deep terror


Tulsi Gabbard makes Jake Tapper uncomfortable with her honest assessment of the situation in Syria after her trip there. She bucks the deep state narrative. Please watch.


Requested anonymously: Dean and Sam get hit with a lust curse, but the joke is on the witch- they’re already having sex.

Word Count: 1800ish

Warning: lust curse, smut

A/N: This was such a fun request! Thank you! Hope y’all enjoy! XOXO

The witch stares at them with cold, dark eyes, hands twisted in front of her in some ritual Dean doesn’t recognize but doesn’t need to. It’s always the same. Some crazy ass curse that’s going to scare the shit out of them, leave one or both of them in close-to-death danger until they figure out how to beat it.

The bone-deep terror settles in as he braces for whatever the witch is about to throw at them, but it feels distant now. Familiar enough that he knows how to handle it. His arm reaches out for Sam in an instinctual movement he’s practiced since Sam was born, and their hands clutch at jacket sleeves together, waiting.

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anonymous asked:

a writing prompt: the kirkwall crew + purple mage hawke teasing cullen about being forced to work with hawke again during the inquisition. extra bonus if you could incorporate his infamous "mages are not people" line lol

What’s that, sweet anon? Did you say WRITING PROMPT WEDNESDAY???? (I am so excited you submitted this, here we go team)

Cullen has already issued so many orders across this makeshift plank of a desk in Skyhold’s courtyard that the inside of his head feels like a whirlwind of logistics. There hasn’t been much time to rest since their arrival at Skyhold. Guard rotations to establish, defenses to set up, injuries to tend to, beds for refugees – and now Varric is bringing some guest in to help with Corypheus before they’ve even managed to clear all the junk from the main hall…

Cullen takes a moment’s pause, shutting his eyes, attempting to rub the weariness from them. His head is pounding, as usual, but he tells himself to endure. They must be ready. Maker knows what else they might have to face here…

And then, just behind him, a woman clears her throat.

Cullen wills himself to weather this headache, then turns about. “Yes? Can I help–”

Piercing blue eyes, red streak lashing across her nose, and a shit-eating grin that strikes a familiar terror deep into Cullen’s heart.

“Hi there, Curly-Wurly,” says Marian Hawke. “My, what a fetching coat you’re wearing!”

Oh, no.

In a flash it all comes back to him. All those years of trauma and disaster. Surronded by fire and blood magic. Hawke’s grinning face waltzing through a ceaseless storm of destruction…

“Ooh, it is rather lovely, isn’t it?” says a sweet little voice – Hawke’s Dalish friend, what was her name again? She is peeping out from behind Hawke, green eyes wide and shining. “Such a nice furry collar! Do you ever run about the battlements and pretend that you’re a griffon?”

“With a majestic coat like that?” comes another familiar voice. Cullen turns and realizes he’s surrounded by these horrible people: on his other side stands Isabela – now there’s a name he can’t forget. She’s leaning casually, hip cocked, one elbow propped on the shoulder of that stern elf with the white tattoos, as though he’s a useful piece of furniture. (The elf has his arms folded and doesn’t appear to be reacting to this. Perhaps he can’t feel it through his armour?)

Isabela winks at Cullen, then goes on: “A thing like that is fit for no less than a Speed Griffon.”

“There is no such thing as a Speed Griffon,” says the stern elf.

“Now, Fenris, you don’t know that,” Hawke says. “What if the term just refers to a very fast griffon?”

Fenris appears to be unimpressed. “Would that then make me a ‘speed elf’?”

“Yes, but only when you’re running, I think,” the little Dalish one says seriously. Then she looks at Cullen again. “Do you ever run very fast when you’re wearing that lovely coat?”

Cullen says the first word he has managed to say to this group, which is, brilliantly, “Um.”

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Tomorrow, He Would Be

Peter Parker x Reader (Peter’s POV)

The fantastic and talented @jedistardust​ requested prompts: 3,4,20,25,94 as part of my follower celebration and specifically requested some angst. (Can’t tell anyone that I don’t deliver.) Her chosen prompts gave me an idea and inspired me to write this sixth and final part to ‘It’s A Lot Like Falling.’

Like the other parts, you can read this as a stand alone, but I promise the read won’t be the same if you haven’t read the other parts first:

Part I  Part II  Part III Part IV Part V  Part VI

Prompts:I never want to see you again.” “I’ll die without you.” I’m not ready to say goodbye.” Don’t you give up on me.”
Or in this case: gravity fails you.
Or: the moon falls from orbit.

Peter is 22/23.

Warnings: You’re not going to like this.

Somehow, she and Ned had both managed to convince him that going to Times Square for New Years was a good idea. The both of them had been so excited when he’d finally agreed, beaten down by their eagerness; at the way she had described what she imagined millions and millions of fluttering pieces of color and laughter would be like dancing in the cold air, how it would feel to stand in the middle of it all; amidst the lights and sounds of the city enthralled with the night.

She had smiled this sweet, lazy smile as she’d thought of it. She’d thrown her head back, hair shining as it ran over her shoulders like a lazy river, long eyelashes kissing soft cheeks, hands in the air grasping at imaginary confetti as it fell around her; everything about her soft and warm and cozy.

Maybe they were going; if only to see the confetti in her hair.

Ned had him fully convinced a few days later when he talked about how his mother had been to see the ball drop a long time ago; when her heart still beat and her eyes carried this light in them like Ned’s did. She’d told him that it was the most beautiful, life altering thing to be surrounded by so many other warm bodies; people joined together in celebration of the great panorama; another set of painted days alive and here and present. More days to hope, and love, and experience; to feel and to change, and grow.

Of course they were going; if only to see the smiles on their faces.

They’d planned the whole day out carefully: layering long sleeve shirts, sweaters, and jackets; it was a bitterly cold one. It was the kind of day that made you hold hands and push into warm shoulders, surround yourself in soft, sweatered arms, and push noses into beanies that smelt like flowers and reminded him of spring. She’d spent the whole day with her hand wrapped up in his and smiling at the way Ned and his girlfriend were doing the same. He’d spent the whole day nosing at the hair around her ears and cold, rosy cheeks; all ticklish strands and ticklish words.

Truthfully, the packs of people, hundreds of thousands of jittery bodies had his nerves standing on end; the sounds of so many hearts, breaths, and voices in his overly-sensitive ears building and sticking together to create one large, buzzing noise in his skull. There were so many people, so many different things that could go wrong; it was too cramped, it was too loud, and it was crushing.

He was even more nervous because he had left his suit in their apartment; had hung it up and tucked it away in the closet to only be put back on in a new year.

He had wanted to be Peter Parker today, Peter Parker only.

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In Dreams, When We’re Alone

Aaaaaahhhhh, so this is basically my attempt at exploring the trauma that, undoubtedly, came from dealing with/fighting off Pennywise. These kids are strong, but we all break once in a while. 

This is also the first fic i’ve written in years, so i’m kinda out of practice. Hopefully that doesn’t hinder anything though. 

Warnings: PTSD, nightmares, panic attacks, mild language 
Pairing: Reddie

Read it on Ao3 here

Eddie woke with a scream lodged in his throat.

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anonymous asked:

Hey, so I saw that nice ask about saeran with a wounded cry baby mc, so how about mc getting a real (real) bad injury and being all "meh, its nothing" but baeran is freaking out? (Also, your writting is top quality, babe!)

A/N: Writing this because I’m so stressed out and frustrated today and I need to let all this steam out somehow. And thank you, anon! You’re so sweet! :)

Nothing registers fully in your head. Only that you’re swaying slowly from side to side like a slowing pendulum, and that your vision is starting to blur as the world around you tilts sideways.

Someone is shouting your name, but it’s like you’re underwater, and a voice is trying to reach you through the thick layer of water that you’re buried under.

There’s a sharp, terror-filled scream that cuts through the air, one that you don’t recognise, the moment your body hits the ground on your side. It only dawns on you that it belongs to you when you feel flames licking the walls of your throat a few seconds later.

And then – and only then – does the pain set in.

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