ever present shadow

The first person I lost was my lover… I cried for 165 days in a row and the first day I didn’t, I felt guilty; as if suffering somehow equated to love and the fact that I hadn’t cried meant I didn’t miss them enough and I never deserved them in the first place…
The next person I lost was my friend… Things happened… things went wrong… It felt like my whole life was falling apart and when all I wanted to do was turn to my best friend… I realized they were gone…
After that I lost my soulmate because I honestly think I lost a part of my soul. I’m not the same person anymore, a part of me is missing and I know I’ll never get it back…
And one day when I’m ready… I will lose one more person to the distant past… One day… I will lose the ghost of those three people. The spectre I see sitting across from me at empty café tables, the one I turn to face at the punchline of every joke, and one I reach for in the within vast emptiness inside myself. One day that ever present shadow will fade away forever like the rest… but not yet. I ‘m not ready to let that last echo fade… I’m still trying to reconcile the loss of the other three because they were all so much to lose…
And I lost them all within a single person.
Red Jamie and the White Lady - Part 20

Holy. Crap. You guys. This is the TWENTIETH chapter of RJWL!!! I can’t even tell you how shocked I am that this story has made it so far. It wouldn’t be here without you wonderful supporters and readers. So thank you so so so so much for all your comments. @diversemediums is amazing as always, convincing me this chapter was actually good as it was snd I didn’t need to scrap it. :D

Catch up on chapter 19 HERE

Claire sat quietly beside Murtagh in the cab, watching the streets of Paris pass by. She’d never been to Paris before. There was a vague memory of an early childhood dream to visit Paris with her true love and kiss beneath the Eiffel Tower. Maybe she could persuade Murtagh to let Jamie out for one night and they’d sneak over there. No, she sighed, that would put him in too much danger and that was too much to risk.

When the cab came to a stop, Murtagh exited first and helped her with her bag, eyes constantly moving.

Keep reading

Don’t Look Back (ACOTAR AU) - Part 2

Part 1Part 3Part 4Part 5, Part 6, Part 7, Part 8, Part 9, Part 10, Part 11, Part 12, Part 13, Part 14, Part 15, Part 16, Part 17, Part 18Part 19

Summary: It’s senior year and everyone is fighting battles they do not want to face. Toxic relationships, conservative parents and alcohol are a bad mix. Quite frankly a recipe for disaster.

The phone buzzed between where Lucien and Feyre were sitting on her bed, surrounded by physics equations, sweet wrappers and a disrupted comfortable silence. They both tensed as they knew who the caller would be, but Feyre didn’t want to face him yet. Not yet.

Lucien watched as Feyre continued on through their homework, her attempts of blatantly ignoring the phone were unsuccessful, as although she stared at the paper, he knew she wasn’t thinking about the nuclear fusion.

He put down his homework and leaned towards her, “Feyre, maybe we should listen.”

“What if we don’t, what if we let him dwell on what he has done,” she leaned back against the pillows, her homework now discarded.

Lucien wanted to. Oh how he wanted to. He was so furious at his friend that he wanted to make him dwell, make him feel guilty. But the small part of his mind niggled at him. Help him, he needs you.

Keep reading


And my favorite two from his birthday photo session.

You’re another year older, another year wiser, and another year full of love and joy for each passing day. When I die, I’d like to be reincarnated as a dog like you. You’ve been there for me throughout everything the past 3 years and I’m glad to have you as an ever present shadow at my side. You really are the world’s best dog. I can’t imagine life without you- I always joke that you have to live to be 15 at the bare minimum but the truth is it’s because I just don’t know what I’ll do with myself after you’re gone. You’re as much a part of my life as my right arm.

No matter where we go from here, I’ll be honored to walk whatever path we take with you leading the way. Chase the moon big guy, I’ll be right behind you.

Welcome to the Vague Thought Corner~

In which, before we go any further, we’re just going to quickly touch base with my thoughts on each character at this precise moment in time. For fun. 

But also mostly for the sake of comparison, so that you can compare this to my earlier (and later) thoughts. 

Behind a cut though, because when I said “quickly” I was absolutely lying. 

Keep reading

super-skid-deactivated20170623  asked:

Oh that just reminded me! I also think that Dr. Iplier has tried to get closer to the Host, but with how reclusive he has become and the ever present shadow of Dark it's been hard. But the good Doctor has come to really care for the Host


Originally the Host would change his bandages himself and it would be messy and hard, but he’d get it done. And besides, he doesn’t really want anyone to see his eyes.

Then one day the doctor catches him and he’s all apologetic, that he’s sorry he had to see him like this and Dr. Iplier’s like “no its cool, I’m a doctor, let me help” and the Host is hesitant at first but… Doctor knows best, doesn’t he?

And the doctor’s really gentle too as he carefully wraps the bandages around his face, wipes off the excess blood, even hands him a lolipop despite his protests. Dr. Iplier rambles away or lets him tell a story (usually something from his old books) and he isn’t obliged to say more than he’s comfortable with. It’s nice.

Dr. Iplier convinces Dark to let him look after the Host’s eyes and, to his surprise, he agrees. But he’s always there, a shadow on the wall, and the Host turns back into his quiet self, only speaking to softly narrate. It’s frustrating.

(I didn’t mean for this to be so long but gOD)

Title: When Push Comes to Shove
Character: Danny Rand
A/n: I got this request awhile ago but I never had a decent plot for it until recently, so enjoy!

“Danny, you’re really blowing this entire thing out of proportion,” You sighed as you quickly walked down the street’s of Hell’s Kitchen, Danny trailing closely behind you. “My phone was just turned off.”

“That doesn’t matter!” Danny called, gently grabbing hold of your arm so you would turn to face him. “I was worried that something had happened to you again.”

You couldn’t hold back the eye roll. “The thing with the Hand happened months ago!”

“And the time you, Claire, and Colleen were kidnapped?”

“That was completely different!” You argued, trying to keep yourself collected.

Danny was always like this, sometimes he felt more like an overbearing parent than your best friend. He was constantly texting you whenever you went out to check up on you, which was sweet at first, but now it just felt like you could never escape the ever present shadow that was Daniel Thomas Rand.

“You’re right, you were with other people who could handle themselves!”

You felt your blood beging to boil, and your mood instantly turned from slightly annoyed, to angry. “So now I can’t handle myself? You know what, I understand that I might not be some kind of master at self defense, but I was able to take care of myself pretty damn well for the ten years you weren’t here!”

Danny didn’t say anything at first, and the expression of hurt in his eyes almost made you regret saying it in the first plafe. Finally, he let out a sigh in frustration, ruffling the curls at the top of his head. “That’s not what I meant! These people are-”

“Yeah, dangerous, I know,” You scoffed, wrapping your coat tighter around your form. “That’s all I ever seem to hear about nowadays.”

“It’s for your own protection,” Danny said, his arms were crossed stiffly across his chest, and his expression was set in a disapproving frown like he was scolding a newly adopted pet.

You,” You said in the coldest tone you could manage while you poked him harshly in the chest. “Are not my mother, I am an adult now and I can manage to go out on my own without checking to see if it’s okay with you first!”

Danny opened his mouth to retort, but you had already turned away from him and were quickly starting to disappear into the mass of people walking down the streets of the city.

“(Y/n)!” He tried called out, but you were already gone.

Unsurprisingly, Danny completely blew up your phone with messages and calls, it felt like you couldn’t go five minutes without hearing your ringtone go off until you eventually just shut the damn thing off.

In truth, you had already gotten over the arguement, you understood Danny had fair reasons to be concerned about your wellbeing and he was just looking out for you.

But he just made you so mad sometimes, nobody knew how different you were to Danny and his friends than yourself. It wasn’t your fault that you didn’t train under monks for ten years and miraculously obtained a glowing fist that could tear down walls or that you had a troubled past that led you to be taught in the art of warfare.

“You alright, boss?” Layla asked as she watched you harshly fill out some order forms at your desk in your bookstore.

You looked up, sheepishly giving her a smile while you tossed down your pen. “Right as rain.”

“Okay well, Danny’s upfront and he’s been asking for you.” Layla said before she pushed herself off the doorframe and went back to work.

You huffed as you stood, hands fiddling with the large buttons on your cardigan. You still hadn’t decided if you wanted to talk to Danny yet. Sure you missed him, but you wanted your point to come across that he didn’t need to be in your space 24/7 for you to be able to manage.

Danny was standing with his back turned to you, and you could see the way the sunlight caught onto his curls and made them look more yellow than usual. He wasn’t wearing a suit like normal and you were happy to see he was at least relaxing a little.

“Heya, Danny.” You said once you reached a suitable distance from him.

He whirled around, and you were surprised to see a small bouquet of yellow daffodils and white carnations.

“Hi,” He sighed once he made eye contact, hesitantly holding out the flowers for you to take. “I know you don’t usually like grand gestures and all that. But you do like flowers and I really want you to forgive me so I thought they’d help.”

The corners of your mouth tilted into a small smile and you took them from, taking a moment to admire them before you set them aside so you could pull him into a hug.

“You’re already forgiven.” You mumbled into his shoulder.

Danny sighed, arms wrapping you tightly. “Good, I don’t like it when we fight, even if you were right.”

You pulled to look at him, moving your hand to ruffle his curls. “Yes, I was. But I understand why were concerned, and it wasn’t very nice of me to yell at you.”

Danny grinned, lightly brushing his nose against yours while his eyes fluttered shut. “So, we’re okay?”

You planted a quick peck on his lips. “You know I can never stay mad at you for too long.”

Come on, Cassian

Rated: K

Words: 1200 ish

Summary: Cassian is afraid to fly again and Nesta makes sure he does.  

Read on AO3

A one shot I’m pretty proud of

There were days when he’d look at himself and all he’d see was failure. A person worthy of being thrown to the wolves and the wasteland beyond. Bastard-born nobody would be written along his body like the tattoos he held so dearly. Maybe that’s what his mother saw that day, a bastard-born nobody.

There were days where the lines on his forehead could count as scars. When Cassian looked at the mirror, a warrior didn’t stand erect before him, didn’t shout commands or issue orders. It was only a broken man with broken promises, and a hope that dimmed every time he saw the sun.

The stark white of his bandages blinded him, made him blink over and over again to release the glare forming in his eyes. They would laugh at him, berate him for believing the world was anything but what it was. A disappointment; a war that took no prisoners and made few friends. Cassian could bear the pain of his wings, but he could not bear the sorrow.

Keep reading

aeryea  asked:

16 Armin <3 angst come to me~.

Angst it is - hope you like it.

Send a MCL character(s) or pairing + a number

16 - Drop The Attitude - Armin

Candy’s patience wore thin, as did her affection for her once gamer-prince. She wasn’t sure when it started or even when it began to get tiring to go on dates instead of fun or when his once-endearing rants about games became headaches. Every word became a needle to her eardrum, each touch was an uncomfortable itch. Her annoyance at the ever-present Armin within her shadow was starting to become unbearable.

She wasn’t sure why they were still together or how Armin didn’t even seem to notice the way she withdrew from him. Maybe she was still clinging onto that small thread of hope that the fire will get rekindled. That maybe one day, she’d wake up and things would be just like it was before when they first started dating. But the hope grew thinner each passing week until she couldn’t lie to herself anymore. 

She took a deep breath as she listened to another one of his rants as he the game over screen flashed on the TV - the clock told her it was only nine at night, yet she felt as if it was much, much, later. It was supposed to a be a Friday night date night. Which for Armin included gaming the night away. She rubbed her temples as she tossed her legs over the edge of his bed.

“We could’ve gone out or something.” She meant for it to be a casual remark, yet it came out with a bit of edge. “We don’t have to play video games all night. We could go to a late night breakfast at Denny’s.“

They used to love stuffing their faces with breakfast food at a clearly non-breakfast time of day. It was funny to them - or it used to be. Armin rolled his eyes.

“Yes, Candy, we have to play video games all night. This game just came out and there’s already people who have finished the entire thing. We need to catch up so we don’t have to keep blacklisting tags on Tumblr to avoid spoilers.“

There was a spark of something in his eyes that she chooses to ignore as he added, “You have to survive for our followers Candy, our blog’s been dead for a while now because of this game.“

You’re blog’s been dead,” Candy snapped, “And you’re the one who needs to finish the game. I haven’t even held the controller once since I got here.&#157;”

Armin eyed her warily, speaking carefully, “Drop the attitude, would you? If you wanted to play, you just had to ask.“

She made a face that Armin could only describe as the most unattractive face he’d ever seen on her. Until now, he didn’t such a thing was possible. She crossed her arms over her chest. 

“I don’t want to play.“

He furrowed his brows in mild confusion, the tone of her voice made his gut turn. He hated the bad feeling that was rising in his chest. He turned off the game system and got up from his position on the floor. He offered a wary smile.

“Okay, Denny’s it is then. If you didn’t want to play at all, I would’ve stopped a long time ago. Besides, I’ve worked up quite the appetite fighting that last boss.“

He reached for his wallet - it laid beside her on the bed along with his keys, but looked at her in confusion when her hand gently gripped his wrist. She refused to look back at him, biting her bottom lip. 

“I don’t -” How was she supposed to say this? “I want to play Armin, just not with you. Not right now.”&#157;

The bad feeling rose. His throat tightened as he struggled to understand the meaning of her words. He hoped that it didn’t mean what he thought. His heart began to beat unsteadily against his ribs. He whispered her name, but she still didn’t look at him. She rose from the bed.

“I just…”&#157; Her words wavered, anger and frustration and sadness all caused a tone to her voice that made him want to cry. “I don’t think I can do this - Us - right now. Maybe not ever. I don’t know -“

She let out a ragged breath, but he swallowed the lump in his throat.

“What do you mean you don’t know,” His voice swayed and he wasn’t sure what he was feeling at the moment, just that it created a bitter taste in his mouth and a fire to burn in his veins.

“I don’t fucking know,” She snapped, this time daring to turn to look directly at him. He faltered seeing tears welling in the corners of her eyes. “It means just that - I don’t know. God, I wish I knew, but I don’t! I just know that I can’t stand this anymore - I can’t stand us - I can’t stand -“


She stopped before the word left her mouth, but her message was pretty clear. Armin recoiled, shocked, angry, and hurt. His eyes portrayed all of his emotions at once as he met her eyes. She knew the way he looked at her would burn into her memory, but her words would forever burn in his. 

“Candy.” He whispered and for the first time in the years they’ve been together, Candy heard nothing but a brokenness slipping through his words. “I can be too much for people sometimes. I get passionate and impulsive, but I thought you understood that - “

I thought you understood me. Armin ran his hands through his hair before he collapsed to sit in his bed, his head hanging low as he mumbled things that she couldn’t quite understand. Candy lingered in the doorway, her heels rocking as she was unsure if she should stay to hear what he had to say or just leave now before things got worse.

By the time he looked up, she had chosen the later.

The first person I lost was my lover…
I cried for 165 days in a row and the first day I didn’t, I felt guilty; as if suffering somehow equated to love and the fact that I hadn’t cried meant I didn’t miss them enough and I never deserved them in the first place…
The next person I lost was my friend… Things happened… things went wrong… It felt like my whole life was falling apart and when all I wanted to do was turn to my best friend… I realized they were gone…
After that I lost my soulmate because I honestly think I lost a part of my soul. I’m not the same person anymore, a part of me is missing and I know I’ll never get it back…
And one day when I’m ready… I will lose one more person to the distant past… One day… I will lose the ghost of those three people.
The spectre I see sitting across from me at empty café tables, the one I turn to face at the punchline of every joke, and one I reach for in the within vast emptiness inside myself. One day that ever present shadow will fade away forever like the rest… but not yet. I‘m not ready to let that last echo fade… I’m still trying to reconcile the loss of the other three because they were all so much to lose…
And I lost them all within a single person.
—  Ranata Suzuki   “All the people I’ve lost”

vex and percy have two boys. milo and leonard de rolo; two bright-eyed, thick-haired boys with their mother’s eyes and their father’s hair. their names– merciful and lion-hearted are everything they hope their children will be, and they are.

leo grows up like his uncle vax; lanky and tall, he’s quick with his tongue and quicker with his hands. the nobles of whitestone guard their prized possessions tightly these days. he’s a terror; hiding from his parents and the servants (but never vex– she can spot him anywhere as if he’s wearing a blinking light on his forehead) and staying that way for hours. he enjoys watching his aunt cassandra at court, and he learns a great deal about politics as he grows.

milo is just like his mother. smart, kind and tough; by the time he’s in his early twenties he’s an expert swordsman and can beat most, if not all of the warriors in whitestone. he trains with grog every time he visits. milo takes an interest in religion; he becomes a cleric of sarenrae and follows in pike’s footsteps.

when they’re younger, trinket watches over their cribs without even being asked; he stays there for days and days, following vex and percy when the children are taken out, always keeping a watchful eye. even when his fur starts to go grey with age, and the boys are as tall as their father and are more than capable of taking care of themselves, trinket watches, an ever-present shadow. he won’t let vex down. he’ll take care of them.

Holes - A Nessian Fic

For @feyre-cursebreaker who asked for Nessian + silence and to be based on this delightful and not at all soul destroying piece of fanart by @meabhd. This is what I came up with. sorry it took a while! Thank you @widowshulk and @pterodactylichexameter for reading this over for me! 

Title: Holes

Summary: Nesta returns to her rooms and finds an exhausted Cassian alone there, waiting for her, a letter for her held in his hands. 

Teaser: ‘Shreds remain of those once beautiful wings. And they had been beautiful. Strange how she only realises that, lets herself think and fully appreciate that now that they’re almost gone. They had been alien and frightening and upon first seeing them she had wanted to keep them, both of them, away from Elain. Those hulking brutes with the unnatural wings looming over them, ever present shadows at their backs.’

Link: AO3

Nesta finally makes it back to her rooms, smoothing down the front of her dress, cursing her overly long limbs and the difficulties they cause her. The door to her bedchamber is slightly ajar when she reaches it however and she pauses, one hand outstretched. Chewing her lip she wonders if she ought to fetch someone, sure that she had left the doors firmly closed before leaving. Then she decides to hell with it, the mood she’s in she almost wants someone to be in there, try something, give her an excuse to hurt someone.

Opening the door, hoping it appears as though she had never questioned doing so, she strides purposefully into the room. And is almost immediately brought up short by what she finds inside.

Cassian sits alone on the edge of her bed. Her first impulse would have been, should have been, to snap at him and demand that he leave, now. His scent fills the cool air like a heady perfume, clinging to everything, drenching her in him. He perches on the bed as though it’s only right for him to be there, as though he belongs here, in her chambers, the one part of this damned kingdom that is wholly hers.

She should fold her arms over her chest and coldly ask him to get out but…But the words won’t come. They lodge and stick in her throat and she can’t get them out. Above her surprise and indignation at finding him here of all places is the horror that builds over the sick churning of her stomach. It throws up new emotions that she can’t contend with and doesn’t understand.

This is the first time she’s seen him since Hybern. The first time she’s seen him since she was Made and he was broken. The first time she’s seen him since everything between them was shattered, he no longer the cocky, self-assured army commander who came to her to deliver his High Lord’s messages; she no longer the cold, indifferent human woman who had sneered at him and pushed him away because that was easy and what he represented, what he offered, was hard.

Standing in that doorway, seeing him there, before she even opens her mouth, before either of them speaks, she knows that everything has changed between them. The dynamic they once had no longer exists and nothing about this is easy anymore. Least of all pushing him away. They’re…connected now. In a way she can’t explain but the thick vein of emotion that pulses inside her like a river rushing through her blood and bones and heart is more than she can stand and she can’t look at him like this and just send him away…She can’t.

His wings are draped out on the bed behind him, tattered black silk pooling over her soft lilac sheets. Her heart launches itself up into her throat as though for a moment it had thought of going to him, gifting itself to him, as though that would help. But at the last moment it changed its mind, lodging there instead, and no matter how hard she tries she can’t swallow it back down again where it belongs.

His wings. His wings.

She had been there in Hybern, had seen him flare them wide to protect his brother, but…She had never expected this. This ragged ruin, both of the wings and of the male they belonged to. She had thought the Fae would have healed him, had thought they could have healed anything, had thought he would be alright but…

Shreds remain of those once beautiful wings. And they had been beautiful. Strange how she only realises that, lets herself think and fully appreciate that now…Now that they’re almost gone. They had been alien and frightening and upon first seeing them she had wanted to keep them, both of them, away from Elain. Those hulking brutes with the unnatural wings looming over them, ever present shadows at their backs.

Now…Now he seems…diminished. Smaller somehow, so much smaller, so much less without them. There’s an empty space behind him, and within, which should be filled by those wings and the howl of wind that rushed past them whenever he took flight. Instead there are holes that can never be filled by anything else. She can see the tattoo that runs the length of his spine, the detailed Illyrian markings set down in a thin column, usually covered by his sword or blocked out by the vast expanses of black membrane. It feels like a secret that she should never have known, a secret that the world should never have been able to see. It feels oddly personal, oddly intimate and a part of her wants to trace the dark, swirling markings with her finger while the other wants to look away.

It hurts, she realises with a jolt. She hurts for him, for what he gave up to protect someone he loved so fiercely. There’s a deep, aching sadness that lies deep in the hollows of her heart, filling them with his pain as she looks at him.

For the first time she wonders, truly wonders, what it would be like to fly. Then she wonders what it would be like to fly and be told that you never would again. She finds herself gripping the doorframe for support at that.

She sees it again in her mind’s eye, the blast of power that had torn him apart and his scream…His scream had ripped through her and sometimes echoed in her dreams, a hideous melody to accompany her own death and rebirth. There had been nothing but silence in that Cauldron when it had torn her apart and shoved her back together again without a thought, without a care, that she would rather have drowned in there than returned as she was. Her own screams had been empty, her throat and lungs flooded by the Cauldron’s black waters and no sound had ever managed to break free of the iron cage she had been held in.

In her dreams, though…In her dreams there is Cassian. His voice manages to break through to her even as she feels her heart stop beating, feels herself die. His voice rings through her, shattering along her bones as though it is her that he screams for in those moments. His voice fills the emptiness that had haunted her inside that Cauldron. Terrible as it was, she thinks she would prefer the silence. She never wants to hear that sound, that agony from him, ever again.

Nesta realises she’s still hovering in the doorway and hasn’t moved. It’s as though she’s been fixed to this spot, bidden to stare at those ruined wings for the rest of her days, the worst kind of torment. She considers turning and simply leaving, chased out of her own rooms by the spectre of the male that made her feel….What? Perhaps that he made her feel anything at all is enough.

Then he turns to her and she knows that she can’t leave him, any more than she can ask him to leave. His wings, his torn, ruined wings are nothing compared to his eyes. They hold all of the vast, black emptiness that she had drowned in until it had killed her. But this…This hollow darkness in him she finds she can’t walk away from. Even though every instinct within her newly Made body screams at her to run from it, she finds herself walking towards him instead.

Hesitantly, she sits down on the bed beside him. His eyes remain fixed on hers for a long moment before he looks away again, visibly wincing as he shifts his wings with the movement. Nesta watches him feeling, for the first time in her life, a hopelessness that tunnels her out until she feels as empty as he is. Even in that hovel, unable to provide for her sisters, unable to hunt as Feyre had, unable to do anything to help them she had not felt this hopeless. She had had her plan, her spite, her bid to see what their father would do if they did indeed begin to truly starve and die. She had had something, bitter and cruel and meaningless as it might have seemed. But in the face of this…She has nothing.

What could she say to him now? I’m sorry. It will be alright. They will heal. So will you. He would only snarl at her for every one and then likely leave. She doesn’t know why, doesn’t know why it causes her soul to shrink back, pressing itself hard against the very edge of herself in horror, but she can’t bear that. She can’t bear him walking away from her just now. So she says nothing. She only sits there beside him, letting the silence stretch.

He doesn’t break it either, it simply endures between them. Until she looks down and notices a piece of paper held limply in one of his hands. Glancing up at him he refuses to meet her eyes and she considers leaving it, pretending that she hasn’t seen but then she sees a word, the single word at the top of the page and she finds she can’t look away. Slowly, she reaches out, the tips of her fingers lightly scraping his hand as she closes her own around the paper.

She gently pulls it free and he offers no resistance, allowing it to slide from his loose grip without protest, as though he barely notices. There are only three words printed on the note, in a hand she knows is Cassian’s, big and bold and clear, the ink pressed into the paper as firmly and meaningfully as though it were skin, the nib of a quill the needle, the words a tattoo, a commitment, whenever they’re set down by his hand.

Her name is printed at the top and on the line below he has only managed two words. ‘I’m sorry.’ The space beside them is filled with a single black dot that has melted through the thin paper. As though he had placed the quill upon its surface, intending to write more but it had become stuck, suspended in silence until it had pierced the paper and he had given up.

A hard lump forms in her throat as she stares down at those words that he had written, words that he had written for her and tries to understand. Glancing at him she feels something throb and pull deep inside her chest and she hears an echo in her head, like a half-remembered song. ‘I will stand on that battlefield again, Nesta Archeron, to protect this house—your people. I can think of no better way to end my existence than to defend those who need it most.’ Instead he had watched while she had died and…And perhaps that hurt him almost as much as those ruined wings.

The lump in her throat forms itself into tears that stain her eyes.

Blinking rapidly she turns to look at him again. His eyes are still distant and unfocused, fixed on the same spot they’ve been whenever he hasn’t been looking at her. She follows his gaze to the huge window that cuts a chunk from her bedroom wall to reveal the world beyond. Lacking glass, like all of the windows here, it provides free access to the waiting skies beyond.

Tension ripples within Cassian’s muscles at her side, as though he’s fighting something deep within him that roars for him to launch himself from that window. It terrifies her that she doesn’t know if it’s because over five hundred years worth of instinct burns in his blood and urges him to spread the wings the wind that sings to him does not yet know he’s lost and fly. Or if it is because he knows they’re ruined and some part of him longs to fall. She doesn’t know.

Again, words fail her. She doesn’t even understand what she’s seeing, what she’s feeling, so how can she find anything to say to him to express that? Instead she lets instinct drive her, heedless for once of thought and consequence, she shifts a little closer to him. Both hands loop around his arm, holding onto him, anchoring them, him to her and her to him. She feels less lost when she has something to hold on to. Despite the deadened cold that haunts his eyes he remains warm. That dares a faint flicker of hope to pulse inside her.

Slowly, he turns his head to look at her, dragging his gaze away from the beckoning heavens that are slowly fading from a clear blue to a rich, velvety purple. Inviting, even to her, who has never felt the sky lightly kiss her cheek as it embraces her, to him…But he looks away from it and looks down at her instead. For a moment she’s afraid that she’ll find that emptiness in his eyes again, that he’ll allow her hands to slip away from him as easily and indifferently as he had allowed her to take the note from between his fingers. And she knows that she can’t bear that, can’t bear it if he pulls away. She knows that that, above everything else that has happened to her these past few weeks, would break her.

He does not pull away. His eyes soften as he looks down at her, her armour of ice and steel melted away from her like a shed skin. They remain on the bed, clothed and separated by a healthy distance, neither breaking the silence between them, but as she looks into those raw, unguarded hazel eyes she has never felt more vulnerable in her life. She has also never felt so safe.

Swallowing hard she feels the tear slide down her cheek before she realises that she’s given herself permission to cry in front of him. As though on instinct, as though he can’t help himself, as though he barely even realises that he’s doing it- a call from her soul answered without thought by his- he reaches up and softly wipes the tear away with the ball of his thumb, as he had done all those weeks ago.

Drawing a ragged breath into her lungs, the gesture, the intimate contact, gives her the burst of near reckless courage she needed to move in closer. She doesn’t stop until her body presses against his and she’s struck by how much larger, how much stronger than her he is. But she has never once looked at him and seen a weapon or a male made to hurt or to wound. She has only ever thought of him as a shield, as a safe point, as the one she would run to if she felt threatened or scared.

It’s only when she presses their bodies so closely together that she might have been determined to fuse them into one that she realises he’s shaking. Looking up she sees with a jolt of surprise that he’s crying, silent tears streaming from his eyes and falling quietly down into her lap. Nesta finds herself weeping as well as he gently rests his forehead against hers, leaning on her even as she leans on him. For all that he has lost and everything she has become, she cries with him.

The crumpled note she had held so tightly in her hand, ink now blurring, falls from her thoughtless fingers to the floor at their feet. Nesta wraps her arms around his chest, pulling him closer, holding onto him, and he wraps an arm around her, tucking her close to him.

They break the quiet between them at the same time, with the same words. Their voices are a blend of rough and soft, high and low, but both raw and tempered by the same fire when they whisper into the silence as one, “I’m sorry.”


5 things Joseph Kavinsky stole and 1 thing stolen from him (alternatively titled: like a motherfucking thief)


I am so sorry this took so long to get to you but the baby is at home now, her mum is out of the hospital and putting her to bed and i’m eating ice cream and crying in relief because i’m tired as balls

kisses for you, sorry this sucks :P


1. - A life
On the day that Joseph Kavinsky is born a storm swirls over Sofia, great swirling grey clouds that crack open with the fizzle of lightning.

Keep reading

Bill Maher is probably the textbook definition of smug Hollywood liberal. Within the last few minutes of his latest show, I must’ve gotten 57 reminders why I don’t watch it typically. He just refuses to acknowledge the tensions symptomatic to capitalism – whereas people like Bernie Sanders and Anne Coulter recognize that problems and tensions exist (albeit in watered down or decontextualized fashion) because they push at the edges of mainstream political discourse on opposite sides, Maher just sits back in his armchair, smugly calling the working class idiots and ignoring all the real concerns that animate this system. The anti-capitalist left is weak these days, and it doesn’t help that what passes for “left” is spineless centrism devoid of any substance. Maher and other ivory tower liberals are part of the reason why fascism festers and grows.

Neoliberalism disempowers the people through top-down privatization and outsourcing. Huge sectors of the working class population feel this disempowerment. Democrats insist that the system works just fine, that they just need to get out there and vote, that surface reforms will fix all the rampant problems associated with capitalism. Democrats continue to maintain neoliberal economy that boosts bosses and crushes workers. Working class people continue to feel disempowered because no amount of shallow liberal rhetoric is going to materially empower them. Republicans come along and say, “yes, you are disempowered, and it’s because of THOSE PEOPLE: the immigrants, the SJWs, the moochers.” The democrat wing of the bourgeoisie must recognize this trend, and understand that greater autonomy for workers and rightful blame at the rich and capitalism itself would solve much of these patterns of proto-fascism, but it’s better to have rampant racism in society than to have workers getting wrongheaded ideas about their station in life. These workers can then be made, through carefully targeted ideology, to fight as footsoldiers for ruling class interests – when other large sectors of the working class start focusing their anger and disenfranchisement at the system as a whole, rather than at other segments of the disempowered, then you’re going to start seeing “footsoldiers for ruling class interests” using intimidation and nationalism to push the landscape towards fascism. Fascism is an ever-present shadow to capitalism, a subterranean kthulu that sits beneath the surface and comes out to reveal class society’s true nature when threatened. Certain sectors of the ruling class will pursue their own laissez-faire interests, while other sectors will then gather the people subsequently ticked off by privatization and outsourcing and redirect their fire towards the feared Other. This is the defensive apparatus of capitalist political economy at work, morphing its shape as necessary.

When Tony Stark was a little boy, his favorite bedtime stories were of the adventures of his great-great-great grandfather.  His Mama was happy to tell him all about the man who had been a poet, a writer, a scientist, had pretended to be a meek and sweet-natured caballero by day but was really an infamous outlaw nicknamed “The Fox” by night.  Don Diego dela Vega had been born into a life of privilege but had never hesitated to help others, whether as Diego or his other persona. 

When he was older, Tony thought he had outgrown these kinds of fairy tales, especially with his father and Captain America’s ever-present shadow.  But in remembering his Mama’s bedtime stories about his great-grandpa, Tony realized that he didn’t need to be Cap or a Fox or to follow some ancient legacy in order to help people. 

He would be Iron Man.   Maybe he wasn’t perfect but he’d do his damnedest to help those in need because it was, simply, the right thing to do.


Blanket Fort Headcanon, because it totally makes sense to me that Maria Stark could have been from the de la Vega Family and Tony being Diego’s great-great-great grandson was hilariously appropriate. 

And then, of course, there was the time that Zorro once met Bucky’s Grampy…

trophyhusbandvictor  asked:

"Everything's going to be fine" Eruri

CHAPTER 72 FEELS AMIRITE. also twistedkit sent in the same prompt idk if you wanted fluff HAHA <3

Morning comes too soon, slivers of sunlight passing through the blinds, stripes casted across their bedsheets.

Erwin’s already awake. He’s pressed up against the backboard, staring straight ahead. The sunlight falls across his body, old scars white and silver across his shoulders and chest; the once-gaping wound of his shoulder has gone from bloody and raw to a dull, angry pink, still not entirely healed. Levi hasn’t seen it bleed, not in a long while, but sometimes after Erwin trains with him or takes his horse out for a gallop, there’s blood stained into the sleeves of his undershirt.

Levi wants to close his eyes and feign sleep. Just a little longer, he thinks, pleads, but Erwin notices somehow, maybe the subtle change in his breathing.  

“Good morning,” Erwin says, although they both know it’s not.

Sleep leaves him like a gust of wind and he pushes himself to a sitting position. The words come out in a rush. “This is a suicide mission, and you know it.” He can’t hold back the accusatory tone, the hurt in his voice. A suicide mission for you.

“I know.” Erwin looks at Levi, eyes pained and earnest. “I know, and I’m sorry.”

“Then you… you better take care of yourself out there.”

“I will.”

“I won’t have time to look out for you.”

“You won’t have to, I promise.”

“But your shitty 3DMG skills-”

“I’ve gotten better.”

“I saw you fall off your horse just last week!”

“She was spooked by a fox!”

“Bullshit, there’s no wildlife around here-”

“My sources beg to differ.”

“You don’t even have-”

“I swear! On Nile’s honour.”

Levi snorts, and they pause; there’s a spark between them as they gaze at one another, chests rising and falling slightly more quickly in the aftermath of the banter. A small smile has settled on Erwin’s lips, his cheeks alight with a faint colour. But it’s a fragile thing, this lively spark, and Levi watches as it flickers and fades from Erwin’s eyes in the looming shadow of the upcoming day.

“Should’ve broken your fucking legs,” Levi mutters, turning away.

Erwin looks down. “I’m sorry things turned out this way. Truly. If it had been any different, Levi you know… you know I would have-”

Don’t,” Levi cuts across sharply, and his chest is impossibly tight as he twists out of the blankets, the cool air making the hairs on his legs rise. He can’t hear Erwin say it. Not now.

He can feel Erwin’s gaze on him as he fumbles for his clothes, sliding them on with methodical movements, just a bit too much force behind each tug of cloth. He doesn’t trust himself to look at Erwin until the last buckle is fastened and tight against the bruises that mark him as one of the Survey Corps.

When he finally looks up, Erwin’s hand is clenching atop the sheets. He hasn’t even begun to get dressed. With a sigh, Levi moves to pick up Erwin’s clothes as well to help him dress.

“You spoil me,” Erwin says with a rueful smile, arm outstretched helpfully, and Levi doesn’t say Because nobody else will as he pins up the right sleeve.

“I’ll kill you if you aren’t careful out there,” Levi says hoarsely when he’s done, and they both know he’s only half joking. He steps back, gets ready to leave.

What will I do when you’re gone?

He’s spent decades chasing after Erwin, close on his heels, ever present like a relentless shadow. (Or perhaps, he’s been nothing but a dog in fruitless pursuit, blind loyalty. And even that, he doesn’t really mind.)

“Levi, wait.” He wonders if it’s the last time he’ll obey those words.

Erwin comes close, and his arm wrapping clumsily around Levi’s right side, chest pressed flush against Levi’s back, and in that moment they’re no longer Commander and Captain, set to depart in hours on a mission with impossibly low odds; they’re just men, two jagged, broken pieces fitting together haphazardly but somehow, just right.

Levi exhales shakily.

“Everything’s going to be okay,” Erwin says quietly, a promise. His hand strokes Levi’s hair the way Isabel used to pet stray, flea-ridden dogs in the Underground City, and Levi leans into it, seeking that touch like he’s never done before. (He might never have the chance again.) He twists to the side to let his head fall against Erwin’s shoulder, and he swallows a noise that wells in his throat.

Erwin’s eyes are distant, his hand still in Levi’s hair, moving down to the nape of his neck. Levi wonders what he sees. Perhaps, the memory of his father with the realization of the dream so close to fruition; maybe a vision of the world without Titans; or the empty eyes of fallen comrades whose lights have been snuffed out along the way.

He’s gone already, Levi thinks, and his gut clenches.

He leans into the caress like he leans into the words of the false promise.

fluff meme (the rest are fluffy i promise)

Trying to be Nice

more Hogwarts AU! sorry that I’ve been posting these out of order, but we’re all caught up now :) 

other parts: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10other info

Summary: Marinette tries her best to talk to Adrien to keep up her end of the deal with Nino, but isn’t sure how to be nice to someone who surely hates her.

Words: 2,236
Rating: PG
AO3 link

Marinette came up to stand next to Alya in Greenhouse #3 after Professor Mendeleiev was done talking, immediately putting on her gardening gloves and goggles with a sigh. 

Her friend gave her a sideways glance. “Someone doesn’t sound happy.”

The Slytherin girl sighed again, giving the plants before her a disgusted look. “I have to talk to Agreste today.”

“What? Why?” Alya asked in surprise, filling up her pot with dirt.

“I met his friend Nino yesterday during flying,” Marinette explained, dragging an empty pot from the middle of the table to rest in front of her. “I said that you and him could be good friends, and he agreed to talk to you today if I talked to his friend.” She paused in the middle of scooping up some dirt, turning to look at Alya. “Oh yeah, a Gryffindor named Nino is gonna try to talk to you today, I forgot to tell you.”

“How kind of you to mention that to me right away,” Alya said with a laugh.

Marinette smiled sheepishly, pressing some seeds inch deep into the soil as instructed and picking up the watering can. “Sorry, Alya. I just really don’t want to talk to this Agreste guy.”

“You know, you never explained to me what he did to make you hate him so much,” Alya pointed out, raising an eyebrow.

“Trust me,” she said as she picked up her pot to put it by the window, “you don’t wanna know.”

Keep reading

Mais j'espère
Que tu crieras mon nom, cloué sur un écueil,
Jusqu'au bout supplicié ! Je te suivrai, absente
Armée de sombres feux, puis, glacée par la mort,
Présente, ombre, en tous lieux ! Tu expieras, barbare !

And I hope
You will cry out my name, pinned to a reef
Suffering until the end! And I will follow you, ghostly,
Armed with dark fires, cold as death,
Ever-present, a constant shadow! And you will expiate, you savage!
—  Virgile, L’Enéide, Liber IV (tr. by Olivier Sers)