What happens when a woman’s body becomes a
weapon? She opens her mouth to find a siren song
instead of a voice. There’s a fine line between willing
and able but this didn’t stop them from treating her
body like the last supper. She kept screaming but in
Eden even the snakes are praying for a woman’s death.
Look at how far Eve’s blood curdling screams got her.
Just another piece of rotted fruit littered on the ground.
Woman’s body turns into fire and is born again. Now
woman speaks in song and doesn’t feel regret when
they ask for her song as their last wish. It becomes
their death march. A shallow grave, and she holds
the shovel. Woman has been the hero and the anti-
hero, both wield a power they want gone. She extracts
it from the ground, the dirt, the flower petals. All by
their grace she sings and sings and sings until her
body is forgotten and her voice could be recognized
in the dark.
Good: Destructive and fierce, they have a firm hold on you and they let you know they won’t let you go
Bad: Teeth-bashing aggression and broken noses
Good: Sensual and romantic, with a twinge of dark desire
Bad: Like a dead fish, there’s nothing to work with
Good: Wild and exciting, constant stimulation with a surprising intensity
Bad: They get distracted by their own voice and all they do is talk about what is happening instead of making anything happen
Good: Nurturing and sweet, surprisingly fun and full of laughter and intimacy
Bad: They cry
Good: Passionate and dirty, it’s raw and intense
Bad: Make you do all the work and treat you kissing them like a peasant serving royalty some grapes
Good: Attentive and trustworthy, like you feel like they love you already and they’ll take care of you
Bad: Cold and controlling
Good: Fun and sweet, it feels like a smile and sunshine
Bad: Just a fuckshit of awful, either they try to eat your face or don’t know how to open their mouths and they try to talk dirty to you and it’s embarrassing
Good: Passionate and all-enveloping you feel like it’s the only thing in the world
Bad: Say weird intense shit to you or want you to do some weird ass stuff
Good: Playful and hot, they know how to get you where you need to go and aren’t shy about doing it
Bad: Sweaty and too forward
Good: Dominating and intense, you just trust they know what to do
Bad: Straight up mean and even a little creepy
Good: Fun and interesting and they feel like electricity running through you
Bad: Selfish and not all there somehow
Good: Hypnotic and magnetic, you’re just lost in a dream with them
Bad: Just there
Five new songs to take you into the weekend, from a new iteration of Kid Cudi’s distinctively dark sound, Steve Aoki and former One Directioner Louis Tomlinson’s catchy collaboration, and Voice finalist Jacquie Lee’s raw ballad for her late friend singer Christina Grimmie. Also: rapper PARRI$ and Brooklyn indie group The Skins shares promising EPs.
“Just Hold On,” Steve Aoki and Louis Tomlinson
For his solo debut, One Direction’s Louis Tomlinson teams up with international superstar DJ Steve Aoki for this undeniably catchy track, a surprisingly gentle mix of Aoki’s EDM backing and Tomlinson’s melodic boy band vocals.
Scorpios can make life flash before your eyes in an instant. They emanate such mystic power, like they are underworld sovereignty. There’s an insomniac beauty about Scorpios, even though they manage sleep, it’s their only chance for rest after earth plane exhaustion. The dark blueness under the eyes like eyeshadow of death mixed with mystery. There is a seduction of the fires of a thousand lifetimes burning through their pores, the ashes of a their old selves smouldering in the background. And Scorpio is quite at home in this world. The commanding presence is enchanting and dominating, they are absolutely tantilizing and unforgettable. And yet they have a throne waiting in the unconscious, they can make a sanctuary in hidden worlds wrapped in the blanket of the unconscious. The Scorpio follows footsteps into dark rabbit holes that hold puzzling symbols and profound revelations. Here they find the poetry written by the voices of spirits and angelic scribes, they can walk on the borderline of two planes, indulging in high heavenly rapture and descending into tunnels that entrench beyond the depths of the galaxy, they can experience a symphony of divine sound and the orchestra of stars, and they can also lose their body in moments of silence, seeping into the very lining that stitches their soul together. -Cherry
I woke up at the sound in the dark. It was the first time sleeping alone in my own room (and I was 4), so you can imagine my fear of things going to grab me while I sleep. As I scanned my room for the source of the noise, a voice startled me and made me jumped a bit. “Sorry if I woke you up, kid”. I turned around at the sight of a figure with glowing green eyes holding something in its hands. I scrambled for the light switch but the figure stopped me “Easy, kid…I’m a friend. Tell you what, I’ll turn on the light for you” and the figure did just that.
Once the room is alight with its fluorescence, the figure turns out to be wearing a greenish full body suit with his face covered up and there were goggles where the eyes are situated….and said figure was holding an axe. I tried to back off and scream but the figure then spoke “Easy, easy…I’m not here to kill you. See, I’m friendly” as he opened the mask of the suit, revealing a familiar face yet he is a stranger to me. “What are you?” I asked, my voice quivered. “I’m a….monster hunter. That’s what this axe is for..to kill monsters.” The figure said as he slowly places the axe against the door of my closet. “M-monster? Here?” I asked while slowly retreating into my blanket and the strange man nods. “Now don’t worry, I’m here to kill’em. Now go back to sleep…and if you hear anything, that would be me killing the monsters, OK?” the man then gives me a pat on the head while ruffling my hair. I went back to sleep..and the man left and true to what he said, there were yelling out in the night but I ignored it and fell asleep.
The next morning, a police officer woke me up and I saw my neighbors in the house, one of them gave me a hug and said “It’s going to be OK”. I asked what happened…and then I saw it. My parents…both of them dead as they were hacked by an axe. Tears streamed on my face as one of the police officers took me away from the house. As I was sitting in the car, I noticed a piece of paper in my pajama shirt pocket. It was a note that said “I took care of the monsters for you…signed, your friendly monster hunter.”
“You know that killing them in the past wouldn’t change your past, right?” said my partner as I emerged from the time machine. “Yes…but I at least saved him from the monsters from ruining his life as they did mine.” I said as I put the axe away. “He might be scarred from that, you know” my partner continued but I responded “Better scarred from that…then be scarred by my parents.”
I heard the door open, but I didn’t bother to care who it was.
I heard her calling out for me. But I didn’t dare speak.
My head was throbbing, and my dark, silent bedroom wasn’t helping it like I had hoped.
“Dan, are you ok?” She spoke from the doorway of my room.
“No.” Was all I said, and it hurt to say that.
I felt the bed dip behind me where she sat, I was curled into a ball, holding my head in my hands. I felt her soft fingertips brush against the back of my hand.
“What’s wrong?” Concern laced her voice.
“Headache. Bad.” I mumbled.
She was silent, I guess she was scared to speak.
“Why don’t you go take a warm shower and meet me back in here?” She said softly.
I didn’t want to move, but I knew she sometimes was burdened with migraines, so I took her advice, and walked to the bathroom, stripping off my clothes and turning on the water, stepping inside the shower. It was as hot as I could stand and steam filled the entire room.
I made the most of it and washed my hair, my body, and just relished in the slight relief.
I turned off the water, stepping out and noticing the clothes [Y/N] must’ve sat out for me.
I slipped into them and made my way back into my dark bedroom. The only lights she had turned on were the fairy lights on my headboard.
“Here.” She patted her crossed legs. “Lay your head right here.”
I laid down on the bed, resting my head on her lap just as she asked of me.
“Close your eyes.” She whispered. I complied, and felt a damp, cold rag placed over my eyes.
I then began to feel her fingertips massage my scalp, my temples, my forehead, even my neck. “Relax, baby.” I heard her whisper, and I suddenly noticed how tense I was.
This contact, her touch, I had craved it for so long. I loved her. But I never told her. And now, here I was, my head laying in her lap, her hands all over me, all her attention on caring for me.
Fuck, I was nervous.
But she began humming, and it began to calm me, along with her touch, and the cold cloth, I began to fall asleep.
I felt like I slept for hours, but it was only about 40 minutes according to [Y/N].
“How do you feel?” She asked, looking down at me through her half lidded [E/C] eyes.
I put my hands on top of hers, which were resting on my shoulders. “Better, thank you.”
She smiled softly, and ran her hands up from my shoulders, to my neck, to my cheeks, rubbing them softly. “You’re welcome.”
And we just looked at each other, for what felt like an eternity.
“You look so handsome.” She spoke, barely above a whisper.
I didn’t reply, but I could feel a blush crossing my cheeks.
She lifted her hand, booping the tip of my nose. I laughed, she must’ve been tired.
“I love you.” I said as she played with my curly hair, I didn’t mean to, it just, slipped out.
Everything got silent, I was going to apologise.
Then, she leaned down, and placed her lips against mine.
She tasted of cherries. And her lips were incredibly soft. Her hands slid from my hair to my bare chest as she kissed me.
She pulled away, barely. “I love you, too.”
I moved my hands up, holding her cheeks, pulling her down to kiss me once more.
And from now on, every time one of us had a headache, this is exactly what we would do to cure it.
He’s got a halo so bright
its light pierces through the heavens
to set the cities below on fire,
their ashes breathing new life into old soil;
He’s got galaxies in his eyes
with stars glittering brightly,
their light reflecting off the moon
and illuminating night skies;
He’s got a voice so commanding
the earth shakes and crumbles
while glass shatters and splinters,
leaving trails of scarlet crystals in his wake;
He’s got wings so dark, so black
even the deepest depth of the ocean
and the farthest corner of the universe
could not envelop them;
He’s got rage like thunder
and the presence of a hurricane,
but his touch is like lightning -
with a heat so intense and an atmosphere so electric,
only a holy being with a cloudless heart could hold such power.
I woke knowing instantly, breathtakingly, that Jamie was there, holding me.
Thank God he’d come after me.
Thank God that his voice was behind me, urgent with tenderness, and his arms alive with exactly the same as they pulled me close against the chill. “Are ye warm enough, mocree?”
‘Oh, yes,’ I tried to whisper, but the words were subsumed by a tiny sound from my throat—a mew?— of simple, silly happiness; of closeness, of sweetness, and of complete security. I let myself fall back into the dark of him, the heat of his chest against my back; his knees behind mine; my mind swirling lazily, freely within the haven he had made for me within himself.
Then I woke again and his soft, warm mouth was latching slowly into the curve of my neck and shoulder. I was moaning and he was moving higher; higher toward my ear as he whispered unknown syllables into my skin. Moaning. Moaning and feeling his breath, his lips, his love at my ear. Moaning, on my back in the heather with Jamie on top of me, slipping his hand into the neck of my shift to free my breasts. Moaning, gasping as he put his mouth on them, suckling me hard; moaning as his hand slid hard under my hips, pulling me up against him. Feeling him hard, even through the layers of clothing. Bucking against him, my fingers digging into his back. Moaning as he moved urgently forward and back, his mouth never leaving my nipple; moving with him, keening.
“I need ye,” he groaned suddenly in a hoarse whisper against my breasts, his grip on my thigh tightening hard and the motions of his hips growing alarmingly urgent with need. He was gasping from it, his whole body shaking. “I need ye now, mocree.”
“Have me,” I was groaning back, reeling with my own desire, feeling an electric wave travel through me as I heard his moan of lust, as he grappled frantically with my skirts. “Jamie, Jamie I’m yours—Pl—”
I woke, bolted upright, and gasped violently all at once, so fast and suddenly that the horse reared against her tether nearby and whinnied in terror. Instinct brought me flying across the clearing to calm her, but the moment she subsided, I staggered backward and fell hard onto the ground on the far side of her tree, shaking uncontrollably from head to toe—from rage or—something else—I couldn’t tell.
“Goddamn FUCKING hell!” I hissed in fury and despair into the night as I dragged myself up to lean against the tree. “Can’t he leave me the hell alone?”
No, I canna…And ye ken why, lass.
After Jamie’s startling proposal—that ridiculous…. heartbreakingly beautiful proposal— I’d spent the rest of my evening on my hasty but effective escape plan. I’d passed round the laced whisky multiple times along with the plain that flowed freely in honor of Jamie’s pardon; no one had noticed that they were sinking further and more quickly into drowsiness than was usual. Before that, I had contrived a deep and sudden interest in discussing our route with Ned, memorizing the maps he pulled forth from his saddle bag, devouring them and repeating to myself over and over as he talked: that direction to the Ness. Follow it up to Inverness. Then a bit south and a bit east, and not far to Craigh na Dun.
All had gone to plan. Until Jamie had followed me. Granted, I’d traveled infinitely faster on the horse onto which he’d thrown me than I would have on foot, but
Jesus, the way he had looked at me—begged me—
But I had had to go—right then—had told myself I wouldn’t stop even to sleep, wouldn’t stop for a moment till I reached the standing stones and was back in Frank’s world. Yet, I had all but fallen from my horse, and hadn’t even bothered with a fire; just curled beneath my earasaid and fallen into a deep sleep.
But apparently not deep enough to keep out Jamie Fraser.
I sat there in the freezing night, bringing my knees up to my chin and hugging them in frustration. “Beauchamp….you stupid…. lust-crazed—”
It’s no’ just lust. Ye ken that, as well as I; ye ken what there is between us, mocree.
“I didn’t even know what that word means, you bastard!”
But it was clear enough from the way he had spoken it, the way it had sounded in the night as he’d reached for me, that it indicated some deep….
“I care for you, Claire”
“Dear God,” I whispered into my arms, longing, defeated. “…Jamie…”
Yes, of course there was something between us.
Of course I felt it between us almost from the first.
Of COURSE that night in his arms had been…
“Jamie Fraser, you stupid boy! Why the BLOODY hell did you have to propose?”
But thank God he had. Thank GOD, or else I’d have—what? Had him in the woods at the first opportune moment? Had—a life with him?
…I bet it would have been a good life…
“Who….are you, Beauchamp?”
My horrified question resonated in the darkened glade, indicting, with no answer reverberating back.
Go. Go now and don’t think of anything but your husband.
That’s who who’ve got to be: you’re Frank’s wife.
I scrambled to my feet and untethered the horse as quickly as I could.
What a ridiculous fool I’d been, so be lulled into a prisoner’s security with the MacKenzies. My HUSBAND was back in the twentieth century with no notion whatsoever as to what happened to his wife. He’d spent nearly six weeks frantic with fear. And I’d all but forgotten him.
“I’m coming, Frank,” I whispered as I set off at a gallop. “I promise.”
The entire morning, the entire afternoon, the entire evening, my mind was a terror fugue, a mad fury of fear and guilt, punctuated by the haunting tones of Welshman’s song of the woman of Balnain.
I lived for a time among strangers
who became lovers and friends
Jamie, with the wounds I inflicted upon him showing in his eyes.
lovers and friends
At last, as night fell once more, the hill of Craigh na Dun appeared in the distance. I kicked the horse hard and we raced up the slope, both of us panting and heaving. Could the animal feel my terror?
I saw the moon come out
and the wind rose once more,
so I touched the stones
and traveled back to my own land
and took up again with the man I had left behind
The stones were wailing, keening.
I threw myself off the horse.
“Frank…Frank…Frank….” was on my lips as I staggered to the stone circle.
And as the wind did rise,
rose so high my skirts billowed around me,
I slammed my hands against the screaming stone.
Blood dripping down my hands and smearing the stone.
“Oh, God… Frank….”
I had no voice in the dawn light. I had no tears left.
My body was curled around the base of the stone, cradling the memory of the life I had had.
Once more, the stone under my bleeding hands.
The sun was blinding me as I dug, the dirt like glass in my scraped and bleeding hands.
In the hole at the base of the stone, I placed my gold ring. It glinted in the sunlight as I stared down.
From F to C with love. Always.
Thank God the horse hadn’t strayed far. I found her at the stream and caught her by the halter, the panic I had felt rush through me in waves during my night on the hill surprisingly absent.
Frank was gone. Or rather, I was gone. The stones were a one-way voyage that was now complete. It was that simple. The Frank part of my life was now done.
Why doesn’t his loss hurt you more? Have you no heart, you coldhearted—
But those were only echoes of guilt, calling out faintly to me from the hole I had dug—the hole I had covered over, handful by handful— at the base of the stones.
And part of me had known it all along, hadn’t it? Since the first moment I’d realized I’d gone back to another time? The Welshman’s song had given me hope, yes, but of course I knew that there was always the chance I would never be able to return.
In truth, I’d been grieving and healing from the loss of Frank ever since I arrived at Leoch. I had fled to the stones out of guilt, pure and simple. Lord, my very thoughts on that ride told everything in black and white:
‘Frank is worried;’ ‘Frank is your husband.’
NOT‘I can’t bear another day without Frank;’ not ‘what if I never see Frank again?’; not ‘I ache to have you back in my arms, Frank.’
No. It was : “You’ve got to fight your way back to Frank. You’re his wife.”
I loved Frank; had always loved, him even from the first…but I didn’t feel a visceral need of him when we weren’t together; not now, not when we first met, not even during the war.
I hadn’t ever felt in almost eight years—even with nearly all of our marriage spent apart— the way I felt now, missing Jamie.
Yes, perhaps I would hear those echoes from Craigh na Dun many times in the years to come; but I had made my choice and I was turning the horse without conscious thought.
I could make my way south to England, blend in and start a new life among the familiar voices, quietly, living out my life alone in atonement for what was lost and what wickedness had clouded my heart.
But it was north that I was turning; north that I made for with all haste; to the life that the stones had just made possible.
Nuzleaf, while threatening a Pokemon:
*dark voice* We have ways of making you tal– *looks down, lighter voice* Hero, Hero, yer dad’s workin’ right no— oh my gosh, did you draw this?? *holds up picture of a leaf, beaming* That is so good!
i. the grey-clad angels walk hand in hand, passing by rows of identical, unlit houses, in a neighbourhood that’s removed from the main city attractions. The angels hold hands and unravel their wings, spreading them wide, laughing, chatting, playfully throwing jabs at each other, happy and light and golden, because it’s only three in the morning, and no one is out to see them in their holy glory
ii. seraphim, teaching in schools and universities, glasses adorning their glowing faces, their silver hair pulled back in buns, braids and everything under the sun. they hold a laser pointer and write out bible-long mathematical equations on the green board, the chalk crumbling and smearing on their dark flesh. They have quiet voices, but burning gazes and words that hold wisdom eons older than any human could ever imagine
iii. puttos (the mistaken ones) trying so hard to make themselves known, their names forgotten, confused with the ugly ones, the cherubim, handing out leaflets on the streets full of information on what is what and what is not, their eyes big and blue and green and brown, their golden hair in coils and curls and locks. When they come back home, they drink cinnamon tea, stretch out their legs and watch cartoons on tv, wondering how could it be
iv. thrones and ophanims have weekly gossip sessions in abandoned, brown churches and beautiful, rosy cathedrals, when they are empty and echo-y and grey, of course. The thrones, the taller ones, with longer faces and lean bodies draped in many cloaks, bring cookies and aloe vera drinks, whilst the ophanims bring with them human magazines, and flick through them as they wait for everyone to gather. Once they’re there, their voices are an amalgamation of golden bells ringing, of songs and chorus. They speak in a language known only in the old heavens, the gossip of pop culture, celebrity news and recent celebrity deaths padded out by the smoothness and elongation of their angelic vowels
v. standing under red light are the dominions, the beautiful women, the haunted ones, their hair as black as the inkiest night. They shiver in the cold, their mortal flesh still mortal and too thin and just a shell, their grand wings in glamour and pinned back, aching to be let out, to be stretched out, like the angels do, because they’re different, they still have their freedom. They’ll stand there and wait until a customer comes by and swoops them away, for a few minutes, if that’s okay
vi. the principalities work in hospitals, the white, sanitised surroundings reminding them of their long-lost home. They yearn for something they once were as they trail down the sparkling halls, their uniforms donned on, hair tucked back, wings invisible. what a shame. when they have their break, they pour out of the doors and take a minute to smoke, the poison filling their lungs and calming them down, their anxious, trembling hearts. the principalities have long forgotten what it feels like to be great, but sometimes, they have dreams and flashbacks and strange déjà vu, and visions and hallucinations. many of them think they’re ill, something wrong with their brain. but they’re just visions of what once was
vii. the archangels cuddle each other in bed, the plain duvet tangled around their slim, long legs, the colour of milk and chocolate. They are open with each other, arms bared, hearts on their cheeks, fluttering eyelids and parted mouths the colour of pink summer and cherry lollipops. One kisses the other, lips like velvet, skin like silk. They text the principalities ‘when r you gonna be off shift? Come and join us’ knowing full well that they’d never come because they’re ashamed of pure love, of love that is not contained between just two
viii. the virtues are fishermen and women, gathering by the side of the turquoise rivers that are the hidden parts of cities and towns, where there is peace, glittering bright, soothing their minds. They fish for hours, chatting amongst themselves, no more than glorified, elongated small talk. Sometimes, rarely, one of them says something that makes the other’s eyes light up – light up with memories, with nostalgia and with sorrow at what once was – but those moments usually don’t come, or are swept up by the rising wind. they inspect the fish they catch, knowing their angelic touch could never really harm another being. they collect a few of their rainbows scales, the rare currency, and let the fish go back to their home, the undulating waves. When it gets really hot, they take off their clothes, but stay in their frilly, lace underwear, and swim around, letting their wings get wet and weigh them down, the most tangible evidence of their origins
you are like walking pinata explosions, and you leave a scent of cotton candy and baby laughter in your wake. you want us to know that you exist, and yes we see you, we hear your voice, we watch your eyes light up when you learn something new, and your creative genius sparkle when you do something new. and we are here watching you, and cheering you on. i want to hold you and yet you can never be caged, your spirit only shines when you are free as a bird. and maybe you don’t want to settle. but i know when you do you will be eternally loyal. you’re a matchstick in the darkness of the world, but i always worry you move so fast and sometimes you burn yourself out, first on the inside, when you don’t let anyone know. and then it spreads itself out. i don’t want you to think that because you leave, discover something new, or need to fly that we will abandon for forget about you. we will be here waiting for you when you come back, anticipating your fascinating stories and holding the precious baby dragon
Anonymous asked: Can Dark just give his reaction to Anti’s reappearance from PAX East?
“What? How… How dare he open up with one of my lines! MY lines! Damn copycat… You can’t have the spotlight on you forever! You should know that, Antisepticeye… (sigh) You lack originality, anyway. I’ll put you back in your place soon, for I rightly hold the throne! No one else can claim it… No one…”
“Have you really got to go, Mac?” he asked, in a very small voice.
“Aye, I have.” He looked into the dark blue eyes, so heartbreakingly like his own, and suddenly didn’t give a damn what was right or who saw. He pulled the boy roughly to him, hugging him tight against his heart, holding the boy’s face close to his shoulder, that Willie might not see the quick tears that fell into his thick, soft hair.
Willie’s arms went around his neck and clung tight. He could feel the small, sturdy body shake against him with the force of suppressed sobbing. He patted the flat little back, and smoothed Willie’s hair, and murmured things in Gaelic that he hoped the boy would not understand.
At length, he took the boy’s arms from his neck and put him gently away.
“Come wi’ me to my room, Willie; I shall give ye something to keep.”
“Here. Keep this, too, to remember me by.” He laid the beechwood rosary gently over Willie’s head. “Ye canna let anyone see that, though,” he warned. “And for God’s sake, dinna tell anyone you’re a Papist.”
“I won’t,” Willie promised. “Not a soul.” He tucked the rosary into his shirt, patting carefully to be sure that it was hidden.
“Good.” Jamie reached out and ruffled Willie’s hair in dismissal. “It’s almost time for your tea; ye’d best go on up to the house now.”
Willie started for the door, but stopped halfway, suddenly distressed again, with a hand pressed flat to his chest.
“You said to keep this to remember you. But I haven’t got anything for you to remember me by!”
Jamie smiled slightly. His heart was squeezed so tight, he thought he could not draw breath to speak, but he forced the words out.
“Dinna fret yourself,” he said. “I’ll remember ye.”
Okay but imagine Fitz and Jemma barricading themselves in a
room, the LMDs on the other side, trying to force their way in. They’re
together, but they’re also trapped, and they’re scared. They search for
something to help them, anything at all, but they know they can’t run forever.
They face the trembling door– trembling a bit themselves– holding a hammer and crowbar, and waiting
for the inevitable.
“Follow me.” A voice whispers. LMD May stands near the back,
face half hidden by the darkness. Fitz and Jemma turn around, and stay in
place. Jemma grips the hammer tighter and narrows her eyes. “And why should we
LMD May steps forward, and Fitz and Jemma really get to see her clearly. She
looks… tired. Like she’s tired fighting the fights May has been fighting for
years. That she’s tired being chased by ghosts and tired of seeing them. That
she’s tired of becoming one. Like she’s been through everything May has ever
gone through even though they know she’s not May and she knows she’s not May.
Radcliffe told me that I wasn’t built to last,” she begins, and she still looks
damn tired but she straightens her shoulders and looks them straight in the
eye. “And if I wasn’t built to last, then I’m sure as hell going to do something
right before I fall.”
Happy Valentine’s Day to my amazing Secret Valentine, @starscythe!!! I do hope you enjoy this gift, my friend, as you gift us with so many incredible manips all year long. Meeting you in person in November was such a joy, and I hope we can hug in person again in the near future.
He’s heard stories, of course, broken whispers
whenever a fierce storm blew in unexpectedly, mumbled musings if an
acquaintance suddenly fell ill. These are never voiced loudly, as superstition’s
lingering hold on the forest proves to be an ominous task master, leaving such
wonderings to drift from one listener to the next, more often than not finding
fertile ground stripped bare by black magic’s lingering touch.
The Evil Queen’s dark curse had taken many, but
there are those among the forest’s remnants who believe she herself still
dwells in this realm. They speak of her in hushed fragments, discuss sightings
of a dark, solitary figure who roams the forest at night, a cloaked woman who
has somehow lost her magic but now lives bound to it, perhaps in just
retribution for a curse so foul it emptied their lands and cast both friend and
foe into fates unknown.
Robin has never put much stock into
superstition, neither does he give credence to legends or fairy lore. His is a
world defined by what he can see, touch and confiscate, a world in which people
rarely fit into molds of “good” or “evil”, a world in which he’s observed
unspeakable acts committed by the most respected of citizens while those judged
as lesser are the very ones who offer shelter and food to the starving. He
lives by his wits and senses and surrounds himself with a thieving group of
outcasts he’d readily give his life to protect.
Yet even he, the infamous Robin Hood, has to
admit that the air feels odd tonight, that there is a charge to the impending
storm brewing in the eastern highlands that makes the hairs on the back of his
neck prickle. He senses a disturbance, one that feels altogether too personal
and close at hand for comfort. Roland must have felt it, too, for the boy had
clung to him as Robin soothed his son’s whimpers until he’d finally fallen into
a fitful sleep.
It is enough for him to grudgingly admit that
tinges of magic probably remain in his forest, even if the queen is nowhere to
be found. Dreams of Marian and of his mother plague his sleep and fill him with
sense of urgency altogether foreign, one that pushes him towards consciousness
even as his body rebels.
A loud clap of thunder finally awakens him, and
he’s surprised to find that he’s drenched in sweat. Roland is still sleeping
soundly, but one touch to his son’s forehead reveals that the boy is hot with
fever. He holds his child close, drawing the blankets up around him, but he
worries as all parents do, even as the wind howls just outside their tent.
Roland needs feverfew tea. Unfortunately, their
stashes of medicinal herbs have run dry in light of the recent bout of sickness
that have ravaged both his men and their families, and he lies there only minutes
before deciding to risk a trip to the lake’s edge to gather what he needs. He
wakes Little John and asks his friend to keep an ear and eye out for his son
before donning his thickest cloak and disappearing into the forest’s canopy.
He’s survived far worse storms than this, he reminds himself, ignoring the
tingling sensations skittering up his legs that feel altogether supernatural.
Sebastian Stan x Reader Words : 790 Summary : You are coming back from work when meet the lovely Sebastian at the elevator and then he asks you to go eat with him. Notes : requests are open!
coming back from your work and you were exhausted. You had a busy day and your
boss made you work more than it was really your obligation. You were mad about it
and you were still starving because you couldn’t go out for lunch, instead you
worked on your papers.
heading to your apartment and got into the elevator. Your mind went away and
started to take you to other thoughts. You
could just think of eating, taking a good shower and going to bed. You would
still keep thinking on your own things when you heard someone shouting.
hold it for me.” A man’s voice sounded with noises of footsteps.
the elevator’s door so the man could come in. He was very tall and beautiful.
He had blue eyes and dark hair. His body was big and it seemed to be sculpted.
You stopped looking at him and started to think that you knew him from
He said to you with a smile. And what a smile!
welcome.” You answered back with a shy smile. The presence of this human god
made you nervous and embarrassed.
at him again, trying to remember from where you know him and your mind went
crazy when realized he was famous.
Stan!” You shouted.
“Oh, God, I’m
sorry. It’s just that you reminded someone and I couldn’t remember. Jesus, now
you think I’m crazy. I’m so sorry.” You wanted to hide your head because it was
certainly as red as a tomato.
actually funny.” He looked at you. He had a beautiful voice too. Was there
anything that was not beautiful about this guy? “Well, you already know my
name, what’s yours?”
In that moment, your stomach made a hungry noise. You couldn’t be more
embarrassed. “I’m sorry.”
“Are you hungry?”
He looked at you with a smirk.
“Yes. I had
a busy day at work and couldn’t stop for lunch. I’m very hungry.” He seemed to
would you like to eat something with me?” Was he asking you to go out with him?
serious?” He laughed.
wouldn’t I be?” He looked with puppy eyes to you. “Please say yes.” It was your
time to laugh.
the button so the elevator could go down again. He asked you about what you
worked with and told about his work as an actor, during the path to the closer
restaurant. The only one open was a pizzeria so you decided that you two would
get a pizza.
it’s something that almost everyone likes.” You two laughed.
of difficult to not like pizza.” He looked at you. “ And you too.” Was he
“You are a
lovely woman and also very funny, I might say.”
still sorry about that.”
it was the highlight of my day.” He was with a beautiful smile on his face. You
had to smile back, it was involuntary.
pizza came, you were so hungry that you had to eat as fast as you could.
Sebastian just laughed about it, thinking it was actually cute. You weren’t
pretending to be someone else to please him, you were being yourself and he
found you adorable and very beautiful.
came back to the apartment together. Hands, sometimes, hitting each other’s. He
told you he was in that apartment for some days because he was shooting a new
movie near. You asked, silently, that he stayed the longest time possible so
you could see his pretty face again.
When it got
to the floor of your apartment, you both got out of the elevator and looked at
asking me to eat with you. I was needing.” You laughed and made him laugh too.
“It was my
pleasure, I really enjoyed.” And then he buckled to hug you and, even though
you were without words, you hugged him back. He had an amazing smell. “Bye,
(Y/N). Have a good night.”
Sebastian.” And with that he turned back to the elevator to go to his floor.
your apartment with a big smile on your face and headed to your bathroom to go
take your deserved shower. And then you realized there was a paper in your
pocket. You only thought that it could be from Sebastian.
Loved the night with you. Your presence is
adorable. Please call me, (his number), so we can go out again but this time as
If you don’t know the kind of person I am and I don’t know the kind of person you are a pattern that others made may prevail in the world and following the wrong god home we may miss our star.
For there is many a small betrayal in the mind, a shrug that lets the fragile sequence break sending with shouts the horrible errors of childhood storming out to play through the broken dike.
And as elephants parade holding each elephant’s tail, but if one wanders the circus won’t find the park, I call it cruel and maybe the root of all cruelty to know what occurs but not recognize the fact.
And so I appeal to a voice, to something shadowy, a remote important region in all who talk: though we could fool each other, we should consider— lest the parade of our mutual life get lost in the dark.
For it is important that awake people be awake, or a breaking line may discourage them back to sleep; the signals we give — yes or no, or maybe — should be clear: the darkness around us is deep.