that make them fight every second of every day to

anonymous asked:

Happy prompt: war is over, mon el is yeeted back to wherever the fuck, sanvers go on vacation

After weeks of rebuilding National City, of burying the rubble of the past year while picking up their pieces of their home and defending their decisions all the way up to the Oval Office, Maggie and Alex were both forced to take some overdue leave by their superiors. And, as it turns out, Maggie was right, during that thing with Malvern. They did disagree on their first vacation. Maggie wanted snow, the one thing she actually missed from bumfuck, Nebraska. Where they were going to find snow this time of year on the combined budgets of a cop and a fed were anyone’s guess, a fact which Alex, who hated snow, was quick to point out.

Maggie was only half kidding when she asked about the Fortress of Solitude, because snow and alien tech?

“There’s no central heating, Mags,” Alex says, and that is the end to that, because honestly, who wants to go on vacation with their smoking hot girlfriend where no one can take their clothes off without losing a tit to frostbite?

Hawaii is Alex’s suggestion. Or really, they could save money and stick close to home, get a rental near Midvale and mooch food off her mother. She wants the sun, and the sand, and the waves. She wants to face down her fear of water in a place with no walls, no pipes, and no drains.

Maggie, quite frankly, cannot handle the thought of Alex panicking in the waves, out where Maggie isn’t a strong enough swimmer to reach her. It’s hard enough every morning, watching Alex struggle with the fastest showers known to man, the giant puddles from the shower door they removed the day she came home.

They compromise. Disney World, because at least it’s a ten minute trip for the overprotective Space Dad and alien sister rather than the thirty-five seconds it would take them to get to Disneyland because Alex screamed too loud.

Alex blushes hard when Maggie uses that argument. But she relents, letting Maggie plan their vacation on the condition that they spring for business class because Maggie might be short but Alex has legs, thank you.

Maggie may have forgotten to mention that she planned their trip to coincide with Orlando’s Gay Days. That she splurged on tickets for all the Disney parks but not Sea World, because between the glass walls of the attractions and a now distant rant about the ratio of pool to orca, she felt that might be pushing it.

Instead, she leaves the first day open for an exploration of the city and the events. She watches Alex’s wonder at the Gay Days Expo, her eyes taking in all of the facets of the culture she was still, slowly, immersing herself in.

(Maggie sees Alex’s eyes linger on the Leather/Fetish expo and makes a note to bring her back when they’re done exploring the more family friendly events of the week.)

They splurge even more on Fast Passes for every day they visit the Holy House of Mouse, riding every ride and buying the photos of them on Space Mountain even though Alex complained the entire time that her legs were jammed up against the seat in front of her.

They send photos to Kara and the Space Fam them with Stitch and Mickey and every other character they can find. Alex fights Gaston for Maggie’s honor with a foam sword for a 30 second video that Maggie plans to save for their wedding reception. There’s a photo of them in matching mouse ears that’s going straight for the fridge when they get home.

At night, Maggie laughs at the realization that, as much as she felt bad in the moment for calling her out, Alex really was a hopeless lesbian. Every number she got while Maggie was off at the bar getting more drinks was either a new “friend” offering to “teach her” or some professional wanting to “network” with an FBI agent.

Maggie may have collected all the napkins and business cards and trashed them at the end of the night. Alex may have noticed, but she didn’t say anything, preferring to show Maggie how much she loved her and how grateful she was they survived.

They may have woken up later than intended every day because of it.

When they finally returned to National City, it was with a bag full of souvenirs (not all of them appropriate for the family dinner), photos, and stories of their adventures.

Kara and Winn make them promise to take them next time.

They walk through the door of Alex’s apartment before she remembers to make Maggie promise not to book it for Gay Days, because that fetish expo is one thing she refuses to explain to her alien sister.

Itchy Wings Make for Happy Angels

I just needed this happy moment because damn it my next post is going to be depressing as fuck, enjoy it while it lasts guys.
@saberghatz @angel-is-alive-i-promise @warrenworthingtoniiidefensesquad @ask-nightangel
***
I’m sure most of you know this, but: when a bird has new feathers coming in, they are itchy as HELL. And from my own experience I know that they love it when you dig your fingers down through their feathers to massage and itch at where their new ones are coming in.
So I have been thinking for a while now:
Would this apply to Warren?
(I bet you ten bucks it would)
So lets say Warren is pulled from that God awful crash site, taken to the mansion unconscious, and put in the medical branch of the school to heal.
And let’s also say that his metal wings perhaps did not survive, and were completely stripped from his back; leaving two giant lacerations for Hank to patch up and heal.
So now, a few days later after poor Warren wakes up and realizes his beloved God is gone and he is alone once more, let’s say that his wings start to poke through and grow. Hank is surprised, the team is shocked and happy, and Warren just rolls his eyes. ‘Yeah, nothing new guys.  Been there done that.’
But what Warren forgot is that itchy, dry, needy, almost whiny feeling his wings get and torment him with when any new feathers come back in.
One or two or three feathers is no big deal; they come in fast and have minimal itching and no irritated skin.
But when he’s growing a whole new wing?
God, it takes everything in poor Warren not to claw his own skin off. While the team giggles and laughs at the sight of Warren’s weird, chicken like wings, he just glares and ignores them. Locked up in the hospital room in isolation until he is ready to enter society again.
But now Warren’s feathers are coming in, and all hell breaks lose for him.
He wakes up in the middle of the night to cringe worthy itches that make his muscles tighten up when he relieves them. Now every few seconds he’s twitching at the feelings ruining up his wings, digging his nails into the pink new skin.
And it’s so EMBARRASSING.
The X Men visit Warren about every other day, making sure he hasn’t murdered Hank. And after just a few days, Warren has gotten it under control enough to hide it from them. He always has been able to keep it a secret in the cage fights and on the streets.
But eventually, it gets so bad he can’t help but dig into a few itches while someone is around. And while everyone knows feathers that are growing in, just look flat out UGLY, it’s even more embarrassing.
He starts off hiding hiding his wings completely, keeping those ugly quills that look like strange needles sticking out of his skin totally hidden. Tucked behind his back and away from unwanted visitors. And then the small vane grow in, making it more recognizable and slightly less weird. The primaries grow a little faster, while the secondaries take the longest.
Which leaves Warren, just a week later, with long, half full primaries that hang low and awkwardly, and little coverts that are white fluffy specks among the hideous quills. Right now they are almost wings. Big and folded, but still semi-bare.
In simple term:
They’re still ugly.
No one’s allowed to see them.
Which makes the fact that this is the time when they are so damn ITCHY and needy a little bit difficult to deal with.
It’s a night when the team has invited Warren along for movie night since he was released from bed rest and officially a member of the school. He agrees, feeling rather lonely and tired of himself, and joins them that night in the living room for a movie marathon.
He made sure to itch his stupid growing wings all day, hoping to satisfy them enough and rub his skin so raw he wouldn’t have to think twice about them tonight. There is no hiding them now, they are too big and everyone will just have to put up with the temporary uglyness.
So as Warren is sitting on the couch, plastered between Ororo and Kurt, and the itching starts up TWICE as bad, he panics.
God, it burns and makes him want to jump up and run his body all over the gross rug on the floor. But he sits still, holding his ground and flexing the muscles to try to dull it.
But it doesn’t go away, and the itching of feathers pushing through skin becomes too much for Warren.
'Fuck it,’ he thinks, and sits forward a little to dig his nails into where his radius is and the feathers are growing slow. He digs away, itching hard and frowning at himself when he’s done.
So it’s fine now. Good.  No one noticed, it’s fine. Only- it’s back again. As soon as Warren’s hand leaves his wing.
He now begins to realize his plan today of 'itch itch away and be fine tonight’ has utterly failed; only succeeding in firing his wings up even more.
They NEED fingers digging at them. They NEED that relief. Right now, they say.
'Move the quills,’ they cry to Warren. 'Dig through the feathers, itch the skin, coax these stupid quills into moving along faster, sooth your stupid irritated skin and help them grow Warren. Rub each one, pull on them, make them stop hurting,’ They practically scream to him.
“Dude, are you ok?”
It’s Scott who breaks Warrens thoughts and conversation with his dumb wings, and he looks up to see everyone’s eyes on him.
“Uh, yeah. Why?” He furrows his eyebrows. Don’t let them see it.
'Show them Warren,’ his wings cry to him again before Scott answers. 'Show them so they can pity us and run their hands through the quills and itch them and relieve them, all those hands, all on us at once. Help us Warren, tell them, let them massage and coax those feathers into growing quicker,’
Warren nearly pisses himself at the thought.
“You’re bouncing your foot faster than Peter and gripping your wings…” He’s brought back once again by Scott’s worried voice.
“Oh,” he turns to see each of his hands have a death grip on his wings where the quills are short, and he snorts as he let’s them go. “I’m fine, don’t worry.”
But the team wouldn’t believe it that easily, and it’s Kurt who speaks up.
“I vonce read zat birds like it ven you itch and massage their new feazers coming in!” He smiled those pointed fangs at him.
Of fucking course.
“Does that apply to you?” Ororo sits back to ask him and smiles.
“No!” Warren scowls and shifts in his seat. “Of course not, I’m not a damn bird!” But tonight is not his night, and he must really be desperate if they can read him this well.
“Come on! Do they itch? We won’t judge-” Ororo sticks her hand out and before Warren knows it she’s itching at that tight skin between the many quills and small vane.
And Warren just fucking moans out.
He stiffens and bends towards her, his bigger feathers standing on edge and he closes his eyes tight, opening his mouth a bit.
“THEY DO! I KNEW IT!”
He’s not sure who said it, because he’s too lost on the feeling of multiple hands itching their own spots on his giant, desperate wings. They giggle and joke to themselves, asking Warren, 'Where’s it the worst?’ And 'Does it feel good?’ To which he would all reply with a quiet moan and push his wing into the hand, earing a laugh from whoever it is.
“This is so cool-’ Ororo would laugh at the sight of her team mate now sprawled out across their laps, drooling away on her pants.
They would forget the movie and massage and itch and just dig away at Warren’s beginner feathers until each one has had its fair amount of being pulled and played with. And Warren would scream inside for them to stop it, he’s not this weak, he can itch his wings himself damn it! But oh, this just feels so GOOD, and why hadn’t he just let this happen sooner!?
And let’s just say, that about a good two hours into this Disabling Warren Marathon, they look down to see Warren still biting his lip and arching his back into their now nearly numb fingers.
"It was that bad?” Peter would ask and smirk, working on the primary bases which Warren is so thankful for, and the Angel nods.
“Damn. Warren, you could have just told us,” Jean smiles as she says down to him.
Warren would just simply hum, too content and overly stimulated into relaxation and pleasure to even consider forming words.
“This is definitely a thing now,” Peter would say to his team mates,and as much as Warren wants to growl and say 'Don’t even think about it punk,’ he knows his wings have taken over and his body is theirs as they lean into the rough touches of his new friends.
***

i know things may be tough right now and you’re probably wondering why you’ve even hung on for this long, but here’s the truth. you’ve hung on because you’ve seen a little bit of goodness in every single day and that makes you brave. you are brave. you have a place in this world and its a spot no one else could fill so don’t even think for a second that you are worthless. so right now? breathe. just breathe and remind yourself that you are here. you are alive. your heart is beating solely for you. to keep YOU alive. you have things inside of you that fight every single day to keep you alive, so what’s the point of killing them and shutting them down when all they want to do is see you fight for them too?? it’s the same w the people who love you. you are loved and people would do anything for you. i promise. i know maybe your parents suck, but they love you and if you think they don’t? that’s okay. friends can be family too. whoever it is, wherever they are, people love you. so hang on for them okay? you’ve got a lot of light left in you, don’t shut it all out just because of one power outage. the light will always come back on, just give it some time. give yourself some time. you’re doing great.

Cabin Fever | Rivamika Fanfic [Ch1]

Fandom: Shingeki no Kyojin/Attack on Titan

Pairing: Levi/Mikasa

Word count: 7512

Rating: M (for when the smut comes)

Summary: Kaney Ackerman is placed under house-arrest and only Levi and Mikasa are suited for guard-duty. They set up a temporary base at an isolated cabin in the mountains, but a sudden storm brews and they get snowed in. Once the cold starts kicking in, it’s only logical to huddle your body heat together to avoid frost bite, but that’s when Levi and Mikasa both realize they’re experiencing more than just cabin fever.

Read on: AO3 | FF.Net or under the read more. 

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Breaking News

Hi! i have written a thing! also, THANKS SO MUCH TO professor-maka AND amberlehcar! PROMA IS THE BEST, SHE CORRECTED EVERY DAMN MISTAKE I MADE! AND AMBER GAVE IT SOME READ THROUGHS!! THANK YOU BOTH!!! Seriously man, I am super proud of this, thanks!  So, I hope you enjoy!

You can also read it here

Summary: Wesley Evans stared at the television, enthralled. The television was currently covering the Battle of the Moon. It was interesting, Wes noted, but only mildly interesting. Or at least he thought so until it was his brother’s face was on the screen.

Breaking News

Wesley Evans stared at the television, enthralled. He was in his evening class on current events at the university (a high class individual like him must know what’s going on in the world) and the television was currently covering the Battle of the Moon. It was interesting, Wes noted, but other than the fact it was a fight to create the new ruler of the world, Wes didn’t really care all that much; rulers came and went, it would not affect him to directly.

That was until one of the Death Weapons was interviewed. The Death Weapon was a stern women with black hair and glasses. Wes didn’t catch her name but what he did catch was that the the only people who remained on the moon other than a pack of children were one death scythe and some of the intelligence division, who could not partake in the aerial battle.

Children. Kids who were about his brother’s age, kids way too young to be carrying the fate of the world. But they were.

Wes’s focus was drawn out of his thoughts to the television once again when he saw the faces of the kids on the screen.

A blue haired boy, a black haired girl, a boy with stripes in his hair, blonde haired sisters and names to accompany them. Wes felt sorry for them, but they were just faces and names; they meant little to him.The last picture caught Wes’s attention though. The picture held two teenagers, a boy and a girl. The girl had dirty blonde hair and green, green eyes; she looked 15 or 16. It was  the boy next to her made Wes freeze though, his heart in his throat. It was his brother, the boy standing with his arm around the girl. He was taller now, his white hair styled into effortless spikes, his red eyes warm with a light he had never seen at home. Death scythe Soul Eater and his Meister, Maka Albarn. Both 15. Too young for this.

Wes missed Soul. A lot. He had not spoken or seen him in such a long time, over five years.  His letters had been returned and his phone calls left unanswered. He remembered when his little brother was just a young child, all those many years ago, Soul was always getting hurt over trying to keep up with Wes and his friends; climbing trees with them, biking too fast with them, playing sports with them because Soul could not make any friends his age; they were all scared of him. He always teared up when he got hurt but tried to play it off, to be cool; it was only when Soul was alone with Wes that he cried. Wes knew it was his brother’s insecurity that chased him away from the soft life of a musician to the violent life of a DWMA student. But here he was, Soul, his younger fragile brother on the Moon, fighting for his life and the fate of the world.

The woman on television was worried but she hid it well, her expression neutral and her posture straight. If Wes was not as skilled with people as he was he would never have attributed the steel in her spine and her tightly folded hands to worry.

But he was, so he did.

The interview went on. Wes was now very interested in the topic and he really wanted to hear about the status of the kids on the moon. Were any hurt? Were any (please no) dead? The news did not have what he wanted to hear;  he wanted to hear that the kids were ok.

Class was over too soon. The program had not yet ended and Wes wanted to know what was happening. He rushed to the car that was waiting to take him home and turned on the in car television, halting any conversation the chauffeur could have tried to have with him. Wes watched as the women was replaced with a soldier who had been on the the moon, only to be removed after the immortal werewolf Free and the witch Mabaa had extracted all the soldiers, leaving only the children and four adults, along with many, many enemies. The soldier spoke of the bravery of the young heroes of the DWMA and never called them children. They were not supposed to be on the moon; they had been searching the world for the child with black blood when their target had gone to the moon, pulling them into the fray.

The soldier explained that the heroes were all prepared to die in this fight, that all members of the DWMA were. The anchor appeared shocked at this answer -those heroes were still children, much too young to die. The soldier disagreed.

At this the anchor looked shocked, even horrified. Wes felt the same- these kids were far too young for such a preparation. The soldier, feeling the general unrest of the audience, explained.

The sisters raised themselves in the streets of New York, their mother having abandoned them before the young death god with the stripes in his hair had taken them in. Ever since then they had been on many dangerous missions; they were seasoned and competent despite being so young.

The blue haired boy was a descendant of the infamous Star clan, one of the lone survivors. The girl was a descendant of the first human weapon. Together, they were assassins, shadows in the night, the dark sky and the scentless flower.



The girl and his brother were strong as well. Soul was now at the at the level of a Death Scythe, as Wes had heard from the many newspapers that had covered the event (Wes was more than a little hurt that Soul had not told him in person or at the very least over the phone). The pair had gathered the necessary number of souls twice, a great feat for ones so young. The girl was the daughter of a three star Meister and a Death Scythe, the current weapon of Lord Death. She herself was a three star Meister, she and the other two star meisters having received and emergency promotion while on the battlefield in case they didn’t make it back. This precaution made Wes’s eyes burn with concealed tears; her weapon was a death scythe, and if having that title was any indication, they were strong. Soul was his brother, they would make it back.

Wes always knew that his little brother would be great at something, even when he showed no particular genius with conventional music -Soul was still very skilled with his own dark style, being one of the best young musicians in the world- classical music and dinner parties just weren’t his style. Regardless, Wes knew he would find a path that suited him. When he found out Soul had weapon blood, he thought this was the perfect opportunity for Soul to grow and learn something new he could excel at, something no one in their family had done before, something no one would dare look down on him for as second best.

But he was still too young for this fight, in Wes’s opinion. Much too young.

When Wes arrived home, he shot out of the car and ran into his family’s mansion, leaving his bag in the car and almost pushing over a maid. He rushed in to the main living room. There his mother and father sat, riveted to the same interview he had been watching in the car. His mother had a tissue to her face and sniffed softly into it while his father had his arm around her. Wes was not surprised that they were watching; yes they were upset that Soul was not following the family tradition of becoming a musician but they still loved him.

His mother had every article of news about Soul and his lovely young meister (her words, not his) printed out and placed in a scrapbook, which was often dragged out to show off to company (willing or otherwise). It was most often brought out around people who mocked Soul, saying he was not a good musician, that he would not amount to anything or something similar to that. Their mother would then drag out the large scrapbook and show the offender every single article from all over the world, in every imaginable language, about Soul.

They had received only two phone calls regarding Soul during his time at the academy.The first was from a doctor who told him that Soul was hurt- he had gotten into a fight with the demon sword Ragnarok and his meister. The demon sword was too strong for them, only being a one star pair at the time, and had almost killed Soul. They were told he was in the ICU but would most likely make it. His mother had cried for days before they received the second phone call while his father upheld a mask of stoicism.

If Wes was being completely honest, they were all dreading the second phone call or a knock on the door, the one that would tell them that Soul had died in action. The one so many parents of DWMA students received.

But this phone call or visit never came. A different phone call did.

This one was from a young girl, probably about Soul’s age, they later found out that she was Soul’s meister. She told them that Soul was alright, his operation had been a success, that he would be ok. The girl had apologised, over and over and over, had said it was all her fault, how she was so, SO sorry.

Wes’s mother hardly ever lost her temper, but she did then.

She had yelled at the girl, told her that her son wasn’t stupid, that he knew exactly what he was doing and that he wouldn’t like her blaming her self over this, not in a million years. He was not a weak boy, he could protect himself and if he chose to protect her over himself then she must mean a lot to him and that she should stop moping and apologizing and get on with her life.

The girl seemed a lot happier then. She thanked his Mother many times before hanging up the phone. His mother, from that time forward, had seemed a lot more comfortable with Soul going out on dangerous missions if that darling young girl would be there with him (his mother had taken to calling them Soma, a ridiculous combination of their names, Wes thought she shipped them or something strange like that).

Wes was pulled from his memories only to notice the interview was ending now. The Death City News station promised to share anything new they learned about the Battle of the Moon. His mother got up, followed by his father to go to the grand dinning room to eat their dinner. Wes refused to leave the couch. He stayed seated in the pale blue armchair that matched the rest of the room, that almost matched his and their mother’s eyes.

The news had no new information for hours, yet Wes refused to leave his spot on the couch, his fear and anxiety continuing to gnaw at him as he awaited for word, any word, of his long lost little brother. Was Soul ok? Was Soul alive? Were Soul’s friends ok? Were they alive?



———————-

It was at 5 in the morning that there was news about the Battle. The moon and the enemy had been sealed in a sphere of black, the heroes  barely escaping.They had all made it!

Wes yelled with delight as Mother and Father rushed down the stairs, tears in their eyes not for the first time that day. They watched together as the heroes were reunited with the people on the ground.  The weapons became people, supporting their heavily injured Meisters as they all moved forward and embraced their family and friends, some near collapse. The blue haired boy had a broken spine as well as having fractured various other bones, and his face was almost swollen shut. Soul’s Meister was being supported by him, a six inch stab wound outlined in blood on her shirt, the skin of her stomach behind it curiously scarred but otherwise clear. The young death god’s stripes went all the way around his head now and he was as bruised and bloody as the other two. The weapons fared better than their Meisters but not by much; they were bruised and scratched, but they were smiling.

They were happy and proud, Wes realized, as the group from the moon stood together smiling, hugging each other (it did not escape his notice that Soul held his Meister tighter and longer then any of the others, and if the happy noise his mother made was any indication, she noticed too. It was good Soul finally had someone he cared about).



Wes was relieved. Soul was ok. Soul was alive. Soul had friends.

Soul was a hero.

Next to that, what good was a musician?

Sacrifice (CS fic) (1/1)

Based on speculation and this post/prompt by museelo. Hook sacrificed a lot during his quest to save Emma, and she was never supposed to know how much. 

A for Angst and F for feels.

She’s been making jokes all day about how many adventures he had without her in the year they were apart, and he knows she doesn’t mean anything by it - she’s trying to keep the mood light as they search endlessly for an unknown enemy - but it still stings.

She has no idea.

He wants it that way, as well. He doesn’t want her to know that he spent the better part of an entire year grieving for her, because while he’s certain there is something between them that she is willing to acknowledge, she has never said what she feels for him. He doesn’t want her to know how much he has given up for her, not when she is already dealing with so many other things. No, it’s better this way. It’s better this way, even if he has to hide away his pain in the meantime.

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AN: Blame Guggie and his script release for this mess.


Always…

An orange flame flickered in the fireplace warming the room with its glow, the iridescent light dancing across the walls, reaching for every dark crevice. Where it failed two bodies succeeded, pressed into one another, each their own personal sun.

“I don’t know what I’d become were anything to ever happen to you,” the man who’d been through hell, every kind of loss, pain and torture imaginable confessed. As if he’d slip back into the darkness, where it would consume him. The woman who believed in him knew better of course. If the unthinkable happened he could go on, continue being the hero she’d always knew he could be. Because now he had a reason to live, to be happy. It was only partly her. He had found the light, because it was always inside of him, waiting to be released from it’s prison all along.

That however didn’t stop her from reassuring him.    

“Hey….” Felicity placed her palm on his cheek, her thumb rubbing across his jaw. The familiar, comforting scratch of his stubble against her fingertips doing just as much for her as for him. “You’re not going to lose me.”

As soon as her words sunk in Oliver’s arm banded across her back, his fingers gripping her hip, sapphire blue eyes boring into hers. Those seven syllables were uttered a little over two years before in reverse and though they hadn’t been a lie then neither were they a guarantee. It hadn’t stopped them from suffering. 

“Promise me?”

Words breathed, furious and gruff like a prayer and demand wrapped into one. A question she couldn’t possible answer, not truthfully, a promise she could never make. He knew that, so did she.

But she could see it in his eyes, how much he needed to hear her say it. How he would never wake up or go to sleep alone, that she would always be there to have his back, support him, love him, build a life, a home, a family with him. To grow old, embracing the inevitability of death to live. Pledging that even when their eyes failed they’d still drink each other in, and when their arms were too weak that it wouldn’t keep them from clinging to one another.

No, she couldn’t make that kind of promise. Because she was human, vulnerable. But there was something she could promise. That every second, minute, hour, day and year she had left would be spent loving him, building with him, growing with him.

Their love had always been the quiet kind, growing inside of them, under the surface, shown only in lingering gazes and small touches until they’d finally admitted to themselves and each other that their love, the thing that surpassed every emotion they’d ever felt had always been there and that it was more than worth fighting for. It was worth dying for.

So that’s why she reached up, her arms wrapping around his neck,her eyes looking deeply into his soul, holding nothing back as she returned his gaze, letting him see every truth that hid in her depths and when her lips were only a hairsbreadth away from his, she made her oath, the only one that was the unchangeable truth…

“Always.”

And just like when their lips connected, their bond was sealed. Untouchable by time or circumstance. Because always to them…meant eternity.  

This work is part of the ‘We Can Be Immortal’ short collection on ao3 and can be found here (X) 

*tags under the cut*

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666chula  asked:

Please shut your ignorant ass up please and thanks

Okay, what exactly were you hoping to accomplish with this?

Did you sincerely believe that I would suddenly “come to my senses”, drop to my knees, and apologize profusely for my alleged “sins”?  Did you think I would be intimidated into not voicing my opinions, or sharing factual information to substantiate those opinions?  Did you think calling someone an “ignorant ass” was going to make them reconsider their stances on anything? 

The thing is, I’m clearly not the one here that’s “ignorant”, considering that I provide sources for the information I present.  If you’re going to be angry with reality, then it isn’t my supposed “ignorance” that you should really be concerned with.  If this is in regards to my views on modern “feminism”, then you’re literally becoming angry at the fact that women in first-world nations are not actually “oppressed”, but are legitimately privileged over men.  Let’s repeat that:  You are ANGRY at having PRIVILEGE.  One has to wonder why it would anger anyone to learn that they are safer and hold more influence and power than they thought they did.  My guess is that admitting to this would deprive them of something to feel morally superior and “revolutionary” about.

If this is over my stances on LGBTA matters, then you’re trying to devalue the identity of someone that is inside the movement, which smacks of an individual that clearly isn’t interested in equal representation.

If this has anything to do with Cecil the lion, I’d like you to ask yourself why you apparently don’t think the lives of critically endangered animals matter.  Is it really so harmful to you as a human being that people care that an entire species is being wiped off the face of the planet?  Do you truly want to have to explain to a child what lions were, and why they’re no longer around?  What is the line of thinking here?  Black lives indeed matter–no one is denying this–but if you’re going to demand that they’re the ONLY thing that matters every second of every day, you’re essentially pissing on the suffering of others.  You’re telling them “What happens to you is not important.  People should not care about you”.  That’s not a “racist” statement, hon.  That’s just objectively pointing out that fighting racial hatred with equal levels of hatred is NEVER going to change anyone’s mind.  In fact, the only thing it’s likely to accomplish is to make the racist assholes of the world even more stubborn just to spite you.  The same way that modern “feminism” is losing support, it is detrimental to a movement to force an issue where it is not relevant.  Do you like seeing Minions merchandise everywhere at the grocery store?  Chances are, probably not.  When you have to look at it being shoved in your face no matter where you go, or what you’re doing, you tend to become dismissive or indifferent to it, even if you may have originally been supportive of it.  When you try to make everything a racial issue, YOU ARE LOWERING THE VALUE OF RACIAL ISSUES.  How?  You’re turning it into a fucking joke.  You’re cheapening a serious movement by throwing it on everything like fucking socio-political confetti.  You’re crying wolf, and making the villagers less likely to listen when the wolf comes picking at your flock.

What you’re also failing to realize is that poaching in general is not only not a racial issue, but is perpetrated BY AFRICAN PEOPLE, for ASIAN EXPORT.  Elephants, lions, tigers…these and many more animals continue to have parts of their bodies used as decoration, eaten as exotic delicacies for wealthy tastes, or used in traditional holistic Chinese medicine, despite the fact that modern science has disproven the supposed medicinal qualities of these tonics.  It is not American intervention that is the primary cause, nor is the United States the main consumer of illegal poaching, so to solely blame “the white man” for the current, extremely low populations of so many species of animal is actually, well…ignorant.

The next time you wish to lodge a complaint against another person, make sure that you’re not actually looking into a mirror when you choose to do so.