the girl whose on fire

“What’s your favourite type of character? The type you look up to? Or even the kind you wish to marry?”


Girls with stars in their eyes and dragon-fire in their bellies.
Girls with pained lives whose smiles outshines the Moon herself.
Girls whose laughter is like bubbles spilling out of their throats.
Girls who have exhaustion written on every feature but persist anyway.

Girls who are carved from marble having experienced too much to cry anymore.
Girls who form waterfalls and flood rooms with their tears.
Girls who go on adventures high on wanderlust, danger, and nature.
Girls who rather stay at home and don’t mess with any ‘hero’ prophecies outside of creating them in worlds of fiction.

Girls with gold and silver magic flowing molten hot through their veins.
Girls who love and live so freely they seem to turn into wind before your eyes
Girls who trust very little and have dulled locks on their lips that only few have the key for.
Girls who sing as smoothly as a siren’s call luring you willingly into their soothing, blanketing embrace

Girls who scream at the top of their lungs for what they believe in, voices resembling sonic shockwaves more than symphonies but beautiful in it’s discord nonetheless.

Girls who can barely raise their voices above a whisper, with storms full of lightning, wind, and thunder all brewing inside them that could level cities.

Girls who are beaten, bloody, and bruised but still spits hatred right back into life’s eye and laughs, keeping within them a kindness and empathy that flourishes through their rage.

Girls who are knocked to the ground and stay down, almost tragically beautiful in their spun-glass fragility, believing themselves to be beaten but still refusing to be shattered, with golden tears freely streaming down their battered cheeks and bruises resembling galaxies in their vastness - they are simply bidding their time until they can get up again, although some of them don’t know it yet.

“But I know girls like that, they aren’t just characters, girls are real.”
And that’s why they’re my favourite.


Girls Are My Favourite by Beq (me)

Friday Heathen prompt games

I love Do I Wanna Know from Artic Monkeys. Even though, the song is hot as hell, I choose to write a fluffy oneshot. The story takes place after almost a year of Ivar and Emer’s marriage. I hope my sister wives will like it. I love you all.

Tag: @heathen-army

Crawling Back To You

He fought with all his strength not to get back. His efforts proved useless. Ivar knew he was wrong as soon as the words left his mouth. He had hurt her. The pain in her eyes was unbearable. But to lose her would be worst. He could deal with Emer hating him, but to live without her was unthinkable. He would be hollow, no purpose beyond bring pain to others.

“I don’t want this child!”, he said those words with a certainty in his voice. But he knew that deep inside it was everything he had ever wanted. A boy with her eyes, those eyes that always made Ivar vulnerable. A girl whose hair was kissed by the fire as his beloved.

She didn’t cry, at least not in front of him. But she fought. As brave as Frigga to protect the little one inside her.

“I’ll not get rid of a blessing! Can’t you see how blessed we are? It’s a gift from God, from your Gods too. You’re selfish. And you’re offending me. This is our child, you should be proud of the life growing inside me.”

Ivar groaned in response, “Selfish? Am I selfish? You’re selfish. Can’t you see. What will I do if I lose you? This child might be as twisted as I am. It’s decided, you won’t have this baby. What makes you think your God would bless me?”

Emer replied, “If you don’t want our child, I’m leaving.”

This said, Emer prepared her departure. She was going to the farm he had given her as a morning gift.  It’s been a week since then. He waited for her to come back. But she could be as tenacious as him. It was painful not to have her warm and soft body against his chest in their bed. The sweet fragrance of her hair acting like balm against the aching in his bones during those nights in which his pain was excruciating. Her little hands holding his, while he embraced her by the waist.

The first gleam of morning rays flooding over her auburn hair, lighting every blade of grass, shining from each leaf in the fields. But the only green he cared about was the color of her sleepy eyes, looking at him every morning. She would open her eyes lazily, smiling in the process. Her hand going to his face, caressing his beard.

She could die giving birth, by a disease, of old age. They were fated to die. But they would live the days the norns have woven into their rope of destiny first. These thoughts in mind, he called Sigvard. Ivar would bring her back.



Emer felt so abandoned. When she noticed that she was not bleeding, the woman was overwhelmed with joy. They were going to be parents. Their love made in flesh. A girl or a boy with his dark hair, maybe even with those indigo blue eyes. Emer feared the baby would suffer from the same pain as Ivar. She would not lie she was terrified of bringing a life to this world only to suffer. She did not know how to bring the subject to Ivar. How was he going to react? Would he be delighted?

He only noticed the change in her appetite. Berries and apples were never enough. Ivar was always laughing while watching her eating so eagerly. Emer would raise her eyebrows in annoyance, struggling to words out of her full mouth. What only added to Ivar’s amusement. Her hunger for him increased too.

As soon as they were alone, she would push him onto the bed. Ivar would laugh with her impatience. Sometimes she would not even remove all their clothing. He never complained, loving watching her in charge. Their lovemaking has changed too. She was much more sensitive to his caresses than before, squirming with the slightest touch and becoming undone faster than usual, stiffening and moaning his name until her throat was dry. Then in the last weeks she was quieter than usual, avoiding his touch, going to bed before him. He could see she was worried about something. But whenever he inquired her, she would always give vague answers. He felt helpless, trying to help her without the knowledge of what was troubling her.

His answer came when in one night he held her by the waist, feeling a bulge that was uncommon. She tried to remove his hand in vain. It was how he discovered he was going to be a father.  


Her head was resting against the wooden tub, Astrid was caressing her already clean scalp. Emer felt so relaxed that was almost sleeping, her hand resting protectively on her growing belly. Astrid was not there anymore. Maybe little Ragnild needed her. She would finish her bath by herself.

When she felt a big hand against her stomach, she almost jumped from the water opening her eyes to find Ivar looking at her with devotion and regret. They said nothing, just kept staring deep into each other’s eyes. Ivar’s hands started caressing her belly that was hiding the life they were going to bring to the world. His eyes only leaving her face when Ivar felt a move against his fingers. He looked at Emer in confusion. She smiled at him, tears running down her cheeks. He could say they were not tears of sadness. Her hand covered his fingers and, this time together, they felt the life sparkling from inside her.


Trying her best to get control over her wobbly voice, Emer questioned him. “What are you doing here?”

Ivar lowered his head until their foreheads were touching and their eyes locked on one another, “I’ll always crawl back to you.”

Okay look, I know I all ready have multiple AUS going but someone’s gotta do it, and if no one else has or at least no one else that I’ve seen then I’ve gotta.


Eric Bittle - Cabin 10. Eric always knew he was adopted, but finding out he was son of the goddess of love and beauty Aphrodite was more than he bargained for. Suddenly he found himself moved from Georgia to New York and learning to sword fight for his own protection. Eric likes his new brothers and sisters, never having any back home, but he finds himself more at home at the Camp kitchens than anything. He may have bribed his way in with pie. He also can often be found by the main fire, sitting next to a pretty young girl whose name he doesn’t know, but he feels close to her anyway. He has plenty of new friends at Camp Half Blood, and if he can just survive his sword fighting sessions with a certain son of Hades, he might make it out alive. 

Jack Zimmermann - Cabin 13. Jack Zimmermann is currently the only known son of Hades. It is a hefty burden to bear, and the isolation of living alone doesn’t help much. His mother loves him very dearly, but had to send him off to Camp at a young age for his own safety. He’s been in the camp almost his entire life, and it’s not until Kent Parson shows up that anyone approaches him without shaking in fear. He and Kent eventually team up for quests, and are unstoppable duo, until they aren’t. It takes Jack a while to learn to trust again, and for a while he embraces the fear that comes with his cold presence and ability to speak to the dead. All of that begins to crumble when Shitty shows up, and ends up crashing to the ground when he’s forced to teach a hopeless son of Aphrodite how to sword fight.

The rest of the team below the cut.

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If I could,
I would turn girls into dragons.

Girls whose skin
has been stained by filthy hands,
girls who are forced
to face those familiar hands
day after day,

give them armor.

Girls who are told
that womanhood means duty,
who dig
and sweat
and carry
and labor,
girls who break their backs
on someone else’s burden,

give them spiked spines.

Girls trapped in cycles:
cycles of abuse
cycles they can’t even name,
down the drain
and thrown out with the bathwater,

give them claws.

who chomp down on fear
hiding behind their teeth,
who swallow it whole
because it’s the only nourishment they’ll get,

give them razor fangs.

who thirst for knowledge
in the middle of a drought,
girls whose minds
are considered as real as their suffering,

give them fire
to burst from their mouths
in place of the words that no one hears.

whose bodies are not their own;
who are meant for decoration
and cannot decorate themselves,
who are meant for pleasure
and cannot pleasure themselves,
who are meant to be examples
and cannot exemplify themselves,

give them wings
to fly far, far away,

taste freedom in the sky,
and see it for what it should be:
a right, not a privilege.

Every girl
who is considered a possession
or a prize
or a plaything,

who lives
confined by people
who call condescension “love”
and manipulation “compromise”
and fear “respect”
and silence “consent,”

give her eyes
that strike terror into the heart
of anyone who would call her weak.

Gift girls with dragonhood
when personhood is a myth.

—  Dragonhood by Sarah C.
Prejudiced, pt.2

PT.1 || PT. 3

**Summary: **Last night, you had a chat with Sirius while waiting to get snacks. Now, you’re cramming in the library for a defence against the dark arts exam you have coming up, but when you see the Marauders walk in, you just know it won’t be a quiet afternoon.

Pairing: Young!Sirius x Reader

Word Count: 1267

Originally posted by hesperydes

Your name: submit What is this?

You loved weekends at Hogwarts. It felt like it became an entirely different place when no one was rushing to class or wearing their robes. It also became a lot more peaceful, because most students slept in late after the parties on Friday nights, or went to Hogsmeade. This time of the year was one of your favorites; not quite the holidays just yet, but you could see from the library’s windows that a light snow was falling. It would probably have melted by tomorrow, but it was nice.

There was a decent amount of other students in the library, but most were studying alone so it was almost perfectly quiet, apart from the chairs rattling, the pages turning and the inevitable whispers. You were there to revise theory for your defence against the dark arts class; it was one of your favourites. You’d gotten your best O.W.L. score on it when you’d passed them.

You’d been studying for about an hour and a half when the big door of the library opened, and the noise that came with it made you look up from your textbook. Sure enough, the Marauders had just walked in, James laughing loudly with Sirius, while Remus tried to get them to quiet down by swatting their arms. You didn’t know the fourth one’s name, but he seemed to be laughing along. The one you knew most was Remus, actually, as you had had a few classes together over the years, and he’d always acted friendly with you.

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Supercat Week: Day Five

Supercat Week: Day Five – Soulmate AU.


Carter Grant’s Great Plan,

or, a supercat soulmate au in which Carter tries and sort-of-not-really-but-does fail to meddle.

Okay, so Carter had seen his mother’s soulmark. He wasn’t supposed to have seen it, obviously – soulmarks were private, up until the point they were actually said. The fact that he had seen it, of course, was a secret that everyone knew. A lot of children had seen their parents’ soulmarks, and it was kind of a secret, unsaid tradition that your children knew your soulmark.

But Cat Grant was notorious for not showing her soulmark, even in private – she’d talked about it once, on her show, and it invited many views. These days, celebrities’ soulmarks were well-known, the paparazzi getting paid a lot of money for good mark-shots. Carter’s mark had been photographed before, to his misfortune, but his was in a very easily-seen place, the black ivy and dark grey aster that would eventually fill with colour tracing around the left of his face, over his eyebrow. It was another reason for his dad to ignore him.

Every mark meant something. His mark being flowers just made it easier to discern. His dad’s mark was a flower too – an orange lily. Hatred.

His mother’s mark was on her stomach, just above her belly-button. It seemed that flowers were a thing on both sides of his family, because hers was a strange mix of symbols, twirling in a spiral of azalea petals in such a beautiful, realistic way that if it hadn’t been tattooed to his mother’s skin, he would have thought it real. He’d been fascinated with it for a long time, but his mother never let him see it again. Sometimes, he tried to remember what the symbols were like – he’d draw them idly on his skin when he was bored.

Like now.

“So do you, uh, want some juice, or something?” Kara questioned him awkwardly. Carter looked at the girl. She was trying, he could tell, but she wasn’t used to looking after kids, and obviously nervous.

“No, I’m good.” He went back to writing on his arm, only to jerk as Kara knocked over something on her desk. He looked up, staring, expecting her to curse, or something, tidy up maybe – but she had her eyes locked on his arm, on the writing. He glanced at it. “Can you read it?”

“How…that’s my name, nearly.” She looked confused. Carter blinked.

“Your name?” He peered at the symbols – so it was a language after all. “So it says Kara Danvers?”

“No, it’s a really badly spelled version of my real name.” Kara reached over, taking his wrist gently and staring at the symbols like they were the Holy Grail. “I haven’t- I haven’t seen my name written down like this in…a long time.”

Carter frowned at her. “Aren’t you American?” She paused, then shook her head, letting go of his arm. “What are you then?”

“Something else. I was adopted, after the last of my people died. Well, after nearly all my people died. I was separated from them.”

Carter twisted in his seat, “Were you from a tribe or something?” Kara’s lip quirked.

“No, not a tribe. More like a supremely advanced civilisation in hiding. Here.” She grabbed a notepad from her desk, and a pen, then – with an ease Carter had never seen before – she wrote out the symbols that were tattooed on his mother’s skin.

And that was when it clicked.

“Oh my god, you’re her.” Carter stared. “But you’ve already met!” Kara looked at him with a frown.


Carter moved his hands back and forth, trying not to attract too much attention from anyone surrounding them while he had his revelation, while also trying to explain to Kara without explaining that his mother had her name.

“Carter, you’re acting weird.”

“Where- where I saw this,” he put his hand on the notepad, eyes wide. “It’s important what I saw this on.” Everything about this was weird and strange – Kara was like, not even thirty! His mother was fifty, or fifty-one – he wasn’t quite sure, as they didn’t celebrate her birthday – and twenty years? Really? Carter had never seen a soulmate gap so big before. Five years, ten, even but twenty?

“Where did you see my name before, Carter?” Her eyes were wide behind her glasses, before they suddenly became disturbed. “Do- do you have that name?” It took a second to translate, before Carter shook his head sharply. Kara slumped in her seat, looking relieved.

“Good. That- if you had my name I’d never forgive myself.”

Things aren’t making sense. Carter pursed his lips. “Kara, how do soulmate marks work? For your people?” Kara looked at him with fearful eyes. “I won’t tell, I promise.” The way she talked about it – her people had to have different soulmarks.

It was the only idea he could think of, sue him.

Kara looked nervous. She fiddled with her glasses, before clasping her hands together.

“My, uh…my people, our soulmarks are names, that don’t come until we’ve, uh, made something for ourselves – found our place in society.”

Carter looked at her, appalled. “But that could take forever.”

Kara looked strained, “On my- in my civilisation, we were given a place, and usually soon after, our marks came in. On Earth- in National City, I mean, uh, in National City it’s harder, obviously, but I’ll get there – I’ll get my mark.”

“And what will it be like? Will it be a name? A picture?”

Kara flushed, “In my people’s society, it was a name, but…if they weren’t from our civilisation, it was a name, like in our culture, and something from there’s, so…a picture and a name, probably, unless they’re dead.” She looked sad, at that, and in pain. Carter looked down, remembering what she said before. After nearly all my people died. She probably felt so lonely – and to have not used her language in years must have been terrible.

“How long did it take you to learn English?”

“A few days – I already had the basics down. It was more the cultural and social aspects that confused me,” Kara explained. Carter nodded, thinking more on that.

“Teach me how to write in your language?”

Kara blinked, “You- you want to learn?”

“Yeah. And apparently-” Carter grinned “-I’ve been writing your name wrong. What’s your name then, anyway, if it’s not Kara Danvers?”

Kara smiled.

“Kara Zor-El.”


“The end of Working Girl always makes me cry.”

Cat smiled, “Me too.” She was going to leave, happy in leaving her former-assistant to herself – only for her eyes to stray to the girl’s cheek, where her skin was shimmering and colouring. “Kara – what’s that?” She frowned, stepping forwards quickly, reaching up to take her chin softly, pushing her cheek sideways to watch as a golden bouquet of daffodil started drawing itself on her face in a long line, curving from her forehead to her chin.

“Kara, why is-” she stopped, watching in fascination as Catherine Grant wrote itself onto her skin in tiny, black italic, edging the petal of the centre daffodil – small enough that from a distance it would look like a shadow. Dear God above.

“Ms Grant?”

“I think you should call me Cat,” the CEO muttered, before feeling an amazing warmth in her stomach, tracing her soulmark like a fine-haired paintbrush. Swallowing, she let go of her chin, stepping back and smiling tightly. “Get settled into your office.”

And then she did the cowardly thing and ran off.


Visiting Winn and James half an hour later, Kara was grinning as they stared at her in shock.

“I got promoted!” Neither of them reacted the way she thought they would. “Well? Isn’t that good?”

“Kara, look at your face,” Winn said in a serious tone. Kara frowned, before hearing a whisper that surprised her.

Since when did Kara have a soulmark on her face?

“A what?” She murmured, before looking in the glass of James’ office-wall, eyes blowing wide as she saw the faint reflection of her face. “Rao…it came in.” And there was a name on it.

“People are going to notice, Kara – they’ll think you’re a cradle-robber,” James warned. Kara blinked. Cradle-robber. Alex had called her that once, when she said her mark would come in once she got a proper job. “And what about Supergirl?”

“Uh…” oh that was problematic. And then, just to add to that, she heard a scream. “I’ve got to go.” The glass wasn’t good enough for her to see the name just yet, but she was meeting Carter at the library in a few hours for lessons in Kryptonese – he could tell her.

“Kara-” Winn started.

“I’ll put some foundation on,” she muttered to him, before speed-walking away, covertly grabbing Cynthia’s pale foundation as she did. I’ll get her a new bottle.


Supergirl saved a woman from being murdered by her boyfriend, put together two IKEA units – word had apparently gotten around – entertained a gaggle of girl-scouts whose leader had gone to the bathroom, put out a house-fire and stopped a man from committing suicide. And then Kara Danvers went to St Edmund’s Hall and signed in as a visitor to their library and sat down in wait for Carter, wiping away the remnants of the foundation over her newly-acquired soulmark, the fire earlier causing it to melt a little. Hopefully it wasn’t caught on camera.

“Hey Kara,” greeted Carter as he approached.

“Hey buddy,” Kara smiled at him, smiling only wider as he saw the mark on her face.

“You finally got it! And it’s like mine!” He scrambled to sit down beside her, reaching up to push her hair out of the way, staring at it. “And I was right – you are her soulmate.” Kara’s heart beat faster.


Carter nodded, “Yep. I like the daffodils, by the way – so do you get the colours right in, then?” Kara froze.

“Coloured? It’s coloured? Oh no. I’ve met her already! She’s probably wondering why I didn’t respond.”

Carter frowned, “Wait, were you alone when it came in, do you think?”

“I don’t know – though Ms Grant was acting a little weird after she promoted me- oh, oh. She- she must have seen it come in! Oh my god, how am I going to explain that?”


It turned out, she didn’t have to.

“You are a lying liar who lies,” Cat glared as Kara entered her office. “Tell me right now why I shouldn’t print proof that Supergirl has a soulmark identical to Kara Danvers’?” She dropped the pile of photos on the floor. Kara, paralysed, stared at them. “How did you even get a soulmark? I watched it form on your face. It isn’t supposed to do that – people are born with their soulmarks.”

“Not- not my people,” Kara whispered into the deathly silence. “We gain them after we find our place in the world. You- you promoted me. I got it because I found the stable point of my life.”

“What do you want me to do, Kara? I need you to tell me what you are going to do – is Supergirl going to ‘come out’ to the world? Is she going to hide her soulmark so her normal identity stays a secret? Give me direction, Kara, or so help me-”

“I have your name on my soulmark,” Kara blurted out. Cat froze. “I- I read it last night. I hadn’t looked in the mirror till then, and I saw it and I’m sorry and Carter said he saw my name on someone once and I think he meant you but he never told me and I’m just so sorry and-”

“Kara, shut up,” Cat growled, stalking forwards and lifting her silken shirt to show a tight, white band, which she lifted as well, to show Kara’s name, emblazoned over dark pink petals that floated on her stomach in a spiral, as if the wind had lifted them up and painted the picture onto her skin. “I know you have my name, and I’ve been reading over the things Carter’s been bringing home and leaving out for me on purpose. I know this is your name, but not just because he wrote it down – I was there when it came in, and when my mark became coloured.” She tugged the wrap and shirt down, pursing her lips together. “People are going to think you hid your mark because otherwise me promoting you would seem like favouritism. If you want to keep working for CatCo after this, you’ll need to fill it in.”

“You mean, c-cover it?” Kara said, startled by Cat’s honesty.


A tense silence filled the air, before Cat spoke again, shaking her head.

“Carter knew the entire time. No wonder he kept asking to see you again, for me to give you a promotion, to get you out from under my thumb into your own department…”

“Uh, Ms Grant?”


“Cat…” Kara fiddled with her glasses. “Would it be inappropriate to ask you out at some point?”

“Very. But go ahead.”

Kara blinked. “Really?”

Cat rolled her eyes. “Let me give you an incentive, Keira.” Then, she stepped forwards, taking Kara’s face in her hands and leaning up on her tiptoes, pressing a kiss to her lips, before whispering lowly, “Ask me out at some point, Kara, and while I have this chance, tell Carter something for me?”

“What?” Kara whispered, staring into Cat’s very beautiful eyes. Cat gave a smirk worthy of her name.

“Tell him to stop meddling in my love-life – I can get my own soulmate.”

thickskinandelasticheart  asked:

Prompt: Sansa meets Jon at Castle Black and the reunion is beautiful. However, Tormund isn't the only ginger present by Jon's side, Ygritte is alive and as time passes and feelings develop, there's angst, tension and heartbreak involved with all 3. (could be endgame jon/ygritte or jon/sansa, preferably jonsa! : )

Here you go. Warning. Angsty. 


Ygritte leans against the wall, crossing her arms with the purse of her lips. Ed attempting to keep Jon at the Wall. She doesn’t understand why he makes the effort in the first place. If the free folk had killed her and she had been brought back, she’d have left far earlier than Jon has on his own.

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hey remember that time Weiss Schnee, the girl whose entire design revolves around snow, set the forest on fire while Yang Xiao Long, who literally emits fire when slightly agitated, did not
good times

the girl with sunlight in her hair and the skies in her eyes –
don’t let yourself fall under her spell. she is a princess and you are nothing more than a commoner. but, you think to yourself, you are not a peasant anymore. so you disguise yourself as a king because the thrill of being on earth runs through your veins and along your fingertips, fueling a madness that will not be tamed. you feel on top of the world, so confident that you’ve got everyone fooled. and for a moment, you let yourself believe you can be happy.

the girl has shoulders that carry atlas’ burden with no protest –
you will ache for her in numerous ways. your heart yearns for a girl who had to grow up too quickly, for the girl who saw her mother go down in flames, for this patchwork woman you now see in front of you, sewed together by desperate times and horrible circumstances. (in doing so, you only doom yourself.)

this starlight girl with a bleeding heart –
it is too late; i warned you, but the thrum of the wild called to you, and the spirit of this girl fascinated you, drew you in like a moth to a flame. did you even realize how your first thought, your first concern is no longer of yourself? it is her. and from now on, it will always be her.

girl whose soul swells with guilt and permanent red stains –
she has lit fires in your soul without your notice, has carved out a space for her in that vessel you call a heart, and is your skeleton, the one constant in your life. she has become your soul; you let her. when she leaves, you will feel like your lungs are on fire and your heart has burst into flames, like the world is being thrown into an eternal apocalypse only you can feel. i see that you do not regret. (foolish, foolish boy.)

the girl will leave you –
pray tell, is it better to have loved and lost, than to never have loved at all?

—  [a warning to rebel kings] - k.t.

So today I did the tabinof promo book moving thing, v late but it happened nonetheless

(But then I put them all back because as much as I want them to sell tons of copies I also don’t want to make someone’s job harder by having to take time out of their day to put them all back)

Blood strewn across the floor,
with nothing but half a soul and a closed door,
rising from ashes just to turn into dust,
built an empire out of molds and rust.

Beauty in brute and the taste of blood,
hands that make him feel like a mangled god,
and her gaze is like a river of liquid ice,
to a sky-burdened boy with a house of lies.

Born before a sister that became a heinous crime,
with no money and always running out of time,
the ghosts of their dead mother and absent fathers,
life that made his skin tougher and his back harder.

He found a love so sullied and so fierce,
with jagged edges that fit and never pierce,
and then found a love so perfect and free,
that the world will never let them be.

All of these, he found in a girl on fire,
whose hands are as bloody as his are tired,
together, they carried their crumbling kingdom burnt,
together, they lived, and died, and then returned.
—  of how the phoenix rose | j r e f
I once met a girl whose eyes glittered like stars. Orion and Pisces and Sagittarius constellated themselves within the seems of her eyes. Her skin was paper and I was lead.
I once knew a girl whose heart beat like drums. Nirvana and Slipknot and Led Zeppelin echoed within the lining of her heart. Her lips were canvas and I was paint.
I once loved a girl whose bones jutted like swords. Joyeuse and Tizona and Lobera twirled themselves around within the marrow of her bones. Her neck was oak and I was fire.
I once hurt a girl whose mind flowed like sonnets. Sonnet 1 and 31 and 29 poured out from her veins. Her wrist was cardboard and I was a blade.
—  Annabell M. Rouge
Potter, Actually

//so this is part ½. I haven’t written part 2 but I will if there is a demand for it (mainly because what I have planned made me cry and omg no). This is for wlfstr even though it, ironically, has nothing do do with wolfstar. Also this is AU. Really, really, really, EXTREMELY AU. So you have been warned.


He first noticed her truly when he walked into the common room a bit after three in the morning, unable to sleep. She was sitting there with her back to the couch, her head laid back and eyes closed, her flaming hair mussed and spilling everywhere. What he remembered most clearly was her arms: it looked as though someone scratched both of her arms repeatedly until they were bloodied. Upon closer inspection - and much to his horror - he soon figured he would have preferred them to be scratch marks. Instead he found her arms to be filled with those God awful thin lines of misery, lines that screamed more sorrow than he ever saw on her face that always seemed to have a permanent smile. Dried blood was crusted all along the cuts that extended from her elbows to wrists, cuts that crisscrossed and, for the final one that almost made him want to vomit, deep lines that spelled out the word “mudblood.” He had poked her awake after that and carried her to the Room of Requirement where a tub awaited where a large dose of Dittany sat off to the side with promising bandages.

(She didn’t look him straight in the eye for three weeks after that).

After Christmas break ended in his sixth year, he found his friends acted more mercilessly towards her. Sirius constantly had a prank up his sleeve, Remus complained of how much she was a “prissy bitch” whenever he got back from patrols because “all she does is take points away from people,” and Peter often added things to her potions that caused them to explode. He couldn’t do anything harmful to her after the episode, though. He, in fact, found himself in the common room at three in the morning more and more often. Mostly he sat silently and did his homework while she read.

(As long as she didn’t make any more of those awful marks on herself, he was content).

His friends noticed something was wrong, much to his demise. One time, shortly before a full moon, Remus snappily demanded, “Why have you stopped asking Evans out, James?” His friends had concocted a plan in their fourth year, a plan where he pestered her into going out with him to Hogsmeade until she finally said yes, and once she finally did he was to ditch before the date even started and leave her shattered. After the incident, he stopped asking. How was he supposed to explain to his friends that he was actually in love with her? That he snuck out at obscure hours of the night to paint her nails by a dying fire while she whispered stories of a boy in an abusive household who was her guide to the magical world, of a girl with hair made of fire whose dad had several children with his secretary and her mother was married to alcohol, but the girl’s parents stayed together for the benefits and their children. She painted a world of where she was hated by her sister for having magic when her sister didn’t, a book of secrets from a time where everything was more simple and the girl didn’t grow into a woman who skipped meals and took her anger out on her arms and legs. He couldn’t tell his friends that he was far too in love with a woman who was more broken than all of them combined, and that he refused to be like every asshole who did step on her. So he shrugged and left their dorm, then sent her a note telling her to meet him in the Room of Requirement with a book.

(They ended up missing classes the next day, for they slept off a night of staying up reading).

The first time he kissed her she was crying. It was late May, exams were around the corner, and she was sobbing into his arms on the Quidditch Pitch half past midnight. He had been careful to always have the Marauder’s Map tucked away on his person since he had been questioned by Peter when Peter had found him studying Transfiguration with her a few months back. He couldn’t risk them finding out. Not that he cared what his friends thought - he just didn’t want to jeopardize her friendship that seemed to be built upon pillars of sand only contained by thin glass that threatened to break at any given moment. She was blubbering about how her sister, Petunia, didn’t want her at Petunia’s wedding to some whale named Vernon. He kissed her forehead and vowed quietly that he would take her to the wedding despite what Vernon and Petunia said. She froze at the sign of affection, but before an apology could leave his lips she leaned up and pressed herself onto him. In a hazy stupor, he couldn’t help but think about how horrid the timing was, how her tears were falling onto his cheeks and Good God I can’t be that bad at kissing, can I?, but it was okay. It was perfect for him and when she pulled away he was graced with a genuine smile that he couldn’t help but return on instinct.

(They met up more often after that, and he stole her away to Hogsmeade once a week to shower her with chocolate with each passing day she went without harming or starving herself).

Summer came swiftly and he found himself making up excuses to Sirius as to why he couldn’t meet up at bars or hang out with the rest of the Marauders just so he could Apparate to Cokeworth and spend lazy days on her bed drinking soda and reading books aloud to each other. They were barred from Petunia’s wedding, much to his demise, but he especially made sure they had a place at the reception where he promptly dragged her out to dance directly after the couple’s first married dance was over. In fact, to annoy the newlyweds even more, he got down on one knee and spontaneously proposed after his first dance with her. What he didn’t expect was her hesitant nod before she threw her arms around him and whispered, “Why on earth would I not marry you, James Potter?” After that he was told scathingly by Vermin that seventeen wasn’t the legal age to marry, to which he snapped back, “It is for wizards, my dear brother; I don’t see the problem here.” Her parents neither noticed nor cared their youngest was to be married whenever she so desired. As a result, he made sure Sirius was out of the house before bringing her to meet his parents, to which they were utterly delighted that she was to be the newest member of their family, and didn’t care one bit that they were still in school.

(He never told her explicitly how terrified he was when he asked for her hand, nor did he tell her how much love filled him when she agreed even though they had only been dating for a month).

The school year started off and he found himself Head Boy. She was Head Girl by his side. Quite honestly, they both thought Dumbledore was bonkers for giving him the position, but she mentioned she didn’t mind, as that meant they would share the head dorms together. He didn’t let Remus’s suspicious glance towards the ring on her finger during the first prefect meeting go unnoticed - the ring that signified their promise, one that he wore a duplicate of around his neck - but avoided questions and made up a story of having to perform head duties in the heads’ compartment so Moony, mate, you have to understand that this is more demanding than friends. If I don’t do this McGonagall will kill me and I can’t leave Lil - Evans - with the duties to herself. Tell Pads and Wormy for me, yeah? Thanks Moony, you’re the best. Instead they actually laid on the floor the entire time, with her head cradled on his chest while they whispered stories back and forth of a girl and boy that were deeply in love but could never tell anyone in fear of how others would react. They sculpted a path for the two lovers in a world of pretend where they wouldn’t be ostracized for their love, where the boy and girl lived together in a small cottage in the countryside with a small brigade of children.

(Somehow, he knew for certain that he would find that home they spoke of, even if he had to build it himself).

Their relationship went smoothly for the most part. The only trifles they ever faced were simple misunderstandings that were easily smoothed over, like a time where he crawled into her room after he woke from a terrible nightmare. She grumbled about it until she saw the tears streaking his face, then she lifted up her blankets and held him until they both drifted off to slumber once more. After that they simply began to share a bed, as his nightmares became more prominent and she seemed to be the only one able to stop them. In early November, though, he knew he should have expected it. He was too smart to not realize that all good things ended and they would be caught red handed. She was too, for that matter. They simply ignored it for their own sanity. He had forgotten that he had given the Marauders the password to the head dorms, so he was completely unprepared when his friends walked in on him kissing her. She had pulled away quickly in shock and he shot up. A small, foolish, naïve part of him wished that his friends would be happy for him. Happy that he was finally content with what he had and happy that he found the love of his life. Instead they began hurling insults. They hurt her most of all until he finally had enough and bellowed, “GET OUT! SHE’S MY FIANCE FOR GOD’S SAKE AND I REFUSE TO HAVE YOU TREAT HER LIKE TRASH!” Sirius spat, “Well maybe you should take a look at your choices and we wouldn’t make these accusations.” Remus glared and clambered out first, followed quickly by Peter and then Sirius. As they left, she started crying and uttered You shouldn’t choose me over them, James, they’re your friends so softly that he barely heard. He scoffed loudly, “They are lousy friends if they can’t accept that you are my life, now,” just before the portrait swung shut.

(He would have been lying if he said it didn’t hurt like ‘a god damn bitch’ though).

Two weeks before Christmas break for the seventh years it all changed though. By then, the school had well adjusted to the news, and they had been good about ignoring the sharp jabs that people often shot at them. Mrs. Potter had heard that none of the Marauders were to attend his wedding simply because they didn’t like the bride. His mum had blasted the door open to Charms one afternoon in a full blown rage and started to ruthlessly shriek at his friends. The entire class watched in fear as Mrs. Potter reduced Peter to tears, make a vague threat to Remus about how James never once left your side despite your problem, and you are returning the favor by not being there for one of the biggest moments in his life? Remus, this is ridiculous, I expected more of you! Have you ever taken the time to know Lily? She’s one of the best people to walk this damned earth!, and turn Sirius a sickly shade of white as the old woman reminded Sirius that Sirius was given a room at Potter Manor without second thought. In that moment, they had never loved his mum more.

(He was glad Sirius was there as he shakily said I solemnly swear I will love you forever and protect you with my life, as he was equal parts terrified and thrilled to see her face glisten after that).

After the wedding, he had Apparated to one of the Potter’s other estates and they spent the rest of their break there on a honeymoon. School resumed for the last part of their seventh year shortly after. He was proud of the ring on his finger, and grinned whenever he saw her glowing after she glanced at hers. His favorite moment, however, was their first class: Transfiguration. She had raised her hand to answer one of McGonagall’s questions, and the professor answered, Yes, Miss Evans? She bit her lip in that adorable way of hers in silent contemplation then replied, “It’s Potter, actually.“

anonymous asked:

Ok so this just came to me when I was stalking your blog and saw the reblog of the tenxrose drawing of Rose on his back. So for the ten minute prompt, maybe write something in regards to that with them as young kids? (:

I’m guessing you mean this super adorable drawing by fadewithfury??

Leave me a ten minute prompt here! I’m taking them until Christmas!

It had been inevitable, really.

As a kid, Rose would go outside and play with whatever other children were outside - and John Noble, the boy who had recently moved in next door, was no exception.

He had an older sister - a girl whose hair reminded Rose of fire and who was already in her last year of secondary school. She had scared Rose at first, but after a while Rose had realized that she was actually nice and had a funny way of talking.

John, on the other hand, was about as timid as timid could get. He had floppy brown hair that stuck straight up ever since the day she met him, and when Rose had bluntly asked why he didn’t just cut it all off, he had simply replied with the fact that he liked it that way.

She slowly started to like it that way, too.

Keep reading

1. It was 7th grade and I was chubby and awkward and depressed without a name for it. You were the new kid and I was the weird girl whose cheeks definitely didn’t turn fire engine red every time you looked in my direction. You messaged me one day on MSN and I had decided it was the absolute highlight of my 12 years. You dedicated a Lifehouse song to me, in what I thought was the grandest romantic gesture of our generation. It wasn’t long before you told me you liked me…but it also wasn’t long before you realized you’re not supposed to like the weird girl. So, you handled the situation as gracefully as a 7th grader could: an email saying “lol jk I didn’t mean that, I like your best friend.” So to boy #1: a) fuck you but b) thank you for teaching me that there will always be someone who loves the weird girl.

2. We met at camp. I was 13 and you were 18 and you named your guitar after me. You told me you loved me. I panicked and said I loved chocolate. We haven’t spoken since.

3. It was freshman year and I was still awkward and chubby and you found it endearing. We talked, we became close, we drifted apart, then back together again. You gave me my first kiss…and then you dumped me two weeks later. You became my best friend though, and I was okay with that.

4. You were a happy accident. You went to school with boy #3 and had the same name and I thought it was a hilarious coincidence. You were sweet and romantic and dorky and fucked up. But, I thought you were perfect because who knows fucked up better than fucked up? We promised to kiss each others scars into something beautiful. Something grander. Something better. But you see, fucked up can understand fucked up but fucked up can’t handle fucked up. We broke up at exactly midnight. We tried to stay friends, but quickly learned that you loved too much and I too little. That imbalance caused us to capsize and you to drown. Your mom called me, begging me not to push your head below water. I’m sure you hate me now, but boy I am so sorry for bringing water into your lungs when I was supposed to teach you how to swim.

5. You were cute and I was lonely. You tasted of vodka and cigarettes and bad decisions. You kissed me at church and never again.

6. Hello again, boy #3, best friend, boy wonder. We were bound to happen again, y'know? I mean, what else was I supposed to do other than fall for my knight in shining armor that saved me whenever I fell. You promised you were going to round up the stars and place them in my eyes, because nothing could shine as brightly as me. You convinced me I was beautiful, special, worth it. We were a regular fairy tale, but that was the problem. You cheated on your girlfriend with me and I didn’t mind as much as I should have. I’ll be honest, I was blind and saw roses where I should have seen red flags. You supported Israel and thought Beyonce was just okay. I never met your friends. You thought I was too opinionated. You tried to tame me, telling me I needed to soften my edges, to lower my voice, to dull my passions. When I didn’t yield, you eventually stopped telling me you loved me. You dumped me, again, the week after prom. We were supposed to stay friends, but this time I was the one drowning in shallow water. Boy, you were my first love and my first heartbreak, and for a while I couldn’t tell the difference between the two. But, boy #3, best friend, lover, stranger, I want to thank you. I want to thank you because you showed me exactly what I don’t deserve from somebody, no matter how many times they spill diamonds from their lips and fill my hands with flowers and beautiful things. And for that, I love you, for no one but you could have taught me that lesson. But also, go fuck yourself.

7. I thought you were the cutest boy at school. We flirted, neither thinking the other was serious. You kissed me at graduation. My only regret is that it wasn’t sooner.

8. I met you at a show and you had the same fucking name as boys #3 and #4. I guess I have a type. You kissed me during my favorite song. We haven’t spoken since and I’ll be honest, I’m okay with that. Some moments are meant to be moments and some people are meant to be nothing more.

9. To boy #9, I hope you’re okay with a girl who’s just a bit too loud, too brash, too passionate, too clumsy. A girl who has more opinions than she knows what to do with and is afraid of her own emotions. She might say the word ‘fuck’ more than she should, and 'love’ just as much. I hope you provide a better story than the others. I hope you’re last on this list.

—  An Open Letter to Ex-boyfriends and Those Who Almost Were.