this man that is embracing death because he's just so tired and so scarred

Okay, a bit more on the violent, semi-pessimistic, more stereotypically Orcish side of things. Possible triggers. Graphic. R-word.

A bit of backstory to this little hypothesis: Humans figured out our differences somehow. Terrorism peaked, religions crumbled, and we had one REEEAAALLY big bad bloody war. Lots of people died. Man’s inhumanity to man. Rape, humiliation, genocide, slaughter of innocents, Armageddon, Ragnarök. That sort of thing. We vowed through accords and treaties, even in the colonization of other worlds and systems (and any conflicts that may result from such) we would seek to end things peacefully, because everyone’s just so tired. They don’t want to spill blood anymore. They vow to protect their societies and their children from such horrors ever again, and never visit such a low point ever again for the sake of humanity. Call it the Blooding Years. Makes the World Wars, Holocaust and the Crusades look tame.

Jump forward a few hundred or good thousand years.

Race really isnt a thing anymore, save for a few varied vestigal traits here and there. People are still spiritual and have faiths and superstitions, and we have made our peace with nature and spirituality, but organized religion itself is something mostly relegated to our bloody past. Although we put the Blooding Years behind us, something so profound is sure to leave some marring and scars on the general psyche of a people, even generations down the line. We are as peaceful as we can be, despite gallows humor and general mental maladjustment taking a spike in recent generations. So, in short, we’re just a bunch of vaguely beige space monkeys with twitchy temperaments trying to be peaceful and stuff.

We have spread to a few systems outside Sol. We’ve contacted a handful of species out in the stars. Xenophobia was a thing, but we’re getting over it. We have a few ‘hybrid’ systems where we coexist, a la [insert sci-fi title here] style. Aliens are learning to like us for our resilency and hard work, but having learned from our history (which was liberally gifted to those among them that would read it), they give us a wide berth, despite keeping steady trade and peaceful relations.

And then, as the old saying goes, shit happens.

A bunch of genocidal xenophobic maniacs come out of nowhere and decide “WE OWN THIS SHIT, AND YOU ARE AN AFFRONT TO GARGASCHMARGAL THE BLOODY! YOU MUST BE [insert evil villain endgame here] !!!” and essentially try to out-Space-Orc the Space Orcs. The Galactic Union, or whatever the assembly of alien races view themselves as (and with which we are allied with but decide not to unify with) launch an offensive! They fight! They clash! In the words of Willem Dafoe, “THERE WAS A FIRE FIGHT!”

Annnnd they lose. Horribly. Entire fleets are laid waste. Worlds fall. Star systems crumble. Trillions die.

And then, after their bloody campaign, having beaten back even the forces bolstered by humans, and after enslaving or euthanizing any other people that stood before them, they arrived at the doorstep to human space, and after a gorefest, essentially Hiroshima a garden world. Eden-in-the-Wind.

-cue the seriousness-

Word got back to Earth, Inner, and Outer Colonies. Eden-in-the-Wind is gone. Dust. Vids came back from the now-dead world. Women and children executed. People being eaten as they are simultaneously being used for sexual pleasure. An infant used as a soccer ball. Skulls with still-bleeding vertebra dangling from belts.

Mayhem bore its crown. The wolf stirred. And Hell reigned.

Those allied aliens that remained and sought refuge on human worlds watched in horror as formal governments dissolved, treaties were burnt, and every human down to the last howled into the winds. We embraced the ways of old. We broke hockey sticks for impromptu spears. We cannibalized vehicles for their precious metal, so that they could have blades to drink blood with. We melted down memorials, so that we could have bullets to slay foes with. We renamed our ships, which served as names of peace and progress and remembrance. They now beared the names of hatred, and death, and destruction; Sathanna, Gehena, Lucifer, Ragnarök, Deluge, Armageddon, Uziel, Uoke, Shiva.

What once was an organized military force was now a hodge-podge fleet of battleships, cargo ships, carriers, dreadnoughts, and even civilian transports. Children carried rifles. Mothers carried swords. Fathers carried axes. Brothers and sisters exchanged spears and pistols. Bitter neighbors mended fences in the name of vengeance. The wheel turned once more, and the wolf within no longer stirred, but ruthlessly hunted, awoken by the stench of blood and gore.

The ships more or less crash, stead of land. We find whatever worlds these bugs have taken, and fall upon it as a horde of foaming teeth.

Allied aliens deemed it appropriate to seek revenge alongside, but were appaled by the horror that humanity was so easy and ready to visit upon these foes. They partook in adrenaline shots and metabolized psilocybin. They drunk of alcohol distilled from the blood of these genocidal demons. They detonated bombs that had still-screaming enemies piled atop them beforehand. They sent crates full of heads back to hostile commanders. They glassed entire worlds from orbit. They beat these foes back to their homeworld, having ruthlessly dogged them to the edge of oblivion.

Eventually, there were no new bodies to crumple. Eventually, there was no fresh blood to spill. Eventually, all that was left of this enemy that had scourged this corner of the galaxy for 75 years was a whimpering, bloodied remnant of their hierarchy, and a dwindling few thousand left to their populace.

Their god-king laid beaten and bloody upon the crumbled remains of his golden throne. He asks to but a girl, no more than 14, that approaches him, sadistically grinning in the dim light of the royal chamber.

“Why? Why have you come here? Is your bloodlust not sated!? We conceded five of your cycles ago! We know what you are capable of! We fear you! Why?! Why do you still come?!”

The girl stops, close enough to smell the copper tang of the alien’s blood on its breath.

“Sic semper tyrannis,” she blurted out, in a dead tongue that the alien did not understand. She drew the knife in her belt and beheaded him, his gurgling screams resounding through the chamber.

She left through the front doors of the palace, the bronze sunset glinted off the golden palace buttresses and arches. She still clutched the god-king’s dripping head by his antennae, her purple-stained hand white-knuckled in victorious fury. A small congregation of aliens bowed and knelt before them, raising claws and feelers in terrified begs and prayers. She tossed the head down the steps, and watched it bump and roll the length down, halting with a wet thump at the base.

And as the congregation shuddered and yelped, completely catatonic at the realization that their god-king is dead, they turned their gaze to the humans, boarding their dropship, ascending into the clouds. They never returned.

Humanity drew back its severely-pruned numbers. They retreated to Earth, to serve a self-imposed penance. The remaining allied aliens, now repopulating their numbers, were gifted the colonies that humanity had once taken. They wondered why humanity was retreating to Earth.

Shexan, a member of the founding race of the Galactic Union, confronted his human friend, Jonathan, though keeping a healthy distance after what he had witnessed.

“Why do your people leave, Smith-Jonathan? You have won, why do your people not rule?” it inquired.

“We did not want to win. Because we knew what we needed to do to win. And we did not want to return to that.”

“To what, Smith-Jonathan?”

“To what we learned not to be.”

“Jonathan?”

“The lessons of the past will be repeated until they are learned.”

Jonathan turned from his new friend, tears streaming down his ragged face, as he departed into the darkness of the transport, its heavy bulkhead doors clunking shut behind him. The transport lifted into the stars. In all the years since that Shexan lived on TRAPPIST-1-b, he did not see a single human return.

The Sol system was, at the behest of humanity itself, marked as an uninhabitable system, and was restricted from entry. And, so has it remained, since.

Submitted by: @bartwelchii 

Persephone {pt.4}

Type: Miniseries Continuation; 7th Sense | One | Two | Three | Four | Five (FINAL) |
Genre: Drama, Fantasy, Fluff, Suggestive (NO SMUT), Demon!AU, Witch!AU
Member: Joshua/Jisoo
Word count: 1,973
A/N: It’s been exactly 4 months since I’ve updated Persephone. Sigh…so sorry for the long wait.
©


Joshua stared at the tile wall, eyes pink and swollen from all the tears. He lay in the ice cold water, his arms draped over your wilt body that rests on his chest. He was completely drenched from head to toe, but he couldn’t be bothered by that.

His throat felt dry as fuck from all the screaming.

Joshua begged you to come back to him. He begged and begged, desperately whispering sweet words into your ear as he held you in his arms. When that didn’t work, he tried tracing your soul.

He used up all his energy to summon your soul back to your body before you could reach the final destination.

He could feel you, but couldn’t find you.

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Let me bring my man.

Pairing: Bucky x Reader

Summary: Inspired by The Book Thief.

Death follows us all, and she can’t understand why are we so scared of her. After all, she’s compassionate being too. (Death POV)

Warnings: Angst.

Words: 1361

A/N: Death and Love are sisters. Love has a daughter, Life. No, I’m not on drugs. While I was writing my eyes decided that they wanted to be clouds and rain on my face. So yeah, tell me what do you think about this.


Originally posted by marvelheroes

I found him beautiful.

I found him rare, special. I found him exquisite.

I watched him grow up, I watched him get hugged multiple times by my sister. I’ve always wondered if she found him beautiful too. After all, Love have always found every single thing beautiful. Love makes every single thing look more alluring. Maybe that’s why everybody seems to like her.

I’ve seen how fate took him to my war zone, and how he threw some soldiers to my embrace. I remember how I gladly accompanied them to where they souls belonged to since then. However, it killed me how they came to me, all beaten up, fear in their eyes as if I was the one who pulled the trigger. But it wasn’t Bucky’s fault. Everything is written down for me. He just happened to be my intermediary.

He was my diamond before they decided to rip off his humanity: so tough, yet so fragile. They tried to send him to me multiple times, his agony calling me desperately, his screams asking for my presence. But I simply couldn’t take him. I knew my sister had something saved up for him, something exceptional: a soulmate.

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anonymous asked:

Hi! I saw your "if Eren could see his mom again" thing and I was wondering what Levi would be like if he saw his mom again (I'm literally crying just thinking of it) ? Thanks!

Oh god…why, anon…why…;u; Assuming this is after Levi’s inevitable death on the battle field…

  • Levi would be torn between confusion and utter happiness–torn between demanding to know how she was there and embracing his inner child that’s begging him to run up and just hug her before she disappears again.
  • Levi has lost the ability to cry because he’s so desensitized to death and suffering, but it would be the closest he’s ever come to the menial act as he stares at the warm, kind, and inviting smile of his mother.
  • He’d have so many questions that he wouldn’t even know where to start, so instead he would just stare with bewilderment, taking a hesitant step toward her as if afraid one wrong move would cause her to wisp away.
  • It’s her that opens up her arms, closing the distance between the two of them and wrapping them lovingly around her son’s body–a body she can see is worn and beaten and tired. She’s shorter than him, though, and can’t help but laugh at just how much he’s grown in her time apart from him.
  • He inhales her familiar scent, wide eyes still staring with disbelief at the way her raven hair falls beautifully down her back. He would stay silent until she makes a remark about how much he’s changed from the tiny, unsure little boy she once knew. Now he’s so much stronger and he’s done so much and she’s so proud of him.
  • She runs her fingers through his hair and hums a lullaby she used to sing him as a kid, quietly and gently reminding him that he’s done so much, he’s saved so many, and now it’s his turn to rest.
  • Levi would close his eyes and finally embrace her, his shoulders relaxing as he lets her comforting words wash over him. His scars that line his body begin to feel much lighter, as does the heavy guilt that weighs on his heart, and he’s just so happy to be home again that he accepts his fate, accepts that it’s finally his time.
  • “You’re finally safe,” his mother murmurs into his ear, tracing the rigid line of his jaw as she admires the man he’s become, at the man he was despite all the suffering and heartache he had to endure as a child. “I love you, Levi.”
  • It’s the closest Levi’s ever felt to Heaven, he realizes with a small smile. And maybe it is.
He left. He cried. - Carl Grimes Imagine AU

The sun had fallen asleep. The last rays dissolved into a thick blanket of black, spreading from the skyline and making stars glint. It was a peaceful time in the small town, a calm and still night. Everyone waited with clenched hearts for the train to arrive at the station. A train which would take away loved ones, and make souls suffer with bitterness and smeared tears.

She stared intently as he was making his dell suitcase. Pairs of trousers, six clean T-shirts and a coat were crammed within the space of the gaping bag. He could feel her acid eyes, tearing the skin of his back apart as she looked with wonder. He said nothing. He pulled the zip of his suitcase, neatly closing the patterned edges. She could feel her eyes begging to ache and her nostrils flare. The clamp of her throat was evident, pushing out her nude collarbones and raising her back from the stained wallpaper. He really was leaving. But how could he? How could he leave and forget about her, as if nothing never happened? Indeed, he could.

“You really are leaving.” She voiced steadily, forcing down her shaky breaths. She closed her eyes, swallowing back the emotion trying to spill from within them. “I never thought you would.”

Carl turned his head, his rosy lips parted as he took in her form. He looked at her. She was standing right there, as brave and strong as ever. He tried to speak, words were not an option. He could hear her warm voice smoothly echo against his ears again.

“I understand. It is your dream, after all.” She forced a smile, devouring her distress. “That’s why I won’t stop you. If it means you are happy out there, then so be it. Even if it means I won’t see you again, I won’t keep you back.”

The young man gave a look, one of confused desperation. The corners of his lips descended, and so did his heart. Did she really not mind? I didn’t seem to be it at all. She was sad, there was no doubt. Carl could feel her heart, beating within his own veins.

“..Y/n.”

“You want to leave,” She continued, passionlessly glaring at her shoes. “Then leave. I’m not gonna stop you. I’m not gonna hold you back from your dream. I’m not going to cling on you and cry for you to stay. I’m not going to call you selfish because you wish to go away. Nor am I going to call you ungrateful, because you’re just leaving, after all we’ve been through. After all we have seen together. I won’t. Because I am your friend.” Y/n gave a little smile, the water now quivering within her squinted eyes. She held herself back from lunging forward, and engulfing him in a shaky embrace. Her innards were contorting painfully, her body drowning within her feelings.

“Aren’t we supposed to let go of the things we love?” Her voice was a pained whisper, breaking just like her confident smile. Her heart feebly protested, hollering wildly, begging her to keep him close. Pleading to fold her arms around him and swathe him within her hold, until she gave her last breath. “And that’s what I’m going to do.”

Carl stared quietly, his brows furrowed over his intense gaze. He glanced down and hesitated. He wanted to hold her hands. Feel the rough skin of her digits, the gentle touch of the tips of her fingers. Feel her lips on his skin, guiding him, teaching him in the ways of love. Oh, how lovely would it be to graze every scar on her flesh. To kiss and fondle each and every one of them.

Y/n’s eyes flinched once they locked with the clock’s hands. He had to leave so soon. Would this be the last time she looked at him? The final time she would hear his voice and feel his presence beside here?

Carl was coming closer. His chest was tight against her own, his body hot and flustered before hers. His thin fingers cascaded up her forearm, his lips parted slightly with wonder. He was going in for a kiss. His heart fluttered like a feather in the wind once they almost touched lips, their love glowing and alight. Yet the sweet contact refused to come. The young man’s eye opened, his actions ceased by the hand pressed against his chest like steel. He gazed at iron eyes, a pair which was sad and melting with emotion.

“You will lose your train.” Were her final words.

And when he withdrew, he knew there was no turning back. His fist clenched around the handle of his suitcase, and so did the sensitive heart within his chest.

*

Carl gazed about at the train station, watching as people fumbled about, cried, hugged, kissed and said their goodbyes. His head lowered slightly once he realized he was all on his own. He felt cold once he realized, he had just lost a life-saving company, a good friend…and maybe something more than that. Hell, would he even seen her again in his life? But it was too late now.

The train’s arrival was grand. The enormous vehicle screeched as it stopped, opening its gates and welcoming people inside. It was dark and cold, and the light coming from within wasn’t at all comforting. It would take him away.

Carl glanced about with desperation written all over his glowing face. He hoped to see her, standing amongst the people around him. But she was now long gone, and had forgotten about him. She would never leave, now.

He got inside the train, with a low head and numb expression. This wasn’t what it was supposed to be like. They had made plans when they were younger, naive and at the verge of death. They would leave this place one day, and they would do so together, hand in hand. But Carl’s hand was cold as he sat. His tired gaze lazed outside of the window, his breathing coming in small breaths.

Out of nostalgia, he craned his neck and peered outside the window, sadly gazing at the small town which once was his home. His heart almost stopped when he saw the last thing he expected near the train station. There she was, her girlish silhouette standing droopily and looking longingly at the train. She did come.

Carl’s breath hitched at the back of his throat, his eye collecting tears once he saw it; she was waving at him, and was slightly shaking. She was crying.

Not thinking clearly he stuck his hand out and waved at her as well, a small cry escaping the back of his throat. It hurt as a tear rolled down his milky cheek, cutting his skin as sharp as a blazing razor.

I love you.

Silly Promises

A super short (like slightly less than 800 words) fluff about Ubbe, where the reader tends him after he’s wounded in battle. So sweet your teeth might fall out.

Warnings: None, really. Mention of death and some blood, but super mild. This is literally 100% fluff and sweetness.


Every time the army fought, you held your breath as they began coming back; the unharmed carrying the dead and wounded, all bloody and tired, stinking of death and sweat. They brought the wounded to you, and you inspected every face, relief washing over you at every man that wasn’t your lover. He was fierce—fast and skilled, deadly as they came—but still you couldn’t stop yourself from worrying for him.

He always came back unharmed, until the day he came back supported by Hvitserk and Bjorn, his arms around their shoulders as they carried him slowly toward you. With a ragged cry you ran to them, fearing the large bloodstain on his left leg. They stopped and you knelt immediately to inspect the wound, pushing the shredded leather of his trousers out of your way.

The wound was long, but not too deep, and had hit no major arteries. If he did not take a fever, he would recover from this quickly. It was a fairly clean cut, too, so the scarring would even be minimal. Reassured, you stood up and grabbed Ubbe’s chin in both your hands, drawing his warm, dry lips to yours and kissing him hard. The ghost of a smile crossed his face when you released him. “Gods, woman, I am not hurt much. Be strong, Y/n, yeah?”

“Bring him to our tent,” you told his brothers, voice brusque. You were still on the verge of hysteria, but a few deep breaths began to calm you.

“You get the special treatment, hmm Ubbe?” Hvitserk teased, the worry on his face easing.

“It helps to be in love with the healer,” Ubbe answered, casting a glance at you. He must have seen the tears lurking just behind your calm expression, because he continued, “They are the bravest of women. Men have it easy, my brother, it is no great challenge to pick up a sword and march into battle. The hard part comes afterward. The women with the gentle hands and kind hearts, they have the worst of it, to constantly be cleaning up the messes we make of ourselves.”

You held the flap of yours and Ubbe’s ten aside as the three of them ducked awkwardly through the entrance. Bjorn and Hvitserk helped him onto the low, fur-covered pallet near the banked fire. Bjorn knelt to rekindle the small fire for you before him and Hvitserk left you alone with your lover. He was reclining back against the pillows, wounded leg stretched out before him, dripping blood onto the furs.

You moved them quickly out of harm’s way, sitting on the pallet beside him with a rag and a bowl of water. “It is a sword slice?” You asked, beginning to gently wipe the blood away. He grimaced, but did not move under your hands.

“Yes. I dodged one blow, only to wind up right on the edge of a Saxon sword,” his voice was light, even now trying to soothe you. “Y/n, I will be alright. It does not hurt too much, and before I started trying to walk to you, before Bjorn and Hvitserk found me, it had almost stopped bleeding.”

You gaped at him in amazement. “Ubbe, why did you try to walk to me yourself? It must have been terribly painful.”

He nodded. “It was. Still is. But all I wanted was your touch. That was all that mattered. Not the pain, not the battle, nothing but you.” He opened his arms to you, and you fell into his embrace with a hysterical sound somewhere between a sob and a laugh. “I love you, Y/n.”

“I love you too, Ubbe. Do not ever get hurt again, please. Promise me.” You knew it was a silly thing to ask of him, and you could feel the warm chuckle reverberating in his strong chest.

“I promise I will try my best. But only if you promise that if I do get hurt again, you will care for me.” He planted a kiss in your hair.

“I swear it by all the gods,” you promised, lifting your head from your chest to mold your lips to his. They were soft and warm below yours, wonderfully alive and inviting. He teased you gently, his tongue tracing the outline of your mouth, before you pulled away, panting a little. “I should sew up and bandage that wound before you make my hands shake.”

His eyes glinted with mischief as he looked at you. “Alright. But afterward, I fully intend on making those gentle hands of yours shake.”

Brought Back.

[ Sans x Reader ]

You were determined. Sans had done so much for you, and this was the way you decided to repay him.

You were going to bring back Gaster.

It was a ridiculous decision, one even Alphys thought was impossible, but decided to try and help you as you would not stop pestering her about it. She knew how much Gaster meant to Sans, and how much Sans meant to you. It’s not like you were busy anyway, you were given a legally required holiday of a month from your position at that the infamous library that was spelt wrong. That sound be enough to at least get it done, right?

Yes, but god damn it took up all your spare time. Often you would come home late to the Skelebros’ house (which you were gifted the spare room) and just collapse on the floor as soon as you walked in. You always woke up in your bed, which you presumed Papyrus tucked you in, the mischievous, stuck up nerd he was. However, it was the same cycle every morning, chug a cup of coffee, and would be halfway to the Hotlands before Papyrus even rose. You’d be needing another coffee by the time Sans rose, it was that late.

There was a variety of tasks that needed to be accomplished every day, such as pinning down locations of Gaster’s soul, growing a new body for him, and constructing the necessary tools and parts to merge his soul together with the new body. Needless to say, with all this continuous strain, one day you didn’t wake up in your bed, but on the couch with the skeleton brothers leaning over you.

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What Are You Doing New Year’s Eve?

The Leaky Cauldron, 31st December, 1998

A crowded pub on the thirty-first, friends and cheap drinks, rather tired-looking Christmas decorations still pinned to the wall and a soundtrack of cheesy music on the wireless barely heard over talking and laughing and the utter normality of it slays him because last year, and the year before, and six months ago, and all those who aren’t—

“Alright mate?” Ron slaps him on the back, and Harry turns and nods, and there must be something of it all written on his face, because Ron slaps his back again and says “We’re alright now,” and somehow, his best friend always knows what to say.

“Last year…” he begins, but he trails off, because he still can’t quite believe it himself.  He’s still here. So many of them are still here, and yet so many others aren’t. It still feels like a dream, or a story in a book that happened to other people.

“I know,” a voice says in his ear, and Hermione slips her hand inside his and squeezes it. She leans her head on his shoulder and he rests his own head against hers and squeezes her hand back.

“You look nice,” he offers, and she gives a tiny, genuine smile. Her dress is deep wine red, with a hint of sparkle, and completely sleeveless, meaning her scarred arms (which now match her boyfriend’s) are on display for all to see.

“Well, I know it’s nowhere near as glamorous as the outfit I saw the old year in with…” she says with a shaky laugh.

“You looked just as lovely then, too,” he says gallantly.

“You always were a terrible liar,” she replies.

“Oi, that’s supposed to be my line! Piss off, Potter, you speccy git,” Ron says, and they all laugh, shakily, again.

“There, there dear,” Hermione replies, removing her hand from Harry’s and reaching up to loop her arm around his shoulders. It’s yet another thing that’s changed this past year, but one of the few changes Harry has actively embraced. He pushes her gently in Ron’s direction, and Ron wraps his arms around her waist.

“I’m glad I had you two with me through it all,” he says.

“Friendship and bravery, eh?” Hermione asks, catching his eye.

“Something like that,” he murmurs.

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anonymous asked:

SHR Prompt : " I'm okay, you're okay, we're both okay."

Tonight, You Steer My Heart Away

Moon Lovers: Scarlet Heart Ryeo [달의 연인-보보경심 려] fanfiction

  • Post-End
  • Wang So/Hae Soo (Go Ha Jin)


The 27-year-old woman feels the weight of two lifetimes on her shoulders. The Bridge of Life questions her, “Aren’t you tired?”, and she thinks about how she feels both tired and more alive than she had felt in the past two years. She walks, looking down at the river, thinking about Goryeo waters and the waters that almost killed her. She thinks about deaths and beginnings.

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such a quiet thing, to fall; a reylo fic

title: such a quiet thing, to fall

characters: Rey, Kylo Ren

pairing: Reylo

summary: a series of meetings. Between the two of them, it is Kylo Ren who is in danger of falling.


Rey doesn’t win every time.

Injury and…other concerns had clouded Kylo Ren’s focus in their first true confrontation. When they meet again, she is stronger. Aware of her power. But he is restored, and all of her new strength is nothing against the Dark Side.

She staggers under his onslaught. He can feel her scrabbling for the Light, for calm and certainty, but there is too much fear in her now. It slips away, and he wrenches her lightsaber from her grasp with the Force, crushing it. The abrupt shift in weight throws her; she slips to one knee, and his own weapon is at her throat before she can get her feet under her again.

“The Light abandons you so easily.” His voice echoes in the void between them, mechanised. He has not made the mistake of removing his mask this time. “The Dark Side is not so fickle. I know you can feel it beckoning.

“It can wave all it likes,” she grits out. “That doesn’t mean I’m going to say hello.”

“Ah. The pointless humour. Does it really make you feel better, denying the inevitable?”

“Yes, actually.”

He regards her, through the mask and the Force. The panic rises in her chest, and her body heaves in sharp, gasping pants. And then, a thought, so loud and so clear that she might as well have thrown it right to him.

If he was going to kill me, he would have done it already.

Her lips part in revelation. The Light roars back into her, a cresting wave washing away her uncertainty. She tilts her chin up, jaw squaring.

Behind his mask, Kylo Ren smiles. She can consider that a victory all she likes. He has no interest in killing her when she might be of use.

He brings the blade of the lightsaber across her throat instead of the point as he crouches, lowering himself to her level. The shuddering plasma reflects in her eyes, making them as red as the blade.

The colour suits her.

“I haven’t been patient with you,” he admits. “That’s my fault. But it’s okay. I know now. I can wait.”

Silence, except for the judder of his weapon. She doesn’t ask what for. She knows.

Her neck arches forward, and the surge of panic running through him is primal instinctive, as he jerks the blade back from her throat. Her lips peel back, and he can’t tell if she’s grinning or growling.

Believe me. No matter how long you think you can wait, I can wait longer.” And it’s definitely a smile now, bitter and grim and something else he doesn’t know how to name. “I’ve had enough practice.”

He lets her leave, grateful for the mask that hides the twist of frustration on his face. It’s only after she’s gone that it occurs to him to wonder:

What are you waiting for now, little scavenger?

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anonymous asked:

Matty! I'm so excited for the yin yang kiss... it's going to be so awesome!

It absolutely is, anon! And also, it’ll be the 11th Olicity kiss (if you don’t count the 2x23 deleted kiss). Which means 10 glorious kisses have passed. 

The first kiss was one of the most beautiful kisses on TV.

Beautiful both in context and aesthetic. A lost man who finally finds home but cannot stay holds it, for one brief second, in the palm of his hands, literally, savoring it for when he’ll be walking alone. A woman who recognized home long ago but has to walk away from the doors that just opened for her, reveling in the press of her dreams against her lips, for lonely nights and longing days.

This kiss was the perfect embodiment of everything that they were, alone, and perfect embodiment of everything that they could be, together. The perfect first kiss. Chaste but more intimate, more soul searing than anything else.

The second kiss is a dream. 

The dream of a man who has tasted death but wants to devour life, of a man who knows regret but owns responsibilities. He dreams that she locks her lips with his, and he latches on, never letting go. A dream he sees in the darkest moments, in his loneliness - a dream she has silently seen many a times, with eyes open too. 

The third kiss is an acceptance - her acceptance of their future, her acceptance of their past, her admission of her emotions to the man who has been communicating his love for her despite knowing their limitations. 

The third kiss is a woman who recognizes the ferocity of the love she feels for him, a ferocity she can see reflected in his eyes every time she looks at him, and she finally takes charge. She kisses him, climbs him, holds him, and he holds her back, both of them knowing this is the culmination of their love but not the end. Never the end. 

The fourth kiss is Oliver taking charge, balancing the previous kiss, removing her clothes, picking her up, leading them to the bed, 

all the while breathing her in like he has never breathed before, while she hangs on to him because that’s all she can do, touching the flesh and blood man she has loved for so long but can only have now, touching his scars, his flaws, and accepting him, loving him, because of them. Because those scars make him this man, and he revels because for all his imperfections, he knows his need has never been more pure. 

The fifth kiss is a string of kisses as they finally wham bam. 

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ahsagitarius  asked:

Number 16 please and you can pick who says it! Thank you and congrats! :D

#16: You take that back right this instant.

Thank you so much for the prompt! I know there’s a lot of Underworld spec going on right now, but this is what popped into my head, so let’s just add it to the pile : )


It couldn’t actually be her. No, his Emma, his light, his love – he’d left her forever. Left her to be a good man, to save her family (his family). His love, his Swan – she was worlds apart from him. Any remnant of her was merely a figment of his memory, his imagination.

Or worse, it was a trick. He might not be in Hell – not the Dante’s Inferno kind (aye, he’d done some reading in the Land Without Magic – back when his Swan was a stubborn woman blind to her own feelings) – but it was the Underworld and he was suffering a certain level of torment.

That’s what this place was, after all. The place for lost souls to just sit ruminating on the things they lost. And nothing was worse than losing her.

So when he saw the long, flowing blonde hair, those sparkling green eyes, that red leather jacket she wore like armor, he was bloody well convinced it was a punishment. And he deserved it. He might have been a good man in the end (a hero), but he was still a man who’d killed strangers, who killed his own father, who dedicated his life to his own selfish revenge (for so many different things).

(You can have anything if you are willing to sacrifice everything else for it.)

“Killian!” the apparition called. “Killian, oh my god! You’re here! I’m so sorry, Killian. But I found you! I’m here!” She was out of breath, sweating, flushed. She seemed triumphant, which was odd for a trick by Hades.

“Please just go away,” Killian groaned. He couldn’t handle saying goodbye to her one more time, even if he knew damn well it wasn’t even real.

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