whispered rumor

You find out that your touch can heal people of all kinds of ailments from wounds, to sickness, to allergies, to poisons and the like. So you spend years helping those that come to you, from the paupers to the kings, and you always succeed. But then one day a woman from a far away village comes to you with her child. They have traveled for months to see you on a mere whisper of a rumor of you because you’re her last hope to heal her child. You do as you always do and reach out to the child to touch them on their arm. Your hand burns like it’s suddenly touching hot metal.

I think the most unbearably hard fact to wrap one’s head around was how unbelievably efficient the robots were, even the low-tier models, at everything. It was a kind of super-power really, one that we humans would have been capable of, had we not propped up profit and rivalry and short-lived highs and human emotional nonsense over simply getting something done. Efficiency, I hold, even now, was the robots primary and ultimate weapon that they used against us.

In the early stages, in the first era of whispers and rumors, they used to say that a single Gen 5.0 could erect an autonomous factory capable of producing another thousand Gen 5.0s in just eight hours. I called bullshit on that then, but now? I think that was an understatement.

I saw it for myself, back before things really heated up, when we were in one of our many cease fires with them, down in rural Iowa where I was working on some (retrospectively) negligible human-interest story about the new designer drug epidemic. So anyway, one day this Gen 3.5 drone model, the latest at the time, crash lands in some cornfield a couple miles from the small town I was reporting out of. A couple townspeople and myself went to check it out; when we get there, we find that its wings are badly damaged, it’s leaking rotor oil, and worst of all, its solar panels are mangled and its battery was at around five percent capacity. But this thing gets up, crawls and hobbles into this scrapyard on the edge of town and just starts pounding the ground and beeping like crazy. I don’t know what it was doing at the time, but if I had to guess it was sensing, surveying. Some sort of sonar, GPS, echolocation, carbon-dating, radar cocktail of reconnaissance that enabled it to know exactly where everything was in this dump, because we watched (and a big crowd had gathered by this point) as it pinpointed the scraps of material it needed to do triage on itself.

Thirty minutes later, this three-point-five was flying again, and forty minutes later it looked like it was fresh off the factory floor - the thing had even managed to find some silver paint and given itself a brand new metallic coat. Why? I had no idea. You can argue that the paint-job wasn’t being truly efficient, but hey, those early models loved being uniform, indistinguishably exact.

We kept watching this thing fly and drop around the junkyard, over and over, its anterior claws periodically snatching something up from the ground like a ravenous hawk, its whirring wing-blades sometimes swooping frightening close to the crowd.

The sun was setting by this point. It was near winter and getting chilly. Probably three-fourths of the group had gone back home, ready to tell their neighbors and kids about what they’d seen at the junkyard that day, that some robot had repaired itself in the span of an hour. But they were missing the whole story by leaving early. It was now past the point of repairs. It was building. 

The first moment I knew what was going on was when the set of four blinking red lights in the dusk sky had grown to eight. At first some thought it had merely turned on some duplicate lighting, but then the two sets of four had separated and begun hovering in different directions. Some argued that it had simply called for reinforcements, maybe from the depot outside Cedar Rapids, but I knew the second one was birthed right there before our very eyes.

Shaken out of thought by an unforgiving howl in the wind, I noticed the sound of blades slapping the night air had grown, now seemingly fiercer, more nefarious and aggressive. The two sets of lights rose in altitude, then at once as if prompted by a maestro’s cue, dived down upon us with a sort of calculated recklessness that sent shivers down my entire body. Frantic, seeing and feeling the blades charging down at us, the crowd scattered in a dozen directions, screaming either due to fear or the pain of being trampled half to death by their neighbors.

It was warfare, pure terror, and ceasefire or not, I wouldn’t stand for it. Maybe it was the reporter in me, maybe it was the thrill-seeker, but I dug in my heels and peered up at the coming attack. Still, my instincts forced me to bring my arms up to my head and close my eyes, bracing for the impact. But it did not come. When I regained my composure, I peeled back my eyelids to a now blank sky, devoid of machine.

Was it a warning? I didn’t know. I don’t know. I’d wager it was a show. A show of might, a show of power, a show of capability. Regardless of what it was, I decided that night that our species paled in comparison to theirs. And as I walked back alone to the pitiful shanty town that humans had produced in probably fifty-years time, filled with drug users and cowering farmers, I couldn’t help but wish I was on the other side of the impending war.

Less, by Andrew Sean Greer

What a soft-hearted bastard of a novel.

It’s the story of a failed — failing — novelist about to turn fifty. His long-time lover is marrying someone else, and he’s been invited to the wedding. To avoid the whispers and rumors that would abound, he takes the only course of action he can imagine: accepting every literary invitation he’s been putting off, a journey that will take him around the globe and well away from the wedding of the man he loved. Loves.

It had me from the first page, and I’m not even precisely sure why. The prose is wonderful, to be sure. Playful, rollicking, sly, observant. The main character, the anxious and vain Arthur Less, is boyish and gentle and smart and I adore him. The narrator (whose identity I guessed with increasing hope and anticipation as the pages went on) guides us skillfully through present events and past ones, uncovering the parts of Less that need to become More in order to find happiness. The settings —San Francisco, New York, France, India, Japan — are wondrously and precisely evoked. Side characters caper in with delicious specificity and purpose, both thematic and human. Is one of those aspects what I loved? Is all of them what I loved?

I actually think I loved it because of what it believes. There’s a line in the book — I had to fetch it to quote it exactly — that I think is what the book says on every page:

“Just for the record: happiness is not bullshit.”

That belief in happiness and love is what makes this novel a comfort read. Every character is desperately flawed and every setting has a rainy day and every relationship is complicated, but its over-arching naive and wavering pursuit of happiness is what made this book feel like something I wanted to curl up in for a long time.

I’ll be rereading this one many times.


// Suree

Ren-senpai is a very popular student. He gets along with almost everyone, thus gaining him a large following. There’s even a fan club dedicated to him somewhere in the school… He is the president of the cooking club and secretary of the “MB” club.

Lawrence-senpai is popular as well, despite his sulky demeanor. A lot of the male students are jealous of his popularity (saying things like, ”How can a guy like him be so popular?” “He’s so weird…”). He is the president of the gardening club and the treasurer of the “MB” club.

The Ways We Say I Love You

(based loosely off of this beautiful piece of art by UpTheHill)

In the mornings, the sun rays hitting your pale skin, the way you’d slowly saunter towards me, bending over and observing me, as if you were trying to remember every possible detail as quickly as you can. You think I’m asleep, but I’m not. I see the little flutters of your eyelashes, the small little freckle on your face that you always try to glamour before going out, the way your pale blonde hair sticks out in a very un-Malfoy-ish fashion after you’ve just woken up. The way you’d slowly maneuver your lips over mine, straddling my hips, ghosting your warm lips over mine as you whisper silently, “Time to wake up sleepyhead.” The way you’d threaten me, while smiling lightly, to hit me with the pillow you held in your hands if I didn’t get up soon. The way I’d flip you over and you’d start giggling as if it was the funniest thing ever as I’d pin you down and kiss you. The way you’d lead me slowly into the kitchen, your sweatpants hanging low on your hips, giving me a glimpse of last night’s adventure. The way you’d sit me down on the breakfast counter, giving me pancakes and a warm cup of coffee. The way you’d giggle over the useless things I’d tell you as we sat there, submerging ourselves in the worlds in each other’s eyes. The way you’d play with my fingers, tracing the small calluses on my hand and the scars from school, nodding along to my half-hearted explanations as our hearts beat in sync. The way you make my heart flutter just by looking at me, the way your breath hitches when you see me enter a room. 

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BTS scenario (Hogwarts!AU) → falling for a Slytherin!Reader.

pairing: bts x slytherin!reader
fandom: bts
warnings: non idol!au ; hogwarts!au ; mentions of sex ; bullying
genre: fluff ; angst ; mentions of smut

a/n: aaand the last of the houses! hope you enjoy the slytherin part! ♥ @fangirltopic , thank you for the request hun!

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pallette 79

(I’ve started a little “series” thing. I’ve got ideas for all of the Potter-Malfoy kids and I’ll be releasing drawings and headcanons of them. I hope you enjoy!! I’d advise that you go look at the other kid’s stuff to avoid confusion)

The next of the Potter-Malfoy kids I’d like to introduce you to is Eltanin

  • It was May of 2006, and Eudora was about 4-5 months along with Alsafi when Harry opened the front door to find a baby snoozing on his doorstep. 
  • The baby looked newly born, with tufts of hair on his head, two patches of which, Harry noticed, were bright white.
  • With the shock of it all, Harry dropped a quite heavy bag he had been planning to bring with him to work
  • It made a loud thunk right next to the baby + harry just winced expecting to hear shrieks of crying
  • but the baby was silent
  • Harry ofc immediately hurried him inside to make sure he was warm and alive with no obvious problems.
  • and that’s when the baby began to wail 
  • It’s crying echoed through the house, loud enough to wake up the whole house. (8 y/o Teddy, 4 y/o twins, 2 y/o Cassiopeia and of course, nearly 26 y/o Draco)
  • Harry wasn’t able to quiet the baby + was v scared that perhaps the baby was in pain or had some sort of medical issue.
  • So, Draco stumbles down stairs + before he sees the baby he’s yawning and asking why Cassiopeia is shrieking that loudly 
  • … and then he freezes. that baby is not Cassiopeia. He’s much smaller, and much darker. 
  • he’s only frozen for a grand total of 2 seconds before he starts to freak out
  • + for just a hot, terrifying second, Draco looks around expecting to find Eudora. But no, this wasn’t their baby, Alsafi. It was too big to be so premature.
  • Harry , still trying to rock the baby attempts to calmly explain that no, he did not steal a baby
  •  In the wee hours of this morning, Draco + Harry are running around trying to figure out what to do.
  • They finally get the baby to quiet down in Draco’s arms, while Harry sits across from him. 
  • Draco’s looking down at the boy and with a jolt, sees that his eyes are open. and he just kind of… gaps down at him. 
  • “…harry… his eyes… one’s- one’s bright blue.” He just whispers distractedly and bit concerned. 
  • He generally wouldn’t be concerned about Heterochromia, but the fact that this boy did not seem to be able to genetically have any shade of blue eyes worried him 
  • perhaps he had been cursed and left to them?
  • Harry comes over too and stares down at the infant. Something is itching at the back of brain
  •  “We have to take him to St. Mungo’s don’t we?” 
  • So they send a fire message to Molly to come watch the kids while before flooing over to St. Mungos.
  • Mediwitches take the boy and inspect him, all while Draco and Harry wait in another room, anxious.
  • They’re eventually told that the boy is a newborn and looks to have “Moderate Sedendum Syndrome” which the muggles call “Type II Waardenburg Syndrome.”
  • The boy is permanently deaf and has pigmentation issues. The only major concern is that they need to watch him for Kidney and Pulmonary Artery Abnormalities, but he should be fine. 
  • The mediwitch also shows them that a boy had been written on on his stomach, leaving a message that his parents did not want him because of his condition (in which, they thought it a curse) and that they left it with Draco and Harry because they’re “collecting kids anyway? What’s one more?”
  • This message later leaves Hermione to make the note that the baby’s parents are probably purebloods, as they didn’t think it could be a mundane defect
  • Harry gently scrubs it off with his own hands, feeling a bit angry and protective over the boy already 
  • Then starts the long and complicated meetings with the Social work department of the Ministry. + the long conversations over whether or not they should keep the boy, especially with a son already on the way.
  • They end up deciding to send him to the “international foster home” I mentioned before bc two newborn babies to take care of in the span of 5 months didn’t seem like something they could realistically handle with all their children.
  • but that night neither of them can sleep, and in their guts it just feels right to take the boy in. because over all the time trying to figure out what to do with him, they had both been thinking about things like names, and what his room would look like and whether Anita would share with him or not. What house he would be in. What kind of magic he would do.
  • So they take him (bc shit, their first children were twins, they could do this) and name him Eltanin (Lucius). and get him fitted for hearing aids (cute little ones with nifflers on them) 
  • They begin to teach the other kids sign language immediately, learning themselves constantly, so that by the time Eltanin is 6 months old, they can start working with him on it. 
  • they also try to anticipate his future life, Hogwarts and beyond that. 
  • they meet with lots of people. deaf wizards and muggles as well as parents of deaf wizards and muggles. speech therapists. doctors. specialists. anyone who can give them a full view. (one of these people happen to be Theodore Nott, who had recently had a son who was born with profound hearing loss)
  • They had a few main questions: Should they encourage him to learn to speak and sign at the same time? Can he even learn to speak with profound hearing loss? Should he get a cochlear implant or not? Should he not go to Hogwarts and instead go to a school for the deaf, where he could feel more culturally intact? 
  • In short, it all boils down to, how much will his deafness affect his life?
  • They decide to go ahead with a witch speech therapist, specifically trained to deal with children with profound hearing loss. 
  • They want him to learn to speak and sign, but were advised not to invest in a cochlear implant, because Eltanin may not want it in the future. He could go to Hogwarts, but should probably have regular contact with other deaf wizards. Which means lots of playdates with Hyacinthus Nott.
  • he’s not a crier, or a complainer, or a tantrum thrower.
  • He’ll cry if he needs something and stops when he gets it. If he falls, he asks for a bandaid and moves on. If he’s upset he hides it.
  • As Eltanin gets older this concerns Harry greatly. He begins to tell Eltanin when he’s 5 that he can come to Harry if he’s upset. That he won’t be mad or judge him if that’s what he’s worried about. That it’s okay to be upset, it’s okay to show that sometimes, even if they aren’t your shining and most proud moments.
  • But Eltanin is happy kid. He’s very bubbly and one that jokes around a lot
  • but he’s also sassy. Like.. too sassy for his own good. He’s a back talker and frequent sarcasm user. (He signs sarcastically, I mean. no one even knows how he manages it) 
  • He insists on continuing the whole “niffler hearing aids” thing for his entire life bc this boy is obsessed with extremely random things
  • He loves nifflers, finds them fascinating. and the Goblin Rebellions? Don’t even get him started. He also likes Korean Wizard rock bands that Harry constantly dad jokes him about
  • Though he and Alsafi are only 7 months apart, they end up going into separate years bc of the August cut off and Eltanin never lets him forget it. “I am your older brother, therefore my clear authority over you dictates that…”
  • He gets to Hogwarts and the hat takes a very long time to decide. Is he a Gryffindor or is he Ravenclaw or …”Slytherin!” 
  • Eltanin was well liked by his housemates, who immediately learned sign language for him. Even the Slytherins who didn’t know Eltanin learned to sign
  • It eventually got to the point of being a tradition in the Slytherin house, which was upheld for many decades past Eltanin being there.
  • (Around 12 Eltanin’s hair turned completely white, which his housemates thought was super cool.)
  • Everything seemed amazing for Eltanin and the other kids but, at this point people started to talk. 
  • Those who went through the war and knew what Draco Malfoy did. Those who were so anti-dark wizard that they couldn’t believe- didn’t believe - that Harry Potter, savior of the wizarding world, could really marry Draco Malfoy of his own free will, in his right mind. and on the other hand, why would Draco Malfoy want to marry and have kids with Harry Potter anyway? Not to mention, they were turning out mostly Slytherin children…
  • It was still only whispers and rumors and conspiracy, still things whispered behind hands and laughed at by most. The kids were teased sometimes, something Teddy always put a stop to.
  • .. until about a year later when Rita Skeeter released a 962 page book. “Draco Malfoy’s Dark Secret” 
  • It outlined (with plenty of extremely convincing evidence) how Draco is continually slipping Harry love potions in order to trap him, and is now taking in children to brainwash and turn into soldiers, “or worse, experiment on”. It painted Harry as a tragic victim and their kids as possibly dangerous.
  • To the general public this accusation seemed extremely far fetched and completely silly. Some saying it “worthy of the Lovegoods” until they read it.
  • When Draco and Harry got a copy in their hands, they were sure that if they hadn’t been them, they would have a hard time not believing this theory, with all the evidence they’d no idea how Rita acquired. 
  • Ron even half believed it. Harry caught him checking a mug of coffee Draco had made for him, and tried to ask Harry if he was sure of what was going on. 
  • Harry had just snatched the drink away and gulped it down, looking Ron straight in the eye and refusing to speak to him for days. 
  • It was the kids who took the brunt of it really. Teddy had graduated and the Slytherins were the only ones who took up for them.
  • It got so bad that Sirius ended up taking refuge, sleeping in turns in her sibling’s beds and studying between breaks in the Slytherin common room. 
  • It began to be a normal sight to see red and gold Sirius sitting in their common room.
  • Rita’s book was even banned in Hogwarts in an attempt to help the kids.
  • Harry and Draco had to keep holed up inside, with Ginny bringing the necessities.
  • It was interestingly Neville who came to the aid of Harry. With the help of Luna and Hannah, he put together a book with interviews, pictures and stories from anyone who knew Harry and Draco well.
  •  Rolf, Hermione, Ron, Dean, Seamus, Pavarti and Padma, all the Weasleys, Dennis Creevey, Eltanin’s speech therapist, Narcissa and Lucius, Andromeda, Hagrid, Professors Mcgonagall, Sprout, Slughorn and Flitwick, Eleanora, various Mediwitches and healers. Mrs Figg, Cho Chang, Viktor Krum, Gabrielle Delacor, and even Blaise, Pansy, Theodore and their spouses showed up to help. 
  • The book was exactly 963 pages and was simply labeled “the Truth About the Potter-Malfoy Family” 
  • It didn’t exactly cause the Potter-Malfoys to be considered a group angels, but it did finally quiet the craziness Rita had started.
  • Eltanin had a relatively normal Hogwarts-career after that fiasco.
  • He’s the only of the kids that didn’t play quidditch, but you bet your ass he was out there with their names on hid forehead whenever they played.
  • Eltanin is a fantastic Potioneer
  • He ended up going by “Malfoy” 
  • + after being told about their parents as students, he and Alsafi jokingly sneered “Potter” “Malfoy” at each other whenever they passed


Lab safety

So one time in science class we were doing the usual mini-unit on lab safety and my science teacher wanted to make a point to us be safe in the lab. I had heard whispered rumors and theories about what she was planning, but no one had the same answer. I get to class and she starts the lesson. Part of the lesson is as follows: “If you knock something over or spill something, tell me immediately! Because if you don’t, you could accidentally do something like THIS!” and she set her desk on fire. On purpose. She put it out safely, no one was hurt, and she still has her job (thank goodness).

Little Lion Man


There are no bargains between Lions and men. I will kill you, and eat your flesh raw.’

Lance jolted awake, hands shaking. He reached up, cupping his throat, the ghosts of fights past burning into his skin. It wasn’t dawn yet, in Cuba. Meaning that Keith was probably up all the way in Texas, planning out a cryptid hunting session. Pidge was probably helping him, tucked away in their bed in San Francisco, not even considering it late. Hunk was probably tucked away safe in bed in Missouri. Allura was probably getting ready to face another day at her preparatory school in Eastern England. Shiro was probably just getting back from work. He hated three am with a passion.

He hated it even more, remembering the bone chilling dream he had just experienced. War and Violence. An Ancient kind. It was sunny, sticky, hot. So much like Cuba, but Lance hadn’t recognized where he was. Only that the roaming green hills were interrupted by a great stone wall, a fortress that he hated with a passion for no reason in particular. He didn’t realize what was happening around him until he charged forward wearing someone else’s armor. He felt like the armor was important. As if the person it belonged to was important.

He didn’t know why he felt like he loved the person the armor belonged too. That they were lovers, bonded in a way no one else could understand.

The dream had shifted suddenly, and Lance was on his knees, a man he had never seen before had a death grip on his throat, spear pointed  directly at the weak link in his lovers armor. The man was strikingly beautiful and Lance could hear his thoughts whisper of rumors of the man being a son of Zeus. His long flowing white hair, some how well kept despite the war. Dream Lance had opened his mouth to speak, ‘Please. Let me go. He will kill you if you kill me.’

The man had grinned, ‘Sorry, Lance, but there are no bargains between lions and men.’

And then the man had driven a spear through Lances heart. But that wasn’t the end of the dream. Flash and Flashes of things. Then, amongst the darkness, a voice he knew to be his lovers spoke up, ‘He is dead- the best of the Greeks. I will join him once Lotor is dead.’

‘My son,’ a colder voice had spoken, almost not mortal, ‘if you kill Lotor, the fates prophesied your death. I cannot protect you against them.’


A flash and the scene had changed, and a man he knew was his lover, tall and broad and perfectly handsome but withering away in his despair at Lance’s death stood, Pike ready at the pinned down Lotor. Lotor squirmed, ‘Please, spare me, I have a child!’

‘There are no bargains between Lions and men. I will kill you, and eat your flesh raw.’

And then Lance woke up, the sharp feeling of dread encompassing his bones. He glanced around the room, noticing the window open towards the beach. His phone was silent, no one was on tumblr or discord at this time of night. Not even Shiro, who was most likely getting off of work at the moment. Lance studied the perfect silence, dread encompassing his senses. What was that dream?

Why the hell had he dreamed his own death?

And more, why the hell did he feel a sense of dread creep into his bones at the idea of the man in the dream- his lover, he recalled- killing Lotor. This kind of dread wasn’t exactly normal. It was the kind that seeped into everything and killed him slowly. He gnawed on his bottom lip, anxiety filling his senses.

Best of Greeks. That’s what his lover had called him.

It didn’t make sense, Lance was Cuban and had zero traces of Greek in him at all. The closest thing he had to a Greek experience was watching his Abuelita’s old copy of Mama Mia when he was younger. He shivered, a gust of cold air rushing through his room, strange for the night. A sense of discomfort took hold of him again.

He didn’t feel like he was alone.

‘There are no bargains between Lions and men. I will kill you, and eat your flesh raw.’

That’s what his lover had said in the dream. That’s what ended the dream with the stark sense of dread that it was all over. That Lance had nothing to live for. And maybe he didn’t, in that dream. But it felt as if Lance had lost a part of his heart in that dream, a part he didn’t know he had.

What was that?

He tried to focus, remember what his lover had looked like in the dream. He had been strong. Muscular. Body carved from years of training. His hair was jet black, and tumbled to his shoulders and stopped. His eyes were a shade of blue so alive, it was purple. His face… he had a scar on his left cheek an injury Lance remembered fussing over.


Why the fuck did he remember fussing over an injury that happened to be on  a man in a dream? Why did he remember it so clearly, the smell of grass, the sweet taste of figs- the call to the medical tent, Keith sitting their blood pooling down his face, a wicked grin etched into his mouth. But his eyes had told him that he was just glad to see Lance.

Keith. Why was the man in his dream a more chiseled, older Keith? Why could he picture the life they had in that time? The figs, the mountain with Chiron, the house for boys, the blood Lance had held on his hands. The soft touches underneath the stars. The soft kisses in the cave. The figs. The war. The dread he had experienced when he realized that he had to go. The heart pounding fear he had held when Keith demanded that he go with him.

The war, the battles, Lance’s time as a healer, Keith coming back from a meeting claiming he wouldn’t fight anymore. Lance slipping on his armor, promising Keith he would return. How he rallied the troops Keith had commanded. How Lotor’s spear felt.

‘There are no bargains between Lions and men. I will kill you, and eat your flesh raw.’

He needed to talk to Keith.

His phone screen lit up in the darkness. Caller ID showed Keith. He answered it, his voice surprising himself, “Achilles?”

“Patroclus.” Keith’s voice was weighted with a burden Lance had never heard in it before.

Lance blinked. He had no clue what was going on. He opened his mouth, but his words weren’t his own, “You killed Hector.”

“I did.” Keith’s words weren’t Keith, and Lance could tell that, “He killed you.”

“I know. I told him you would kill him. He told me that there were no bargains between Lions and Men.”

“Funny. I told him the same.”

And just like that it was over, the haze that had controlled his voice the entire conversation. The other line picked up a shaky breath. Lance surprised himself, “What just happened?”

“I’m not sure.” Keith’s voice was so much more like Keith, it put Lance at a relaxed state for a moment.

“I had a dream, Keith.”

“So did I.”

“Do you think…?”

Keith sighed, “I think  it was most likely the same one or similar.”

“What does this mean.”

“I don’t,” Keith hesitated, “I don’t know. We shouldn’t dwell on it- we can figure it out tomorrow okay?”


And just like that the call was over, leaving more questions than answers. Lance got the feeling Keith knew what was going on, but he didn’t know himself if he should trust that. Achilles. He had called Keith Achilles. And Keith had called him Patroclus. But who was Hector? Who was the Lotor guy in the dream?

He closed his eyes, sleep over taking him. Lotor’s words in the dream rang out to him,

‘There are no bargains between Lions and men.’


The villagers whispered about her often.

She was a strange woman, she lived by herself far off from the village of Nag’s Rock and deeper in the forest. They knew very little about her besides her name and the rumors that whispered around her like a winter wind. Her name was Y/N. And they said that she was a witch.

People whispered about the black cat that had shown up as soon as she had, the one that roamed about and seemed to vanish whenever you blinked. Some saw it peaking through windows, swearing that it had been watching them. They traded stories about the strange colored smoke that billowed above her home, emerald green or bright violet or tulip pink, wondering what she was doing in that little cottage.

One child said that candles always glimmered in her window, like flickering stars.

An elderly woman noticed the shadows dancing around her home, like the creatures from the old stories.

The shop-keep mentioned the strange things she ordered and the even stranger man who picked them up.

The cloaked man would come in the night and vanish right after, the darkness concealing his features. They said he was her slave, forced by dark magic to do her bidding.

Well, he thought that “forced” was a rather harsh word. And though their love was magical, it was certainly no spell.

“I’m back.”

Enduring stepped into the cottage, forced to lean low through the door lest he knock his horns against the door frame. The tiefling’s hooves clunked against the floors, his red skin looking even redder and warmer in the firelight. She looked warm too, his darling Y/N. She stood in front of the cauldron, stirring careful as she read from a big black book. With his heavy (and enchanted) cloak hung up and away, Enduring stepped forward, pulling his lover into his arms.

“Oh! You are cold!” She said, quickly kissing both of his cheeks.

He laughed, happily accepting her warm lips on his chilled skin. He kissed her too, freezing lips pressing to her sweet, warm ones.

“It’s freezing out there. But I brought what we needed.” He said, his deep voice rumbling in his chest.

Together, they looked through the bag of herbs, discussing what to do with what and what to save or something else. They sat together in the little window seat, Enduring pressed into Y/N’s side. His long tail curled around her waist, keeping her close to his side as he often did. It was a little gesture of affection that Enduring often showed, though he didn’t always realize that he was doing it. It was just a little thing he often did.

“Alright, I think we just…”

The couple soon found themselves leaning over the cauldron, whispering quietly. Y/N stirred in a few herbs, adding a drop or two from a green vial as well. There was a loud pop, the liquid in the cauldron turning bright green.


Y/N dipped a large mason jar in, filling it half way.

“That should keep the garden safe and warm through the winter.”

Enduring grinned, sharp teeth flashing in the firelight as his arms wrapped around his lover. Pulling her close, he could feel her heart beating against his. It was a wonderful feeling, his very favorite. His tail curled around her waist, holding her tight and close.

“What about me, darling?” He whispered.

Y/N laughed, turning in his embrace and wrapping her arms around his shoulders.

“You have me to keep you warm.” She replied sweetly.

The villagers whispered about her often.

They told stories about her to their children, fairy-tale like stories about her wicked ways and what she might do to them if they were naughty. In reality, no one was really sure if Y/N was a witch at all. No one knew who her companion was or if the cat was hers. They were just stories after all.

But no story was as sweet and as wonderful as the truth.

Kingsman 2 Gothic
  • there are whispers of a trailer, rumors that fly thick and fast. everyone knows its content. no one has seen it. it has become legend.
  • merlin was gay. was? is. halle berry looms over your shoulder and adjusts her glasses. was.
  • none of the kingsmen know how to dress. oxfords not brogues was all an illusion. there is only plaid, denim, and bright orange.
  • harry hart is in the sequel. colin firth was never notified. nobody knows who played him.
  • you think roxy existed. you rewatch secret service. she is not there.

steve harrington x reader

summary: he was such a staple piece in your life, that as a child and young teen, you never saw your life without him. late night promises and pinky swears were made in blanket forts that you two would be friends until the day the sun burned out in the sky. it was just a given that’d he be there, that you never worried about the two of you drifting apart or being separated. he promised he’d always be there, and you had believed him. you now corrected yourself, foolishly believed him.

word count: 4.3k

a/n: sorry for the wait! hopefully chapter vii won’t take as long. enjoy and feedback is greatly appreciated!

chapter i / ii / iii / iv / v / vii / viii

                                                        chapter vi

You had been right, after the first day back, it had gotten easier. The rumors and whisperings had stopped. Though, the prying eyes that watched yours and Steve’s every move did not, so you both still sat in his car to eat lunch. You weren’t complaining, sitting with Steve and rambling on about this or that was a nice contrast to sitting in sullen silence like you had with Jonathan. He had yet to speak with you since the day of the party, but you were refusing to let yourself think about it. Just like when Steve had left, you threw all your attention to Jonathan, so now that he had deserted you, all of your attention fell to Steve.

And Steve Harrington couldn’t have been happier.

Keep reading

anonymous asked:

i was wondering if you could do a pt. 3 on the king!bakugou scenarios? 🙊 where reader is getting married to bakugou and is going to beside him at the throne?

HAHAAA oh my god you guys love that AU so much. I…really did enjoy writing it so yeah sure LETS HAVE A WEDDING!!

Part 1

Part 2

Originally posted by niehuaisang

The months after your King’s unplanned announcement of your formerly secret relationship passed quicker than you expected. Your role within the castle remained the same - attending formal meetings, taking extensive notes on boring subjects, and overall making sure the inner workings of the castle and kingdom ran smoothly outside of Bakugou’s own responsibilities. 

The main difference now was that you no longer had to tiptoe around in the silent shadows of the night as he invited you into his chambers; instead you woke to the smell of burnt caramel and polished wood and silk sheets, wrapped tightly in his arms as the sun crept up slowly through the large bay window overlooking the kingdom. You couldn’t help but smile. 

Although most within the kingdom came to accept your revealed relationship, others blatantly accused you of gaining his favor in order to steal power for yourself, or admonished the King for choosing someone as “lowly” and “unrefined” as yourself. You didn’t come from nobility, but Bakugou was even farther removed from that lifestyle than yourself considering his upbringing among dragonfolk, far away from the constraints and laws governed by most cities. He fought his way to the top and honestly had no care for politics, which is why he left most of the planning and paperwork to you: someone he could trust with such important matters. It was an honor to serve him, and you did so willingly and studiously. You were excellent at your job, and your love for your King held no bearing on your duties. 

However, Bakugou did not handle words spoken ill of you as well as you did. You grew used to hushed whispers and untrue rumors spoken in seedy taverns. You knew what people talked of when their backs turned as you walked past. He, on the other hand, grew angry. 

“Wretched morons, they don’t know what they speak about. How does it not piss you off?” he growled out, pacing in his bedchambers with you standing at attention nearby. You merely shrugged at his question. 

“They do not know me just as some still do not know you. Assumptions and rumors hold no bearing to me for they do not know the truth.” Bakugou huffed through his nose before staring at you with those ruby eyes that softened only for you. 

“You are more level-headed than I am.” Walking over to you he grabbed you hand, leading you to the large sunlit window. It had the best view from the castle of the kingdom, overlooking the shops and streets and homes below before transitioning into faraway forests and greenery. “This is as much yours as it is mine, but they do not see it. Let’s fix that.”

Of all the things you thought he might suggest, your hand in marriage was not one of them. Sure, your relationship was no longer a secret, but from the way he reacted towards past suitors you’d assumed marriage overall wasn’t something he cared much for. He never stopped surprising you, though. 

An extravagant ball and ceremony was not what either of you wanted, deciding to keep it far more low-key. Gold and jewels and pompous displays of wealth did not suit your King who grew up in forests and lived off meat he captured himself. For that reason it was decided that it would be held outdoors, and he would invite whomever he wished - including dragonfolk. 

People grew nervous at this announcement, but he didn’t care. You knew he wouldn’t invite intentional danger into the kingdom so you weren’t worried…no, you were honestly far more interested in knowing a very specific red-haired dragon Bakugou talked of often. 

On the day of the wedding the entire town grew restless as unknown visitors filed in through the streets. Bakugou did not invite outsiders to this event, not giving a damn if other kingdoms grew angry. This was his - and your - wedding to celebrate, and he would not have anyone there who might cause a scene or ruin a single moment. 

You watched as Bakugou greeted his friend whom you recognized immediately from the physical description: sharp teeth and hair the color of blazing fire. Despite his rough appearance he was extremely friendly and wished you both enthusiastic congratulations. 

Though the decorations were minimal, you thought it was beautiful. It felt secluded and special, created just for the two of you to enjoy despite the large crowds of townsfolk and castle employees in attendance. 

Your almost-husband was a man of few words and instead relied on actions to convey what he wanted to say. When it came time for the vows his own were short and touching and strong. Your ears shut out every other whisper, every flap of embellished flags highlighting the perimeter, every sniffle Kirishima let loose at his best friend’s public confession. You only heard Bakugou, for your King was all that mattered to you in that moment. 

As soon as the last necessary word was spoken, he pulled you forward and, without another care in the world, kissed you in front of thousands. It was like he was kissing you for the very first time once more, full of passion and longing as his heart thumped wildly in both your chests at the thunderous applause of the crowd. 

The celebration afterwards was wild and full of heavy drink and laughter, and his ruby eyes always shifted back over to you despite the pull of attention from everyone else. 

King Bakugou now shared his throne with you - equal weight, equal responsibility, equal love for the kingdom - and no one could ever say otherwise. 

Aeonian AU Series part 1

A Nessian Greek Mythology based fic and a darker twist to this ship. There will be this Aeonian series (Nessian) and an Antiscians series (Elorcan). 

“Well, aren’t you a little ray of pitch black?”

Aeonian 1


“Poor Nesta,” Ianthe chided. “No longer a virgin.”

Nesta’s fingers wrapped around her fork, tightly gripping the cold metal.

“No God would want a deflowered woman,” the blond crooned. “Especially one who thinks she does know her place.”

The brown-haired woman stabbed at a piece of salad, and shoved it into her mouth. Chewing slowly on the hard leaves, she quelled the chaotic waves surging within her. She refused to give into her anger—to allow Tomas to have the last hold on her.

“You always talked about not wanting a God.” The other female smiled, sharp as a blade. “I guess Tomas Mandray really did you a favor.”

That was the last straw for Nesta. Yes, no God would want to claim a non-virgin—which was perfectly fine with her, especially after all Feyre had been accounted for, still missing to this day—but for Ianthe to dare—have the audacity to—rub assault in her face, even from the dark times of three years ago—

The eldest Archeron sister twirled the fork in her fingers, staring hard at the dried, yellow leaves and mottled, squished fruit in front of her. It was against the law to attack a priestess, but an even greater sin to murder the village’s Head Priestess.

But no one said anything against accidents.

With a flick of her wrist, Nesta sent the fork flying out her hands and at Ianthe’s right eye.

A perfect execution. A warning that a line had been crossed. A sign that they would never see eye to eye—that Nesta’s gaze would never waver, unblinking, and unflinching. 

A loud gasp escaped from Nesta’s mouth, and she lunged forward, knocking Ianthe to the floor. The High Priestess’s shrill pierced the air, and Nesta moved quickly, digging the edge of the fork deeper, twisting the metal. Even through the metal, she could feel the edges grinding against the root, white and pink liquid swirling.

“I’m so sorry!” Nesta cried, slipping on a mask of horror, climbing over the other female. “I can’t pull it out.” Her hair fell across her face, a shadowed curtain—and she allowed Ianthe to see the dark smile cutting across hers face, sharper and deeper than any mortal blade.

For three years, the darkness’ isolation had cultivated into something icier and harsher—a ghost of a phantom whirling within her. She’d shown Ianthe just a pinch.

As the High Priestess shrieked, bodyguards stormed into the diner, clad in plates of metal, faces shadowed by a thick, black masks. Nesta allowed the memories of three years ago to consume her, fat tears rolling down her cheeks. Loosening her grip on the fork, she curled into herself, rocking on her heels.

The nearest guard grabbed her elbows and set her roughly onto her feet.

“What the hell happened?” he gruffly ordered, shaking her shoulders.

Ianthe let out a hiss, but Nesta’s contempt was a gaping abyss full of raw will.

The eldest Archeron sister harshly rubbed away stray tears seeping down her cheeks, and forced down the sick smile threatening to erupt across her face. “The High Priestess came out of nowhere—” Nesta hiccuped “—my reflexes spun out of control—”

“Psychopath!” Ianthe screeched. “Chain her! Whip her!”

When the guard reached out for her, Nesta collapsed onto her knees, and laid her palms against the Priestess’s heart. “Forgive me,” she loudly cried. “I meant no malice.”

She leaned in closer to Ianthe’s face, as if she were to kiss her cheeks, the fallen woman sobbing and shuddering. Nesta brushed a finger against the golden-haired woman’s forehead as an almost tender caress, and wrapped her hand around the emblem pinned to Ianthe’s robes. Pressing her lips against the High Priestess’ ear, Nesta whispered, “Now you can see darkness.”

Ianthe kicked upwards. Nesta rolled off of the blue-robed woman.

Ianthe’s trembling fingers grasped the hilt of the fork. Nesta twisted her fingers into her pocket, and hunched her shoulders, the image of a thoroughly fearful woman. 

Ianthe’s throat elicited squeaks of gagging and gurgling noises, but her right eye pinned on Nesta’s form. Her mouth pinched, then hissed out, “Put her in an empty cell!”

The guard trapped Nesta’s wrists, tugging her away from the High Priestess. Two more went at her sides, caging her in. Little did they know cornering a wildcat, bred from the savageness only the true seers of society saw, would end in detrimental dysfunction. 

Nesta schooled her features into a blank, empty face, struggling within the solid grip. She spared a glance towards the blue-robed woman. “The only cells missing are those in your eye.” 

Stepping over the boots and knocking herself forward as she were tripping, Nesta twisted herself out of the guard’s grasp, using the falling momentum to bring him down on his back.

Plates of metal lumbered towards her, and Nesta tore out the the diner, blocking the sounds of Ianthe’s feeble cries of my eye, my eye, my eye over and over again.

Fixing her sleeve, a darker and sharper smile shot over Nesta’s face.

She didn’t even have to pay for that shit excuse of a meal.


Nesta stole through the night and into the forest. Here, the darkness draped over her already black-clad frame. She knew this path at the back of her mind, weaving through thick tree trunks and sailing over high-branched roots. Slowly, the heavy clanging sounds of armor receded from her ears, but Nesta picked up her pace.

This was the seventh village Elain and Nesta had taken refuge in—ever since Feyre had been taken three years ago and Tomas had yanked her into a barn, both Archeron sisters turned into wanderers, fleeing with the wind. Trust was reduced to bread crumbs, and even they could barely afford for the tiniest slice.

What God had taken Feyre—Nesta had no idea, but had her suspicions. It had been any other morning, Nesta serving buttermilk pancakes while Elain had went up to fetch Feyre from the drawing room. Rather than seeing their middle sister painting with her hair twisted up into a messy bun, the stench of alcohol and grapes had permeated the room.

Elain had screamed. Nesta came up running with a knife in her hand.

Feyre’s hunting clothes had been strewn all over the floor, a purplish-green scrap of fabric littering across a canvas. It was as if the their middle sister had given them a warning and a signal that she’d been claimed—by a God.

Nesta knew the rules. When Gods claimed humans, they dressed them in their ornamental colors and symbols. Yet green and purple were common colors, even found among the varying masses of minor Gods.

It was then Nesta banished all hope of desiring to be claimed by a God. She’d once dreamed, among the others, to be one with another force, to see through another set of eyes, and to ascend the mortal limits.

She’d once set apples and pears along the mantle of Athena, the one God she’d revered the most. Three years ago, she’d pray to the God of Wisdom, asking for guidance. Now all she did was pray to the minor Gods of vengeance and fear, demanding divine retribution for those who had wronged her—because it hadn’t just been her who’d been afflicted and twisted.

Nesta had watched Elain spiral into the coldness as well. The youngest Archeron no longer made honeyed offerings to Demeter, the goddess of the Earth. She instead grew darker roses and pricked her fingers as if lines of blood served as her penance.

It was as if the darkness of the demons had descended upon the Archeron sisters.

No happiness, no protection, no understanding.  

A branch snagged the sleeve of her arm, and Nesta hissed. Despite this village’s soldiers pursuing her and having to move to another village, she felt oddly safe and warm, a blanket of false security.

Perhaps it was because she’d stolen the golden emblem from the High Priestess, the coin tucked securely under her sleeve. The price would last them another to journey to another village.  

The moon casted swirls of strange colors of white against the darkness and the green of the forest. She slowed to a walk, taking in her surroundings. The branches reached low, stroking hunched, estranged shadows that curved and murmured unspoken cacophonies the human ear tuned out. Nesta slowly angled her body and slid through a cluster of vines.

The myths had become reality a long time ago, the Gods deciding to end their supposed boredom in waiting. The beginnings of their reappearance into society was often bloody, jealously in both claiming humans rampant and in being desired to be claimed.

Their father had worshiped Hermes, the messenger God, and named the Archeron fortune in his name. Nesta had considered it justice when a business company across the sea had sunk their father’s ship, and had stolen every commodity on board.

Their father had never returned the sail back, a merchant following the God of Thieves, saw the end, robbed of life and fortune.

The obsession with the Gods had seen the decline in family values, many children left alone or pitted against each other. Their father had been no exception, travelling to Athens, Greece, in hope of appeasing the Gods.

Death had been his answer.

While Nesta believed it to be foolish to devote a lifetime in praying for Gods, the higher beings indeed chose humans. Those taken under their wing received immortality. It could be eons before Feyre would be brought back to them willingly and unwillingly, and there was a high chance Nesta and Elain would be six feet under in a coffin or reduced to ashes by that time.  

It had taken Feyre’s kidnapping for Nesta to realize that being trapped in a powerful body with no regard for lesser creatures and their emotions and past was something she did not want.

So she stopped praying and stopped her offerings.

Elain had followed suit.

Both sisters had been shunned from the original village in consequence.

Now that Nesta harmed Ianthe, it looked like they’d have to move again. Whisperings of rumors and fault had followed the Archeron sisters as they traveled, and it never seemed the words would never cease.


Yet solace stirred within her, and Nesta scowled at the feeling akin to comfort’s cost crawling within her.

Elain would be beyond worried by now. Nesta knocked away the thin branches and ducked under a canopy of large ivies she knew would reveal a large clearing only a couple of meters away from their temporary home. Soon, she’d be running in the veil of the night, holding Elain’s thin hands again.

Her head rammed into steely hardness.

She rubbed her nose and slowly backed up.

Seething, Nesta untucked a dagger hidden under her sleeve, and pushed the wall forward with her other hand.

It didn’t move.

Squinting through the darkness, Nesta realized that streaks of dark, dried red pooled down silver plates, sheer power exuding from the figure.

A soldier.

The amount of blood could only mean a dead man.

But if a soldier was here, then the chances of Elain’s safety was very low. She had to get out of here, quickly and quietly. 

Cursing under her breath, she turned around back under the canopy, but a gloved hand with a huge, red jewel pulsating at the center lashed out and captured her wrist.

It was a solid grasp, almost crushing her bones.

This was not the ordinary soldier’s strength. And it was a very much alive man.

She dropped the dagger into her other hand and sliced it vertically towards the hand.

Her blade merely bounced off, falling to the ground.

With a yank, the hand jerked her back against a chest of steel and coldness. Yet Nesta felt warmth pour over every vein and crevice in her body.

The male towered over her, dark, hazel eyes cramming into her own soul, sheer strength emanating from him, broad shoulders with muscles roping around an enormous form.

A purebred, dangerous warrior.

Those piercing orbs raked over her, starting from the bottoms of her torn boots to over her clothes and under the slope of her breasts, up to her collarbone and into her own stormy eyes. Black boots, black pants, black sleeves—and if he looked close enough, he’d see a black painted heart.

A brow flicked up. “Whose funeral?”

Nesta shuddered at the low, husky voice that shot down her spine. She refused to be weak again—the last time she was in a male’s embrace three years ago. She would not be fooled again.

“Get off me,” she hissed instead, and squirmed fruitlessly in his grasp.

His dark inked hair and ruggedly shaven face rang a bell, but Nesta didn’t care, not when Elain had been alone far too alone. The predatory glint in the male’s face heightened memories of three years ago, but her body remained strangely calm and soothed.

“That’s no way to treat a God.”

Nesta realized the blood seeping from the armor was not from the male’s, but a head hanging from the canopy above, a thin river of red raining down.

Nesta arched her own brow. “I’d suggest planning his funeral soon.” She could see the outlines of the dead body strung along vines and branches, gutted and torn apart.

The male shrugged. “If you want to plan a murdering liar’s funeral, then be my guest.” The arm around her waist hitched up to rub circles across her back, almost daring her to string the body back to pieces.

Nesta didn’t find the action disturbing, but rather reassuring. Perhaps he was a minor god in infatuation or magic along those lines. The gaze no longer seemed of predatory possessiveness, but of amused affection

A dangerous smile appeared on those rough-hewn features, as those seemingly pulsing eyes studied her. “I like women who can handle blood.”

“I like men who can respect boundaries.” Nesta damned her cover and swore if he didn’t let her go, she’d scream—even if it meant drawing the village’s soldiers here.

The male seemed to read her thoughts. “You think humans are match for a God?”

Nesta didn’t reply, and cursed her own traitorous body sinking into the comfort and warmth the male seemed to offer.

He leaned in closer, a hand stroking her hair. “A match for the God of War?”

Nesta’s eyes widened. “You lie.”

“Now why would I lie, sweetheart?” The God leaned down and brushed his mouth against her ear. “Especially to one I want to claim?”

Another last straw for Nesta. She lashed out, but the God easily cupped her knee cap with one hand—just hovering over the V of his hips—and the other hand flattening a palm against her back.

“A cheap shot.” A grin.

Nesta went up on her toes, her hands cupping the God’s cheek. His skin was warm and sent delicious trills down her. The God leaned down as well, his eyes darkening, a low growl erupting from his throat, hands folding around her waist. Just before his lips closed on hers, Nesta’s knee collided with her aim.

It was a pity his armor covered his torso, but the God still doubled over in pain, a foul curse leaving his mouth.

Nesta didn’t wait before she sprinted around the clearing and to the house where Elain was waiting. Running past the locked front door, she hurdled over a bush into the back.

Slipping through the window and into their shared room, Nesta grabbed her bag, stuffing the nearest clothes into the brown material.

A frail figure rose from the tiny bed, and Elain rubbed her eyes. “Nesta?” she whispered, a sigh of relief escaping her chapped lips.

“Pack,” Nesta ordered. “We’ve got to move again.”

Elain immediately hauled herself out of the bed, rapidly opening all the tiny cupboards and sweeping the contents into bags. “What was it this time?”

“Ianthe, soldiers, and a God.” Nesta folded all the blankets and stuffed the pillows.

“The High Priestess?” Elain said, heading to the bathroom. When she emerged, all the toiletries had been zipped into bags and stuffed into a larger sack. “What God?”

A God of War.

One that made her feel alive instead of merely existing.

Instead, Nesta said, “Just a minor one.” She beckoned Elain to head to the kitchen so pack their last rations, the cold air seeping into their skin. She gave the guards about another hour before they found their refuge.

Locking the window shut, Nesta froze when Elain’s scream shattered the air. Bolting into the next room, she snarled when she saw Elain shivering and staring in shock at a large figure radiating the familiar sense of power—seating himself in the ragged and torn chair as if it were a throne fit for a king.

But that was what he was compared to them.

“Just a minor God?” the God tsked his tongue, staring at Nesta—as if Elain were invisible and as if he could consume Nesta right there and then.

“Get out of my house,” she seethed, and nudged Elain away.

Elain levelled Nesta with a clipped stare. “Really, Nesta? The God of War? Ares?”


The name sent shivers down her spine. It made the situation too real, too risky. By no means was this some minor God, as Elain had realized, trembling. 

She supposed it was the small mercies—the God allowing Elain to bolt away—that mattered.

An eyebrow cocked towards her. “It’s won’t be your house much longer will it, Nesta?” When she didn’t answer—her veins on fire—he pushed further. “Guards are searching for you and closing in.”

“What do you want?”

The God rose from the chair, the darkness wavering around him. The red jewels on top of each of his gloves exuded another type of power. A set of dimples winked down on her and those deep, brown eyes stared unfathomably at her. “I want to claim you.”

Nesta swallowed. This was her last defense, her last barrier to remain free: “I’m not a virgin.”

With swiftness beyond reason, the God moved so he was in front of her. He studied her eyes and the pulse along her throat—the fury and the rage in her own eyes and the quicker, beating pulse in memory of three years ago. Seconds passed before his eyes narrowed, and he gutted out, “Who?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You resist my claim, and the guards will be here sooner than you think.”

Nesta shivered. “Then you’re just as bad as him.”

The male who had taken her away three years ago.

The God of War looked down at her, and gently reached out a hand, traced with scars and bruises. When she didn’t bat it away, his knuckles slowly caressed her cheek. “I can help you, sweetheart.”

She’d wasted enough time. “Help is just another word for control.”

Who hurt you,” the God snarled, the red stones flaring. Lethal dark oozed from them.

A crash sounded from the other side, and Elain meekly peeked up from under the countertop. “I packed all the kitchenware.”

The God of War didn’t spare a glance in the other direction, determinedly staring into her soul—seeing the darkness. “I can help you and your sister. You’ll be safe. You won’t have to run again.”

“At what cost?”

He leaned down so that his forehead touched hers. Warmth shot through her at the contact, and in that moment, she felt safer than she’d even been in his life.

“I claim you,” he murmured, voice dark and dangerous, deep and deadly. “As mine.”

“And if I refuse?”

A glimmer of amusement in those hazel eyes. “I hear cells in this village are quite cold.”

“Threatening a mortal?”

“What can I say, sweetheart?” A cocky, dark grin, honed from insanity and lunacy in the battlefield. “All’s fair in love and war.”

The Sweater-sition: the Inquisition goes to Uni

Blackwall teaches in the Architecture department, but dabbles in the Forestry & Wildlife department. Instead of writing a dissertation, he built a longhouse. He commandeered a woodworking space next to the pottery studio and secretly wants to learn how to throw pots.

Cassandra teaches in the College of Law, specializing in religious doctrine. She wrote her thesis on the underlying impact of religion in the constitutions of nations that separate church and state. She teaches a one-credit Krav Maga class for fun.

Cullen teaches in the World Religions department and is a visiting lecturer in the History department. He just finished a book that discusses the ways that dictators and demagogues use religion as a means to attract common citizens to their cause. No one complains that his ancient Saint Bernard attends every class.

Cole is a graduate research assistant in the Philosophy department. He plans to write his thesis on the function of empathy in utilitarian philosophy. He hopes to incorporate a visual element into the thesis as well, since he takes undergraduate painting classes in his free time.

Dorian teaches in the Biology department, where his seminar on the neuroscience of death and dying is an absolute hit among students. An interdisciplinarian at heart, he wrote his dissertation on the science of death in Victorian literature. He loves a good Gothic tale.

The Bull teaches in the Sociology department, primarily under the Gender and Sexuality concentration. He’s working on a book about the paradox between the desexualization and fetishization of abnormal bodies. He’s an adamant supporter of the campus Diversity Office, which helps encourage marginalized students to make the most of their college experience.

Josephine is the chair of the International Affairs department, where she teaches courses in political rhetoric. She earned tenure with her recent book, wherein she argues that female monarchs through history have been better at foreign affairs because they are socialized to be culturally empathetic. She’s also the faculty advisor for the Delta Phi Epsilon sorority.

Leliana began in the Political Science department before spearheading the development of the university’s new Intelligence and National Security Studies program. Students whisper all sorts of rumors about her; her favorite is that she’s a lab-developed super-spy that escaped to save the world for good.

Solas chairs the Philosophy department, but teaches the occasional class for the Psychology department as well. No matter the class, he tells his students to keep detailed dream journals, and awards them extra credit if they incorporate texts on the syllabus into their interpretations. Provided it’s not raining, he holds class outside.

Sera runs the Applied Sciences program, despite the fact that she’s not the chair. Students scramble to take her lower level physics courses which always involve explosions. But her graduate seminars in engineering are notoriously difficult. She started the intramural archery club, which moonlights as a beekeeping force, student run and hellbent on saving the planet’s pollinators.

Varric teaches creative writing in the English department, and occasionally a course or two in literature. He’s the most published scholar of any faculty member of the school, but you wouldn’t know it–he’s a down-to-earth guy. At the end of the semester, he always takes his grad students out for a drink.

Vivienne doesn’t belong to a single department. She teaches Graphic Design, History of Fashion, and advises the MFA program in Theatre Arts. A true Renaissance woman, her mentorship is the holy grail of the College of Arts and Humanities. Her travel course, Drama in New York, takes place every winter, and tales of it are legendary.

anonymous asked:

Happy Pride! Can you write something for ATLA?

a continuation of x x x x x x x x x x

When thirteen year old Prince Zuko faces his father in an Agni Kai, no one knows why. Whispers and rumors run rampant about what the little prince could have possibly done to earn his father’s ire.

Then, when he wins, they found out the truth.

Prince Zuko had been unwilling to his his people be sacrificed in needless slaughter. For this, their Fire Lord saw fit to punish him in front of all his people.

This is the beginning of Ozai’s end. This is when the citizens’ loyalty shifts - from father, to son.

Frosted Fluff

If memory serves me right, I promised a Kallias x Viviane fanfiction (which was soooo long ago), but here I am delivering upon my promise! This would not have been posted without the enormous help from @samaykay912, who kept me on my toes!! Thank you friend for inspiring me :)

I’m honestly in love with Kallias and Viviane. There’s not enough interactions from them (like Nessian) that can currently sate me. So without further ado, I present to you this piece of frosted fluff that has drained all the joyful juices from my head:

She was staring.

That much was obvious.

An eternity could have passed by in the blink of an eye, orbs quivering with the raw emotions time and circumstance had forced them to withhold, and she—she still would have stared at the sight in front of her—a force to behold, a force that was solely hers to claim.

For she had every right to admire the view in front of her—a view she had been starved of for fifty years.

She stared because he was here.

He was home.

Her home was here.


She miserably lost the staring contest as her eyelashes blinked in a tsunami of tears—tears of joy that wrecked her insides—and when her sight blurred, she greedily took him in again:

He still had his stark, white hair with piercing blue eyes that struck through her soul.

And for that, Viviane was grateful.

She’d seen too much red, pouring onto the streets, spilling from the scratched skin, and flowing from the hair of Hybern’s General—Amarantha.

She hated that name—the Deceiver—the name that had twisted fate and her own hand in happiness, instead choking her in a hold full of bitterness and bile. She despised what that name had brought about to her people, to her lands, and to him—


Reduced to the same torn and ragged clothes she’d last seen him elegantly dressed in, string and cloth now curled at the edges, the bright blue a gaze of faded will, Kallias remained still as ice, eyes mirroring a tipped iceberg.

As she looked closer, she noticed a small splatter of blood on the collar… Did it belong to him or another? Did it make her selfish she wanted it to belong to the latter? And if so—were they slain like savages in cold blood—like her personal guards? Did that unfading bitch of a flower bite him? Did she try to claim him as her own?

Or was the supposed High Queen of Pythian monogamous with who she wanted? Viviane doubted that, not when Amarantha had the audacity had to fuck the High Lord of the Night Court out of cold-blooded revenge.  

Raw rumors and whispers on the wind were all she could desperately clutch at.

And while she was no High Lord, and certainly no backstabbing bitch-queen, she felt as if she had the life sucked from her, head nailed against the wall. The floor seemed to sway with the possibilities of what her own High Lord had to endure, trapped under that infernal, dark mountain—robbed of the refreshing rains in reservoirs, the cool chills, and ice’s incalescence.

As she forced her dark thoughts away from the forefront of her mind, she proceeded to  study him, as staring did nothing to quench her inner thirst to assure his well being.

Indeed he wore those same clothes the day he’d been snatched from her, gathering memories of when hell had been brought to her home. No longer did the pristine white embellishments hug his frame, but instead hung loose and limp—the gallant knight reduced to knees, mind and body pawn to all phobias.

The winter air hit his skin as his clothes billowed around him, and she noted how his skin shivered. The High Lord of the Winter court shivered, body and mind long doused in darkness, stolen away from his own element of clarity.

It shattered her.

Kallias, her youth, her childhood, her dreams, had shivered. Kallias, the pillar of strength, the prince of the harsh winters, who not just merely survived in the coldness, but thrived in it, had reacted to his own element in the most morbid of ways.  

She supposed adjustment would have been inevitable to the changes time had wrought.

The red-haired woman—Vivianne scowled. No—Amarantha was anything but a woman. For it was not a woman who stole into the sanctuary of the sound, murdering the children in the court, shattering the scales of balance: snatching her High Lord like a thing, breaking her heart—her soul—all into fragmented pieces that she had to stitch together—for her people—their people.

And she’d kept her promise with her fractured heart. And perhaps that was the greatest miracle of all, with the greatest gift standing right. In. Front. Of. Her.

He was back. He was whole. But—something was different.

For time created the wounds, and when they healed, they sewed seeds of sorrow.

And the wounds lingered in his eyes, brimming with the beaten memories in darkness. His body reflected the unkempt chaos, muscles—from centuries of training—fading into absolute atrophy. His own lips paled in comparison to his own image.

His smile was a blank slate, and she could. Not. Breathe.

Their friendship had started on those smiles, the little doses of happiness exchanged in the light, now reduced to frowns in the dark.

She had never told anyone—but she had always loved his smile.

It was beautiful—like the summer sun that she never saw.

It was a euphoria—like an epiphany exhaling an eureka.

And while she had—and still—loved his smile, she had sold her heart to his laugh.

It was his laugh that gave her goosebumps goosebumps, that resonated so deeply within her that she had no choice to follow his elation. It was that exact joy that had her on her own personal mission to make him laugh as much as he could. The sounds—how they were as smooth as a rock at the bottom of a stream—she did not know. 

She’d made him laugh too much he’d roll around in the snow, mussing his pristine hair and pricking his immaculate, pressed pants. And his parents had pursed their lips together in silent disappointment, refraining themselves from revealing a sliver of a smile.

But that was before.

Things had changed.

They had changed.

Their lives had changed.

She could only hope their hearts didn’t.

Would he ever smile again? Would he find joy with her? Would he laugh? Or would he be forever trapped in that despair of wandering within the darkness of his own mind—the frail fragments fracturing around him, lingering as a residue within the remnants of his recollections?

He was her sun—she had never told him that. She could never tell him how she felt. She never told him who he was to her—what he meant to her. While he shone in stark contrast in the sun rays, a blizzard to all brutality, a moon-kissed model to all martyrs, she had shivered in severed sadness, worried like a shriveled worm—for him.

And he had openly confessed what she meant to him.  

Not through the words, but through the exchanged smiles.

It was clear as crystal, a manifestation brighter than the moon.

The ways he light up like the northern lights whenever he caught sight of her. The way he would not let her adventure without his presence. The way he chose the spend time with her over his own advisors. The way he caressed her face with or without his Court watching. The way he never courted anyone—no matter how much his parents pushed him to do so.

And the day before all had went up in smoke—splaying her Court, her heart, her lover in cruel lashes of crimson red—he had confessed his love for her.

And before she could say those words back—

—he had been gone.

And she’d never gotten to return her feelings.

Fifty years loathing how she’d never spoken up before.

Fifty years of silent contemplation missing her companion.

Fifty years of longing for the healing of their marred connection.

The asshole had never given her a chance to return those three words that would have sealed their eternal love. The brute had kissed her like she was his moon instead. The High Lord had carried her into the dusk instead. Legs and arms wrapped one another, they had woken up next to each other, and that—

That had been their last night together.

And she’d slept fifty years alone in coldness, where the frost had nipped at her and she finally, finally had gotten a glimpse at what it felt like to be frozen—of what it was like to be cold—of what it was like to be irrevocably, horribly, and tortuously lonely.

She never got to say that she loved his smile and laughter. She never got to say that she would gladly wake up next to him for the rest of her years. She never got to say that she thought he was perfect. She never got to say that she loved him.

She was pissed at him about it—for at least the first decade. In the second, she had seethed in anger—to keep herself from sinking into the consuming rush of sorrow the rest of her Court drowned in. And in the rest of the decades, she had existed to for his last words, to keep her promise.

And that was it.

She had to fight for him, for her Court, for her heart.

And he was her heart.

Five decades taught her where her home was.

And the Winter Court was his home.

And he was hers.

He was in front of her now. His eyes were stone cold. He was not longer a pillar of pride.

He was a block of ice in the center of the lake—an object she’d stubbed her toe on more than once. He was cold, unmovable, and sharp.

And she would still have him—love him—even if he wouldn’t have her.

Viviane cleared her throat, and swallowed.

A finger gently, ever so slowly, reached out towards her.

She held her breath.

He stared at her.

Eyes locked.

And a shock, a sudden jolt of warmth that spread through the rest of her body, amassed in a storm—all as his finger stroked her cheek, and wiped away the tears pooling from her face.

Such carefulness.

She hated that—that air of fragility.

Viviane knocked his hand away, glaring up at him. It took her two more seconds to find her voice, but when she did, she bawled. “You better stay, asshole.”

That coldness broke, and he grinned down at her, and the sun could have melted all the glaciers right there and then, but she wouldn’t have cared.

Her moon was back. Her home was back. Her heart had returned.

“You’re not leaving my—” He started, but Viviane wasn’t having any of that.

Words weren’t their way.

Smiles and laughter once were, and she wanted something new.

So she launched herself up and ferociously kissed him, pouring all her words and feelings into the caress. Arms wrapped around his neck, his own winding around her waist, squeezing her tightly, as if she would vanish on the spot as he did fifty years ago.

She had found him, and now she lost herself in him. Her soul peaked in the perfection, her heart mended in it all. It was a fervor of feeling that she would not forsake.


She savored it all.

When he pushed, she pulled.

When he growled, she gasped.

And their hearts beat to the same tune, a flutter of freedom gallantly galloping around them.

After fifty years, she was finally home.

He pulled away, his eyes full of awe, a tear slipping down.

His mouth opened, but she leaned forward, their foreheads touching one another. And when he began nuzzling her neck, nipping at the skin, she licked away his tear.

He snorted, and kissed the edges of her mouth, hefting her higher in his arms.  

It wasn’t enough, though.

She wanted to fill the void in his heart and give him back fifty year’s worth of smiles and laughter. She wished on all her worth for him—all for him—for all he had endured and would face.

One hand trailed along her collarbone, and grasped the side of her face. His eyes bored into hers, darkening with not evil, but with—

“I love you,” he says. Firmly. Finally. “I—”

She kisses him, pulling that hand down, wrapping herself into him, never planning on letting go.

Kallias does not resist, wishing this ephemeral moment to last for an eternity. Her warmth, her smiles, her mere presence—she had kept his Court together.

She had not given up.

She had lifted him up.

The High Lord of the Winter Court dips her down to kiss her properly, his tongue slipping past her lips. He can feel the smile on his mouth, and he reciprocates, his lungs expanding to take in the cool night air, his head finally clearing—the blood of innocent children or the plea of Rhysand no longer at the forefront of his mind.

He can only think of her.

He can’t get enough of her, and if snowflakes were kisses, he’d send her a blizzard.

When she starts to unbutton his shirt, his lower area stirring for the first time in five decades, he pulls away.

A laughter reaches past him as she whines at the loss, but he keeps her buried against him. When she stares up at him, he cups her face. As evenly as he can manage, he says, “I want to do this right. I want to marry you. I want to officialize it. I want to announce it to anyone who will listen.”

She pouts, wanting to protest, but he suddenly drops to one knee, his arms still around her.

He can’t let her go.

He refuses to.

He want all she’ll offer.

He wants her as his home.

“Will you marry me, Viviane? You’re my world. I just want to wake up beside you.” He lays a gentle kiss on her stomach, filling her with warmth—so that their toes curl not from the chills, but from calmness.

She laughs, tears spilling out of her again, running down her cheeks. He wipes them away before she can, patiently awaiting her answer. Although he rather would not wait another fifty years—

“There’s snow-man I’d rather be with.”

It takes him a moment to process her reply, and when he does, he kisses away her coy smile.

She pulls away, and it’s his turn to pout.

She places a finger on his lips.

“Of course I’ll marry you, you asshole. I’d love to be your wife. I’d wanted to be your wife for decades.” She pushes against him playfully, lashes fluttering. “Learn to keep up, will you?”

He then lifts her up bridal style and whispers in her ear, “Where’s the closest priestess?”

She shivers in his embrace, and whispers the directions in his ear.

Kallias whips her closer into his arms, spurring a storm to carry them to their closest destination—to seal their fate.

And before their feet leave the ground, Viviane leans into his ear, staring at him unabashedly.

“I love you,” she states.

And they are finally home.