flames they licked the walls

ethicalnecromancer  asked:

Can you elaborate more on how the Alys-Sigorn wedding was awesome and its like a baby that conquered the world? I just really like Alys/Sigorn and want to hear more about it.

Whew, where to begin? The Alys-Sigorn wedding is IMO a strong candidate for “best scene in the series,” and it’s probably exhibit A in the case for ADWD as the best book in that series (give or take Dany X and the dragontaming). It’s the surest sign that GRRM still knows what he’s doing and that the sedimentary layers of story are producing more powerful moments as he goes. It’s such a narratively dense event with so many resonances that you could spend days teasing it apart. Here’s just a brief overview.  

At one level, the wedding symbolizes and enacts the alliance between the Stark North and the Free Folk, presided over by the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch (himself having been raised in Winterfell, but also having ridden with the wildlings). It’s very ceremonial and ritualistic, GRRM taking his time setting it up and lingering on every detail so you really get what a momentous deal this is: a powerful wildling leader and the daughter of a significant Northern house joining to forge something new. This carries such weight with us because we’ve been living with this bitter divide and the knowledge of how longstanding and entrenched it is for multiple books. Climbing this hill seemed nigh-impossible back in ASOS when Stannis proposed it; now, we see a real ray of hope. And of course, this dovetails so beautifully with what happens at chapter’s end: the horn blast announcing Tormund Giantsbane’s arrival to cement that pact. 

This sense of harmonic resolution wouldn’t mean much, though, if it didn’t also extend to the bride and groom specifically. Alys coming to Jon (specifically as Ned’s son) and securing his help against Cregan and Arnolf marks a symbolic reconciliation between Houses Stark and Karstark. Instead of the latter house as an enemy, as they’ve been since early in ASOS, we now see them as a complex family riven by internal conflict, and there’s a chance to set things right. It helps, of course, that Alys is immediately one of the most lovable characters in the story: “Let him be scared of me.” As for Sigorn, his father died at Castle Black thanks to Jon’s defenses, and earlier in ADWD, Sigorn himself opposed assimilation to the point of threatening Jon’s life. Here, however, he brings the Thenns into the larger realm and makes a very moving peace–and of course he, too, is written to encourage empathy in the wedding scene, coming off nervous, awkward, and ultimately good-hearted. 

But what really makes this scene shine, undergirding and emphasizing all of the above, is the imagery. It…glows. 

And Melisandre said, “Let them come forth, who would be joined.” The flames cast her shadow on the Wall behind her, and her ruby gleamed against the paleness of her throat.

Jon turned to Alys Karstark. “My lady. Are you ready?”

“Yes. Oh, yes.”

“You’re not scared?”

The girl smiled in a way that reminded Jon so much of his little sister that it almost broke his heart. “Let him be scared of me.”The snowflakes were melting on her cheeks, but her hair was wrapped in a swirl of lace that Satin had found somewhere, and the snow had begun to collect there, giving her a frosty crown. Her cheeks were flushed and red, and her eyes sparkled.

“Winter’s lady.” Jon squeezed her hand.

The Magnar of Thenn stood waiting by the fire, clad as if for battle, in fur and leather and bronze scales, a bronze sword at his hip. His receding hair made him look older than his years, but as he turned to watch his bride approach, Jon could see the boy in him. His eyes were big as walnuts, though whether it was the fire, the priestess, or the woman that had put the fear in him Jon could not say. Alys was more right than she knew.

“Who brings this woman to be wed?” asked Melisandre.

“I do,” said Jon. “Now comes Alys of House Karstark, a woman grown and flowered, of noble blood and birth.” He gave her hand one last squeeze and stepped back to join the others.

“Who comes forth to claim this woman?” asked Melisandre.

“Me.” Sigorn slapped his chest. “Magnar of Thenn.”

“Sigorn,” asked Melisandre, “will you share your fire with Alys, and warm her when the night is dark and full of terrors?”

“I swear me.” The Magnar’s promise was a white cloud in the air. Snow dappled his shoulders. His ears were red. “By the red god’s flames, I warm her all her days.”

“Alys, do you swear to share your fire with Sigorn, and warm him when the night is dark and full of terrors?”

“Till his blood is boiling.” Her maiden’s cloak was the black wool of the Night’s Watch. The Karstark sunburst sewn on its back was made of the same white fur that lined it.

Melisandre’s eyes shone as bright as the ruby at her throat. “Then come to me and be as one.” As she beckoned, a wall of flames roared upward, licking at the snowflakes with hot orange tongues. Alys Karstark took her Magnar by the hand.

Side by side they leapt the ditch.

“Two went into the flames.” A gust of wind lifted the red woman’s scarlet skirts till she pressed them down again. “One emerges.” Her coppery hair danced about her head. “What fire joins, none may put asunder.”

This is hope rendered in radiant red and gold; this is what endgame looks like. We saw it, just a flash of it, as their leap (like Theon and Jeyne’s, several chapters later) reached its apex. This leap over the flames and everything that goes with it exists in defiance of the Long Night, in spite of the army of the dead. It’s a fire to circle around, a well from which to draw strength, and a foundation for what comes next. House Thenn’s sigil is appropriate; they represent the Dawn.

Happy AkuRoku Day! ♥ I actually wrote a completed one-shot for you guys this time! All fluff and afterlife feelings, so I hope you enjoy!

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Simple
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They didn’t go out and watch the latest superhero movie. They didn’t make a reservation at that one restaurant they both like, which didn’t always have the best entrees but always had a decent bread basket and that sea salt cheesecake they could never say no to. They didn’t do anything the couples magazines told them to do–flowers, jewelry, scented candles, a new dress and suit, some ludicrously expensive gold-leaf and champagne infused candy from that one store that opened downtown.

They were both thankful for that.

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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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Something Worth Fighting For- 3

Summary: You’ve just begun to settle into life as an Avenger when a mission gone awry divides the team in half, and a familiar face shows up just in time to make you second guess your every choice. Third installment of the Worth Fighting For Series

Words: 1595

Masterlist    Part 2

You sat between Steve and Sam, staring straight ahead as the funeral proceeded. It was a long, arduous affair, but well deserved. Ahead, you could see the arrangement of flowers surrounding a photo of Peggy- taken before the end of the second world war. She was beautiful, young, and you couldn’t help but wonder when her hair had started to turn grey.

After losing Bucky, and then Steve, it felt like the world was coming down around you. Buildings began to decay, countries formed and reformed. People had children or they died; Peggy’s hair turned grey, Howard got married. Dugan and Jones and Morita- the Howling Commandos- most of them were killed or retired to live out the rest of their lives as civilians. They were all gone, now, and Peggy was the last of them. It was just you, Steve and Bucky now.

 That is, if Bucky was still alive.

Please tell Rogers: when you gotta go, you gotta go.

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Aeonian AU Series Part 2

Part One >>> Here <<<

Let your plans be dark and impenetrable as night,

and when you move, fall like a thunderbolt — Sun Tzu

Aeonian 2

I.

A deal with a God.

Between mortal and immortal. A need to survive, and a need for sensation. Instinct and desire.

There was a line threatened to be crossed.

Nesta wanted no part of it, and moved to shoulder her belongings, cold determination written across frozen features. The Archerons had long  familiarized themselves with prison layouts, and another night in a cell would not be another shackle to their future.

It seemed Elain no longer wanted a part of that cycle, as it was she who surprisingly stood up—shocking both belligerents—and placed frail hands on small hips—bone that had weakened over the years, blemishing and bruising over the slightest touch.

“Nesta,” the middle Archeron sister said simply and firmly. “It’s either we keep running forever…or settle.”

A pause.

“I’m not settling with him.” Or any self-entitled male. Nesta jerked her head towards the God of War, who merely raised a dark brow.

“Him has a name, you know,” the God crossed his arms, golden plates of gleaming armor glinting, and Elain blinked. “Must I point out I could revoke the deal so you would not have a choice in the first place?”

Nesta seethed in her spot. “You must really want us if you’re resorting to threats.”

The God smiled, sheer strength radiating from him. “You, Nesta,” he said without a pause. “I only want you.”

Elain turned red.

Nesta hissed. “You males think you can get whatever you want, control whatever you want, receive what you please.”

The eldest Archeron sister would have expected the immortal creature to claim her then and there—to simply show he could—would have expected a snarl to rip her to shreds in front of her sister—would have expected the soldiers to come bursting in, pointing swords to their necks—

—but the God didn’t.

Hazel eyes stared at her, levelling her an easy gaze—unblinking at her unflinching, equally matched stare.

“If other men got what they wanted, controlled whatever they wanted, whenever they wanted,” he said slowly, “Then your tongue would be pleasuring, your body covering another’s, and your mind forced into willingness. That is the way of both the mortal man and male god.”

But not mine, the words lingered in the air.

“And yours?” she bit out.

The God’s eyes crinkled. “I would allow your tongue to snap otherwise, bones ready to attack me, and mind ready to extinguish my existence.” A pause.  “I like your sniping.”

Nesta certainly did not like his sniping. “Perhaps you like the fight. And the gruelling victory afterwards.”

“Not everyone is a sadist.”

“Then you do not know of mortality.”

“And you have lived for an eternity? And seen that not every intent is to mar?”

“I believe the word for that is called naive.”

“You wouldn’t happen to be immortal, would you, Nesta?” The God tutted. “To have the luxury of time to simply ponder your decisions?”

Nesta snarled. “Get out of my house.”

“That’s not very nice, sweetheart.”

“Neither are threats, prick.”

“You have options.”

“Limited options for an unwanted solution.”

Elain slipped into the room, slightly panting. Nesta surveyed her sister’s slightly red cheeks and beginnings of perspiration dotting her forehead. She’d been so invested at launching barbed words she hadn’t noticed Elain had left. Distractions.

A faint curse left her lips. The God tracked every movement.

“The town’s soldiers approach the gardens.” Elain heaved, a hand pressed against her chest. “They’re carrying torches.”

Nesta stilled. Bit her tongue.

The pyre had been rebuilt as she’d raced back, Ianthe claiming human sacrifices for an enigmatic festival.

It seemed she had set her sights on who’d participate, unwilling or willing.

Time wasn’t a luxury she had, and each heartbeat pounded into her ears.

“As much as I’ve enjoyed our lovely banter, I’ve got a schedule to keep. What will it be, Nes? You and soldiers who haven’t been laid in years—with a sister in her prime—or a God infatuated with you?”

Nesta swallowed, and stared at Elain, who wrung her hands nervously. The answer was clear on her face, of what she needed and wanted.

“Take my sister,” Nesta said lowly. “To safety. And then we have a deal.”

A tsk. “I want you, Nesta Archeron.” Calculating eyes turned towards Elain with an easy shrug. “No offense.”

Elain shuffled in her spot nervously, an animal trapped with no escape route. But Nesta could give her a way out.

“Take my sister first,” Nesta reiterated. “Then you can have me.”

She swore the God rolled his eyes.  “You drive a hard bargain. But if that is your term, then I will accept.”

Elain’s eyes widened, and Nesta lunged forward, her mouth twisted—but the God had already wrapped his arms, armor and all, around her sister’s waist—and vanished. Nesta cursed lowly, and spun around as the window glass shattered, fire and flames licking the walls of the house, the shouts of soldiers breaking the suffocated silence. The front door tossed open, and Ianthe stood in the doorway, hood covering her face, save for the sick smile etched across her face.

“Nesta Archeron,” she crooned, the glowing, blue gem on her forehead flaring, “It’s time to make amends.”

Nesta Archeron could only burn in her own ashes, simmering as the orange and red hues licked the house, smoke filling her nostrils and consuming her vision in a gray, gaunt inferno of gas. The wood crumbled around her, splintering on the ground below, snapping at the flames in great waves.

The guards leeched onto her skin, crawling around and over her pores, sucking her away from the collapsing refugee she’d once call home, and stole her out into the night, the tang of cold metal wrapped around her air, vacuuming her into a cold abyss.

It was a futile to struggle with chains clinking around her. It was beyond her to scream with a wet rag shoved down her throat. It was pointless to think as Ianthe, robe and all, swished from the burning house, hood lowered, eye perfectly healed.

There was only one thing Nesta was certain of:

Ianthe had to be claimed by a God.

And there was another thing she knew:

She was screwed.

A dead, mortal woman couldn’t keep Elain alive, but a God of War with an infatuation would suffice. But—she would be damned if she allowed her younger sister to toil in the hands of any male. First Tomas’s attack, second Feyre’s absence—Nesta would not allow Elain to be a third.

Ianthe seemed to read her mind, and she swirled to face the remaining guards. “Search the outskirts for her sister. She can’t be far from here.”

Then she stalked towards Nesta, a frozen smile tainting her lush, pale lips. Her hair on her skin prickled along with her nerves, heating her body in the cold of the night. The faint fragment of a whisper in the wind blew past her, dragging her along with the hard touch of metal’s hand.

Armor and arrogance dragged her along the dirt, thin twigs and grimy grins pricking at her exposed legs. Red shame and surrender no longer flushed her cheeks as they did three years ago. Instead, white-hot anger seared at her skin, enveloping her lungs in a casket of chills, head clouded with a haze of hatred.

“Dump her in the pit,” Ianthe ordered, and the guards flung Nesta’s body into a hollowed hole.

She flinched as she hit the bottom, hands scrambling for purchase, only to find grains of hand slipping easily past her fingers. The stench of the rotten and forgotten forced itself into her nostrils. Her feet crunched on feeble figments and connected with something hardened, dried, and yellowed. A closer inspection revealed scarlet spots of red strung with lines of moss and mold.

Nesta toed the figure, and bile rose in her mouth as a skull stared back her.

“Sleep tight, Nesta Archeron,” a sickly, sweet voice swept from the top. “I expect great things from you tomorrow.”

And with that, the slight tanging and shuffle of metal and the pulsing aura of something horribly twisted yet irrevocably powerful receded.

And so did her will.

II.

She tried to claw her way up, but the sand continued to pour around her. When she thought she could breathe, the sand washed down her, claiming her in a current of curses. She tried to dive to the sides, but her fingers met with hardness that cracked her nails. When she thought she had found an opening, her shoulder rammed into solid steel. She tried to rest, catch her breath, but the ground held the horror of the deceased, bone and marrow beyond definition.

The sand stuck everywhere, and she drowned in it. The grains rolled over her and crammed into every crevice. Her feet bled from chipped points, eyes half-closed in a state of overdue terror. If she looked closely enough, she could see Elain growing a garden of smoke and bone, Feyre emerging from stream of sand with the skin from her face shrunken  to reveal the structure of the skull, and the phantom of Tomas rising from the mound and her body sinking below with him.

Hallucinations and the helldoomed, the hideousity and heartless. Was that her destiny? Reigning upon a throne of her own sorrows, drowning in a sea of her own spite, and flying only in her soundless melancholy, she supposed she only rose when spurred upon another’s hand.

But one day, she promised herself, Nesta would seize integrity and initiative.

Fate disagreed, and the charred lines forming the pentagon glowed faintly, faint whispers creeping over the hair of her skins. The ground rumbled, and she clawed desperately at the air, holding her breath. Slowly and with a shudder, the dirt lifted, the sand pouring down toward the abyss below. With a start, Nesta realized that she’d been tossed in a cage, filled with the bones of the fallen, weighed down by the sand.  

The creaking sound from the cage’s ascent clocked in her ears. Each jolt sent shocks that emptied into her ribs, a secondary cage that rattled whenever the bars on bones crashed against the brown of earth. The slow momentum had her dirt-caked nails digging into her palms, wobbly knees knelt on the patches of cracked and culled.

When the first sliver of light flickered to a spot on the floor, she winced. Perhaps three years ago Nesta would have scrambled on her shins towards the ray. But time saw her fold, broken beautifully and wretchedly warped, molded into the pillar of ice and steel the fates saw her as today.

Her sight vanished into darkness when the layer of sand and dirt broke through the depths of the morning horizon. Her forehead throbbed to the swaying of the cage, vertigo and vices swirling through her head in a cacophony.

And when she did regain her vision, the cage thundering against the floor, jarring her adrenaline, Nesta wished she’d never opened her eyes.

Ianthe stood above her, resting upon a smooth stone, hood drawn and draped dramatically down, eyes glinting with malicious fever, filled with the fervor to forebear fear and fury in the flesh. The Head Priestess cocked her head, blond curls cascading down to the curve of her breasts.

“Cheating death only works for so long,” Ianthe hummed. “You’ve played with fate and fire, Nesta Archeron. And for that—you shall burn for that.”

Nesta surveyed her surroundings. Guards shouldered the perimeter, the cage encircled by a hexagon of red, marred lines, the hole behind her barren. In front of her laid a huge pyre of wooden crosses, Ianthe at the apex. Nesta’s eyes traced slowly back to the dark blue gemstone adorning the other woman’s headband, glimmering ghoulish gloom in daybreak’s dew.

The pyre—a purgatory for the punished, in which providence perpetuated pernicious practices, plotted by the premeditated powers to plague the pitted.  The abyss—an excavated, empty hole encircled by earth and filled by enmity. Both offered no sanctitude or sanctuary, no savior to save her except herself.

Except—unless—

I can help you, sweetheart.

The pure, predatory look, oozing hypermasculinity typical of all males—especially those belonging to those warrior-bred bodies—that had given her a choice. An option. A facet to her future she hadn’t had in years.

I claim you. As mine.

Ianthe stalked down the wooden stairs, each step equal predator, full of feminine fatale. A current of cold wind tousled her hair, revenge and retaliation cocooning her robed figure. Her fingers locked around each other, silence reigning around her in utmost fashion.

Three guards broke from the outer circle, torches in their hands. The red and orange hues caught in the sunlight, a gesture with all the gleaming, golden glory to grant grudge’s gratification. Two strode to the sides of the pyre, lighting the cages stacked with wood, littering with scratches and claw marks sinking deep within the hardened strips.

Flame flickered, licking and leaping in the air, greedily inhaling the innocence of the surroundings, vacuuming all the vices, veering clear of all virtues and valerians. Each flare of fire exuded emanations of heat, dousing her in sweat and stench.

Nesta had long strayed from the fire, a type of luxury in the wilderness that drew together unwanted attention. She had tamed herself in the shades of stillness, cherishing the coldness that culled all confrontations. For when the fire burst into a conflagration, the flames created a conquest that no child could conquer, and when flames wrought upon a wildfire, no warnings or wards could save the wills from the wreckage.

The wood charred, and her skin prickled. She seethed in anticipation as the third guard approached Ianthe, bowing lowly and offering the last torch. The High Priestess delicately snatched the metal hilt, and dismissed her bodies of armor with a glance.

The two guards lurched forward, and approached the fringes of the cage. Gray covered their faces, only beady eyes boring into her. Hands yanked apart the chains, inserting keys, and pulling the bars apart. With a grunt, the third guard reached it—and before Nesta can protest—a collar chokes her neck.

Shell shock slid off quickly like the sand., Rage, unbridled ire, and raw anger flowed through her veins, a palpable poison. The state she’d been reduced to—the power Ianthe held—the enigmatic state Elain laid in—the option that lingered in the air—

Her lungs clouded, and heaving a cough twisted her insides, pain flashing through her like lightening. The guards hooked hard hands under her shoulders, and dragged her forward, her toes dragging in the dirt. Ianthe’s eyes watched her curved back, the sign of submission, dark malice glittering in her eyes.

“You do not escape me,” the woman hissed. “You do not decide my decisions. You do not comprehend my plans. You do not understand—which is why this path has been laid for you.”

The guards hefted her up the bottom steps, her shins knocking against each edge. Pain throbbed away into a numbing sensation, her skin slick with sweat. The heat danced over her, and she couldn’t see how the guards hadn’t already melted.

The guards tossed her at Ianthe’s feet, and the third one bent down, attaching a chain to the collar. He offered the end of the link to the other woman, who took it with a slow smile—for the viper had sunk in her bite, vicious in all things vile.

“Look up,” Ianthe crooned.

Nesta jerked back, ignoring the flash of pain ripping the flesh across her neck, and watched with grim satisfaction as the High Priestess toppled forward, skirts flaring around her frame.

The ephemeral euphoria ended quickly, as the two guards caught the blond haired woman at her elbows, the third one yanking her forward with a blow to her haid. Blackness swept across Nesta’s vision, and her wounds stung in the heat, ashes seeming to accumulate at the bottom of her throat.

The chain jerked up, and her head followed.

Nesta paused.

Beyond Ianthe was another pile of wood—fashioned together to form a coffin.

“I offer mortal and unclaimed Nesta Archeron,” Ianthe murmured, twirling the the chain around her wrist.

The guards pulled her forward.

“As a tribute to my Goddess,” she continued.

The collar tightened, and saliva stuck at her throat.

“Mortal to be maimed,” she hummed.

The guards tossed her into the pit, the wood chipping at her skin, tearing open old scars, and blemishing old bruises.

“Soul to be claimed,” she murmured.

Nesta’s body screeched in agony, blistering with bitterness.

“For revenge’s respite,” her voice steadily grew louder.

Nesta’s head enveloped her in a consuming inferno that drove her heartbeat into a matching crescendo.

“For the callous crimes committed,” the voice hissed.

Her sides cocooned in darkness.

“To halt and heighten humanity’s horrors,”

Nesta refused this to be her hate, dealt by Ianthe’s hand.

Ianthe dropped the chain into the coffin, fingers now wrapped around the flaring torch.

The flames grew closer around Nesta and the wood bit at her back. Her vision blurred, but her mind did now waver: she would not let this be her end.

Nesta made the decision that would forever change her fate.

Staring into the flames, she embraced the heat, and croaked out, “I, Nesta Archeron, accept Ares, and his claim.”

III.

The fire vanished.

A different type of heat filled her body, a small noise of content unwillingly escaping her throat.

Only slivers of smoke curled in the air, winding into whirlwinds of loops that leaped into the skies above, casting the horizon into a gray canvas. The knobs of her wooden barriers collapsed around her, the floor of the casket rising forward, her body following until her two feet landed solidly against the dry, scorched Earth.

She tilted forward—

—and into the arms of solid warmth.

“Nesta, sweetheart, my booty calls take me to the battlefields, not sacrificial statements. But if you wanted to offer yourself, all you had to do was ask.”

That voice.

Another one cut in, jarring her.

“Seize the girl!” Ianthe screeched, and when a heartbeat of silence met her command, she hollered another order.

An arrow bounced of the God’s armor just as Ares pressed her flat against his chest, wrapping his body around her—as a shield, Nesta realized.

Her chin tilted up, and she watched the God of War’s eyes connect with the High Priestess’s.

The brute cursed—or as much as Nesta could believe with his furrowed eyebrows—in a language long forgotten and buried from the human tongue.

Ianthe stopped screaming, and breathed out the God’s title in near shock.

Nesta supposed her God’s sheer size could leave any human in shambles, but both her and Ianthe were not those weeded out, wallowing in weeping weariness. Two sides cut from the rusted coin, both females remained unwavering forces, true to their own twisted truths.

The God sighed deeply, and hefted Nesta into his arms, running the pads of his fingers over her exposed skin. “Change of plans,” he grumbled, then pointedly look at her. “You really know how to choose your enemies.”

Great black wings exploded from the God’s back, tearing at the hinges of the bronze armor glinting in the hazed surroundings. In one beat, they shot from the ground, and a second later, a volley of arrows followed them.

The God angled her body so that she laid cradled to the open skies above, the tips of arrows barely grazing her sides. Nesta watched in inaudible awe as the arrows that did connect with Ares’s armor bent, and fell limply down the ground below.

Moments later, the assault halted, the wings carrying them lands away. The smoke cleared, clouds whipping by in blinks. The wind whistled in her ear, and the skin of her face felt sucked off to reveal the bones of her skull.

They rose higher, and her sight blurred. Sand ripped off her body, her clothes tearing. Years of stealing and hoarding her money’s worth dropped to the ground below, and she felt bile rising from her throat—not from the lack of money—though that would conjure later problems—but from the lack of strength.

She felt tired. Nearly defeated. Past emptiness.

She could sense this near abyss of a thing her kind called a breaking point.

“Get your paws off me,” Nesta seethed, her spine rigid ice, locked into frozen misery and formidable madness. The gushing currents slashed at her face, hair whipping around her, the god’s wings beating with mighty strokes as black canvas stretched across the palette of a horizon.

“These paws,” the God simpered, delicately raising a brow. “Are currently making sure you don’t plummet to your desirable death.”

He squeezed her waist to emphasize his point.

She instinctively gripped his shoulders tighter, ignoring the groan escaping from the god’s throat, and locked her fingers around the nape of his neck. A feeling akin to curiosity struck her, and her pinky stroked the outline of the large membrane curving around the edge of his wing.

His reaction was instinct: Ares, the God of War, tilted, and plummeted to the green grounds below, the air rushing around them in an inferno-like vacuum. If she could pinpoint an exact sound, she would have believed that this immortal being had whimpered.

And if that God had made that pathetic noise, then Nesta could only silently scream, her mind too-tormented, too overwhelmed and oppressed. She cursed the emerging sun above—that should have shed glory and good—should have protected all maidens in its’ blazing brashness—should have stopped her fears from three years ago that now crept alongside her in every inch—as she blacked out.

Forgive me, Elain, she thought silently to herself, and sent a brief breath of a prayer for Feyre’s wellbeing, for the first time, she willingly gave herself to the darkness.

And as her heartbeat slowed, she could sense another’s steadily alongside hers.

Claimed.


Did you see how I used Roman numerals as transitions because that’s the closest I could get to something related in Greek mythology? I crack myself up sometimes. Does that even make sense? Oh well ^.^. Anyways, HUGE thanks to everyone who patiently waited. I’m a horrible updater. That’s a fact I can’t find the lie. 

Time for me to tackle all the submitted prompts (my inbox is never closed, so feel free to shoot me anything, though it may take me awhile to answer) and reply to all the tags! S/o to the @the-little-dragon-faery for always keeping me own my toes. I love you so much Cresta I don’t know what I would do without you. 

Tags:  @katgirl05, @latinafangurl, @nicoletapink, @katgirl05@llyrian-rhys, @maachan-is-hungry, @illyrianwings-nightcourt, @literarynonsense, @aqueenpromised, @16ozamericano, @hierophantangel, @miss-phengophobia,  @samaykay912, @bluephoenix222, @yellow-spiraledbook, @hashtolanashoba, @aleex5253, @jjellybean, @daeniran

Sweet Boy

Summary: Credence is getting off by grinding against a pillow. All is great, except it gets unmistakably greater when Mr. Graves stumbles upon the erotic scene. Inspired by this Sin that I posted a week earlier. Also read it on AO3. (WC: 2,020 words)

Warnings: Filth. Straight filth. Very NSFW.

Credence’s head thrashes as his eyes snap open, blown pupils casting up towards the ceiling and chest heaving as dim images of biting teeth and dancing tongues and entangled limbs linger in his thoughts. He isn’t quite sure if it’s arousal or guilt that turns over in the pit of his belly, but it still makes him swallow and shift uncomfortably in his too warm, too sticky bedsheets. His shirt clings to his damp back when he sits up, the prominence of his spinal column and shoulder blades visible even beneath the shirt, the outlines of the bones gliding with the thin fabric when he brings his hands up to rub his face. And when he hangs his head and runs trembling fingers through his disheveled hair, he is suddenly face to face with his throbbing groin.

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Player Two (Full Story) Be More Chill Fanfiction

“Awesome party, I’m so glad I came” Michael jeered sarcastically, giving a lonely glance at Jeremy, who chatted away happily, completely unaware of the anger and betrayal Michael felt. He clenched his teeth in disgust and hurt and stormed out the door.  

  As Michael slowly shuffled away from the house, he felt his throat began to close, and hot tears brim his eyes. When he cried, there was a rawness to it, like the pain was still an open wound. He would clasp onto something for support, anything, a table or the back of a chair, and then his whole body would shake, but since he didn’t have that at the moment he gripped the sleeves of his hoodie. The sobs were stifled at first as he attempted to hide his grief, then overcome by the wave of his emotions he broke down entirely, all his defences washed away in those salty tears. When he at last turned his face to the house, to face Jeremy, his face shone a picture of grief, loss, and devastation. It was the face of one who had suffered before and didn’t know if he could do it again. Then, just when he thought the breakthrough would come, his shutters would come down, his emotion walled off behind a mask of coping. He would just wear it until everything was right again, he didn’t know another way. He tore off his black thick-rimmed glasses, and he wiped the remaining tears from his eyes. His dark hickory eyes, once filled with delight and cheerfulness, had now lost their light and filled with hurt and betrayal. His dolce skin, was now flushed from his crying, and Michael put up his signature red hoodie, to conceal his face, and continued to walk.

  He didn’t get very far when he heard a wail from, presumably a female student, coming from down the street. The alarms sound, an odour of smoke in the air, and Michael can see the black curling particles visible, swirling out of the house. The glowing embers leaped and twirled in a fiery dance, twinkling like stars in the cool October air before cascading to earth like gleeful fire fiends, setting alight and lighting up the darkness of the night. Michael gaped at the scene down the street, the house emitting the choking black smoke from the windows, and into the air. Michael slowly stepped towards the the burning house, his body felt numb and he felt suddenly disconnected. This wasn’t the house, this couldn’t be the house where they were throwing the Halloween party. His senses soon returned and adrenaline kicked into his veins, he bolted towards the house, running past and shoving other students who were trying to run away. “JEREMY?” He cried out, looking desperately for his friend, even if Jeremy didn’t consider him it anymore. His brain began foggy and Michael felt the panic begin like a cluster of spark plugs in his abdomen. Tension grew in his face and limbs, his mind replaying the scenarios of what could’ve happened to him. His breathing became more rapid, more shallow. In these moments before his personal hurricane, he glanced around at the other students, hoping to see him among the crowd, or even one of them seen Jeremy leave the house. Their faces were covered in ash and soot, and coughing up the remaining smoke from their lungs, their clothing seared from the burning flames. “Jeremy!!” Michael shouted again in desperation, ignoring the tightening in his chest, and fear plastered on his face, his eyes sparked with concern. The other students turn and glanced at each other, murmuring to each other, some among the lines of, “I haven’t seen him” and “I don’t think he got out”. They turned back to Michael, with worry and remorse for the teen and simply said, “I don’t think he got out Michael”. Michael gasped, he ran his hand through his thick umber hair, and cletched his teeth, feeling as if he’s been punched in the gut. A student came up to him and put a hand on his shoulder to ground him, “It’s ok Michael, it’s going to be ok.” Reality spun around him and came crashing down, and he bit his lip, desperately trying to refrain the sobs from deep within his throat. He glanced at the house, “You think he’s still in there??” Michael asked, his voice soft and worn. “Michael I…” the female student responded, before Michael tore from her and bolted to the house. “MICHAEL!” the female student cried, her protests for him going in vain as he ran inside the burning building.

   The black smoke curled around him, fogging up his glasses up with ash. “JEREMY!” the Filipino called out, looking among the burning ashes for his friend. Michael gasped for air as the black smoke filled his lungs and coughed into his hoodie, trying to block out the rest of the thick smoke. He wandered through the house, the fire burning around him as it licked up the walls. The flame burns with colours he never thought were possible from a fire. With each flare another possession alights, and the house is closer to collapsing in shambles. The videos of house fires bare such little resemblance to the real thing. The screen shows a TV version, small and cold, black smoke billowing toward the sky. In front of the real thing the radiant heat is intense, scorching Michael’s skin. It’s more like a colossal campfire than anything else, casting its yellow glow into the night. The smell dominates every breath and the flames are louder than he expected, roaring as they consume what was once a fine home. Within the house the fire spread with ease, turning the once pretty first floor into a maze of flame. Black smoke billowed up the stairs and the alarm soon died a long time ago. As Michael dodged the burning flames, and falling debris, he heard his headphone beep a small melody, signaling bluetooth has been connected. “Wha-?” Michael started, before coughing into his sweater once more. “Michael Mell” a male voice came through the speaker’s, “Jeremy Heere’s best friend.” “Jeremy? Where is he?? Is he ok?” Michael grew anxious, the fire soon burning brighter around him. “I am his Sqiup, and in order to help him, you must do what I instruct” the voice ordered calmly. So this was the pill that made Jeremy ditch him. THIS WAS THE PILL THAT STARTED ALL OF THIS! “How do I know that you’re actually going to help me? I mean, why should I in the first place, considering I’m WAY too lame for Jeremy!” Michael barked at the voice. “Have you considered that if Jeremy, ‘doesn’t make it’, I’ll cease to exist as well” the Squip answered back cooly. “Fair enough” Michael growled, and continued searching through the house. “Oh, and Michael” The Squip said, “I was wrong.” Michael hummed in response, honestly he wasn’t concerned how wrong he was, he just wanted to find Jeremy. “Take a left here” the Squip commanded. Michael broke into a sprint, and followed the Squip’s directions. “Y-You nEEd tO hUrRy Michael!” the Squip said, his voice glitching through the speakers of his headphones. Wait, the computer actually sounded…worried. “JEREMY!” Michael shouted. “JEREMY!”, he ran and turned a corner and saw a wooden door blocking the way. “He’s in here, isn’t he” Michael stared at the bathroom door, which was blocking his way to his friend.

The door was scratched and dented with chipped brown varnish, it had a brass door knob dulled with age and greasy fingermarks.

He placed his hand on the door to see if any heat was radiating from it. He learned the trick from the hundreds of demonstrations of what to do in a fire in middle school, he just never thought he would actually need to use them.

  The door wasn’t warm, so Michael reached for the doorknob and jiggled it; the door was locked. Michael furiously twisted and turned the knob for no avail, but what startled him the most is that there was no keyhole for the doorknob. The door wasn’t locked, it was jammed! The Filipino again felt the panic rise in his throat. Michael began to kick at the door, and ram his shoulder into the wood, being not very successful. “JEREMY!” he called out, hoping his buddy would hear him and know that he wasn’t alone. Michael tried again and again and became increasingly frustrated with his futile attempts to gain entry. He planted one foot on the ground, grasped the door frame and thrust the other foot with all the might he could muster and slammed it into the door with a loud yell…hoping to unhinge the door from its frame.  The door began to rattle, and the center began to bulge slightly with each blow. The knob looked as if it would pop out, and dust puffed out from the frame, which started to separate from the wall. Michael took a few steps back to prepare himself for the final blow and rammed his shoulder again into the door, causing it to collapse with a loud crash. Michael collapse with the door onto the hard tile floor of the bathroom and let out a groan. He grasped his now injured shoulder and looked around the smoke filled bathroom. A boy was curled against the side of the old white tub, his slightly curly caramel hair flopping delicately over his left eye, his stripped red and blue shirt hard to miss among the flames that were now licking towards the ceiling. Michael gasped softly and bit his lip from crying out, “J-Jeremy?”. He shuddered, blinking away the tears forming in his eyes. “JEREMY!” Michael choked out and skidded to his friend side, fiddling with the zipper of his jacket and tore it off, wrapping it around his friend to guard him from the flames and suffocating smoke. He held his unconscious friend tightly in his arms as the fire swirled around them, choking black smoke filling the room. They were going to die, Michael didn’t see another option. Michael stared at Jeremy, his breathing was wheezed and shallow, and his face was pale, far too pale. “Don’t worry buddy, I’m gonna get you out of here. I promise.”

  Jeremy’s eyes fluttered open, although only half-way, Michael can still see Jeremy’s bright green eyes stare back at him, glazed and seemingly tired. Jeremy smiled softly staring back at him, before collapsing back into Michaels arms, his grin fading. “JEREMY? Oh god! Stay with me buddy” Michael gripped Jeremy’s shoulder tightly. He could see the orange flame forming just outside the fallen door and he knew the bathroom exit was no longer an option. His only option was the window that hung just above the toilet, luckily it was just big enough for Michael and Jeremy to wiggle through. Michael wheezed into his arm and coughed violently, shutters going down his spine as his charred lungs begged for air. The Filipino soon regained his strength after his coughing fit and his body kicked into an adrenaline rush, just seeing Jeremy’s motionless body in his arms. He lifted his friend up, who was surprising light, and heaved him onto his back. He gripped Jeremy’s arms to tighten them around his neck to keep him from slipping, and climbed onto the toilet to open the window. Michael fiddled the window’s handle and swung it open, releasing the fresh cool air into the room. Michael gasped, taking in the air into his lungs and started to swing his leg over the window sill. He stared down and sighed, thankful that they were on the first floor, and leaped from the burning building.

   The fall wasn’t long nor should it have injured them, but Michael must have fallen on his ankle wrongly and gritted his teeth in pain, giving a glance at Jeremy reassuringly. He limped to front of the house as the flames burned. He released Jeremy and held him in lap, removing the red jacket from his shaking frame. Jeremy had 2nd degree burns traveling up his right arm, it was angry red with blisters forming in his skin. Michael winced seeing the injures his friend gained in the fire. He rewrapped the red jacket around him as he rocked back and forth, gripping Jeremy, pulling him close and becoming overcome with emotion. His crying was both ferocious and noisy. He blinked briny tears from bloodshot eyes, his thick lashes stuck together in clumps as if he’d been swimming. The tears made wet tracks down his face and dripped from his stubbled, wobbling chin staining his shirt. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” he repeated over and over gasping for breath. Jeremy’s jade eyes slowly opened and stared at Michael, “M-?” He wheezed, and sat up quickly hacking up the smoke from his lungs. Michael rubbed his back reassuringly and gripped his shoulders to steady him. Jeremy relaxed and settled back into Michael’s arms. “Michael?” he choked out, his eyes slowly returning to normal. “I’m right here buddy” Michael smiled warmly. “You came back” he sounded surprised. “Of course I did! You can’t get rid of me that easily.” Jeremy whimpered softly and stared into Michael’s eyes, “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry” his body became wracked with sobs. “Hey! It’s ok! Oh god, Jeremy!” Michael frowned. The two boys huddled there watching the flames devour the burning house until the wailing of the ambulance finally arrived.

   Jeremy had 2nd degree burns along his right arm and grazes on his forehead and cheek. The doctors praised Michael for his bravery saying Jeremy wouldn’t have survived if he remained in the burning house. Michael shrugged and said any good friend would have done it. Michael suffered a sprained ankle, bruised and bandaged shoulder and was required for crutches for a few weeks. As Jeremy was recovering, Michael wobbled in his hospital room and made his way to the chair next to Jeremy’s bed and sat down. He stared at Jeremy who laid peacefully in the hospital bed, bandages wrapped up his right arm which were red from slight bleeding. Michael sighed and leaned back in the chair. Jeremy looked over at him and smiled softly, “‘ey Mike” he said raspily. Michael grinned back, “How ya feeling buddy?” Michael asked. “Pretty sucky honestly” Jeremy laughed. The boys laughed together until Jeremy broke into a coughing fit. Michael put his hand on his shoulder, and waited for the episode to subside. “Michael” Jeremy looked at his friend, guilt filled his eyes as his coughing fit died down, “I’m really sorry. I was such a douchebag to you! I know you didn’t deserve it, and yet you still came back to save my sorry a-” “Jeremy” Michael interrupted his rambling, “I forgive you, it’s ok. You’re my player two man! We promised each other we would always have each others backs! I wasn’t planning to break that promise especially since you almost died!” Jeremy played with the fuzz on his sleeve not making eye contact with Michael. His eyes glazed with tears finally made eye contact, “I don’t deserve you” he stared at his lap, “I don’t even deserve to be alive right now!” “Hey!” Michael shouted. “Don’t say that! Don’t ever say that! You’re my player two! I need you! We need each other! Please!” Jeremy gave Michael a guilty look and they finally clasped each other in a warm, slow and luxurious hug. Their chests rising and falling against each other, their breaths in unison, and the warm blood that they could feel in each others’ embrace. “No matter what! We’re always going to be a team.”

                                                End

Heaven (John x reader)

 This is for @riversong-sam’s birthday challenge! Happy (belated) birthday!
~Lyrics are in italics~

Based on the song: Heaven by Bryan Adams

Originally posted by hotfornegan

Warnings: PTSD, flashbacks + descriptions of Mary’s death, implied abusive!John, language, mentions of smut but nothing graphic

Word Count: 4.3k

A/N: This is my first ever John fic!! and I got heavy feels while writing the first part, I expect more to come. Feedback would be amazing!!


John sat up, again, in a cold sweat; his chest heaved as his lungs sucked in the cool air of the room he was in. It was how he woke up most of the time.

His clammy hand ran over his forehead, down his cheeks and back up again, through his hair, to soothe the aching in his temples. For once, the oxygen he breathed in didn’t have a tang of old beer or dust, or mold; it was clean air, and he lay on clean sheets.

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You’re Not Her: 6. Fire and Ice

Shout out to @squirrellygirlart for beta reading this for me!!!!

Sorry for the wait everyone!! @polkadotsdesign @justa-dork

Ao3

Start                                <—– Previously


Marinette was suspended. Her parents were angry of course but once Marinette had explained what had happened they understood. She was, however, grounded for the duration of the week because “violence is never the answer Marinette.” Being grounded was fine by her, it was an excuse to keep from socializing, but that didn’t keep Adrien from stopping by and dropping off notes and instructions for their group project. Marinette wished he would leave her alone. Thus far Adrien had caused her more problems than she currently needed in her life right now. She knew it was irrational to be angry at him for Chloe’s behavior but she couldn’t help but feel a little bitterness towards the model. If he left her alone Chloe would have less incentive to approach Marinette of course after the stunt Marinette had pulled Chloe would probably keep her distance when tormenting her now. Maybe her dislike of Adrien stemmed more from Chloe than it did from his actual actions but Marinette couldn’t find it in herself to change that. She was exhausted by people. Talking to anyone, even friends became a chore. The only emotions that came easily now were overwhelming sadness, anger, or complete apathy. Sometimes it was easier to just mask over one’s sorrows with the all consuming hate that anger brought. It was a reprieve from the drowning misery of grief. All this made it easier to dislike Adrien. He himself might not be the problem but by being associated with him it had caused more face time with the people of her class, and to her utter horror, more biting comments from Chloe- neither of which Marinette wanted.

Unable to intercept Adrien at the front door, since she was grounded, Marinette’s parents scheduled a time for her to come by his place and work with him. Marinette was hoping that she could just do all the work by herself, her parents, however, did not agree that that was fair. So Marinette stood in front of the Agreste Mansion, ready to get through this as quickly as possible. The gate stood slightly ajar. Marinette looked to the telecom used to beep people in and grimaced. She didn’t need any extra interaction today. Talking to people was like forcing herself to chew on glass. It was painful, forced, and left her feeling mangled and raw. With a deep calming breath Marinette pushed the gate open and wound her way up the long walkway to the door. She rapped on the door and waited. There was no answer. Agitated about already having to be here Marinette knocked again this time more forcefully. A tall dark haired woman answered the door a confused and harried expression pulling her face.

“How did you get in?” The woman asked suspiciously.

“The gate was open,” Marinette explained. The woman’s eyebrows shot up, realization crossing her features. “I’m here to see Adrien,” Marinette said expectantly.

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Pyrophilia - arousal from fire

Flames had fascinated Ciel since that day - fascinated and terrified him. Nothing threatened his composure the way that fire did, but nothing else had the power to satisfy him as much either.

“More, Sebastian” came the desperate order from the over stimulated Earl. They hadn’t even made it to the bed this time, the Demon sinking himself into his Master on the floor and bringing them both to the very edge of ecstasy. “I need…. more….”

Sometimes it was like this. The fire between them wasn’t quite enough, Ciel needed the real thing.

“Yes, My Lord”.

The glow was subtle at first before it erupted into a blazing inferno. The room lit up, flickering as the flames licked at their naked bodies, shadows dancing along the walls as they moved. It didn’t hurt - Ciel could feel the warmth on his skin, an almost ticklish sensation, and the brilliance of it all made his head spin.

“I’ve got you” murmured the red-eyed Demon above him.

Of course the flames wouldn’t hurt. Fire could never harm him, not when Sebastian was there, and Sebastian would always be there. He had promised, and he could not lie.

Ciel’s movements became uncoordinated as he allowed the flames to engulf him, consuming him in a blaze of vibrant colour. He screwed his eyes shut and felt his Demon move inside him as the fire crackled and sizzled and he was lost to it as strong arms gripped him tightly, keeping him safe, finally safe….

He gasped for breath when it was over though his lungs were clear of any smoke. There was no damage to his body from the flames, just a thin sheen of sweat now that everything was dark once again.

The fire was more than an addiction. It was proof - the flames had burned his entire world to ashes, destroyed everything he held dear, but they would never take him. As long as he controlled something even more powerful then he controlled the fire. The only way Ciel was willing to give up his life was like this, right now; in the arms of his Demon.

dresupi  asked:

Tasertorch, #3 for the kissing prompts. Please, please please? <3

why are these sooo long? I blame you, Dres. You and Halsey. ❤️❤️❤️

(who knew I had a thing for Johnny Storm? what is happening to me??)

read: part 2, part 3


Darcy woke up coughing. The air was full of smoke, and for a second she stupidly wondered why Johnny was making such a ridiculously grand entrance. And then her vision cleared and she realized that Johnny hadn’t showed up to their date, again. Which was a shame, because he’d be pretty useful right about now, considering the flames that licked the walls and the smoke that swirled in her lungs, robbing her of breath.

She crawled out from under the table, trying to figure out what had happened. Darcy had been sitting at the little table for two, wondering how many times a girl could get stood up on a date before she lost all dignity and self-respect. Johnny had already been over fifteen minutes late, and she was debating walking out of the little bistro—and out of his life—when there’d been a deafening burst of sound and everything had gone black. And now here she was, bruised and dizzy and unable to tell up from down. Bracing herself against the table, she peered through the smoke, trying to remember which direction she should go for the exit. But the white film covered everything, and she could barely make out dark shapes, much less a path.

She knew that the color of the smoke was important, but for the life of her couldn’t recall the meaning of white smoke—really hot, maybe? Yeah thanks, brain. Like she couldn’t tell that on her own. Shaking off those thoughts, Darcy forced herself to move—her brain was getting fuzzy from a lack of oxygen and she couldn’t seem to focus. Several steps in, she stumbled over something. Falling to her knees, she probed the shape with her hands. It was a young boy, she realized with horror. A sob escaped her, catching and setting fire to her throat. Tears laid waste to her cheeks, and her eyes burned so badly she couldn’t see.

Darcy tried to lift the boy up to get them both out, but she was completely out of energy. She couldn’t seem to find the strength to breathe, or to stand, and a sense of doom overcame her. Eventually, she gave up and sat with the boy. Maybe she couldn’t save him, but she wouldn’t abandon him, either. All of a sudden, she wished Johnny was here. So she could punch him or kiss him, she didn’t know. But either way, he was at the forefront of her mind as she draped herself over the boy, trying to protect him from any falling debris.

And as if her thoughts had summoned him, suddenly Johnny was there.

Darcy didn’t know if she was hallucinating him yelling her name, at first; everything was a haze and nothing seemed real. But then his voice came right behind her, and she started to hope. “Darcy!” he yelled, and then all the smoke and fire was gone from the room.

Oh, yeah. She’d forgotten he could do that. Fortunately, until now she’d never been in a position to witness it. There was a first time for everything, she guessed. A part of her wondered how she could be so calm after a near-death experience. Lack of oxygen, her brain snarkily replied. Her internal argument was cut off when gentle hands pulled her off the boy and turned her over.

Darcy peered up at him through dry and scratchy eyes. Her eyes welled with tears, blurring the image of him staring down at her. It was a beautiful sight nonetheless, and she choked on a sob. Johnny’s eyes softened and he reached for her with gentle hands, but she pushed him away. The panic seeped back into his gaze and he scanned her for life-threatening injuries.

“The boy,” she croaked, gesturing toward his body with a weak hand. He followed her gaze and nodded. His expression changed into something firm and strong—a true superhero face, she thought. This was what he was doing every time he stood her up, she realized. Saving people, like this little boy. Like her. How could she be mad at him for that?

“I’ll be right back,” he promised, oblivious to her thoughts. With a brief kiss to her forehead, bringing more stinging tears to her eyes, he stood up. And then he was gone, carrying the boy to safety.

Slowly, mindful of her still-swirling head, Darcy levered herself into a sitting position. Reaching blindly for the table’s edge, she carefully pulled herself to her feet. Johnny came sprinting back in the door at that moment, and raced to steady her.

“God, Darce,” he groaned. “You couldn’t wait for me to get back?”

Couldn’t wait raced through her brain on repeat, looping over and over again in her brain. She didn’t want to wait anymore. “No,” she whispered, reaching for him. “I couldn’t wait.”

As soon as her lips touched his, his whole body curved around her. His hands were everywhere, and she had the feeling he was reassuring himself that she was okay as much as he was enjoying the kiss. With soft, tender kisses pressed over and over against her mouth—she still couldn’t breathe very well, so a heavy makeout was off the table—he wrapped her in the cocoon of his body, simultaneously setting her on fire and keeping her safe from harm. Standing there in the circle of his arms, she forgot about the terror, the fire, the soot on her cheek and the bruises on her knees and elbows. There was nothing else but him.

“I’m so sorry,” he finally whispered against her mouth, and she drew away. Tears shimmered on his cheeks before they evaporated into steam, and he didn’t bother to wipe them away. He was open to her, ready for judgment. “I should’ve been here,” he said, his heart in his eyes. He stood in front of her, waiting for her to break him apart.

Luckily for both of them, she had no intention of doing so. “You were.” His eyes fluttered closed, and she reached up to place a gentle kiss on his mouth.

His eyes peeked open. “Not giving up on me?” he asked. His words were teasing, but his gaze was vulnerable.

“I get it now,” was all she said.

“I still need to make it up to you,” he said. She wasn’t going to pass up an offer like that, so she said nothing, which made him chuckle.

“Let’s go home, Darce,” he said, sliding an arm around her shoulders and steering her toward the door, “so that I can get started.”


send me a kiss prompt!

Request: Heyo! I absolutely love ya writing! If you’re taking requests do you think you could do a Kylo x reader where after Rey and Kylo battle, Hux and the reader find Kylo in the forest and take him to Snoke but on the way there the reader attends to Kylo’s wounds?

A/N: I love this idea and think it’s so cute and angsty and just alkjdkahf. Thank you! I hope you don’t mind the small tweak I made in which it’s not necessarily Hux and reader taking care of Kylo, but instead a nurse. 

Words: 3.2 K +

Warning: Violence (?)


When you ran through the doors, your lungs burning from running through the entire base in order to get to the specific area in which you could see the view of the Starkiller without any adherence to your sight, everyone was yelling and chasing each other around. Lights flashing and commanders seeming to, themselves, freak out, you were following Hux into the control room on the far side of the base. Running through the gathered crowd around the series of buttons you hadn’t learned the purposed of, you could see Kylo’s shadow running through the snow, the explosion from the bridge still visible in your mind. The flames licking up the walls and its sound making your ears ring while you thought back to the way he nearly pushed you away when you tried to help him by pulling him away from the fire. Now, with his figure falling through the flurries of the cold storm as he was just about to be engulfed in the storm of flames by the detonators his father had put on the walls, your mind traveled over the events that had just transpired. Kylo wasn’t the same, no. And he wasn’t weak, but he also wasn’t strong. In no way prepared for a battle–you knew he wasn’t even done with his training, let alone in the right mind. 

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A Nightmare on Maple Street

Written for The Writers Guild 80′s Movie Day! 

1, 2, Freddy’s Coming for You

Bright flames lick up the walls of Castle Byers, and Jonathan feels himself stumble toward the structure. Will knows he’s not supposed to use any sort of lighter in there, and it’s never been a problem before.

“Will? Will? Where are you?” Jonathan reaches for cloth that makes up the door to the fort, miraculously fire-resistant at the moment, praying that this is just a freak accident and that Will is over at the Wheelers or just anywhere safe.

 “Jonathan!” Will’s shout comes from behind him, and he drops the cloth with a relieved swear. Except when he turns around, Will isn’t there. There’s a swipe of silver that he just manages to just back from in time, the edge of his shirt shredded cleanly through.

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From the Ashes, I am Anew || I

[A/N: I have been working on this for three days. I am in love with the concept. It’s not Lance-centric, but I’m glad it isn’t? I also have another idea in the works for this boy here.

Preview:  Was it just a dream? Keith thought to himself, his eyes blinking open. His head hurt, as did his lungs. Was it just a hallucination caused by the lack of oxygen? Or did he really burn in the fire? If so, why was he in what appeared to be a hospital? Was this what the afterlife was like? The door to his room opened, causing his attention to shift from his thoughts to the doctor that had appeared. “Oh,” he rasped, his voice rough - likely from smoke inhalation. Perhaps he wasn’t dead after all.

Part I

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In the Afterglow

For the @hprarepairnet After the War Event!

Pairing: Draco Malfoy x Luna Lovegood
Word Count: 2,477
Part 1 or 3.

This is fairly angst filled, so please be wary while reading.


Regret was a parasite. Draco had spent more than half of his life encompassed by it. He’d never been a Gryffindor’s version of brave; self-sacrificing and loyal to a cause. No, a Slytherin’s definition of bravery was different.

Draco’s bravery had been simply in surviving. His father’s decisions had landed him in a number of predicaments. He’d been born and bred to be a Death Eater, to believe in a pure-blooded society. By the time he’d realized everywhere his parents had gone wrong, he was already in too deep. He couldn’t go back. But he’d refused to kill.

It pained him that that hadn’t been enough.

Regret was a parasite, and Draco had slowly been eaten alive by it every day since the war had ended.

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Into The Night - Dick Grayson

A/N: Not a request, but kinda a redo of one, since I wasn’t really happy with my last one. Enjoy!





    Checking yourself over in the mirror once more, you put your hands on your hips and smiled proudly. Standing there you felt excited about wearing the black and red suit, your eyes hidden under a domino mask. This was it. You were ready. Looking at the clock you nodded to yourself. It was time to go.
    Sliding the window open you slipped outside onto the fire escape and locked the window behind you. Taking out the grappling hook  you make yourself you shoot it at the building across from you. And so the first patrol of Flamebird began. Running and swinging over the rooftops you had taken months to memories you had a hard time not to laugh out loud. The cold night air felt amazing on your skin.
    You kept your guard up, stopping here and there to keep lookout. You were looking both for criminal and for people sneaking up to you. Your excitement didn’t let you forget how dangerous your new calling was. If given the choice you also rather not use that. Still, the smile on your face was a permanent fixture tonight.
    Passing the harbor district you did not notice how you caught the attention of one person in partially. To your credit your pursuer had a keen skill to melt with the shadows. Following you, Nightwing landed on a roof close to the building you were on. He took care to not to let you see him as he studied you. For his knowledge there were no other heroes in Blüdhaven and he hadn’t heard  of you either, so there was a good chance you were new. Blüdhaven had been his city for a long time, he wasn’t sure how to take it that you had chosen here to become a hero, but then again there could easily be enough reasons.
     Suddenly alarm sounded. The next moment you saw a man running down the street with a bag. Dropping in front of him, you blocked his way. Nightwing watched from afar as you took down the criminal. You were inexperienced, but skilled. Moving from his spot he decided to introduce himself. Soundlessly he came up behind you. When you turned after having tied up the criminal and saw him, you jumped a little.
    Apologizing he raised his hands. “Sorry.” Nightwing said, watching you carefully. “Didn’t mean to scare you.” He smiled a bit when you relaxed. “I didn’t know there were any other heroes in town. I’m Nightwing.”
    A grin tucked at the corners of your lips. “I would have never guessed.” you teased. After all everyone know Blüdhaven’s big protector, the news told about him non-stop. You wouldn’t lie and claim that his example hadn’t influenced your decision in becoming a hero, through the trigger had nothing to do with him. “I’m Flamebird. Nice to meet you.”
    Only years of acting lessons kept the surprise off his face when you told him your alias. Having named himself after a kryptonian god, Nightwing of course knew his legend. There had to be a coincident, some other reason for you to chose that name, because he couldn’t imagine you knowing the legend in any form. But he knew and the fact that the god Nightwing had a lover named Flamebird, also a god, really made this a bit awkward. “That is an  interesting name.” he said slowly, ignoring you raising an eyebrow at him. He crossed his arms and grinned hesitantly. “If you would like I could show you the city.”
    Of curse you already knew the city, you hadn’t dared doing out in costume till you knew it like the back of your hand. But you wouldn’t pass up the chance of getting to know Nightwing. Besides there was a good chance you could learn something as well. “I could use some company.” you agreed. “Know any good spots?”
     Nightwing grinned. “Oh, all the best.” he said.


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I need 600x more Danny Phantom horror than there is.

The kid died. He got stuck halfway between this world and the next. Like, I want fic that just takes that to the next logical body horror step.

In the show he bleeds red and green because there’s ectoplasm in his blood. Ok, his blood is red and green, but it’s on the cellular level, so instead he bleeds muddy brown, like something that clotted and dried weeks or more ago, old blood, dead blood

Danny wakes up stiff and sore and sluggish and chalks it up to too many late nights spent fighting ghosts, but really his brain forgot that autonomous reactions were a thing it still needed to do because it mistook sleeping for being properly dead, finally, and rigor mortis started setting in and now his brain is relying on ectoplasm to keep functioning after the extended lack of blood flow

Sometimes he spends hours staring into space, totally blank. He would lose days and weeks like that if there weren’t people around to jolt him back into the world of the living. His friends start setting timers on his phone to remind him not to drift, to stay anchored and breathing

Ghosts in canon have obsessions, fixations. The other half ghost Vlad isn’t exempt from this, being obsessed with Maddie Fenton, so why should Danny? What does he fixate on?

Maybe he’s lucky. Maybe it’s his life. Maybe he fixated on playing at being alive, at being Danny Fenton As He Would Be, As He Should Be.

Maybe he’s unlucky. Maybe it’s Amity Park, As It Is, As He Thinks It Should Be. His territory, his home, his lair. He chases other ghosts out unless and until they prove they have a place there in the fabric of his town. He keeps the ones there that are vital to it-Sam, Tucker, Jazz, his parents, etc. Danny’s Amity Park. The world outside falls away.

Vlad recognizes it, after a long time, after it’s far too late. After all, he too is part of Amity Park, one half the mayor, the other half Danny Phantom’s arch enemy. He still needs someone to fight and thwart, after all, someone to defend. So by the time Vlad sees it he can’t stop it. After too many failed attempts, he gives up. Maddie’s here too, after all. He might as well stay.

Danny has scars, but only some of the time. The electrical burn scar that branches up his arm and across his chest from his right hand is a death wound, of a sort, and it shows up in times of distress. The rest of the time, his body forgets it should be there, and so it isn’t.

The scars from ghost fights similarly don’t show up. He doesn’t remember that humans can’t get up and walk away after being thrown into buildings hard enough to break not just bones but the walls they hit, that flames licking across his skin and blasts from lasers should hurt longer than the length of a battle. Bruises, conversely, linger. Black and blue and green and purple mottled across his ribs and back, taking too long to fade on his cheekbones and under the mess of his knuckles.

#11-Matt the Radar Technician

“I think he’s hot”

Words: 752

Warning: None

___________________________________________

You sat against the wall, unwrapping the sandwich you had gotten from the cafeteria. Your belt dug into your stomach, and you sighed. Eying the bread that covered the lettuce and tomato middle. As you peeled it away and grabbed a fork from the container, you looked up to see Matt, the new guy, walking towards you. Instead of sitting at the plentiful of open seats, he slid down the wall, right next to you. Pushing a strand of thick blonde hair away from his black eyebrows, you smiled softly and leaned back further.

“Hey, Matt,”

“Hey…” He mumbled, biting into a bagel. He chewed silently, before noticing one of the other technicians walk in. He had dark hair, but light eyes and a built stature. He glanced over at you, watching you look down at your food with blushed cheeks.

Matt had begun to sit with you from the day he started working on the base. You had been there for a year before him, so you were assigned with the task of helping him out. You didn’t mind, but it annoyed you how awkward he was. You would constantly have to ask him why he was so nervous or to stop stuttering. It was cute, in a way.

Pushing up his glasses, Matt nudged you with his shoulder. Furrowing his eyebrows as he studied you.

“What?” You tried to hide your embarrassment. But even he could see through it.

“You like him.”

I think he’s hot.” You sighed and then continued. “There’s a difference.”

You looked over at Matt, his eyes gone darker. Before you could open your mouth to say more, he had gathered his lunch and was walking away from you. You sat there, not knowing what just happened. Matt seemed to be always interested in your personal life. Who you liked, what you did off duty.

-

Later that day, you went looking for Matt. You spotted him sitting on the ledge of the worker’s room. Kylo’s lightsaber was next to him, and the panel behind where he sat was destroyed. Deep slashes and cut wires with small flames licking up the walls. You leaned yourself against the doorway, clearing your throat.

Matt looked up abruptly, pushing the lightsaber behind him and sitting up straight.

“Y/N… Um… I just…” Walking over to him slowly, you hopped onto the ledge and looked at him. Swinging your legs so that your feet hit his calf. You were considerably smaller than he was. He made fun of you for it, but you didn’t take it to heart. He would make up for it with a compliment. At least, once in a while… He was like that. He didn’t know how to communicate. You didn’t mind. Not with him… Matt’s eyes met yours, and he pressed his thick lips together. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said what I did back there.”

You didn’t say anything. Instead, you found yourself drawn closer to him. Leaning in, your breath hitched in your throat, and you wrapped your hands around his face. Matt smelled like orange juice and metal. You sucked in a breath as your lips met his. They were warm, soft. They fit against yours, and Matt kissed you back. His glasses pressing against your cheeks while your face became hot.

Pulling away, your whole body filled with jittery butterflies, and you smiled down at your feet. Your lips tingled with the lingering feeling of his. And you thought about kissing him again. Running your fingers through his hair, burying them in the thick blonde curls.

However, he beat you to your thoughts, and you felt Matt wrap his large hand around your chin. Pulling you into a deeper, longer kiss that made your hands shake against his chest. He was warm, comforting. You felt safe, and a giggle built up in your throat. Suddenly, you were laughing hysterically against his mouth. Matt smiled, shaking his head.

“I’m sorry-I just-This is happening.”

“Why do you think I wanted to be assigned to you?”

Pulling back, you raised your eyebrows. “What?”

Matt’s face then fell as he realized what he had just said. Silence engulfed him as he didn’t know what to say, but you laughed again and pulled him into another kiss. “It was kind of obvious.”

“Hmm… It was?”

“You’re a sucky actor, Kylo.

The Devil And The Dead: Chapter Six

First off, let me apologize for how long it’s been on this chapter. This one has given me the worst trouble and has gone through more drafts and rewrites than any other, bar none. it took writing it from the ground up twice to manage something that… at least moves the story on. Special thanks to @ecto-rp for helping me to figure out how to write the chapter after the first, ruinous draft and @phantoms-lair for patiently helping me get through the muddle my thoughts were in and for correcting my atrocious grammar.

Based on @ectoimp‘s absorbing AU sketches (Most of which can be found here!).  

I’m giving credit and kudos to @arthur-tristan-kingsmen, @phantoms-lair, @answrs and of course, the illustrious @ectoimp for some of the discourse which guided the idea from vague AU to the story that does not want to stop running through my head. And for constantly adding new cute headcanons that are promising to make this longer.

Summary:  At first all he knew was darkness— rage, pain and the ultimate sting of betrayal.  And then Lewis opened his eyes…

Back to Chapter Five…

Chapter Six: Found and Lost


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Ordinary World - Negan

Reader falls into a depressive state when someone close to her dies, Negan is there as a shoulder to lean on. [ Finally posted for @twdixonimagine – sorry it’s so late dear. ]

Originally posted by the-winchester-s-guardian

You never thought the one piece of flesh and blood you had left on this Earth would have been ripped from your grasp and devoured by the living dead. Your daughter and yourself were the last living people of your family, everyone else was now dead or undead. She was 15 and beautiful, she had a way of lightening the mood of any situation. She had a favorite saying; Optimistic people see the glass as half full. While pessimistic people see the glass as half empty. But the thing to remember is that the glass can always be refilled.”  

You repeated this over and over to yourself as you held your knees close to your chest and rocked slowly side to side. “Jessica..” you faintly sobbed out. You failed her as you promised you would always keep her safe. Managing to find safety in an old factory with a group of survivors known as the Saviors, their leader Negan had taken the two of you under his wing. Behind closed doors you and the leader of the group had formed an intimate relationship with one another. He said that the two of you were “fuck buddies” this reminded you of when you were in high school, often making you roll your eyes every time he said those two words. It saddened you though, deep in your heart and stomach that what you had could be nothing more. Negan had his wives that he had regular relations with and obviously had no problem doing so. You felt like you were just his call girl that when one of his other women didn’t want it, you were there on the side. 

It was dark in your room and the only light illuminating the small space was a candle, the flames licked off the wick; the light dancing off the bare white walls. Huddled into a ball, you sat in the corner of the bed and leaned your head against the wall. Tears stained your cheeks as you quietly sobbed to yourself, memories with your daughter flashing through your mind. This was the third day in a row that you sat in your room, you didn’t leave at all not even to eat. Once or twice you left to use the restroom but you wrapped yourself tightly in a blanket; keeping your head down to avoid any attention from anyone. A light knock echoed through your room; your head turned slightly but immediately back down to your knees. The doorknob turned and light shined in and filled your room with a blinding glare.

You recognized the tall shadow that stretched across the bed and you peeked your e/c eyes up. “Hey sunshine, it’s sure dark as shit in here.” he had a tray in his hands and closed the door with his foot, slowly walking towards you. It took him a moment to realize that your face was stained with tears, he peered down at you for a moment from where he was standing. The tray was still in his hands and he set it down at the foot of the bed, taking a seat close to you. He laid a soft hand on the top of your bent knees then placed the other on your shoulder. “You’ve been in here for days Y/N. I’m so sorry about Jessica..” only once before have you heard remorse in Negan’s voice and that was just when you were eavesdropping on a conversation he was having with some kid from that settlement called Alexandria.

You stared down at the bed and listened to Negan as he tried to come up with something to say to try and make you feel better. “I’ve missed you Y/N, haven’t seen that ass in a while.” immediately he regretted what he said when you shrugged his hand from your shoulder and glared at him through glossy eyes. “I uh– didn’t mean to say that ..” he stumbled on his words. “Look, just go okay. It’s obvious what you’ve missed these past couple of days and I’m not having it now and not anymore. Just go back to your wives and pawns.. and just  leave   me   alone.” Negan sighed loudly as he was clearly frustrated at his loss for words, as a man of many words he couldn’t spit anything out. “I’ve been through some shit too Y/N and I may not seem like the kind of man that would need someone to be there. But we all do sometimes and I never had that person but I’m just trying —” he stumbled again for words. “I’m trying to say that .. I care about what’s happening to you dammit.” with another sigh he spoke again, “You see my wives are something that’s disposable. But you ..” he grabbed your hand and held it gently in his calloused palm. “There’s just something there that I feel.” slowly he made sure to gently pull you into an embrace. His smell filled your nostrils, he smelled of smoke and cologne. Negan, although all the evil he has done in this new world so far was now comforting you in your time of need. Your tears stopped flowing and it was as if time had stood still for a moment, the two of you sat in silence as he rubbed your back. “See sunshine, it’ll be a-okay..”