nothing in the world but youth


→ From collaborating with seniors in the industry, to having his hair bleached for the first time ever (and slaying us all). Kim Jongdae, you have never failed to surprise us and you didn’t disappoint when you said that you’ll show us better performances and an improved image of yourself. You deserve nothing but the best, because you gave us your best. Thank you and Happy 26th Birthday, you are so loved ♡

I want all young Autistic people on this site to know that they should never have to change themselves to satisfy neurotypicals.

That’s what society wants you to do. And there will be many, MANY instances where you feel obligated to do so. And maybe you will. You might stop stimming for a while because that girl gave you an irritated look, and even though you know you should stand up for yourself you feel so embarrassed and silly that you put your stim toys away.

Believe me, trying to change yourself to make neurotypicals more comfortable is a mistake. All those weird Autistic things you’re embarrassed of may become useful in the real world where clones don’t get far. Don’t look back in five years without any idea who you are because your one goal is to blend in with society.

Being Autistic is beautiful. There is NOTHING wrong with being Autistic. Please don’t change to make some neurotypical kid you won’t even remember happy.

Allistics/neurotypical allies who want to help, REBLOG THIS LIKE CRAZY so maybe an Autistic kid/youth can feel better about themselves.

Autistic people struggling with self-image or anything, feel free to message me 😘

✧ — Phantom of the Opera Prompts.

❛ My power over you grows stronger yet. ❜
❛ Phantom of the Opera is there, inside your mind. ❜
❛ Your part is silent, little toad! ❜
❛ Perhaps it is you who are the toad… ❜
❛ Flattering child, you shall know me, see why in shadow I hide! ❜
❛ Seal my fate tonight. ❜
❛ I hate to have to cut the fun short, but the joke’s wearing thin. ❜
❛ Let the audience in. ❜
❛ God, give me courage to show you you are not alone! ❜
❛ Pitiful creature of darkness, what kind of life have you known? ❜
❛ I heard as I’d never heard before. ❜
❛ What you heard was a dream and nothing more. ❜
❛ Those pleading eyes, that both threaten and adore… ❜
❛ That voice which calls to me and speaks my name. ❜  
❛ And do I dream again? ❜
❛ You have come here, in pursuit of your deepest urge. ❜
❛ I have brought you, that our passions may fuse and merge. ❜
❛ In your mind you’ve already sucummed to me. ❜  
❛ Now you are here with me. No second thoughts. ❜
❛ Past the point of no return. ❜
❛ What raging fire shall flood the soul? ❜
❛ What rich desires unlock its door? ❜  
❛ What sweet seductions lie before us? ❜
❛ Those who have seen your face draw back in fear. ❜
❛ Did you think that I had left you for good? ❜
❛ Down once more to the dungeon of my black despair! ❜
❛ You’ve past the point of no return. ❜
❛ You try my patience make your choice. ❜
❛ I gave you my mind blindly. ❜
❛ Wandering child, so lost, so helpless, yearning for my guidance. ❜
❛ Have you forgotten your Angel? ❜
❛ Wildly my mind beats against you… ❜
❛ Think of me, think of me waking, silent and resigne. ❜
❛ Imagine me, trying too hard to put you from my mind. ❜
❛ Can I ever forget that sight? ❜
❛ Can I ever escape from that face? ❜
❛ Past the point of no return - no going back now. ❜
❛ When will the flames, at last, consume us? ❜
❛ When will the blood begin to race? ❜
❛ I remember… there was mist. ❜
❛ Who was that shape in the shadows? ❜
❛ Whose is that face in the mask? ❜
❛ Damn you! You little prying Pandora! You little demon! ❜
❛ Is this what you wanted to see? Curse you! ❜
❛ Now you cannot ever be free! ❜
❛ Come. We must return. ❜
❛ Those two fools who run my theater will be missing you. ❜
❛ No kind word from anyone! No compassion anywhere! ❜
❛ Say you’ll share with me one love, one lifetime. ❜
❛ Lead me, save me from my solitude. ❜
❛ Say you’ll want me with you here beside you. ❜
❛ Anywhere you go, let me go too. ❜
❛ Can you even dare to look or bear to think of me? ❜
❛ Have you no pity? ❜
❛ Your lover makes a passionate plea. ❜
❛ Let your mind start a journey to a strange new world! ❜
❛ Leave all thoughts of the life you knew before! ❜
❛ Only then can you belong to me… ❜  
❛ You alone can make my song take flight. ❜
❛ It’s over now, the music of the night. ❜
❛ Twisted every way, what answer can I give? ❜
❛ Say you love him/her, and my life is over! ❜
❛ Now, let it be war upon you both! ❜
❛ See you later, because I’m going now. ❜
❛ This haunted face holds no horror for me now. ❜
❛ It’s in your soul that the true distortion lies. ❜
❛ For the past three years, these things do happen! ❜
❛ And did you stop them from happening? No! ❜
❛ Why have you brought me here? ❜
❛ We can’t go back there. ❜
❛ I can’t escape from him/her/them… ❜
❛ Raise up your hand to the level of your eyes! ❜
❛ Refuse me, and you send your lover to his death! ❜
❛ Go now, don’t let them find you. ❜
❛ I fought so hard to free you! ❜  
❛ Say you love me. ❜
❛ Your chains are still mine! You belong to me! ❜
❛ Wait! I think my dear, we have a guest. ❜
❛ I had rather hoped that you would come. ❜
❛ Free him/her! Do what you like only free him/her! ❜
❛ Does that mean nothing I love him/her! Show some compassion! ❜
❛ The world showed no compassion to me! ❜
❛ Did you think that I would harm him/her? ❜
❛ Too late for prayers and useless pity! ❜
❛ You little demon - is this what you wanted to see? ❜
❛ Farewell, my fallen idol and false friend. ❜
❛ Look around, there’s another mask behind you! ❜
❛ Please promise me that sometimes, you will think… of me! ❜
❛ Where in the world have you been hiding? ❜
❛ I only wish I knew your secret. ❜
❛ Who is your great tutor? ❜
❛ Why you spray on my chin all the time, huh? ❜
❛ The final threshold! ❜
❛ They say that this youth has set my lady’s heart aflame! ❜
❛ Go away, for the trap is set and waits for its prey! ❜
❛ There is no phantom of the opera. ❜
❛ Look, your future bride! Just think of it! ❜
❛ Please don’t, they’ll see. ❜
❛ But why is it secret? What have we to hide? ❜
❛ It’s an engagement, not a crime! ❜

I wish the world wasn’t so cruel and heartless. I wish not giving a fuck didn’t become a world wide trend. I wish people spoke with kindness and knew what it meant to be genuine. I wish social media didn’t take so many lives and ruin so much confidence. I wish money didn’t feed the rich and I wish the poor had a voice somebody cared about. I wish the world would wake up and do something about racism rather than speak on trending topics they know nothing about. I wish knowledge was as popular as followers. I wish Tupac was still alive, to inspire the ghettos’ I wish Martin was here to motivate the youth. I wish things were so different that I’m so consumed in my world wind of “what if’s”.

“Why aren’t you married to me yet?” He asked one time, complete with laughing blue eyes and a cheeky smile.

I don’t quite remember what it was that I was doing. I probably said something amusing, or stupid or both.

But I smiled and looked at him and dared, “ask me.”

And in that moment, in the quiet of a normal mid afternoon, with the jostling background noise of the city streets below, in that dingy studio apartment I used to scrape by to afford - we really did think we’d end up together. We were no one, a pair of 20-somethings with idealistic dreams and a snobbish self-entitled depth, we shared nothing but youth, innocence, lust over cheap wine and an unhealthy obsession over each other’s laughs. We were in love. The kind you only get once in your life, when the world has only tainted you with its promises of happy endings and first loves.

Looking back now, in a way he did ask me. Not so much in words but in feelings. Those blue eyes, that cheeky smirk, the way he swept over me from across the room. He didn’t say the words but I felt them. And to be quite honest, back then, I would have said yes. Undoubtedly, unabashedly, wantonly yes.

But life happens, as you know. He broke my heart before he even had the chance to ask.

Scrooge’s Grief for Della Duck (An Essay):

A.K.A. Scrooge McDuck grieves and misses his niece Della, but has tried to bury that pain for the past ten years. 

DuckTales handled Scrooge’s grief for Della wonderfully for me.

His grief isn’t apparent like Donald’s, or the consequences of her disappearance aren’t obviously shown as it is with Donald. His overprotectiveness comes from losing his sister.

Scrooge’s a man constantly on guard with his feelings. It’s like pulling  teeth out when it concerns him opening emotionally. He doesn’t want to appear vulnerable, and this is a feature from the comics. Pride and fear keeps his emotions close and under his heart. His hidden grief for Della, or rather her absence, and the subsequent rift it caused in his family, is in-character.

But this could be guilt as well. I have the opinion he may believe he’s responsible for TSPoS incident despite what he tells Donald.

This essay is currently over 2,000 words long, so I understand if you’re not interested in reading. These are my personal observations after rewatching the pilot movie on Youtube (it’s DisneyXD’s official channel), and from my personal readings of Don Rosa and Carl Barks’ comics, which have been a while. I plan to reread Carl Barks as soon as I can as well as catch up with the European comics.

Disney isn’t holding any punches for this show. It was a 23 hour marathon for the pilot movie. Thanks, Disney.

Keep reading


If you’re not obsessed with Eartha Kitt you’re doing it wrong. 

Orson Welles declared her the “most exciting woman in the world.” She spoke four languages, sang in seven, was accomplished in the worlds of cabaret, film and stage, and once told Lady Bird Johnson “ You send the best of this country off to be shot and maimed. No wonder the kids rebel and take pot.“ She was very active in the world of social justice, most notably a youth group in the DC area called “Rebels with a Cause,” and later becoming active in LGBT fundraisers.  

“We’re all rejected people, we know what it is to be refused, we know what it is to be oppressed, depressed, and then, accused, and I am very much cognizant of that feeling. Nothing in the world is more painful than rejection. I am a rejected, oppressed person, and so I understand them, as best as I can, even though I am a heterosexual “

Imagine you're a sorcerer in a haunted forest

A/N: For the eclipse today :) The gender/sex of the person in this story is not stated. You can interpret the sorcerer however you want.

You check your calendar. Your heart pounds as your eyes land on the foreboding red X you had drawn all those decades ago. It’s finally the day… the day of the eclipse. The day when magical energies are at their highest. Though you both anticipate and dread what you must do in equal parts, you begin making preparations at once, not giving yourself time to think about it too long. You’ll only get nervous.

You gather the proper reagents from your cupboards and begin crushing them together with your mortar and pestle. Unfortunately, you can’t help but dwell on the coming event as you work mindlessly. It started with that day, many years ago… so many that you must admit, in your youth, you half believed today would never come. You were so foolish then. But in your defense, who can honestly say they would fear something that was scheduled over a hundred years in the future? Most people can’t even hope to live that long, let alone make plans. But you… you’re a special case. It isn’t just the magic in your blood. It’s the magic around you.

On that day, when you were a twenty-something sorcerer-in-training, you entered this forest to collect rare reagents, despite the warnings of all your mentors. It wasn’t long before you discovered that the warnings weren’t for naught: the forest really was haunted. It was thanks to a tear in the veil of reality that so many magical ingredients grew here, but that very tear was also the reason that so many wandering spirits flocked to this area as their resting place. There were dozens, possibly hundreds of them, gathered over many centuries. Many of the spirits hoped to parse the veil into the next world, for no departed soul wants to be stuck in this dimension. There is nothing for them here.

But when you thoughtlessly strolled into their home back then, they saw an opportunity. A dozen spirits approached you, swirled around you like a deathly mist, and demanded you stay. Never leave, they said, never tell any of what you found in this place. At first you refused, despite the shaking of your wand-wielding hand. These spirits were likely centuries old and unthinkably powerful. An amateur sorcerer like you could never hope to best them all. But you held firm, clinging to your youthful determination. At least until they attacked. You never stood a chance, your magical attacks shrugged off and your wand swept effortlessly out of your hand. Before they killed you, you cracked. You begged for your life on your hands and knees and promised never to leave. And they stopped. You lived, but were forever trapped in this place. You told yourself over and over that someday you would become powerful enough to banish the spirits and leave the forest without interference. After ten years passed, you started to give up hope. Practice alone could only get you so far. Without a well-educated trainer, you couldn’t possibly learn your craft fast enough. Not fast enough to make a difference. You would die of old age long before you mastered a banishing spell powerful enough.

Except you learned over the next several years that the ambient magic in the area granted you immortality, or close to it. You never showed any signs of aging, even to this day. You still look like a fresh-faced youth in their prime. But what good is immortality without freedom?

You shake your thoughts away as you finish mashing the ingredients, leaving a fine green paste in the stone mortar. Well… there’s nothing left to do now except proceed with the ritual. You sigh, picking up the bowl and taking it to study. You meticulously draw the sigil on the ground with the paste – a symbol you’ve studied so many times that you don’t need to consult the grimoire.

At first, you didn’t understand why the spirits would want you to stay. A living person among the dead? Why? Did they want to torture you? Play with you for all eternity? But no. At the end of the fiftieth year, they finally told you what they wanted… no, they demanded it. How could you refuse? You were at their mercy.

You begin reciting the words. Such strange words, born into a language long dead now. You wonder how many of the spirits even understand it. Enough, at least, that they could instruct you to write this one spell and teach you how to speak it aloud.

“Mahamfrey… adulkey… prosperum… avasis…”

You make a symbol with your hands with every word. The herbal mixture begins to glow on the floor. You’re right on time. Outside the window, you can see the forest darkening. The eclipse has begun. As the moon covers the sun by degrees, the glow of the sigil appears brighter and brighter. Your chest feels fit to burst. The blood rushing in your head deafens you to your own spellcasting. You’re actually going through with this. You didn’t find a way out, like you promised yourself you would so many times. A hundred years ago this fate was promised to you, and it has finally arrived. This is really happening…

The first spirit enters through the wall. A white, nearly formless wisp, swirling and constantly shifting. Occasionally a face can almost be seen within it, but it is quickly swept away as if by a breeze. It comes closer to you. You want to back away, but you must stand steadfast and continue the ritual. If you don’t… you know what they can do to you.

One by one, dozens of other spirits enter your study. They pass through the walls, the ceiling, the floor, from every thinkable direction, and then they stop in front of you. It looks as though a fog has settled in your ramshackle forest home, one spirit indistinguishable from the next. But you know that, much in the same manner as they entered the room, they will also perform the next part of the ritual one by one.

There’s only one reason that a long-departed spirit would be interested in a living mortal. A favor that only someone like you can grant. They demanded it as payment for living safely in “their” forest, and you accepted, because it would mean getting rid of them. And if they’re all gone, you’ll be able to leave, right? The spirits came here to try to pass over to the other side, but what you offer is better. A beating heart… pounding blood… healthy organs… a warm body.

A body in which to incubate new life. Or rather, give new life to the dead.

In a flash, the first spirit that entered darts toward your body. Faster than the mortal eye can see, it ducks between your legs and then shoots upward. Though your clothes remain intact, you can feel your entrance parting violently around the intruder. It might have been almost pleasurable if it were not so sudden, and so very big.

“U-uhng… ohh…” You clutch your lower abdomen, your knees almost buckling. The spirit travels up your tunnel painfully. These things may be able to pass through inanimate objects like air, but with a mortal body, and with this ritual, they can be felt like flesh. It is necessary for the spell, you think, to take them in like living things. The spirit settles in your gut. It is weightless, but you can feel it stretching you like a bubble of compressed gas. Such pressure… and this is only the first one. You look down. It’s hard to see through your tunic, but you think that perhaps there’s a small bloat in your middle. You feel full, like you’ve partaken of a banquet of simple air, but you know that this is only the beginning. There are so many… so, so many spirits that need to pass through you, their “portal” into the next life. And one by one, they come.

The second stretches you further, having seen that you are capable of carrying their kind to its satisfaction. It bulges within your canal, and you swear it’s toying with you as it twists and changes its shape. Then it slurps inside, joining the first. You feel doubly full now. A sheen of sweat breaks out on your brow as your gut pushes outward a little more. It’s noticeable now, a pudge like a beginner’s beer belly. You swallow hard and look up. The dozens of other spirits wait their turn. They’ve been waiting this long; they know how to be patient.

The third fills you, then a fourth swiftly after. You groan like a slop-swollen hog, pressing down on your skin as if to lessen the tightness. You can feel the stretch of your skin beneath the tunic, spreading your fingers wide. There’s faint movement. The spirits are shifting inside you, restless, eager to begin gestating. Now when you look down, what you see is a stomach likened to that of a woman four months pregnant. Round, bulging, tight with life. Or its supernatural equivalent…

The fifth gets ready. “P-please… wait…” you beg weakly. You just need some time to adjust to the pressure. You feel you’ll burst if they continue stuffing you at this pace. But the spirits allow nothing of the sort. The fifth approaches and dashes up into your slightly loosened entrance, squeezing through your poor body until it reaches its brethren. You clamp your eyes shut and throw your head back with a wail. So tight…

When you open your eyes again, you see the tail end of the sixth spirit disappearing past your crotch. Then you feel it burrowing into you mercilessly. “No, please, just a… sh-short rest. I can’t—” The seventh shoves its way into you, bigger than all the previous spirits. You actually scream this time. It hurts. These things all expand you like cocks, as if you’ve ever taken one. Not even in your youth did you enjoy the pleasures of the body. You focused on your studies, assuming you had plenty of time for those frivolities later in life. There are so many things you regret. Right now your lack of sexual experience is one of them, simply because if you had taken a cock or two inside you, you might be better prepared for this experience. The burn, the stretch… it sits right on the line between agony and pleasure. Blood flows to your nether region, despite your hisses of pain.

When spirit number seven completes its journey into your center, no one could deny that you look heavily pregnant. Seven, maybe even eight months. With a large baby, definitely. Your navel is stretched flat by the pressure within, and your tunic is tight across the equator of your belly. You’ve wondered before if these things actually have mass, and had decided that it wasn’t possible. They gave up their bodies long ago. Yet here you are, filled to the brim with them, and it seems as though you have no possible room left. Your aching flesh is firm when you palpate it, and tight as leather on the rack. You whimper as the ninth spirit approaches. Your legs shake. You’re utterly overwhelmed with fullness. There’s no way you can hold any more of them. Surely they plan to go in batches. You can’t accept any more of them inside you, much less the next part…

But in it goes. Your “pregnancy” goes from eight months to full term in a second. Your navel suddenly pops out, putting a tiny bulge in the fabric at the apex of your tunic. “Hahh… no more,” you pant, tears stinging your eyes. “Let me rest. I will birth all of you, but gods, let me rest…”

At first it seems that the spirits actually take your words to heart. None of them comes forward to fill your abused hole. But then something else happens. Your stomach feels warm, then hot, then burning. You cry out in alarm, holding your distended belly with both hands and staring at it in desperate search of answers. And then… it grows.

The filling was only the first part of the process. Now it’s time for part two: the growth.

Presumably in the same order that they entered you, the spirits in your depths take root, imbuing your magical body with their essence. Their souls latch onto you from the inside, suckling your life essence to transform themselves. To be birthed anew, they must have the proper form – a living one, just like a babe in its mother’s womb. But unlike a babe, the spirits know their true forms from their past lives, and they have enormous power. They don’t need nine months. Nay, they hardly need a minute.

Your belly swells. What appeared full term looks quickly overdue. The things that once acted like compressed air become more solid by the second. As the size of your overtaxed middle increases, so too does the weight within it. Your poor skin strains to contain the incredible mass as it surpasses the look of a twin-bearing mother. You can no longer stand in place, despite the threat of the looming spirits. You need support. You back against the wall, spreading your legs. As if taking it as an invitation, your thrumming swell surges outward to encroach on the extra space you’ve given it, growing upward, downward, outward on all sides. The fabric of your tunic thins and then splits at the tightest point, your engorged belly button poking its naked self out into the chilly air. Now that it’s finally given in, the cloth eagerly continues ripping in a jagged vertical line as its contents balloon outward.

You pant, moan, rub your massive belly frantically to try to give it some relief from the stretching. You’re so full, so unbelievably full. Even with decades of warning, you never imagined it would be like this. So intense. So merciless. Tight and huge and ever-growing. Too late you realize what you’ve done. You took nine of them into your unprepared body, and they are growing to the size of infants inside you. No one alive could carry nine babes without great help, or without bringing death or permanent impairment onto themselves. You’re going to keep swelling until you break. You’re going to tear open just like your tunic…

…No. Wait. It seems to have stopped. Perhaps they take turns growing as well? Panting like a runner, you look down upon your ruined body in despair. If you were to estimate… triplets? No, quadruplets… you don’t know. All you know is you’ve never seen a pregnant woman this large.

The occupants of your stomach quicken. Your belly ripples with the movements of agitated spirits, hungry for the new life that you’re about to give them. You coo at your expansive girth and rub it soothingly, internally begging them to stop shifting about in their too-tight prison. So packed is your belly that it shivers and twitches with fullness, threatening to split. It has nearly emerged in full from your tunic, mere scraps clinging to the engorged sides of the explosive sphere. Breathing is a trial. The great mass inside you puts pressure on all your other organs. What are you to do now?

A few minutes pass, and the room gradually grows darker as the moon passes over its brother. You struggle under your supplemented weight, your spread legs barely holding you up. Your belly squirms. The veins upon it throb, and the sweat of exertion drips from every inch of you, not the least of which is the bare peak of your false pregnancy. You don’t know what to do. The spirits in the room don’t move, and though the ones inside you do, it’s not in the direction you need them to. You need them out. Though you dreaded it earlier this very day, now you want nothing more than to give birth. You groan, sinking lower toward the ground until your knees hit it. You caress your gravid growth carefully, feeling as though any outside pressure will make you burst.

Suddenly you realize that the room is black as pitch. It’s the momentous time – the height of the eclipse. You feel a distinct change. Your muscles clench involuntarily, making you cry out and clutch your belly with a white-knuckled grip. There’s a sort of… pop, deep inside. Gallons upon gallons of fluid pour forth from your hole, spilling straight through your pants and spreading over the floor. You look down. Is that…?

Another contraction wracks you right on top of the first one. You breathe rapidly through the tight O of your lips like a woman in labor. A new pressure – a downward pressure – makes itself known in your tunnel. “Oh gods,” you whisper to yourself. “It’s time… I’m going to… I’m going to give birth…”

Not knowing what else to do, you push. There’s no movement from within. A third contraction grips your thin-skinned belly, making a map of dark veins pop out. Your brand new stretch marks dance as the muscles underneath the skin clench and pulse. You breathe heavily and push with the contraction. The first spirit – now a living being once more – parts you slowly from the inside. As big as it felt going in, it’s at least thrice the width coming out. It barely moves a centimeter before the contraction ends and you have to stop to pant, holding your writhing mound between your hands. The occupants are getting almost violent in their movements. It feels like they’re as desperate to get out as you are to have them out.

Two more contractions pass, and two more pushes, but the progress is slow and agonizing. Finally the babe hits your hips, but…

It’s stuck.

“No,” you whimper. You stare down at your grotesquely distended gut with a pleading look. Your hair sticks to your face with sweat, and your cheeks are surely blazoned red with exertion. “Please, no, come out, I need you to come out, I… I… ahhh! Ohhh…!” Your belly clenches powerfully, and you push with what is by now pure habit. No movement. The ghostly baby starts thrashing in your tunnel, testing the already too-stretched membrane. You wail. You spread your knees wider, trying anything to give your burden more room to escape. With each contraction you lower yourself a little more, until you sit with your arse on the cold stone floor and your back to the wall. Your legs snap open obscenely wide as you prepare to scream this unearthly baby out of you. It ekes forward on the next contraction, but not enough. If anything, it feels like it’s only getting more stuck. You keep pushing anyway. You must. If you don’t get these babes out of you, then you’ll die here with an unborn head stuck fast in your hips.

Half a dozen more contractions pass, and with a final throaty cry, you manage to pass the head through your hips. But now it’s at your exit, and you don’t think there’s any way it will get out without serious tearing. The shoulders make their way through your pelvis, and the head begins its aching crown. It forces your skin to bulge outward, drawing the flesh of your exit tight. It’s too big to push through the hole. It must stretch you further than you’ve ever been stretched. As if that wasn’t enough, the eight other spirits in your overripe belly sense that there’s a little more room now that the first is descending. The next one starts growing rapidly to catch up to the first one. Your stomach jumps up inches at a time. If you were to wager a guess, you’d say they stagger their growth, one not far behind its predecessor. The second babe hurries to catch up to the one jammed in your canal. Even as you scream and fight against your encumbered body to push the current babe out, your mound fills up and rises above you like a mountain. Higher, heavier, rounder, tighter. The stretch marks spread long and dark across the great expanse of trembling flesh. It’s too much. You have to get them out.

The top of the head slips back in the moment you stop pushing. You scream in frustration and anguish. You yearn to feel the head, to pull it out of you, but when you try you find that your belly is simply too massive. Try as you might, your hands can’t reach your groin. All you can do is push and pray.

You stare up at the remaining spirits in the room with tear-filled eyes. They’re watching you. They know that you’ve successfully gestated their brethren. And as you watch them watching you, you know that this is not be the end. As soon as you’ve given birth to this batch, then the rest will want their turn. The deal was for you to give new life to ALL of them on the day of the eclipse. Before the sun sets, you must take these dozens of creatures into you, group by group, grow them to term, and push them out just like this.

You moan, feeling the head slip back in once more when the contraction ends. More than just the head being too big, it feels like something’s in the way. It’s then that you realize another mistake: you didn’t remove your pants before labor began.

It’s going to be a long day.

anonymous asked:

Why do you think libras, geminis, pisces are multifaceted?

Well, to be clear, all of the signs are multi-faceted in an archetypal way. However, in terms of the symbols, Libra, Gemini, Pisces, and Sagittarius also are multi-faceted. Libra has two sides of a scale, Gemini are represented by twins, Pisces are represented by two fishes, and Sagittarius is half man, half horse. These two sides can represent two different sides that are put into a single sign.

Gemini: One side represents knowledge and logic. The other side represents humor and youth. These two sides are both tied by the mind and communication.

Libra: One side represents love and romance. The other side represents justice and fairness. These two sides are both tied by the interactions with other people.

Sagittarius: One side represents knowledge, truth, and beliefs (human.) The other side represents strength, wildness, and adventure (horse.) These two sides are tied by passion.

Pisces: One side represents absolutely knowing everything and having the ability to empathize. The other side represents knowing absolutely nothing due to the grandness of the world. These two sides are tied by imagination.

Types of Kakashi

1.Chibi Kakashi- Smol and angry. Rejects the sandwich you prepared for him because he made a gourmet meal while you were looking for the bread.  

2. Anbu Kakashi- Needs a hug, like woah.  Can’t sleep very well, and wants to die 90% of the time.

3. Prophet Kakashi- He has seen your future, and your future is death.  Amount of fucks given: Zero.

4. Jonin Kakashi- Is in the process of learning what it means to be a person.  Gives terrible advice.  (also known as Kakashi-sensei)

5. Icha Icha Kakashi- A cuddle monster, prone to blushing.  If that hug offer is still available, he would like it.

6. Hobo Kakashi- Wears the same flak jacket for a year. Skips out on the dinner bill, and loiters in trees instead of reading in his apartment.

7. Humble Kakashi- Saves the world.  Thinks he did nothing. 

8. Rokukashi- Can model a blanket like no one’s business.  Terrible at winking.

9.  BFF Kakashi- Elusive and ridiculous.  Generally, this Kakashi is happy with his place in life.  Comes with Bonus! Youth Power!

10. Papashi-

Originally posted by agent-69

Edited for clarification per @kokoro4kakashi and @purple-possibilities

Never Take Your Eyes Off Me (a victuuri fansong)
Julia Jones
Never Take Your Eyes Off Me (a victuuri fansong)

After 3 failed attempts at writing a victuuri  fan song, I bring you ‘Never Take Your Eyes Off Me’. 

It’s from Yuuri’s perspective, about Victor. I wrote it after episode 9, because I couldn’t contain myself hahaha. Hope you guys like it! Sorry for the belty parts ;P (they’re not always on key whoops) I kinda went nuts about half way through, so keep listening!

lyrics under the read more.

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Day 20 Jeanmarco - Month

I’m building this house, on the moon
Like a lost, astronaut
Lookin at you, like a star
From the place, the world forgot

And there’s nothing, that I can do
Except bury my love for you

The brightness of the sun, will give me just enough
To bury my love, in the Moondust
I long to hear your voice, but still I make the choice
To bury my love, in the moondust
Nothing can breath, in the space
Colder than, the darkest sea

Jaymes Young - Moondust


Oh my god, I made it!!! :D haha. Thats really… I didn´t think I would finish it today ;) but here it is! The finished JeanMarco x Voltron - Crossover-AU- what - ever- you - know- what- I - mean. Can you feel the love??? ^^ <3 ~

nights; mcgonagall drabble

It’s the nights she saw the tightness of Remus’ face and the trembling of his hands, an eternal reminder of his monthly torture, sorrow and pain carved in the premature lines of his skin, that McGonagall shivered.

It’s the nights she recalled the emptiness in Sirius’ eyes as he was taken away to Azkaban, a haggard, destroyed look that never disappeared even as he prowled the halls of the Black mansion, that McGonagall stumbled.

It’s the nights she visited Alice and Frank, met by their blank smiles and absent minds, their bodies forever haunted by excruciating dolor, and was gently offered the crinkled paper of sweets, that McGonagall hurt.

It’s the nights she remembered Lily and James’ broken bodies, cast in desperation in front of the one person they would always protect, their love torn apart and yet still so present in the quiet darkness of the house, that McGonagall cried. 

She wanted to grab Dumbledore and shake him and yell. They were twenty, she wanted to scream. They were so young. They deserved to live. What was the point of fighting against evil if this was the price to pay?

Because the memories still came so easily, of James’ charming smiles and Sirius’ rebellious grins as they brilliantly broke another rule. Of Remus’ soft sweaters and dark chocolate as he scolded them fondly, and of a boy and a girl walking hand in hand like nothing else in the world existed. The beautiful youth was gone and yet she remained, fighting in remembrance of something that had already disappeared.

It’s those nights that McGonagall doubted.

But it’s the night she saw the limp body of Harry Potter in Hagrid’s arms that McGonagall broke.

written for the @hpwritersnet prompt of the week: mcgonagall

To Play The Game: A Jonsa Fanfiction. Chapter 1

Jon Snow had safely arrived back at Winterfell. He mounted off his horse, adjusted his cloak and pat the mare’s back. The snow crunched beneath his boots and he exhaled. Home. He was Home. He knew he was home before he’d even arrived at Winterfell because of the fresh air and the clean breeze that had slapped his face. The South smelt like horseshit. He still didn’t understand why people wanted to live there, let alone sit on that worthless throne made of Iron. He’d rather die from the harsh conditions and peril that awaited him in the North, than suffer a meaningless death fighting over that worthless clunk of metal. As he walked nearer to the gates, he saw three figures come into view. His heart contracted. His legs would have probably gave out if not for the strong hold he had on his horses reins. He was overcome with such an array of emotions. One’s he had not allowed himself to feel in Dragonstone- could not let himself feel. A childlike sort of ecstasy came about him as he beheld those figures. His family. His pack

Bran. Arya. Sansa. Sansa.

He quickened his pace not even paying mind to the way he dragged his horse along with him. Behind him, he knew Davos was smiling. The gates opened and Arya marched toward him. Small, she was still so small. But gone was his little sister. For the girl- the woman- who stood before him now looked fierce. Unyielding. Strong. And strapped to her side was needle; the sword Jon had demanded was crafted specially for her. His heart swelled upon seeing that smallsword. And her eyes sparkled. Just her eyes alone spoke of so much raw emotion. So many unsaid words. They reached out for each other. And Jon did fall to his knees then as he threw his arms around her. Squeezing her tightly as if to make sure she was real. That she was there.

“Jon,” She said. Her voice cracking only slightly.

“Arya,” He said quietly. 

After they had both confirmed one another to be real, they let go of each other. 

He looked down at her. “Look’s like you learned how to use that sword.” Jon said with a small smile. 

She grinned. “I still use the very first lesson you gave to me.”

“Oh?” He asked innocently.

Her grin became wolf-like. “First lesson,” She said. “Stick em with the pointy end.”

His eyes sparkled. “Aye,”

He walked toward Bran with a more resigned smile. He’d been warned about Bran. He wasn’t the same as before. Not the Bran that had such bright eyes. Not the Bran that had dreamed of being a knight. Not the bran that climbed the castle walls with such joy. No, he’d never climb again. The world had been too cruel to Bran- cruel to them all- but far too cruel to Bran. His childhood snatched away. His youth taken too soon. He clapped him on the shoulder and offered him a gentle smile. Bran’s face was devoid of emotion- he couldn’t feel anything anymore, but his hand still reached to cover Jon’s. And it was better than nothing.

“I thought I’d never see you again. I thought you dead.” Jon whispered.

Bran looked up from his hand on top of his brother’s. “I always knew our paths would cross again. I’ve always been there with you. Always been watching. Even if you didn’t know.”

Too grave. His voice sounded too grave, too wise for someone so young. But Jon nodded his head all the same. 

“I would like to speak to you. When you’re well enough rested. There is much I wish to discuss with you.”

Jon nodded his head and squeezed his brothers shoulder again. “Of course.”

And finally, he looked to her. To Sansa. Sansa whom he had tried and failed to get out of his head for several months. Sansa who’s beautiful auburn hair flowed gently with the wind. Sansa who was still so breathtakingly beautiful that Jon thought he was going to be sick. He wondered if she knew. Knew that it was her name that he whispered amongst the nights stars. And only her name- the thought of her that had given him the strength to carry out such dishonourable acts. Only thoughts of her could drive out the darkness. Only thoughts of her could bring in the light. How the winds whispered her name. How his soul longed for her. And as he looked at her, the red-headed goddess he so wished was not his sister, how her eyes sparkled when she beheld him… Yes, he thought. There was no doubt in his mind. For Sansa, he would gladly wreck himself in two.

“Sansa-” He began and was interrupted for he heard the galloping of more horses. Horses that signalled she had arrived. 

Jon looked at Sansa and kissed her forehead. He drew back slowly.  They stared at each other. There was ice and fire and understanding. He nodded at her and she nodded back. Later. They would speak later. 

For the dragon queen had arrived amongst the wolves. And wolves did not let outsiders in to their pack. 

Jorah helped Daenery’s Targaryen dismount her horse. And she walked toward Jon. A smile on her face- the smile of a lover. Jon gave back what he thought was his best sensual grin. At least that was what he thought, until Sansa subtly (and quite hardly) kicked the back of his leg. The dragon queen stood beside Jon proudly. Impatiently. Expectant. It was only Bran whom inclined his head to acknowledge her status.

“Your grace.” He said plainly.

But Arya stood defiantly her chin raised high and Sansa seemed to be sizing her up. Daenery’s eyes flared with rage but she did not speak. Sansa finally bowed- to Jon. 

“Welcome home, your grace.” She said sweetly. 

Jon inclined his head. “Thank you, Sansa.” 

Sansa then turned to the dragon queen and bowed. “Your grace,” She said courteously. Ever a Queen.  

Daenery’s understood then. She wasn’t exactly disregarding her status. She was simply acknowledging Jon’s claim before her own. She didn’t know what to make of it. 

“Welcome to Winterfell, your grace.” Sansa began. “I hope you’ll find the room prepared for you to your standards. Everything is ready for your immediate use.”

“Thank you,” Dany said. “And where will my dragons stay? I assume you have prepared a place for them also?” She questioned.

But before Sansa could reply, Jon stepped in and said firmly. “Sansa is the lady of Winterfell. It is not her place to make such arrangements. The grounds master will see too it they are put in a suitable place.”

Dany looked up at Jon and furrowed a brow (though her heart still leaped when she saw him and filled her with joy), she was surprised. And puzzled. Slowly, she nodded. He smiled at her and she returned it back happily. But looking at Sansa, she wondered why it had been failed to have mentioned The Lady Of Winterfell was so beautiful. And why she had received misinformation on the nature of Jon and Sansa’s relationship. Because from the fierce way he defended her and the dutiful and loving way she had first acknowledged him, Dany knew it wasn’t an estranged one as she had been led to believe.

“If that is all,” Said Sansa. “I have a lot of paperwork to oversee before we dine.” She turned to Jon. “Your Grace?” She asked. Asking to be dismissed.

He nodded. Giving her such a tender and loving look. One Daenery’s had never seen directed at her. 

“Aye,” Jon said to his lady-sister. “I’ll see you before we dine.” 

Sansa left then. Gathering up her skirts in her hands so it wouldn’t trudge through the snow. With one last grin at Jon (ignoring Dany completely), Arya followed whilst wheeling Bran away. Sansa waited for them to catch up. Brienne bowed before Jon and then trailed after the two girls. 

Bran called out “We’ll talk when you’ve rested Jon.” 

Daenery’s turned to Jon and took his hands in hers. “So that wen’t well.”

A small smile. “It wen’t well considering.”

“They hate me!”

“Not hate you exactly-”

She gave him a look of complete and utter disbelief.

He huffed a laugh. “They may completely and wholeheartedly dislike you, but they don’t hate you. They’ll come to realise the help you offer the North is invaluable. They’ll come to see you for what you are. Salvation.”

She cocked her head. “And what of what I am to you?” 

He kissed her cheek lightly and stepped away from her. 

“The dragons will be arriving soon. After they have come, rest. Refresh yourself. I’ll see you at the feast.”

She smiled and gave a little nod all whilst reluctantly letting his hand go. Jon gave Davos a look. An order. He bowed to him. And bowed slightly to Dany before setting off. 

She watched Jon trudge through the snow toward the castle as Missande, Jorah and Tyrion came to her side. They’d just got to Winterfell. Her and Jon had come together. So why did she feel she had already lost him?


Jon stood before Sansa’s chamber and knocked twice. Brienne opened the door. She bowed. 

“Who is it, Brienne?” Sansa queried.

“It’s his grace, my lady.”

Immediately she replied “Let him in. And leave us.”

Brienne bowed. “My Lord. My Lady.”

The heavy doors of the chambers shut and Sansa shot up and dropped whatever she had been sowing. They stared at each other for a long while and then- Jon didn’t know who had reached for who first. All he knew was that Sansa was in his arms and no matter how hard he tried, he could not press her close enough to his body. She nuzzled her head into his neck and he sighed. Smoothing down her hair and letting her scent fill him up. 

“I missed you.”

He continued to stroke her hair. “And I missed you.” he said roughly.

Sansa thought it’d never be enough- what she had with Jon. But it was all she would ever get. So she would take it. Any moment with him was better than nothing at all. 

There was a knock on the door and they quickly sprung apart. Sansa straightened her gown. 

“Who is it?” She called.

“Davos, my lady.”

“Enter.” She said.

He came in to the room and made sure to check there was no one listening before he shut the door. 

Sansa looked to Jon. “She believes you? She believes that you truly intend to surrender the North to her?”

Jon nodded and Davos said “Aye. There were no witnesses.”

“She suspects nothing?”

Jon said “Not a thing.”

Sansa nodded. “Good. And how do you plan to hold her to her promise that she’ll help the North when the army of the dead is to arrive?”

Jon’s expression turned grave. “She is in love with me… and believes me to be in love with her.”

Sansa’s heart stopped. Her eyes turned cold. “And are you?”

Jon furrowed a brow.

“In love with her I mean!” She said gruffly.

Jon blinked. Did Sansa seem… angry? But he looked back at her and thought he must have been mistaken.

“No.” He said seriously. “I’m not in love with her.”

Relief seeped through Sansa. Not that she’d ever let him know. If he knew the reasons behind her anger… he’d be disgusted by her. Absolutely revolted.

She stepped closer to him. “You truly believe her participation will have an impact on the outcome of this war?”

Jon couldn’t breathe. Not with Sansa this close to him. He wanted to grab her face and kiss her lips- her soft sweet red lips and he wanted to-


He coughed. “She has a good heart. Despite her being consumed by her quest for the Iron Throne… she will help. And with her dragons, they will have a massive impact- thousands of lives could be saved. 

She nodded. But Jon’s eyes were sad. Davos saw it and pitted Jon. Pitied Sansa. But he did not speak a word when she grabbed Jon’s two hands and led him to sit with her. 

“I know you don’t like doing such dishonourable things Jon- you’re much like father in that regard.”

He sighed heavily. But continued to listen to her valuable words.

“But to play the game, you have to resort to tricks. You have to use deceit. You have to play dirtily. It’s the only way that we’ll survive. We can’t make any mistakes. We- Arya and Bran and the North, we can’t afford to lose you and our home. I can’t afford to lose you.” She exhaled a breath. She didn’t let go of his hands. “Do you understand?”

He nodded. “Aye, I understand.”

To play the game, he had to play dirty. And so their dance of deceit began.

Note: Hi guys, this is the first chapter of my Jonsa fanfiction and I’m super excited to write it! I love Jonsa and this is my interpretation of their story. I Hope you enjoy it! To find the second chapter, please just find the tag “to play the game: a jonsa fanfiction. I’ll be opening an A03 account so when chapter 3 is released, it’ll no be longer posted on tumblr (in this dormant ill link you all to the ao3). I upload new chapters every Sunday! All characters belong to George R.R Martin.

memories 01. i don’t know if this is reality or a dream.

he grips the railing, metal kissing his bruises bittersweet. he stops. 


he looks off, sharp eyes gauging  hesitance in jin’s soft muted gaze, the warmth of his brown eyes soon replaced by film and hard glass, and it sets him back on course.


taehyung closes his eyes and leans forward, the adrenaline in his chest relieved by the sudden weightlessness caught between his heels. he inhales the pinks and oranges of the sky, the waning sun caught between his lips, and for very first time, he soars. he soars far above the ground, above the grass, above jin, and far beyond the dredges of reality he’d been grounded to for so long (and for much too long). and he keeps soaring, suspended in the silence of his chaotic headspace, soaring even farther, even as gravity tugs down his sleeves and begs at his feet.

jin watches, head booming with applause and excitement. the voices holler and cheer, ghosting whispers in his ears, knowing too well of their fixation towards the descending figure before him, as they clap-!  whoop-!  scream–!

but taehyung hears nothing. he doesn’t hear the chorus of gasps when he falls, he doesn’t hear the hurrahs, the satisfaction of having a full audience. he can only sense. sense a blank stare watching him through false mirrors and still windows. sense the impending fruit of his fall. he can sense gravity dragging plastic and glass from shaking hands to shatter on concrete as it drags him whole into the mouth of the tide, pulling jin and his illusions to drown with him.

to taehyung, the world is quiet.

let’s be        
             he smiles.        
                               young forever.

( awake!au by @caramoccii |  memories:
00. 01. )

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A Cell Full of Memories (Loki x Reader)

So… Hello. I’m not one to usually post things but with this one I thought why the hell not! Let’s put it out there for once. Anyhow, I’m not one for context either so all I’m going to tell you is angst. Straight. Up. ANGST! Angst but some soothing fluff… Depends how you look at it. Takes place during the Dark World. Gif is not mine.

Originally posted by thorduna

A wooden chair for a defeated King. That’s what Loki thought as he felt himself waste away into boredom, into oblivion, within his white cell. It was an odd colour, Loki further gathered, as it was the complete opposite of how he felt most days of recent. A contradiction. A paradox of riddles and misconceptions that only ever ended in confusing solutions to problems he never wanted to admit. Black hair against pale white skin, skin that could then turn sapphire at the drop of a hat. Loki Laufeyson of Asgard was an amalgamation of misshapen attributes. A slim finger ran over his lips as his mind contemplated the position he was in. There was nothing in this cell for him besides four walls, arguably two that were windows made to tease, and books he had read countless times in his youth. Oh yes, his youth. Let’s not forget that, he thought, a time where everything was a literal fairytale ripped straight from the pages of Asgard’s most popular lullabies. Two princes, complete opposites, would grow up together to lead the kingdom into a new era. Loki chuckled at this, the sound coming from his throat. One could describe it as plastic. Fake, manmade, broken and mouldable. It was at times like this when the world had seemingly forgotten him, did he so enjoy then to further ignore it. The fallen king was prized once for his mind and illusions. Illusions that he used to create to trick others and never himself. Now locked away, Loki finds that his mind does it to tease, unconsciously generating images of something better to further rip his deadened heart apart. There was only so much one man could take. Here Loki sat, in his melancholic state, with little to no ambition of ever fixing anything he had done wrong, and closed his eyes to awaken in youth.

Loki knew it was dangerous coming back here. Uncontrollable feelings of rage and hatred festered in the crevices of loved memories that threatened to turn such wistful pictures into portraits of the deceased. However, he discovered that if he didn’t stay too long the darkness would not reach him- not yet. Although the shattered man had described his youth as a myth, there was one single part of it that he would never regret. Never see to change. Never see to deny.  It was the memories with her. The smell of ripened fruit accompanied such images alongside music and colour. She was always in colour. Loki missed her greatly, so much that his heart would shrivel at the mere loss of her memory. One of his favourites resided in Winter. The clean, crisp, cool breeze would fly into Asgard from the mountain ranges and sweep away all the orange and red leaves left behind by Autumn- bringing snow and ice. There was something unremarkably beautiful about this particular season in Asgard. There was no ferocious hail storms or howling winds that slammed against people’s homes. No. The hands of Winter would caress those who came to bask in the white wonderland that it created. It was about midmorning when Loki would take (Y/N’s) hand gently and walk with her to the stables. She admired the frosted season just as much as he did. The woman would laugh and smile to him, only him, as he helped her onto his white stead, took his position behind her and wrapped a thick, blue velvet blanket around her frame. They would ride together. (Y/N) would talk of times apart from Loki whilst the prince held her close until they would switch and she would lean back into him, listening to his voice. Oh he loved her with all his being. A simple girl whose father was a traveller between Midgard and the golden realm- often returning with things to study or taking things to sell. (Y/N) stayed and took care of the house whilst he left for months on end. She never minded though. Needless to say, to the court the woman was a commoner but to Loki she was a queen. His queen. 

“I feel as though Winter has come so quickly though it seems to have outdone itself from last year,” (Y/N) sighed, pulling the blanket tighter around her.
“It must compete with you, my dear. Beauty such as yours is not easily rivalled,” the young Prince answered sweetly, leaning down and kissing her cheek briskly.
A red tinge swept across her face reminding him of sweet strawberry jam.
“You indulge me, my Prince.”
“Would I lie to you?”
It would go on like this for hours as they were carried through trees decorated with ice, flowers dancing with frost, stags standing watch amongst the dampened wood and snowflakes skating across the breeze. Loki always noted how enchanted she was by nature, how she attempted to appreciate every single detail. (Y/N) was exquisite. Perfect and in his arms. All he wished for was there in her. Acceptance he seeks to find from his father, love he often received from his mother, friendship he felt he lacked from the Warriors Three and Sif and a mind to challenge his own much like Thor- though that was often because the older brother was stubborn. Every inch of him was devoted to her; from his fleeting thoughts to the blood that heated from (Y/N’s) touch. Silence had fallen between them as Loki helped her dismount. An arm wrapped around her waist, drawing  the woman closer as they gazed out over the fractured lake. Though they did this almost every Winter, it was this specific day that Loki held so close to his heart. A very moment that makes him who he his.
“Yes, my love?”
She swallowed, hoping to gain some courage. Her soft hands fiddled with each other as her eyes drifted to the snowy ground.

“Will it be this way forever?”

Forever, Loki concluded, was a vague word. To a mortal, forever is one hundred years if they’re lucky but to Gods… It depended if war decided to strike them down early or not. That’s how he thought now but then… Back then forever was a day at a time. Forever was a life with (Y/N). Forever was love. Forever was feeling. He saw tears run down her cheeks, priceless jewels that he hoped would be a rarity. Loki hated to see his love cry. Quickly he wiped those tears away with the gentle touch of his thumbs and kissed her. It was always warm and delicate. They were there together in a single moment. His fingers would weave through her long locks of hair, comparing it to strands of silky gold, and pull her closer still. Always closer.
How naive he had been. How utterly stupid Loki had acted. It was hard to believe the man in the cell was the same man in his memories. The fallen king was bitter now. Bitter and sombre. They pulled away, feeling each other’s heated breath across their lips. Time stood still.

“As long as we’re together, forever means nothing to me. Time is irrelevant because you are the one thing that changes me, takes me through my immortal life day by day. When we are together you are my forever,” he murmured, husky but true.

(Y/N) said his words were beautiful. Back then, a silver tongue did more then insult and maim. Loki was a prince. A real prince. He never heard himself speak like that now. Now every word was poison to someone. She took his kind mind with her. He was never the same. He never could be again. Loki hadn’t realised he’d been crying until he felt tears tickle his neck and the taste of salt entering his mouth as some coated his lips. He had stayed for to long. The man attempted to make happiness his reality again. He needed to cry as Loki felt (Y/N’s) warm eyes begin to slip away into darkness- into the back of his mind. Lungs began to tighten along with his throat. His whole body began to constrict as he endeavoured to conceal it all. Shove it back down. Suppress it. A scream was lodged under his tongue as his jaw clenched. Loki could feel his nails dig into his palms. A part of him was begging for it all just to come out. Just scream, Loki, scream. Scream. He needed her. Scream. He wanted her. Scream! He ached for his beloved. Scream. How would she see him now? Scream, Loki. Would she even still love him with all the blood on his hands? Loki, scream. She would hate him. He erupted in one explosive convulsion, head tilted up to Valhalla and mouth wide open as a wail that could rival a banshee’s echoed through the prison. By Odin’s beard it broke him. Tore his chest open and left him limp on the chair almost lifeless. He could feel it claw at his insides, his soul, his heart and mind. It was him scratching and biting but he didn’t care. He deserved it. All he wished for in these moments of pain was for (Y/N’s) hug- just her touch alone. Loki felt used, a fractured mirror of what once was. He didn’t notice the guards watching in awe as their prisoner continued to screech and yelp; usually so silent.

“Forever? I have died here. I have died without you. What more am I to a corpse in the ground? What more does my shattered title mean to the executioner? It means nothing. I mean nothing now. Nobody has bothered to help me and it all began when they stole you from me. Valhalla, I beg of you, ease my suffering now and just take me to your glory. Allow me to see my (Y/N) again. Take me to her… I beg of you.”

Everyone saw in my face evil traits that I didn’t possess. But they assumed I did, and so they developed. I was modest, and was accused of being deceitful: I became secretive. I had a strong sense of good and evil; instead of kindness I received nothing but insults, so I grew resentful. I was gloomy, other children were merry and talkative. I felt myself superior to them, but was considered inferior: I became envious. I was ready to love the whole world, but no one understood me, so I learned to hate. My colorless youth was spent in a struggle with myself and with the world. Fearing mockery, I buried my best feelings at the bottom of my heart: there they died.
—  Mikhail Lermontov, A Hero of Our Time (trans. Vladimir Nabokov)

anonymous asked:

For the prompts, “We’re both in the media a lot and some gossip rag posted that I was having an affair for the first time” with Harry/Draco? Idk, I think you would do it really well! (Hope you’re having a good night!)

This is the first time I’ve written Drarry so I hope it’s okay!!

– –

Draco is sipping tea when Harry drops the morning’s copy of the Prophet on his plate.

“Excuse me?” Draco asks, looking up at Harry with an eyebrow raised. “I hope you’ll be making me another plate of eggs, as this one now has the charming condiment of newsprint.”

“It’s slander,” Harry says, as if Draco hasn’t spoken at all. “I should sue them. In fact, I’m calling Hermione. I’m going to sue them. This is, it’s… It’s ridiculous! And it’s…”

Harry blathers on about the justice system and how he will personally shut down The Daily Prophet with nothing but his own righteous anger, and Draco takes the opportunity to actually read the offending article:

Harry Potter spotted two-timing on longterm boyfriend Draco Malfoy

It takes him a few moments to further scan the article and see that the person that his partner is allegedly cheating on him with is Neville Longbottom, who is definitely not Potter’s type.

Draco can’t help but chuckle before he takes another sip of his tea.

“Oh, so this is funny, is it? They’re saying to the world that I’m, I’m…” he trails off, making a frustrated little groan.

“Unfaithful, dastardly, taking advantage of my youthful naiveté? If you’re not done throwing a fit I can go on.”

“You know it’s not like that,” Harry says.

“Yes, I do.” He straightens up and looks at his boyfriend dead in the eye. “It’s not too bad,” he says.

“But it’s… they can’t keep doing this. Remember that ‘expose’ last year?”

Draco laughs. Honestly, the story was genius. Draco wishes he thought of it. Draco Malfoy, former Death Eater, slips Harry Potter love potions every day for a year in order to seduce him into becoming part of his Death Eater sex cult. It was like something out of a tawdry novel he would find secretly stashed beneath Aunt Bellatrix’s bed.

“They’re trying to hurt you!” Harry says over Draco’s laughter.

“It’s water off my back,” Draco says.


“Perhaps, it’s hurting you instead?” Draco asks, reaching again for his teacup.

Harry doesn’t say anything, just frowns.

Draco sighs.

“I know you’re not unfaithful. You know I’m not unfaithful. Sue the Prophet if you’d like, but we know this about each other and the rest of the world can fuck right off, for all I’m concerned.”

“But it’s… I… You…” Harry says, running a hand through his hair.

Draco looks back up at him and nods. “I know,” he says. “I love you, too.”

Harry puts a hand on Draco’s shoulder and gives it a squeeze.

“And I really will need you to make me more eggs. So if you would…”

Harry rolls his eyes.

Draco wouldn’t have it any other way.

cat caught your tongue;

joshua hong | every witch needs a familiar. unfortunately for joshua, you might just be the most troublesome one yet. witch!au. | 3.8k words | fluff, humor.

Originally posted by lonexsamurai

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