crawling beasts

  • Beast Boy: Rae... did it hurt?
  • Raven: Did what hurt?
  • Beast Boy: When you fell from Heaven?
  • Raven: I'm a demon, I crawled up from Hell.
  • Beast Boy: ...
  • Raven: ...
  • Beast Boy: *tears welling up* You crawled up from Hell just to be with me...
  • Raven: Whatever *covers her face with her book to hide her blush*
Rayas de Tigre

Tony Padilla x Clay Jensen

Words: 1,845 or something lol

A/N: I know I´m not the greatest writer but I needed to do this :)

Clay has observed that there is a really scary beast crawling in the well-formed body of his dear friend –Skye has told him more than once that it is pretty normal if you live in the kind of place that the latino boy does, however the light eyed boy knows that there is something underneath-. (Maybe is his anxiety talking but Clay can’t control the overwhelming feeling of worry that pokes his ribs every single time he sees Tony absentmindedly rubbing his side.)

The thing that has been bothering him was the tanned skin of the mustang boy. His skin is smooth in almost every single place, yet, at the bottom of his back, there are some rough edges where his scars lay. And Clay has always wanted to touch them. (Always as in “a month ago”)

Not in a sexual or romantic way, of course not. They had been friends since forever, or what Clay thought it was forever.

He just simply felt like tracing those rough lines and pressing hard the tips of his fingers to make them go away, nothing else.

At first it wasn’t so hard to bear, he was too occupied by Hannah and her tapes to take notice or care about those evident marks, however when he finally snapped out of the horrific tapes, the knot in his throat unconsciously tightened whenever he had the chance to gaze at the back of his mate. (Brad noticed how Clay gulped and stood as far from the latino as he could manage after a few days, fortunately he had the decency to question what was wrong before punching him in a “brotherly” way on the left arm and “calming” him saying he had Tony protected from everything. That didn’t help.)

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Scars (Newt x Reader)

Originally posted by lordgolemord

For the ever-so-wonderful @nelson-and-murdock , who requested: 

The reader accidentally catches Newt shirtless? 

Words: ~3500

Rating: Slight angst that leads to such sincere fluff you may explode upon reading. <3

Hope you enjoy!

As a well-experienced magizoologist, Newt Scamander was skillfully experienced in the art of observation. With even the smallest twitch, he could decipher what was bothering a Bowtruckle, if a Thunderbird was ill, or what mood a Graphorn was in.  

Though he was trained in the realm of magical creatures, he found he indulged in the process of observing you. Memorizing the way you walked, the tune to your laugh, the little habits you exhibited when deep in thought, he found something new about you every day. He considered you a treasure trove of endearing behaviors that kept giving and giving, and providing the motivation to continue chasing after your affections day after day.  

The wizard kept this in mind as he admired the expression of wonder you wore when interacting with the creatures, no matter how often you took part in the duties of the magical case. He was in a constant state of awe when you consistently showed interest in his extensive knowledge of magical beasts, though he was always happy to sate your ravenous curiosity.

With the task of cleaning the Bowtruckle tree this afternoon, Newt had become a bit dirtied up whilst re-filling the tree’s pot with fresh soil handful by handful to pack it accordingly. It gave him a chance to enjoy your company as you tended to each Bowtruckle, offering to hold them as you cooed lovingly at each one as though they were your own.

“Do Bowtruckles have a way of defending themselves?” You piped up, raising a brow in interest as you lovingly ran your index finger along a Bowtruckle’s back, who gave a chitter of satisfaction at your touch.

“When threatened, they can be known to gouge the eyes from those attacking their home,” Newt explained, enunciating as best he could with his wand in his mouth. “They’re stronger in numbers.”

He took joy in the way your enchanting E/C eyes glittered with admiration. “I almost don’t believe it with how accustomed they are to you,”

“Just lucky, I guess.” Newt joked, clapping his hands together to rid of the excess dirt before shoving his wand back in his pocket and picking up the bucket of water, pouring it carefully over the new soil. “Though there was one instance whe–”

A blur of almost-transparent white suddenly flew by, knocking over the bucket and spilling its remaining contents on the magizoologist, muddying his clothes all the more. You gave a laugh as Dougal revealed himself in front of Newt with what could only be described as a mischievous smile of sorts.

“Oh, come now Dougal,” Newt lightly reprimanded, shaking his now wet hands and reaching for the Demiguise with expectantly raised brows. “Back to bed for you.”

The Demiguise slipped elegantly from Newt’s reach, instead choosing to slink around the Bowtruckle tree and hide behind your legs with a slight huff. You couldn’t help the giggles that bubbled from your chest at Newt’s surprised expression as he placed his hands on his hips like an angry mother. “I’ll take care of our little rebel here, you’d better go change into something dry.” you offered, placing the Bowtruckle from your hand back onto the tree.

Giving a shy smile at your courtesy and charming laughter, Newt gave in with a sigh as he wrung out the sleeve of his dress shirt. “I reckon that’s for the best, don’t let his puppy-eyes fool you, though.” he warned, his heart warming at your genuine grin before he set off for the shed to change.

You crouched next to the Demiguise with a raised brow. “Alright Dougal, you might have Mummy there wrapped around your finger,” you gestured to Newt’s retreating form with a knowing smile, “But you and I both know it’s bedtime.”

The Demiguise gave what could be considered a discontented sigh as he reluctantly wrapped his long arms around your neck. You expertly lifted the creature into your arm, cradling him gently as you made your way to his hanging nest on the other side of the case. You softly hummed a lullaby, a smile of satisfaction tugging at the corners of your lips as you watched Dougal’s eyelids droop as you neared your destination.

Settling the Demiguise into his nest, you inhaled sharply in surprise as his large eyes suddenly opened and dilated, becoming pools of glowing sapphire as his paw gripped at your hand. Though the creature’s gaze was upon you, he wasn’t truly seeing you there. You recounted all the information Newt had told you about the Demiguise, and tilted your head to the side curiously as the beast’s gaze returned to its normal shade of shimmering gold. “What did you see?” you muttered, more to yourself than anything as Dougal only continued to stare at you, though you noted his grip on your hand tightened slightly.

You mulled over your limited options in your mind, eventually releasing Dougal’s hand, though he still seemed a bit apprehensive at your actions. “Mummy knows best, I suppose, I’ll go get him.” you concluded, sending the Demiguise a reassuring smile over your shoulder as you headed back toward the direction of the humble shack. You speedily made your way through the landscapes of the case, casting a glance behind to make sure Dougal wasn’t following you.

You suddenly felt your breath catch in your throat as you stepped on a long foreign object that was splayed across the pathway, though it didn’t take long for you to realize it was a spotted tail evidently slinking from under your the pressure of your footstep. Everything became a messy blur as you turned to the the origin of the tail, a mass of spotted yellow lunging toward you as a thunderous roar shook the ground and a clawed paw powerfully swept at you, which you assumed was what caused you to fall back so forcefully into the dirt.

Catching your breath, you meekly looked up to the mighty Nundu that growled in discomfort, the surrounding bush leaves trembling from the vibrations as she pulled her now-throbbing tail to her body protectively. “Oh sorry, I’m sorry!” you quickly apologized, scooting back and raising your hands in surrender under the shadow of the immense beast as your heart pounded in your ribcage, “I didn’t mean to, I should’ve seen you there, I…” you trailed off as you caught sight of fresh blood on the dirt between you and the Nundu. “Are you bleeding?” you asked fearfully, concern evident in your hushed tone as you cautiously crawled near the gigantic beast that licked at her tail, now seemingly unconcerned and barely aware of your presence.

The worry in your face was quickly replaced with confusion as you observed the small bloodstains on the dirt path, noting the thin consistency and deep red color didn’t match the blood of a Nundu. Your eyes widened in horror as a new pool of red appeared next to the others, a few droplets outlining the darkening stains, and dripping onto your palm as you lifted your hand to your chest carefully. Almost afraid to look, you pulled back and exhaled shakily at the sight of your hand coated in red.

Forcing yourself to look down, you inwardly cursed at the immensely deep gash that dragged across your collarbone, the blood seeping from the wound and into your blouse at an alarming speed. Your ears pounded with the sound of your erratic heartbeat, the adrenaline from the initial encounter with the Nundu concealing the eventual pain of your wound for the moment. You took one last look at the cat-like creature just to be sure she hadn’t suffered any lasting injury to her tail before staggering down the path with quaking knees.

Feeling your thoughts float out of reach as you became lightheaded, the natural landscape of the magical case began to blur and spin as you stumbled gratefully up the steps to the shed, one palm against your open cut while the other hurriedly swung the wooden door open.

Despite the painful burning sensation becoming apparent with every passing second, you could have almost forgotten about your injury completely as you drank in the sight before you.

Evidently in the midst of changing into dry clothes, Newt had jumped in surprise at your loud and sudden entrance, paused in the process of putting his hand into his clean crisp white shirtsleeve. For a moment, a slightly awkward quiet settled in the shed, as you couldn’t help but stare at the shirtless magizoologist before you, his chest freckled and awash with scars that ranged of all sizes, some still in the raw process of healing over while others permanently streaked his skin like miniature mountain ridges.

The sight gave you chills that tickled up your spine as the combined sensation of distress and awe churned deep inside of you, as you had never seen Newt’s scars before. You met his deep herbal gaze, his brow furrowed in perplexity as you swallowed thickly, feeling heat rush to your cheeks, though you reasoned it could just as well have been from the blood loss.

The thought reminded you of your predicament, and you blinked rapidly to break out of the trance you had found yourself in staring at the shirtless wizard. This appeared to free Newt of his own enchantment, his seafoam eyes widening in horror as he gave a light gasp at the sight of your blouse splashed with crimson.

Releasing a breath you didn’t realize you had been holding, you found yourself surprised and slightly embarrassed at the whimper that escaped your lips, your fingers gripping at your collar as the pain swelled across your chest. Newt was immediately at your side, his dress shirt long forgotten as his gaze scanned for the source of the bleeding, “Oh, Y/n, what happened?” he whispered, gingerly removing your shaking hand that covered your cut, his brow creasing in concern as you trembled under his touch, pain evident in your ragged breathing.

“It was an accident,” you managed to grunt, shaking your head and avoiding the magizoologists gaze in shame, attempting to swallow back the stinging sensation from your injury. “I made a silly mistake is all.”

“This is far from silly,” he muttered, observing your trembling form and quickly taking action to scoop you into his arms before your shaking knees collapsed. If you weren’t in such pain, you would’ve enjoyed the intimate gesture, though there was a sense of solemn worry in the air as Newt set you on the worn workbench, allowing him to properly inspect your injury under the lamplight. He chewed at his lower lip anxiously as he prepared a damp cloth to wipe your wound clean in one hand, the other quivering with his wand as he recited a string of healing spells, gaze hardened and focused.

You felt the gash along your collarbone heat and tingle slightly, though it wasn’t long before it returned to the deep aching that penetrated your chest. Newt sighed as he finished wiping away the drying blood, the wound having finally ceased it’s excessive bleeding. “Y/n, how did this–”

“I startled the Nundu,” you hurried to interject, feeling a pang of guilt in stomach as Newt shot you a terrified look. “But I didn’t mean to, and she panicked, and-,”

“I shouldn’t have left you Y/n, I’m so sorry, this is my fault, I–” Newt rambled, stopping short when you grasped his wrist for his attention.

“It was an accident, no one’s fault.” You stated firmly, looking at the magizoologist expectantly and smiling when he gave a curt nod of understanding.

He set to work collecting various bottles and jars of seemingly random liquids and herbs, though you had faith he knew exactly what he was doing as the wizard poured the ingredients together to make a violet, paste-like mixture that smelled of ground pepper and fresh-cut wood. “Sorry-this may hurt a bit,” he warned, giving you an apologetic expression as he pinched a bit of the mixture in between his fingers and gently spread it across your wound, evicting a hiss of pain from you as it burned across your skin. “So sorry love,” he repeated, quickly finishing the process and wiping his fingers on the now blood-stained cloth. He felt his muscles finally relax as you gave a sigh of relief, the pain subsiding as a result of the mixture’s properties. 

Newt puffed out his cheeks in exasperation, his hands coming to rest on either side of you as he drummed his freckled fingers along the wooden ledge nervously, shoulders sinking slightly as he timidly met your E/C gaze. “I’m afraid it’s going to, ahm, scar.” he swallowed apprehensively, herbal eyes scanning you to gauge your reaction.  

He was a shocked to see no trace of panic or disturbance in your face, rather a look of curiousness and perhaps even enthusiasm etched in your expression as your E/C gaze dropped to his chest, causing his cheeks to dust a light pink in the realization he hadn’t bothered to finish dressing himself when he saw your injured state.

“Like yours?” you inquired, voice barely above a whisper as you observed the magizoologist’s scarred chest that was much more evident in better lighting.

Newt took a moment to process your question, or rather the enchanted tone with which you had uttered it, observing your keen gaze as you examined his own scars. “Y-yes, I suppose.” he licked his lips warily, unsure of how to feel under your admiring stare. “I’m terribly sorry, Y/n, I–”

“Do you wear them like medals… or like chains?” you asked, looking up to your wizard with E/C eyes laced with concern.

Newt was taken aback by the oddly-wise and potent nature of your question, the compassion in your gaze making his heart thunder in his chest with affection. You appeared so eager to hear his response, your patient yet expectant eyes giving Newt the surge of confidence in his answer, “They’re a part of me now so I suppose I, ahm, wear them…as a part of myself.”  

Newt observed your thoughtful expression as a ghost of a smile graced your lips, looking to his chest once more with newfound wonderment churning in your E/C gaze.

Under your stare, despite your uncritical and accepting manner, Newt felt the need to explain himself, the words spilling from his mouth before he had time to think of why he was even speaking. “I-it’s not their fault of course, none of these creatures are dangerous, n-not really, it’s worth it– though I’m aware they’re not the most attractive–”

You pursed your lips in thought as you tilted your head curiously at the wizard. “You’re proud of them, in a way.”

Newt found himself speechless, your hypothesis revealing a monumental element of himself he hadn’t realized existed until that very moment. His mouth hung slightly ajar, attempting to formulate a response, though he found most words escaped him, mind reeling with the newfound revelation. He found words weren’t necessary, though, as he watched you raise one hand and press your two fingers together, bringing them to your lips where you ever-so-gently placed a kiss.

Newt could have sworn his heart skipped a beat entirely as you delicately placed your fingers to his chest, atop the beginning of his largest scar that curved down his ribcage. He shuddered slightly as your soft, warm skin tenderly trailed down the mark, as if you were memorizing the pattern from your touch. The magizoologist had never felt so vulnerable and yet so secure at the same time, your gaze comforting and actions sincere. He observed in fascination as you brought your fingers to your lips once more, then placed them on another smaller scar that stretched along his shoulder and traced it just as softly, your contact fond and affectionate as you repeated the process over and over until you had coated every scar with a cherishing touch.

When you had finished the intimate motions, you brought your hand to cup the wizard’s cheek, gazing upon him lovingly.  “I’ll be proud of mine, too.”

Newt’s seafoam eyes looked to you in pure fascination, sighing as he felt himself practically melt into your touch. His chest blossoming in adoration, Newt gingerly lifted his two freckled fingers to his own lips, imitating your actions as he fondly traced just below your forming scar along your collarbone, the sensation of his fingers against your skin sparking fireworks in your stomach.

You felt your heart leap in your chest as Newt’s fingers continued tracing along your chest and trailed up your neck softly, his hand cradling the back of your head. His half-lidded herbal gaze flickered to yours as if to ask permission as his freckled nose brushed against yours, your growing smile giving him the encouragement to pull you forward and close the space between the two of you, lips crashing and hearts fluttering.    

The lingering prickling pain across your healing wound seemed to simmer away as Newt’s lips met yours, plush and warm as his fingers entangled in your H/C locks. He gave a sigh of satisfaction when you slid your hands from his shoulders up to his wild almond-streaked curls, leaving goosebumps in the wake of your touch against his bare skin. You giggled when Newt pulled away for air, his cheeks flushed a rosy pink as he bit back a grin and pressed his forehead against yours.

“Merlin’s beard, you’re so…” he shook his head thoughtfully, amber curls tickling your forehead as he chose his words with care. “…breathtaking”

You hummed happily and felt yourself blush in response to such sincerity, lost in his eyes that were like pools of raging, passionate green sea waters that frothed with raw ardor. Completely smitten, you drank in every detail of the wizard before you. Cinnamon dusted honey curls complimented his freckles that were like constellations in the serene sky of his shyly affectionate expression. Savouring the sensation of such close proximity, you allowed one hand to drift to his shoulder and trace along a similar scar along his collarbone as you looked to him adoringly. “And you’re a masterpiece.”

Newt exhaled sharply in disbelief, baffled by the sincerity and capacity of your words, their meaning penetrating him on an intensely sensitive emotional level. To be told that he, in all his battered-up, scathed, freckled glory, was someone of beauty in your eyes, was unlike anything he’d ever felt before, wonderment and gratitude washing over his form entirely. Giving a chuckle of elation, Newt felt the surge of joy and confidence to pull you into a much more fervent kiss, grinning at your squeak of surprise.  

When the need for air arose again, the both of you rested with foreheads pressed together, smiling like giddy schoolchildren, soaking in one another’s presence.

A light chirping brought you back into reality, the familiar sound drifting through the open shed doorway and crescendoing into a cacophony of peeping. “The Occamy’s sound hungry.” you smirked.

You couldn’t help but give a laugh at the slightly annoyed expression Newt wore, though it quickly dissipated as his maternal instincts took over. “I, ah, suppose we should tend to that.” he murmured, though you noticed he made no effort to move from your current position.

“I got it.” You smiled, giving Newt a light peck on lips with a contented smile as you swiftly slid down from the wooden tabletop. You giggled at his little pout of disappointment, snatching his clean white dress shirt from the shed floor and wrapping it around your shoulders as you strutted out of the shack with a wink tossed your shoulder.

Newt couldn’t help but stand there in the shed, stunned, blushing and utterly infatuated.

Later that night, Newt set to scribbling notes for his book, scrawling a few sketches of his beasts in the margins for illustration inspiration, his papers strewn across the workbench haphazardly. However, he found himself unable to concentrate as hoped, listening to your steady breathing in the cot behind him, he could hardly resist the thought of sleep.

The idea gnawing at him relentlessly, Newt gave in to the temptation. He abandoned his materials scattered on the tabletop, leaving his chair and meandering to the cot, observing your eyes fluttering in deep sleep. Gently, so as not to wake you, the magizoologist cuddled up next to your slumbering form.

Newt slightly panicked when you gave a moan of contentment, though he found himself smiling when you snuggled closer to him, mumbling something incoherent in sleep. Utterly enchanted, Newt indulged in the sight of you so peaceful, eventually gazing down to your newly forming scar along your collarbone.

In the same fashion as before, Newt traced along the ridged red line with two freckled fingers, the connection he felt almost overwhelming as he recalled the events of that day. His soul tranquil, Newt nuzzled closer, under the crook of your arm and into your chest where the soothing rhythm of your heartbeat lulled him to a deep sleep.

Hope you enjoyed!

A big thank you to all those who like/reblog, and to those who have left such lovely comments, they truly make my day, thank you! <3

Tags: @deanskitten@flourishandblottsbooks, @winchestermogernsternholmes, @maybe-maj, @orangepumpkinpen, @bringmetomnow, @blackseasiren, @kaijasimagines, @rebelliousreckless, @jacob-remembers-queenie, @yuikishirohana, @little-kampfer, @ryeosomnia, @itsleviosa14, @hesitantdanger, @captainaudreystark, @buckynewt, @sooper-dee-dooper-natural , @kowalskimander, @sammat97 

anonymous asked:

Do you have any fanfics where you talk about how Loki felt when he found out he was a frost giant?

There’s been some mistake.

The thought that kept spinning in his head as he watched their death approach in the form of an army of Jotnar, as Odin swept in and whisked them away, as he stood on the Bifrost and watched Odin and Thor roar at each other. A child’s thought, a prayer, weak and pathetic.

You didn’t see - what you thought you saw. It was a trick of the light. Maybe it didn’t really touch you.

Even more pathetic. He knew it had touched him. He’d felt its hand gripping his wrist and braced for the burn, but instead it was like a layer of flesh peeled away, his arm and fingers changing. The jotun had seen it too; he’d seen the surprise in its hideous red eyes and managed to react first even as his thoughts were racing ahead in leaps and bounds.

Some thing of magic, perhaps, some innate defense of his power-

Liar. Deny all you like; the truth was there, written on your skin.

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Finding the Beast Attractive

I’ve noticed in some posts and responses that people are surprised they found The Beast attractive. People, he’s supposed to be somewhat appealing. The Beast isn’t that far off from your average mountain man looking hairy guy.  He’s basically just a few steps beyond Nick Offerman.

He has to be appealing for the story to work. If Disney went full Kafka and had the Beast crawling out from under the bed looking like Gregor Samsa, I don’t care if you didn’t change a single word, there ain’t no way in hell Belle was sticking around.

 Of course now I’m imagining a Beauty and the Beast reboot starring Dan Stevens as Belle (cause he’s handsome, get it) and Nick Offerman as the Beast. No makeup or CGI necessary. The plot is basically them sitting around that big library drinking scotch and talking about stupid stuff.  I smell a hit.  

The Lantern

So, a couple of months ago, I (Mod Morgan) wrote this as part of my English class portfolio. We were told to try writing something outwith our standard comfort zone, and it was suggested I try writing romance. This was around the point where I started getting super into this blog, so, the following was meant to be a love story with just a dash of my own personal flair for the weird. Hope you enjoy it!

- Mod Morgan

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anonymous asked:

What about a fic where angela overhears shelagh and patrick in the bedroom?

Of course, anon. Here we go! I’d like to call this ‘beasts in the bedroom’ ;). There is only implied steam, though, so never fear. Sorry it took me a while, but better late than never.


Angela had the firm belief, like most children of her age, that her room harboured a vast array of monsters.

Her closet didn’t close properly, and she was sure that she could see beady eyes regard her on some evenings. The thing that lived in the space between her dresses sometimes clicked its claws, or released a hungry rumble, waiting for the right moment to strike. She had to move past the closet if she wanted to reach her bedroom door. On nights when the glittering eyes regarded her, she would huddle under the sheets with Cuthbert, too afraid to go and get her parents, and too scared to call out for them. The monster was quick, after all, and would reach her before her parents ever could.

She had taken to placing her chair against the closet so it would stay shut. Her father had told her that all she saw was the shimmer of buttons caught in the moonlight, but she knew better: the human sight grew worse as it aged, and when children grew into adults, they lost the ability to see the twisted things that waited with baited breath to snatch human life away.

Taking the chair from her desk had only solved her problems temporarily: the thing in the closet could no longer get out, but now a creature was lurking under her desk.

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Day 5: Warmth (cherish)

Out of all the faces Obi has, Shirayuki loves his sleeping face the best.


In his sleep Obi seems peaceful, free of the worries of the day. He lays on his desk, using his arm as a pillow. His quill is stuck between his fingers and his face, a single drop of ink has fallen on the margin of his parchment written full of his small, oval letters – a telltale sign of him falling asleep while working. Shirayuki suppresses a smile, stepping next to him and taking the pen out of his hand.

He doesn’t stir, but lets out a small huff upon her touch. The smile fights its way onto Shirayuki’s lips, her fingers sneak their way dangerously close to his hair as she pulls away.

As the candle gutters above Obi’s head its light dances around licking Obi’s face in waves of gold. It looks as if his skin was on fire, his hands for the kindling and his hair the smoke. With his sharp cheekbones carved out by the flickering light, he looks like some sacred icon, and Shirayuki is more than ready to worship him.

There’s not a feature on his face she doesn’t know – from the hairs dragging down at the tail of his brow to the ragged edge of his scar on his forehead; from the unique shape of the tip of his nose to the curve of his cupid’s bow: she knows every inch from every angle, as if his face has been the only thing she has ever laid her eyes on.

Like an old acquaintance comes the warm feeling crawling up her spine and nestling itself behind her ears. She’s blushing, and it’s one of those rare moments when she doesn’t loathe herself for it.

It may be the darkness of the night, the fact that they are alone in the pharmacy, or that Obi is sleeping – she lets her feelings to roam free, her eyes to linger, her fingers to trail the edge of his chair with a timid, tentative stroke.

Her feelings take shape slowly as an awakening beast crawling out of its cave, towering over her. She has nurtured them for too long, feeding them stolen glances and sneaky little touches – now they’ve outgrown her, soaring through her body with such tremendous power she shivers.

She dares not to give them a name, not just yet – it would make them absolute, something she cannot shy away from anymore.


Yes, Mister?

My name is Obi.

I know.

Ah. Good. I thought you didn’t. You never use it.

It’s a great name, Mister. It really is great.

If someone forced her to name these feelings, she would call them Obi.

Obi, as someone unattainable.

Obi, as someone she can’t help but desire.

Obi, as the one she cherishes the most.

“Sleep tight,” she whispers soundless, air barely escaping her lips as she leans down to cover her pharmacist with a blanket, “Obi.”

By Your Side

Second installment in the Carlisle Cullen “Eternity” series, requested by a few of you! I hinted at a possible plot line, and you all seemed to take to it pretty quickly. An anon jumped in with “Please continue ‘eternity’ story! I love it a lot!” so… we’re going to run with it. Hope you like it!

You can find all installments of this series, past or future, on the “The Story Continues…” page.

Listen to the series playlist on the “Playlist” page.

It was all oddly… formal, oddly medical, all so different from what you expected of the event. There were no restraints visible, no cloth cords to be tied about your wrists and ankles to subdue the thrashing you didn’t wish to dwell on. There were no mops laying in wait to clean the blood about to be spilled. Even your vampiric family was absent. It was calming, an atmospheric sedative to distract from the agony hovering like mist over the horizon of your mortal life. It was all so strange, but then again, there was never a rule-book written on how one ought to go about poisoning the blood and tissues of their lover. Immortality was achieved, as you’d heard it, through trial and error. Carlisle had been kind enough to create a sterile environment of his library, transfiguring the warm interior of his home into the comforting set of a hospital room. He had followed-through on the front of professionalism, at least. He was a man of his word, if nothing else.

The Cullen’s forest home was as close to silent as one could achieve so deep in the wood. The stream dulled its gurgle. The birds flew on lighter wings. There was hardly a sound in the house outside of the oh-so-very-human clamour of your feet against the silken floorboards. Carlisle, of course, moved like a whisper, barely audible. You were alone with the man you loved… the man who would, regardless of good intentions and regardless of supernatural outcome, become your killer. It was a matter of minutes away. Your human life was fading to twilight, just like that. You’d spent so few years on this Earth, and the thought of an unending existence was… unimaginable. There had to be an end, surely. You felt as if your mind was grasping at clouds, watching vapors sift through your open fingers as you struggled with the concept on eternity, your list burning a hole in the pocket of your denim.

His hands wrapped around your elbows, startling you in your panicked state. His fingers, chilling to the touch in the world’s most unnecessary warning signal, trailed upward, ghosting over your arms until they reached your shoulders. Carlisle spun you until his face was fully visible, every chiseled inch of his jaw, every fine line etched like faceted diamonds into the planes of his forehead. His youth had not faltered in all his three hundred years. Soon, you too would become frozen, both in progression as well as temperature. Your touch would shock those you met. If your family were able to remain in your life, your touch would frighten them. The mere temperature of your skin would send them into an instinctual frenzy-

“You’re under no obligation to do this, Y/n. We can forget this was ever an option.” He laid his palm against your cheek, lowering his opposite hand to lay flat against your chest, his eyes closing in concentration. “Just listen to your heartbeat. You’re frightened,” his eyelashes fluttered as he set his gaze on your face, reading every emotion that flickered in your eye, his brow furrowing. “You know I don’t require you to change for me. I am content to remain by your side until…” he paused, his eyes lifting momentarily as he grappled with his thoughts, sifting for the lightest possible execution of the  words your dying breath. Finding none, he continued, his forehead lowering to rest against your own, his thumb tracing over the curve of your cheekbone. “There is nothing in this world I value more than you. Nothing I want, nothing I aspire to be… you are my life, and if that life remains as fragile and as delicate as when I first encountered it…” he chuckled, his rosy lips curling upward in a tentative, nostalgic grin, “…then so be it. I see no problem.” You ducked your face to his hand, pressing your lips to his palm, your eyes closing out of necessity; if he were to see the concern playing out behind your pupils, he would jump to the wrong conclusion. You were ready for this, for the promise of endless sunrises by his side, no matter how hazy the concept. It was the pain you were worried about.

“Carlisle… you know I love you,” at this, he smiled, a hint of something painful shadowing the gold of his irises, the warmth you found there tainted by the sting of something like loss. That. That was why you had considered this route. You continued, your fingers lifting to press against his neck, threading through the hair at the back of his head, the strands sparkling in the dying sunlight’s ember glow. “I will not live without you, and I won’t condemn you to living without me. There’s no other option here. There never was.” His lips opened to rebuke your claim, but your finger brushing over the corner of his mouth silenced his unspoken words. “I have yet to find another path to immortality, and sixty, seventy years? That’s not good enough for me. I want you, always. I don’t want to be worried about falling down a flight of stairs and losing that.” He smiled against your fingers, his eyes twinkling with adoration. You imagined he would be tearing up, if such a reaction were possible of his frozen figure. He tilted your face downwards, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead. You couldn’t miss the inhale, the first of the last, he snuck, his face buried in your hair. When he parted from you, connected now only by the joining of your hands, his face had adopted the mask of a man, or monster, absorbed entirely in focus. He led you to what would become your place of death; a long, clean slab of metal. Sterile, like you said. He lifted you, effortlessly, onto the frigid slate, his eyes raking over your form, absorbing every fine detail before it would all be changed. His eyes lifted to lock on yours, the warm butterscotch hardening with professionalism, but churning still with turmoil. He clearly wasn’t thrilled about the pain either.

“Once we begin, there is a small window, about two minutes, where you can change your mind,” you moved to speak, but, as you had done before, he lifted a finger to silence you. “You need to know your options. If you wish for me to stop, I can only do so within those first minutes after the bite. After those minutes have passed, there is no going back. Now… Darling,” his voice softened, barely touching on a whisper, his arms rigid on the edge of the table. “Are you sure about this?” You nodded your head, your jaw firm, though your lips quivered in fright.

“I’m sure about you, Carlisle.” Your voice sounded foreign as it kissed your ears, perhaps only in light of knowing how it would be changed when this ordeal was over. He ducked his head to acknowledge your statement, tugging the soft cotton of his shirt sleeves up around his elbows. “God, I hope you’re not planning on making a mess, here,” you whispered, watching his eyes, shielded still with worry, sparkle at the sound of your returning humour. Your eyes raked over his exposed skin, the smooth planes of his cheeks, the flush of colour painting his lips, the shadows beneath his eyes, the hardened muscles of his chest, the ropes hidden beneath the porcelain exterior of his arms. His hands, buttoning his sleeves into place, so precise, so certain. He would take care of you. The words slipped from between your lips as a final farewell to your mortal life. Your last words, so to speak. “I love you, Carlisle.” His eyes swam with emotion then, his jaw hardening as he guided a hand behind your head, laying you down against the cold metal of the table, his hands lingering against the pulse point on your neck. He sighed, leaning down to press a prolonged kiss to your lips, his eyes on yours as his face shifted downward, en route to your throat.

Your pulse sped, a natural reaction to the horrifying understanding that a vampire was closing in on your arteries. It was all instinctual, you told yourself. There was no need to fear- and it began. Pain like razor wire slicing through your skin, so harsh, so sudden, overwhelmed so quickly with… with…


“Carlisle!” you cried, your voice breaking on the sweet syllables of his name, your body thrashing at the unadulterated agony twisting through your body, coursing through your veins. He had lifted his face seconds after the initial breaking of skin, his lips pursed as if in thought, his fist pressed against his mouth. It was too much, it was too much, it was all too much. You screamed, your cries bloodcurdling as they pierced the air, your voice clawing form your throat like a wounded beast crawling from the pits of Hell. Your hands rose to your neck with every intention of gouging the fire from your skin, but cold iron fetters locked around your wrists before you could make contact with the source of your agony.

“Y/n, darling, listen to me. You cannot touch the bite. You’ll open the wound.” His voice drifted over on muffled waves, his calming tenor lost on the churning seas of hazy radio frequencies blazing through your mind. Your mouth opened, and another horrified shriek split the peace of the library. Carlisle’s face crumpled then before ducking out of sight. When he spoke again, his voice emerging from clusters of searing flames, he was farther away. His words were unintelligible, and you couldn’t care what he had to say. You were roasting alive, pain a thousand times worse than pouring hydrogen peroxide on an open wound, a million times worse than broken bones. You’d take it all, you’d take a broken arm and a broken leg over this. You’d pour peroxide into your eyes to be free of this branding. You were being burned alive. Your hands were being held in one of Carlisle’s, down by your waist, when the second and third serrated edge tore through your ankles. It happened quickly after that moment; you could feel each new wound form as the vampire flitted from your wrists to your chest, closing his jaw over your thighs, your hands, once more over your neck, twice more on the inside of your arm. His teeth tore like a meat cleaver through butter, always burning, always scorching, perpetuating the agony that moved your limbs like snakes against the table. Your fingernails could find no purchase against the sleek metal, and the surface no longer serviced to cool your skin. It was too hot. Your world was engulfed in flames. Your hair burned, then your scalp. The skin clinging to your hips burned as Carlisle’s teeth ravaged your waist. Your heart hammered in your chest as your arms and legs writhed against the internal agony. There was no release, no end in sight. You were destined to thrash on your pyre until the end of time. Your voice emerged through clenched teeth, as feeble as a newborn bird after a fall from the nest, a whisper-like chirp, a dying breath.

“Carlisle…” The sound of his name emerging from the gravelly moans and ear-splitting shrieks brought him to your side within the span of a second, his hands closing around one of yours, holding you steady in his grasp. You thrashed away form him, but his enhanced strength held against your weakened attempts.

“I’m here, darling, I’m here.” His voice was distant, burned by the fire licking at your every inch.

“No more… no more, no more… please, make it stop. Please! Carlisle, his face mangled by the haze of saltwater blurring your vision, shook his head slowly. The inferno raged on, your pulse drumming wildly in your ear. You screamed, a plea for sanctuary, a plea for a savior, your temples ringing with the pressure your voice produced, the vampire’s head ducking into your hand. He was silent. “Carlisle!!!!”

Feed You the Sky: Chapter 12

In which Ivar presents Kára with her morning gift. Bear with us, I know Ivar is a little different than what we usually see in this fandom. @shesafreesoul and I have decided to take his kinks in a slightly different direction, but I don’t want to give too much away because it’s going to develop over time. We hope you guys enjoy this fic as much as we do!

Min elskede:my beloved

Min kjaerte: my dear (yeah, they finally use terms of endearment!)


Kára walked beside Ivar as he dragged himself over the ground, and she found herself admiring the graceful way he moved. She was unsure how a man could look magnificent crawling like a beast, and yet her husband managed. Maybe it was the easy confidence in his movements, like this was nothing to be ashamed of, or maybe it was the rippling strength in his arms and shoulders. Her eyes were drawn to the curve of his backside, and he looked back in time to catch her staring. A wolfish, teasing grin spread over his soft mouth, and she remembered the taste of his kiss. “See something you like, wild woman?”

She could feel the heat of a blush staining her cheeks crimson, but she met his eyes without shame. “Something I like very much.” She dropped her voice to a conspiratorial stage-whisper. “I found myself thinking of the feel of your skin under my hands, the way you moved against me in our bed last night.” She bit her lower lip before continuing, feeling her blush deepen. “I can still feel the memory of you inside me.”

“Kára,” his voice was half a moan and half a growl. “If you do not stop talking like that, I swear I will pull you to the grass and take you right here.”

“Did I not satisfy you well enough before breakfast?” Her voice was shy, and she refused to meet his eyes for a moment.

He laughed, warm and tender. “I think I could love you all night, and yet still want nothing more than to keep loving you all day. Think of this morning as only a promise of things to come tonight.” A sudden heat jolted through her at those words, and she ached to have him follow through on his earlier threat.

Ivar stopped suddenly, motioning her toward the door of the bladesmith’s forge. She shot him a puzzled look, but opened the door and followed him inside. He pulled himself into a chair that had been set out, and she looked at him with open curiosity. He pointed toward the wall, the racks where the newly made weapons hung until their proud new owners came to collect them. “Do you see that battle-ax, with the golden inlays and the runes burned into the handle?” She nodded. “It is yours, part of your morning-gift. I saw that you carry a sword and a small throwing ax that you are very skilled with,” he smiled, remembering with surprising fondness the time she had barely missed his face. “But I noticed you do not have a battle-ax. I do not care if you never carry it into battle, but my Valkyrie deserves a weapon as beautiful and strong as she is.”

The ax was indeed beautiful, and she traced her pointer finger lightly over the glistening of the gold knotwork inlay. The knots depicted the shape of a howling wolf, the single eye a small green stone set into it. She took the weapon, hefting it in both hands, and sighed in delight. It felt good in her hands, heavier than her sword, but light enough for her to swing with a fair amount of ease. She had trained with a large battle-ax, but never carried one into battle. This was certainly a weapon that could split skulls, but speed was her greatest weapon, and this ax would slow her.

“I will use this ax to split the skulls of the men who betrayed me,” she promised, meeting his glinting blue eyes as she kissed the sharp edge of the ax.

Ivar nodded, his voice husky, “come here, my wild woman. Bring your ax. It must be blooded.” Kára was compelled to obey, and she knelt beside him, cradling the ax on her lap like a child. Ivar ran his palm along the edge of the ax, creating a shallow cut. He took Kára’s hand and ran her palm along the blade, too; she hissed at the burning sensation the sharp edge cutting her skin. Ivar pressed their palms together, mixing their blood, then kissed her knuckles. “Blood my blood,” he whispered.

“Blood of my blood,” Kára echoed, a chill running up her spine at the hungry look in her husband’s eyes. He cupped her cheek, smearing his blood on her pale skin, and guided her lips to his in an eager kiss. After a few moments, Ivar drew back, head tilted to one side, looking at her.

“Now you have a choice, my Valkyrie. Would you prefer to go on our raid first, or hunt down the men who betrayed you?”

The choice was easy. “First we raid. I want to see Northumbria, tales of your great army there reached us even here. I want to see the place of your victory, to spill even more blood on that green land.” She paused, something akin to bloodlust smoldering in her hazel eyes. “And then when we return, we deal with the traitors. By then they will probably be better organized. It will be a much more satisfying fight.”

Ivar laughed. “If it’s Saxon blood you wish for first, Saxon blood you will have. I told you already that I will deny you nothing. I have thought ahead already, preparing for both options so there will be no delay. Our forces are gathered, and the ships are in the harbor, ready to sail. We can leave with the tide tomorrow morning. We will be gone for probably two months. It is risky to leave a newly conquered kingdom so soon after establishing control, but our marriage should quell most of the unrest. I will leave Ubbe here in command of a small force of my men. Do you wish to leave some of yours behind, too?”

She snorted, looking at him as if that were the stupidest question she had ever heard. “Of course. Magnhild will command my men, she knows the people here. Shall we grant them joint power to settle any disputes that arise in our absence? They must reach a decision acceptable to both of them in order to pass a judgment. If they cannot, no decisions will be made until our return.”

Pride glistened in Ivar’s striking blue eyes, the corners of them crinkling in a smile. “You were shaped by the gods to rule with me, min elskede.” He pressed another kiss to her sweet lips, sighing against them in contentment before he pulled away. Her hazel eyes begged him to kiss her again, and he was only too happy to oblige her. “We should spend the day preparing. I have ordered most of our supplies packed already, but there is always much to do the day before a raid.”

Kára nodded, hazel eyes glinting. “But nothing so important as this.” Her voice was a breathy whisper, and Ivar widened his eyes in a question. She laid back on the floor of the empty bladesmith shop, pulling Ivar forcefully onto her, “You will make love to me. You will spill your seed in me. You will show all men that I am yours, and you will let me conquer you as we will conquer our enemies.”

Her commanding tone had him quickly hardening, and he gasped as her hand plunged into his trousers to stroke him. His hands were already lowering her pants, and his wandering fingers found her already wet and warm and eager, writhing against his hand. She tore his trousers down from his hips, her hands like iron on his backside, pushing him into her core in one smooth stroke. They both moaned at the overwhelming pleasure of their joining, and Ivar bit sucked hard enough on her neck to bruise the tender skin. He then bit it to seal the mark, and she bucked her hips against him, her nails drawing light lines down his lower back and buttocks, even down to the tops of his thighs.

“Yes, Ivar, gods, the feel of your cock within me is the sweetest thing I’ve ever imagined.”

He pumped harder into her, growling in her ear, “tell me more. Praise me, min elskede. Tell me exactly how good of a lover I am to you.”

“When you move your hips that way,” he repeated his movement, gyrating his hips against her, almost questioningly, and she moaned, “yes, just that way, gods, Ivar, min kjaere.” She could barely continue through her gasping, but the his blue eyes, glinting with need, tore at her heartstrings. “When you move in me, I feel like I must be a goddess. Surely I will burst from the sweetness of your cock stretching me.” Her next words were sharp, almost a keen, “you hit some spot inside me, oh Ivar. Find it again.” Her hands dug into his scalp, gently pulling at his hair, and he sucked on her neck again, just below the junction below her ear.

She threw her head back, screaming, as her hips arched against him, beyond her control. The waves of her pleasure caught him, pulled him into the ocean storm of her orgasm, and all he could do was gasp and cling to her to stay afloat. He lingered inside her after they had both finished, and Kára, feeling strangely vulnerable after feeling so powerful, burrowed her head shyly into the warm, solid strength of his chest.

He kissed her hair, then cupped her chin and raised her face to gaze into her eyes. “Min elskede, you have no idea of the power you have over me.” Now it was Ivar’s turn to feel shy, and to distract himself he ran his fingers through the soft red waves of her hair. “Everyone always thinks, because I am a king and have led armies for many years now, that I always like to be in control. But in submitting to your desires, I find no shame.” He struggled to put into words the strange feelings swirling within him, but he had never been gifted at this type of thing. “Having you so confident and bold, Kára,” he paused, again, still trying to find the words, “hearing you tell me how I make you feel, I loved it.” He smiled at the shining in her eyes. “My wild, strong woman. It is your strength that first drew me to you. That is my favorite part of you: you are indomitable.”

This drew a warm giggle from her. “My favorite part of you, I think, is your honesty. I feared you because of your reputation, but you are a man whose actions matches his words.” She paused to kiss him, grinning. “That mouth of yours is my second favorite part of you.” He gently bit her lip before she drew back. The moment of weakness passed, Kára kissed his lips one last time before standing and tugging her clothing back into place. “Now we can go prepare for the raid.”

viridescent skies - 2

part two of ageswap au where Jedi Knight Anakin Skywalker is Qui-Gon’s former padawan and Obi-Wan is the shiny new padawan on the block
part one | part two | part three | part four | part five | part 6a - 6b |

thanks to the outpouring of support, this came a lot quicker than it would have otherwise! engage: obi-wan’s ruckus youth.

Qui-Gon’s little monster makes friends with the Gungan because of course he does: they have so much in common. At least it will be easier to keep track of them if they insist on being in the same general area; it’s much more difficult to overlook two meters of red amphibian than it is one meter of padawan that tends to wander off when it isn’t hiding behind Qui-Gon’s voluminous robes.

He at least doesn’t distract Jar Jar while Jar Jar pilots the sub, but he hardly needs to. The local wildlife seems eager to interfere; Anakin considers that they might have tried asking for a more experienced guide, given that Jar Jar is barely adolescent. The answer almost certainly would have been ‘no,’ but they could have at least tried.

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