roil

Captain Steve Rogers, Lovecraftian Horror

Title: The Miskatonic Project
Rating: PG-13 for horror themes, death
Summary: Abraham Erskine may have invented something new with the Serum – or maybe he re-created something very old. Something…Elder.
Notes: I should be working on like three other fanfics but I had a TERRIBLE DREAM this afternoon and anyway this only took about half an hour to write.

***

Steve came out of the Vita-Ray machine…different. 

Of course he looked different – taller, thickly muscled, skin gleaming. But it wasn’t the change in his appearance so much as the…sensation people felt around him. Howard claimed not to feel it, and Erskine died before he could weigh in. Peggy felt it, but not in the way others did. To her, he seemed otherworldly, but like an angel or a religious vision – comforting under a layer of unreality. She even liked the strange black pupils he’d developed, so big and dark you could hardly see the whites of his eyes at all. 

Others, however…. 

She didn’t see him pull the Hydra agent out of the submarine after Erskine’s assassination. Only three people did – a cab driver, a little boy, and the boy’s mother. The cab driver wouldn’t say a word, and the boy’s mother stuttered and stammered so badly they finally gave up. The little boy just said, “Well, he got him,” and looked admiringly at Steve. 

Steve wasn’t wet, but the submarine lay on the deck of the pier, and the man next to it was dead, a rictus of horror on his face. 

(There is a readmore below! Read more!)

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anonymous asked:

i have a prompt for you: what if snape hadn't called lily 'mudblood' that day. what if their friendship had stayed strong, unbreakable. would he have grown to be a better person? would lily have loved him, rather than james? would harry just have another godfather? would james and lily have survived?

Okay you have successfully convinced me to write a Snape thing, which is a possibility I have audibly forsworn many times to my loved ones. But I’m a sucker for concepts like “Harry gets another godfather,” so, here we go.


When Severus was seven, he fell in love with the girl down the street. She had long red hair and dirty knees and she offered him half her candy bar one drizzly afternoon, waiting outside the school for her parents to come pick her up.

His parents weren’t coming— dad working late and mum at the pub recounting old Hogwarts glory stories, talking of years when her life was magical– but he didn’t tell Lily that. He was just waiting for the older bully boys who lurked in the empty lot on his way home to get bored and leave.

He ate the candy slowly in neat little bites while she grinned and told him about her big sister’s feud with the science teacher, like her Tuney was some sort of hero in a political espionage drama. She talked with her hands, narrow little things with freckled backs. He watched her wave from the back window of her mother’s car and then he started the long walk home.

When Severus was fifteen, James Potter dangled him upside down in the quad and laughed. Severus landed on elbows and knees. The bruises would stay for a week. The memories would not die with them— James’s cocky grin, the laughter in the spring air, the long whip of Lily’s red hair.

He felt small, bug-like, his knees pressing into the grass. His mother would come home some nights, kick the threadbare carpet, rattle the battered old pans in the cupboard, curse a Ministry that hated purebloods, that sucked up to halfbreeds and Mudbloods, that left the true wizards to rot in filth. He would curl up, make himself small, bug-like, imagine a chitinous shield growing over his shoulders, his spine, the softness of his kidneys. Some days, his father slept through this. Some days he screamed back.

After Severus met Lily, he would curl up under his covers, small, bug-like, and read through the comics she’d lent him with his hands pressed up over his ears. He wanted Professor X to come take him away. He wanted to be someone special, someone saved. He wanted a giant to burst through his door and frighten his mother and offer him a squashed birthday cake and a way out.

When Severus was fifteen, he slammed to his knees on the green Hogwarts quad. Laughter burrowed into his ears, like curses, like the nights his father screamed back, and when Lily stepped toward him he snapped, “I don’t need help from a Mudblood.”

When Severus slouched up to her door that summer, Lily didn’t invite him in. She leaned on the open frame of the door, arms crossed. He had so rarely seen Lily neither smiling or incandescent with rage, but she watched him with snakeskin eyes and a set mouth, still.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t–”

She twitched a strand of hair over her shoulder, the irritation the closest thing to an emotion he could spot on her. He was watching, desperate– this was Lily, she gave things away. She talked with her hands. He never felt lost, with her. “But why,” said Lily. “Why are you sorry? Because I’m upset, or because what you did was wrong?”

“I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“You did, and it’s not the point. I don’t care if it’s the part you care about, Sev, it’s not the part that matters. That was an awful thing to say– to say to anyone. You were cruel because you were scared and embarrassed, but Sev I could really care less. You were cruel.”

“I’m sorry,” he said again.

“Sorry’s not enough, Sev. Be fucking better.”

He jerked back and tried to turn it into some kind of laugh. “Language, careful, your mum might hear.”

She shrugged, and stepped back through the open door, and shut it in his face.

He spent the summer reading comic books, haunting the local library, then the local park once it’d closed, and then sneaking home when he was hopeful his parents would be asleep. He tried to think about bravery, but sometimes he just thought about Lily’s hair, the way it went more golden in summer. He tried to think about nobility, ethics and grace, but the clouds chased each other, fat and white, across the sky and he wasn’t sure what any of this had to do with him.

His father took him fishing by a dreary brown creek and they sat in silence. Severus could hear every creak of the rods, every lap of the water, every inhale and movement his father made. He thought maybe if he just said nothing, nothing ever, he’d never say anything again that made Lily’s face go so flat and distant. If he said nothing, maybe nothing would hurt.

His father reached back for a beer can in a swift movement and Severus froze himself unflinching. He sat in that silence afterward, slowing his heartbeat, picking apart the sudden rigid shell of his shoulders. His father hummed, cracking the can open like a gunshot.

He sat alone on the Hogwarts Express that year, stuffed in a compartment with a handful of second years who gave him half the seats while they giggled among themselves about the haircut of someone named Gertrude. Every summer’s end, for five years, he and Lily had boarded the train together, pressed their noses to the window glass, and watched the land rush by.

For the first month of school, Severus practiced pausing before he spoke, for seconds, minutes if he needed them. Sometimes he’d add an answer after the conversation had already moved on, bent over his mashed potatoes, weighing words as carefully as he weighed salamander eyes and mandrake root.

(If you crushed firedrake seeds with the flat of your blade, instead of cutting them, they made a more potent potion. The textbooks told you to stir six times counterclockwise to make Sleeping Draught, but he knew–because he had thought, and tried, and tried again–that if you did five counterclockwise and two clockwise the draught would turn that perfect turquoise and the sleep would be dreamless and sweet and deep. He kept notes in his textbook’s margins, because it helped to remember.)

In the second month, he tried to listen. People were starting to think about life after school, a big yawning chasm they were supposed to fill with themselves. People were starting to fall in love, puppyish and petty. People were starting to believe in the war, whispering, dreaming, fearing.

In the common room, one of the kids said something about Mudbloods and Severus’s head snapped up. He tried to imagine a shell growing into his shoulders, over his spine, covering all the soft parts of him. He wanted his covers, he wanted to shrink, he wanted Lily’s boxfuls of comics, but he rose to his feet and snapped back. Sometimes saying nothing hurt people, too. A small Muggleborn in green and silver ducked away to her dorm, clutching quietly at her sleeves.

For the third month, he tried to watch– not for warning sneers or cocky grins, clenched fists and broad shoulders, all the things he’d been watching for since before he could name them– but for the way shoulders might go rigid, the way fists might clench but hide, wishing for something to shield every soft part of them.

Severus was bony and pimply, sixteen years old and graceless in it, but he could be an interruption. He could mock with the best of them, flicking his brows and twisting his nose, and asking pointed questions. He could talk, smart-mouthed and snide, until the focus turned to him, and then he could survive anything they handed out. He could give as good as he got. The pauses were shorter, these days, before he spoke, but they would always be there, an echo offset from the shout, an avalanche that struck late and terrible.

When kids cried in bathrooms or empty classrooms or the library, he didn’t move to comfort them, though he heard them. He didn’t know how. He wrote his own curses, out in the forest where he could scar the trees in experiment, and they all turned out bloody. He loved few things, even Lily, as much as he loved pouring all of himself into his work, until something new and his own grew out of it. He wasn’t sure he’d ever invented something kind.

He didn’t try to find Lily, but he came back from the Forest once and almost tripped over her, half-napping in Hagrid’s pumpkin patch. He stumbled back into a gargantuan gourd while she pushed hair out of her face and peered up at him.

“I’m sorry,” he said, after a pause that rumbled and roiled in his gut, that he clung to with both hands, breathing into it and letting his shoulders go soft. “I’m sorry I said it. I’m sorry I made you feel small because I was feeling– small.”

Lily sat up a bit, in the little semi circle she’d built herself of books and scrolls and gobstones and snacks. She had built fairy circles like that, when they were children, of the flowers he’d transfigured for her.

“I’m sorry anyone has to feel that way, ever,” he said. “They shouldn’t. I’m angry anyone has to feel that way.”

“Me, too,” she said, and, fishing around in the detritus that surrounded her, handed him half a candy bar. “C'mon, you want some tea? Hagrid said he’d put a kettle on for me if I finished my Arithmancy.”

When Severus was in sixth year, Remus Lupin almost killed him on a moonlit night.

Severus had wanted answers, had wanted to get them in trouble, had wanted something a bit like vengeance, and Sirius had told him about the Whomping Willow. Sirius had grinned when he’d done it, small and bitter, and Severus had wondered if he was fighting with James again, wondering why else he’d sell out his friends.

“I didn’t think–” Sirius tried, the morning after, watching Remus across dry toast and cocoa, big juicy bowls of melon.

“You never do,” Remus snapped. (A bare handful of years later, standing in the smoldering ruins of James and Lily’s house, Remus would think about Sirius’s erratic gaze, the sharp edge of his voice, his last name, and wonder if he should have seen it coming. What here was premeditated? What was mischief? Sirius had once almost painted Remus’s own hands with red blood.)

But for now, Remus was sixteen and angry; he was sixteen and guilty of things that might have happened. He didn’t speak to Sirius for a month.

James refused to speak with Sirius, too, but he only lasted a week. Moony was sulking and Peter was busy studying his little heart out, and James got twitchy without proper and regular socialization.

“I’ll punch him in the nose,” said Lily, when Severus told her. She shifted where she sat cross-legged on the library table, like she might go off and hunt him down that second.

“Black doesn’t deserve the attention,” said Severus.

“Getting his ass kicked by a girl? That type of attention?”

“Getting his ass kicked by Lily Evans,” Severus said. “It’d be an honor and you know it.”

Reports of violence outside Hogwarts got worse. People were disappearing. People were whispering, fearing. The papers were ignoring the important things, and feeding off the fearmongering, or so Lily announced in the library while Severus was trying to study.

Alice and Lily had spent years sharing hissed rants in humid greenhouses. Over an undulating bed of luminescent deadly nightshade, Alice bent her head close to Lily’s and asked, “Have you heard of the Order of the Phoenix?”

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It’s been more than 60 days since Venezuela’s Supreme Court moved to dissolve the country’s National Assembly. The move intended to eliminate a thorn in the side of embattled President Nicolas Maduro was reversed after three days — but its political fallout has now barreled into its third month roiling city streets across the country.

In that time, the list of protesters’ demands — from the resumption of local elections to an end to the nationwide food shortage, to even the ouster of Maduro himself — has grown. And the death toll has mounted.

As The Associated Press reports, at least 60 people have died in clashes between demonstrators and security forces, and at least 1,000 protesters have been jailed.

As Venezuela Enters 3rd Month Of Protests, Anti-Maduro Ire Finds New Target

Photo: Luis Robayo/AFP/Getty Images

Eventually I want to write a story where Hugo approaches Robert at some cul-de-sac social function like “Uh. Did you try to throw down with my kid outside a movie theater?”

And internally Robert’s thinking no, of course not, I would never, and Ernest isn’t even that bad of a kid despite his poor media choices.  But, being Robert, what comes out is a deadpan “I woulda had him too but I couldn’t keep up with his alleyway parkour as he escaped.”

And Hugo on some level believes him, and this ignites a quiet one-sided feud between them, an animosity cloaked in suburban pleasantries but roiling with the promise of vengeance.  And Robert finds himself appreciative of Hugo’s dedication to his son’s safety and honor, and can’t help but self-destructively pull Hugo’s pigtails.  Eventually the misunderstanding sorts out, but not before Hugo literally suplexes Robert at one of Joseph’s bake sales.

This is how they become friends.  Maybe they even smooch eventually idk.

On the sidelines, Ernest is secretly touched his dad would beat up weird drunks for him.

anonymous asked:

Okay, so here I am, an innocent lurker, having just found this blog, when I see: "what if the skywalkers were cthulu-type monsters." excuse me??? please elaborate you just wrote that and nothing else im dying ex p la i n y o ur s el f

  • The Force is everything that ever was and ever will be, every storm and every silence, the hunting krayk dragon and cowering bantha calf: it is huge, all-consuming, completely inhuman. How, then, could its children be anything short of monstrous? (Wonders, yes. But monsters all the same.)
  • Anakin Skywalker is boy-shaped, but Obi Wan cannot bear to look at him. 
  • A clarification: he can look at him with his human eyes; but he must clamp down the extra eyes his Force-sensitivity gives him, because when he doesn’t – well. The first time he met the boy he hadn’t closed those eyes; he’d open them, wide and curious and seen –
    • teeth and claws and roiling shadows, a slipslide of features and starfire, the white blur of warpspeed and it hurts –
  • Anakin Skywalker is the son of the Force, half human and half something extraordinary. There’s a reason the Jedi don’t like him, why Yoda mistrusts him; they all have to close their extra eyes around him; and even when they’re white-knuckled with effort, clamping down so the Force can’t so much as whisper to them (and that hurts Jedi, of course it does, it runs counter to all their training about opening up and trusting in the Force) and even then they still feel the velvet quiver of unseen limbs over their skin. 
  • And more. And worse. When he is angry – which is often – his shadow warps into something awful, and even the least Force-sensitive being quails at the profound wrongness of the sight. His features warp and melt, teeth spiralling out from his pupils, his mouth cracks open wide, his tongue growing scales and feathers and catching fire and he smiles, oh how he smiles and –
    • nothing like him should exist and
    • and you blink, lose the moment, he’s just a young man glowering at you, and his shadow is the same, but the memory of that horror is seared into the back of your brain.
  • It is no surprise that Padme dies in childbed. 
  • The first child’s cry makes Obi Wan’s bones rattle. It – you could not call it anything but an it – is a twisting, squirming mess of light and dark. There’s a wing, a thorned branch: you cannot focus on it. You cannot pin a shape to it. Obi Wan wants to run away, run and never look back. But the Med Droid is offering it to him; and it is a child, of a sort; and Obi Wan takes it, and it coalesces into a soft pink baby girl. He places it – her – against Padme’s white breast. Padme cradles it. “She’s beautiful.”
  • The second is just the same: pushed out like any human baby, but a roling mess of lightening and thick syrupy cloud, one moment tentacled and the next furred, pure power condensed. Obi Wan takes it in his arms and it solidifies into another fat baby, small and squalling. 
  • He’s not like the other babies, Luke Skywalker. He’s a funny one. When he smiles, you have the sudden absurd impulse that he’s got too many teeth for his face. His hair is corn-gold, but when you see it out of the corner of your eye you swear that it isn’t hair at all, but fire and teeth. Looking at him too long is like staring into the sun. 
  • The other children are scared of him, Behu says to Owen, once. And Owen says: children always know. And Behu says: he isn’t a bad kid. Owen says: he’s a wonder. And that’s the problem. 
  • Jabba’s goons go to the Lars farm to collect water once. Only once. They return to Jabba’s palace gibbering nonsense, with their eyes burned out. Both mumble something about there’s something wrong with the boy and then jump into the ragnar pit. 
  • Don’t do that again, says Owen, but he hugs his nephew all the same, pulls him close, kisses his temple. He feels something hot-cold run over his spine, like something far larger than the child is trying to embrace him back. That night, Behu runs her fingers over the new white scartissue on her husband’s back, and says, he’s a good kid. Owen says, I know.
  • If I was there I could have saved them, Luke says to Ben Kenobi, years later, and in that moment he has a thousand thousand eyes and all of them are burning, and he has no limbs but a dozen wings bearing him aloft, and each feather is molten gold and each feather drips blood. Ben thinks of Anakin, screws his Force-sensitivity closed. Luke is a monster. A wonder. But first and foremost he is a boy, and he is grieving. 
    • Ben Kenobi holds him while he weeps. 
  • When Leia comes, she turns into a celestial horror with more teeth than Han cares to count. “Huh,” he says, after their first time. She’s so little in his arms, but so vast. He feels something gentle his back. He says, “Next time, I’ll wear a blindfold, princess. Don’t want to blind me, do you? Then I won’t be able to see when you’re doing stupid shit.” She titters, presses her face into the curve of his neck. 
    • Love comes to everyone, including monsters. 
4

The twisted ebb and flow of wood in this gnarl fascinated me. How strange it is that wood can look like roiling water and yet be completely stationary; how strange that even though I perceive it as stationary, it is actually still growing. Slowly flowing after all?

Forest adventures with a special person // August 31st 

2

Eavhen looks at the ensemble set before her and feels something roil within her.

“No.”

“No?” Josephine repeats, obviously startled. “Inquisitor, it’s important that we show a united-”

“I understand that, and we’ll come up with something that fits, but…” Eavhen takes a breath and straightens her spine. She’s postured enough by now. “I go as the leader of the Inquisition, of course. But I also will not go to Halamshiral and let them forget that I am Dalish and proud.”

Painting the rest of her body to match her vallaslin may be a bit overdramatic, but she thinks she’s allowed that much by now.

2

          all of it there and then gone. he was drowning in the harbor. her limbs were a corpse’s limbs. her eyes were dead and staring disgust and longing roiled in his gut.
          he lurched backward, and pain shot through his bad leg. his mouth was on fire. the room swayed. he braced himself against the wall, trying to breathe. inej was on her feet, moving toward him, her face concerned. he held up a hand to stop her.  
          “don’t.” 
↳ crooked kingdom by leigh bardugo, chapter 26

Hate That You Know Me (So Well)

Summary:

Adrien and Marinette discuss Chat Noir.

Can also be found on FF.net and AO3.


“Can I ask you a question?”

She was lying face down on his carpet so he was left to interpret the muffled “yrsfh”. She hadn’t said no to him yet so he gave in to precedence.

“Does Chat Noir know?”

Marinette didn’t answer him right away so he leaned over the side of the couch to look down at her.  She turned her face so it was no longer buried in his rug and one very blue, very wary eye peeked up at him.

“No,” She whispered.  “No one was supposed to know.”

It had been like this for an hour now. 

She seemed to still be coming out of shock.  After all, it wasn’t every day your classmate stumbles upon your biggest secret. Adrien wished, not for the first time, that he had chosen any other alley, if only to spare her whatever she was feeling right now.

“I’m sorry,” He said, again.

She turned her face back into the carpet.  “Snrt yr fawl.”

And, really, it wasn’t.

Not when he considered the increase in akuma attacks over the past few months or the fact that he and Marinette had been circling each other for over a year.  In fact, Adrien was surprised that they hadn’t stumbled upon each other transforming sooner.

It really was obvious now that he knew.

Of course Ladybug was Marinette.  There was no one else in Paris like her.

And if, after the warm, pink light faded, her startled eyes met his with anything but absolute despair he wouldn’t have hesitated pulling her to him.

As it was, he had still been reeling from the gunshock that was watching his beautiful classmate (had she really been so close) transform into his beautiful partner, when she crumpled in on herself shaking no, no, no, no.

And when Adrien finally did realize what was happening and started to move forward she was already up, fragile and broken and strong.

“Don’t say a word.”

Caught in the steel of her eyes he could only nod before she threw her yoyo up and out, vanishing from the alleyway.

There was, after all, an akuma.

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Devotion

Jasper Hale imagine requested by anon. “hi! could you do a jasper fic where the cullens all leave for a hunting trip to lo-key give jaz and y/n some alone time in the house? like theyve been dating for months and jasper and y/n make love for the first time and shes super nervous because shes a virgin and its super tender and sweet? thanks!” Hope you like it!

WARNING: SMUT

Your parents were under the assumption that you and your boyfriend’s twin sister were spending the weekend in her adopted parents’ home while the Cullen boys went camping on Mt. Rainier; as innocent a gathering as could be expected. In their eyes, there was absolutely nothing to be worried about; their daughter was spending time with a respectable family, under the watchful eye of the doctor’s lovely wife Esme, surrounded by her charming boyfriend’s female sibling… only the camping trip wasn’t as exclusive as you had let on, and you would instead be spending time at the Cullen residence with Jasper. He had come to escort you to his home, dressed to the nines in the best hiking gear money could buy, shaking your father’s hand with a polite smile before leading you into the passenger seat of the silver Volvo he had borrowed from his brother. It may have been suggested that his brother’s car was a safer option than his motorcycle, and with the understanding that you preferred your father didn’t collapse into cardiac arrest, Jasper had agreed to sacrifice his preferred mode of transportation for the unassuming vehicle you now found yourself within. Jasper slid effortlessly into the driver’s seat, bidding your parents goodnight before settling in beside you, sealing the normalcy of the world away with the hushed suction of a closing door. It wasn’t long before the delectable scent of him flooded your airspace, perfuming your world with hints of lavender and sandalwood, intoxicating you with the sheer beauty of his presence. His eyes remained glued on the rear-view mirror as he backed out of your driveway, exhibiting proper driving technique while in your parents’ line of sight, proceeding down your street for at least a minute before his hand found yours between the seats, the chill of his skin soothing the worry from your brow. The entirety of his family was as far north as Canada on a hunting trip. You and Jasper would be completely alone.

“Hey, relax, darlin’. It’s just me,” he whispered, his butterscotch eyes finding yours within the dimly-lit cabin of the Volvo, his features illuminated by the neon of the dashboard instruments. He had no need to look at the road; his peripheral vision was just as attentive as his eyes were on you, and his reflexes quicker than anything that could possibly present as an obstacle in front of your vehicle. His thumb traced circles against the backside of your hand, massaging the stress from your body, if not your mind. Sure, it was just him. He couldn’t have stated the sole reason behind the surges of anxiety that flooded your body any simpler than that; it was just him, and just you, alone together for an entire weekend. It was a major advance in your relationship, and he was a poster child for collected calm, as if tonight were no different than any other. You ducked your head, squeezing his hand lightly, marveling momentarily at the give of his alabaster skin… so hard, yet so soft. You wondered, briefly, how the rest of him might feel… You straightened your thoughts, tidying the corners of your mind until every last straying image was safely swept into order, thanking your lucky stars that Jasper wasn’t the family’s mind reader. Jasper didn’t ask what had you so wrought with tension; you had a good idea he knew, but was far too polite to voice his suspicions, a perfect Southern gentleman to the very end. Instead, his mind flooded through the stagnant air and into yours, warming your limbs in waves as a feather-light cloak of ease hushed over your body, his eyes fighting to coax yours out of hiding before he settled for merely gazing in your direction. “I love you,” he promised, his whisper low and aflame with the heat of his truth, the tenor of his voice ringing with honesty as his eyes burnt twin holes in your temple. You lifted your gaze to his, losing yourself briefly in the honey of his stare, his smile eliciting your own as he turned the steering wheel, his grip so certain, so sure, his eyes only leaving yours for a moment. When the hypnosis of his eyes was broken, you redirected your eyes to stare aimlessly out the window, watching the cedars pass in blurred patches of emerald darkened and diluted by the ink of the night.

“I’m okay, Jasper. You don’t have to… calm me down,” you chuckled, your laugh almost foreign to your own ears, speaking to the reflection of his eyes mirrored in the glare the utilities projected onto the glass of the window. “I’m good, really. Thank you, though, for offering. You’re a sweetheart.” Jasper’s brow lifted in disbelief, hearing the confident lie roll from between your lips on the back of a wave of compromising emotion, your unease as plain to him as your voice was clear. You rolled your eyes, smirking as you tightened your hold on his hand. “Alright, I’m a little upset that Rose won’t be joining us. You’ve caught me.” Jasper let loose a quiet laugh, his lips thin as he fought the urge to bend to your humour, his mind still obviously distracted by your physical discomfort. Even if he were unable to taste the tone of your emotions, he would have heard the stammer of your heart as it frantically sought an escape route through the spaces between your ribs. He shook his head a fraction, as if to align his thoughts, his palm spreading over your knee, gently smoothing over your denim with a more human breed of comfort, leaving your reasoning to stand alone, no prodding or inquiries involved. You watched the forest flash by, your heart thrumming in your chest like the wings of a hummingbird, your pulse skyrocketing as Jasper pulled into the extended driveway leading to the Cullen household. He sighed to hear so obvious a sign of distress, his lips pressed into a fine line when you turned to address the sound, his eyes concerned as he analyzed the winding path through the thick of the forest. You were silent when the car pulled up before the intimidating house, your hands clasped in your lap as Jasper removed the keys from the ignition, quieting the engine and enhancing the leaden stillness that surrounded the two of you. He exhaled deeply, turning in his seat until he was facing you straight-on, his hands reaching for yours, the smooth marble of his skin sparking against you, adrenaline coursing through your veins like venom.

“Y/n, would you please let me help you?” he asked, his voice pleading and sincere, you met his eye, smiling halfheartedly, your cheeks burning with the flow of blood that rushed to warm your face. His brow knotted with helpless worry, his eyes bright with the extent of his agitation to see you so restless. “At least tell me why you’re so nervous?” he pleaded, his palm covering your own, sending thrills roiling through to settle in the pit of your stomach, your body warm beneath his comparably frigid touch. You shrugged, searching for words polite enough, innocent enough, harmless enough that you wouldn’t end up offending or causing any confusion. Jasper’s hand extending toward your face, cradling your cheek in the silken palm of his hand, his thumb working over your cheekbone, brushing just beneath your eye. “There’s nothing to be afraid of. You can tell me anything, darlin’, it’s part of the package. Trust me, there’s nothing you could say that would drive me away, nothing you could say that’d… wound me. I’m virtually indestructible, remember?” you giggled then, surprised at the tremor in your voice, your eyes watering just slightly, your cheeks burning brighter as you became aware of the sensation. Jasper’s hand remained on your cheek, his fingers coaxing an answer from your lips, or perhaps your mind, his eyes anxiously awaiting your reply. You felt the air rush from your lungs, your brain resolving to spill your fear at his feet before your body could revert to your more primal instincts and reject your intention.

“I’m just…” you paused briefly, your heart seizing in your chest, prompting Jasper to respond with a much-needed surge of calm. You cleared your throat then, your eyes finding his in the dark. “Thanks. I’m just… I know what this is about.” Your words hung in the air, speaking volumes while saying so little. Jasper’s jaw clenched visibly, catching the intention behind your blanketed statement, his hand moving downward to rest against your neck, your pulse racing beneath his palm, his skin tantalizing yours. He didn’t make any move to speak, or to leave the vehicle, awaiting further explanation despite his clear understanding. “I mean, I guess it’s just… we’re alone, Jasper. Truly alone, and I…” your voice trailed off, your eyes melting into his, the tides of borrowed calm lapping at your feet as Jasper lent you the ease to continue. “I’ve never done this before.” Realization flickered behind his eyes for the briefest moment before quickly, professionally, he returned to his previous standing, his features open and curious. “I’m just nervous, is all.” Jasper grinned sympathetically, his eyes dancing on yours.

“Terrified, it feels like.” You lowered your gaze, embarrassed, only to find Jasper’s index finger at your chin, lifting you back to meet his eyes, his features soft and gentle. “We’re not going to do anything you aren’t prepared to do, you have my word as a gentleman. It’s enough for me just to spend time with you, no time constraints, no prying eyes, no interruptions. I’m in this for you, Y/n, and nothing else. I love you. If you want to go slow, we’ll go slow. We can crawl forward, for all I care, so long as we’re together. I am perfectly content with whatever you choose to do.” You smiled, thankful, leaning toward him to close the space between you, your lips pressing against his. He returned the tender affection you offered to him, his lips molding to fit yours perfectly, his hand winding through your hair, holding you as delicately as if you were made of glass, separating only when the car’s headlights clicked off from lack of movement. “You ready? To head inside, I mean?” You giggled, nodding your confirmation to his double-edged inquiry, your heart leaping in your chest when he disappeared from his seat, your door opening swiftly at your side. Within a single breath, he had lifted you from the seat, holding you in his arms like a newlywed bride, kicking the door closed before walking as easily as if he were unburdened towards your house, abandoning your overnight bag in the backseat. You laughed aloud at his pageantry, his eyes rolling at your reaction. “It seemed appropriate, Miss, to walk you over the threshold. I’m attempting romance; don’t go injuring my ego.” He continued forward, smirking when you mumbled pointedly about his claim of indestructibility. He strode over the polished floorboards, pressing a kiss to your hairline when you clung to his shoulders after he set you on the couch. You wrapped your arms around his neck, refusing to release your grip as he moved to stand, your heart racing as he playfully fell on top of you, bent by your iron strength. His lips pressed against your throat, his honey hair sweeping against your cheek as he wrestled with your human weakness, contorting until you were cradled in his arms, his eyes glowing warmly behind the thick fringe of his eyelashes. He paused, then, noticing for the first time the subtle shift in your emotions. “What…?” he began, your lips pressing to the corner of his mouth.

“I’m…” you began, your voice feeble and weak, your fingers threading through the golden strands of his hair, his eyelids fluttering at your touch, searching yours for answers you had yet to properly advocate. You returned his open stare, your hands trembling as they cupped his cheeks, your thumbs stammering over his cheekbones. “Jasper…” His breathing was shallower, quicker, his lips parting as he prepared to speak.

“I thought you were…” you inhaled the scent of him, so much stronger now that you were all but pressed against each other, watching him come to his conclusions. “You said you were nervous? You’re still nervous, I can… I can feel it, but…” his voice trailed off, his head shaking once between your hands. “Y/n,” he breathed, your name an oath on his lips. “Do you want this?” Your cheeks burned under his stare, your heart thrumming with a strength you hadn’t imagined possible, your head nodding when you found your voice had failed you. Jasper swallowed then, his voice producing a soft, sensuous tone, blossoming into the silence instead of interrupting it. “You’re sure?” You nodded once more, pressing your lips to his as you finally spoke your reply.

“Yes.” He moved against you as you had never known him to move, his tongue darting over your lip with a slow, sugared patience, his arms wrapping securely beneath you before he moved to stand, hoisting you once more into his arms, his lips never parting from yours. His body was marble-hard beneath your hands as he ghosted up the stairway, moving with inhuman speed to the sanctity of his bedroom. He laid you atop his sheets, resting your head against his pillows, moving to hover over you in the same movement, his weight suspended above you. He tucked a stray strand of your hair behind your ear, his fingertip lingering on your jaw, his eyes lavishing you as if you were the most precious stone, or perhaps an idol forgotten by all but him. He waited for your approval, his eyes watching yours, a delightfully warm sense of calm licking at the soles of your feet when your nerves tightened in your stomach. “There’s no need. I’m okay.” He arched his brow, his influence retracting as you stroked his cheek, your touch tender as you worshiped his flesh. “I love you, Jasper.” His eyes burned from within, his lips repeating your vow as he descended on your lips.

“I love you.” He melted against you, his every muscle, every inch of his skin pressing against your body, his fingers working the fabric from your waist, parting from his kiss to remove your garment completely. You shied away from his gaze for the span of a minute, opening once again when he had removed his own shirt, his hands tentatively caressing the skin at the bottom of your rib cage. “So beautiful…” he whispered, his lips lowering to press slow, honeyed kiss to your abdomen. Your hands instinctively tangled in his hair as his hands worked the button of your jeans, undoing your pants and working them from your legs, leaving you bare before him in your undergarments. His hands found your hips, then, lifting you from the sheets until you were pressed against his chest. Your fingertips trailed curiously down the center of his chest, reaching lower and lower until you discovered the waistline of his jeans. His breath caught with your own when, surprising the both of you, your hand wandered further south, brushing timidly against the bulge his pants concealed. His eyes met yours then, blurred by the relative darkness, boring holes into your very soul. He was still in your arms, moving only when you did, your hand shifting along the coarse denim as you traveled upward to unbutton his pants. His chest expanded beautifully, his lips crashing against yours, moving swiftly to the line of your jaw, marking you with fervent kisses. You worked the button loose, and Jasper was standing by the bed, kicking his pants off entirely before crawling above you, his hand ghosting over the cup of your bra. You thrilled at the contact, arching your back to make the process of unhooking the garment easier. You wriggled free of your straps, watching Jasper’s eyes devour the sight of your uncovered chest, his hands moving with a patient slowness to cup your breast in the palm of his hand. Your breath rushed from your lungs, Jasper’s eyes flitting to your face, your lips parted in bliss. He smiled, then, before his fingers were working beneath the waistband of your underwear, slipping the fabric down your legs until it no longer clung to your body. He pulled you once more into a kneeling position, his eyes hungry on yours.

Your heart hammered in your chest, your nerves alight with naked electricity as Jasper knelt before you, removing the last piece of clothing that masked the full glory of his chiseled body, his eyes never leaving your face as he worked himself free of his underwear, his erection uncovered, the both of you bare before each other. You inched toward him instinctively, his body reacting in a similar fashion, his hands closing around your waist as he dissolved the distance between you. His palms stroked your hips as his lips found yours, his passion translating fluidly from his mouth to yours, his hands clinging to your back as he settled you back against the pillows, his body arching over yours. Your hands moved to tangle once more in his hair, stopping suddenly in their path as Jasper’s hand caught your wrist, his eyes on yours as he kissed the tips of your fingers. You pressed on, your hands at the nape of his neck, his eyelids closed in bliss as your lips found the muscle of his shoulder, a small sound of pleasure escaping from between his lips. He hovered over you, straightening moments later, his hands parting your legs with gentle precision. He nestled himself between your thighs, his eyes never once leaving your burning face, his hands massaging the creases of your hips. You nodded, almost desperately, reaching to pull his body back over yours as he prodded against your entrance. Your mouth opened at the carnal contact, your cheeks warm with the fire of your blood as Jasper eased himself inside of you, his eyes burning with a heat you didn’t know him capable of as he shifted his hips, working himself deep within you. He moved slowly then, until he stilled, his lips at your ear, pressing a kiss to your cheek before speaking your name. Your fingers clung to his back, urging him forward.

He obliged, thrusting deep within you, his movements subtle and captivating, his every shudder sending you gasping for breath where none existed. He rolled his hips, his lips on your neck, your hands grasping for a holding on his shoulders. He moved slowly, patiently, enjoying and allowing you to enjoy every sensitive inch of him inside you, his hand moving to grasp your hip as he thrust within you. He rolled sideways, lifting you with his movement until you rested on top of him, his arms propelling him to a seated position, his hands deftly re-positioning your legs until they wrapped more securely around his waist. His eyes, heavy-lidded, were locked on yours like a magnet as he lifted your hips and lowered you onto him, your breath rushing from your lungs, carrying his name on a low moan. He smiled, pressing his joy to your collarbone as be repeated the movement, your voice producing sound without formulating words. Jasper’s movements became faster, though never rushed or hurried, his hands grasping your hips with a tender security, his breathing laboured as your body began to tremble. Your mind was clouded, the pulses of his hips meeting your own sending deafening waves of pleasure through your body, concentrated at the meeting of your bodies. Your mouth was open over a wordless cry as you clung to all you could, holding his gaze with the will of one desperate for salvation, your breathless whisper of his name the last conscious sound you made before you collapsed against his chest, your body humming with ecstasy. He shuddered beneath you, thrusting through his high, his hands smoothing over the curve of your spine before he stilled within you, his head tipping backwards. You lifted your face from his shoulder, resting your forehead against his, catching your breath together, your fingers tracing the lines of his cheekbones. He smiled, breathless with love, his hands cradling your cheeks to bring your lips to his, punctuating the night with the sweetness of a kiss.

He held you as you both collapsed to the sheets, your legs tangled blissfully, your cheek resting on the firm muscle of his chest. He reached blindly for his bed sheets, covering what he could of your body before resting fully against the pillows. You traced the lines of his chest, your heart calming as your breath regained stability. Jasper’s fingers toyed absentmindedly with strands of your hair, his quiet breathing lulling you to sleep, your bodies melted together as evidence of your devotion, safe in the comfort of his loving arms.

anonymous asked:

here's a prompt where instead of neil getting hurt in a game, it's andrew

this turned into fluff????? mark this down on the calendar, guys, because I never turn angst into fluff at least not like this

Neil isn’t on the court when it happens, so he sees every second. It’s not the first time a team got it in their heads that the way to win the game was to sacrifice a striker in order to take down Andrew. But it’s the first time they’ve decided to sacrifice two strikers and a defensive dealer.

Andrew gets the ball out of the goal and then braces for the impact of the striker. If it had ended there, Andrew would have been fine, brick house that he is. But the other striker, in a blatant foul, rams into Andrew as well, and then the fucking defensive dealer piles on as well. Whistles blow and the buzzer goes off, calling the game to a halt as red cards are thrown and the referees make their way onto the field.

Neil is on his feet and running without remembering to tell his body to move. Wymack and the referees try to stop him, but Neil ducks and shoves past them. The other players are already on their feet, but Andrew is still on his back, racquet laying a foot from his extended hand. 

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without really meaning it

The Way You Said “I Love You” Prompts
@stileslydiah requested “24. Without really meaning it”

Watching Derek dote on someone is hard – harder than Stiles thought it would ever be, despite the fact he knows it’s insincere; despite the fact it’s the job and nothing more.

 It’s hard because Stiles hasn’t had those arms around him in months, hasn’t had opportunity to arrange a chance meeting on a crowded street in weeks, hasn’t had Derek’s eyes meet his and watched his mouth curl into a smile for him.

 Derek’s team have been fairly indulgent, letting Stiles tag along on the assignment to observe and allowing him to blend with various crowds just to be close to Derek. Early on, before Derek insinuated himself into their mark’s life, they even allowed them to talk on the phone, but that might as well have been in another lifetime.

 Sometimes, Stiles hates his job, hates Derek’s job, hates the fact they’d never have met if it wasn’t for their jobs because then he can’t hate it as much.

 Stiles is across the restaurant and he can’t tear his eyes away from the back of Derek’s head for more than a few seconds at a time, usually at the prompting of the agent he’s sitting across from.

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BS “medical” tropes to stop using TODAY, 1/?

You’ve seen them. I’ve seen them. The story is going along so well. The character is critically wounded in a dramatic fight; they’re ‘rushed to the hospital’ (more on that later). Drama roils! Will they live? Will they die?

And then… And then the writer (screenwriters, I’m looking at you, too) pulls one of these tired, inaccurate tropes out from under the couch cushions, and you roll your eyes. They’ve Done the Dumb, again. You swear. kick your coffee table. How do they write such crap? Crap like…

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Let Me Help

Originally posted by koenigreus

Pairing: Peter Parker x Reader

Warnings: Mentions of blood, sort of angsty lol

Request: “Peter x Reader with “Your reckless impulses will get you killed!” And “You’re an idiot and i’m very proud of you. don’t do that again.” and  Peter Parker x Reader with “You idiot! You dumbass! You- you fucking moron!” And "There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you.” Angst to fluff, please? Thank you!”

A/N: I combined two requests, I hope that’s okay!


He had told you he was going to be gone for quite a while that night. You decided to wait up in your room, knowing very well that it could be late in the night before he contacted you. But it had gone later than ever.

You rolled over in your bed to check your phone, the screen lighting up your worried expression in the darkness. No texts, no missed calls. The bold white numbers at the top read 1:05. The lock screen picture of you and Peter laughing together just made your heart hurt even more. Where was he?

You jumped when a loud knock on your window broke the pressing silence. You leaped out of bed, wondering what it was. Had a bird hit your window somehow in the middle of the night?

“Oh my god,” the words left your lips in a rush of air. “Peter.”

The boy was on his knees up on the fire escape outside your window, his left hand clutching his right shoulder. His mask was in his other hand. His face was a mess of blood and dirt.

You hurried forward, pulling up your window. You helped him through, keeping a steady hand on his uninjured shoulder.

“Why are you here? What happened?” You whispered, not wanting to alert your parents.

“I tried to stop this guy,” Peter said, his words pushed out through clenched teeth. “He was one of the men left over from the underground alien weapons operation. He still had one of the weapons.”

“What-” you sat him down on your bed, struggling to understand what was going on. You tried to move his hand from his shoulder, but he resisted you.

“Peter, please,” you said, looking him right in the eyes. “I can help you, I know first aid.”

“I don’t-” he didn’t finish the sentence, his eyes seeming to fracture into a million pieces.

“You don’t what?” you asked.

“I don’t want you to have to worry about me,” he said, his eyes flicking away from yours.

You sighed. “Then why did you come to my apartment, not yours?”

Peter shook his head. “May can’t see me like this, and you’re the only person I knew could help me.”

“Then let me help.”

Peter let his hand drop. Your stomach turned over at the sight of the grisly wound in his shoulder. His suit was soaked with blood.

“The weapon hit me there,” Peter said, his voice rasping.

“I can see that.” You struggled to stay calm. “Hold on, I’m going to get some bandages from the hall closet. Don’t move.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Peter murmured.

You straightened up, turned to ease the door to your room open. You winced with every squeak of the hinges, expecting someone to come down the hall and see you and a very bloody Spider-Man at any moment. You took the first-aid kit from the hall from atop a stack of blankets. You found a couple heavier-duty bandages pushed against the side behind some books.

You padded back to your room, closing your door behind you. Peter sat on your bed with the worst look of pain on his face. You knelt down in front of him.

“Can you talk off your suit?”

Peter nodded, loosening it first then sliding the smooth material off his shoulders. You sucked in air through your teeth, reaching for one of the towels you brought.

“Hold this against your shoulder, it’s the best I could find,” you instructed. Peter did as you told him.

“God,” you muttered, seeing the scratches on his chest and face. One of his eyes had swelled up. “Your reckless impulses will get you killed, Peter.”

“I just wanted to stop him,” Peter said, getting defensive.

You bit your lip, holding back more berating words and the tears that stung your eyes. You took the towel from him, cleaning up the most blood you could before wrapping a bandage around it.

“This is the best I can do for tonight,” you said, your voice trembling despite your resolve not to show the turmoil inside of you.

“It’s okay,” Peter said. “This is more than enough.”

You moved to the scratches on his chest. “You’re gonna need stitches tomorrow, there’s no way around it.”

“I can’t, then May will know-”

“Then go to Tony Stark! Go somewhere! Find a spool of thread and a needle and freaking do it yourself!” you spat. “You can’t let these go untreated, Peter!”

Peter stayed silent as you cleaned away some of the dried blood, not sure what to say. One of his hands was fisted in your blankets from pain. He closed his eyes, unsure whether it was body or his heart that hurt more. He hated to see you so worried. He hated that he was Spider-Man right at this moment. He hated that he had a duty to do, a duty that hurt himself and everyone else around him.

“You’re an idiot,” you muttered, reaching for some more bandages. “You dumbass. You- you fucking moron! Why would you put yourself in so much danger?”

“It’s my job,” Peter said,

“No, your job is to be the ‘friendly neighborhood Spider-Man’, the one that goes after petty thieves and helps old ladies find their way around. You’re not supposed to hunt down war criminals!” You felt a tear drip onto your cheek.

“I know,” Peter said. He looked down at his heavily bandages torso, at you struggling to keep your hands steady. “I’m sorry I haven’t been around so much.”

“It’s okay,” you said tightly, knowing that the anger you felt wasn’t justified. It was born of fear and, though you didn’t want to admit it, jealousy.

You turned, putting everything back into the box. Your fingers shook so badly, you could barely hold onto a box of Band-Aids. Tears blurred your vision.

“Stop. Y/N,” Peter reached forward, taking your hands. You were forced to look at him.

“I’m sorry,” you said, trying to pull away. Instead, Peter stood up, despite his wounds, and hugged you tightly to his chest. You could feel his own hands trembling on your back. You were reminded that he had a much bigger job than you, and he did it damn well despite coming back with a black eye almost every time.

“You’re an idiot and I’m very proud of you. Don’t do that again,” you whispered.

“I’ll be careful,” Peter promised. “There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you.”

“I know.”

The two of you stayed there for a moment before Peter pulled away, wincing. “I don’t suppose you have any pain meds?”

“Oh, yeah,” you said, leaning down to rifle through the First-Aid kit. You found the bottle of Ibuprofen holding it out to him. He took a pill gratefully, sighing.

“Thank you,” he said. “I should probably go.”

“There’s no way you’ll make it back to your apartment,” you said. “Stay with me tonight, we can call May tomorrow.”

Peter nodded after a moment. He slid into your bed behind you, pulling you into his chest. Though neither of you said it very much, you were grateful for each other.

Peter held onto you like you were his rock in the middle of a roiling sea, his head pushed into your neck. You sighed, knowing that whatever Peter had to face, he could handle it.

And so could you.

2

history: cleopatra vii

her story resonates, too, because of what she represented in such a male-dominated society. in an era when egypt was roiled by internal and external battles, cleopatra held the country together and proved to be as powerful a leader as any of her male counterparts. (insp)

Melted

AN: You should be warned…this fic is almost 6,000 words of Nessian. Most of that is smut. NSFW. This is the longest single fanfiction I have written on this site. This turned out to be so much more fun than I thought it was, and I totally ended up loving them and exploring who they are the dynamic between them. They are very new characters for me to be writing and I haven’t uite gotten the hang of them yet but…holy cow. This was fun. This was inspired by @blogtealdeal ’s post which you can find here. This is also dedicated to the other two thirds of the Night Court Queens, @illyriantremors and @kitashiwrites . Also, yes, you can have your virginity taken and feel no pain. Ask my roommate ;) Also this fic doesn’t 100% make sense with the timeline: just pretend. <3 And enjoy!

Nesta was thoroughly unimpressed.

First she’d been angry. Furious. Livid. Seeing Elain break down in the corner of the cabin they were essentially being held captive in had made her blood boil. Literally. The first time Elain had broken down and cried, Nesta had accidentally charred the edges of her own dress, the chiffon smoking beneath her fingertips.

Curse her Fae body.

Curse the Cauldron.

Curse the Mother for letting this happen to her. For letting this happen to Elain.

For letting this happen to Feyre.

A small part of her wanted to blame her youngest sister for all of this. A small voice in her head still whispered If she and her High Lord hadn’t come slinking around and used us to get to the mortal queens, none of this would have happened.

But with that voice spoke another in answer, one that she’d ignored for too long. One that she couldn’t ignore any longer.

If you’d taken some of the responsibility for feeding your younger sisters, Feyre would never have entered Prythian in the first place.

And now…now that she had to control her anger so she didn’t accidentally burn the place down, now that she and Elain were stuck in this melty, drippy world that promised spring, now that the terror of becoming Fae had worn off…

She was unimpressed.

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