the streets were dark with something more than night

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Berserk Chapter 26, a fairy tail fanfic | FanFiction
Berserk. Out of control with anger. This is what Natsu was born to be. A warrior soaked in blood. A murderer. This is what Pergrande turned him into. Taken at a young age by the King, Natsu is a soldier of the Royal Army, a creature of rage and violence—a weapon. Lucy is a thief from Fiore with a price on her head. Natsu is sent to kill her.

She’s been staring at the wall for what seems like hours, simply waiting for something to happen. Her cup of cider is half empty before her, but still does wonders to chase away the cold creeping through the tavern, steam billowing from the mug and the tantalizing scent of apples curling through her lungs. Lucy inhales deeply, feeling more relaxed than she has in days. The tavern is friendly, not nearly as damp and dark as the streets they were walking the night before.

It took them some time to find the gate, and they were just in time. A guard let them pass with little persuasion, taking in their drenched forms with a small, sympathetic smile and ushering them forward, albeit nervously. He kept glancing at Natsu like the Berserk might attack, but Natsu was practically asleep on his feet, too tired to do much but let her lead him around.

They found the Iron Heart quickly, Lucy scrambling to find the small, rumbled card in her bag, the magic keeping it from her for several minutes, seemingly amused by Lucy dropping water all over the innkeeper’s clean floors, the man waiting patiently for Lucy to find it. He let them in with little trouble ushering them up to an open room without a word, key dangling from his finger.

There room was small, but clean and warm and that’s all they could ask for. Both were tired and wet and made quick work of changing and crawling into the bed, falling asleep quickly and without so much as a word shared between them. They didn’t need to say anything, both understanding that anything they had to say could wait until morning, if it needed to be said at all.

Her fingers drum against the bar counter, Lucy perched on a stool with one leg tossed over the other, chin resting on her palm as she traces the delicate carving along the back wall of the tavern. It’s a simple pattern, nothing more than thin lines and curls, gold filigree inlaid within the pattern, standing out beautifully against the dark, ebony wood. The sign hanging above the tavern door was similar, iron twisted into the shape of a roaring bear’s head, the name Beartooth Tavern scrawled beneath, lettering bold and dark, standing out against the gold.

Lucy doesn’t know what drew her to this place. It was nothing special when they were passing it the night before, the place just dreary as everywhere else in Narja. She thinks maybe it was the light flickering through a closed window and spilling beneath the door, the sound of laughter, the scent of magic in the air.

anonymous asked:

Your last Drabble was so cute!! If you're still doing them, could you do 29? “It must be hard with your sense of direction, never being able to find your way to a decent pickup line.” With Stan, of course lol. Thanks!

Thank you so much for the compliment, and I hope you don’t mind the wait for this. I was on a trip for a bit, not to mention I had some trouble with coming up with something to go with this. 

It was late at night. Dark, with the few exceptions of the street lights lighting your way. You were supposed to be home hours ago, and you’re sure your parents are anxiously waiting by the door. They were more than likely cursing themselves for trusting you in the hands of Stanley Pines, your boyfriend. 

He wanted to take you for a night drive but now that was exactly what you were getting. Aimless driving had led the two of you far from what you could recognize, and now Stan was driving around and cursing beneath his breath. 


“Stan?” 

“Yeah, baby?” 


He sounded irritated. Not directed at you, of course. More at his inability to get you home on time. Stan was never one for catering to others, nor did he like to get worked up over something as trivial as this. But it was different when it came to you. He wanted to make a good impression on your parents. For your sake. 


You sigh as you leaned against the car door, head turned slightly towards Stan, “How about we just pull over and ask for directions? I’m already late enough-” 

“Ha! Directions?” Stan snorted at the idea. He took one hand off the wheel to point to his head, “Baby, all the directions we need are up here. I know this town like the back of my hand.” 

You sat up straight to give a hefty sigh from his assurances. Stan could be prideful at the wrong times. “Stanley, we’ve been driving around for an hour! You even said that you haven’t been here before.” 

Nope. I have no idea what you’re talking about. Now, just sit back, relax, and enjoy the ride.” 


With a huff, you did just that. Although there was more irritation in your movements rather than ease. You supposed this was the “man’s ego” that your mother had warned you about. Your dad was the same way on trips by insisting he didn’t need help to get where he needed to go. 

You would have complained more until Stanley gave in, but a glance his way showed that he was doing his best. You couldn’t fault him for wanting to take care of you himself. You didn’t have it in your heart to continue complaining after watching him. Stan was wound up enough. 

You felt sympathetic for your boyfriend, and his stressed out appearance made you want to cheer him up. What you learned about Stanley Pines was that the way to his heart was a good joke. 


“It must be hard with your sense of direction, never being able to find your way to a decent pickup line, either.”  You lightly cooed to your boyfriend. The tone you used was light, to let him know you meant no real harm by the comment. Soon Stanley’s grip on the wheel grew loose, and you watched the tension on his face melt away. Instead, an amused smile graced his face. 


Stan then snickered, “Hm…Dunno. Found my way into your pants just fine, didn’t I?” 

“STANLEY.”

Temptation of the Bottle (with NightValeSmuggler)

It was just another job for Taku, a random crate of goods that needed to be moved in the middle of the night. Nothing out of the ordinary so it seemed. Just money being exchanged no questions asked to transport. The crate it’s self was not strange. Midway through the delivery however midway through the delivery things went a bit awry. A Car ran a red light as she crossed it and she had to quickly jump back causing her to drop the crate. The car just continued speeding off into the night but the side of the crate broke causing a couple of items to spill out into the street a bit. There were numerous objects that she quickly stuffed back into the box… but when she touched a bottle… there was something different to it. Looking more closely it looked like nothing more than an old Crystal Liquor Decanter… It was very odd, the bottle looked as it it were made out of high grade obsidian, and even in the dark night with distant street lighting the bottle seemed to glimmer in the darkness… Also the decorative lid to the bottle seemed to be sealed. It looked as if someone had dropped epoxy in it so that the bottle could not be opened… But what was more there was a very odd feeling about the decanter. She was drawn to it, it had a very strong allure to it…

@nightvalesmuggler

Tasmanian Gothic
  • They dig up the Myers pit again. The walkway disappears. They get a bigger crane. It’s gone the next day. They keep digging. The pit still hungers.
  • The Sleeping Beauty rolls over in her sleep, tearing apart the land. We pray she will not wake.
  • They say there are massive ships sunk in the Derwent river, never recovered. It is far, far deeper than a river should be. At night, phantom lights like sirens travel the old shipping lanes, deep below the surface.
  • The water is freezing, but the children go in anyway. They look back at you and their eyes are huge, dark. They do not look back again; you should have kept their skins better hidden.
  • The say the monkeys in City Park cannot get out, but there is something watching you from the trees as you walk home at night. You hope it is only the monkeys.
  • You see David Walsh in the supermarket. In your coffee shop. Across the street. Behind you in the mirror. Don’t look-
  • You walk out into the bush, birds singing, knowing there are no thylacines left. They were more like cats than dogs, the tour guide tells you. Big as a panther, and as agile. There is a rustling in the bushes, but you are sure there are no thylacines left. They could open their jaws to 120 degrees. The rustling stops, but the birds have stopped singing. Tiger, they called it. You run, praying there are no thylacines left.
Christmas #6: The Advent Calendar

Story length: Super long

It was the Christmas of 1965, before man had landed on the moon, before the wall had fallen, before many things good and bad. For me it was the last time that I knew innocence, before the creeping shadow which engulfed my family, before the madness, before death; before. It was the advent calendar, that damned thing which I had to have. Each door a promise of Christmas, and each window a misted reminder of the warmth and kindness of the festive season.

I was nine years old, and while the parents in my neighbourhood would have had no fears for their children in the past, allowing them to play freely in the icy December streets, those days were lost like breath on a mirror. If snow had fallen, there would have been no joy; no snowball fights in the darkened evenings, no sledges sliding carefree down the fields nearby – children could not be children. Though the young may have felt apprehension in the dark, it was the parents who were the most fearful; terrified of the ultimate loss, a pain they could never extinguish.

For the previous three Christmases, without fail, the worst had happened: a child had went missing. While I was very young, I remember it all as though it were yesterday. The suburb where we lived had become the most sombre of places. Such a tragedy can do that, slowly draining away any hope or happiness from a community like blood from an open wound. No Christmas tree nor carol sang could stem the flow.

The first to disappear was Tommy Graham. He was 11 years old and although I had seen him around, I didn’t really know him personally. I remember my mother crying about it. Just the thought of something terrible happening to a child distressed her greatly, and the pain that the parents must have been going through was often on her lips. 

That Christmas my dad held on to me tighter than he had ever done before, and I could tell that they were affected terribly by the disappearance just as the rest of the community had been. 

The following year, another Christmas came and another child was taken. Her name was Cheryl, and she was only four years old; tiny and fragile. Tears were shed, misplaced rage vented towards the police who were unable to find her, and by New Year it was the commonly held view that, like Tommy the year before, little Cheryl would never be found.

I, like many of my friends, had been scared by the vanishing children. It was the first time that I became aware that adults could do harm, even to the most vulnerable of us – that children were not always safe, and that those bigger and stronger than us could have unspeakable things on their minds. Yes, I had heard the fairy tales and frightening stories of the pied piper and the bogeyman, but what was going on in our suburb was far more gut wrenching, far more real, than any tall tale.

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thepeachhashair  asked:

Solangelo- Coffee Shop AU 4

Coffee Shop AU #4 Solangelo: “you give me a different fake name every time you come into starbucks and I just want to know your real name bc ur cute but here I am scrawling “batman” onto your stupid cappuccino”


“Here comes small, dark, and Italian.” Lou Ellen said with a smirk as she nudged Will. The blond shot a scowl at his co-worker/best friend before turning to the counter to take the next order. “Hey, welcome to Apollo’s Coffee Café, what can I get for you today?” Will, son of the owner, said with a bright smile to the dark haired regular in front of him. The boy smirked at the barista before replying, “Does your boss require you to say that to every customer, even if said customer comes here several times a week?” Will just gave the raven haired boy a half smile, “Yeah, he thinks it’s cute for his little ‘slaves’,” Will paused to put air quotations around the word, “to throw in the name of the café while we ask for the order. Anyways, what can I get for you today?”

The boy laughed before answering, “Do you really have to ask? I get the same thing every time, Will.” Will just shook his head, “And what’s the name for the cup?” The blonde was hoping that the raven haired cutie would slip up and give him his real name. Since the small Italian had started frequenting Apollo’s, he had never used his real name, always giving Will fake names like Batman and Lucifer. “Hades.” Will jerked out of his thoughts when the raven haired boy responded. “Alright… Hades. Your order is coming up.” Will turned away from the Italian, Hades, for today, to make his order of café macchiato caldo.

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On the Balcony (2/5)

pairing: Checkmating/Monochrome

AU set in a slightly altered 1870’s Paris, France, so some historical inaccuracies are bound to occur. Part 1, if you’re interested, can be found here.

She didn’t recognize herself. The face reflected back in bathroom mirror was bloody, swollen and bruised. Even after she made her first attempt to wash the grime and dirt away, she felt its remnants cling to her skin. It was common filth so thick that her father didn’t waste so much as a glance on her once their carriage arrived safely back home. He had holed himself up in his study and the silent reprieve his absence left was one she clutched to like a prayer.

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honestly, I’m so upset at the way I’ve seen this fandom treat safety.

the official company having to tell us not to drive while on our phones, people making fun of someone making a list of things to stay safe simply because it was a little overkill, it really upsets me.

just today, I was woken up by my mother asking me to look around for two new pokemon near our house. I had not eaten yet, I hadn’t gone to the bathroom yet, nothing, but I jumped out of bed and got dressed as quickly as I could so I could go find them really quickly.

but today, it was 94F/34C, and and about 11AM.

I was dehydrated, and it was hot.

I also learned that there is no way to know which direction you need to go, and that the radius that these pokemon are in is far bigger than I’d realized.

I was lucky that my dad came out to walk with me when he finished helping my mom with what she had to do, because had he not been with me and had water with him, I very likely could have passed out in the middle of the street, cause I’d walked too far to make it home in time.

and we all know what happens to girls who pass out in public.

safety is not a joke. someone telling you to keep water with you when you’re walking long distances and wear something reflective if you’re out at night isn’t something to make fun of.

are you still going to be laughing when a go player hits a pole (or worse, other people) because they were paying more attention to the pokemon they wanted to catch than the road? or when a go player gets hit by a car cause it was dark and the driver couldn’t see them? what about when a go player passes out in the street and gets assaulted?

I mean, we were literally making fun of safety before the game even came out (who remembers “I can’t wait to get mugged while walking around with my expensive smartphone out” “don’t be ridiculous, the pokemon will protect you”?) but this shit ain’t funny.


stay safe people. this game is fun, but it isn’t worth your life.

your safety is more important than that bit of data. whatever the pokemon you’re looking for will come back eventually. it isn’t worth it.

anonymous asked:

Oh gods I just archive binged the trash party and now I keep thinking about the "Bucky thinks Steve is his handler" ones except it's not Steve it's some poor sod who looks like twink-form Steve and is very confused about everything

“Dice the onions,” George ordered.

Luke took the cutting board and began chopping through the onion with speed and accuracy that were slowly becoming more dazzling than horrific.

The dead-eyed stranger wasn’t really named Luke, but George had to call him something.  He looked like a Luke.

He’d looked like a nightmare the first time George had seen him.  Tall, dark, and filthy, and definitely stalking George as he walked home from the grocery.  George had slipped down an alley and weaved in and out of the crowd on the next street over - sometimes his small stature had its advantages - and had assumed he’d lost the stalker.

Until he shut off the TV later that night and saw Luke’s reflection on the black screen.  He’d been standing behind the couch for possibly hours, totally silent.

He smashed George’s phone before he could even try to dial 911.  He moved so fast, George barely saw him.

George had blustered, threatened, begged.  He’d offered all his valuables.

The stranger had only stood, staring.

Eventually, the stress of waiting to be killed or maimed grew overwhelming, and George had either passed out or dozed off.

He’d woken hours later.  The lights were off and he was in bed with what felt like all the blankets in his house piled on top of him.  The stranger was beside the bed, bent over and staring George in the face like a cobra waiting to strike.

George had screamed.  “Out!  Get out!”

And to his amazement, the stranger did.

George yanked the towel rack out of the bathroom wall, brandishing it when he crept out of the bedroom.  The stranger was kneeling in the hallway.  His body was tense.  His dead eyes were wet with tears.

It had been a week now.  Luke refused to leave George’s side, except when he was told to retrieve something.  It was damn lucky that George worked from home, or his benevolent stalker’s appearance would be hard to explain.  Luke was still barely speaking.  Maybe George could order him to answer, but that felt wrong.  Creepy.

Luke made a soft sound.  The onion was perfectly diced, and he held out the cutting board as if asking for approval.

“Great,” George said.  “Thanks.  Now add it to the pan, would you?”

Luke nodded.  The onions started sizzling as George laid out the tortillas on their plates.  Luke insisted on doing all the actual cooking.  Maybe he thought he had to.  Or maybe he didn’t trust George not to harm him with a knife.

But George was about as happy with this arrangement as he could possibly be.  Maybe that was a sign of Stockholm syndrome, but it was clear that Luke could kill him if he wanted.  He wouldn’t even need a knife: one blow to the head from that metal arm, and George would be dead.  He wasn’t.  So Luke either liked him or needed him.

And in spite of his best efforts otherwise, George liked him back.  He wanted to help, to get Luke talking.

“Thanks, buddy,” he said when Luke shut off the stove.  “These are gonna be great fajitas, I can tell.”

And Luke gave the faintest hint of a smile.

It would have been a perfect moment, except that’s when Captain America chose to kick in the front door.  And then the Falcon crashed through the dining room window.

“Oh, come on!” George shouted, trying to shield Luke as Luke was trying to shield him.  “I don’t have room for three of you!”