and like she loves everything as much as I do and it's perfect

Hurricane - A Nessian Fic

thank you to @sarahviehmann for betaing and cheerleading me through this :)  prompted by anonymous, sorry it took a while but I wanted to really try and do it justice! 

Title: Hurricane 

Length: 7,700 

Summary: Nesta and Cassian post ACOMAF oneshot. Nesta comes to Cassian after the events in Hybern. The two of them release their frustration over being broken and Made and find an understanding between them neither anticipated and a connection that alters their lives even further. 

Links: AO3 

“Still sulking?”

His spine stiffens. At first it’s merely at the sound of her voice, cool as the mountain winds he misses streaming through his wings, sharp as a winter storm. That voice gets his back up even before he registers the mocking tone and the sardonic words.

Then he sees her. Nesta. Lounging against the balcony door with an ease that might suggests she owns this entire house and everything in it – including him.

The sight of her, the sound of her voice, her words dripping contempt, punch through the numb walls he’s surrounded himself with since he lost his wings with such startling swiftness and brutality that that’s all it takes to get his blood boiling.

A thick, rippling growl builds in his chest, loosed in a vicious burst towards her like roiling thunder. He’s seen battle hardened warriors on blood-soaked killing fields pale and flee from him at the sound. She barely even deigns to blink coolly at him as she strides out onto the balcony. She actually has the bald nerve and gall to approach him after that snarl had made it perfectly clear he wasn’t in the mood for her company.

She still looks like her. She’s still veiled in that icy beauty that called so sweetly to the fire in his heart, threatening to tame it; daring him to challenge it. But the Cauldron has sharpened her features, hollowing her cheeks, sculpting her fine lips, refining the lines of her face making her at once more elegant and striking but somehow also more terrible, and dangerous, and wild.

It’s a face to make men pause – especially with those eyes burning with blue fire and glittering with silver steel – honed to an edge even Az would covet – a face to make men tremble if they have a scrap of sense about them. Cassian never has.

So he faces her boldly as she approaches him, contemptuous grace in every movement, a predator at her core. She’s a panther draped in silk, a huntress of a different sort than her sister but just as deadly if not more so. She’s the knife in the shadows, the poison in the chalice, the end that comes without ever being seen.

If he ever somehow forgot her face, Cassian thinks as she stalks to stand by him at the stone balcony rail, he would never forget the way she moved. Not in a thousand immortal lifetimes could he forget that.

She moves like a storm given substance, holds herself like a queen among mice, a god among peasants – as though this world and everything in it, all its history and power and potential, the things it’s contained, the miracles it’s seen made flesh are beneath her, unworthy of her notice.

Her eyes rake up and down his body with a sharpness that cuts, weighing, calculating, judging, lingering for a fraction of a second longer on his tattered wings than anywhere else.

“Mor says you haven’t left this room in three days,” she announces, tearing her piercing gaze away from him the moment she opens her mouth to speak to him, her words frosted with apparent indifference, “You haven’t eaten. Barely slept…” she trails off delicately, examining her nails.

He couldn’t sleep. Not without reliving it over and over and over again. His wings shredded into bloody ribbons by that burst of power. The agony. The heat of the blood against his skin. The tang of it against his tongue. The bile rising in his throat. The panic constricting his chest and ripping the air from his lungs. His wings. His wings. His wings. Every time he woke in a cold sweat, panting and gripping the sheets to try and anchor himself to reality. A reality that was every bit as cruel as the nightmare he’d just torn himself from and offered him no comfort or respite from his torment.

But the rare occasions when he didn’t have that nightmare were worse. On those nights he flew through the wild, unforgiving mountains he had learned to tame centuries ago. Alive with the rush of air whipping past him, the call of the wind humming in his veins, and the taste of freedom gilding his tongue as he roared his defiance at the world that had tried and failed at every turn to chain him to its will.

Then he woke sobbing and alone in the blackness of the night; that exhilaration snuffed out like a candle by a thoughtless gust, leaving him blind and staggering and empty once more. He groped in the dark for his wings and felt the broken truth at his back and his soul howled its grief and devastation that he might never fly through those peaks again; might never soar into the arms of the waiting heavens as he was made to.

But he can’t tell her that. Can’t even begin to explain it to her, what this loss feels like for him, for an Illyrian male to lose his wings, to be grounded, what it means, the weight of what he’s lost. So instead he finds an easy smirk to toss in her direction – the kind he knows from experience will infuriate every inch of her new immortal being and says with idle arrogance, “Concerned for me, Nesta?”  

The look she gives him radiates such contempt that he can practically hear the disdainful word she sneers at him even though she never gives voice to it, please, before she says, picking at her nails in a show of unconcern that’s as tailored to his temper as his smirk was to hers, “Bored.” She says with a lazy shrug then cuts a glance in his direction as she adds, tone darkening like thunderheads gathering to blacken a bright blue sky, “And I thought might have something better to do with your time than brood over how hard done to you are, what with the war that’s coming.”

A harsh snarl erupts from him at her presumption, her insinuation, the knife she may as well have thrust between his ribs, plunging straight into the heart of him.

He advances a step towards her, wings barking in agony as they instinctively flare, a stark reminder of the loss he faces, the thing she’s trivialising with such brash arrogance.

Nothing without those wings. Nothing.

As before she barely shows any reaction to the fury she’s inspired in him and holds her ground with the same kind of serene indifference a deaf god might show the plight of an ant. Some part of him flickers, reluctantly impressed by her courage and resilience but it’s buried deep beneath the layers of raw, unbridled anger that fill his empty being – so long devoid of anything that centuries of hard training are as nothing to, forgotten in the face of her, in the way she reaches into him and rips at the most vulnerable parts of his self with cut-throat efficiency.

But Nesta, Cauldron damn her, just presses on cool and matter-of-fact, “I don’t really see what you’re complaining about myself.” He frowns down at her, expression dark as the corrupt hearts that plague the Court of Nightmares as she informs him evenly, “I’ve never been able to fly – it didn’t do me any great harm.”

Cassian has been interrogated by hardened, seasoned battle commanders with hours of time and centuries of experience at their disposal and not one of them even came close to getting this deeply rooted under his skin as this woman – barely old enough to be considered one, even as a human – has done in the space of a few minutes with a handful of icy, calculated sentences.

She knows just where to hit, exactly what weaknesses to exploit to bait a reaction out of him and the look in her glittering, unyielding eyes tells him she knows it. Damn her she knows.

He steps up to her, towering over her even in her new Fae body and she just leans in to him, arrogant, unflinching pride radiating from every inch of her.

“But if you could have flown,” he growls in her face, his barely controlled anger pulsing through every syllable and the way she glares at him, the way she gets right back in his face tells him she relishes every breath of it, “And then one day they took your wings from you and chained you to the ground and stripped you of every bit of freedom and independence I know you crave-“

Her face tightens into a soundless snarl at those words, that daring I know you, and he smiles so slowly, savouring the taste of her weak spot and he presses his advantage, digging his fingers into the cracks he’s made in that gloriously indifferent armour of ice and steel she’s encased herself in, prising them open wider.

“It would have done you harm then,” he breathes with all the arrogant certainty he can muster, “It would have driven you mad-“

“Don’t talk about me like you understand me,” she snaps, that fire flaring as her mask of ice shatters.

A broad, lazy grin spreads across his face. There you are some deep, instinctual part of him purrs to her – the being she truly is, that burning seething wildfire trapped in this immortal prison by the Cauldron’s cruel will.

“Oh but I do,” he murmurs to her, taking another step towards her as those feral eyes dare to him to do, “I do. You can try and hide behind your mask and your finery and your contempt all you like but I see you. I see you, Nesta Archeron,” rage has transformed those cold, sculpted features into those of a snarling hellcat, “You are a wild beast in skin that they have caged and tried to tame your entire life but all you want to do is roar,” he lets his smile widen, eyes dancing as he adds, “Like me.”

“I am nothing like you,” she hurls at him, voice surging with the same promise of violence and destruction as a roaring hurricane. But it shifts and becomes sharp and precise as a razorblade when she hisses viciously, “Wasting away up here and feeling sorry for yourself – you’re pathetic,” she snarls at him, venom dripping from every word.

He watches as those walls lock into place around her again, afraid she’d somehow gotten in too deep so now she shoves him out with every bit of her considerable strength and will no matter how ruthless she needs to be to do it.

“One little set back and you’ve given up,” she sneers.  

Set back? Set back?

Nothing without those wings.

“You have no idea what you’re talking about,” he rumbles, lethal warning pulsing from every word.

That smirk; that damned smirk snaps right back onto her lips beneath her flashing storm-tossed eyes because she knows she’s won. She knows that she’s managed to get his hackles up and has barely even broken a sweat in doing so. She knows that he’s on the defensive again and that’s exactly where she wants him to be.

“No?” she mocks, arching an elegant eyebrow at him. Her voice hardens once more into that line of frigid steel when she grinds out, “The way I see it shit happens and you deal with it.” She tosses a look loaded with contempt at him as she crosses her arms over her chest with a snide sneer, “Or you don’t,” she says, her eyes flickering pointedly to his ragged wings again.

“You have no idea what I’m dealing with,” he spits at her.

Nothing without those wings. Nothing without those wings. Nothing without those wings.

He doesn’t care that he’s making this easy for her. He doesn’t care that she’s somehow slipped beneath his skin and is digging deeper and deeper into him with every word. He doesn’t care about the thick, smothering tension that’s getting tauter between them with every second, pulling the air from their lungs and the sense from their selves and making it more and more likely that one of them is going to do something incredibly stupid if it isn’t eased soon.

All he cares about is the challenge in her eyes and the way his blood roars at him to rise to it.

Her eyes narrow and lightning flashes in them as she straightens her spine and stares him down with something terrible burning in her blood as her mouth twists itself into a wordless snarl. And though he stands almost a clear foot taller than her, the rage that gathers from very part of her could make him tremble like nothing he’s seen in over five centuries of war and battle and bloodshed could do – such anger – anger that could level worlds and bring deities to their knees is all directed at him as she moves in so close that in a shiver he could touch her.

“No?” she whispers, words shaking with barely controlled fury, fury she’s trying so hard to leash to herself but with little success, “I have no idea? I have no idea?” she repeats, throwing his words back at him.

Her eyes are now glowing slits in her face and he realises then, realises that this is bigger than him and the sharp words they’ve been tossing back and forth, biting and baiting and testing each other’s limits, feeling each other out again after the things that have changed.

He’s caused something much deeper and darker in her to snap and make her forget the armour of indifference she’s used to shield herself from the world for so long. Because when she snarls the next words at him he sees, sees the cracks that splinter and fissure right down to the core of her where her ice and steel give way to vulnerability.

“They didn’t take you and stuff you into that Cauldron and turn you into something else – something you despise against your will,” her voice cracks with rage and despair and something like grief – grief for what she was, what she lost, what was taken from her.

Her breathing shudders as she goes on, apparently unable to stop herself now that she’s begun and this time her words tremble, tapping into a vein of emotion in her so deep that the impact it has on her – on him – staggers him.

“And they didn’t make you watch, make you feel helpless, and powerless, and weak as they did the same thing to the person you love most while you couldn’t do a single damn thing about it,” she rages, stamping her foot in a futile bid to relieve some of the crushing, unbearable pressure that’s hammering down on her soul.

Cassian had watched, watched as they’d dragged both girls to the Cauldron and forced them under. He’d listened to Nesta’s howling screams, seen her fight like a snared beast to get to Elain, felt that desire to tear her own being into shreds and all the world too for spite and for the sake of her sister. He’d felt her terror and her pain through that promise he’d made her, that bond he’d forged between them – the oath that had killed him when he’d failed to keep it.

The agony in his wings had been too much and he had tried, Mother damn him he had tried. Tried to keep that promise, tried to protect her, tried to die fighting on her behalf as he’d sworn to her he would.  It had destroyed a part of him when the pain had knocked him unconscious and stopped him going to her. He had failed. He had failed her. He had broken his vow. And that thought had haunted him since waking almost as much as the enormity of losing his wings had.

And if that was what watching had been like for him, what it had done to him, then to her…

“You chose this,” she hurls at him, her fury dragging him back to her like a leash on his soul pulling it in to hers.

Her hands clenching into fists at her sides as she fights to keep herself together; tries to stop herself from shattering entirely. And some part of him, some mad, wild part of him wants to reach out to her, to fold her into his arms and shelter her from it all. But the sane, rational part of him that remains tells him she would never allow him.

Her chest is heaving with the effort of containing the raw emotion that throws itself against her soul with the force of a relentless, furious ocean slamming itself against a steadily shattering cliff-face, emotion that he can somehow feel radiating out of her – anger and pain and grief and guilt and he understands.

With the impact of those three words he understands everything.

The difference in what they’d endured and all the fury and contempt she felt for him and his pain when she…

“You chose to shield your friend, your brother-“ as she had failed to shield her sister, “You chose to protect him this way- You chose.” Chose. As she would have. If they had given her that chance. “Was it not worth it?”

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Malia is Jeff’s perfect opportunity for a female LGBT character

Why would Malia be such a good candidate for a lgbt character?

Originally posted by teenagewolfconfessions

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You’re 15 and the new boy in class smiles at you. He introduces himself and he may seem confident but you know better.

You’re 16, that new boy is now your boyfriend. You’re in love. He’s in love with you, too. Everything seems perfect. First loves are one of a kind.

You’re 17 now. You’re still in love with him and he’s still in love with you. Nothing seems perfect anymore though. Everything feels like it’s falling apart. You don’t see as much of him as you used to. His beautiful smile is such a rare sight now and you’re terrified.

You’re still 17, almost 18, you get a call in the middle of the night from a withheld number. You hesitate about answering but you do it anyway. It’s a nurse. You’re confused. She tells you that he’s asking for you, the boy that you’re in love with, that he wants you to come.
You’ve never got changed so fast and left the house so quickly in all your life. Your heart is pounding in your chest and there’s a god damn awful feeling in your stomach. Something is wrong. Very wrong.

You’re 18, just finished college, looking forward to the summer you’ve got planned before you head off for university come September. He’s getting better, he’s smiling more often, he’s getting help. Then comes the end of summer, the night before you leave for uni, he tells you he’s deferred his acceptance for a year, he isn’t coming with you. “I’m sorry,” he says to you. “I didn’t want to ruin our summer.”
You understand. What you hate is the fact he left it to the night before you leave to tell you. Then, well then he breaks up with you and all understanding goes out the window. You scream, you cry, you fall apart. “Why?” You ask him. He never answers. You walk away, clutching at your chest, afraid your heart is about to literally burst from the pain.  

You come home for Christmas. You’re terrified to be in the same place as him. Hell, your room still has pictures of him on the wall, you didn’t take them down that night he broke up with you, you left them there. The only thing still standing. His mum calls you, she’s loves you like a daughter and she’s missed having you around. You find yourself agreeing to go over there for a cup of tea in the morning, she assures you her son, the one you still love, won’t be there. A small part of you is hoping that he will be.

You sit at her kitchen table, as you have hundreds of times before, talking to her. She fills you in on him and you fill her in on university and your life now. You tell her you miss him, you find yourself crying and she gets up to comfort you. An hour passes and the front door opens. He’s here. You can tell. Then you hear his voice calling out for his mother and it’s like your heart is caught in your throat. His mum smiles at you reassuringly, given your hand a light squeeze. He comes in, he looks surprised, he says your name and it feels as if you’re alive again after all these months of feeling anything but. His mum excuses herself. “You idiot,” you shout. “Four months. Nothing for four months, not a word, now all you can do is say my name once and stand there like a statue! You idiot!”

You quickly find yourself crying and he steps forward, moving closer to you, wanting to hold you in his arms but you shake your head fiercely, warning him not to.
“Things were good, they were good again and you took it all away. You broke us… You broke my heart. Yet, here I am, four months later still as pathetically in love with you as I was before. How much of a fool does that make me?”

“You’re no fool,” he tells you. “I am. I’m the fool.”

It’s your 19th birthday. Your first one away from home. You have no classes today and for that your thankful. The post arrives. You recognize the writing on a parcel. His writing. You decide to open it, after much thought, you see a card on top of a wrapped gift. You open it. ‘My girl, always. Wherever I am… I think of you. I love you. I’m sorry. I love you.’

You’re still 19, it’s a week after your birthday and you’re going home for the weekend. It’s Saturday night and you’re having a meal with some of your friends, he shows up, he couldn’t have known you were here, it’s purely coincidental. That’s what you tell yourself but you can’t fool yourself into believing it.

You’re 20. Still catastrophically in love with him. Always. It will always be him for you and you’ve known it since your very first date when you were just a pair of innocent dorky teenagers. You look beside you and there he is, fast asleep but beside you. Where he belongs. Sometimes life does have a happy ending. Sometimes people find their way back to each other. You’ve got him and he has you, everything is going to be okay.

First I HAVE to talk about how Minako is positioned versus everyone else.

She has – or again, more accurate to say Usagi’s brain has – put Minako on Usagi’s level. Usagi’s on the ground, so Minako’s going to get down on ground level too. It’s an equalizing gesture that nobody else has, and it’s significant in that.

(EVERYTHING is significant. I mean I could sit here for another few hours talking about clothing choices to the order they’re lined up and the way they’re standing. EVERYTHING is created by Usagi’s subconscious, so every last detail is worth examining. But I’m already like an hour on this, so I may come back to it later. Someone feel free to shoot me an Ask on it to make sure.)

To Usagi, Minako is a constant shared presence, her partner in crime. Whether it’s being late for school, or trying to wheedle someone into sharing their homework, or an elaborate spy mission on someone new and cute, Usagi and Minako are in it together.

This “plan” had Usagi excluded by necessity, but Minako’s body language is further assurance that it wasn’t personal. Usagi and Minako are still brain twins, and they’ve lost none of that connection they share.

Which is beautifully complimented by the fact that Minako is totally taking the piss out of Usagi. Again, I think my translation is a bit rough, and this’ll all make a bit more sense when we have the rest of the conversation in a second. Basically though, this is Minako playing on Mako’s assurance by like “Yeah, well you’re KIND of trouble.” But noting, again, that Minako’s situated at Usagi’s level, so silently adding “AND I AM TOO.”

It’s interesting how Rei and Minako balance out against Mako and Ami. Mako and Ami provide the easily digested straightforward love, meanwhile Rei and Minako have the more complicated layers that add the weight and ground everything. Usagi’s presented all four of them in all the ways that make them who they are, because that’s exactly how she needs them.

I think that’s what kills me most about this scene. Usagi’s love for her girls is poured into every last detail. Part of what makes this so convincing to Usagi is in the many ways they’re so alive to her, and that makes the loss she’s feeling for them that much more devastating.

Carol Peletier is not flawless, she isn’t perfect all day-everyday, she doesn’t always do the right thing, she doesn’t always say the right thing, she doesn’t always react the way the world wants her to and she makes mistakes just like everyone else.

The only difference is that this fandom has decided that Carol’s transgressions should be judged on a much harsher scale than her male counterparts.
I refuse to add myself to that list!

Carol Peletier isn’t perfect but no matter how much she screws up tonight and every other night I will continue to LOVE and defend HER with everything I have.

I will defend HER not HER ACTIONS!

Because she isn’t only made of her mistakes and wrong decisions, she is also made of all the moments where she did right by the group, by Rick, by Glenn, by Carl, by Judith, by Michonne …and yes, by Daryl especially.

Tonight lets practise the principle, both the fictional and the real world should abide by AND that is that its very possible to LOVE the person completely without LOVING all of their actions.
Carol isn’t flawless but then again neither are you!

—  Me (every day, all day long)


I met up with a friend today to have coffee. Basically, she lived in an Amish community for sixteen years before she got kicked out for questioning their ethics and exposing their corruption, and she then moved to my school for sixth-form and we became friends bc we sat next to each other in bio and I helped her out with easing into, for lack of a better phrase, normal life; helping her buy clothes, technology, etc.

And today we talked about how we’re both going off to uni in a month and she told me she wants to watch lots of films in the next month so she can catch references and the first film she said she wanted to watch was HARRY POTTER

Maybe I’m looking at this offensively but like she’s like an alien and it’s so exciting getting to show someone this? Like, it’s absolutely magical, she’s gobsmacked by the wizarding world and how well thought-out everything is and she is so in love with all the magic.

We got through the first two films today and she’s already decided she’s going to read the books. (I swear the only books she reads are sociology ones.) I 100% understand every criticism/analysis I’ve read about HP but it’s also refreshing seeing someone watching it in a child-like first time sort of way.

And bc she’s lived in an Amish community all these years, she doesn’t know any HP spoilers! None! Except that lots of people die by the end. It’s so so perfect, I swear the world would be a better place if we could all watch someone experiencing HP for the first time.

I’m still amazed at everything I love about you. There’s not one thing that I don’t like and its just so surreal. I have never seen someone so amazing and so perfect until I met you. You make everyday a new and exacting thing and I really can’t put it into word on how you make me feel. I love you in every thing you do, say, faces you make, good days, Bad days, and so much more. I love you for you and everything that comes with you I love. There’s really no one as perfect as you 💙