So I don’t know if this is late or early considering technically the episode doesn’t air till Sunday, but whatever, here we go:
There was only one awesome thing about this episode, which was anything to do with the Night King and the Wight Dragon. Everything else was a complete departure from all we’ve come to learn about these characters, but that aside, let me try to understand it as best as I can.
We start the episode on Jon and the rest of the A Team trudging along and making fun of Gendry. I actually really liked all these scenes because the male bonding was done well, the dialogue was funny and the chemistry between these characters was believable. I mean I didn’t know I needed a Tormund x Sandor best friendship till that episode, especially when they begin talking about Brienne. Mr Tormund “I want to make babies with her” Giantsbane. It was brilliant, needless to say.
What’s not so brilliant but a great moment of foreshadowing was Tormund’s conversation with Jon. He essentially tells Jon that although Mance Rayder was a great man, his pride got a lot of people killed, echoing Jon’s own words to the man:
“"Isn’t their survival more important than your pride?”
And of course Dani’s words to Jon in the Cave of Invisible Chemistry.
The problem I have with this is that it comes from Tormund, a wildling man whose pride is as much as a defining factor as his ginger beard. But whatever, I see what they’re trying to do here. They’re trying to justify what happens later because if Tormund can understand the dire need for Dani’s help over his own pride then Jon should too, and he does, of course, as we later find out.
Here’s the thing though. I am still firmly of the camp that it’s all a ruse, and this is the moment Jon realises he might have to bend to Dani’s will for her alliance. He doesn’t want to and he knows fully well that the Northern houses will not accept her as their queen in any capacity, but all he cares about is his people’s survival through the Long Night. He’s willing to lose his kingdom for their safety. And this thought becomes even more concrete in Jon’s mind the moment Dani arrives to save his dumb ass with her three dragons. The look of awe on his face as those dragons rain hellfire on the wights is indicative of this because up until that point, he’s had a very abstract understanding of what these dragons are capable of and how they can help him. Seeing it in person, seeing them turn a hopeless situation into a victory, Jon fully understands now that the only way to survive is for Dani to fight with them with her dragons.
Request: HI I love your fics!! could you do a deanxreader where dean
broke his right hand on a hunt and can’t shave himself so the reader, with
hidden feelings for dean, does it for him with lots of fluff please
Word Count: 1,270
“Ouch! Jesus Christ, that’s a
bitch.” The muffled cursing comes from behind the bathroom door, then followed
by the clinking sound of something falling into the ceramic sink, and finally
a, “Son of a bitch!”
Despite the laundry pile you’re
carrying, you swerve across towards the door and knock a couple of times with
your free hand, “Dean? Everything alright in there?”
There’s a moment of silence, and
then a short reply, “Fine.”
He’s obviously frustrated – a tone
you’ve quickly become accustomed to hearing after dragging him home from the
hospital a few days ago. He’d landed badly after being catapulted across the
room by an overzealous ghost and broken a hand, whereas Sam had gotten off with
a concussion and you’d somehow managed to slip away injury-free – which had
inevitably resulted in you skivvying around to cater to their every whim.
While Sam had managed to get over
himself somewhat and take it easy while the hellish egg on his head goes down,
Dean has been trying to do everything as normal. He hates being laid up like
this, and trying to get everything done for himself has just resulted in more
hurt and hindrance than help.
You still linger outside the door
for a few moments, “Can I help at all?”
He hesitates, and for a long
moment you wonder if he’s actually going to accept, “I could use a clean
“Got one here. Mind opening the
door?” You ask, after trying to get in and finding the door locked. Again, a
hesitation, but then the door opens, Dean fumbling with his good hand for a few
moments to get it undone.
You pride yourself on being able
to keep a poker face. Sometimes giving the enemy no indication of your emotions
could mean the difference between life and death – sometimes it’s imperative that
a victim doesn’t know what you’re thinking. But this time, when it’s important
that you don’t make a sound so Dean doesn’t slam the door in your face, you
just can’t seem to freaking manage it.
“I know, alright?” He huffs as you
sidle into the bathroom and begin draping the towels from the pile over the
towel rack, trying desperately not to laugh. It’s not your fault – he’s covered
in shaving cream – it’s smudged over his nose and there are even splatters in
his eyebrows. It’s all white, apart from a trail of crimson blood slipping down
the side of his face.
“You can’t shave left-handed?” You
guess, taking note of the razor left in the sink and the cast immobilising his
right hand. He sighs wearily, and then nods.
“Nope. I’ve never had to try
before, and I was starting to look even more homeless than Sam.” He complains,
taking a towel from you when you offer one to him.
“Dean, for crying out loud, you
shattered your hand. I think you’re allowed to look homeless for a little
while.” You reassure him, balancing the rest of the laundry – mostly jeans and
a handful of flannels – on the countertop, “If you really want it sorted, I’ll
do it for you.”
As soon as the offer has left your
mouth, you regret it – the very idea of managing to get so close to him without
blushing like a five year old, or completely losing your breath… impossible.
And yet, he nods, smiling ruefully.
“Would you mind? I just… can’t.”
He shrugs, and you smile back, nodding and shooing him off towards the closed
“Go on then, sit down.” You
instruct, picking up the razor and running the warm tap to clear it off. You
let the tap run for a little while, filling the basin, and then approach Dean
carefully, “You have to promise to stay still. Usually when I’m so close to
someone with something this sharp it doesn’t end very well for them.”
He laughs, leaning back with the
force of it, “That’s not encouraging, Y/N.”
“I said I’d do it. I never said
I’d do it well.” You remind him with a smile – humour: humour is how you get
through this without making a complete idiot of yourself.
“Much appreciated, beautiful.” He
winks, and it’s all you can do to force out a snort and place your fingers
beneath his chin to tilt his head up a little.
“Mm, whatever you say,” Sometimes
it’s difficult not to take his words too seriously, and you have to remind
yourself that Dean Winchester can and will flirt with anything that moves –
you’re not special to him beyond being good friends and hunting buddies.
“Well, the closer you get, the
more I’m thinking it.” He mumbles, remaining still as stone as you skin the
razor over his skin smoothly – you’re painstakingly careful, starting on the
opposite side to the cut on his lower cheek. He chuckles when you lean back to
dunk the razor in the sink, then move back over to him.
“I’ll stay well back, then.” You
wink in response, but contradict your own statement by leaning close enough to
him that his breath ghosts over your face. His eyes remain trained on your
face, watching every movement as you press your lips together, squinting in
concentration. You try your best to ignore it, being as careful and steady as
your humanly can manage while you get to work.
His eyes don’t leave you until
you’re finished, patting down his face with a towel and then handing it to him
– only then does he force himself to look away, watching as you clear up and set
everything back in its place.
When he finally manages to open
his mouth, he’s expecting the words that come out to be ‘thanks, Y/N’ –
instead, they’re, “When you’re concentrating, your nose does this funny little
You turn slowly, quirking an
eyebrow in a manner he can only describe as adorable, “Excuse me?”
“It kinda… wrinkles. But just at
the tip. Right here.” He taps his own nose, a small smile playing on his lips,
“And you blink a lot. I just… never noticed before.” Dean confesses, giving a
nonchalant shrug and trying to ask as if he isn’t mortified by the words.
Rather than make a comment, you
give a smile, wiping your hands off and stepping back, “I suppose I’m not the
kind of person people pay a whole lot of attention to.” It’s not meant to be
self-deprecating, but Dean takes it that way nonetheless.
“You have got to be kidding me.” He rolls his eyes, standing up and poking at
the cast as if his hand would be magically healed, “Y/N, you turn heads
everywhere you go.”
“Yeah, right, of course.”
“Hey, look at me,” He takes your
wrist in his hand, turning you to face him properly, “You’re beautiful. Really,
truly beautiful. And smart, and kind, and funny. And people notice that. I notice that.”
That’s when your heart really does skip a beat – his eyes are on
yours, emeralds glinting in the harsh white light of the bunker’s main
“You don’t need to reply to that.
Didn’t mean to back you into a corner. Sorry.” Dean smiles sheepishly,
scratching at the back of his neck with his good hand – but you shake your
head, stepping forward with all of the boldness you can muster.
“I want to.” You assure him,
taking his good hand and squeezing it gently, “I don’t care about anyone else
noticing. Just you.”
He hesitates, then glances
sideways, at the door, “Can I kiss you?” He blurts, flushing red like an
Tony wasn’t too sure how they managed to get on to the topic.
Actually- scratch that- yes he was. It was Clint. All bad things in the world happened because of Clint.
Anyway- Clint had been talking about his years in the circus, and how they’d taught him all sorts of weird ways to contort your body for the extra showmanship. “Made for some pretty awesome games of hide and seek, though,” he’d said, nodding serenely to himself as he’d sipped from his coffee.
“I bet I’d still find you in under an hour,” Natasha had challenged, raising a daring eyebrow up at him before turning back to the morning paper.
Clint scoffed, turning to Steve, who was stood cooking eggs on the stove. “Cap, you can vouch for me here, right? I am the master at hide and seek. No one beats me at hide and seek.”
And Steve had laughed- a lovely throaty thing that made Tony smile just from hearing it. “Uhhh, I don’t know? It depends on a lot of variables. If it were in a park, maybe- but here? Tony would beat you hands-down. He knows every nook and cranny of this tower, you wouldn’t stand a chance.”
And then- here had come Tony’s fatal mistake of the day. Later, he’d pin it on lack of caffeine in his system and the early hour at which he was conscious- but really, he was just an idiot who’d forgotten how offended his teammates could (and did) get on his behalf.
“Actually, I’ve never played. Although I could still probably beat Barton.”
(Read more, mobile users! Finish it on your laptop or PC if you can’t on mobile!)
Peter woke slowly, wanting to stay as long as he could right here, feeling content and warm, the arms around him familiar and comforting, the scent in his nose easy on his raw senses.
“Pete.” Harry’s voice was still sleepy. “Hey.”
“Harry.” Peter stretched out along the Alphas body without even thinking about it, rolling his hips lightly, his body responding automatically to the Alpha beneath him.
Harry’s body responded as well, nearly instantly, and Peter purred happily at the feeling, rubbing himself more firmly against Harry, shivering when a hand landed low on his hips.
But Harry didn’t hold him tighter or encourage him to move or anything. Instead, Harry squeezed Peter’s hips lightly, holding him still.
“Pete.” He said again, much more awake this time. “You’re killing me, honey.”
“Well then why did you stop—” Peter started to tease but then shame, sadness, wrong flooded him and he jerked away with a gasp. “Jesus, I’m sorry. Damn it. We already had this talk and–”
“Hey.” Harry ran his hands down Peter’s back, trying to cover the shame from the omega with calm, settle, secure. “It’s fine. We slept on each other all night. Even without being Alpha/Omega we would have woken up ready to go. It’s not a big deal.” He chuckled and Peter relaxed again. “You feeling better?”
“Yeah. I am. Um. Thank you for all this. Um—”
“A night with a familiar Alpha can do a lot for this sort of thing.” Harry kissed his forehead before urging him off and to the side, careful not to let their hips touch. “I’m gonna take a quick rinse, and then you can shower, alright?”
“Thanks. Um Harry—” Peter pulled the sheets around him and looked up at his friend. “Sorry again about last night. And this morning. I probably should have just gone home last night and avoided this whole…thing.”
“It’s fine.” Harry assured him. “Pete it’s fine. No Alpha in the world would let an Omega go home when they have been drinking and are upset. I certainly wasn’t going to let you go, alright? It’s fine. Give me ten minutes to get cleaned up and then you can hop in, alright?”
Harry lay one last kiss on his forehead, then turned to go. The bathroom door closed, and once the shower started Peter fell back against the bed, curling into the warmth left by the Alpha.
This was the first morning in a month where he hadn’t woken up crying.
It was… nice.
Harry was such a good Alpha. Familiar and nice and just so easy to be around.
“The group struggles to cope with the loss of one of their own as they try to remain focused on their mission to break into Mount Weather. *yn* discovers her reputation amongst the grounders and begins to realise the impact of her actions as well as realising the dangers of the forest.”
Raven’s broken voice made *yn*’s stomach churn even further as she stared at his lifeless body lying at her feet. Feeling eyes on her, *yn* tore her gaze from Finn and looked over her shoulder.
She swallowed when her eyes met with the hardened and hate filled ones of a grounder. Flitting her eyes around she noticed that there were at least a dozen pairs of eyes all boring into her body. Ever single one of them looked blood thirsty, like the second they got her alone they’d tear her limb from limb.
Based off of the request: Hi! Can you do an imagine were the reader is dating Tom. And she has this very important event and wants Tom there, but he couldn’t make it (idk maybe he was busy with the movies or something like that), and she gets sad because she wanted to see him (they haven’t see each other personally in a while bc the reader goes to university). And Tom tries to apologize doing something cute and the end is like very fluffy? Btw, sorry this is so long and I tried to explained the best I could. Thanks.❤️
No beta so I’m sorry the errors. P.S. I’m looking for a beta so….
The first time she’d fallen asleep over his chest he’d gently nudged her cheek with the tip of his thumb until she quietly stirred. The second time he traced the line of her jaw with the back of his fingers until she let out a sleepy yawn. This time when her sleepy eyes dared to part she felt his fingers trailing down the back of her head until they’d settled over the nape of her exposed neck.
Felicity growled comfortably, her shoulders ached, her skin smelled of dust, dirt, and oddly enough smoke and, her body felt utterly wrecked from the day’s events. Her voice actually cracked when her low growls finally formed tangible words, “I think I prefer the back of your fingers…”
His voice seemed to trail over her skin like a soothing balm while he gently stroked his fingers along the nape of her weary neck, “I’ll make a note of that for next time,” he teased with an ease they hadn’t shared in months.
Her soft lips became tangled in the folds of his white tee-shirt as she smiled gently along his covered chest, “I can lift my head if I’m hurting you…” she offered in concern since his voice felt tight as the vibrations rattled across her skin.
“Or you could simply share the bed,” he offered when she attempted to stifle another yawn.
Laughing she nudged her nose along his sternum and, huffed out a tired decline. “No, I should go home and, seek comfort in the freshly cleaned linens of my soft bed.”
You weren’t purposefully ignoring his attempts at
communication but work had that annoying habit of getting in the way. The
entire household had been rushed off their feet cleaning and preparing the
house for Yuri’s mother, who was coming back from a business holiday in a
week’s time. Even though she wasn’t due back straight away, the house had been
a flurry of activity that just left you completely exhausted. Every night,
you’d finish late and head home, looking at the missed calls and collapsing
asleep before you could call him back.
Here you go! I normally leave the reader’s characteristics open ended but I thought it would be nice if she was a cheerleader for this one! Hope you enjoy it!
You open up your locker, sighing wearily at the sight of all the heavy books you have to bring back. Gazing into the dim depths of your locker, you ponder whether you’ll be able to pop home for a snack before cheerleading practice. Cheryl said that she’ll behead anyone who turns up late so you decide that it’s probably best if you didn’t chance it. After offloading your school bag into the locker, you pull out your gym clothes and head towards the girls’ locker room to change.
You glance at the time on your phone wearily; there’s still a good twenty minutes before practice starts and it’s an awkward sort of time length. Too long to just sit around idly and too short to actually get into anything. Figuring that you might as well work on some of the dance steps, you take off in the direction of the gym. It’s a fairly uneventful walk until you hear Reggie’s voice ring out in the deserted corridor and see his silhouette in the near distance.
@abreathofsnowandashes said: There would have been A LOT of Irish emigrants in Boston in the 1950s, particularly Irish speakers. There would have been Scots too, but in much smaller numbers and Gàidhlig would have been much less likely to have been spoken for obvious reasons. I’d love to see Jamie overhear Gaelic (Irish Gaeilge or Scottish Gàidhlig, he’d understand both) being spoken, or maybe come across a hurling/shinty game and make a connection
Notes from Mod Bonnie:
This story takes place in an AU in which Jamie travels through the stones two years after Culloden and finds Claire and his child in 1950 Boston.
“Happy Halloween,” chirruped the pimple-strewn lad pumping the Gasoline.
Jamie gave the boy a smile and a nod. “Aye, many thanks, and the same to—Bree, no!” He lunged across the wide seat of the Ford and grabbed her round the middle. She protested and scrabbled vainly for the door latch she had very nearly gotten open. “My apologies,” he said out the open window as he righted himself, holding the lass firmly on his lap, “she’s quite the handful.”
The boy gave Brianna a little wave. “Got big trick-or-treating plans tonight?”
“Ach, no, not this year. Just a bonfire with some friends.”
Burgers, marshmallows, candy, and beer! Nothing fancy! Tom had assured him. Just bring you, the family, and maybe some ice?
Jamie had left work an hour early to drive home, shower, change into clean clothes, and pick up Brianna to drive the two of them back to Fernacre for Tom and Marian’s gathering. Claire was working overnight, this evening, and Jamie was feeling just that wee bit awkward about the prospect of a social gathering without her at his side. Granted, he would know nearly everyone present; and they were his work comrades, after all; hardly strangers.
Still, when the convenient topics and tasks of work were removed from his social scenarios, there would always come the odd moment where his ignorance of modern times or American tastes or both would be thrust into the spotlight (“What did you think of the game?” or “What’s your favorite John Wayne film?”) and it was Claire who so adeptly diverted attention so he might collect himself, even as he wracked his brain to recall where he had heard the name of Mr. Wayne before.
Still, Claire had her duties, and a festive night shared among good folk (for whom he had genuine affection) certainly outweighed the other available option: being obliged to bide by the door all evening, passing out sweeties to any costumed child that cared to ring the bell. Would that strangers had been so generous when I was wandering Boston looking for Claire. Baffling, the lot of them, these Americans.
“Whoops, I’m sorry, mister, I don’t have enough change,” the boy said apologetically. “Can you hold on a minute while I run inside?”
“Aye, dinna fash, lad.”
The boy blinked and made a face of incomprehension. “Dinner what?” Then, realizing how rude he sounded, he raised his hand, looking distraught and about to start babbling.
“I only said,” Jamie interjected, “‘Take your time.’”
He said it patiently, wanting to be kind, but as soon as the boy was out of sight, Jamie closed his eyes and felt himself sighing, wearily practicing the proper phrases in his mind for the next such time. ‘No problem, man.’ ‘Don’t worry about it, Sport.’ Flatter “R”s. Shove sound to the back of the tongue. Quieter. Less.
“We c’n go-to play th’game, too, Da?” Brianna asked suddenly in Gaelic.
“Game?” He blinked his eyes open and studied her face, looking up from his lap excitedly. “What game d’ye wish to—”?
But then he, too, heard the voices drifting across the lot.
“Oh, definitely: Dan’s crew don’t have a chance.”
“I don’t know, they’ve been training hard—and they’re giving Michael and the boys a run for their money, so far!”
He craned his neck out the window. They were men of about his own age or a little older, their arms loaded with sweeties and Soda Pop bottles from the wee store. And they were speaking GAELIC.
Irish, from the sound of it, the Gaeilge; but the cadence and syllables were so like his own mother tongue that he actually was gasping from the rush of shock and euphoria.
He was just about to call after them, but at that moment, the young attendant reappeared. Jamie hastily completed the transaction, tipping a bit too heavily as he watched the men out of the corner of his eye, feeling a pang of dismay as they disappeared down over the hill beside the filling station. Jamie thought he could hear the sounds of a small crowd not far off.
“Beg your pardon,” Jamie blurted, as the attendant was walking away. “What’s going on over the hill, there?”
“Just a bunch of Irish playing—it’s kind of like football, but with sticks and they’re loud as all get out!” he laughed confidentially.
“Game, Da!” Bree whispered in Gaelic.
“They’re harmless, though, I promise,” the boy said hastily, leaving Jamie to wonder what exactly might be feared from a bunch of Irishmen. The boy blanched. “Oh but you’re–you’re Irish youself. I didn’t mean any–” He didn’t bother to correct the boy as to his heritage, simply thanked him once more and sent him on his way.
He checked his Watch, and finding that they were still ahead of schedule, he set Bree on the seat next to him, saying in Gaelic, “Aye, a leannan, let’s DO go see the game.”
It was a group of about thirty men on the field, playing a fast-paced game that Jamie wagered was very close indeed to shinty. The players’ wives and families (and a fair number more, it seemed) were congregated on the sidelines, tending wee coal-grills, drinking, chatting, and calling after the swarms of children running about hither and thither. And all of it was in Gaelic. Jamie wanted to cry, just hearing and seeing this slice of something so like home, the drink-fueled joy of a Gathering, something he hadn’t experienced in many, many years. He could feel the warmth of it all surrounding him with every step he took closer, like the arms of a long-lost friend slowly coming around him.
As he and Bree drew within a few dozen yards, a whistle sounded and the match broke. The players jogged to their wives and comrades to drink and chat. One man on the nearest edge of the crowd, dark-haired and wiry, caught sight of Jamie and did a double-take, turning sharply to face him in the first pink rays of nearing-sunset. “Can I help you?” he called in English, strongly accented; not unkindly, but definitely on guard.
Jamie called back a greeting in as close to Gaeilge as he could recall, though he wasn’t at all confident in his pronunciation.
It must have been close enough, though, for the man’s face brightened at once. “HEY, NOW!” he roared, walking forward with his arms raised in welcome. “A new kinsman! What county?”
“County *Scotland,* I’m afraid,” Jamie replied, slipping into the Gàidhlig
without thinking as he returned the man’s warm handshake. “James Fraser, and my daughter Brianna. Do forgive me for intruding; it’s only that it’s been so verra long since I heard anything like my own tongue. I just couldna resist seeing what was what.”
“And we’re glad you did! It’s grand to get to meet a new cousin from the old places.”
The Irish tongue did have its differences, certainly, but Michael Riley seemed to have no trouble understanding Jamie, nor he, him, with only the occasional What was that word? or confidential laugh over differences in emphasis or tone.
Bree had been staring at Michael intently, apparently astonished at hearing Gaelic spoken at close range by someone other than her Da. When Jamie nudged her, she gave a tiny, startled ‘Hi’ in English, then grinned and buried her face in his shoulder, making both men laugh.
“D’ye live in these parts yourself, Fraser?” Michael asked eagerly.
“Not far, but no—I was just stopping for Gasoline on my way out to the countryside. Do all of ye live nearby, then?” Jamie asked, astonished, surveying the huge, lively crowd of players and onlookers.
“Sure do—the station owner turns a blind eye to us using the field, thank the saints, else we’d all likely be arrested.”
“Arrested? For playing a wee game?”
“Well, technically, it *could* be considered trespassing—have a drink?” Jamie politely refused and Michael shrugged, wiping his sweaty brow and taking a deep swig from his own bottle. “There’s a long history of bad blood between Irish and the other folk in Boston. I’m sure there’s plenty of arseholes that would love to see us get comeuppance for whichever dumb mick offended great-great-uncle so and so.”
Perhaps that went some way toward explaining the odd looks Jamie tended to get when speaking to strangers about Boston. He’d always tacitly assumed something in his manner was out of place in some indeterminate way—some eighteenth-century way, that is—but perhaps it was that he was being assumed Irish in a place where that wasn’t altogether a pretty thing to be. He would have to ask Claire.
Christ, he chuckled to himself, an Outlander thrice over, he was, in Boston. At least he wasn’t the only one.
Michael introduced him to the members of his team, one and all bringing Jamie and Bree further into the crowd, offering drinks, and asking about their history and family. He felt as if he’d walked into a clan gathering, even after only ten minutes among the Irish. “And what about you, then?” he asked of Michael, after giving his (presumed) backstory for the half-dozenth time, “From whence in Ireland do you folk hail?”
“Well, we’re mostly Corkmen here—” Michael said, which elicited cheers from the Cork contingent. “Some like me, born here stateside, but plenty of folk fresh off the boat, like Barny, there, except he’s from Tipperary. Then there’s Fergal whose folk are from Sligo,” he said, scanning the crowd and methodically cataloging. “Then Vance and Peter and the other Michael, of Galway. And then over there, there’s Charlie, but he’s not—OY!” He gave a sudden whoop of excitement and cupped his hands around his mouth to yell, “EY, CHARLIE!! COME OVER HERE!! FOUND YE A WEE CLANSMAN!!”
A stocky blonde man jogged over eagerly and Michael clapped him on the shoulder. “Charlie, here, plays for those bastards on Dan’s team, but we won’t hold it against him just at present.Charlie, this is James—James, right? Aye, good—James Fraser. He’s from your precious highlands!”
Charlie was an open, eager sort, ruddy-faced and jovial, quick with a joke and an easy word. Jamie quickly learned from rapid conversation in the
Gàidhlig that the man was a Highlander-born, a MacAlister whose family had come to America when he was nearly sixteen. He’d hated the new place, and had planned to return to Scotland the moment as he was of age; but then war had broken out just days before his eighteenth birthday, and he’d been compelled to go fight. He worked as a builder, now, feeding the demand for suburban homes from families in the growing prosperity of the post-war times. Jamie decided he truly liked the man, and knew without asking that he must have children himself, when he grinned at Bree and said, “And hello there, a leannan,” with a little bow.
“Hi, how-wer you?” she responded, to Jamie’s astonishment, in almost-perfect
“I’m verra well, thank ye verra much for asking, sweet lass,” the blonde man laughed, straightening and looking impressed. “Does she speak it at home, then?”
“No, not often,” Jamie said, rather apologetically. “I do try to speak it around her when I think of it, but her mam is English, so we—”
“American, you mean?”
“Nay,” Jamie laughed, with a mock-sneer, “an honest-to-goodness Sassenach.”
Charlie matched Jamie’s manner with groan of false-disgust. “Christ, but ye must have balls of steel, Jamie, to —
oh!” he said abruptly, looking a bit embarrassed, “Sorry—is it alright that I call ye Jamie?”
Jamie could feel the warmth of kinship flood through him like water. “Of *course,* friend,” he said with feeling.
Charlie introduced his Irish wife Saoirse and their two small boys, to whom Bree took at once, sharing their toys on the grass.
They talked about Scotland, about America, about Boston. About Gaelic. About talk of a free and independent Scotland. About the Celtic traditions that had crossed the ocean, and those that had not. Of gatherings that apparently took place all around the country, in hill-and-mountain places, for folk to remember the old clan ways, even if in naught but a faint imitation. Even of bannocks, whiskey, and wool; the simple things of highland home, even two hundred years hence, it seemed. It was more a balm to Jamie’s heart than he could comprehend: that the Scotland he knew hadn’t vanished entirely.
A whistle blew and Charlie brandished his stick deftly as the crowd began to shift. “Ever played a game of hurling?”
“It’s like shinty, no?”
“Not too far off, not at all. Here,” he said, beginning to walk backward toward the pitch, “come wi’ me and I’ll give ye the rundown.”
With a jolt, Jamie noted the position of the sun and remembered the ice in the back of the Car. “Sadly, we must be going, Charlie.”
“Oh, come on!” Charlie wheedled, taking one last deep swig of beer and kissing Saoirse exuberantly. “Wee Brianna seems to be having a fine time wi’ Nolan and Will. And I’ve got some extra gear if —”
“it isna that at all,” Jamie said, turning an apologetic smile toward his new companion, “it’s only that we’ve got a Halloween gathering to attend, and we’re expected shortly.”
“Och, that’s too bad. First one since you arrived? Weel, it isna nearly so ghostly as Samhain, let me tell ye. All the spooks you’re like to encounter look as if they came out from a children’s book or a Walt Disney film. I tell wee Nolan when he’s scairt in the night that all the ghosts are back in Scotland. No doorways to the otherworlds in America, so no Old Folk to be afraid of.“
(Oh, aye? Ye have one right in front of ye, man.)
Charlie held out the stick once more, inviting. "Sure ye canna be persuaded to celebrate wi’ us instead, Jamie?”
“I truly canna stay, but thank ye, Charlie, I should verra much have liked to.” Jamie knelt to break up the play-circle. “Can ye say ‘farewell’ to your new friends, Bree?”
“Farewell,” she chirped, waving her chubby hand enthusiastically.
“That’s not’th’right way,” chided Nolan, who was a year or two older. “You say it funny.”
Bree looked crestfallen, but Charlie ruffled his son’s hair, laughing as he gently scolded. “Nay, a chuisle, you’ve just grown up wi’ Gaeilge—YOU’RE the one who ‘says it funny.’”
Jamie scooped Bree into his arms, whispering in her ear about how proud he was of her before turning back to Charlie. “Do ye play every week, then?I’d truly be honored to come back another time.”
“Oh aye. The winter snows will start falling soon, but we’re here most every chance we can get, when the ground’s clear.” Charlie sized him up frankly, nodding with approval. “You’re a braw-looking fucker, alright. Dinna let Michael steal ye for his lousy crew, aye? They’re naught but loud bastards. The *real* talent’s wi’ us.”
Jamie made a general farewell to the crowd and received a hearty chorus of well-wishes and toasts in return.
“At the risk of seeming too eager, Jamie…” He turned to see that Charlie was looking sheepish, “might the wife and I have ye and the family over for dinner, sometime?”
When Jamie didn’t immediately respond, the man shrugged, but didn’t falter. “Mebbe it’s daft, but as much as I love my Irish folk, it’s grand having someone to talk to in the old ways again; who’s truly my countryman. D’ye ken what I mean?”
Jamie swallowed down the lump in his throat as he clasped the man’s hand. “Aye, a caraidh, I ken it more than ye can possibly know.”
Pairings:Dean x sister!winchester, Sam x sister!winchester, John x daughter!winchester (mentioned)
Warnings:Heavy drinking, being drunk, angst, swearing, unhappiness, arguments, fluff, more angst!!!
Summary~With Sam having just left the family business to go to college, the Winchester family is a bit shaken. Dean, Y/N, and John deal with this difficult situation the best they can, but can the family business really go on without one of the esteemed members, Sam Winchester?
After more than a full day of driving, you finally came to a stop. You’d driven from Montana, just because you could, after hot wiring some poor bastard’s car. When Dean had started calling you, it took you a long time to decide whether you should answer or not. Eventually, after 7 ignored calls in a row, you decided to message him, just to give him some peace of mind.
But, of course, Dean wouldn’t take any less than a phone call. He continued to call you and kept calling and calling and calling, until you had to change your ringtone because it was driving you crazy. You decided it would be easier to just call Dean back- after all, 20 repeats of Led Zeppelin’s ‘Immigrant Song’ would be enough to send anyone into a bubble of unadulterated fury.
“What, Dean?” you spat down the phone.
“Would you look at this! The princess has finally given us a moment of her precious time!” Dean mocked, his voice crackling through the flip phone.
Anger began to bubble in your veins. “What do you want?”
“I want you to get back here. Now,” he growled.
“Well, I’m afraid that’s not going to be happening, Dean. Leave me alone,” you wearily sighed.
“Well, Y/N, I’m afraid that the world doesn’t revolve around you! Haul your ass back here, right now.”
The hairs on the back of your neck bristled in fury. “Go to hell, Dean,”
A chilling silence filled the air. “Do I need to call dad?”
“Do whatever you want,” you stated as you hung up the phone. “Fuck!” you cried under your breath and threw your phone across the street with vigour.
Painfully, you swallowed the lump in your throat and bit back tears. You didn’t know what to do. Shaking your head, your Y/E/C eyes full of tears, you made your way to the local bar. You were going to drink the pain away; it was the only thing you thought would make you feel better. It was a terrible choice. By 20, you were going to be an alcoholic. But who cared, right? You were probably going to die young; hunters never live long lives.
If Sam had been here, he would’ve calmed you down, comforted you. Told you that it was just one argument- you could fix it. And then you’d eat whatever sweet junk food was in the fridge and watch crappy TV together (even though you were supposed to be doing research), whilst Dean and John went hunting. Sam would’ve known exactly what to do. After all, isn’t that what big brothers were meant to do? To look after the youngest siblings, make sure nothing harms them, and above all, to never let them down?
Perhaps that was just wishful thinking. Obviously, Sam didn’t care. That was why he left, wasn’t it? Because he didn’t care about his family enough. He cared too much about leaving the life, borderline obsessing over it. And then, he left with a bang, without a single look in your direction. He just… left for college.
Sam let you down. And then he didn’t respond to any of your calls. Or messages. Your 19-year-old brother tried to run from his past, and he did that by forgetting about family- the most important thing in your lives.
You had to stop thinking about it or you were going to start crying. Slowly, you slid into one of the stools at the bar table. You didn’t even remember getting in the bar. “Bartender,” you signalled as the young man sauntered over, “What can you give me that’ll make it difficult to walk after an hour?”
He chuckled, joy dancing in his almond eyes. “Rough night?”
You smiled weakly. “How’d you tell?”
Piercing blue eyes met yours. “Intuition. Can I see some ID before you try to drown yourself in your sorrows?” he smiled.
“Of course, no problem at all,” you whipped “Karen Giles’” driver’s license out of your black leather jacket.
The kind man examined the fake ID thoroughly. “So, Karen. Your 21st birthday today, huh? And you’re spending it getting wasted in a bar?”
You grab his tie and pull him forward roughly until your lips reach his ear. “Stop asking annoying questions and bring me some vodka.”
You let go and he blushes beetroot red. “Com- coming right up,”
3 hours later and approximately 3 large bottles of strong alcohol later, you slumped over onto the bar table, babbling to yourself. It was almost midnight, and you were nowhere near finished with your first time drinking yourself into oblivion.
“Hey, Gary? Bartonker, I mean, Bartenk- Bart! That’s a great name for you, Gary. I’m ‘unna gall you Bart from now on.”
Gary rolled his eyes. “Do you have anyone I can contact? I think you’ll need some help getting home,”
Fear flitted across your features. “Don’t call Dean.”
Gary brought his fingers up to his brow, squinting as though in pain. “Alright, listen, Karen. I’m gonna call my friend Sam to pick you up. He’s nice, I promise. He won’t hurt you, alright?”
“Uh huh,” you mumbled already half-asleep.
Sam had been just about to go to sleep after an intense late-night studying session, when he recieved a call from his buddy Gary asking for Sam’s help. Instantly, Sam’s instincts kicked in. “What’s going on, Gary?”
“Nothing much man, don’t worry. Listen, there’s this girl here at the bar who’s absolutely smashed. I can’t find any contacts on her, and I can’t just leave her here, so I was wondering if you could, you know…” Gary rambled on.
Sam relaxed. “You want me to give her a place to crash?”
“Yeah, man. If you don’t mind.”
“Yeah, no problem. I’ll be there in 10.”
Once Sam reached the bar, he entered quickly, wanting to get this over and done with, “Hey, man. Where is she?”
Gary walked up to Sam, handing him the keys to the bar. “I put her on the couches. Lock up, would ya? And give me those keys back tomorrow, alright?”
“Sure, Gary. See you,” Sam searched for the girl.
When he found her, his heart stopped cold. Their eyes met, and Sam froze.
How would companions react to sole confessing his/her love for them? PS: I just recently found your blog and wow! Your writing is so good!!^^
Aw thank you so much!! I really hope you enjoy this reaction! Sorry it’s been taking me so long to get this finished. (Answering more asks asap)
Cait: Cait winded gauze around Sole’s bruised knuckles, candlelight flickering behind her. Neither of them said a word, but the beating in their chests pleaded for their lips to part. “I think I love you Cait…” Sole confessed, staring at her working hands. She stopped, looking up at the Sole Survivor.”You think, or you know?” She questions, her hands slowly tying up the thick wrap.”I love you,” they reply. Cait leans into them, pressing her lips onto theirs. Her heart pounded, and without a second thought she kisses them harder. The months of built up desire and tension, dispersed in this moment. She pulls back, the both of them breathless.”I’ve never loved anybody before,” she admits,”But I know I love you.”
Codsworth: “Oh mum/sir…I don’t know what to say.. What about Sir/Mum?”
Curie: Curie hummed joyfully as she meddled with blood samples and shuffled papers that her handwriting had marked with calculations and hypothesis’. The Sole Survivor watched her from a distance, as they occupied their self with their own hobbies.”Oh isn’t it just amazing what the human body is capable of!” Curie exclaims rushing over to Sole, her notes in hand. She boasts about her findings, with the cutest grin plastered onto her face. Then without second thought, Sole kisses her softly as she speaks.”Madame/Monsieur?” She whispers, her cheeks glowing from the soft lips that had met hers.”I’m sorry,” Sole apologizes,”I’m in love with you…” Curie grins, looking at the floor to handle the uncharted land of emotions bestowed upon her.”I believe I am in love with you too madame/monsieur,”Curie says, craving to share another kiss with her new found love.
Danse: “Why? Why would you do all of this to save me? I’m a machine! I am a traitor to you and the Brotherhood!– I am nothing…” Danse snaps, his hands firmly grasping Sole’s arms. “Because I love you!” They snap back. His grip loosens, his hands moving down their arms and back to his side.”I’m in love with you Danse, I don’t care what you are, it doesn’t matter to me.” He regains his composure, finding the words to say. But they are jumbled by the confusion and anguish within ”Sole you of all people know I am no good with words, but I… I’m infatuated with you. And I dare say I’m in love with you too. Please… be patient with me, I have a lot to learn… and a lot to overcome.”
Deacon: One night, as the Sole Survivor and Deacon lie awake in a pitch black room of the Dugout Inn Deacon’s thoughts raced about the man/woman beside him.”Sole?” he whispered into the dark. Sole sighed wearily, letting him know that he had their attention. Deacon licked his lips, his heart beating faster than it should.”Do you think you could ever love again?” Maybe it was the bottle or two of Gwinnett Stout that encouraged him to ask such a question, but regardless Sole was taken off guard.”Yes,” they answered vaguely, waiting for Deacon to say something in return. Instead he rolled over onto his side, and let no words escape his mouth.”I’ve fallen in love with you Deacon…” Deacon didn’t move, nor speak. A few minutes rolled by until the silence grew too uncomfortable. ”I’m sorry…” Sole finally said. The pathological liar turned over to spill a few truths,”You should be,” he smirked,”teasing a guy like that, it’s cruel.” Sole snorted,”I’m serious Deacon..” He let out a pleasant sigh,”Goodnight Sole.” He cooed planting a small kiss on their forehead. That night he dreamed of finding the courage to tell Sole everything, the truth, about his mutual feelings for them. But until that moment he’d cower behind his jokes and his black shades
Hancock: The Third Rail buzzed from the music and comforting appearance of Goodneighbor’s beloved mayor. Hancock sashayed nonchalantly to the bar ordering Sole and himself a cold beverage.”When are ya gonna tell the gal/guy what your true intentions are Hancock?” Whitechapel Charlie asked, while fulfilling the ghoul’s request. Hancock glanced at the Sole Survivor with a smile.”I have no idea what you’re talking about Charlie.” The bartender allowed Hancock to take in Sole’s beauty before speaking again.”It’s no secret around here that you’ve got something for the Vault Dweller, admit it, you like the gal/guy.” Before Hancock could defend himself Sole appears by his side, taking the glass out of his rough hand.”Mind if I have a word with you?” They ask, their alluring eyes causing Hancock’s thoughts drift to sheer desire.”I’ve been meaning to have this conversation with you for a while now…” Hancock pressed his lips against the glass in his hand,”Lay it on me.” Sole took a sip of their liquid courage before spilling the secrets they held within.”I’m in love with you Hancock… And I’m not sure if you-” Hancock interrupted their moving lips by using what was left of his to give into the urges and tension he’s let bottle up inside him. His hand tangled itself in Sole’s hair, pulling them into him, allowing him to kiss them passionately and deeply.”I was wondering when you’d say that, love.” He breathed,”Why don’t you say we take this somewhere more private? And I’ll show you what my love really feels like.”
“Fucking finally..” Charlie huffed as the entire joint cheered for their sailing ship.
Maccready: Maccready hardly ever misses a shot, it’s something he is certainly proud to put on his business card. But it’s a skill that is acquired through practice. On days him and Sole aren’t giving the Commonwealth’s Finest hell, he spends his morning making a target practice out of what he can scrounge up.”Maccready, may I talk to you for a moment?” He loads a bullet into the chamber,”Of course. Give me one second.” He smiles, then staring through the scope, eyes fixed on the empty can of pork’n’beans. Maccready holds his breath steadying his aim,”Maccready, I’m in love with you.” BOOM, the gun goes off, his bullet spiraling into a nearby tree. He sets down his rifle with haste,”Y-You’re what?…. What about your husband/wife? I know she’s/he’s gone, but you still love him/her don’t you?” Sole then confessed to everything. Everything they had felt then, and everything they feel now for their spouse.”But it’s you I love Maccready…” His cheeks went ablaze, as his heart beated intensely.”I…I love too Sole,” He admits after hearing what he needed to hear.”I think I have for a long while now..”
Nick Valentine: It was late, Nick hung up his coat then making his way over to his desk to analyze his newest case. Sole had convinced him to go out to dinner with them, to get away from the drag atmosphere of his office. With plenty of convincing he went, but once he returned it was all work no play. Sole slipped of their shoes, watching the detective light up a smoke.”Nick, there’s something I’ve been needing to tell you…” Nick turned to look at them,”Lay it on me kid.” Sole sat on the corner of his desk, letting the radio that played softly in the background calm their nerves.”I love you Nick.” They didn’t look at him, just stared at the floor expecting the worse. He dug his cigarette into the ashtray on his desk, feeling elated yet confused how Sole could love an old bot like him. He placed his hand on theirs, leading them to the center of the room. Nick placed his metal hand on their hip as his other hand tangled with Soles fingers. The office became a ballroom, reserved for Sole and Nick only. They danced to the rhythm playing on the radio for as long as their feet would allow. Nick then paused, placing his hand on the back of Sole’s head, running his fingers through their hair as he finally spoke.”Kid, I may not know how or why you feel the way you do for me. But I believe you when you say that you love me. And you should believe me when I say, I love you too.”
Piper: Piper was writing the Diamond City’s next headliner when she ran out of ink. Luckily for her she had someone like Sole to run and find her the ink she desperately needed.”Oh my gosh Blue, I love you!” She thanked. Sole smirked studying her features,”I love you too Piper.” The reporter’s cheeks grew a rosy red.”Do you really?” Sole leaned into her, their lips meeting. Piper hesitated for a moment, but finally gave in, placing her hand upon their cheek. Sole pulled away, her eyes now sparkling like a sky full of stars, full of lustful desire.”Yes, I love you Piper.” She pulled them into her, allowing her soft lips to clash with theirs once more. From then on she was complete.
Preston: The morning was warm and tranquil, the water crashing upon the castle walls sounded harmonic in way, and the diamond city radio allowed Preston’s hips to sway without a care. Sole watched Preston dance ignorant of their presence. The humble man turned on his heel when he heard Sole chuckle,”Care to join me General?” He smiles, unmoved by their judgement. He pulled them into his world, leading them with the music, twirling them when urged to. ”Preston…I’m in love with you.” The militia man’s ears burned as his smile spread from ear to ear.”So am I,” He admitted, slowly inched his lips closer to Sole’s, and when they met Preston didn’t hold back. Slow, but passionate and genuine, familiarizing himself with the woman/man h’s craved for so long.
X6-68: “Let me handle this ma’am/sir.” X6 pleads with a forceful tone. The Sole Survivor had gotten X6 and their self into a situation that called for an immediate reaction, that in turn, could have dire immediate effects.”No, this is my fault, I need to be the one who fixes it.”Sole orders, slipping off their coat.”Ma’am/Sir!” The courser yells pulling at their arm. “Let go X6!” Sole screamed over the
unraveling blizzard. They pulled their arm away, then diving into the frozen pond. The scientist they were assigned to escort to Med-Tek Research had fallen through the ice after Sole lead her and X6 across, thinking it was thick enough to support the three of them. The cold sent an immediate sharp pain through their body as they swam deeper to rescue the cocky scientist. X6 anxiously stared into the water, anticipating Sole to submerge. After a minute or two he pulls off his trench coat preparing himself for the worst. A hand shoots up from the water searching for something to grasp. X6 grabs a hold, pulling Sole and the scientist out.”X6-88, Sole, and Ava Baker ready for relay. Mission failed, standby for medical attention.” When they all were transported back to the institute X6 pulled Sole into a maintenance closet with great force,”What the hell were you thinking?!” He seethed,”That was irresponsible, idiotic! I was more than capable of-” Sole ripped their self from the raging coursers tight fists.”I couldn’t stand the possibility of something happening to you! You may not know this X6, but I care about you, more than I do for anyone else… I love you.” X6 stands up straight staring at Sole,”I’ve never been in love ma’am/sir… nor have I ever had someone love me. I am a machine, but I’ve learned the extent of which I am capable of feeling. And I know if you hadn’t submerged, I would have died right then and there. I would die for you, and not just because my orders are to do so… From what I gather, I guess that is love. And I feel it for you..” Sole wraps their arms around X6, not expecting the courser to return their affections. But much to their surprise, one of his arms held them, as the other hung by his side. “Love,” he thought holding onto whom he feels for.