are you feeling it yet

Cause and Reward

A NSFW incubus story submitted by @thatweirdlittlegothgirl

Word count: 2187


You flipped the light on, flickering a gross yellow. Your apartment complex wasn’t the Ritz by any means, but it was a roof over your head. Plenty of mould around that you couldn’t scrub away, but if you could find somewhere else it would definitely be worth complaining to the landlord to guarantee your deposit back.

You stood in front of the dingy mirror and looked around in the reflection, before taking the time to examine your face a little more for any unsightly bumps that might have appeared as of late…stress-acne.

Work was the cause of that; the office cliques seemed to be relentless as of late, talking about the Christmas party coming up and what everyone was gonna wear. You wanted to wear that cute outfit you’ve been saving up for, but you weren’t sure it would look good on you. Not on your large body, you thought. After being mocked all the way to the punch-out pad, you came home to a welcoming bottle of alcohol.

After washing your face, you buried it in a towel to dry. Pulling it back, you noticed an additional figure staring back at you from the mirror. It leaned down to you to whisper in your ear.

“Set me free,” it breathed. 

Keep reading

Star boy is a little dreamer.

I didn’t forget Shiro’s birthday. I was just planning on celebrating… on the 1st of March. Anyhoo, my two baby boys together. Space nerds. ಥ_ಥ | Redbubble

Friends and hopes.

Last names

Okay so yeah, of course I love the idea of Draco changing his last name to Potter once he and Harry get married. Of course I love the idea of them hyphenating, and all the drama that ensues when they argue about which name should go first. But you know what I really like? What doesn’t get nearly enough thought IMHO?


The mere concept of Harry Malfoy.


Harry Malfoy, nauseated by the fame that came in a package deal with the name “Potter,” fame he never asked for, changing his to that of the person he cares about most.


Harry Malfoy, searching his husband’s eyes for approval before signing the legal documents to have his last name changed and finding just that and so much more. Finding hope and adoration and love. Real love. The warding-off-killing-curses kind of love. Harry holding onto that moment as tightly as possible.


Harry Malfoy, practicing his new signature for hours on end with every spare piece of parchment he can find, and finding an innocent sort of joy in the way his “M” melted perfectly into his “a.”


Harry Malfoy, a reinvented version of himself, finding the strength to move on from his past and sleep through the night without being afraid something might come for him.


Harry Malfoy, being able to breathe in his own skin again because he’s finally been granted the fresh start he’s always wanted.


Harry Malfoy, a name that has never plastered newspapers, has never been on the wanted list, has never been hunted by Voldemort, has never been spat out of the mouth of his aunt and uncle, has never been.


Harry Malfoy, the first page of a journal that is yet to be filled with love poems and stories and happy memories.


Harry Potter, The Boy Who Lived.


Harry Malfoy. Man.

Geoff loves Jack so much that in the new Sky Factory, when Jack needed help to kill the wither and none of the others reacted, Simple Farmer Geoff packed up his tools in a chest and got ready to help Jack, despite being even less prepared than Jack is to fight off the wither and if that isn’t love I don’t know what is.

anonymous asked:

🌹 with Kimou

hanahaki disease

it’s better to stretch the neck to let the flowers grow out and fall quicker. cross your fingers that the lack of air doesn’t cause you to pass out

Being nonbinary is nothing to be ashamed of. You don’t have to be bursting with pride, ready to shout it from the rooftops if that’s just not who you are, but nor should you have to hide it, keep it tucked away. It’s a part of you, big or small, and you shouldn’t have to worry about life being complicated because of it, or what other people may think.


You do you. Be nonbinary. Pin the flag to your wall, or just whisper it to yourself in the middle of the night. Lead rallying cries for nonbinary support groups, or just reblog nb posts on tumblr. Be nonbinary, whatever and however that means for you.

littlelostgreenwitch  asked:

your gods & monsters fics are so beautiful!! I know you had Prometheus in the one with Pandora, but do you think you could do one with him when he was stealing the fire?

By her very nature Hestia is not supposed to have favorites, but Hades has always been hers.

She is the eldest sister, and he the eldest brother. She wonders if that is perhaps why they somehow end up being the responsible ones.

“I like it down here,” she says, curled up in his throne. “It’s quiet.”

He snorts, head bent over the reams of paper, endless lists of the dead. Somehow, she never sees Zeus with paperwork. “It’s dark, and cold.” She glances around. The only light comes from the softly glowing moonstones, from the bioluminescent designs etched into the walls.

She extends a hand, “I can–”

A cheerful fire crackles to life in the center of the room, warm and sweet and smelling of cedar even though there’s no smoke. “Sister!” he snaps, “Return that to Olympus immediately!”

She pouts, holding the fire steady, “Why? It’s my fire, I am its keeper, am I not? I can give it to whoever I choose.”

“Zeus has decreed it is a privilege of those that reside in the heavens,” he glares, “I will not see his wrath turn upon you. Put it back.”

Hestia closes her palm, and the fire snuffs out, returning to its home on Mount Olympus. “Little brother Zeus would do well to remember his place.”

“I’m sure he would say the same of us,” Hades says wryly, eyes dropping back down to his desk.

She is the keeper of the hearth, the bringer of fire, the guardian of the home. The spirit of Mother Gaia pulses in her more clearly than the others, no matter the claims Hera likes to make

Zeus is a little boy. A powerful little boy for sure, but a child none the less. She and Hades grew in their father’s stomach together, his was the hand she grasped through the years in their horrid prison.

She dislikes little boys telling her how to govern her realm of hearth and home.

~

Prometheus was not a smart man, but he was a brave man, an ambitious man.

So when a goddess appears in front of him, offering him an opportunity for glory, he does not refuse. He grins with eyes too bright and says, “Fire? The tool of gods back in mortal hands? We could do much with that.”

“Yes,” the goddess agrees, “but it will not come free. If you succeed you will be sent to Hades’s realm, of this I am certain, and when you are – you must bring fire to him as well. That is the price of our bargain.”

“Agreed,” he says instantly, and does not question why a god needs a human to get him fire. His is not the place to question gods.

Myths will say that he was a Titan, a god among gods, but that is not true.

He was a lone, ambitious man. The act of a single person can often be mistaken for the work of a god.

~

Hestia’s throne sits unused on Olympus, more concerned with tending her hearth fire than sitting high above mortals.

Any being which must assert their authority through status symbols likely has very little authority to begin with. “You’re planning trouble,” Hera accuses one day, her clothing purposefully plain next to her husband’s and her hair piled atop her head in an exhaustingly elaborate fashion.

Hera did not become wife of Zeus, Queen of the Gods, by being stupid. She can be accused of many things, but stupidity is not among them.

“Whatever do you mean, little sister?” Hestia asks, reaching a hand into the fire and watching the flames dance harmlessly over her skin. None of her other siblings would be so fortunate, should they try to touch her fire.

Hera cross her arms, lower lip jutting out, and Hestia’s mouth twitches. They are all so painfully young still, now. Hera is little more than a girl, and Hestia thinks she would be fond of her if she were not so clearly hiding fangs behind her pretty lips.

Loving your family never meant having to like them.

“You won’t get away with it, whatever it is,” Hera declares before turning on her heel and striding off.

Hestia cups a ball of flame in her hand, the warmth of it seeping down to her bones. “Whatever you say, little sister.”

~

The climb up Mount Olympus takes him weeks. He’s exhausted and hungry by the time he reaches the top, having run out of food some days ago. But he makes it – something that no other human can claim.

He follows the goddess’s instructions to the letter, waits until the moon is high in the sky before creeping into the palace. He doesn’t touch any of the statues, the tapestries, the golden goblets or silver plates. He doesn’t even let his gaze linger on them, for he is after a prize far more valuable than wealth.

Fame. Notoriety. His name written in the heavens, never to be forgotten.

The hearth is in the center of the throne room, larger than twice his size and more golden than red. He takes a trembling step forward, eager and terrified all in one.

The goddess appears in front of him, more silhouette than anything else. “This fire will burn you,” she warns, eyes fever bright and sparking just like the inferno behind her, “It will kill you. It is only a matter of when – not if.”

“I understand,” he says, because it doesn’t matter, death does not matter. Death comes for all men. If he succeeds in returning fire to humankind, he will be more than a man – he will be a legend.

“Very well.” She spicks up a globe of fire in her hand. Prometheus reaches for it, but she does not hand it to him. Instead she opens her mouth impossibly wide and places it on her tongue, lips closing around it and her whole face turning red from the heat.

She grabs him by the front of his shirt and jerks him forward, placing her mouth to his mouth and pushing the ball of celestial fire onto his tongue.

“There,” she says, leaning back. “That will dampen it enough for you to make it back to the land of mortal men, but you must not open your mouth until you are ready – as soon as it’s exposed to the air it will consume you. If you are not back in the mortal realm at that point, your death will be for nothing.”

It burns, it’s complete agony. He can already feel the fire eating its way through the soft, wet muscles of his cheeks. But he gives the goddess one sharp nod and then he’s sprinting his way out of Olympus.

He doesn’t have much time.

~

Prometheus is long gone by the time Hera drags herself to the throne room, sleeping robe askew and Zeus’s teeth marks on her collarbone. She’s older than her husband but still so terribly young, and for a moment Hestia pities her.

“What did you do?” Hera demands, voice coming out rough. Hestia can’t see any bruising on her throat but that doesn’t mean there isn’t any. “I know you did something!”

She knows the woman Hera will grow into, has seen many girls become that same woman, and as the wife of Zeus it’s nearly inevitable. But she’s not a woman yet, just a girl who’s gambled everything for a play at power and hasn’t yet figured out if she’s won or lost.

“It’s cold in Zeus’s chambers,” Hestia pats the empty space beside her, “Won’t you sit with me, little sister?”

Hera stares at her, mistrust heavy in the air and plain on her face. She will learn to hide her thoughts better one day. “It’s not cold in there.”

“Isn’t it?” she asks simply, and for a split second Hera’s face crumples. “Come, little sister.”

Hera takes one hesitant step closer, then another, eventually stumbling to her knees beside her and staring into the fire, Hestia is sure, so she has an excuse for her eyes to water.

“None of that now,” she adjusts Hera’s robe and pulls her hair from her face, the normally immaculate locks frizzy and tangled. She summons a brush and runs it through her sister’s hair, careful and steady.

The tension leaves Hera’s body by degrees until she chokes out, “It’s warm here.”

“As it always will be, when you are beside me,” she says, because she can promise that at least. Whether Hera will choose to sit at her side in the future is another matter entirely.

~

Burns have surfaced all across his body, blistering legions turning into bloody caverns of ash where he once had flesh.

Most of his lower face is gone, his jaw open and gaping and only bone. The ball of celestial fire is nestled at the bottom of his throat; it’s burned through until only a thin layer of skin separating it from the open air. He has to hurry. Every step is agony, he hasn’t been able to take a breath for several minutes, and at this point death can only be a relief.

He will not die in vain.

Prometheus finally, finally steps upon mortal soil, but he does not stop there. He runs home, to his city, to the center of the square. People recognize him, even with half his face burned away, and there are screams.

He collapses in the city square and reaches what’s left of his hand into his throat. He pulls all but a spark of the celestial fire free, and opens his hand.

He’s consumed in an instant, and his last sight is of fire flying – into stoves, lighting hearths, candles twinkling to life.

They will carve his name into the skies for this. He dies satisfied.

~

“How could this have happened?” Zeus rages, “How dare he steal from the gods! I will have Hades destroy him in every possible manner!”

“Yes, my king,” Hestia murmurs. She doubts he’ll ever make note of the contempt in her voice at his title.

King of the Gods. As if gods have ever cared for kings.

Hera remains remarkably, carefully silent at her husband’s side, hair neatly coiled the exact circumference of Hestia’s fingers.

It wasn’t something Hestia asked of her, nor what she was expecting. It is, however, a very pleasant surprise.

Maybe there’s hope for her yet.

~

Prometheus opens his eyes, which he wasn’t expecting. Everything still feels like it’s burning, but his body is back in more or less one piece.

He’s in a place both dark and cold, and when his sight adjusts he realizes Hades, god of the dead, is standing before him.

“You’ve angered my brother greatly,” the god says, but he doesn’t sound all that upset. “I’m to give you the worst punishment imaginable for your transgressions.”

Prometheus opens his mouth, and out drops the smallest flicker of a flame. “From the goddess,” he says, and the spark goes twirling, dancing across torches and leaving them lit, passing by a hearth so it roars to life.

Hades eyes widen as he watches the sparks progress, until it disappears down the hallway to light the rest of his realm. “Foolish older sister,” he says, softer and kinder than Prometheus thinks the god of the underworld is supposed to look.

The whole place looks brighter with the fire, it goes from ominous to nearly – homey, a place not only to arrive at but one to return to.

Hades slides his gaze back to him, “Those burns are from celestial fire. I cannot heal them – you must live with them.”

“I understand,” Prometheus says, even though he doesn’t. If he’s to be subjected to the worst punishment imaginable, what does it matter if he’s burned or not?

The god smiles, as if he’s reading his thoughts, and says “Very good.”

The next thing Prometheus knows, he’s back in the lands of mortal men. Different, perhaps – but alive.

~

Fires are lit in her name, each home’s hearth dedicated to her, and Hestia smiles.

Hers is not a domain so easily extinguished.



gods and monsters series, part vi