world beneath feet

Kelly had never experienced the feeling of the world falling out beneath her feet— and she sincerely wished that it had stayed that way.

“Y-You bet me?” she choked out, hands clenched over her heart as if she could stop it from falling out of her chest.

Walker frowned, gaze wavering somewhere between her head and the mirror behind them. His eyes had the haze of glitter in them, and Kelly knew that whatever he was looking at, it certainly wasn’t her.

“Don’t worry, I’ve got it handled,” he slurred, the right side of his mouth upturning crookedly in a way that she used to find cute. “I’ll just try again tomorrow, you’ll see. I’ll win this time for sure!”

“It doesn’t work that way!” Kelly cried out, and now her breath was beginning to hitch in a way that warned of incoming tears. Furiously, she scrubbed at her eyes, trying to hold them back.

Walker stepped forwards, hands outstretched as if he wanted to comfort her.  But all she could see was the glimmer of shine in his eyes and the pallid texture to his face, and she couldn’t stand it.

“Don’t!” she ordered, stepping out of his grasp, anger overcoming her fear. “Don’t you dare try to touch me!”

He stopped, thankfully, but now an ugly sneer was painting his face.

“I said that I have it handled!” he snarled, hands curling into fists. “Why are you being such a bitch about this?”

Kelly was torn between wanting to cry or wanting to punch him in the face, but before she could decide, the choice was taken from her.

An arm settled casually across her shoulders, freezing her into place.

“Yo,” said the man who had his torso protruding halfway out of the mirror. “I’m here to collect.”

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anxietyy-sanders  asked:

Heyo!! Could you possibly do more prompts where the villain dies/is presumed dead and the hero is self-destructively leaning towards the dark side when the villain returns?? I just love your work s o much, aha. Thank you!! :)

1) “You’re alive.” The hero stared at them in shock. It had been years. Yet, they knew them on sight, on sound, and felt the world drop away beneath their feet.
I’m also retired,” the villain said lazily, lifting their sunglasses to squint at the hero for a moment or two, before letting their shades fall once more. “What are you doing here?”
“Looking for you!” 
“You know they call it rest in peace, right? Not rest to be annoyed?” 
The hero spluttered, disbelieving, fire in their throat even as they ached and ached and ached. 
The villain sighed. “Fine. Fine. Sit down and have a mojito.”
“You’ve just been sitting here drinking mojitos.” It was like getting kicked in the gut.

2) It was an interesting experiment, made only more perfect for the hero’s reaction. The villain had only wanted to test the security, structure and loyalty of their own forces in the absence of presumed death - and oh, what a disappointment that had been and oh what a marvel the hero had been instead. They simply had to draw it out. It was only too astonishing, too beautiful, to watch them twist and become undone with grief in all its sharp, dark edges. But enough was enough. 
The hero tracked the villain’s progress closer, wide-eyed, stunned. Almost on old instinct, they reached for a weapon.
“Don’t bother,” the villain said softly. “It’s only too clear to us both that you’re not going to use it. At least not against me.” 
“I don’t understand.”
“You will.” 

3)  “Do you know who I am?” the hero asked. 
The villain had stumbled back into the city disorientated, battered. The hero had them picked up within the hour and brought to them - some shell, some wreck, still oh so clever and oh so alive. 
The villain shook their head after a moment, swallowing hard, and tugged at the restraints keeping them safe and definitely-not-dying-again in the hero’s care. “I’m assuming I killed someone you cared about. People seem quite angry with me. I - I don’t remember. Just let me go, please. I swear I won’t come back.”
“Don’t be stupid. I’m going to look after you now.”

Call me
—  You’re not alone. If you wanna talk to someone, call me. I’m all ears. If you’re having a bad night, call me. I’ll listen. If it’s 4 am and you feel sad all of a sudden, call me. Don’t fucking worry about you waking me up. I’m not going to be mad if you wake me up. Just call me, and we’ll talk about it. If you’re having the best day ever and you want to talk about it, call me. I wanna feel your smile through the phone.If you feel like the world is falling beneath your feet, call me. Let me help you. If your parents are fighting and you don’t know what to do and you’re freaking out, call me. Let me help calm you. If you need to rant about something, call me. I’ll rant with you. I don’t care if I’m 4 minutes or 4 states away from you. I want you to know that I’m always here for you no matter what. I don’t care if it’s 2 am or 2 pm. I’m still here for you, and I always will be. Just remember I’m only one phone call away from you.

anonymous asked:

Hey would you write Shiro getting sick while he's injured? Thank you :)

i think this counts…? heh. 

Keith hovers on the outskirts of the doorway. He may as well be stranded back on Earth for all the good he’s doing.

“How is he?” he asks quietly when Coran glances up from his post. Keith instinctively crosses his arms over his chest, as if the gesture will defend him from the news.

“Fever’s being stubborn,” the Altean sighs, wringing out the cloth he’s been using to dab Shiro’s forehead. Almost as if sensing Keith’s bubbling panic, he gently adds, “But the good news? So is he.”

Keith inhales a hitching breath, releasing it slowly as he stares at Shiro, lying so unnaturally still its almost as if he doesn’t exist at all.

He is not going to lose it. Not again.

“We’ve done everything we can,” Coran assures, pressing the dripping cloth against Shiro’s neck. “Nothing to do now but wait for the rest of the poison to filter out of his system. I believe he’s powered through the worst of it.”

Keith glances at the reeking bucket resting within easy reach at the foot of Shiro’s bed and suddenly it’s difficult to swallow. The thing’s been emptied multiple times but the room still smells rancid.

“That doesn’t mean anything,” he mutters, fingers digging painfully into the meat of his arms.

They’d returned from the mission and Keith had watched Shiro collapse on the ramp; eyes rolling into the back of his skull, sweat beading over wax-gray skin, dropping to the floor like a sack of flour, and no one there in time to catch him. Because Shiro hadn’t bothered to mention that something was wrong.

Just a cut, he’d dismissed after the arrow struck. He’d dislodged the small silver tip easily from his calf without so much as a wince. Nothing to worry about. And no one had questioned him.

Keith remembers the scuttle of phantom fingers burrowing into his chest as they tangled around his heart, breath stuttering in his lungs and the world vibrating to an abrupt halt. He recalls the bruising impact of his knees colliding with the floor as he draped his body over Shiro’s, roving hands searching the ignored injury, begging for a response.

Dazed eyes had fluttered for a brief moment, but they hadn’t seen Keith.

Shiro’s chest had contracted, mouth gaping like a suffocating fish as he hiccuped a choked breath of air. Then Keith was struggling to roll him onto his side as Shiro convulsed, vomiting a slurry of black sludge, thick as tar as it slid over his chin and down his neck to pool in a Rorschach pattern on the floor.

After the chaos erupted around him, Keith only remembers sensations. The inflamed scorch of his raw throat, noxious ebony slicking between his thumb and forefinger, the chilly absence of Shiro’s limp body as a powerful arm looped around his shoulders and dragged him up off the floor. The world collapsing beneath his feet and his stomach hurtling up into his throat as the white void swallowed him whole.

Minutes, or hours later, (he wasn’t sure which), when he found his way back, Lance was sitting on the floor with him, mouth moving a thousand miles-per-hour, concern practically leaking from his pores. But Keith couldn’t hear a word he said.

“It’s been quite a day,” Coran says, resting a hand on Keith’s shoulder and squeezing. The gesture guides him back, grounds him. “You should get some rest.”

“I’m staying,” Keith grits through the lock of his jaw.

Coran follows the boy’s grim gaze over his shoulder towards Shiro’s bed and nods. “As you wish, number Three.” When Keith doesn’t respond, Coran sighs and drops his hand to his side. “He should sleep for a bit. Call me if anything changes.”

Keith had hoped the silence would be more bearable; instead it feels like it’s suffocating him. He slides into the chair Coran had been occupying earlier and braces his elbows on his knees, folded fingers pressed to his lips.

His eyes drift to Shiro’s neck, lingering on the heartbeat that’s pulsing too quickly. He watches the rhythmic rise and fall of Shiro’s chest as labored breaths slip through parted lips.

Keith reaches out, fingers brushing over the ridges of Shiro’s knuckles. The clenched fist loosens around the bedsheets and Keith carefully eases his hand inside the larger one. The crease etched across Shiro’s brow visibly relaxes as Keith’s thumb strokes a few gentle circles.

Something climbs up into Keith’s chest and tears out of his throat before he can stop it.

“You goddamn son of a bitch,” he chokes, leaning down to rest his forehead against their entwined hands. Another sob wrenches free without his permission and suddenly he’s cracking from the inside out. The sheet is damp beneath his cheek when he finally raises his head.

Shiro sighs in his sleep, fussing for a moment before his features smooth and he’s breathing evenly again.

Exhaustion washes over Keith, cloying and insistent, as he absently traces his free fingers back and forth over Shiro’s bare forearm.

He doesn’t remember falling asleep, but it feels like only seconds before he’s dragged back to consciousness by a wet sounding cough, clammy fingers spasming around his own.

“Shiro?” Keith mumbles, reaching up to swipe the drool from his cheek with the back of his hand. He’s not quite awake.

Shiro moans into the pillow, eyes darting frantically behind closed lids as his legs writhe beneath the covers. His skin is nearly translucent, except for the two angry swatches of red flushing his cheeks. Shiro curls onto his side, drawing his knees up as he wraps his arms protectively around his stomach.

His shoulders jolt and an odd noise gurgles in the back of his throat. Keith isn’t quick enough to grab the bucket before Shiro’s spitting up onto the blankets.

“Shit,” Keith curses, snatching the damp cloth to wipe Shiro’s mouth and hopefully catch anything else he brings up. He does a quick check, shoulders sagging with relief as he notices only a few rivulets of black sludge staining the otherwise clear viscous liquid soaking into the sheets.

Shiro gags weakly, coughing as he blinks up at Keith in obvious confusion. Tremors jerk his large frame as he struggles to burrow back into the warmth of the bed.

“Hey, you’re all right,” Keith soothes, climbing onto the mattress without a second thought. He gasps when Shiro’s arm emerges and latches onto his shirt, fingers twisting and tangling in the fabric as he pulls Keith down beside him.

“Shiro,” Keith whispers, reaching to card his hand through the sweaty mess of bangs. “You with me?”  His fever’s up again, so the lingering nausea isn’t a surprise. What’s more concerning is Shiro’s total lack of awareness. Keith’s never seen him so out of it. So unresponsive. Maybe he should call for Coran.

Shiro sips a wet, hitching breath, shivering as he wraps his arm around Keith’s waist and buries his hot goddamn forehead against Keith’s chest.

Mm…’s cold—“ Shiro slurs, voice muffled.

Keith tugs the covers up around both of their shoulders, rubbing slowly down the arc of Shiro’s back. “Better?” Shiro hums contentedly, limbs growing heavy as the enveloping warmth coaxes his muscles to relax.

“There you go,” Keith murmurs into Shiro’s hair. “I’ve got you.” The promise is so quiet he isn’t really certain he said it out loud.

But Shiro must believe him, because in the next breath, he’s asleep.

The 5 times Bucky Barnes sees you (Part 5 - End)

Plot - The fifth time he sees you he watches as you drown in your sorrow, trying to help where he could. Its not the best time but the truth finally falls from his lips.
Prompt 35 - ‘Here, you can borrow my blanket’
Pairing -
Barista!Bucky X Reader AU
- 1,965
Warnings - Angst, tears, ermm fluff??
A/N - AAHH we have arrived at the finish line! Yes, yes I know I posted this a few days ago. But I was unhappy with it so I re-wrote the entire thing and here you go! Thankyou so much for all your continuous support throughout this series, I’ve really enjoyed writing it! For the final time this is dedicated to the beautiful Sofia AKA @nataliarxmanxva for her Seasons Change Writing Challenge! I love you babe!

((Part 4))


The fifth time he sees you, he really sees you.

The world beneath his feet shifts like the tide when the door chimes open, soft jingling echoing throughout the shop and tugging his attention to you who’d just walked in.

The snow outside dragged the city to a stop, a blanket of pure white settling across the roads and refusing to lift until spring let it thaw. He thought that winter was beautiful, sunlight reflecting off the abundance of ice crystals to cast a glittering shimmer over the floor. There was something so enchanting about the purity of winter that brought a smile to his face as he watched the snow flutter to the floor.

But no amount of snow would make him smile after casting a glance to you.

You don’t even stop at the counter to say hello when you walk in, don’t even raise your head to look at him and he knows that something is wrong because this isn’t you. Because every time you set foot inside the first thing you do is greet him, whether it be with a smile or a hug and even a simple ‘hi’, but this time he watches with a fleeting twinge in his chest as you disregard him completely.

Pushing aside the lump forming in his throat he watches as you take your place at the back of the shop, eyes shifting to look out the window almost like it was second nature.

Despite everything he takes the time to thank whatever god above that you haven’t come in with Tony. Because after the date you both shared he had to stand by and watch as you walked hand in hand with him, soft whispers and laughs filling up the shop, kissing each other right in front of him like he wasn’t even there, and the sight nearly made him sick.

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The Isis/Auset Knot

From the Egyptian Book of the Dead

At the ends of the universe is a blood red cord that ties life to death, man to woman, will to destiny. Let the knot of that red sash, which cradles the hips of the goddess, bind in me the ends of life and dream. I’m an old man with more than my share of hopes and misgivings. Let my thoughts lie together in peace. At my death let the bubbles of blood on my lips taste as sweet as berries. Give me not words of consolation. Give me magic, the fire of one beyond the borders of enchantment. Give me the spell of living well.

Do I lie on the floor of my house or within the temple? Is the hand that soothes me that of wife or priestess? I rise and walk. The sky arcs ever around; the world spreads itself beneath my feet. We are bound mind to Mind, heart to Heart— no difference rises between the shadow of my footsteps and the will of god. I walk in harmony, heaven in one hand, earth in the other. I am the knot where two worlds meet. Red magic courses through me like the blood of Isis, magic of magic, spirit of spirit. I am proof of the power of gods. I am water and dust walking.

Normandi Ellis- Awakening Osiris: A New Translation of the Egyptian Book of the Dead.

Image Credit-Isis knots are also called Tjet, Tiyet,

She Doesn’t Want To Be Forgiven (Widow/Tracer/Emily)

A/N: …But being trusted soothes her down. NSFW but not explicit, 800 words. A commission for an anonymous patron.

When Lena came home and found the note, the world dropped out beneath her feet. She felt unreal again, the constant tugging of the slipstream threatening to pull her under. Then she read it again, recognized the handwriting, and crumpled the note into a shaking fist.

“Those idiots are going to give me a heart attack.”

Finding them wasn’t easy. That was the point. Not out of any sense of playful cat-and-mouse, but from a very real desire to remain undiscovered. She worked backwards, trying to figure out where they might have vanished.

Lena knew that her girlfriend wouldn’t settle for anything less than a real bed. But that didn’t narrow it down much. Searching hotels didn’t turn up anything, and Lena didn’t want to risk using her credentials to demand a more thorough scouring. If she tapped into her Overwatch resources, it would leave a trail. It would need explaining. The less lies she had to tell, the easier this was.

Not that anything about this was easy.

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anonymous asked:

Heyyy:))) Could maybe write a piece about Jon seeing Dany walk into a fire, being completely scared as heck (because he doesn't know what she can do) and then seeing her emerge again? I think it could be really cool. Fan of your writing!

Jon could not get the scream out of his head. They had just been having the Council Meeting in the small tent in the courtyard of Winterfell. It was a separate area to the rest of the castle, so that it would be easily accessed by members of the large army he and Daenerys had amassed.

Bran is in there Sansa had cried, and Jon had turned around to see the giant inferno enveloping the makeshift tent. Jon had panicked. Bran couldn’t walk, or run, and he might not even be aware of the fire if he was the Three Eyed Raven and not his actual self.

‘Bran!’ Jon heard himself yell, and the other Lords looked over. They were too far to stop the fire now. Jon could not lose another sibling, or cousin. He began rushing towards the fire to rescue his little brother who was not so little anymore.

Before he could make it, he saw Daenerys running, metres from the door.

‘No!’ Jon roared, seeing her disappear into the blaze. He felt his heart stop, the snow falling around him burning his skin, shattering whatever resolve to live he had left. He could not live without her.

Jorah seized him by his furs and with two other men restrained him as he tried to run inside and save both of them. 

‘She is a dragon, fire does not burn her’ Jorah kept repeating, his blue eyes sad, weary, as if to say

I love her too. Do you really think I’d leave her in there if I thought she could burn?


Why did she choose you, a stranger, to love…when she had me from the beginning?

Jon continued to struggle. What if she couldn’t breathe from the fumes? What if she could not push Bran out?

When he saw her emerge, Bran slumped against her tiny frame, he felt the world shift beneath his feet. She was alive, clothes completely burnt off, and Bran seemed to be unharmed, although he could not stop coughing. The Northern Lords were incredulous at the Dragon Queen surviving the flame, but Jon could only think about what would have happened if he lost his queen.

That night, when the fire had been put out and the smoke still curled up in tendrils over the sleeping castle, Jon held Daenerys tightly to him.

‘I  thought you would be burnt alive’ he said worriedly, burying his face in her skin, which still smelled of smoke and sweetness.

‘Didn’t Ser Jorah tell you, a dragon cannot burn?’ she said, almost amusedly. Jon huffed, and Dany placed a kiss on his full lips.

‘Please don’t scare me again’ Jon whispered, brushing a silver lock of hair back.

‘I could say the same for you’ she said, a hand trailing over his scars, placing kisses on them. Jon felt the familiar tightening feeling in the pit of his stomach as her kisses wandered lower.

I cannot live without her. 

The world has shifted beneath our feet
Toby Stephens | Capitan Flint
The world has shifted beneath our feet

I have survived starvation, a tempest, pirate hunters, jealous captains, mutinous crews, angry lords, a queen, a king, and the goddamn British navy.
So to whatever extent you may be concerned that some day we will clash, worried that though today we be friends, some day you will have no choice but to be my end, I wouldn’t worry too much.

Hearts Half Full- Newt Scamander x Reader

Request: Hello! I was wondering if you could make a Newt x reader imagine where reader had a miscarriage and because if that is depressed and kind of isolated herself from Newt. But one day he comes back from somewhere and she greets him with a really happy smile and a positive pregnancy test. Very fluffy ending :) Thank you so much <3

A/N: There’s a little more angst than intended, and I hope it’s okay and not too horrible or rushed.

Warnings: Angst, miscarriages and references to miscarriages, references to depressive thoughts/breakdowns, death, crying, fluff towards the second portion/end

If these types of things make you uncomfortable or may be triggering, please do not proceed.

Newt shuffled down the stairs of your shared flat with a plate of toast in his hand. An eerie quietness blanketed over the atmosphere and replaced the once cheery one. Gently, he placed the plate on the edge of the counter and let his face fall into his hands as a tear slipped down his cheek. You had refused to eat your breakfast for the fourth time this week, and Newt couldn’t help but worry. You had fallen into a state of despair and depression, and Newt felt helpless as he tried and tried to do everything he could to help you, but all the magic in the world wouldn’t be able to mend the two of your hearts.

It had been months since he had seen your signature smile or heard your melodious laugh echo throughout your home. Just months ago you were cuddled in his arms as he traced patterns over your growing stomach, as in a short amount of time, the two of you would have a bundle of joy to call your own, to watch grow and play and to take care of. Sadly though, instead of everything changing for the better, the world crumbled beneath your feet.

A trip to the doctors in regards to your unborn child was supposed to be one of joy as you would see how much it had grown, however, this visit wasn’t like the previous ones. You woke up in the middle of the night with immense pain, crying out for Newt as you felt something trickle down your leg. Your eyes locked with his own worried ones, and the two of you had an idea of what was happening but neither of you wanted to believe it to be true. He slipped on his coat and shoes messily before quickly apparating you to St. Mungo’s. Time slipped by slowly, but suddenly stopped when a doctor reappeared with the words no expecting parent wanted to hear. While you heart beat escalated within yours and Newt’s chests with apprehension and fear, your child’s was nowhere to be found. You had had a miscarriage.

Ever since that night, you hadn’t been the same. You felt empty, like a piece of you had been stolen away. Newt felt the same, as he was excited to be a father, excited to have something that had been a result of your shared love to hold and cherish forever. As each day passed, you became less and less responsive to Newt. He held you when you cried on the tile of the bathroom as you refused to speak, and he cooked you food and brought you water to keep you healthy. He tried to hug you tightly at night and whisper words of reassurance, both to you and partially to himself, but he respected when you wanted space to just be alone.

Tears now slid down Newt’s face faster now as he sunk to his knees. The plate wobbled before plummeting to the floor with him, but he couldn’t care less. He would never hold his child in his arms, and would never know how to truly help you. You were his everything, and even now he felt that it was selfish for him to cry when you were worse than he was. But he didn’t stop. Tears kept falling freely, and his breathing became laced with pain as his chest ached and shook. He heaved in defeat and pain, and there was nothing he could do.

His tears continued to stream like a rushing river in a monsoon, but he brought his face out of his hands as he thought he had heard the floorboards creak. He was met with you, messy hair and dark circles under your eyes. You wordlessly came out from behind the doorway wrapped up in a blanket. You were a ghost, hiding in the shadows and living between the walls you built up. Newt stopped crying and approached you.

“Dear, what are you doing down here? I thought you were resting. Come on, I’ll carry you back up,” he said while softly rewrapping the blanket around you, but you placed a shaky hand to his wrist to stop him.

“I heard something crash,” you murmured, shocking Newt. You had silenced yourself what felt like forever ago, and Newt was astonished to hear your voice again. A few tears began to trickle again. You were still you, somewhere inside, he just had to find where.

The real you was locked within your prison, but you were beginning to make progress now. However, he knew not to push you too far or make you uncomfortable. Your eyes trailed to the floor, now covered in scattered pieces of the plate and discarded toast.

He gave you a look of question, and you didn’t say anything, you simply only answered it by nuzzling into his chest. He instinctively wrapped his arms around you as if you were one of his injured creatures protectively. You were starting to open up more, and he didn’t want to do anything that would hurt you. A few wet and glossy tears slipped from each of your eyes before Newt whispered into your ear.

“I know you’re hurting, but I want to help. You can say whatever you like or you can say nothing at all, but either way I’ll be here. We’ll get through this.”

You sniffled, and spoke the longest sentence you had in a while, “But I lost our baby, I’m a bad mother, I k-killed our baby and I want my baby Newt, I should have died instead…”Your sobs cut you off, further banishing you behind your darkened walls as your insecurities began to rear their ugly heads once again, tormenting you like they often did when the sun slipped behind the horizon.

Newt’s heart broke in his chest. This wasn’t you fault, it never would be. All the silence failed to reveal that you were hurting yourself, and he knew that you weren’t just saying these things. You actually felt responsible for the death of your unborn child. His sobs grew louder and shakier like before as he buried his face within your neck, holding your frail body closer to his own aching one.

“Y/n, t-this isn’t your fault. This will never ever be your f-f-fault. I want our baby back to love, I do Merlin Y/n I do, but I can’t lose you darling. I love you with all my heart, and I loved our child too, no, I will always love our child, but I can’t lose you. This isn’t your fault, you couldn’t control it. I know you’re upset and I know you’re in pain, I am too, but p-please Y/n, I need you to know that this isn’t your fault. I’ll always love you and our child, and I’ll never love you any less. You cared for our baby and loved it and carried it, but you didn’t kill it. Some things just happen out of the blue and out of our control, but you are not at fault. Our baby is in a better place now, and I know they wouldn’t want you to beat yourself up like this. This is not your fault love,” Newt sobbed, mentally pleading that you would believe him. He missed his child and he was upset that he would never be able to hear their first words or see them off to their first day at Hogwarts, but he was more upset at himself for not seeing this sooner. You were not to blame, and it would never ever be your fault.

You buried your face in his chest, allowing tears to still cascade, and he held you, and he would for as long as he needed to. You pressed a small kiss to his jaw in between sobs, and he knew that you understood his words. Newt would do everything in his power to make you feel like yourself again, and if that meant taking it slow, he would. Your tears soaked his shirt but he didn’t care. All he wanted was for you to be okay.


Months still trickled by, but you slowly but surely began to find yourself again. You and Newt both knew that it wasn’t just an overnight switch, but with Newt’s care and love, you had started to be yourself again. Newt remembered to ask you how you were feeling and if you needed anything often, whether it be that you requested a cup of tea with your breakfast or to be held as you softly cried into his chest again at three in the morning. Whatever you needed, he got it for you.

You had also worked with the creatures once again. At first you avoided venturing down into the case, as the small creature families would surely enact another heartache, but it was like the creatures felt your pain. They too did what they could to help you feel better.

For the first time in what felt like an eternity, you were finally feeling like your happy and real self once again.

Newt had stepped out about an hour ago to pick up a few groceries and things that you needed, as you had been feeling sick the past week. However, minutes ago you realized why you had felt so sick to your stomach. You had your assumptions, but you wanted to confirm your hopes with one final test. Your heart pounded in your chest and you heard the door downstairs swing open.

“Love, I’m back and I got your er…your things,” shouted Newt as he slipped off his coat. He carefully set the paper bags upon the kitchen table and smiled when he saw you rushing down the stairs.

“Well hello there lov-,” he started but was cut off as you engulfed him into a massive hug. You brought your lips to his and intertwined your fingers within his hair. Newt smiled into the loving kiss and passionately kissed you back. When you parted, he was baffled by the large smile on your face, as when he left to the store, you seemed to be moaning in pain from your sickness.

“What’s got you all giddy? I thought you weren’t feeling too well?” he laughed, arms still around your waist.

You smiled at him and held one of his calloused hands in your own before whispering, “I’m pregnant.”

His eyes shone brighter than any coin the niffler had ever stolen and his mouth sat slightly open, flabbergasted at your words.

“M-Merlin, Y/n you’re, you’re, I, I can’t believe this!” He picked you up and twirled you gently before setting you down, not wanting to disturb the tiny baby that had yet to see the world. He then kissed you passionately once more and you could feel his tears on your heated cheeks. He broke the kiss and looked at you with glistening emerald and blue eyes.

“You’re positive Y/n?”

“Positive. I realized it today.”

“With the sickness?”

“Well…kind of. There’s that and…” you pulled him as you urged him to further follow you to the bathroom, where you then produced a positive pregnancy test in your hand.

Newt’s eyebrows shot up in surprise and euphoria, and this only made you giggle. His grin beamed prouder than before, and he eagerly began to pepper your face with kisses again. You wrapped your arms around him and held him close. You felt him lean down and sweetly press a kiss atop your hair before he spoke again.

“Y/n, are you, you know, alright?”

You knew exactly as to what he was referring to, but you only returned a quiet smile of reassurance. You were nervous of course, as both of you had remembered the hell that stormed in the last time, but you were ready. You still loved your child that had taken a different journey, and you would never ever forget and you would hold them in your heart forever. But you also knew that your child would want their mummy or daddy to be happy still. Your hearts would always have an incomplete and empty hole, but, that was okay. You and Newt would promise to love both children all the same, for there was more than enough room for all.

You squeezed his hand in yours before replying, “Yes Newt, I am.”

Newt pressed a kiss to your lips, “You’re so strong love, and I know you’ll make the best mummy. Perhaps this is a little sign from our little one.”

A single tear fell from your (eye color) eyes, and you knew just who the “little one” that Newt spoke of was. Perhaps, in a turn of destiny and a miracle, it truly was.

Perhaps, it truly was.


Why now? - Another Saeyoung Angst Fic

Title: Why Not?
Rating: Mature, includes death and shooting
Genre: Angst, all the angst
Game: Mystic Messenger
Characters: MC, RFA and Saeran
Description: MC loves Saeyoung and wants to tell him, but it’s too late, he’s found someone else, what’s MC to do?

Hey my lovely lovely followers, been wanting to do an angsty fic for a while and I wanted to do an MM one, I was inspired by this prompt, so enjoy :D

How long had I known Saeyoung for? Too long. How much had I been through with him? Too much. Ever since I had joined the RFA nearly two years ago, I knew I had felt something for the infamous hacker of the group. We had such amazing banter on the group chat, he constantly made me laugh and brought light in my life more than I thought a guy could ever do. Every time I logged in and he was in the chat room already, we always greeted each other with such love and admiration for one another, it felt good. More than good, amazing, fantastic, brilliant, any kind of positive adjective you could think of.

After the first few days of being part of the RFA, getting to know everyone, it didn’t take me long to realise I had feelings for him. The trip to go save his brother, Saeran, kind of just confirmed my feelings. My problem was, I wasn’t sure if he felt the same way.  He kept talking to me throughout his troubles, we even shared a few moments between us whilst Saeran was still healing. He would hug me just a little tighter, our fingers would brush against each-others and he would purposefully do it again, we even almost kissed one time but Saeran had woken up badly from a dream breaking the moment. I didn’t blame him, not in the least, but I genuinely wondered what would have happened if he had continued to sleep.

Zen was the first one to notice how I felt, and naturally Jumin was the last. It was during a meal that Zen and Yoosung asked how I felt whilst Saeyoung was on the phone checking on Saeran at home. Of course, I couldn’t deny it, and thankfully they were more than happy to hear about it.

“Oh my God, I’m so happy for you!” Yoosung grinned like a child.

“You two would make such a good couple, honestly, you’ve been through so much together” Zen grinned too “you going to tell him?”

“I’m not sure, I mean, Saeran comes first right now and he’s doing so well, I don’t want to mess that up, you know?” I said.

“No, of course, but do you want to tell him?” Zen asked.

“I do, not sure how but I do” I smiled, the blush on my cheeks flaring up.

“We’ll help you figure something out, I bet if you do something romantic and slightly geeky, he’ll have to tell you how he feels and you’ll be together forever, and and….”

“Zen, calm down” I chuckled, shushing him when Saeyoung came back and sat next to me.

“Saeran’s ok, had another nightmare but they’re getting easier so, all’s good in the hood!” he grinned, digging back into his food.

“I’m glad he’s ok, like I said, if you need anything again in the future, I’m there” I offered.

“Thanks! I do appreciate that!” he said, giving me a quick hug and we all continued our meal.

Keep reading

Depression is like rolling a dice, you never know which side of it you’ll get. All 6 sides hold different dangers and truth be told they’re all pretty equally sucky to go through.

Side number 1 is the side in which everything feels heavy and dark and like you’re a bird drowning in the sky or a fish trying to fly in the sky; it’s the uphill, never-winning battle that we continue to fight because it’s the only way. Side number one teaches you how to stay strong and adapt.

Side number 2 is the sadness, my god that sadness, the sadness that rips through you like a tornado and leaves you shaking and scared and of course sobbing; it’s the sadness that makes you envy the drowning birds and falling fish. Side number 2 shakes the world beneath your feet but you won’t fall, you’ll go through a bunch of kleenexes and need a helluva lot of comfort food and romantic comedies but the tears’ll stop and you’ll be able to breathe again.

Side number 3 is the lazy side, the side where your body fuses to the mattress and your head is just not cooperating today; the side where you just want the world to go away so you can sleep it all away and wake up in 10 years time. But despite side number 3’s best efforts, get up, take the dog for a walk, grab a cup of coffee, enjoy some sunlight even if it’s only for 10 minutes - use all the energy you’ve got that day just to defy it.

Side number four is the rage, the anger that boils up inside the sadness, the nostalgia, the madness of being trapped in this illness; the anger that leads to cutting, drinking, smoking dope, writing angry poems, cursing, and hurting the people we love. Side number four is painful and you’ll regret it tomorrow but you’ve got to remember that, although it’s no excuse, it wasn’t you talking - it was the depression. The real, mood-altering, mind-controlling, life-damaging illness. Forgive yourself for the snide comments or cynical retorts.

Side 5 is the side no one talks about, for reasons unknown to me, because it is perhaps the hardest side to face when you get it, it’s the darkness - the point in which you just wanna curl up and let it all collapse around you because then at least it would end, it’s the side that makes you feel indifferent, numb, and guilty for not seeing any light because there’s always a light right? Someone always has it worse and here you are hiding underneath your covers like some damsel in distress, wrong - side five is the hardest because it makes you feel bad about your illness, guilty about it and it makes you question its validity, which for the record is very fucking valid.

Side number six is the side which everyone doesn’t understand, it’s the unknown or the other side; this is the side where you’ll be perfectly content, laughing with friends over ice cream or something equally delicious when you just stop because depressions snatched your laugh from you, when your going through your checklist for college in target and break down in the towel aisle because college is too far away and you don’t think you’ll make it, when you’re on a bus to somewhere and you see someone with scars on their arms and although you shouldn’t assume - you know where they came from and you know that pain all too well, when you watch a little kid being happy and high on life and get so goddamn down because they’ll have to face the music one day and you remember that day for you. Side 6 is all the others mixed together, at the unexpected, most unwanted times.

So yes, of course, depression’s a bitch and it’s an illness struggled with by so many in so many ways. But depression, on any given day, is the luck of the draw. Will you get a semi-survivable day? Or will you get a day with suicidal thoughts and surprise mood swings and stress out of this world? We don’t get to choose what day it’ll be, we just get to choose how we respond and how much power we go into battle with.

- We don’t get to choose when we get depressed or how, it’s chance.

—  S.A.S.

c: Black Hat, all.
w: character death.

You bury them in the garden, beneath the plants.

They’re venomous, of course- Flug had spliced them, had created them, had even manufactured an antidote when Demencia had inevitably gotten bit.

The plants snap at your heels; they always have, but you’re in no mood to put up with their childish whims. You snarl at them, the universe shimmering against your anger.

The plants recoils like puppies, and you fold yourself back into a shape you had not meant to leave.

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nosleepforthewatcher  asked:

Oh gosh please do explain your thoughts on The Great Mouse Detective! I loved that movie so much as a kid and is still one of my favourite Sherlock Holmes adaptions :D

goodbyenorthernlights said:

I would be interested in hearing your thoughts on The Great Mouse Detective as a Sherlock Holmes adaptation

Now, I’m no Lindsey Ellis. But before everything else, we have to consider Sherlock Holmes as the most adapted character in fiction. There is no character or series revolving around that character that has more entries in its expanded ‘canon’ of adaptation or homage materials. Not Dracula. Not Frankenstein. Nothing else has more books, movies, and other media about them than Sherlock Holmes or the context of ACD’s original series.

So we’re going to have to look at Sherlock Holmes adaptations in a special way, even compared to adaptations of other ‘classic’ works. Every time Sherlock Holmes is adapted, it’s not just a retelling or redux of the material, but also a comment on the concept of Sherlock Holmes. These comments don’t even need to be specifically super deep or even intentional. There is just metacontext in adapting Sherlock Holmes that there might not be in adapting other materials because there are so many Holmes adaptations.

For example, Sherlock Holmes himself exists in whatever universe the Great Mouse Detective takes place in.

We see him (but only as a shadow) multiple times. This isn’t a universe where Sherlock Holmes happens to be a mouse. This is a universe where Sherlock Holmes is so powerful there is also a mouse version of Sherlock Holmes that the Mouse World beneath our feet needs, because of course there is.

Although we see it as a ‘period piece’ today, when ACD wrote his original stories it wasn’t. It was a fanciful piece about a brilliant but also sort of fantastic man based on someone he knew, but also definitely ‘strange.’ Honestly I think that Basil of Baker Street is one of the better takes on the hot-and-cold or even bipolar energy that ACD’s Holmes’ knew. He can disregard the feelings of others when he’s so passionately focused on his trail, but he’s not cruel or unkind. He can be hesitant to take anyone as seriously as himself and his own work, but finds purpose in helping others. He is quick to fall into discouragement and melancholy when the person he thinks has the most answers– himself– fails or seems not to be of much use.

Basically, whoever made him clearly ‘got’ why Sherlockians like Holmes so much, and adapt him so often. Something I can’t say for many modern tv or movie adaptations.

But in its way, it’s nothing like a Sherlock Holmes story. And I suppose that has to be true, because Sherlock Holmes stories are often nothing like Disney movies, and often don’t offer the same level of action (though action does occur) or family comedy or adventure. 

Or whatever this is.

They often also don’t offer the same high stakes (the world is threatened, a country is threatened, a way of life is threatened, the people the protagonist personally is connected to are threatened) as a Disney story, either. There aren’t really many schemes to replace the Queen of England with a robot double in Sherlock Holmes stories. 

The mysteries take place more on the level of ‘stolen treasure’ or ‘mysterious murders.’ Setting is important and antagonist is important, but with the exception of one few Holmes’ story perps are iconic. Disney needs iconic villains. That’s why it went with Vincent Price for the movie’s antagonist– Ratigan.

Yeah, it’s a big upgrade from Sherlock Holmes’ biggest nemesis hardly being described on-page and mostly existing to explain why Sherlock Holmes went out with a bang so ACD could move on from writing Sherlock Holmes. And yet, in adaptations that so desperately need a remarkable (vs. mundane but skilled) villain, expies of Moriarty reign supreme. It’s funny to me that ACD’s attempts to kill Sherlock Holmes now literally dance gilded all over the screen, failing to kill Sherlock Holmes despite their most magnificent efforts.

And yet, despite these obvious departures from the way that Holmes’ stories were set up, there’s almost a brilliance in how very Sherlockian even the most contrived of Disney Peril situations is handled, how it understands a Holmes-like character.

It’s not so much acting within the bounds of what originally characterized Holmes, but it’s I think how people came to feel about him: the slightly preposterous spirit behind why he’s so beloved.

A version of the tumble off Reichenbach Falls even happens and mouse Holmes and mouse Moriarty plummet off Big Ben together. This, after both are tattered and beaten in a fight scene that’s uncharacteristically intense for a Disney movie with both hero and villain getting their clothes torn and the hero being unquestionably battered and outmatched. Basil getting beaten just makes him look tired and like he’s at the end. Ratigan getting beaten just exposes his beastly inner nature. While Basil basically executes Ratigan with a final triumph (he even rings the bell Ratigan uses to execute his hapless gang!), he gets torn off his handhold himself and seems to fall down into the London fog below.

Only for the story to tell us, 

“Nah. Nah, Sherlock Holmes is going to live forever.”

True Happiness (Cullen x Inquisitor/Reader)

Cullen recounts his most important memories.

Word Count: 1327

I don’t know what it is but I feel like my stories are almost lacking somehow? I don’t know but I feel like they aren’t having the same effect as I was hoping. I want these stories that - while daily and albeit kind of small - still have meaning that shows how much writings means to me - and how much you guys mean to me!! Idk if this was shared by anyone else but I do hope this prompt will maybe show that better!!

Anyhow, thank you guys so much and enjoy!! Have a magnificent day!! 


Bliss was something Cullen rarely felt - all his life usually drenched in worry or uncertainty, something such as joy one of the rarer things in life.

But he felt it with you.

It seemed to follow you like air in a person’s lungs.

He’d feel it creep up his arm as you’d ribbon your fingers with his, or swell in his heart when you’d merely smile at him.

Just the smallest things could make him believe that even if the whole world shattered, it’d be okay - simply as long as you were there.

He first realized - understood it one night as he held you, the two of you hidden in his quarters, dark inky night seeping in through the windows.

He had started to drift off to sleep, his lids growing heavy as he listened to your quiet, calm breaths.

Yet as he sank against the bed and yawned, you began to stir.

You twisted around to meet him, your gaze almost murky or glazed in your drowsiness as you gave him a small smile.

“…Good morning.”

He couldn’t help but muster a small chuckle, moving the messy strands of hair from your face.

“Love, it’s the middle of the night.”

You had crinkled your nose, just about disbelieving. “G-Goodnight then? Does…does that make any sense…?”

He grinned, shaking his head. “Not entirely.”

“Well…you know what I mean…right Curly?”

“Curly? You’re taking after Varric’s nicknames now?”

“If you like that you won’t believe what Sera called you when I asked.”

He felt his heart melt as you giggled lightly, your cheek settling against his palm that enveloped you.

“What was it?”

“She couldn’t entirely decide between Cullen-Wullen…” You snorted, your gaze lighting up just a bit. “Or Cully-Wully.”

“Cully-Wully?” He scoffed, red having burst onto his cheeks. “Maker’s breath I-”

“I like it…!”

“You like it?”

“I think it’s sweet,” You remarked. “Everyone feels so tense about titles like Commander or Inquisitor but ridiculous names like that just…remind us that we’re human…”

You ran your fingers through his hair, a soft sigh slipping from him as he felt a comfort he hadn’t in years.

He hadn’t even felt so human as he did then, legs tangled together beneath the sheets and arms entwined around you as if you were a priceless treasure.

And in his eyes, you were.

“I…I can’t believe it…”


“How…how happy I am…”

You had lit up like a firework, peppering his face in kisses that left him redder than wine.

That had been when he’d truly realized what joy - what bliss - you brought him.

It hadn’t faded with time, or with the looming threat of Corypheus.

But something else had arisen.


It had begun to entangle him like vines, growing and suffocating him each time Corypheus’s name was mentioned.

He could’ve sworn at points he couldn’t even breathe, a wary chill running down his spine as he’d receive letters and reports of that dreaded being.

He knew you were strong, he knew better than anyone how well you could handle yourself - Haven being only one of the many examples.

But he also knew that if you had to - you would sacrifice yourself.

You had dedicated yourself to the people and their safety before Corypheus was a thought in anyone’s mind.

You wouldn’t abandon it then.

He had seen you come in more than enough times with blood and wounds dousing your body.

He couldn’t handle anymore.

He could only pray the world wouldn’t continue to be so cruel.

That for once it could be kind.

But when the world began to crumble and you were the first to burst through the doors of the war room, he felt his stomach drop.

So Cullen wasn’t far behind.

“Inquisitor!” He called out, grabbing onto your arm before you began to rush off again, his eyes as wide as saucers and pulse pounding quicker than he thought possible.

“Love, please…” He lowered his voice, a lump in growing in his throat. “I…I need you to come back, alive.”

You hadn’t even hesitated.

“It’s on my agenda,” You managed a small laugh, failing to hide the worry that actually dashed your features. “I’ll come back, don’t worry.”

You glanced nervously as your companions began to gather at the gate, screaming for you as the world rattled beneath your feet.

“Cullen I have to-” You cursed silently to yourself, pressing a small kiss to his nose before racing off, unsheathing your weapon.

From then on, it all seemed to pass in a blur.

He wasn’t quite sure he’d be able to handle much else by that point.

The bellowing yells from Corypheus barely hit Cullen as he gave out orders to the soldiers, his eyes constantly shifting from them to whatever hint he could find of you - alive and moving.

That was perhaps the only thing that let him breathe.

He could only remember the countless times you had reassured him, a bout of confidence always tinged in your words that left him believing you were right.

Did you feel that now?

You would always smirk when you’d tell him that, squeezing his palm in your own as you’d soothe his nerves. 

But that hadn’t been there then.

There had been fear and worry, your movements finicky and reluctant.

That kept in his thoughts until he heard the crash and screeching with the flash of light, seemingly spread over the sky in a wave of green.

Your anchor. 

The cheers and hollering melded together in his mind as they were dragged back to Skyhold, an uncertainty he wasn’t sure he wanted to be answered. 

The idea of seeing them drag your body forward, left him trembling, his very heart threatening to shatter.

Would he have to bury you?

Would he have to watch your name and Inquisition be smeared? The last memories of you chalked up to absolutely nothing?

Could he?

“The Inquisitor!” 

He stopped pacing.

He stopped tearing at his hair.

He almost stopped breathing itself.

For he saw you.

You had bruises and scratches dotting your body, your weapon dotted with blood and armor twisted.

But you were alive.

You were okay.

He tried to hide the tears that brimmed at the edge of his eyes, a laughter full of utter delight escaping him as you made your way up the stairs.

He thought his heart may burst at the very seams, watching as you came to meet him, sighing gently. 

“I made it,” You proclaimed. “I kept my word didn’t I-” 

You didn’t even finish as he wrapped you in his arms, his hold strong and somehow delicate, as if he may wake from this dream to a nightmare.

“You did…” He whispered, his tone brittle and breaking. “Thank the Maker you did…” 

And there, once again, he felt those worries and fears drift away, instead replaced with the bliss that came over him from head to toe.

And as long as you were with him, he couldn’t help but think it always would be.