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strawberrypinky · 3 months

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can't catch me now. - a. sharp x reader

i'm in the trees, i'm in the breeze my footsteps on the ground. you'll see my face in every place, but you can't catch me now. through wading grass, the months will pass you'll feel it all around. i'm here, i'm there, i'm everywhere, but you can't catch me now.

aesop returns to the place of your demise and the source of his everlasting guilt.

prompt fill for sharpuary no. 8 'scarborough'

A/N: Here we go! I'm kicking off Sharpuary with my take on the "Scarborough" prompt! Big thanks to @ynyseira and @gufu-vire for publishing the prompts ahead of the month!

Throughout the month I'll be publishing the prompts 'Portrait', 'Valentine', 'Gherkin', 'Mirror of Erised' and 'Slytherin'. I wish I would've had the time to do more, but alas these are the ones I have queued up. If inspiration strikes and I find the time, I might publish some more.

This one shot was loosely inspired by the song "Can't Catch Me Now" by Olivia Rodrigo & takes places in Aesop's early years, only shortly after the events of Scarborough. I am aware that Aesop tells the player of the battle taking place on a ship, but I am bending the story slightly aka taking some creative liberties 😗✌🏻

CW: Major character death, (auditory) hallucinations, overall angst

Word Count: 3.8k

Link to AO3 Version: can't catch me now.

Scarborough was decidedly one of those infernal places which seeped with indulgence and détente at every corner yet truthfully simmered with wretched delinquency and bitter peccancy enshrouded in its shadows.

At least if one were to ask Aesop Sharp what he thought of the place.

The town on the northern coast of Yorkshire was a far cry from how Aesop remembered the place. The last time he had stepped into the place, the air was cold and frigid, and the streets barren of any human soul, safe for the few lingering locals that stayed even when the travellers left. Scarborough was the epitome of splendour and abundant leisure, the upper class spending their summers far away from the sweltering and stifling heat of London and its boroughs and trading the sheer endless days of summer for the gentle breeze and wide horizons of the English coast. Aesop supposed that perhaps, in another life, he might have enjoyed the place himself, a life in which he had not stepped into the town as an Auror but as a traveller himself. Perhaps, he glaringly thought as he stood atop the hill bearing the ruins of the medieval Scarborough Castle, and his gaze swept across the vast horizon of the coast, he might have stayed with the upper echelons at the Grand Hotel himself, instead of the seedy tavern you and he had spent your final moments together.

Cursed be the Ministry and the Department of Magical Law Enforcement for ever sending the two of you to the forsaken town at sea. And cursed be the Ministry and the Department of Magical Law Enforcement for asking him to come back - to return to the scene of the end of one life and the eternal damnation of another.

It had been 178 days since that day.

178 days since he had last heard your voice, last seen your smile, last shared the quips you and he shared.

It had been exactly 178 days since your life had ended, and his had forever been changed.

Growling, Aesop turned away from the sun, his newly cursed leg starkly protesting the movement as he limped himself into the shadows of the castle, searching for just a semblance of respite from the stifling August heat. The damned thing ached beyond belief as if a million knives pierced his skin over and over again at his hip and spread down to his leg. It was a persistent reminder that the night you had lost your life happened, though the scar his soul bore was infinitely more agonising than his leg would ever be.

Glancing at the watch in his pocket, Aesop noted it was a quarter past three, his former supervisor late to their agreed-upon meeting and he had half a mind to apparate out of Scarborough and drown himself in firewhiskey in his home as he had done past 100 days since his release from St. Mungo's. Yet as he glanced upon the ruins once more, he recalled why he had come in the first place, the Ministry intent on gathering any intel from that night as they had yet to capture those who had slaughtered you in cold blood and thus Aesop stayed - he owed you that much.

You.

You had been a rather annoying thorn in Aesop's side from the second you had stepped into the Auror office, sauntering and high-strung with a burning thirst to do good in the world as you threw yourself into cases headfirst with reckless frivolity. Sometimes, he had wondered how you had passed the initial training stage at all, your hyper personality a stark contrast among the serious and battle-worn officials that littered the office. It was a personality beaten out of recruits over the lengthy training period, and while Aesop was a mere five years older than you had been, he doubted that you hadn't been exposed to the cruel realities of war and crime as any other recruit had been. You were an oddity - an eclectic fireball among the burnt-out personalities that were Aurors and Hit Wizards, and Aesop had loathed it.

When he had first been paired with you a mere two years before, he had all but begged his supervisor to reconsider, to pair him with anyone but you, but they had insisted.

"She's a promising young soul," the words echoed in Aesop's mind. "You will make a fine pair."

He had doubted it then, obviously. Denied any possibility of someone like you - skittish and genial - ever being a perfect match for him - staid and austere. Your first mission together had been a complete and utter disaster, for what should have been an easy arrest of a reprobate had turned into a full-blown battle you had fearlessly and recklessly charged into.

"Come catch me," you had giggled before abandoning all rules of basic Auror training and charging into the unknown.

While you had successfully apprehended the suspect and turned him over to the Ministry, the battle had commenced in broad daylight and enlisted five Obliviators to manage dozens of Muggles who had witnessed a heated exchange of spells and curses and had confined the two of you to desk duty for more than three months. Aesop had been seething with rage, desk duty the most mundane and imbruting tasks one could ever sentence an Auror to. He was a soldier, a shining paragon of honour and defence - not a desk clerk. It was a speck of dishonour among his otherwise pristine rise among the Aurors and it had all been because of your extroverted, verging on effusive personality.

You had not minded, of course, even making a joke of the situation and blathering on with what you thought droll jokes and enthralling stories, and Aesop had more than once snuck alcohol into the office, unable to take your disposition any other way. It had been freeing to return to active duty once more three months later, even if the task of simple observation had been mundane and hackneyed - at least it had been a change of pace.

It had seemed, at least, that you had at least learned after your idiotic endeavour, no longer charging into situations unknown but awaiting his command, for he remained your superior. Your demeanour had not changed otherwise, but at least he could count on a partner slightly more conscientious in the field. It was a win he did not relinquish, and your entire company seemed a little more bearable from that point on.

It hadn't been until one night of observation, eight months after your initial pairing, that he had been privy to see another side to you.

"You're quiet tonight," he had remarked as your gazes meticulously observed the seedy establishment where allegedly all sorts of prohibited deals and Faustian bargains were closed. "Oddly so."

"Sorry," you had mumbled in a half-hearted apology, your eyes not meeting his. "Long day."

"That's never stopped you before," he had snarked cruelly, the week long and tedious.

"Sorry," you had all but whispered again, shrinking slightly under his scrutinising glare. "I'll be sure to be less bothersome in the future."

"You are not -" he had begun to argue, stopping himself mere seconds later, for he was many things, but Aesop was not a liar. You had been bothersome.

A bitter laugh had escaped your throat, the sound paradox coming from you, of all people, when all he had seen of you was a person as jovial as someone drunk on Alihosty. "Exactly."

He had later found that your father had passed a mere fortnight earlier, and the burial had been that day. He had felt like a grand arse, swallowing down his pride and openly apologised for his behaviour and offered you a shoulder to cry on, though you had never actually taken him up on the offer. Instead, you had smiled gratefully before burying your grief beneath the infinite layers of frivolity and mirth he had grown accustomed to, and Aesop finds himself seeing you with the depths of your soul and all its paradoxing contrasts and within seeing you, he is falling for you.

It had been a slow realisation at first, from noticing how, instead of vexation, your laughter and stories brought a comforting sense of familiarity to laughing manically alongside you, confusing his colleagues, for nobody had ever seen Aesop Cyril Sharp smile that much.

You had slowly yet surely crept into his mind and heart, your being a beacon of amenity and Aesop was powerless to do anything but surrender to the shining light that was you.

The amicable partnership that had been between you blossomed into a bountiful and fulfilling romance, and with each passing day, it became more challenging to maintain a facade of his characteristic stoicism and the carefully curated illusion of mere friendship. Your superiors had been correct in their assumptions after all: You made a fine pair. It went unspoken between you that your romance could never see the light of day, the sheer scandal of a workplace relationship enough to silence even you, though Aesop yearned to show off how deeply you loved the longer it went on. Your blossoming romance transcended into your professional lives, too, the pair of you rising through the ranks and taking on more complicated and intricately woven cases as you helped bring justice to the Wizarding World.

Your keen and genuine yearning to bring goodness into a world littered with hardened criminals and devilish syndicates is nothing short of inspiring, and while you had never truly ceased to be slightly more reckless than you perhaps should have been, your prowess in battle was unmatched as no onslaught of chaos or destruction could hinder your sheer determination or force of will.

"Come catch me?" you had jokingly asked before each and every battle you and him found yourselves in, alluding to the disastrous first case, yet then Aesop found the words comforting rather than infuriating. It was as if you were making a silly game of a perilous situation, and while he had initially been hesitant to follow your jubilance, it had quickly become addicting.

"Come catch me?" had been the final words you had uttered to him in the place he now stood, the desolate ruins of a formerly stately palace cold and unforgiving as the bitter February winds had whisked along your heads and you had thrown yourself into a battle you'd never emerge from. The seedy smugglers you and he had been trailing for weeks had seemingly finally slipped; a contact Aesop had acquired telling him of a supposed incoming shipment of shrunken heads which was to be traded in the ruin of Scarborough Castle and then taken to over parts of the country via the port of the city. As Aesop reminisced on the minutes preceding that fateful battle, he only realised how foolish it had been to expect the man to have been working alone; how foolish it had been to expect a sudden contact was telling the truth. The arrogance with which he had displayed confidence, further emboldened by every battle you and him had won, was the beginning of the end.

From the second you had stepped from the shadows, you were ambushed by what seemed like an army of reprobates and scoundrels, lunging at the two of you with cruel precision in the pandemonium. The ruins of the castle upon the rocky promontory, once a symbol of royalty and defence, had been transformed into a brutal battlefield with colourful hexes and curses illuminating the night.

Aesop had scarcely been granted a second to draw upon his Auror badge, a clever charm allowing him to call for backup.

It was the first time he had felt genuine and true terror as he continued to fight alongside you, his feelings for you at the forefront of his mind as his role had turned from Auror to protector among the assailment of spells hurled your way.

As the seconds ticked by and it became more evident that the battle you were fighting was a losing one, Aesop had all but hoped you would retreat and run as far as you could, but he should have known better. You never backed down from a fight.

All too late, he had noticed the witch sneaking up on you with impeccable stealth before she drew upon her wand as your back was turned to hers, engaged in a duel of your own, and uttered the words which would void you of any life.

"Avada Kedavra."

You had fallen to the ground within a second, your body plummeting into the dirt as the witch cackled in sadistic delight upon having ended a life with a mere flick of her wrist, obliterating any future you might have had. Aesop could not recall what had transpired next, unadulterated mania consuming his body as he fired curse after curse at the witch who had taken you from this mortal coil, which she deflected with tantalising ease. His love for you, which had translated into his rage, had been his second mistake that night, and though now he wished it had meant the end of his life, it had allowed another to sneak up on him, uttering a strange curse and aiming at his leg, damning it to the pain he now felt with every step.

Aesop was unsure what happened after; the rest of the night, a blur of colour and shapes and overwhelming sentiments obscuring his memory before he awoke in St. Mungos again, and 178 days later, the memory of the night seemed far away as the sun illumed the grassy patches and rocks, and a gentle breeze carried the scent of summer instead of the fetid stench of decay.

Half past three, Aesop noted as he glanced at his pocket watch once more. Resigned, he sighed as he leaned against the cool stone, closing his eyes as he desperately tried keeping the weight off his bad leg as it spasmed and the pain etched itself into his very core. Damned be the blasted thing, and Aesop had no one to blame but himself.

A gentle breeze passed him by, the scent strangely familiar as it passed in a second. Aesop scrunched his nose, hoping to catch it again to identify the source, but all he got was a strange sound instead - a near-mocking giggle reaching his ears. His eyes shot open once more, the sound too close for him to be comfortable, yet as he searched the place, there was not a single soul in sight. His hand strayed towards his concealed wand, ready to fight, yet the place was quiet again, merely the breeze enveloping him in a cocoon of familiar and comforting smells. All too late Aesop realised that the scent was you, the tantalising allure of it nothing but a distant memory that continued to fleet the more seconds passed.

The giggle sounded again, his ears perking up as a presence clouds over him like a paradoxical embrace both chilling and warm, a gentle voice accompanying it.

"Come catch me."

Your voice hauntingly sounded around him, though there was no source to be determined. The words struck him like a hot iron, piercing his soul as Aesop feels as if he were struck by a physical blow. He blinked rapidly in almost visceral disbelief.

Had he just heard your voice? Aesop shook his head, trying to convince himself his mind was simply playing tricks on him, the proximity to the place of your demise aiding in his delusions. Another resigned sigh escaped him, deciding that if his superiors did not arrive within a minute or two, he would disapparate and schedule the meeting for another day, even if he was not terribly keen to return to Scarborough either way.

"Come catch me."

And there it was again, a sanctimonious sound ringing in his ears as your voice penetrated his senses and twisted his mind. It had to have been a trick - a cruel diversion. Yes, that must have been it. Aesop's mind was twisting and turning, forcing itself to remember that you couldn't be there. A shaking puff escaped his lips, air filling his lungs with a semblance of clarity as the echoes of your voice faded once more and all that was left was the gentle breeze and the rustling leaves with the chirping birds off the coast.

Enough was enough, Aesop determined, unwilling to wait a single second further in this forsaken place of demise and terror and anguish, his rickety leg carrying him through the wading grass before his mind could think of it any further and convince him to stay any longer. Damned be the Ministry - may they reach out any other time or kiss his arse, but to torture him with this was asking too much. How dare they ask this of him after all the months, wasting time and efforts when your murderer was still on the loose and -

Aesop stopped dead in his tracks, feet frozen to the ground as a surge of consternation and terror courses through him at the picture he was faced with.

There you were, standing in the clearing between the crumbling castle walls and the remains of the barbican, as if you had always been there. You were a shining beacon, seemingly untouched, with your clothes pristine and your countenance not cadaverous but as full of life as Aesop fondly remembered in his darkest nightmares and most precious dreams. A strange look had clouded your features, though your smile was as warm and familiar as it had always been. Aesop shakingly exhaled, his eyes not leaving yours as they held your gaze in sheer disbelief and poignancy he was unable to describe.

You stood as still as he as if awaiting his movements, though Aesop remained motionless - stunned by your sudden appearance. Was this a cruel trick? Or was it a gift from a deity pitying the man? Aesop would have described himself a Nihilist, yet there was no worldly explanation for this otherwise.

His mouth opened, then closed before a single sound could leave him, his chest constricting the more he gazed upon your frame, and he felt his heart beating erratically. One step forward, he told himself, his agonising leg a mere afterthought as he stumbled towards your vision, which stayed unmoving. Another stumbling step forward, hands reaching for the silhouette etched in his mind; a body so familiar to Aesop, like a painting whose lines he had drawn over and over - all your strengths and vulnerabilities - and he held onto your gaze fiercely, afraid that when he let go, so would you. Like a man possessed, he staggered through the grass, fearful that you would vanish if he did not reach you, as he imagined you retreating to a place he could no longer reach you.

Aesop's mind was a hollowed place filled with a cacophony of screams, mindlessly scrambling for answers - for reason. He wanted to scream, demand answers he had been searching for since that harrowing night.

Come catch me, he could hear your voice ringing in his head.

One more step. Just one more, Aesop told himself.

A second more, but before his hand could reach for yours, a firm hand clamped around his shoulder, grounding him to the spot. Aesop whipped around, hand on his wand and ready to fight as a piercing pain shot up his spine, shooting him down, hissing and groaning.

"Bloody hell, Sharp," Aesop could hear the deep timbre of Eleazar Fawley, his former superior, as he knelt on the ground, pain flooding his system as he groaned in an effort to suppress the screams at the back of his throat. His vision blurred as he focused on the ground, the viridescent grass beneath him soft between his fingertips as it ground him to the earth.

"What the fuck, Eleazar?" Aesop hissed after a while, still feeling the pressure of Eleazar Fawley's hand as he slowly raised himself, further suppressing the screams which threatened to escape his throat as his blasted leg ached and spasmed under the pressure, having been used far more in a mere two hours than it had been in the last couple of months passing him by. Aesop turned to face Fawley, a man of unimpressive stature or height, with a face marred by years of brutal combat, though his presence was imposing nonetheless. The man's most extraordinary edge had always been his unremarkableness; many a foe underestimated him and paid the price with a one-way ticket to Azkaban. Aesop glared at him, though Eleazar Fawley remained unimpressed, if a little leery in his questioning gaze.

"What the fuck is an apt sentiment," Eleazar Fawley mused as he removed his hand from Aesop's shoulder. "Because why the fuck do I arrive to you staggering through these ruins like a man possessed, ashen like a ghost? Are you out of your mind?"

Aesop flouted the man, turning around to where you had stood as your voice had finally ceased to echo in his head, only to realise the spot was vacant once more; any trace of your phantom vanished as if it had never been there in the first place. His mind reeled, void of anything but you and your ephemeral vision.

"Sharp?" he heard the questioning tone of Fawley again. "Is everything alright?"

Aesop looked around once again, his eyes sweeping over the place, desperately looking for only a hint of you or even a testament that you had been there, but the place was void of any other soul but him and Eleazar Fawley, leaving nothing but a lingering feeling of mournful longing and haunting despair in its wake.

"Yes," Aesop hesitantly mumbled after a while, returning to look at his former boss. "Everything is perfectly fine."

The man in front of him nodded, and though the disbelief was evident in his eyes, Aesop gratefully noted he refrained from prying any further, though whether this was out of the goodness of his heart or genuine disinterest, Aesop did not know. He stood up straighter, though he scarcely reached Aesop's shoulders and let out a huffing breath before his gaze hardened once more and became the picture of collected lassitude Aesop was accustomed to.

"Right then," Fawley cleared his throat, turning around to walk away. "Then let's not dally any further and get this over with."

Aesop nodded in compliance, slowly forcing himself to follow as your voice rang in his ears once more.

Come catch me.

Once more, he looked over his shoulder, hoping to see you smiling at him with the familiar impish glint your eyes held before you charged into battle, yet the fields stayed clear, and Aeosp bitterly realised that nothing remained of you but your shadows haunting the ruins of Scarborough Castle, tormenting his mind as he would forever be unable to catch you now.

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aevarswall · 18 days

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”peccancy” would be a good name for a rabbit I feel

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viraajsisodiya · 16 days

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Discipline and obligations are limitless burdens; if adherence and admissible conditions create equanimity among them, then the transition to renunciation will neither be avoidable nor bounded. Besides, humans are also involved in the abominable deeds of salvation through misguided and lackadaisical methods and shortcuts. The potential of every form of energy is assumptive, grantable, and plausible towards actions, but only when humans sequence their procedures in the correct and acceptable ritual and meaningful rite. Karma arising, concluding, and abandoning from abandoned verbs always keeps wandering around the shortcomings, loggerheads, inculpation, and censure, but the duty of truthfulness coming out of this smoke is confessedly fixed. Every activity is a mechanism entangled in the temporal web; the work done by friendly nature is the compound of smooth, orderly, and unquestionably liberating man. This fire, air, and water are settled with the devoir of onus functions without any peccancy or frailty.

#Duties #Action #BhagavadGita #Inspiration🙏🙏

#BhagavadGita #Inspiration🙏🙏

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random-racehorses · 22 days

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Random Real Thoroughbred: GOLD COAST QUEEN

GOLD COAST QUEEN is a bay mare born in Great Britain in 1903. By MOCANNA out of PECCANCY. Link to their pedigreequery page: https://www.pedigreequery.com/gold+coast+queen

#/gold+coast+queen

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pollylynn · 3 years

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TItle: Peccancy WC: 900 Episode: Recoil (5 x 13)

She is no storyteller. She is certainly no writer, and most of the time she’s slightly annoyed that he is—that he can’t stop being one for an instant. Oh, professionally his narrative compulsion is useful. She’s long past denying that, however often she rolls her eyes at his constant theorizing. But personally, it’s always been a thorn in her side. Because she’s a private person and he is constantly watching. Because she hates spoilers and when she does something and his eyes light up and his fingers twitch for pen and paper, for his keyboard, she knows she’s a walking spoiler.

If she’s being honest, and supposedly she’s being honest these days, it’s a little bit wonderful that he’s an always-on writer, too. Because as much as she feels like she’s constantly aware of him watching, as much as she thinks she sees every single moment he’s seeing and taking note of in real time, he captures things—he remembers things—that bring a pleasant flush to her cheeks, that make the back of her neck tingle deliciously, that call her back to warm, life-giving moments that she’s too apt to lose track of.

So she hates that he is a writer and she loves that he is a writer. And right now, for the first time since he barreled into her life, she’s afraid that he is a writer. She is terrified because he is a writer, and she doesn’t want to know what he might be tempted to write about her in the wake this plot to kill Bracken. She doesn’t want to see her many sins on display when she hasn’t even had a chance to catalog them yet herself.

There’s the sin of deceit—it’s so far beyond just a lie, just a collection of lies, that there’s no other word for it. Aand he has to know by now that he is the first and worst victim of that. He has to know that she lied and sent him home, she smiled and accepted his declaration that she is remarkable. She sat there, silent, as his face darkened as he read the stark, matter-of-fact prose from Robert McManus’s file and his writer’s mind filled in the blanks of the terrible story of a man already plagued by mental illness, unable to hold on to his place in the world after the death of his son.

He has to have realized that she stood there and said nothing about the son’s connection to Bracken—the bond of unutterable loss at the hands of an evil man that she almost certainly shares with Robert McManus. He has to be thinking through that long string of lies of omission, of commission. He has to have some idea what her evasions, her silence have to say about her character, and she doesn’t want to know. She doesn’t want to see the dark things his pen might set down.

She’s afraid of what he might be tempted to write about what those lies mean in terms of her every sin against Robert McManus. Because she can talk about the pain in his eyes. She can talk about there being no right choice. She can run to a comparative stranger seeking absolution for the sins she had been committing even in that moment as she’d worn out Burke’s carpet for the millionth time.

But here is something he might be tempted to write: She had wanted McManus to get away. She had wanted McManus to kill Bracken. It’s an unremarkable storyline. The fact that she would have some trouble mustering up even a single tear if William Bracken happened to meet some grisly end is neither deep nor dark nor a secret. He’d never write something so simple—so obvious—as her simply not getting in the way of McManus taking his revenge and just happening to secure hers along the way.

He would dig deeper. On the page, he would pry open her ribs to find a black heart, bubbling with wickedness. In the version of all this he might be tempted to write, there would be nothing passive, nothing accidental, about McManus racing out of that SRO. She imagines a scene featuring herself—her alter-ego—shaking her head sadly, feigning noble self-flagellation for a split-second of weakness, a split second of letting her true empathy get in the way fo the job.

She imagines that in dialogue, in everyone’s outside-their-head voices. And she imagines a secret smile, a blank, black-eyed stare once there was no one around to perform for. She imagines a moment alone for her alter-ego—a moment kicking back, utterly indifferent to Robert McManus’s pain, and utterly satisfied at having used the man to do her dirty work.

It’s a much more compelling scene. It’s a much more likely story. It’s a version of events that could have been the truth, might have been the truth.

It’s a version of events he would never write, he would never be tempted to write, because he believes in her goodness, in the purity of her soul.But the world is dark and she is sleepless. The television is on, volume off. William Bracken the villain is smiling, smiling. And she thinks maybe it's a version of events he should write.

She thinks maybe it’s the truth.

A/N: Kate Beckett’s self-loathing COULD achieve morphousness, but it does not here. Bet you thought there’d be doilies tonight.

images via kissthemgoodbye

#Castle #Caskett #Castle: Season 5 #Castle: Recoil #Kate Beckett #Richard Castle #FIc #Carter Burke #Fanfic #Fanfiction #Fan Fic #Fan Fiction #Writing #Tell Me More

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musicmakesyousmart · 3 years

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#music #Fiendgrief #electro #darkwave #if you like Alice Glass

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skzluvs · 4 years

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Gods and monsters; Lee Felix

Genre: Demon Au! Lots of Angst

Warnings: Suggestive, Mentions of blood, Mentions of Death

Word count: 1.5K

Song recommendation: Lana del Rey gods and monsters

In the land of gods and monsters I was an angel and he was pure evil.

You were a beaming light in a darker valley, walking the streets in between creatures and monsters you had defied all laws the moment you came down to secretly meet him in the shadows.

You were still the purest angel of them all but he had driven you insane making you take such a life risk. If you were to be caught right now the gates of heaven would close immediately and you would become a fallen angel thrown into the burning flames of hell.

But here you were not giving a care as long as you kissed his lips. As long as you got a taste of the underworld from his mouth.

" Its been a while since you came to visit me angel" he whispered in your head.

With Red burning hair he was standing there at the end of alleyway hands on his pockets a cigarette on his mouth, you found it endearing the way he lit it up with his own hands just for you. He knew how much you loved the fire only he was able to create. Only he was able to ignited the fire in your veins.

Hand in hand you both walked inside your usual secret spot.

"I've missed you" you said wrapping your arms around his neck.

And when he places his strong hands around your waist softly that's the moment heaven and hell became one.

"My sweet Angel I was dying to see your divine face again" He said as he held you tighter than ever.

"Felix this isn't right " You replied preoccupied sighing.

You knew this not so innocent encounter could cause trouble. Not only the heavens would never be able forgive you but also the demons that were after your holy blood.

" Shh..." He placed his finger on your lips. " I'm here to protect you, no one dares to get even get close to my angel"

He knew all your worries and understood them like they were his own. He could read your mind anytime with the ability of his Psychokinesis.

Felix was an extremely powerful demon. You had heard so much about him in heaven even before you actually met him.

All the angels he had killed, all the places he had burned with his bare hands. He was known as nothing but perversion.

The amount of times angels warned you about him were countless. They knew you were naive enough to fall into his trap. They said once you drink poison you become foul.

And perhaps they were right and you were just denying the truth. Blindfolded with his touch. Felix was your corruption and you knew.

" I'm no longer scared if I'm with you" You assured him trying to make all your concerns disappeared as he began to place wet kisses on your neck.

"We don't have much time Angel" He said seductively against your ear.

Lustful eyes, hunger bodies, a collision between pureness and peccancy. You were only a devotee when he devoured your lips.

You saw the stars when his hands went in between your thighs. Burning your wet core and you weren't as angelic as you produced loud moans.

Felix taught you how sweet sin tasted. Like cherries on top a bourbon cocktail.

"give it to me, this is heaven, what I truly want

It's innocence lost" You said feeling sparkles inside you when he released.

His burnt hair dripping in sweat, he was lying beside you. You caressed his cheek and placed a soft kiss on his temples, His eyes began to close but before he had fallen asleep completely he said.

" I'll cross heaven and hell just for you angel"

Head resting on his bare chest after setting fire with your bodies exhaustion took over you and you drift off to sleep next to your beloved demon.

When the morning came coldness wash over you

Opening your eyes in confusion your first instinct was to searched for Felix missing his warm heat.

But all your eyes meet was your penitence.

A room filled with Archangels all of them looking at you with shame.

And on the throne God rested looking directly into your soul.

"WHERE IS HE" You screamed falling onto your knees.

Pleading praying that he was not hurt anywhere.

" Look at how blatant she is, worrying about a demon even during her own trial" One of them said with a disgusted tone. And everyone started whispering unpleasant things about you.

" Y/N you have ridiculed the whole heavenly kingdom by infringing the rules, you had adulterer a dreadful sin that transgress all human morality but you as an Angel has gone beyond all boundaries by having intercourse with an evil being" God's most powerful Archangel spoke to you.

His words making you shiver in your place unable to speak, your mind was going crazy you couldn't even think about the situation you were caught in right now all you could think of was Felix.

" Therefore according to the sacred gods deed you will be exiled of the promised land and thrown into the burning oven underneath, your life from this moment will become your punishment suffering and misery will be all you get to experience" That was it you had caused this nonetheless you had no regrets.

"Remove her wings" He yelled.

A multitude of angels came over to you pulling and tearing your plumes one way one.

You were unable to feel pain it was like your body was numb. When they finished the doors opened and you jumped into a free fall.

The earth opened and you went right through the Core of it

When your body touched the floor all bruised up you were surprised you hadn't broken any bones. You remained intact trying to stand up.

You walked the streets naked with blood dripping from your back. The absence of your wings made you feel empty somehow now you had to walked bared feet.

No angel was allowed in hell but now you were here cause you no longer belonged to heaven. A true fallen angel you became.

Your priority was to find Felix as soon as possible but you were disorientated, you had never been here before. Where should you begin your search?

As you were trying to come up with a plan a group of demons approached.

" Look what we have here a true angel" one of them said looking at you.

" It was easier than we thought, you came earlier than we expected" The tall black haired said making you confused.

" What are you talking about?" You asked in fear.

" Why don't you tell her Jeongin" Who seemed to be the leader talked referring to the youngest.

" I will Chan" He stepped in front of you and began to talk "we cause this, we told on you and Felix" He said smiling with those fiercely shaped eyes.

" You did what" You said lowly more like a whisper to yourself.

" It's our vengeance Felix didn't deserved the tittle of most powerful demon he didn't deserved to rank higher than any of us" The leader said with an authoritative tone.

" But we are not done yet are we Minho" Jeongin said his eyes shining in pure pernicious.

" No we are not, You are the most precious thing Felix has, so beautiful I can see how your Angelic charm makes him so weak" Minho said running his fingers through your strands of hair.

"Your blood surely has a sweet taste" The pretty face tall boy spoke again. His words making your stomach to flip.

" DON'T TOUCH ME WHERE'S FELIX" You yelled smacking his hand.

" Oh your boyfriend is not here to protect you anymore he's paying for your own sins down in the dungeon" Chan told you laughing at your terrified face.

You started to scream for his name desperately, you wanted Felix to come and save you but he wasn't even able to save himself.

" There's no worth in fighting beautiful angel, he is not going to come and there's nothing you can to stop this" Minho pulled you down on the floor. And they all surrounded you.

Your cries were heard through the whole underground.

Felix was trapped but he sensed it he felt his own soul leaving his body when he heard you scream. When he smelled your sweet blood from miles away.

He shout in pain. Bursting into tears infuriated he started a fire that began to grow rapidly on his palms.

You loved him you truly love him and now you were about to die for him and you guess that's how it's supposed to be that's only fair that a love like this couldn't last for the eternity.

Felix had lost all sanity when he lost his angel.

The fire calcined his own body leaving nothing but the ashes.

That's how the love of an angel and a devil consummated into the incandescent blaze.

Unstoppable like the flames but certainly just as destructive.

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ao3feed-deamus · 4 years

Text

How to Destroy a Castle (And Get Away With It)

read it on the AO3 at https://ift.tt/35cJ9mJ

by TeachUsSomethingPlease

Based off the meme/incorrect quote/headcanon where the Marauders are 'one man short' and find their fourth man in a recently deceased Fred. Fast forward 17 years (17? 16? I can't count, y'know) and Auror Peccancy is a modern Umbridge, an new addition since the Ministry gave Kingsley the boot. Meanwhile, the consequences of accidentally dooming Peter to the Devil come into play. Oh, Merlin almighty.

Words: 4993, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English

Series: Part 3 of A Hat Dumps the Universe on Its Head

Fandoms: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling

Rating: General Audiences

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Categories: Gen

Characters: Fred Weasley, Nymphadora Tonks, Remus Lupin, Sirius Black, James Potter, Lily Evans Potter, Teddy Lupin, Victoire Weasley, Dominique Weasley, Louis Weasley, Molly Weasley II, Lucy Weasley, James Sirius Potter, Fred Weasley II, Roxanne Weasley, Harry Potter, Ron Weasley, Ginny Weasley, Hermione Granger, Rose Granger-Weasley, Hugo Granger-Weasley, Peeves (Harry Potter), Dean Thomas, Seamus Finnigan

Relationships: Remus Lupin & Teddy Lupin & Nymphadora Tonks, James Sirius Potter & James Potter & Lily Evans Potter, Fred Weasley & Molly Weasley II, Fred Weasley & George Weasley, Sirius Black & Remus Lupin & James Potter, Remus Lupin/Nymphadora Tonks, James Potter/Lily Evans Potter, Teddy Lupin/Victoire Weasley, Angelina Johnson/George Weasley, Fred Weasley & Fred Weasley II, Seamus Finnigan/Dean Thomas

Additional Tags: Crack Treated Seriously, Crack, Fluff and Crack, Marauders, Resurrection, They Sold Peter to the Devil Apparently, This Is Not Going To Go The Way You Think, Pranks and Practical Jokes

read it on the AO3 at https://ift.tt/35cJ9mJ

#fanfic #harry potter fanfic #deamus #dean x seamus #seamus x dean

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qlmattlp-lyrics · 2 years

Text

Immortal (2021)

Genre: Rock, Alternative, Symphonic Recorded: 30.08.2021 (demo) Released: TBA Music: Matt Weron Lyrics: Matt Weron

Official Audio (demo)

I'm tired of being confined in my own space I'm even trying to find answers to tedious questions The peccancy is leading to the wrong direction And everything would be nothing, yet you came to my place

There’s something inside you That raises my power That makes my heart beating free And I’m waking up from my eternal sleep To make up all leeway, to break down my chains

I’ve been waiting so long for day When I’ll be immortal again EverythIng I sacrificed to lIve Took my pain away Whoever could break me Whatever could stop me I still know That you once saved my life

Let time pass around, all memories ahead I ain’t no possessed, my choices are free And if you once ask, for what I’m bound to you Then only an answer will be

There’s something inside you...

I’ve been waiting so long... (2x)

#qlmattlp #rock #symphonic

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justinehudock · 3 years

Text

Genuine.

When Blanche Wisener was brought into that aluminum-wrapped closet and positioned on the floor decals shaped like a pair of men’s tractionless loafers and heard the X-Ray machine turned beepedybeepbeeped on accompanied by a climactic full-blooded slide whistle sound and the big iron thing laboriously fiddled with so that it faced her and the rays of hair-singeing energy flew through her body like beams of a sunrise yawning through a suncatcher, nothing changed. The X-raying apparatus, spotted with little barcoded apple stickers from the technicians’ snacks, radiating faintly skull-shaped silhouettes of an electromagnetically green shade that set off car alarms for three square blocks and induced rapturous labor in nearby women who were not due for several weeks, produced an image on its receptor screen between which, and what Blanche looked like to the naked eye, there was no difference at all. This is how genuine she is.

Blanche, as true to her name as any one could hope to be unless one’s name is Ugly and Unentertaining Joe in which case one had better hope for the antonym to that, is peeled of the regular veiling, protective trappings that women are imposed upon to develop, portraying the supernovic potential of blinding authenticity that a woman might be. Blanche is daylight, a single beaming red circle in the center of a white canvas; the magmatic heart of a great, burbling volcano. Unprocessed and pure as non-homogenized milk or a well-asseted woman’s naturals, Blanche wears her heart on her sleeve, and hangs her kidneys from her earlobes, and wraps her intestinal track up the length of her forearm like a gladiatorial bangle.

There are billions of feme covert type-women whose personality and capacity for sincereness are subsumed by that calculated feminine reticence that makes men fall in love, but Blanche does not hold a membership with this calico group, all arched backs and deliberate movement, like just any fluffy-headed dandelion breezing back and forth in the mild but persistent wind of misogyny. Blanche chose to inhabit a body with candor, plumply and ingenuously and immovably insistent that she was the only one who would put one leg in front of her other, that she was the one to make up her lunch boxes and nobody else, and that her metaphors for autonomy need only hold wisdom for her. A frank portrait, or sometimes a medium shot or over-the-shoulder-shot, depending on your point of view, to the world at large: a woman on display, a real woman, one who can be observed by anyone as if the observer was an X-ray machine peering into all that lay behind Blanche’s blue-veined eyes, miasmic like empty words; everything from the interior of Blanche’s soul, to her dense tissues, to all her other kinds of physiological matter, even to any emotions processing themselves into the full range of multicolored biles. It was not unlike watching an ant colony by cross section, watching Blanche.

The X-ray machine unscrambled all of these facets to the fact of nature that is Blanche; its only function, after all; praise is hardly called for. Her large, generous mind (like an empty ballroom), the density of her flannel-slacked thighs (rugged and dark and close with a layer of thick-coming hair that was disturbingly similar in texture to a five-o’clock-shadow), but above all this, it focused on the nauseating, unaccountably bruised, massive and disagreeably heart-shaped tumor punching out of her abdomen.

That X-ray and annual medical feel-up after the fact led to the expert opinion of her doctor -- a woman, by the way, by the name of Renée Donet -- who attributed this grotesquely misshapen goiter on Blanche’s lower stomach with an apocryphal-level of evil and peccancy and malevolence, finally diagnosing it anecdotally as a kind of growth that will “cause middle fingers to raise from every direction, as if inspiriting them with a larvae of some supernatural thing that has a very low tolerance for vileness.” The doctor’s note burned up upon contact with these words, the charcoal marking of Renée’s pencil rising upwords and leaving the word larvae on her forehead in mirror.

Renée even admitted to Blanche, as if under the hypnosis of a high fever, that she and the other radiologists had hung the image of this lump above the donuts in their break room in a pitch to ruin everyone’s appetite. It was nearly Summer after all.

“It’s disgusting,” said Renée.

“What is?” asked Blanche.

“Your lump.” said Renée.

“Which is?” asked Blanche.

“New one.” said Alrene.

“This?” asked Blanche.

“No. Lower. The goiter thing.” said Renée.

“Hm. Can you remove it?” asked Blanche.

“Don’t think so.” said Renée.

“Think so? Or know so?” asked Blanche.

“Know.” said Renée.

“Alright. Bye then.” said Blanche.

“Goodbye. Don’t come back.” said Renée.

“Alright, bye then.” said Blanche.

“Thank God I’ll never see her again,” said Renée.

“I’m still here, Renée.” said Blanche.

“Sorry, wasn’t looking at you. As I said, I’ll never see you again.” said Renée.

“Bye. I don’t know where I’ll find another doctor whose name rhymes.” said Blanche.

“Try Francisco Banananisco, on 32rd Street.” said Renée.

“Alright.” said Blanche.

This was a shock. A grave shock. Blanche had long dismissed the loaded nacho platter-sized lump as anything to worry much about. It was only characteristic of her patient approach to life and its issues that Blanche should have assumed the mass was merely the snowball those boys in the neighborhood had thrown at her some months ago, after they hijacked a travelling magic troupe and held the headlining magician’s head in a toilet until he conceded their demand to produce enough snow to terrify their dinosaur action figures. She had planned simply to continue to cover the lump, the sticky, slow-thawing snowball that she thought it to be, with clothing until the excess water melted and was absorbed into her bladder. Blanche knew enough about human physiology to know that the bladder was nearby.

But it was as disgusting and real and genuinely worthy of fear as she dreaded to accept; scary things are always as scary as they can possibly be. With knowledge of its doctor-determined evil, Blanche became afraid to touch the lump, worried to bring objects or clothing even near to it. The thing was so large and veiny and had so many life lines running across it, as though to say to Blanche “I will be with you for this and any existence after,” that it was fearsome, and maybe, she thought, capable of incorporating anything that came close to it and becoming stronger all the time, like an Increasingly Lethal Enemy or what gas is to a fire, whatever that relationship is. Clothing became unwearable, but the Spring air, being so humid and revealed to her bare skin, only made the lump bloom larger and fatter, like cotton wool in water. The large holes Blanche had cut into all of her tops, including ample border space around the lump to give it even more room, put much of her wardrobe out of commission, and because they were her tops and public barebreastedness was still on the books, consequentially a major blow to her ability to venture into public at all.

Blanche was changing, now in roars like the changing sea, beyond her power which was once almighty and head-spinning. Some speculated this change was the effect of the lump in a literal way, that it was leaking dark, unvaulted emotions this special woman’s brain had never before experienced (these people are quacks). The emotions of misery, bitterness, butterness (always scrambling for control over the slippery constitution of true agency), and nausea, like her body was a boat surrounded by sharks that were shaking the craft, shaking it, and laughing at this, her funeral, the death of a one-woman civilization and its god, the same woman. But what was happening to her was not biological, or kenotic, and with Blanche’s last ounce of that particular, unparagoned vigor of self-certainty, she was convinced that the lump was calling in the favor she had benefited from all her long life: calling her back to the ugliness of self-consciousness, and ugliness.

Under a mental smog so dense that might have been imported from San Francisco, Blanche would leave her apartment wearing nothing but a skinny scarf and large sunglasses, her posture reduced to an all wrong sort of curvacious C-shape, it seeming to all who passed her that Blanche had forgotten herself completely and assumed the role of the third member of the Village People. The lump grew larger daily. Imperceptibly, like a child, but nevertheless larger, assuming more and more of its host’s stomach, growling for ever more flesh to integrate. Blanche had no sense, no idea what to do, only tears that dribbled off her chin to fall on the lump like an eyedropper. The lump grew shiny with these tears, expanding with her stomach as she breathed heavily in abyssically large sobs. As snow blows off a car’s hood at speed, Blanche was beginning to blow away from herself. Blanche, once a model city of a woman -- silver skyscrapers and plastic lakes and abstract topographical icons all her own unparalleled design -- now ground down daily toward unparalleled impoverishment.

On the first day of Summer, Blanche in her greatest despair was discovered: a small purple tumor sitting in the center of a T-shirt, a circle of fabric cut out of it. One day a man came in, looked at the tumor, and squashed it with his boot. The tumor squirted and spread into the shape of a pair of tractionless loafers.

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