twitches violently on the ground

anonymous asked:

Sterek, 20: things you said that I wasn't meant to hear

So this didn’t go they way I expected but, I hope you like it! 

Stiles was tired and cold when he awoke. He trembled slightly as he sat upright, blinking slowly as he came to his senses. He looked around slowly, pressing a hand to his head in attempt to stop the dull throbbing.

“Hello?” Stiles called out shakily, “Dad?”

He could feel the anxiety bubbling up, ready to take hold of him at any moment. He tried to even his ragged breaths. He was in the woods, he knew that much but, how he got there, he hadn’t the foggiest. He eased himself up, using the nearby stump for support. He stood on shaky legs, and looked around frantically. His heartbeat was echoing in his ears, drowning out any sounds.

He stumbled back, tripping over a branch. He blinked harshly pressing his hands to his temples, “Derek?” He cried out.
“They won’t be able to help you,” A voice sounded through the fog in his mind, whispering hauntingly.

Stiles slammed his eyes shut, willing the voice away. When he forced himself to open his eyes, he was a dimly lit room with no windows and no doors. He was standing in front of a mirror with a jagged crack running across the middle. His lip trembled as he looked at his reflection, watching it morph into a sinister version of himself.

“Get out,” Stiles whimpered, “Get out of my head,” He begged, clenching his fists tightly.

His reflection smiled, a cruel and twisted imitation of his own, before vanishing. 

Stiles opened his eyes slowly, a strange feeling of relief washing over him when he realized  that he was still in the woods. Stiles stood once more, and started stumbling through the trees. The last thing he remembered was seeing the bobbing beam of a flashlight through the branches, and Derek’s voice calling out for him.

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Title: Berserk | Chapter Eleven

Rated: T (language/violence)

Summary: 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. When they meet it isn’t pretty at all.

Word Count: 4224

| One | Two | Three | Four | Five | Six | Seven | Eight | Nine | Ten |

*Because tumblr is garbage, nothing with an outside link shows up in the tags. Therefor, I have removed the FF link. The chapter is also now on FF, so feel free to leave a reply there or do whatever you want to do.


{i’ll ask of the Berserks, you tasters of blood}

The trees whisper amongst themselves in hushed tones, low, indistinguishable voices a hum in the silence of the night, echoing through the stillness of the forest. Their gnarled branches twist together like thorns—sharp, mangled, and bare of leaves—winding and curling overhead until the sky above is nearly blackened out by the copse of wicked spines, only thin slivers of the waning moonlight flickering through the bare trees, illuminating the thicket with pale light. A thick, rolling fog hangs low over the forest floor, twisting between the trees like ghosts and swirling around the prone figure lying in the dirt. A biting chill curls through the air, fallen leaves rustling as a breeze sweeps through the woods. The fog dampens the earth as shadows dance across the ground, the scent of rain heavy in the air.

She blinks slowly, her vision remaining blurry and unfocused as her gaze flickers around what she can see of the copse. She shifts, sending messy coils of blonde hair spilling over her shoulder and obstructing her vision as she slips in and out of focus. Blinking heavily, she stares at the trees, distorted oaks appearing as hazy figures in her vision—monsters slipping from the shadows and creeping closer with every breath.

She winces suddenly, groaning in pain as her forehead throbs, a sharp, stinging ache spreading through her entire head. Something slick slides down her temple, though she hardly notices, more interested in squinting at the shadows coming to life around her.

The trees begin to quiver, bending and leaning in every direction, almost as if they were dancing—trembling with fear of something she can’t see. Her eyes slam shut once more, and she whimpers softly as the whispering gets louder. The voices grow closer and closer as the trees begin to shake violently, the wind picking up and whipping the dead leaves across the ground until they begin to swirl around her.

Her eyes snap open wide and the forest falls silent once more. The voices disappear and the leaves still—trees standing tall around her, as if they had never been moving to begin with. Her fingers twitch suddenly—scrapping across the ground almost violently as her nails sink into the fresh earth, rain still falling around her. Her eyes narrow in bewilderment as a phantom, icy finger runs along her spine, prickling the bare skin of her back as pale moonlight dances across her naked arms and shoulders, the ghost of a breeze making her shiver.

Holding her breath, she goes stock still, not daring to move as her fingers freeze against the wet ground. She peers through the curtain of hair falling in front of her eyes, heart beating out of control. Around her is nothing but naked trees winding high into the air, dead leaves littering the ground in warped shapes—nothing else in sight. Just dying trees and the fog curling around her frozen form.

A low, mournful sound splits the air, a single note that disappears as quickly as it came. The trees shriek suddenly, the thicket taking up the violent cry, roaring like a northern beast. Another hum, soft and sad, and the trees echo again. She twists to the side, a hand curled around her throat and squeezing—choking.

“—drowned lover—”

The sound is cut off, a sob building in her throat as she recognizes her mother’s voice.

Around her the trees rattle, branches snapping together high above her head. She startles when a twig snaps in the darkness. Her mother keeps singing, and she forces herself to find the sound through the shrieking and snarling that’s built up around her.

“—come home to me.”

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anonymous asked:

Wondertrev prompt: little bit of a reverse Disney princess story, Steve didn't die but is unconscious when Diana finds him and he only wakes up when she kisses him goodbye

Day was just breaking as the battle finished. Diana looked at the German soldiers who had begun taking off their gas masks. —They are barely more than boys! she noted to herself, surprised. Certainly none of them are older than… She froze, unwilling to finish that thought, to think the name and feel her heart break again. Full of restless energy, she rolled her neck from side to side and looked the other way. There was the rest of the team: Charlie, Sameer, Chief. Refusing to say that name to herself couldn’t keep her from seeing her own grief mirrored in their eyes, from feeling the gaping hole his death left in the crew. A dry sob caught in her throat, but she forced it down. She wasn’t ready to let herself accept the truth yet. Praying to gods that were supposed to be long dead and somehow clinging to the smallest shred of hope, she took off at a dead run in the direction she’d seen the plane go.

The rhythm of her stride gave her something to focus on besides the memories that swirled in her head. Pain, and a ringing in her ears. Strong hands under her elbow, helping her to her feet. Clear blue eyes filled with worry. Those same hands, now gentle as they caressed her face. A watch, pressed into her own hands. Haunting last words: “I wish we had more time. I love you.” She ran harder, trying to drown her thoughts in the sound of her feet pounding against the ground, wishing she could have run after him and kept him from sacrificing himself. Soon, she slowed her pace. Here was a bent metal bar, there a piece of wing torn in two. This must be the plane’s debris field.

She was entering the outskirts of what must have been a forest before the artillery of both armies had ripped the life from the earth. Scattered about were the remains of once-mighty trees. She looked at the trunks, blasted and twisted into grotesque shapes, and felt that they were a fitting memorial to this horrible war mankind had brought upon the earth. As she surveyed the trees, she saw in the distance something that made her heart begin to race. A shredded mess of cloth and cord hung tangled in the branches of one of the larger trees, fluttering listlessly in the early morning wind. She didn’t know what it was, but it was something. Her feet were suddenly moving of their own accord, carrying her at a dead sprint through the eerie forest graveyard to get a better look. She was still a few yards from the tree when she pulled up sharply, skidding to a halt. Her heart stopped. At the base of the tree lay a figure with tousled hair, facedown in the mud.

For a few moments Diana couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. This could only be one person, but it could not be! —Did I not see the explosion with my own eyes? She thought wildly. —That is something no man could survive! Her train of thought halted abruptly. She didn’t actually know if he still was alive. In a rush of motion she was at his side. His clothing was shredded, and with all of his cuts and burns he didn’t look much better than the rags that clung to him. He seemed to be wearing the remains of some sort of pack on his back; her brain registered this without comprehending as she hooked both hands around one arm and rolled him over. The arm flopped limply into the mud. His eyes remained closed. His chest did not rise or fall. Diana reached one tentative hand toward his face, as unsure as the day she had dragged him out of the waters of Themiscyra. This time, though, he made no movement in response to her touch, and something inside Diana shattered all over again.

The boys later told her that they’d heard her first anguished cry from the airfield, well over two miles away. They also said they’d seen a solitary flash of lightning, heard a single clap of thunder, before the world returned to quiet. She could barely remember it. The lightning bolt had struck her directly, and it seemed to fill rather than harm her. It was as though Zeus himself reached down to be with his daughter in her time of mourning. She had no idea how long she knelt by his side, overcome by this fresh loss. No tears came. She was beyond tears. Instead, brimming with the power of the gods, she shrieked her wordless pain and rage into the morning stillness. As the waves of grief slowly began to subside, she looked down at the man she had grown to love. His face was just as burned and bloody as the rest of him, but he seemed to be at peace. A smile tugged at her lips despite her grief, and she reached out to sweep aside that one lock of hair that was forever falling into his eyes. At least now she would get to say goodbye. She slipped one hand tenderly under his head, and brought her lips to his in a final farewell.

She’d forgotten that she was still filled with the power of Zeus’s thunderbolt. She felt the energy course into his body and dissipate into the ground. Steve gave one violent twitch, and then was still. Diana recoiled sharply, dropping his head back into the muck. She was quite certain that mortal bodies were not designed to house the power wielded by the king of the gods. Then, she saw something that made her heart jump into her throat: a flicker of movement under his eyelids. She reached toward him a third time, trembling, and pressed her hand to the skin just under his jaw. Beneath her fingers she felt a pulse, strong and steady. His chest was now rising and falling rhythmically. He was alive! And Diana wept.

———

The first thing that registered for Steve was pain. He hurt everywhere. —I suppose that’s to be expected when you blow up a whole goddamn bomber, he thought, chuckling darkly to himself. As he processed his own thought, the next thing to hit him was confusion. He blew up a plane packed with explosives. With himself in it! He definitely should not be alive. He remembered making his peace with his demons as the plane climbed into the sky. He also remembered seeing a large pack hanging on the cockpit wall, and guessing it was a parachute. The Allies didn’t believe they were effective but the Germans had started equipping their own planes with the things. He didn’t know what had made him slip it onto his back before he pulled the trigger—he knew he was going to die in the blast—but he did anyway. Lucky for him. He couldn’t remember anything after the explosion. He supposed he must have been thrown straight out of the windshield by the blast of air that would have preceded the fireball in such a confined space. He must have stayed conscious or come to consciousness long enough to pull the chute’s rip cord, and now here he was.

In the seconds it took for all of this to flash through his brain, he became aware of a third sensation: weight, pressing on his chest. And…crying? He struggled to open his eyes—one seemed to be swollen shut—and there she was. Diana, daughter of Hippolyta, princess of Themiscyra, defender of the helpless, was curled up on his chest, sobbing.

“Hey, hey…” he murmured. Every inch of him hurt—he felt like he’d been run over by a freight train and could only imagine how bad his wounds were—but he still gingerly lifted one hand to sweep her hair behind her ear and press tenderly into her cheek.

“You’re alive,” she crooned between sobs. “You’re alive, you’re alive, you’re alive.”

“I’m alive,” he agreed, and he held her.

———

Eventually Diana’s tears slowed and Steve recovered enough strength to sit up, laboriously and with much help, and lean against the tree. Diana kept reaching out to touch him with gentle fingers—his face, his shoulder, his hand—as if she was afraid that he might disappear if she couldn’t feel him. She avoided the worst of his injuries, and he reveled in the sensation of her cool fingers against his skin.

“That’s the second time you’ve saved my life,” he murmured. He was sure she had played some role in his miraculous survival. “Thank you.”

“I thought you were dead,” she replied. “I found you here. You were not moving, not breathing.”

His brow furrowed sharply. “Then how…?” She told him how she had been filled with lightning as she’d kissed him, and how it had traveled through his body and somehow revived him. His chuckle as she finished trailed off into a wheeze of pain, but his good eye was still dancing.

“What? I do not understand what is so funny!”

He smiled. “We have a fairy tale, in this world, of a princess who falls asleep in an enchanted castle and can only be woken by true love’s kiss from her prince.”

“Does that make me your prince?” Her eyes sparkled wickedly. Diana had seen enough of the world of men to understand the humor in the gender reversal.

“It does. And I believe—” his good eye, impossibly blue, was suddenly scorching as he continued very deliberately. “I believe that also makes you my true love.”

Her breath caught in her chest. There was one thing she hadn’t gotten the chance to say to him before he’d run off towards that plane. “I love you, Steve Trevor.” And for the second time that day, impossibly, she was cupping the back of his head, drawing his face toward hers. She brushed his lips with the lightest of kisses, cautious of his many injuries. When she opened her eyes she found him surveying her from close range with an intensity that sent delicious shivers up her spine.

“What is it?” she murmured.

He smiled. “How would you like to get breakfast?”

And she knew exactly what he meant.

No Time For Regret

A JayDick Oneshot

Rated T for Threats of violence and rape and character death.

In all honesty, maybe sending the Red Hood out on the streets while the Joker was at large was probably not Bruce’s brightest idea. Yet, his resources were spread thin and there was little h could do with so few people available. Robin was out of commission for the next week with an ankle injury and Red Robin was out on a mission with the Titans. Nightwing and Batgirl were still facing off with Poison Ivy and with Batman on League business, the team was pulled thin and Batman did what he had to do. He had called Jason, the familiar weight settling on his chest as he told him the situation. Jason could do this.

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