ice pillar

Consider this...

Momo doesn’t give a shiiiiiiit about exposing herself during heroics. But that doesn’t mean the rest of class 1-A feels the same. While she happens to be unaware of any faults, they know that with the more popular they become as heroes that means more media coverage. Which means paparazzi. Which means cameras. 

So when Momo does suffer a wardrobe malfunction you can bet the rest of class 1-A (Mineta not included) is there to cover for her. Momo got a rip in her costume, there a piles of floating rubble keeping her out of sight. Outfit too tattered, she needs time to make and change into another, pillars of ice are surrounding her. She gotta open the front to create a large object, you bet Dark Shadow is keeping her modest. Shouji has six arms, all the better to block her from view. Ojiro’s tail. Tooru blinded some people. Iida would lecture the paparazzi on respecting people’s privacy. Bakugou broke a camera once (he claims it was cause the guy annoyed him and not for Momo’s benefit). Midoriya is standing there red in the face, sometimes holding a large piece of debris (Momo thanked him the first time and he stupidly turned around) And even class 1-B gets in on it. Like Kendou uses her large hands to cover her. Tetsutestu and Kirishima both become real intimidating when anyone tries to sneak a peak. Even Monoma uses his costume jacket when necessary. 

Everyone’s just got her back. They understand it’s necessary for her to utilize her quirk and they never blame her or undermine her for it. They just help their friend. 

(Also it would have been great if Momo and Mirio could have some kind of camaraderie on how they had constant wardrobe malfunctions because of their quirks… TT^TT)

@hazel0217 @gunnigun @blamedorange - just in case any of you wanted to add some visual assistance to better sell this idea ;) 

Wings and Embers

Fellow acomaf fans,

Because I love Wings and Embers (for those who don’t know, Wings and Embers is the bonus nessian story found in the target edition of acomaf) I turned the pics I found — taken by @bookofademigod (@this post) HUGE THANKS btw. Without you, we would’ve been missing a lot!— into text so I can easily reread it. And I thought why not share it?? So here it is!

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Light pillars over Alaska

When it’s very cold and very still, moisture in the air can form crystals that are flat hexagonal plates, and they will tend to orient horizontally as they fall. When the air is full of horizontal slowly falling ice crystals, they will reflect light sources that are directly below them and not those to the side. This makes it look like there is a laser beam coming up from any light source on the ground.

Super Special Limited-Edition Snark Post: Wings and Embers short story

As you’re probably aware, Chapter 40 of AC0MAF shattered my brain into little pieces. To give myself a reprieve, and y’all a treat, I’ve finally given in and decided to do the Ness/ian short story, “Wings and Embers” from the Target-exclusive edition of AC0MAF. Get hype. 

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Unit 202: A Guardian with advanced AI that has freed itself from Ganon’s control. You have heard rumors around adout it attacking other Guardians roaming around Hyrule Field, as well as laying siege to numerous monster camps.
Late into your journey, you encounter said Guardian, and after recognizing you as the newest reincarnation of the Hero of Legend, it begins to follow you around assist you on your quest.
With the help of Loli at the Hateno Labs, you are able to wirelessly connect your Sheikah Slate to Unit 202, giving the Guardian to abilities similar to those of the runes on your Slate: Unit 202 can launch Remote Bombs, levitate metal objects with Magnesis, generate ice pillars with Cryonis, and freeze objects with Stasis.
All of these upgrades, paired with Unit 202’s unparalleled capability to analyze, asses, and counter it’s opponent’s attack patterns makes is a formidable ally.
Until the two of you arrive in Sanctum to challenge Calamity Ganon.
And Ganon re-assumes control of Unit 202.


For the anon who requested the bed-sharing trope. It kind of turned out peculiar.

“make it look pretty, but train it to kill”


The timer sharply ran at ten o’clock, and Nesta plucked the micro-device out of her ear, tossing it onto the soiled Earth. Her heels crushed the piece of tech, and soon her legs stalked forward, hands holding the edges of her ruby gown swishing around her. Once her high-stiletto shoes reached the marbled tiles, she dropped the silky fabric, a slight breeze in the crisp night kissing her skin.

Rounding the corner of the castle grounds, her eyes darted over the faceless security patrols who spared her a passing glance, some daring glance over the high slit of the dress on her right leg. She merely smiled prettily, running a tongue over her lower lip, painted with blood-red lipstick. Her fingers dipped into the curve of her breasts, and she smirked at the dazed and glazed looks cresting over the younger guards marching past her. Snapping the golden embroided invitation out of her bra, she winked at the flustered males, and continued her walk. Fanning the invitation against her face, she studied the towering columns and dark, tinted windows peeking from the upper walls.

Flipping her brown strands gleaming with golden flares, Nesta Archeron stalked to the entrance, listening to the faint whispers of orchestra’s melody and courtesan’s small talks.

She considered it a shame midnight would end with cacophonies and rumors. Pressing the papyrus into the butler’s white gloved hands, she stared down the escort who stepped from the long line of males and held out his elbow to user her up the gilded stairs. The escort swallowed and she dismissed him with a sparse look, striding up and into the gleaming castle. Inside, drafts of warm currents pierced her flesh, the beating sounds of blended notes spiraling throughout the domed room with glass chandeliers sparkling from several quadrants. Low murmurs arose as she stalked through the entrance, a bland smile curled onto her face. When an arm reached out, slightly bent, Nesta gladly took it, and stepped into the lines of circles to dance. Faces turned away from her, the attention of wave’s receding lapping into the back of the mind, as she disappeared from the main sight, and the next guest walked in.

“You didn’t walk with an escort,” the male voice murmured. “Meaning your date’s not here or you want to be scooped up by some other higher ranked—more than a courtesan in the royal courts could offer.”

Nesta offered him a sharp smile, one cultivated from dancing with the viper and drowning in poisons. Her eyes turned towards the warm body offering pouring heat, and blinked at the hazel eyes intently studying her under those dark brows that framed his rough, unshaven face. Wide shoulders corded with thick muscles roped around to his arms, and the black coat hung unbuttoned across his buttoned shirt.

He dipped her low, and leaned back as his eyes skimmed over her exposed collarbone.

“If it’s the first, I frankly don’t believe you’d be stood up,” he leaned down to caress a breathe against her collarbone. “But you already look powerful enough to not need someone else. So what is it?”

They arched back up, and resumed their small circles of steps and little twirls.

A third option, she silently mused, allowing the music to bounce around them, their bodies swaying together in synchrony. Noting the guards slipping behind the curtains and hugging the shadows along the walls, she cocked her head. A distraction fit perfectly as all the royals would be dining and dancing in the other secluded areas, choosing to grace the other invitees later on in the night.

“Want to go somewhere else?” she murmured, weaving her around his chest, each step they took too precise and full of the tensions lurking beneath the luxuries exteriors.

A flash of a grin. “Anything to loosen you up, sweetheart.” A hand strayed near the small of her back, guiding her to one of the dimly lit hallways. Goosebumps flew over her skin as she felt focus slipping from her.

A hush fell over the crowd, the faint tinkling of the glorious music halting. From the opposite direction of the entrance, two goldened and darkened double doors had flung open, one shadow of a figure descending the curve of slanted stairs.

A crown of pure obsidian—no fringe of gold or silver or diamonds or rubies. Not when the King’s own phantom absorbed all darkness and riches. Not when the King’s soldiers had pillaged her own village, one lower-ranked cornering her into the barn the night her house had been set afire. Not when she’d been separated from her own sisters, and then sought her revenge for seven years.

A cold smile settled on that square face—ancient and heavy, full of curses and endurance, eliciting pulses of hatred and demise to pound through her veins and echo within the crevices of her own heart chamber.

Every shape and figure bent, bowing to the King. Nesta let out a low hiss, clenching her teeth.

The music began, sharper and faster, and clean cut blade caressing her ear.

“You still want to get out of here?” the male muttered, not bothering to mask boredom.

“I’m going to greet the King of Hybern,” Nesta said, and started to detach herself from the male’s arms.

A hand wrapped around her wrist. “This is your first time attending this type of event, isn’t it?”

“What?” she snapped.

“Talk to the King and have your head disconnected from the rest of your body.” Those hazel eyes stared down at her, contemplating more than she liked.

She arched a brow, and debated whether slipping out her opinion. She refrained.

“No one’s allowed to infect his presence,” the male recites. “Unworthy to near his space, and worthy to watch from afar.”

That complicated things for a bit. Her information briefing hadn’t been exactly accurate, it seemed.

“But if you want to catch his attention, I suggest you tug down that dress.”

Nesta shot the male a sharp glance. “Excuse me?”

A shrug. “These things get quite dull. I wouldn’t mind a little blood spilled.”

She matched his grin, and they sashayed towards the fringes of the east hall. Rolling her shoulders, she tilted her head, and watched the dark robed King stalk through the corridor, the backs of guards swallowing up his form.

She pressed her hands against the male’s chest, and said a bit loudly, “Let’s find some privacy.” Tucking her face in the crook of the male’s neck, she allowed him to guide her into the darkness and away from the glamor of the middle of the ball.

“Anything you want, sweetheart,” he whispered, stroking her hair.
Nesta noticed the patrols closing in towards them, most likely about to command them to return back into the ballroom. Nesta wrapped her leg with the open slit around the other male’s, and kissed him fully on the lips.

A cry of protest rumbled from the male’s throat, but he quickly absorbed her lips, wrapping her around him, one hand grounding around her hips, the other pressing against the small of her back. A low growl thundered from the base of his throat as they broke apart for air, a crazed and wild look flailing within those hazel eyes, and those orbs raked across her form as if seeing her for the first time.

He leaned down and slammed her against the wall, the shadows of metal and steel streaming away from them. Nesta watched a guard retreat from them, shaking his head, and resumed soaking in the warmth of the stranger of a male. He held her tightly, emanating warmth beyond her once dreams, and devoured her. She groaned as he slowly nipped his way down, exposing the pale column of her throat. A thumb stroked lower from her waist and fingered the fabric of her gown. Her finger lashed out and she tilted his head back up, capturing his mouth within hers, and they waged their own war between teeth and tongue, soiled in the seconds of heat and devourment. His own fingers travelled up over the curve of her shoulders and down, leaving lingering sensations of desire and need erupting within every pore.

A loud crackling sound of metal grinding had Nesta peeling away from the male and mentally scolding herself. She’d gotten too cooped up in the moment, and allowed herself to become too exposed. By the cold, dark eyes of the one wearing the blackened and solid crown, the King of Hybern had spotted another prey, those fathomless eyes staring at her tousled state.

He jerked his chin at the male embracing her, dark eyes flickering. “Out,” he droned.

The hazel eyed male smoothed his hands down her back and tightened his hands on the small of her back, grasping the folds of the back of her gown. A second later, he abruptly released her and stalked into the light where the tinkering of music sounded.

Coldness flooded her once again, an emptiness settling within her core.

The King stalked towards her, and Nesta flattened her back against the wall. She knew that predatory look, the one who forged her into the pillar of ice and steel.

Her hand itched down, as if covering her slit in the dress.

“You dare disrupt my halls,” the King mused. “To lose yourself in feeling.”

Dark eyes, dark heart.

“I wonder what it would be like for a damsel to lose all sense of feelings,” the King pondered.

Nesta spotted the syringe, and danced around the first stroke.

Cold eyes, cold heart.

“You cannot escape,” the King warned, and reached out a hand, which Nesta realized was dripping with blood. “The end of this hallways lies for my…experiments. You’d do your country an honor to join them.”

Nesta knew, knew of the experiments, of the agony, of the horror, of those who walked out there, and were never the same.

Not when Tomas, her first lover of six years, had volunteered service to the King, and returned with dark eyes, a dark heart, cold eyes, and a cold heart.

Nesta unsheathed a dagger from her knife strap, and allowed the reflection of the blade to arc within the darkness.

A weapon to match that inked soul.

A sick smile. “I see,” the King said slowly, and tossed the syringe to the side, the sound clattering.

He lunged towards her, and grabbed her wrist so harshly the knife dropped. He tossed her against the wall, her head colliding with the hard surface. He reached down and ran a finger against the blade.

The strength the King possessed—but the deed had been done.

Nesta smiled, and watched the King prick his finger.

Dark to flame, shadow to madness, lunacy to bone.

Nesta stalked to the syringe and tucked into into her thigh strap securely. Then she strode the King of Hybern, who stared at the domed ceiling with criss crossing beams with an empty look. That ancient face now glazed over, the pulse at his neck fading.

Nesta leaned in. “Not so fun to be experimented on, is it now?” she whispered. “Took me six years to concoct.”

Blood gurgled from the King’s lips, the strangled sound lighting her veins.

“I know you’re going to die. Slowly. But I have to leave now. So,” she twirled the hilt of the dagger around her fingers, her red nails flashing in front of the King, “I’m going to have to speed up the process.”

Nesta Archeron drove the blade. Not through the heart where layers of armor awaited, but across.


She’d practiced this move too many times for too many years.

In utter patience into utter completion, where the head flew across the spine and body and rolled across the ground, coming to a halt. The crown slithered off the black hair and crashed against stone, the sound of the rim of the onyx and ink symbol echoing through the corridor.

The King’s body crumbled at her feet.

Dark eyes lolled up and dark heart unbeating. Cold eyes ripped from this world and dark heart ceased. Picture perfect.

Footsteps neared, and Nesta braced herself.

She stared at the hazel-eyed man, who merely looked at her, and then at the body—and the head.

“Cauldron boil me,” he managed to gasp out, and crossed his arms.

Nesta waited, finding herself oddly rooted to the ground.

“What the hell?” the man snarled, and Nesta angled the knife carefully under her arm and wrist. “You killed my kill, with less blood. Damn my ego and mission.”

She blinked, and stared at the large sword in his hand.

Too obvious, yet obviously typically male.

She silently scrutinized the male in front of her, hearing the distant and clunky patter of footsteps. Slipping the knife into his free hand and damning the aghast look on his chiseled face, Nesta tossed herself against the wall, mustering one of the facades she knew too well.

“Hands up!” Large seas of coats and suits swam through one end of the hall, swords, metal, and steel pointed towards them.

A tear leaked down her face, and Nesta reminded herself to not wear waterproof mascara again. By the looks on the castle’s guard’s face, she’d successfully portrayed herself as the damsel in distress.

“He—” she hiccuped, and stared at the body and head, waving her arms frantically. “He killed the King of Hybern!”

Nesta booked it, slipping out and pushing past the guards, slicing those limbs who reached out to ensnare her. It was another maddening dance, one learned from monstrosity, and living as a corpse within.

She hurried away, away from the male and from the dead and from the memories.

Her eyes turned away from the castle as she stalked away and leaped out the entrance, the stares of many driving her away. Hitting the rendezvous point, she didn’t cast a look back at the towering, tall, and dark castle. She slipped off her shoes and unhooked the rope wrapped around the stern of a slim boat, and pushed the vessel into the river, quickly jumping in. Balancing the boat, she picked up the paddle and rowed, ignoring the beat of the drums of the peals of alarms.

She didn’t bother to catch her breathe her arms continued to move in synchrony, once to a longing beat of music and desire. The cold air kissed her skin, whispering little slivers of words and gentle caresses.

Nesta stared at the moon as she quickly rowed, hours seeming to pass by as she passed by, listening to the chirping of crickets and unidentified howls. In the wilderness, she coexisted.

The vessel hit the edge of the river, and she dragged it under the cover of mosses and overgrown leaves. Trudging up the bank, Nesta listed the edges of her gown, and slipped back on her heels.

She caught the light from the distance, and followed it, ignoring the branches reaching out with ghostly hands to chain her back. Nesta picked apart the sharp tendrils and trudged forward.

A hand wrapped around her elbow, and she jerked back to no avail, only to have her entire body encased by another towering one.

Her body flared in response to the other male’s heat.

She stopped squirming and hissed lowly.

“Kill the King,” the voice snarled. “And frame me? Whose damned side are you on?”

She shrugged as well as she could. “Saw the opportunity and took it.”

“Took what?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know.” She twirled around, not before she shot him her infamous viper’s grin, her knee flashing out.

Through the darkness, the moon shining down faint rays of shine, Nesta could recognized the hazel-eyed male.

“How’d you escape?” she bit out.

A roll of eyes—that much she could decipher. A closer look, and she saw flecks of blood coating his hands.

She walked forward, her back to him.

Nesta didn’t understand the underlying feelings running undercurrent through her, her heart vying to trust him, her mind accepting him.

She continued her trek forward.

Those bloodied hands found the small of her back.

“You wondered about the contact who gave you the false invitation?” the male murmured. “That was me. My dealings include women desiring to meet a courtesan or indulge in royalty for one night. Their fantasies fill my pockets with gold.”

The orange glow grew brighter, and Nesta picked up her pace, the male behind her easily matching her strides.

“I didn’t pay your dealer one trove of gold to merely worm into a man,” she noted.

A pause. “No. I plan on returning the trunk to you.”

Nesta faltered a step, and the male crashed into her. His arms instantly wrapped around her, and she sucked in a breath.

“Because you killed the man that killed my parents,” he murmured against her ear. “For having more balls than I.”

Nesta could make out the lanterns of the inn, and jerked her head to it.

The male released her and gave her a nod.

They stalked through the clearing, and Cassian opened the doors.

The receptionist gave them wary looks, observing the muddied fringes of Nesta’s gown and the red painting the other male’s black tux.

“A single room,” said Nesta.

“A single room for me as well.” Cassian winked at the receptionist, while Nesta surveyed the dimly lit entrance, too small for a large command of troops to search through. The back alleys had potholes to impeded vehicles, while the insides did have the array of tables and chairs to use as shields and weapons if utilized correctly.

The receptionist coughed. “I only have one spare room available. You’ll have to share.”

Nesta glared at the male next to her. He merely held up his palms and leaned across the front, winking at the receptionist. “Are you sure?” he said lowly.

The other woman flushed. “I’m sure.”

Nesta held out her hand. “I asked first. Give me the key.”

Cassian slapped a bloodied hand over her palm. “No way. You owe me.” His eyes bored into her.

The receptionist coughed, and Nesta reached out with her other hand for the key.

Cassian’s other hand went into his suit and came out with a thick wad of bills. “One night, one room. Give me the key.”

The traitorous female handed him the key, and Nesta’s jaw hardened. She attempted to disentangle her hand from the male, but he gripped her tightly.

The receptionist took out a pen, and scratched something down. “Name?” she asked.

The male looked at Nesta, full of surety. “Cassian,” he drawled out, and stroked a thumb down the back of her hand.

The receptionist cleared her throat, and eyed both of them. “The room may be single, but has a King’s bed.”

Cassian dragged her deeper into the inn, a cocky grin etched onto his face. No doubt the fate had worked in his odds.

“Release me,” Nesta snapped, but her heart snapped back the opposite. Cauldron, what was happening to her?

The male released her hand, but wrapped an arm around her waist. “You think I’d let you sleep in the wild?” he asked, and guided her up the first step of stairs. “We’re sharing the bed.”

“No,” she simply said.

“Oh really?” he arched a brow. “But who paid for the room?”

Nesta said nothing, and stalked down the hallway until he reached her, those hazel-eyes dancing over her.

“You owe me,” he repeated. “You killed the man I wanted to kill.”

“The King was not a man,” she sneered. “A monster beyond humanity.”

The male inserted the key through the last door, and pushed it open. He beckoned her in, and she pushed past him.

“I don’t see why you’re full of ire,” Nesta continued. “When you were the one who allowed the King to look at me.”

“Because I decided to have you use your feminine wiles so I could get close to him. You think I expected you to be the King’s assassin?”

“Sad you didn’t claim the title?”

Cassian leaned forward, his nose pressed against her forehead. “I’m sad that you’re going to make me sleep on the floor, Nesta Archeron.”

Her eyes flashed. “How do you know my name?”

That cocky grin. “I do make it my business to know those who request false papers, sweetheart.”

She crossed her arms and kicked off her heels. “How’d you escape?”

Cassian unabashedly started to undress himself, shrugging off his coat. “While I didn’t have a damned boat, I did have legs that walked at the same snail pace you were rowing.”

Heat flooded her cheeks. “Excuse me?”

Cassian leaned down and took of his shoes, displaying the soles, beaten and reinforced with secondary material. “Once I killed the guards, I followed the trail of red, and followed the sounds of the rowing through the river.”

The male flicked the buttons of his shirt, and displayed the toned and muscular, thick skin underneath. Nesta felt her body warm up, and she took a step back when he stalked towards her.

A hand yanked the frills of her dress up, wielding the torn scraps of fabric. “The layers of your gown were my breadcrumbs.”

Nesta cursed. This was too sloppy.

Cassian seemed to read her mind, and shook his head. “Looks like you’re going to have to destroy that dress, sweetheart.”

Before Nesta could open her mouth, Cassian ripped her dress off of her.

Nesta’s knee lunged up again, but he caught her kneecap. “A cheap shot.” His hands released her knee, and he grinned. She steadied herself, and grabbed a pillow and blanket, tossing them on the floor. Within the movements, she stuffed her thigh strap within the pillow covers.

She wouldn’t risk more mistakes tonight.

“What are you doing?” Cassian growled.

Nesta stripped the remains of her gown, and yanked the complimentary bathrobe, hanging over the single chair, over her shoulders. “Sleeping on the floor.”

She laid on the floor, ignoring the cramps shooting through her back from the paddling, and wrapped herself within the blanket.

Seconds later, her body was lifted within her cocoon of warmth, and tossed onto the bed. The pillow slammed into her face a beat later. Snarling, Nesta started to disentangle herself from the blanket, but a body hovered over her.

“I will not force anything on you, if you are worried about that,” Cassian snarled equally back. “You are meaner than you demons, Nesta.”

Her name sounded seemed to be filled with more life, rolling off his tongue.

“You don’t know me,” she hissed. “Who I am, what I’ve done, or what I will do.”

The body rolled off of her, and daftly whacked her with a pillow.

She arched off the bed and crossed her arms.

The male laid across the bed, his chest decorated with scars. His eyes locked on hers. The pillow rested within his fingers again, and when he moved to whack it again, Nesta pounced, and landed on top of him.

Cassian stilled. And then slowly reached out to move a piece of hair that had fallen across her face. “Who says I can’t try to learn?” His breath fanned across her face. “I want to know the woman who can dance like hell and put a royal in hell.”

She laid a hand across his chest, and traced some of the scars, noting the rise and fall of his chest.

“I don’t think—”

The pillow hit her squarely across the jaw.

“I’m trying to knock some sense into you.” He chuckled, the sound vibrating from his chest, deep and rich, and full of life. “Don’t think,” he whispered, and dropped the pillow. “Feel.”

Nesta looked into those hazel-eyes and damned her brain.

She leaned down and kissed him fully, and surely, staring into those warm eyes and warm heart that opened for her, and felt her veins spark with the sensation of desire, shivering into the heat and security in the single room with a King’s bed.

300 words challenge day 1

A Ripe Golden Fruit

Loki pulled his furs tighter around him and watched the Asgardian prince through narrowed eyes. It had been foolish for the Aesir to travel to Jotunheim alone. He was lucky it had only been Loki who found him and not one of his brothers, or, gods forbid, his father. Laufey and his older sons were all cruel; Loki himself was not, although there were many who saw his lack of compassion as a cruelty in and of itself.

The Asgardian prince, Thor - for it must be him - picked his way through the frozen plain, oblivious to Loki’s presence. Loki regarded him with a certain hunger. He was of a size with Loki himself and though his coloring was strange to Loki’s eyes the breadth of his shoulders and the thickness of his arms were breathtaking. His hair as well, Loki had never seen the like, golden and gleaming palely in Jotunheim’s weak sun.

Loki stepped out from behind an ice pillar and let his invisibility spell dissolve.

Thor drew up short and put his hand casually on the hammer hanging at his belt.

“You are Loki,” Thor said.

“I am,” Loki said, pleased that his reputation had preceded him so. “And you are Thor.”

“Are you to take me prisoner, then?”


“So you have not come for me?”

“I didn’t say that,” Loki said softly.

“What do you mean?” Thor’s eyes were very blue. How delightfully strange. They swept over Loki.

“I have been watching you, Thor of Asgard,” Loki said, pitching his voice low and pacing slowly forward. He shook one hand free of his furs and let his bracelets fall to cover his wrist. “You are very far from home, a ripe golden fruit in these frozen wastes. You should be careful lest someone -” and he was close enough now that he raised his hand to rest lightly on Thor’s cheek - “pluck you.”

He felt Thor’s intake of breath. “What if I do not wish to be plucked?”

Loki smiled and it was all teeth.

“It’s far too late for that.”

30 days of writing ; atla / zutara

catalyst. covet. shift. spare. cauterized. fraught. cloud. raze. serrated. corrode. inattentive. adamant. irrevocable. mark. rush. gruesome. sink. impromptu. expose. absence. fallible. revel. leverage. impair. bare. affinity. cajole. clandestine. wager. clemency.

new writing challenge! but we’re dabbling into zutara territory. i hope you enjoy as much as i do!

It started with her hair.

Her hair, wild waves of brown, flew around her face as she parried his blasts of orange fire with whips of water, steam flying around them as she did so. 

Katara’s sweat dripped down the side of her temple as she rolled to the side, summoning a wave to surf around her opponent. She lashed a water whip at his feet and Zuko flipped back, nimbly landing on bended knee, and blasted himself forward with fists of fire. The wave shot up into a pillar of ice, launching Katara into the air.

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Light pillars over Alaska

The eerie sight in the photo is perfectly natural, being caused by the interaction between ice crystals drifting downwards through the air during a night ruled by Father Frost and lights pointing upwards from the human dwellings below, which pick out the tumbling crystals as though they were searchlights. They are the ground to sky equivalent of sun pillars which form the same way as sunlight meets ice crystals high up in the air, but on cold nights the ice crystals form much closer to the ground and can be picked out by human lights.


Image credit: Allisha Libby via EPOD

BNHA: Yesterday Upon The Stair, 22/?

Title: Yesterday Upon The Stair

Summary: Midoriya Izuku has always been written off as weird. As if it’s not bad enough to be the quirkless weakling, he has to be the weird quirkless weakling on top of it.

But truthfully, the “weird” part is the only part that’s accurate. He’s determined not to be a weakling, and in spite of what it says on paper, he’s not actually quirkless. Even before meeting All-Might and taking on the power of One For All, Izuku isn’t quirkless.

Not that anyone would believe it if he told them.

(Sixth Sense AU)

This story now has a TV Tropes page!


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truthfullyideal replied to your post ““Welp, it’s time to–” “–aaaAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA””

“It’s okay, it’s just a baby spider.”

“Yeah, you’re right, it is just a baby spider.”

“And do you know what this baby spider grows up to be?”


You’re an angel? Pt 2

Originally posted by superherofeed

Pt 1 :

Warnings: Violence

Fandom: Arrow, Flash, Supergirl, Legends of Tomorrow, Justice League??

You are a superhero who has recently gotten her powers and has finally gotten a chance to use them. You run into Flash, Supergirl, and the Green Arrow. This prompts them to try and recruit you into the Legion of Superheros. This causes many adventures- and new villain to step into the limelight.

I might make this a series??? Tell me if you guys like it!

You know- this superhero gig might be turning out harder than you thought.

This had never occurred to you- you had just always known that you needed to help people.

But that was it.

That was really the only extra resource you had.

A reason.

It honestly hadn’t been problem in your head until now.

And now you were getting your butt kicked.

You dropped to the floor of the bank, back flat against the tile as a beam of ice passed right through the space where you had just been standing. That was too close.

You lept up and dodged to the side as the beam of ice followed after you.

“An ice gun? I didn’t know that was a thing!” You exclaimed, tugging your small black mask closer to your face, scared it would fall off.

“You seem to be way behind new girl, maybe you should leave this to the professionals.” The shooter quipped, a smile on his face. You scowled, and then launched up from behind the pillar you had been hiding behind.

“Bad move.” The shooter shot ice right in front of you, stopping you in your tracks. A pillar of ice shot up, in your path and you flipped around, placing it between you and the shooter.

“You know, you’re really bad at this.”

“That’s what you think.” You growled and then slammed your back against the ice pillar, breaking it free from the ground. The ice started to tip and you grabbed it, holding it like a shield as you rushed at the shooter. You threw the pillar, and the man pointed his gun at the flying ice. The beam and the pillar connected, shattering themselves. Ice sprayed everywhere, a white mist spreading itself through the bank. The shooter looked around through his goggles, confused. 

Where had you gone?

“Hiding in this mist won’t help you for long.”

“I don’t need a long time Mister Ice-fetish.” You said as you broke through the icy mist, tackled the shooter and lifted him up by the collar of his jacket. You forced him up onto the wall, finally getting a good look at his face. Younger than you thought- he had sounded like he belonged behind a desk making dark, calculated decisions. You had even thought he would be wearing some weird monocle. Oh well.

The man grunted, surprised by your incredible strength when you pinned him to the wall. The shooter looked at you in a new light, impressed.

“Huh. Stronger than I thought.”

“Well you’re dumber than I thought.” You said, spitting out the first thing that came to your mind. It wasn’t your best- but it would have to do.

“Cute. Now are you going to put me down or are we going to have to do this the hard way?” You flushed, embarrassed by the way he was talking down to you. He was the one pinned to the wall wasn’t he? You pushed him harder against the wall, hearing something in his body pop.

“I guess that means it’s the hard way?” The man said through gritted teeth and then shot you in the arm.

His gun.

You forgot the gun!

You stumbled back, ice racing up your shoulder as you fell to the ground. This was hurting way more than you thought it would. The ice crawled up your neck, stinging pain flaring through your skin. The ice moved across your arm and neck, turning your lips blue and your veins solid. You grasped your arm, water vapor rising from your shoulder. The shooter knelt down next to you, the cold barrel of the gun grazing your temple.

“Sorry. For your first time, you did pretty well. But next time, try to catch someone when you’re actually ready.” You gritted your teeth, turning onto your side. He hadn’t beaten you- you weren’t going to let him. You reached for his leg, ready to break his ankles.

And then he was gone.

Or more exactly- you were gone.

Someone had grabbed you and ran off- and they could run at superspeed. You wanted to toss your lunch. You leaned into the person who was carrying you, trying to ignore the biting pain in your shoulder. Suddenly you were laying on a couch, staring up at a low, dark ceiling.

You laid there for a solid couple seconds, taking it in.

You had gotten your butt kicked- and then you were kidnapped.

“Ow.” You said, staring up at the ceiling like it was the most interesting thing in the world. But you knew you couldn’t look up ceiling forever, so you reluctantly began to sit up.

“Woah! Hey-you probably shouldn’t be trying to get up right now.” You turned and saw the Flash, a phone up to his ear as he told you to lay back down. You blinked, registering what had happened. The Flash had gotten you out the bank- he was the one who hadn’t let you keep fighting. You scowled, these thoughts coming to fruition. You sat up completely just to spite him now, even though your arm hurt like crazy. The Flash gave you a look but had begun to talk to the person on the phone.

“Oh hey, Caitlen. Is Cisco with you?” He asked as he waved at you to sit back down, which you replied to by putting your boots up on the coffee table. Flash looked confused but continued.

“Yeah- I need both of you. And can you call the others? Yes, those others. Thanks.” The superhero hung up the phone and looked at you, sitting on the couch covered in ice.

“What?” You asked, trying to keep your face straight and angry.

“Why are you mad?”

“I could’ve handled that.”

The Flash looked at you, shock apparent even behind the mask.

“Seriously? You were on your back with a gun to your head.”

“I had a plan.”

“Sure- was it to punch him?”

“…No.” You said sheepishly, realizing he had caught you. The Flash grinned smugly, proud of himself.

You turned away from him, remember your shoulder. You sighed, shrugging off your sweatshirt revealing a Star Wars t-shirt and the full extent of the ice on your arm. You cursed, gingerly touching the purple-blue tinted skin of your shoulder.

“My friends are going to be here soon- they’re going to help you.” You looked up, having almost forgotten that the Flash was there.

“Oh, thanks-I guess. The ice would have been hard for me to handle.” You said partly joking- partly talking down on yourself. But Flash wasn’t done.

“No- we’re going to help you- my friends and I never got to tell you thank you for saving us.”

“You remembered that?” You asked, giggling as you adjusted the small plastic mask and hoped it was enough to conceal your identity.

“Well yeah- it’s not everyday you see some girl with a homemade costume shoot a water jet at a clay monster’s face, teleport him, and then fly away.” Flash sat on the arm of the couch, explaining himself. You scoffed, turning to look at the red masked guy.

“Well, you’re welcome.” You said, the last bit of the pride in your chest swelling as you tried to act like a superhero.

“Your mask is crooked.”

You cursed and looked down, fiddling with your dollar store mask.

And then they arrived.

A girl with red hair, a shorter guy with long dark hair, another guy with shorter black hair- and then Supergirl and the Green Arrow.

anonymous asked:

can you please do a nessian prompt with "she loved so hard because she knows how it feels to be loved so little"? i came across this quote on pinterest, and i immediately connected it with your type of writing. plus it screamed nessian, so yeah. thanks :)

I think this is sort of a rambling. I hope this lived to some sort of measure in your expectations. It’s almost twelve at midnight here and I should be doing my physics free response. No regrets. Yet. 

“With a love so sweet it makes me sad
Can we go back to the world we had?”

She loved so hard because she knew how it felt to be loved so little.

Nesta had adopted to her Fae body too well. 

The Cauldron had apparently known that she would have embraced death with open arms, unlike her sisters and her sisters’ friends. The Cauldron had created her younger sister differently to mock her own transformation. The Cauldron had ensured that Hell would be always fingertips away from her, a measure she could glance at quickly, but never fully hold and embrace. 

A dimension that she could dream of in her good nights, but never cross over into, no matter how hard she tried. 

It might have borderlined suicide, really.

In fact, it was.

Cassian had been outraged at first. Until he realized that no blade could penetrate her skin and that the skin remained smooth as time passed. Until he realized that her sense were sharper and remained sharp. Until he realized that her cold exterior wasn’t a facade, but an integral part of herself. 

When Elain had spotted a wrinkle on her face, and Feyre had noticed her joints had hurt from winnowing, they had ventured to the Suriel. The magical creature had informed Feyre with almost disappointed grumpiness that Nesta would outlast the other Archerons not because she was the eldest, but because the Cauldron had injected within her the curse of a tie.

As long as the Cauldron existed, so would Nesta. 

Rhys told her to accept it as a gift. That near immortality was considered an aspect of the High Fae. 

Nesta didn’t want to be Fae, much less a High Fae. How could she allow herself to accept this body, a body of destruction and might that had ruined her human society so thoroughly? She was a living weapon where no longer were her words barbed.

“Are you going to join us for dinner?” a sweet voice chimed, interrupting Nesta from the thick book of Velaris’s history that laid within her lap. All the celebatory festivals of rebirth and resurrection, of freely living life without stringent regulations —

Nesta looked up into the eyes of Mor, the female who had told her of her history with Cassian a thousand years after she’d met Rhys’s Inner Circle. A small part of her had delighted that Mor had seen nervous and almost afraid of Nesta’s reaction. That someone she respected actually feared her.

Nesta shook her head softly, offering a slightly edged smile at Rhysand’s third in command. She lifted the book off her lap in explanation, and Mor gave her a quick nod of her head. 

Before the Fae danced out of the room, she looked quickly over her shoulder. Hesitation lined her face, as if something sour stuck in her tongue. After a moment’s thought, Mor squared her shoulders, and said, “Do you ever regret it?”

Nesta blinked. “Regret what?”

Those previously warm eyes turned cold. “For letting him go.”

Mor did not flinch as Nesta slammed the book shut steeling her own eyes. “This does not concern you, Morrigan.”

“You taught him how to fly. You taught him the human ways. You taught him to settle down. You taught — ”

Enough,” Nesta seethed. She could feel the roots of flame and embers begin to stir within her. 

“You gave him an inkling of hope to find love that avoided him for his entire life.”

“Is that not what you offered him in your warm bed?”

Nesta watched as something inside of Mor snapped, and the blond-haired beauty surged for her. Before she could blink and let a wall of smoke and fire kindle into existence, shadows folded within seconds in front of them, and Azriel stood gripping Mor tightly within his embrace.

Dark, large wings folded over the other female’s body, and Nesta watched as the spymaster whispered soothing words into his lover’s ears. The words that were to be a gentle caress, meant for both females, Nesta’s honed ears catching every syllable. 

“She loved so hard because she knew how it felt to be loved so little.” Azriel slightly bent his head into her direction, blue Siphons flaring. When Mor touched his cheek, he gently placed a hand over her palm, willing her to let him finish. “Her love was letting him go because she could not let go of her past. And still cannot.”

Nesta stood up, eyes blazing. The audacity for this male to assume that she could not move on was atrocious. Before she could open her mouth and arm herself, Azriel winnowed out of the library with Mor in his arms.

A lover’s embrace, full of acceptance and openness. Rhysand had waited an eternity for his mate, for that chance at love. While Feyre had seen life as a great canvas to paint on, Nesta had seized it as a sheet to toss all her pain on. She could not be the sparkle and shine as Mor’s life to Azriel’s shadows and silence. 

She could not be the girl the others could easily fall in step with. She was the girl they’d stub their toes on and walk away from, the occasional obscenity slipping from their tongue. 

Nesta shoved the book back into the shelf, and stared aimlessly at the other rows. “If he truly loved me, he would have continued to fought for me,” she vocalized to open space, her share of pain burning inside of her.

Her body continued to be forged by silence and loneliness, misunderstanding flooding every vein. Cassian had understood her, though. Understood her too well, always ready to fire back a retort to her own words. But Rhysand’s commander deserved more than a ruined girl who saw the world with too much raw emotions for her already hardened body she had to part of. He deserved a female who breathed in spires of delight, rather than flumes of hatred.

“I used to ask myself why I wasn’t good enough,” a deep, male voice sounded behind her.

Nesta froze, ice freezing every tendon and muscle.

“Wonder what I did wrong. How I could change myself for you. Why we weren’t working.”

A warm hand touched her shoulder, and she flinched.

“I could transform into another male who wasn’t a bastard, and you still wouldn’t accept me. I could give you an endless sky, but you’d settle for a lone star.”

A finger moved along her jaw, turning her head to stare at brown eyes filled with devastation. 

“Then it dawned upon me. It’s not because I’m not good enough. It’s not because you’re not good enough. It’s because your past wasn’t good enough. What others had done to you, and you to them. Because, you, Nesta, live in the past, and not in the present, or for the future.”

A thumb wiped away a stray tear that had unwillingly wrenched itself from her eye. 

“That’s why the Cauldron chose you to share itself with. Because you are the past, present, and the future. You are immortal in every aspect. And you do realize that I love every part of you, Nesta?”

Nesta blinked, and slightly withdrew from the male in front of her. “Your words are nothing but laced with prettiness.” 

“Did it hurt when you hell from heaven, sweetheart? Because you are a fallen angel.”

“I dug my way up from hell, Cassian. And I wish to return there.”

The red siphons pulsated around them, curving and encircling around both their bodies. Flares of warmth ran along her skin, and for once, Nesta allowed herself to relax in the tranquility. 

“You think hell will offer you penance, Nesta? Is that why you push me away?” He slowly leaned forward until his forehead touched hers, his wings arching around them. The cocoon of safety and familiarity he held —

It was wrong. It was wrong that Nesta could see herself in Cassian’s embrace.

A lover’s embrace.

Nesta winnowed out of Cassian’s arms. 

She would not allow herself to fall for the whims of feelings, not when it would lead to hurt and heartbreak. Not when betrayal came with every close face; not when betrayal came from those holding familiarity rather than those fleeting strangers.

Because this male had still continued to pursue her relentlessly after years and years of rejection.

She could not take it anymore.

Nesta became a pillar of ice and steel, her words a flame of fire. She did not let an inkling of regret or sorrow flood through a single pore. 

“I do not deserve a bastard born nobody. Is that why you find yourself in the sheets of any female who shows advances towards you? So that you could feel wanted?”

Cassian’s siphons died out. 

“I see why Lord Devlon and the others harass you. You are nothing without your wings. You are nothing without your brawns. You are nothing without anything.”

Cassian might have fallen onto his knees, but Nesta’s vision was too-blurry and hazed with red to see.

“You think love will triumph. That I perhaps I could love from afar. You were wrong. Always.”

Cassian might have pleaded for her to stop, but her ears were clogged with bitterness from the memories plaguing her. 

“How could I love something worthless? I had your hopes up, did I not? That you could find love?”

Cassian’s wings fell around him, and Nesta knew that it was the true picture of a fallen angel.

“You do not deserve love, which is why you have not found it all your life. There is no love for monsters, for killers, for those who shed blood on the battlefield.”

Nesta closed a hand over her heart, willing every wall and chip to stay intact.

Cassian’s throat bobbed, and his head remained down, as he rasped out, “You always got the last word. The last jab.”

Nesta walked among the shelves, forcing her feet towards the exit. 

She can feel every ounce of warmth leave her body, and stiffness overtake her. She was broken enough that she turned back to stare at the figure that could have provided her with everything and anything she desired.

Finally, the male who had taught her to once smile, lifted his head, his mouth set in a grim line. 

Nesta eyed him, forcing him to look away, so that she could leave and collapse and let her walls down for once.

But Cassian shattered any notion of allowing herself to lower those walls, as soon as pain flickered through his eyes, and he swallowed, clearing his throat. 

“I, Cassian Motel, reject you, Nesta Archeron, as my mate.”

Nesta did not leave the library as she fell onto her knees, a sharp pain spiking through every ligament and vein like an intruding shrapnel.

“I deserve love,” Cassian hissed, wings enveloping his frame. Once, he would have embraced her with those wings as well. “I deserve more than a decaying bitch.”

Nesta found each word to chip away at her walls.

“I deserve more than royalty.”

Her body jerked at that, and somehow, her eyes met with Cassian’s torn ones.

“I deserve more than the Princess of Carrion.” I deserve love and happiness. 

Before Nesta can demand an explanation, or maybe take back her words, or even beg for forgiveness with an apology, her once-mate heaved a large breathe, and winnowed away, leaving her in the musky smell and tang of old books.

A clogging sensation clouds her throat and fogs her mind. 

For the very first time, Nesta realized that she had never been truly alone. 

And that this was utter silence.