria’s honor guard. In that time, she often forgot about the loss of her limb. She would raise her left hand to push a strand of dark hair out of her face, or scratch an itch, or reach for a book—only to discover, all over again, that she had lost the arm some time ago.

She never forgot the loss of the anchor.

How the two could coexist, she did not know; they seemed at odds with one another. But what she did know was that the she felt the anchor’s absence far more keenly.

She knew something was wrong right from the beginning, though she could not put her finger on it. Perhaps that was to be expected. In the excruciating hours she’d spent, cloistered in the dark—curtains, drawn shut—of her rooms in the Winter Palace, lying awake as she recovered, preparing for her final appearance before the Exalted Council, she had much on her mind. (Too much, and far too easy to fall into despair; the fate of her Inquisition hanging in the balance, and the terror that she would have to confront—the end of the world—and still with all of that her thoughts kept wandering back to him, not as he was but as he had been: draped not in shining armor and furs but in simple linens and wraps. Still difficult to reconcile the two images, so different they were from one another, although his eyes had been the same, clouded with the same grief.) And through all of that, a blossoming anxiety: something changed, amiss.

It was not until the Council had ended that she realized what it was. After many of the others had left (Dorian back to Tevinter, Varric to Kirkwall, all her friends so far-flung) when she was on her own that she discovered, with a surprise, the source of that queasy, unnerving feeling.

When she was on her own, alone with her thoughts, lying awake at night (torn between apprehension and anticipation, knowing she would enter the Fade, find him) it was far, far too silent.

She had grown so used to it she had stopped taking notice of it, but now that it was gone, she remembered: the anchor never just an anchor, not hers though it was irrefutably a part of her, and how (though she had reassured Solas that it hadn’t) it had changed her. Not in ways that other would notice, not her compassion or her values. But in the way the anchor sang to her. Whispers in languages so ancient she could not understand the words, though she could feel their meaning coursing through her. It was like the lyrium song, but different; it sang of power and dead empires and terrible purpose.

That ghastly sound had brought her no comfort. In the beginning it had haunted her mercilessly; it had been difficult to sleep. But she had adjusted to it until it had become a part of her, folded into her until she no longer took notice of it. She knew not where the voices came from—whether they were part of the anchor itself, or slipping through the thin Veil that the anchor held such power over—but they always swelled to a thunderous chorus when she wielded the mark to seal a rift.

And now, they were gone. And though she had not been fond of them, she had grown accustomed to them.

In the aftermath the silence was deafening, a reminder of how much she’d lost already: her Inquisition, her power, her heart.

Sometimes, in the silence, she wept; more to fill the space with sound (to cover up that resounding, deafening absence) than out of genuine sorrow, though, by now, she had plenty to weep for.  

Here’s something to RAANTA ‘bout. The rangers have killed my spirit and I’m really mad. Why’d they take two of our players? That’s not fair? If we don’t STEPAN it and get the cup this year, I’m blaming all our lost players

I’m tricking my students into writing a research paper by having them write an open letter and then strengthen their argument by adding evidence. They were allowed to write about anything they wanted for the first draft of their open letter, and one of my 10th grade boys decided he wanted to write about girls who only like bands because the members are cute and don’t really care about the music.

I let him do it because I’ve found that shutting down a student’s idea at the first draft stage tends to make them more obstinate about the topic. I figured we’d get to the evidence-gathering stage, he wouldn’t be able to find scholarly sources and he would change his topic.

Well lo and behold, today he comes into class and tells me he’s changing his topic. Apparently, he couldn’t find any evidence and he figured he was being kind of hypocritical because he gets really excited about athletes he doesn’t even know and the only reason that’s different than fangirls is because it’s him. He actually told me that he realized that writing that first letter would be pretty condescending. He’s going to write about LGBT rights instead.

This next generation, y’all. There’s some good stuff happening.

Today at Nabra’s vigil in Reston, VA her cousin came up and said that the one thing she wants us to remember about Nabra is that she is a Black Nubian Muslim and that we should say her name. She repeated this twice. Out of all of the beautiful stories shared by her friends and family this was one that stuck out to me the most. May Allah have mercy on her soul and all other souls lost to injustice. Rest In Paradise Nabra.