pulse flow


Beta kid’s —> here

Alpha kid’s —> here

Blue team trolls’ —-> here

Imagine You're a Seahorse Mermaid

The trip from the ocean had not been a pleasant one. You had been enjoying the reef, on your own, heedless of the many warnings you’d received all your life to not do just that. In the beautiful clear, relatively shallow water, you had been spotted by the marine team, and they had quickly swooped down upon you, netting you, and pulling your panicked self into their boat. The shouting when they realized exactly what they had netted- a seahorse mermaid- intensified, and rather than being tagged and thrown back, you were transferred to a dark, cramped holding tank bellow deck.

With no way to see the outside world, or even feel the currents of the ocean any more, you had no way of telling just exactly how much time had passed in that tank. There was a sudden stop though, sending you crashing into wall with momentum. Not enough to hurt, but certainly startling. The hatch above was opened, and several hands reached in to grab you. There was no room to avoid them, and you were swiftly fished out of the tank. You squirmed, instinctually, but they held you fast. At least one of them- perhaps accidentally- got a grip on you with one hand firmly over your breast. Another hand pressed distressingly close to your special lower opening, causing unwanted pleasure, and more fear.
You were quickly dropped into a new tank, though, this one glass, with wheels on the bottom. You swam immediately do the bottom, looking around fearfully as you were wheeled into the strange location.

Tanks. Rows and rows of tanks. Fish and mer-people of every type populated them. Your expression shifted to one of shock, while still maintaining the high level of fear and confusion, as you put your hands against the glass, pressing to it trying to see better. You saw a pod of killershark mermaids swim past in one large tank. Another housed several lionshark mermen eyeing one another uneasily. Yet another had almost an entire school of mackerel mermaids. You wondered, what WAS this place?

“Looking at your new neighbors?” The one who was pushing your tank spoke to you. You couldn’t understand the sounds it was making. “Don’t worry. We’re very careful to only ever put friendly fish folk in with one another. We don’t want to cause any more stress than we have to. Unfortunately… no one’s ever housed a live Seahorse Mermaid before, so we don’t have a tank free for you just now. But don’t worry. We’re going to put you in with the Whaleshark Mermaids. They’re notoriously docile with every other mer-creature out there, so you’ll be fine.”

You stared at this creature in confusion. What was it DOING. Was it trying to communicate? The both of you passed through a series of doors, before it stopped your tank above another, near the edge.

“If it were up to me… I’d take you home with me. You’re the most beautiful… sexy… creature I’ve ever seen. Wouldn’t be the first time. I’ve got a nice tank set up at home for just such lovely creatures as yourself. But the team was with me today, so– for now, at least, you’ll have to stay here. But I’ll visit you as often as I can.”

A button was pressed, and your tank-on-wheels slowly leaned forward, the water spilling out, into the waiting tank bellow. You swam back and forth, panicked, before the current took you, and you slipped out, falling the short distance to the water bellow. Once again, you quickly swam to the bottom, finding some seaweed to hide (as best you could) amongst.

And then it was quiet.

This place lacked the… pulse and flow of the ocean. It was so still. It was SO still that you could almost feel them before you saw them.

The Whaleshark Mermaids.

You and your kin were always careful to hide yourselves away from other merpeople. It wasn’t because you didn’t like them, exactly, it was just… sometimes, some sort of- hormonal switch would fire off in a mer-creatures head, causing them to desire nothing else above mating with Seahorse Mermaid in question. It didn’t effect all of them, but it effected enough of them that isolation was really just the better way to do things.

So. It went without saying that you had never seen a Whaleshark Mermaid so close before. They were larger than you, almost amazonian in nature. If you swam hip-to-hip with them, their heads would be at least two heads past your own, and their tails extended a great distance past your own, and were much more muscular, more powerful, meant for open-ocean swimming. Yours was short in comparison, delicate, meant for anchoring you from drifting off in currents. Their upper halves were equally muscular, while still retaining many feminine curves. They were, to your way of thinking, both beautiful and frightening.

The pod was concerned for you, and then- confused. You were not a Mermaid whaleshark. You were something NEW. Something different. One of them, the largest in the group, approached you carefully.

<You are all right?> She inquired. her way of speaking was strange, accented to your ear, but understandable.

<I- I don’t know. Where am I? What’s going on?> You replied, frightened.

<You are at a new home. At this place where the land creatures keep us. They look at us. They feed us. They do not put us back. But. They do not hurt us, either,> She said gently, the rest of the pod hanging back out of respect, it would seem. She reached out to touch you, intending a comforting gesture.

Her touch was incredible. You felt something inside of you click, almost, and to your surprise, it seemed that she felt it, too.

<I.. you… you are so beautiful,“ her hand drifted down your arm, taking a firm hold, and pulling you closer.

<No,> You responded weakly. You were smitten by her beauty, it was true, but the size of her intimidated you. Could this be happening? You did not want this! <Please, no>

<I cannot…. cannot stop,> Her head craned down, her lips capturing yours for a deep, passionate kiss. She continued to hold you firmly by the arm, her other hand moving to start pressing on your lower opening, attempting to manipulate to give you pleasure- and to cause it to open. You moaned, half heartedly trying to escape, but with your useless tail, such a thing was pointless. with one single flick of her tail, the two of you were propelled, over to the glass of the tank, where she pressed up against you, continuing to manipulate you with her hand while invading your mouth. You gasped, inadvertently inviting opening your mouth further for her, as her large fingers plunged into you, successfully opening you bellow as well. She scissored her fingers, opening them up wide, before letting your muscle strength tighten then back up into a group… then opening them wide again. She did this several times, starting with just two fingers, and steadily adding another.. then another. You thought you might die, her fingers were so large, and strong. Your muscles strained against her, but could do nothing to prevent her actions.

Suddenly, she broke the kiss off from you. You were frightened to realize you were almost disappointed. She drifted upwards, keeping her fingers in you, until your head was at her breasts. She arched her back, pressing them to your face, and you, almost dutifully, took her nipple into your mouth, instincutally working it about with your tongue, pressing it to the roof of your mouth, sucking powerfully, occasionally breaking the suction to lick. You were so busy doing this you didn’t notice any of the other things happening in those moments.

First, the other Whaleshark Mermaids were all drifting closer, some reaching to their friends to manipulate them, as they watched. They all had a… somewhat hungry look to their faces. But they were waiting. For now.

Second, that same creature that had dumped you into this tank moments before had appeared on the other side of the glass you were pressed to, and was watching in what had to be shock at what was happening to you. Had you been paying attention, you would have seen it check over its shoulders, nervously, before exposing it’s mating organ- perhaps this creature was male then? It manipulated it’s mating organ furiously, not so unlike the other Whaleshark Mermaids in the tank.

Last, and perhaps most importantly, the Whaleshark woman who still held you captive in her embrace had drifted high enough to align her lower opening with yours. Her fingers suddenly spread especially wide, causing you to gasp in surprise once more, and she pressed against you, filling your mouth with her breast, and pressing her opening to yours. Something… something was entering you. Something LARGE. It was not particularly hard, with some soft give to it. But it could only be compressed so much, and as it forced its way deeper and deeper into your opening, it became dencer and dencer, as your muscles attempted, uselessly to resist. You squirmed desperately trying to un-align your hips, but she was so much stronger, so much larger– you had no hope of moving. You realized, at some point that her hand had slipped between the two of you again, and she was manually pushing the thing into you now.

You tried to protest. You could not. You could not move, and she just shook her head at your attempts. <I am sorry. You must accept my eggs though. You must. You must.>

With a sudden shift, the thing- her egg- made it past your muscles fully, popping into your pouch. It felt so heavy. It made you feel so bloated. You thought for a moment that she was done, but her grip tightned on your arm when you tried to slip away. Eggs. She had said Eggs. Plural. She slipped her fingers into you, opening you up once again.

This time, the egg came much faster, as she smashed her hips into yours, desperately, groaning as the egg exited her body, before once again– pushing it with the flat of her palm into your pouch, fully. You were horrified. You had felt so heavy with just one. Now two!?

Thankfully, once she had rammed the second egg into you, her grip on your arm finally loosened, and she released you, letting you drift to the floor of the tank. Your hands instincitvely went to your pouch. Though the eggs were easily melon sized, the strength of your muscles clamping down on them made them somewhat smaller. They filled you utterly though, their jelly-like consistency allowing them fill you utterly, pushing up against one another to fight for space, forcing your belly outward where no more space was to be had. You looked like a mockery of parenthood. Thankfully though, it was over.

Or so you thought.

Even as the largest of the Whaleshark Mermaids drifted away, seemingly shocked at what she had just done, the others fell upon you. The pushed at one another, grabbing at you, fighting, gently, over who would have you next. One began kissing you, As another swam around to manipulate your breasts from behind. Still another began pressing her hips to yours, wasting no time in getting her eggs on their way to their new home, inside you.

They swarmed around you, taking turns, all desperate, but none wanting to damage you. They were surprisingly gentle, even as you were pulled from one to the next, and pressed egg after egg after egg into your already over-burdend pouch.

At the end of it all, you had seven eggs inside of you. Where as before you thought you looked like a mocekery of parenthood, now you knew you were an outright parody of it. You were positively huge. You belly was completely firm, with out give– there were too many eggs, too tightly packed! You sunk immediately to the bottom, your belly pointing upwards where the other women swam, somewhat confused over what had just happened, none daring to get close to you again just yet, lest it happen again. You turned your head away from them, toward the corner of the tank, between the floor and the wall. At least, you thought weakly, there were no males in this tank. Without any firtalization agent, the eggs would be a burden for a while, but would eventually pass out of you. Eventually.

That’s when you finally noticed the creature on the other side of the glass, it’s mating organ still out, large, and hard in it’s hand. Staring at you. Hungrily.

This was not over.


A/N: Pardon my shitty smut, I tried though. ‘A’ for effort? 

Song that inspired the title: “Intertwined” - Dodie

Pairing: Pietro x Reader

Warnings: Language, near-death, smut

Words: 1,709

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anonymous asked:

I am a Norse polytheist who is from the US. Although sometimes I don't like it, I know that I'm a product of this 'new' world, colonial culture. As such, I feel like an outsider in my religion because I do not view Scandinavia as some kind of spiritual homeland and see the gods most strongly in America. How would you approach this feeling of alienation?

First things first anon, I’m going to get a little sweary here - not at you though:

The idea of Scandinavia as some Holy Land in Asatru/Heathenry is bollocks. It is, quite frankly, a steaming pile of bullshit imported from some remnants of a Christian millenialist second-coming theology.

I mean no offense to my Scandinavian followers who are lovely people, or to any of you American folks by saying this. It’s one thing to visit the lands where Heathenry originated to soak up the landscapes spoken of in the Eddas, to visit, say, the actual places where the sagas and poems are set.

But to view them as any more holy than the lands which we inhabit now? Utter rubbish. Which isn’t to say that we can’t make journeys to where our literal ancestors came from, to learn about ourselves, but to lend those lands some kind of mystic importance is, well, a bit odd to me. I get that it arises from a desire to connect, to feel rooted, particularly in a ‘colonial’ culture, I really do.

Here’s the thing though - though I would dearly love to visit Iceland one day, I don’t need to. I don’t need to because I’m lucky to live in Britain, in the midst of the Danelaw. People who honoured my gods walked the same paths I walked, breathed the same water, felt the same earth beneath their feet. Round here, there’s Norse placenames everywhere. Less than eight miles away from me, they discovered the Silverdale Hoard in 2011.

I’m not pointing this out to lord my “my land is more Heathen than yours” status, but to illustrate a point. See, the Norse folk came here, and yes they raided, but they also settled. They intermixed with the local populace - they themselves were 'colonial’! Those Norse placenames I mentioned? They probably had Anglo-Saxon and British names before the colonists came, but the Norse ones have stuck, some thousand years later.

Those colonists named places for their gods, for words and concepts in their own language. They folded this new land into their worldview. To be sure, some of the Deep Cultural similarities between Norse and Anglo Saxon cultures would have helped, but the fact remains that Thor met Thunor here, Odin met Woden.

You anon, live far to the West, and there is mounting evidence that those plucky explorers got that far, as I’m sure you know. Maybe they survived and intermixed in ways archaeology has yet to show, or maybe they all died. It doesn’t matter, not really - because while they lived, they no doubt did the same as those folk who came here, to this small island.

They named places in their native tongues, and probably learnt some Native American names too, just as your countrymen still, in some areas live in places bearing original indigenous names.

I’ve said before that Heathenry is local. Sure, the gods are honoured and worshipped by those who feel the need. Sure, one honours one’s ancestors. But one also needs, if one is serious about attempting to achieve a modern version of the Heathen worldview, learn to connect with the environment in which we live.

Now, when I say local, I don’t mean you should practice American Heathenry™. I don’t know where you live in the States anon, but I’m pretty sure it’s a place with its own moods and rhythms. From my memory of trips to the US, Maryland is different to Key West is different to the Everglades is different to Miami.

Scale down your consciousness in a sense. Practice the customs and traditions of your town, your house, your garden. There’s maybe twenty Heathens in my town that I know of, and of those, they form two distinct populations. Which is perfectly fine. For all I know you’re the only Norse Polytheist in the area or choose not to associate with others for political or personal reasons or because they’re the kind of silly numpties who believe in white supremacy or some sort of bollocks like that.

That’s fine, and it’s fine because ultimately, only you can forge the connections needed. Only you can open yourself up to the world in which you live and call the gods to aid you in becoming aware of the threads which bind all wights together.

Only you can make the decision to live in a rooted way, to take your nourishment and strength from the land in which you live. How to do that though? From a non woo perspective, seek out local food and produce if you can - and it doesn’t have to be all the time - and make a deliberate attempt to be aware that  you are eating the fruits of this land.

If you can’t find, or can’t afford local produce, do the same with a glass of tap water. Even if the source is far away, it has still flowed through this land into your dwelling. Research the history of where you live - if there are any local founders or luminaries, pour them out an offering to say thank you for giving you a place to live. Obviously, in the US, this is fraught with implications regarding the displacement and maltreatment of Native Americans, but in my limited experience of such things, asking the gods to help bridge the gap in honouring all those who came before you, to this place is usually a good step.

And then, well, there’s trees. As a Norse Polytheist/Heathen, I bloody love trees. Not only can they connect you to Yggdrasil, the World Tree, in meditation, but if you’ll recall the Edda, humans came from driftwood enlivened by the gifts of the gods, so in a mythopoetic sense, trees are our kin, and we can learn much from them.

Think about the way they work; they emerge from a seed, sending root-tendrils out for water and nutrients, sprouting and reaching up, turning their leaves to the sun. If you’ve ever looked at trees along a street, you’ll probably notice that those tree roots will have cracked their way throug concrete - their vitality, their urge to seek out what nourishes them within the land in which they are embedded is such that it can break buildings and stone if need be!

This is something to contemplate in today’s increasingly urban society - that even despite the veneer of glass and steel and concrete, seeds still sprout, trees still grow, in defiance of so called 'civilisation’. And once you begin to notice this - really notice, you might begin to see the pulses and flows of that vitality, ancient, unstoppable, and all around us. You might contemplate that trees give us the fuel for our fires, light for our houses - what’s coal after all, but compressed vegetative matter, laid down long ago and burned to create steam which turns turbines producing electricity.

They take in carbon dioxide, give us the oxygen so we can breathe, their green chloroplasts capturing the sunlight, the source of all life on this planet, and their roots keep the topsoil in place so we can farm and consume that  which we farm, whether animal or vegetable. Each of them is unique, and some of them are older than we will ever be.

You might begin to consider how the oxygen they excrete mixes with the atmosphere, is stirred by the heat rising from the warmed earth to give us the winds which blow through their branches, setting their leaves to whisper with a language that birds learnt and passed to Odin and Sigurd both.

You might contemplate Nidhogg, down there gnawing at the roots of Yggdrasil, that old wyrm who steams in the cold by the kettle of roaring white-water. And you might consider Sigurd once again, slaying the wyrm and eating its heart as it cooks over a fire.

You might begin to breathe, to remember how your blood feels, there in your veins, right now, flowing, moving, giving you life, hue and goodly shape, all without you even trying. Might begin to feel something stir in your soul, as if a door opens, and suddenly, your ordinary world becomes infused with living beings. Might feel words on a screen suddenly reaching out, calling in old song.

Might iit be possible, for a moment, to recall the excitement of rediscovering something you had thought you had lost? Something you had thought you might never see again?

To entertain the notion that, if only for a while, there are places and times where the thousands of years and miles matter not a jot, because the gods and the ancestors and wights exist, right Here, right Now - maybe even as you read these words? All about you, just waiting, patiently, for you to notice the faintest traces of their presence. All you have to do is take a leap for a moment, a split second.

To allow  yourself to be connected. Because you already are, friend. Trust me. Feel free to let me know how it goes, anon.

Take care.

Collision Course - Part Eight

Part One, Part Two, Part Three, Part Four, Part Five, Part Six, Part Seven

They rode in silence, only the occasional directions to the horses or calls to break for food or water.

It surprised Claire that Frank was so quiet but she presumed it was because he found Murtagh intimidating and her own silence daunting. As Murtagh erected a small camp for the night, Claire left Frank to cope with being saddle sore and wandered off to gather kindling for their fire. In the woods she realized how different silence was from solitude.

Her heart was heavy and she knew why; she missed Jamie. With Frank riding behind her sharing a horse, it was impossible not to be reminded of those first days after she traveled through the stones and the solid, reassuring presence of Jamie at her back, sheltering her and keeping her warm. Had she ever felt quite that way with Frank? Or was she misremembering all of it? She had wanted to get back to the standing stones so she could get back to Frank since she’d arrived, she just hadn’t succeeded before he showed up there himself. During that first ride with Jamie, she had been in shock and denial about what had truly happened; she had been surrounded by a band of ruthless Highlanders who thought she was an English spy and easily could have killed her.

She should be relieved that this whole ordeal was ending. In a few days time she would be back in the twentieth century; she would be able to soak in a nice hot bath, wash her hair properly, even shave her legs; no more stays or layers of skirts to trip over; bedding with clean sheets and no lingering smell of a chamberpot tucked away under the bed.

And Frank would be the one lying beside her. His wounds would be tended in a proper hospital and then they would go back to Oxford and pick up where they’d left off before their holiday had been so abruptly derailed.

That’s what their holiday had been about in the first place––picking up where they’d left off before the war. Was it possible too much had happened? She tried to think of what Frank must have gone through since her disappearance, the trauma of traveling through the stones and to so quickly fall into Black Jack Randall’s clutches; she had come dangerously close to that herself.

She did understand Frank’s position and she felt for him but there was something more holding her back.


He would be all right without her… wouldn’t he? Did she want him to be?

She scolded herself for thinking something so selfish. Of course she wanted him to be happy… she would simply be happier if it was her making him happy.

But she couldn’t have things both ways; she couldn’t reconcile the vows she’d made to Frank all those years ago––the vows that had sent her searching for a way back to Craig na Dun in the first place––with whatever it was she felt for Jamie.

She carried the kindling back to their camp and started the fire. Murtagh disappeared to see about supplementing their provisions with some fresh meat and Claire took one of Frank’s bandage-wrapped wrists into her lap to inspect the state of the wounds. They were still redder and more swollen than she would like. Prodding gently, some puss squeezed from the edges of the scabbed over cuts. He needed antibiotics.

“You’re still wearing it,” Frank remarked flatly, surprising Claire.

She reached for a salve from her medical kit and began lightly applying it to the infected wound.

“Wearing what?”

With his other bandaged hand, Frank reached over and tapped Claire’s left hand.

Her thumb instinctively felt for the iron band of her wedding ring, her heart steadied by its reassuring warmth on her finger.

She looked back at Frank’s arm in her lap and shrugged.

“Don’t really notice it,” she said dismissively. “Slipped my mind.”

“You should give it to his friend there,” Frank nodded toward Murtagh who was nearly finished with their tents for the evening. “He can return it.”

Claire clenched her teeth and ignored Frank. She could not tell Frank that Jamie had said she could keep the ring because that would show that she had thought about it and she would also feel compelled to tell Frank that she had asked to keep it in the first place.

Luckily, Frank was perceptive enough to drop the subject and instead began expressing concerns about his arms.

“You’ll be fine,” Claire assured him. “Once you get back, it’s just a matter of getting antibiotics for the infection. You probably won’t want to roll up your sleeves too often because of the scars––those are probably unavoidable at this point.”

“Once we get back,” Frank emphasized quietly.

Claire felt her cheeks flush momentarily but continued applying the salve uninterrupted. “You know what I meant.”

Having finished with the salve, she turned to put the jar away in her medical kit and thought she might have heard Frank mutter, ‘Do I?’ under his breath. She ignored him and set about re-wrapping his wrists, the rest of the treatment performed in silence.

Murtagh insisted she and Frank take the makeshift tent for the night.

“I’ll stay by the fire and keep watch,” he told her.

“You’ll need to sleep eventually,” Claire reminded him but Murtagh shrugged off her concern.

“I dinna sleep deep on the moors. There’s not much as might happen that willna wake me wi’ no time to act.”

Claire didn’t bother to argue; she helped Frank settle onto the roll of bedding before stretching out beside him. It was closer than they’d been sleeping in the cave where she preferred to rest propped against the cave wall, afraid of disturbing his much needed rest. They didn’t speak but rolled towards each other. She felt Frank’s lips brush her forehead and turned her face up to his.

There was a moment of hesitation and she realized that she hadn’t kissed him since they’d rescued him; not once. She felt a twinge of shame. After all he’d been through, she hadn’t thought to embrace him or even offer him a loving caress. She had been too wrapped up in his medical care and how Jamie was handling everything.

She reached up now and ran her fingers lightly along the stubble on Frank’s cheek. It was rougher than she anticipated. Her thumb slipped down and traced the Frank’s lower lip before he brought his mouth to meet hers.

She remembered his kiss, the warmth of his lips on hers, and the sureness behind it. She let her eyes close so that when he pulled away, he couldn’t read what she was thinking. He lightly bumped her forehead with his chin, a question.

“We should get some rest,” she whispered, her hands drifting down and lightly rubbing his upper arms. “We still have a long few days before we get to the stones.”

He smiled against her forehead, satisfied for now, then shifted and brought his bandaged arm up to hold her close to him. Her head rested on his shoulder and she felt him relax beneath her cheek. Her body relaxed too but her mind refused to settle.

She lay there entirely awake but unmoving until she was sure he slept deeply. Then gingerly, she moved his arm from off of her and rolled away.

“Are you all right?” Frank whispered. She hadn’t been subtle enough.

“Of course,” she assured him, moving to rise. “I just need to go… you know.”

There was a muffled chuckle from where he shifted himself into a more comfortable position. “That’s something you must have missed––running water and proper lavatories.”

“You have no idea,” she murmured, ducking through the flap of the tent.

Murtagh sat up from his spot beside the low campfire, his dirk in his hand until he recognized that it was only Claire.

“Mistress,” he murmured before laying back.

Claire wandered off into the woods for a moment to keep up the pretense and prayed that Frank would be asleep again by the time she got back.

How was she going to do it? How was she supposed to go back with Frank and be his wife again when every time he touched her she felt the rising shame of betrayal? She wasn’t even sure which betrayal was behind the shame. She remembered how it had been to kiss Frank before, the way it built slowly, the way her body would arch towards him. She remembered but it hadn’t been like that tonight. He had kissed her and it had been lovely but it had been a kiss like any other. She had waited and searched for that deeper stirring but it didn’t come.

There were no visible flames left in the small circle of stones they’d used to contain the fire but the spot still gave off a reassuring heat. Claire found Murtagh sitting again when she returned a few moments later.

“Ye’re bad as Jamie when he’s something on his mind,” Murtagh said, nodding to an empty space next to him.

“That doesn’t surprise me,” she murmured, taking him up on the offer to put off going back in with Frank.

Claire stared into the embers of the fire. There weren’t any visible flames but a warm red color ebbed and flowed, pulsing with life. She didn’t notice but the fingers of her left hand were playing with the ring on her right, turning it in circles so the nub where the two ends had been joined orbited her middle knuckle, catching whenever she slightly bent the finger.

“Ye canna choose where yer affections lie,” Murtagh said quietly.

Claire’s fingers stilled but she wouldn’t look at Murtagh.

“But that doesna mean there isna a choice involved in what ye do about it… even if sometimes it doesna feel like it. Maybe… maybe it’s like yer stones.”

At that, Claire did look over at Murtagh, but with confusion.

“Ye didna choose to pass through them, no?” he asked.

“Of course not. I didn’t even know what had happened at first,” she agreed.

“Like falling in love,” Murtagh mused but this time there was something heavier in it, something more personal. A smile played on his lips and the way he stared into the glowing embers was like looking into a memory. He wasn’t talking about her but about someone he had loved once, maybe still did––perhaps that was why he seemed to have so much to say.

“By the time ye realize it, ye’re smack dab in the middle wi’out realizin’ how ye got there. Ye can trace yer path back and ye might come to ken the moment it happened, but ye canna always make yer way back out of it again… I dinna ken anyone tha’s chosen to go back to try to find their way out… at least, none tha’s succeeded.”

“You don’t think it will be possible to pass back through the stones?” Was it fear or hope that she heard in her voice.

Murtagh shrugged. “Dinna ken. Might depend on whether yer heart’s in it.” He looked over at her at last and she felt her face flush, grateful that the dying fire didn’t cast enough light for him to be able to see it.

“Who was she?” Claire asked, turning the conversation onto Murtagh. “The woman you couldn’t find your way out of loving.”

Murtagh looked away again and Claire was about to apologize for asking when he murmured, “Ellen MacKenzie. I doubt I was the first to love her––though, I loved her before Brian Fraser, having met her first… But he loved her the way she wanted… and needed.”

“Jamie told me about them,” Claire explained. “About the Gathering where they met.”

“Aye. Ye can see it, ye ken––no with yerself… no right away. But ye can see it in a man’s face if ye watch careful like… the moment it happens and he has to make a choice what to do next.”

“You saw it with Brian Fraser?”

Murtagh nodded. “Him… and others.” Murtagh reached forward with his dirk and poked at one of the larger pieces of wood, rolling it onto the other side. The smoldering bottom, exposed to the air but not the heat, faded to white ash even as smoke erupted from beneath as the untouched side began to burn.

“We’ve another two maybe three days till we reach the stones,” he informed her. “Best get what sleep ye can. We’ll be needin’ to keep a closer eye for Red Coats as we’re gettin’ nearer Fort William.”

Claire rose and left to join Frank in the tent. He was asleep on his side, his bandaged forearms laid gently one atop the other beside his head. She lay down and turned onto her side as well but with her back towards his.

Underneath all the texts, all the sacred psalms and canticles, these watery varieties of sounds and silences, terrifying, mysterious, whirling and sometimes gestating and gentle must somehow be felt in the pulse, ebb, and flow of the music that sings in me. My new song must float like a feather on the breath of God.
—  Hildegard of Bingen
Maybe Some Day >

Maybe Some Day

Cassian Andor

Soulmate AU

In which you see colors whenever you touch your soulmate, only if it’s skin-on-skin contact.


Originally posted by fuckyeahrebelcaptain

Cassian watched you as you slowed your labored breathing down, your eyes shut as your hands trembled. The message had gotten through, and for a moment, you had thought the plans were never going to make it through the shield, that all your work was for nothing.

That all those lives were lost for nothing.

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Classified 8

Pairing: Steve Rogers x Doctor!Reader

Warning: Swearing, Death, Heart Break, Angst, Fluff, violence and hostages//Take Over.

A/N: If you want to be tagged just let me know!! Feedback is always loved.

Rule One of being a doctor, don’t get over attached to your patients.

Well that rules been broken.

Rule Two of being a doctor, don’t date your patients.

But what if he has blue eyes and a killer smile that make your insides throw a dance party when he’s near you??
Rule Three of being a doctor, don’t ever loose focus on doing your job, nothing comes between you and your career.

See comment above… was the smile mentioned? Or that he’s Captain America?

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anonymous asked:

short prompt: 2 girls who are best friends realising they're in love w each other

we stayed up all night together on the beach
just to miss the sunrise and fall asleep
in the crook of the other’s arm.

waves are the heartbeat of the sea;
you can find a heartbeat in everything.
my pulse flows through her fingers,
guttered with melting gold, &
when they brush against mine it feels like
they are metal and she is a furnace.

she smells like kiwis and honey.
i rest my head in the nest of her neck and shoulder,
it fits like flowers in a vase. i love this, i love her.
the red in her cheeks makes me think she feels the same.

Pas De Deux

AN: This is a birthday gift for one of my very favourite people here, Ashlee @austennerdita2533. Hope you like this, chica!

Also tagging @fanfantasticworld because I know you were interested in this one too, Jo <3

In XIX Russia, Klaus sees a certain blonde ballerina on stage and is enraptured from the start.

In other words, the three times Klaus has seen Caroline dance - a story told in 3 acts.

Features Fae!Caroline (if you couldn’t already tell that I’m obsessed with all things acomaf xD ).

P.S. In “Swan Lake”, Odette and Odile (Black Swan) are usually danced by the same ballerina. But for plot/characterization reasons, this is not the case in this drabble at some points.

1879, Russian Empire, Zheleznodorozhny

The first time he sees her, she’s Odette.

The production is nothing like the one he’s seen Moscow - not necessarily as bad thing given how poorly executed it was. The stage is too small and the town’s folk might be causing too much of a ruckus, more interested in watching lithe, tightly-clad bodies than appreciating the finery of movements but there’s something about this performance that calls to Klaus.

Perhaps letting Rebekah talk him into coming here tonight wasn’t such a bad idea.

They’ve been living in Russia for months now and although Klaus has remained cautious, it really seems that Mikael’s lost track of them.

They were residing in the Ottoman Empire when conflict with the Tsar broke and he and his siblings decided it was the best time to move on. Planning on losing Mikael in the chaos of war and the vast lasts of Russian Empire, they’d settled in Moscow, then set out to travel further when Klaus’ paranoia kicked in and he decided staying in one place for too long was too risky a move.

Zheleznodorozhny seems like the perfect hiding place - at least for now. It’s a small town but the traffic is reasonably high with the newly built railway station which makes it far easier to blend in.

It’s even attracted a wandering ballet troupe.

Elijah scrunched his face in distaste at Bekah’s suggestion to go and see them dance, revolted at the idea of watching a performance that would most likely turn out to be subpar at best. Kol was resting in his coffin with a dagger in his heart - yet again - having caused quite a scandal after seducing a daughter of the British ambassador in Moscow.

And then seducing her father.

The carnage that followed didn’t help them with keeping low profile either.

“That chassé was painful to watch.” Rebekah leans over, her whisper resounding in his ear as they sit near the stage, watching act II unfold.

“Still bitter over your grand ballet fiasco, sister?” Klaus quips in response, then proceeds to ignore everything but the lithe blonde who’s the only one making this performance bearable.

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The Line (Part 15)

Originally posted by whoeveryoulovethemost

Characters: Dean x Reader, Sam, Crowley, Amara, Rowena

Word Count: 2628

Summary: The reader learns that Dean is alive and is propositioned by Rowena to aid Amara.

Previously: The reader erases Sam and Dean’s memory, which is recovered when the reader sacrifices herself to save Dean.  In hell, she learns that as a witch her soul is eternally marked for hell.  Making a deal with Crowley to rid Dean of the Mark and kill Rowena, the reader returns to Dean.  Soon after they marry, but Dean is still loosing to the Mark and soon after leaves the reader to embrace his own death.  Crowley renegotiates the terms of the reader’s deal, letting her live if she takes care of his new charge: Amara. 

Warnings: Angst, more angst, violence, torture, bad things happening to a soul, even more angst.

A/N: This chapter takes place over the course of 11x06 and 11x18.  Things are about to get pretty dark.  And I’m sorry for that.  It took me a while to write this next part because I knew where I had to take the story, but I also knew absolutely no one was going to like it.  The Latin translation is completely google translate and is 100% wrong, I’m sure.

The Line Masterlist

The door exploded open and you immediately felt burning lines of magic rush down your arms and automatically stepped between the intruder and Amara.  The moment you saw him, you froze.


He looked at you with an apology in his eyes.  Your heart hammered in your chest.

The collar of Amara’s dress shifted and you saw the mark seared into her shoulder, in the same place as your anti-possession tattoo, in the same pace as Dean’s.  For the first time you saw her and knew what she was.  

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Lewis Redman Imagine- Superstar

Originally posted by littlemixurl

Request/Summary: Hi can I have a request were you are in a band and Lewis and the sidemen + girlfriends come and see you? Maybe little mix, thanks💙

A/N: Hi, so I didn’t really make it specific to Little Mix but you can just sort of add in the names of band members that you would like! I hope you like it and thanks for requesting xx  

Your hands were shaking, your pulse flowing all through your body; the nerves were really getting to you tonight. Tonight was a special night, you had invited some of your friends and family to come and see your performance. You were nervous because you wanted everything to go according to plan and wanted to impress those who were closest to you.

The crowd had begun cheering your band name and you received your cue to go on stage. The intro music had begun to play when the nerves kicked in. The cheering and the loud music drowned out your brash heartbeat that was leaping out of your chest. You grabbed a hold of your microphone in one hand and placed your other hand on your hip. Walking onto the platform that would arise from the ground you smiled as complete happiness washed over you. This was your night to shine and have an amazing time.

You began to sing the first song. Gripping the mic, the words flew out of your mouth in perfect symphony. Your hips begun to swing to the rhythm as you loosened up, enjoyed yourself on stage, and danced with your friends/band members. All the nerves left your body with each wing of your hips as you enjoyed the presence of the excited crowd and relaxed into the beat.


You had just finished the last song and you and the girls were waving to the crowd as you exited. Smiling to the girls, you were so thrilled that the show had gone amazing with no mic malfunctions or wardrobe disasters. You were on such a high as this was everything you could have ever wanted. You were achieving your 6-year-old dreams. Ever since you were a young girl, you had loved performing and always wanted to be on stage in front of a crowd. Now you were accomplishing those dreams and it could not feel any better.

The after party was in full swing with drinks offered all around to celebrate the success of the night. The show had gone amazing and everyone was still on their buzzes from the performance. You were deep in conversation and laughter with (band member) when you felt a pair of warm hands snake around your waist. Lewis whispered in your ear “Hey Superstar,” instantly smiling you turned in his embrace. Blushing you kissed him gently and accepted his closeness. Pulling back, you beamed and noticed the rest of your friends who you had invited to the concert.

Pleased, you welcomed Simon, JJ, Josh and Freya into a gracious hug. They started congratulating you on your performance as you returned to Lewis’ side. “You were absolutely amazing y/n, it was so good!” Simon said, “Yeah you are so talented” Josh and Freya spoke, “We have to do something together, I mean honestly you were so killer out there y/n” JJ added earning a giggle from you as you thanked them deeply.

Vik, Tobi, Ethan and Emily followed over to hug and congratulate you sharing only kind words. “That was truly beautiful” Vik spoke, “You have some mad skills y/n you’ve got a great set of vocal cords” Tobi spoke highly of you, “Yeah absolute tekkers that was!” Ethan spoke while Emily added, “You’re amazing!” “Thank you, thank you, you’re too kind, you graciously replied. Harry came bouncing over and interrupted your reply but he just wanted to carry on congratulating you. He was quickly followed by Cal(lux) and Sarah. “You were so great y/n, completely insane!”

The compliments and conversations about your performance carried on throughout the night with only positive words leaving everyone’s mouths.

You and Lewis broke away from the group to grab some drinks. “You were honestly so good out there y/n, you looked so happy and I’m so proud of you,” Lewis spoke. “Thank you Lewis. You know I just get in my zone and everything just feels right, the music, the dance moves, the crowd, you know.” “You are so talented babe,” “Thank you lovely and I would love to spend all my time just with you right now but we really should get back to everyone,” You spoke while Lewis was more-than leaning over you.

You spent the night celebrating with all your friends who you had invited to see your performance. The concert itself had gone perfectly and you were overwhelmed with how much support you had from your friends. You were so happy that your dreams were accomplished; you had amazing friends and an amazing boyfriend who was there to support you and offer such kind words.

My Idol: Part Twenty Five

My Idol
From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

My Idol is a South Korean competitive reality dating game show. It currently airs on Wednesday nights on Jae-bummer’s blog. First broadcast in 2016, the show offers the opportunity for a lucky fan to go on seven blind dates with seven idols. The idol plans the date with the show throwing in specific missions to complete during the day. At the end of the initial dates, the show opens up an audience vote to decide what three idols will move on to the second date.

Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3 - Part 4 - Part 5 - Part 6 - Part 7 - Part 8 - Part 9 -
Part 10 - Part 11 - Part 12 - Part 13 - Part 14 - Part 15 - Part 16 - Part 17 -
Part 18 - Part 19 - Part 20 - Part 21 - Part 22 - Part 23 - Part 24 - Part 25 -
Part 26

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anonymous asked:

How about Vamp!Mido where he turns his S/o into a vamp because he wants to be with her forever? Thanks easy oof

“You’re sure about this?”

Midorima looked into your eyes, searching for any sign that you were regretting the decisions about to be made. Though he couldn’t find any, he still worried that you’d change your mind at the last second. That fear would always be with him for as long as you lived this human life of yours.

“There’s no going back once it’s done,” he warned you, repeating the same phrase for what had to be the fourth time that night. “you have to be absolutely sure.”

“I am, Shintarou,” you said, voice a soft whisper.

When you lifted your hand to touch his cheek, he relished in the warmth of your skin. For a moment, he thought to himself that he would miss the stark difference in temperature between the two of you. Your softness and warmth had been two of the things he loved about you being human. Your mortality had been the thing he hated.

“What about you?” Your question caught him off guard. “Are you having second thoughts?”

“Never.” Midorima’s answer was quick and, taking your hands into his, he kissed at each knuckle. “Should we begin?”

You gave a soft puff of breath before responding. “I’d like that.”

He took a deep breath as well before leaning in, pressing his lips to the jugular vein in your neck. He could feel the pulsing blood flowing underneath your skin and it tempted him to take a taste. With one last shuddering breath, he parted his lips.

“This might hurt.”

anonymous asked:

Do you believe the old man has been in britain [ALBION] before those roving raiders, the angles, jutes and saxons landed here?

[I thought tumblr had eaten this. I swear it had. Oh well.]

This is a hard one to answer, because it involves landscape and its relationship to gods, and that’s one thing. My relationship to the landscape and the gods is another thing. I’m buggered if I try to relate how gods and landscape operate together in the All-At-Once, the Pandaemonic All of Albion’s Dreaming.

I’m buggered because to interface with that method, that process of Becoming-As…? To do that and come back with the proper words, that’s…well, that’s sort of my job, my reason for existing. To make sure the words are ensouled, serve as more than mere representation, so that they come-together with the readers, the listeners?

How to explain that this island was not ever an island, that it remains as it was when Doggerland was still above the waves, when giants walked the land, and also when the roar of the sea came in and sealed us away from Europe’s landmass?

How to explain that myths are empowered narratives, within proper context; tale-cum-rites which link participants across time and space - ancestors and descendants, living and dead, human and otherwise. All encompassed, all interwoven in a vast, actively living web of intelligences that we once called daemons, wights? 

A web that pulses and fluxes and flows with the secret rhythm found in a heartbeat, in the fizzing of sap and the urge to turn towards the sun.  Wyrd winding like rivers that walk, trees dancing; individuality dissolving and then emerging in new wonderful, terrible forms? Feeling the freezing heat of your own breath  as it hisses out from between the teeth in a dancing rictus-carnival of ever-morphing masks that reveal your inner faces?

How to sing, to scream, that this lies within the bones of each of us, where Earth reaches out to greet us as Mother and we descend, clasped to Hir breast, enveloped seed drawn into the cavernous starry night of her womb? How to point and pick out those burning shard-gleams of inner constellations, presences stalking the sky, devoured and devouring; the mortuary paintings vivid with tomb-ochre as. with gentle hands, the Ladies spin and cut and shape, many Mothers clustered all about to raise their kin to the heavens, and draw them down into the spaces between the moist and mulching soil?

To bear witness to the heavy head that wears the crown?

Antlers borne in crowning profusion of roots and bone, interwoven entrails and gleaming starlight fibre-optics stretching in all directions; a feathered mane of bloodgleam in which nest ten thousand birds and a hundred twining serpents - their bellies blessing bark with smooth muscle, moving sinew sliding sinuously, singing songs of wisdom, waves in immanent celestial seas of Soul.

Or to know the emerald gleam beneath the hill, the laughter of a Lady wreathed in green and gold-lit fire, the beauty of flesh and bone revealed, the perfume sweet with biting inevitability?

How to say and sing all these blending, fluxing, throbbing Images that come upon us if we cock the head and listen to the song, the angle beyond and between, within and always perilously nearby, adjacent and interlaced with our very awareness; resting in fury at the heart of every plunging particle, writhing in harmony with every wave, dancing with every possibility, fleeing to distant horizons and breathlessly near, stroking the deepest nerves with icy synaptic claws?

How these, now brought forth, may stand as cryptic mile-markers to answer your question, is, in a sense, ever unknown. And yet, from the profusion of these Images, you might discern something - a raw, furious heart that might manifest itself if you carve a mask to gleam in the firelight. What name might emerge, shaped by precedence, ritual and environment? Carved from language, a storm comes roaring, a burning breath to unleash itself into the world - an ecstatic name howled in the night. Hurtling across the land, the ever-hunting Host spewed forth on a tide of poetry sets the Tree to shake - its prophet sorcerer bursting out and down to sing the wisdom of ravens, the making and breaking of kings and heroes, taking counsel from severed heads.

And so he wanders, so he stands, dangling on the gallows, dancing a jig at the crossroads. Awe-ful, terrible, the Old Man Who Knows - who learnt the speech of burial mounds; a cawing, cackling, murder of black birds now nested on the forests - their youthful warrior’s dance now marked by clacking bone and witch’s cry.

He bears many names, this Grandfather Raven,this thieving wizard; this Hoar-Crow, this Carrion Monarch. 

And you know what they say, do you not?

The King Is Dead. 

Long Live The King.

Ashes, Ashes (We All Fall Down) | AU

He’s born of frozen fire. 

When the time comes to go to his father, he doesn’t. His mother made a grave mistake of making him a weapon. 

Weapons are supposed to be wood and metal and powder, not flesh and blood.

Because flesh and blood will turn on you.

Damian burns down the compound on his tenth birthday. 

He’d like to say he looked away, but he didn’t.

He travels. Not the world, in so large a perspective. In shadowed alleys. In airplanes that place their animals below. In subway stations, communities under the city. 

He is not his mother’s shining beacon. He is not her weapon, either. 

Damian goes to his father when he is thirteen. His hands are dark and scarred, grime under his fingernails. His smile is sharp. 

The others do not fear him, exactly. But he can see their concerns when he looks into their blue eyes, his face reflecting. 

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Me Against The Words

She said write a poem

This might not work
I’m trying


but the words are revolting(literally)

over there in the corner
jumbled crumbled
mumbling grumbling

I see them
They see me

but we appear to be on different pages
maybe even different books

in separate libraries
on separate continents

I want to find poignant heartfelt
extensions of my emotions
transmuted into thought,
the warm pulsing flow
of my hopes and desires
rolling out in long curling waves
that crash sonorously on secret shores,
some method to pull out
from the thin air of Saturday evening
an image built in language
but playing live in glorious colors
in the theatre of your mind,


They wanna kill aliens
shoot big guns at bad guys
fuck hot chicks/sexy men
lie around drunk and dazed
stoned and stupid
scratching at butts and balls

And they want Sundays off…

I might have to learn a new language.