blown out flame

A Valentine’s Proposal ... After the Fact

Happy Valentine’s Day @sailorkillian!!! I’m your somewhat absent CS Secret Valentine! When you told me about your favorite CS moments I picked up that you are a big fan of the fluffy ones so here is a little Valentine’s proposal fic that doesn’t take place on Valentine’s Day and isn’t really a proposal .. read on to find out what that means!

Emma turned the key in the ignition and the yellow bug’s engine went silent. Killian’s eyes were closed as his head rested back on the seat. It had been another long adventure..

“So, I guess we can cross Narnia off the lists of realms to visit for our next vacation, huh?”

“Next vacation?” Killian replied, not opening his eyes. “We’d have to have one first, love.”

“Yeah, that’s true,” she agreed.

Killian finally opened his eyes and took her hand, bringing it to his lips and placing a gentle kiss on her knuckles. “Shall we go inside and try to get some rest before your son decides to explore another wardrobe?”

“Yes, please,” Emma said. After slamming her door shut she looked back at Killian over the roof of the car. “And I saw Leroy walking out of Granny’s so we should probably double check the locks on the front door.”

“And barricade the windows.”

“I can’t tell if you’re joking about that,” Emma laughed as she fell into step with him. He slipped an arm around her waist and they slowly walked up the stairs to their front door.

“Keeping everyone out for a few days of solitude with you is no joking matter,” he said, turning her in his arms and pulling her into a kiss.

When they pulled apart Emma’s eyes stayed closed as the smile spread across her face. “We made it home.”

“Aye, love.” He kissed her forehead and put the key into the lock.

He turned the key and pushed open their front door. Emma took a step inside and heard a crunch beneath her feet as though she had stepped onto fallen leaves.

“Killian …  what is all this?”

“Bloody hell, I had forgotten.”

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I love you in a way that lingers,
like a candle blown out,
the flame tries to spark every now and then–
desperate for a grasp on air and on me,

I try in every aspect
To break free.

I flutter against my heart–
Be still, be still,
Don’t fall apart;
I linger and swallow my words that feel shallow
And burnt
And bitter
Against my broken tongue–

I hold myself large against you and small to myself,
I try to be anything better than what I am–
this world still spins in a collection of memories,
and as asteroids I am hit every time;

I love you in a battlefield,
I fight and cry and bleed and see who I am under your gaze,
And I hope to come out better, brighter the next day.

—  as I am, a.c.

Moonsun angst; oneshot/multi-chaptered fic

It had been 2 months since their breakup.

Yongsun stared at the mug of hot coffee sitting on the table in front of her listlessly. Her face was bare of any make-up. The dark circles under her eyes were more prominent now but she didn’t care anymore.

There was no one to look pretty for anyway.

“Yongsun, don’t do this to yourself.” Byulyi said from across the table. Yongsun looked up, the familiar bitterness pricking at her insides. Her eyes wistfully traced the sharp outline of the younger girl. From her long slender fingers, folded neatly in front of her, to the crisp blazer that complimented her figure perfectly.

“Do what?”

“Torturing yourself like this. You deserve to be happy.”

“I can’t be happy. Not anymore.” She locked gazes with Byulyi, feeling the familiar swell of want in her chest as the words left her lips in a painful whisper. “Not without you.”

Byulyi smiled sadly.

“You know that can’t happen.”

“Can’t ,” Yongsun leaned forward. “Or won’t?”

“Both.” Byulyi answered, words ringing resolutely in the relatively quiet space of the cafe.

“Do you still want me like I want you?” Yongsun asked, desperate.

Desperate for a love that didn’t exist, that had been blown out like a flame, that had left behind the broken shards of a future that would never happen.

Left her blistering, struggling, after a love gone too soon.

A chase that had no end.

Byulyi’s answer was to place a hand over hers.

“Yongsun-unnie, what are you doing?”

Yongsun looked up, almost ready to lash out at the intruder for daring to interrupt them, but any anger she had disappeared instantly when she saw Hyejin’s stern face, fingers gripping the handle of her bag so tightly that Yongsun could see her knuckles turn white.


“Unnie, let’s go home.” Hyejin grabbed her hand and pulled her up, eyes cloudy with an emotion Yongsun couldn’t decipher.

“But Byulyi-”

“There’s no one there.” Hyejin looked at her, clearly upset. “You were talking to yourself again, unnie.”

Yongsun turned to look at the seat opposite again.

It was empty.

All that was left was a lingering warmth on her hand and a cold cup of coffee.

Blind? Lame? Love! AU

Prompt given by agileo-101 , Based on her AU. 

(I hope that you like it! I don´t think that it is what you were expecting

Darkness had been always a companion of his. An old friend that greeted him each time with open arms when the other children´s tauntings would become unbearable, it became a blanket on which he would wrap himself with, he had never been scared because he knew that it would never hurt him.

Never it crossed his head, not even in his most horrific nightmares that it would never let him go.

As he had never believed that his mother would be gone, to him she was immortal, sick but everlasting, she would be there his whole life, leading him through every step of his life.

But she was gone without warning, as if a cold breeze had blown out the flame of her life. As if taking his soul with her, Midousuji behaved like a robot, eating, speaking, meer reflexes, he was dead inside, but focused on training and training until he passed out, it became a routine, until the cursed day.  He could remember yelling for his mother, pleading for her embrace while fighting against a high fever, in his delirium he could feel cold hands on his feverish skin, clawing at it, gripping his organs and squeezing the live out him, faceless beings mocked him, how weak his was, how wortheless, his mother was dead, his sanity leaving as well.

The nightmare remained even when he opened his eyes, the voices of his relatives abused his ears, coming from nowhere, he blinked to chase away the blackness and blinked even more when not even a beacon of light broke through it, his heart beated wildly, fear choking him, he was drowning in confusion and panic so he rubbed his eyes desperately, screeching at everybody when they tried to stop him, and  screamed as he started scratching, leaving red marks on his eyelids and cheeks.

He saw nothing. Not the blood drying under his fingernails. Nor the worried, terrified faces of his aunt and uncle.

He had lost everything.

Midousuji became bitter about the new developments, the once kind boy was no more, he was rude with his aunt and uncle, he ignored his little cousin for the sake of brooding in his room (but he had the /right/ to do so), not moving, barely reacting unless it was in a negative way.

After all, he didn´t have a purpouse, not anymore.

Until life slapped some sense on him. When he heard his cousin crying to his aunt (“Why we don´t visit aunty anymore? Why Akira-niichan is so sad? Why does he ignore me, mama?!”),  her mother let out a shaky sob and no more,  and that was the moment that he realized:  

He was a burden.

Midousuji had readied himself and listened to the last advice that his mother gave him. He moved forward. So he left his aunt´s house. 

And he never regreted it, (he forced himself to not do it)  it was diffcult, it was tiring but he lived on. And when he went to his doctor appointment, with bandages wrapped tightly around his eyes and little hope, he met the one that became his eyes. Onoda Sakamichi. The other was disgustingly happy ( always, even when he was in pain constantly.–He later found out, when they started living together.)

Ishigaki was the person that opened his eyes (metaphorically speaking) when he couldn´t stop talking about him,  he liked Onoda. He liked his cheerfulness, his laugh, his soft voice, he even liked how Sakamichi could babble about everything and nothing, describing them as best as he could. But mainly, Midousuji loved how Onoda could erase all blackness, and paint the whiteness with happiness. With yellow.

Midousuji fell in love with Onoda´s heart. With all the goodness that the petit body was able to hold and he promised himself that he would repay Onoda, with the same amount of joy and love that his (almost) lover gave him.


It was a promise.

ficlet: The End Of Us
ficlet: The End Of Us

Listening to the soundtrack inspired this raging angst, the combination killed me. I’m sorry for this.

Cosima was laughing, making everything okay for a fraction of a second. Until the giggles caught in her throat, mingling with the sour iron taste of blood that was so intent on ripping its way up and out of her lungs. Like fish hooks snagging on her insides, pulling and rupturing and wrenching any happiness away. Until it spluttered from chapped lips that once held nothing but red wine stolen from lecture halls and secret laboratory kisses. Delphine swiftly pressed tissues into the small frail hand, a motion she’d carried out countless times. The soft white tissue was saturated in seconds, crimson seeping across the feathered paper, chasing away any purity it once held.

A cracked smile broke on pale lips. “I’m okay, it’s okay.” Delphine’s throat tightened, nothing could be further from okay. The petite scientist exhaled a shaky breath, and her whole body quaked under the strain. Lying back in the warmth of porcelain limbs, Delphine clung on as her arms encircled not just Cosima’s body, but her weary spirit, her tired sickened soul. Thinking back to running through university buildings, sweaty palms foolishly clasped, the clumsy entanglement of naive fingers. “Did we lose them?” Those are the days she would remember. Maybe. They were already slipping away. “Did you say, a jogging?” Simpler times. Glitching in her memory. The blonde became surrounded by fragmented, mixed-up images of the past and the present, the real and the imaginary.

“I’m sick, Delphine.” That was it, the beginning to an end. Those three words. Not “I love you” in a typically cliché fashion. “I’m sick.” A genetic identical with a future cut short long before her time, so undeserving of the way her body destroyed itself from the inside out. An immunologist with a myriad of secrets, swept up and into the whirlwind of pain that slowly but surely, desecrated them both. A two-dimensional dandelion with seeds floating away on an inked breeze only to become surrounded with innumerable needle tracks. Dark scarring on that implied summer zephyr. A blonde cascade that once crowned the frenchwoman’s genius mind like spun gold, now tangled and tarnished, unkempt.

“Delphine? Hey Delphy?” Her trance broke, glassy hazel orbs flickered back to the moribund brunette, forcing a weak smile. “Oui chérie?” The darwinist was fading fast, the eugenicist had failed. “Are you okay?” Tender fingers reached out and stroked along her pronounced cheekbone, Delphine shut her eyes, savouring the sensation, squeezing back tears. A heavy sigh, a non-verbal reply in the form of a chaste kiss pressed to her lover’s tainted lips. Resting her cheek against Cosima’s brow, inhaling, olfactory snapshots.

“I wanted to trust you.” This was her punishment, a lifetime of torture for her betrayal. An agonising countdown watching her other half flicker and burn out. Dripping candle wax as a mocking front for the fact her soul was being ripped in two on every diseased inhalation that racked her girlfriend’s broken anatomy. “You trust me right?” Delphine’s eyes snapped open. “Bien sûr, chérie. With my last breath.” The irony of the statement she’d tacked onto her response hit her right in the space between her ribs. A salty rivulet sprung from each tearduct, trailing endless regrets in their wake as they rolled down her perfectly straight features. Suddenly a cool hand cupped her face and brushed away the shameful tears, and a fissured susurration perforated her eardrums. “Then trust me when I say it will all be okay.”

Okay was a lie, the biggest ever told by the convoluted couple. “D'accord.” The tears didn’t cease. Delphine’s eyes had clouded over, and it rained everyday. Dark bags carried stories of sleepless nights. Harrow engraved on her features, twisting the angelic beauty into lines and under-eye bruises, too-soon wrinkles. Their exhausted bodies tangled, intertwined the way their souls were. Heartbeats synchronised, breathing interlaced. An illusion of tranquillity. “Je t'aime Cosima, je t'aime tellement.”

The last breath rattled out of Cosima’s putrescent lungs, carrying an almost inaudible whisper. “Ditto, obvs.” The small decayed physique fell flat, and both souls dissipated as Delphine’s entire world went black. “Cosima? COSIMA!” The shout withered, a candle flame blown out. “Don’t leave me Cosima please chérie please..” Each syllable dripping with so much sorrow it was like an ocean of agony flooding the room. It was too late. It had been too late months ago. “I’m sick, Delphine.” Binary had written an impending demise on backlit screens and sealed their fate. 

Unlocking her rigid limbs from the still warm body she drew her knees up to her chest, sobs racking her glass ribs, an iciness stealing over her being. Suddenly blood invaded her mouth too, she’d bitten down too hard and now the liquid iron fillings painted the delicate curvature of her lips like a morbid joke. She had to get out. Trembling legs slipped off the edge of the bed, carried her trance-like being outside.

It was raining. The clouds pelting her tall frame, taunting, sneering. As if to ask whether their love or the storm fell with more force. Looking down at the crumpled cigarette packet clutched between her numb fingers momentarily before tossing it into the gutter. Through the sounds of the street a dainty whisper floated down and encompassed Delphine, the words hung in the air and echoed around her head. Words that had been written in clumsy scrawl on a post-it and stuck to the fridge that very same morning.
“Turn my body into a garden when I die,
Maybe flowers will grow out of the same eyes that used to cry.”

anonymous asked:

Bellarke + "i hope you kiss me really hard when I see you" for 2x05 or after 2x16

Might Have Been (A Few Drinks In)

a/n: I went with post-2x16, because apparently I like pain. And as an added bonus, I recommended listening to Eli Young Band’s ‘Drunk Last Night’ while reading, which is also where the title is sort of from (and by recommend, I mean 0/10 recommend because that is a sad, sad song but it does go quite well with this fic). 

Squinting upwards in the dark, Octavia took one look at her brother and groaned.

“You were supposed to be watching him, Miller!” She called up in frustration to the boys as they continued to race–more like drunkenly stumble–along the precarious architecture of the Ark’s top.

“I’m not his babysitter!”

“Yeah, O, he’s not my babysitter!”

“Will you two get down before you hu–”

Then Bellamy swore, and a few metallic thuds reverberated in the chilly night air.

Fuck,” Miller groaned, the only coherent word Octavia could make out between the two of them grumbling.

“Idiots,” she muttered under her breath, anger rising. “Damn idiots just had to get drunk and go climbing. I swear, I’m going to kill both of them.”

“Do you want me to go get them?” Lincoln offered, not even bothering to hide his grin.

“What are the chances you’ll get dragged into their lunacy?”

He chuckled under his breath. “Octavia.”

“What. I know my brother. His stupidity is like a disease.”

There was a brief grunt of protest from Bellamy, and then scrambling noises as the boys finally realized they were pushing their luck up there.

“I take great offense to that,” he proclaimed, making an unsteady descent, with Miller following pretty much on top of him. They swore at each other as boots clipped fingers, because there weren’t enough toe- or hand-holds, because who in their damn mind would climb the damn Ark.

“You don’t get to take offense to anything, not when you smell like the inside of Monty’s still,” Octavia snapped.

Bellamy frowned mulishly and crossed his arms. Octavia grimaced, because he was about to get stubborn. Quickly, she caught Lincoln’s gaze and nodded towards Miller. Her partner slowly began herding the boy–whose eyes were starting to droop–towards the cabins, no doubt about to deposit him in their own so he wouldn’t get in trouble with his father.

“I guess I’m staying with you tonight then,” Octavia proclaimed reluctantly.

“Just like old times,” Bellamy replied.

She ignored the tinge of sadness in his voice, that same melancholy that popped up whenever their time before the ground was remembered. It unsettled her, that somehow, despite the tragedy they had experienced down here, it was still a better life than either of them could have had up there.

“C’mon big brother,” she murmured when she noticed his shoulders starting to slump and then slung his arm around her shoulders. “Bedtime.”

“S’not even late,” he mumbled, exhaustion and the liquor starting to drag him under finally.

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Don't Judge A Book

Sam imagine requested by anon! This imagine has been edited for reposting, as it’s one of my earlier pieces and I just had to beef it up with description. Hope you like it!

This bookstore was your home away from home, thick floorboards creaking a chorus you knew well enough to hear in your dreams creaking underfoot. You were overly familiar with every alcove, every inch, every pile of drying, dead ladybugs on every windowsill. It was by far your favourite place to spend a rainy Sunday night, especially one of this caliber. In times as stressful as these, you tended to lock yourself away with the novels, praying the calming atmosphere and information within the volumes would leech the panic from your veins.

A lot of strange stuff had been happening around your hometown; insects were swarming, houses were catching fire with little to no evidence of what could have started the infernos, and people were dropping off the face of the Earth without so much as a ‘gone fishing’ note tacked to their front doors. Your best friend was among the missing, her last appearance in the town dating one week back, the ghost of her memory already beginning to fade away from the interests of officers, the search parties becoming thinner and thinner, volunteers starving out as the allure of spending their night knee-deep in what could be the remains of their target faded into nothingness, hope flitting just out of reach. Everyone who couldn’t be fazed by the lack of leads or success was out looking for her, the owner of the bookstore included. As you were familiar, thus was your friend. The two of you hardly left each other’s side, some said you were sewn together at the hip… and yet here you were, and no one knew where she was. You had fought to stay with the search party, your words falling on deaf ears, the chief of police eventually clutching to your shoulders to explain his discontent with your participation, his gravelly voice whispering about the likelihood of finding a body, of how that was the last thing he wanted you to see, how 'just the adults’ were going to handle the investigation from there on out. You felt useless, overwhelmed, your panic so painfully present that the old man approached you, allowing you to crash between the aisles until the search was over for the night, offering his sanctuary to lessen your concerns. Figuring it was probably best that you locked yourself out of harm’s way (whether this harm come from the presumed kidnapper or the emotional trauma inflicted by stubbing your toe on your best friend’s mangled corpse), you were eager to surround yourself with the cooling scent of aging parchment, your fingers tracing faded, sagging book bindings as you awaited the return of the rescue team.

You were scanning through the mythology textbooks when you heard the silver bell above the entrance tinkle, announcing the presence of a visitor. Strange, this late at night, stranger still when you took into account the absence of most shop keepers and the locked door. Your best friend had most likely been kidnapped, and with the culprit on the loose, the last thing you would do was leave a door unlocked. Boots shuffled against the hardwood flooring, your back pressing into the bookshelf, jostling the busted binding of a particularly ancient text, the ruffling stopping the feet in their tracks. You cursed yourself internally.

“Hello? Is there anyone here? I can come back,” the voice said, a deep, gentle voice, banishing your fear like a blown out flame. A kidnapping murderer wouldn’t dare announce their presence. You poked your head out from behind the dusty bookshelf, the stranger’s eyes flickering too yours, a timid smile tugging at his lips.

“I’m sorry, sir, but the owner’s closed shop until the search is over.” You said, the tall man perking up at your words. His brow furrowed, hazel eyes dulling in the low lighting. He didn’t seem terribly informed on the subject, but, surprising you considerably, he seemed hungry for more details.

“I’m sorry, the search?” He questioned, taking a few steps in your direction, his hands running through the rain-dampened strands of brunette hair atop his head, straightening the mop as best he could. You nodded, wrenching your eyes from the attractive motion.

“For the missing girl,” you reply. “I’m sure he wouldn’t mind if you took out a book, so long as you left a few bills on the counter.” You assured, retreating to the mythology aisle, your hand trailing along the wooden shelving, glossy paneling slick with dried varnish.

“Missing?” He inquired, coming into your aisle, his eyes flashing from book titles to your face, his attention split between information sources. “My brother and I work for the government, we’re looking into all the abnormal occurrences going on in your town. Do you know much about the girl? Were you… close, in any way?” He asked, checking the spines of the tattered books as he spoke, long fingers tugging texts from their cozy homes before slipping them back into the alcoves their absence had created.

“No.” You lied, unwilling to reiterate your story to some could-be cop, no matter how attractive. You scanned along the titles, settling on a thicker volume on Greek mythology and monsters. Your hand reached for the cloth covering, but collided with the man’s hand once it touched the frayed spine. You both fidgeted your hands back, muttering apologies. “You can have it,” you tell him.

“No, you take it. You were here first.” He said with a kind smile, his hand waving away the inconvenience. You took the book from it’s home on the shelf, the novels on either side releasing their hold as you suctioned the desired tome from between them, holding it out to the man. He smiled, obviously grateful. “Thanks, I appreciate it,” he said, smirking adorably, hefting the text into his arms. “I’m Sam, by the way,” he switched the book over to his left hand, an astonishing feat given the weight of the pages, extending his right hand out to shake yours. You obliged, returning his undying smile.

“Y/n.” You introduced yourself, your hand slipping from his before your body turned to browse another aisle. You heard Sam clunk off in the direction of the counter and decided it was about time you headed home, return of the search party be damned. The bell jingled overhead as you stepped from your sanctuary and into the frigid rain.

The night sapped your vision, eyes adjusting slowly, rain pouring endlessly from the heavens to the asphalt below. The street lights cast a silvery sheen on the blacktops, as well as on the top of someone’s classic car, exterior beaming. You ducked your face and began walking to your car, hair cementing to your skin everywhere the two dared touch, trying to keep your thoughts from the weeks events, clinging to the serenity of the bookstore as best you could.

You heard the bell before his boots, turning to see Sam running towards you in the rain, his recent purchase protected from the downpour by his hunched form. He stopped in front of you, water dripping from his nose and lips, droplets running over his cheekbones before freefalling from his chin.

“You can have it. I don’t think I need it as much as you do.” He breathed down at you from his staggering height, his breath increased from his sprint to your vehicle. He pressed the book into your palm, water dissolving into the cloth cover. You smiled, thanking him as he joined the driver of the classic car, who gave him a thumbs up before driving away. You unlocked your car, peering through the watery glass into the newly illuminated interior, checking for anything out of the ordinary, pretending you didn’t notice the trash beneath your seats. Deeming it safe, you ducked into the automobile, tossing the book onto the passenger seat, the elderly binding sighing as years of misuse opened the book to the first page, where a number was scribbled in black ink underneath the name “Sam.”

Sly dog.

What happens to a flame blown out?
What perishes? Only the view,
never my magnified hand in yours

From “Anniversary” by Welsh poet and novelist Dannie Abse.

Abse died Sunday at the age of 91. In a remembrance in The GuardianVernon Scannell writes of Abse’s poetry: “It offers entertainment, deep feeling and thought, and its own quirky and memorable music.”

More book news here.


anonymous asked:

Do you think you could do that roomate au you reblogged with soul and maka?

uhH I don’t know what this is

She is as balanced as she always is. She is as calm as she always is. She can control the emotions that consume her, and he is jealous. His emotions are everywhere, and it’s like his blood is black, like he’s got a monster in his head and he cannot fight it, not the way she can, not the way anyone else can. He fights with himself, and the fight spills out of him and onto her. That’s the way it always was, he realizes suddenly. 

This is her as he always knew her: she stands in the kitchen with a bowl of brownie mix at midnight, her eyebrows creased in intense focus as she stirs. She is in strawberry-patterned shorts, her ash-blonde pigtails curled at the edges like loose ribbon in the evening humidity. Her lips are pursed, and her emerald eyes do not venture from the recipe. There is no task she undertakes that gets less effort than any other, from her news articles to her baking procedures.

“You’re too precise,” he says. “You should put more love into those brownies and less science.”

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Seven Minutes From You - Chapter 3

Alright, so I think it’s time we sat down and talked straight for a moment. This fanfiction will be exploring some dark themes (evidenced by both Chapter 2 and 3) and while it won’t be anything too scandalous, this is a M-rated fic. Of course there will be plenty of the good, fluffy stuff as well but I just needed to make sure that everyone goes into this understanding that perfectly clear.

I’ll shut up now.

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