Other-Stories

anonymous asked:

So I don't know if you've already done this but how do you think harry would react to his gf mindlessly singing one of his songs.

I have NOT! 

Maybe he’s coming down the stairs in the morning, because for once you’re awake before him. He’s rubbing at his left eye, accompained with an aggressive yawn, hair messy and a grumpy frown on his face because he doesn’t like waking up without you. 

He’s about to call out for you in a croaking voice when he hears it. The familiar riffs of the guitar and the melody that he’s had memorized for so long. His pink lips automatically turn up in a smirk as he makes his way towards the kitchen. But above it all he can hear you singing along. He’s caught you listening to his album countless times, but hearing you sing is a whole other story since you insist that you have a terrible voice. 

The scene he stumbles upon is one he wants to hold onto forever. You’re swaying back at forth in front of the sink, toes tapping and hair bouncing as the water runs. You’re scrubbing some dishes and your phone is plugged into the speaker on the end of the counter. 

He licks his lip when the song hits an instrumental part, and he watches you bop your head along to beat. Your favorite part, (as you’d told him time and time again) is coming up and suddenly his eyes aren’t so heavy with sleep. 

The intensity with which you belt out the lyrics has his heart thumping and a boisterous laugh escaping his lips before he can stop himself. He thinks, cheekily, that the words he’s written have never sounded so good. 

You meet him with shocked, wide eyes and a disheveled look and he shakes his head at the panic spreading across your features.

“You- you scared me!” You cry, outraged as the water keeps running and the song slips into the chorus. 

“M’sorry, love, but I quite liked the show. Should perform fo’ me more often.” He’d rumble as he came closer to you. 

You fix him with a narrow eyed look and he notices the familiar furrow of your brows, but his lips are on yours before you can reprimand him and comment on your so called terrible singing. 

send me harry concepts!

Always- An Ivar Imagine

So @whenimaunicorn sent me the prompt: “Truth or Dare? I dare you to spend the rest of the night tied to Prince Ivar at the wrists.” Thanks for the prompt!

Here is the result. More angst than originally planned. Oops?

TW: mild sexual content, infidelity

***
You had never known Hvitserk to be cruel.

Okay, that was a lie. You had never known him to be cruel to you. Other people were another story. But tonight, tonight you fell into that category of “other people”. For what he had done, you would consider the cruelest thing of all.

It had started innocent, a game of truth or dare among brothers and friends. It was a game played often, as you had known the Ragnarssons since you were all grubby children, playing in the mud. The ale and laughter had flowed, to the point where you could almost forget the aching hole that was etched permanently upon your heart. But then, it had been your turn. You had chosen dare. And Hvitserk, drunk and careless, had dared you to spend the rest of the night, tethered by the wrists, to none other than Ivar.

Ivar, the man you were hopelessly in love with. Ivar, the man you could not stay away from. Ivar, the man who would never be wholly yours.

You agreed to the dare, not only to be spared the severe penalty but to savour any sort of closeness you could get with the Prince.

You moved to sit beside Ivar. Someone came and bound your wrists together, you didn’t know who. All you could focus on were her eyes, staring at you from across the table, hating you. Wishing you would one day take to your father’s fishing boat and not return. Drowned, dragged to the bottom of the sea, a sea that she could somehow bend to her will. She knew, she knew that his heart lay with you and not with her. She was a pawn, a token used for land and power and offspring with a strong bloodline. You, you were the fire in his blood, the beating of his heart, the name on his lips when he took her to bed.

But you were a nobody, and princes did not end up with nobodies. They had mothers and fathers and brothers who pushed for alliances, for duty, for the good of the people. They ended up with someone who could give them those things.

You were not that someone.

You could feel Ivar’s skin next to yours, where your wrists touched, warm and familiar. It made you ache for an easier time, when there was nothing but bare skin and love and the hopes of the young and foolish. Hopes you could one day be together, love freely and without restraint. You hardly got any time with each other now. Every moment you could spend by his side was a precious one.

As if he could sense your distress, your lover placed your linked hands under the table, onto your thigh. He had not said anything when Hvitserk had issued the dare. He had not protested, had not insisted it be an insult to his wife to be tied to another woman. He had simply let it happen. A choice. A declaration. You over her, every time. And she knew it.

The weight of your joined hands on your thigh was comforting, a balm amidst the tension that was threatening to suffocate you. She flicked her eyes down to the table, disgust marring her pretty face. To her, you were worthless. She could not see what kept drawing him to you. You both knew she didn’t love him, only married him for the name and the power and the role of duty. But it irked her to no end that he did not fall at her feet like all the others, did not desire her body. She wanted to catch her prey, but he kept slipping through her net.

The game continued on. You could not focus. Ivar’s hand had inched higher up your thigh, fingers stroking over the soft material of your dress. Her eyes were now on her husband, cold and stony. He growled, baring sharp white teeth as his fingers sunk deep into your thigh. Baiting her, showing her what she was to him. The title of wife meant nothing.

It should have comforted you, to know he only wanted you. That she was nothing to him. But it still hurt. It hurt to know she carried the title of wife, and not you. It hurt to know she was by his side, would one day grow round with his child in her belly. She would have his future, and you would be naught but a secret in the dark. You did not want to share, you wanted all of him. Every moment, every look, every touch. It was not enough to know he loved you. Your heart was greedy. It wanted everything, for it and it alone.

Ivar pushed your joined hands further into your lap, fingers teasing your flesh. You could feel the desire flowing through them, his simmering need for you. With her, it was all about business, securing a child. With you, it was love and passion and burning, all consuming need. You did not get many chances to be together, and every encounter was a like a wild summer storm, fierce and raging.

He stopped his movements on your thigh, instead leaning over to ghost his lips over the shell of your ear. No one was watching but her, no one cared but her. You should have felt bad for her, how must it feel knowing your husband cares not for you? But you did not. You would never see her as anything more than a thief. A thief who stole your happy future.

“Truth or dare?” Ivar whispered softly in your ear, voice laced with a dark lust. You shivered as his words slid over your skin like a silken scarf.

“Dare,” you whispered back, not daring to look at his face.

He leaned closer, his heady scent enveloping you like a tender embrace.

“I dare you to take me to bed. My bed.”

He meant the bed he shared with her, in the back of the Great Hall. You sucked in a breath. You had always met somewhere, never had he taken you in that bed, since he had gotten married. It was probably a bad idea.

But you did not care.

You stood up, grabbing Ivar’s crutches for him from where they leaned upon his chair. He allowed himself to give you a heated smirk, before the two of you awkwardly made your way towards the back of the Hall.

Her eyes followed you the whole way there.

But once you were enclosed in his private quarters, all thoughts but Ivar left your mind. He somehow managed to get his knife out of his belt, cut your bonds and throw you onto the bed with a few smooth motions. You eagerly reached for him as he lowered himself out of his crutches, desperate to feel all of him against you.

You needed him like air, you craved him like a drug. He fell upon you with a fervour only he could have, all groping hands and hungry kisses and loud, needy moans. He did not try to quiet himself, he did not care if she heard. If anyone heard. You found you did not care either. You arched into him and let him sweep you away in a tidal wave of pleasure.

He took you fast, and he took you hard. No loving caresses, no soft teasing, no slow and sweet build up. Pure carnal desire, the kind that leaves delicious aches and bruises to savour. Ivar in his truest form, making you cry out, making you beg for more, more, more. You knew nothing but the slide of hot, slippery skin, the taste of salt and sweat, the stars exploding behind your eyelids.

After, you curled yourself around him, pressing your shaking body as close as you could get. He enclosed you in his arms, letting you rest against him as you both caught your breath. As you laid there, your euphoria faded, and the ache in your heart returned.

“It should be enough,” you said softly, tracing a pattern over his chest with your fingers. “It should be enough to share you, and know that it is me who holds your heart. People do it all the time. Look at your brothers, sharing Margrethe between them. But I am selfish. I want you all to myself. I want to be your only wife, and the only woman you take to bed. I want to give you all your children. Is that wrong?”

He began to stroke his fingers through your long hair, blunt nails scratching gently over your scalp.

“It is not wrong,” he said, voice rumbling in his chest. “It is not wrong, for I feel the same way. I do not want to be tied to her. I do not want her to bear my children. I chose you, and only you, a long time ago. When I think of how I would feel if our situations were reversed, I want to kill something. The thought of another man touching your makes me sick.”

It made you sick, too. You twisted so you could press a soft kiss to the underside of his jaw.

“If only I was not who I am. If only I was like her, from a family worthy-”

He cut you off with a firm hand to your throat, pulling you on top of him so he could look at you with angry eyes.

“Do not ever say that again,” he growls, fingers squeezing, squeezing. “Do not wish you were anything but what you are. You are perfect. You are not less than her. Do you hear me?”

You nod, and his fingers relax. His eyes, however, stayed hard and blazing.

“I will find a way,” he vowed. “I will find a way to weaken her father, to make it so he is not more powerful than us. I married his daughter so he would not overpower us; I will make it so he has no power, and so I will no longer be in need of my marriage. Then,” his face softens ever so slightly, “then I will be free to marry whom I wish.”

It was a lot to promise, and probably very much unlikely to come true. But you clung to his words like a child clings to its mother’s skirts. A distant hope. You leaned forward to press a kiss to his lips.

“I should go,” you whispered, thinking of her sitting in the Great Hall. “I should go before she comes to you.”

His grip on you tightened, possessive. “No. You will stay. She will not come to me tonight. You will stay, and let me hold you. I will wake at least once with you in my arms.”

You knew you should leave, before leaving got any harder, but a night in his arms was more than you ever got. So you agreed, nestling down against him, letting him wrap himself around you. The darkness pressed around you like a comforting blanket, wrapping you up in a world where you could pretend only the two of you existed.

“Truth or dare,” you whispered, finding his hand in the dark.

“Truth,” his hand was warm, calloused, perfect.

“Will you always love me? No matter what our lives become?” You knew the answer. But to hear it was a bandage across your broken heart

A sigh. A kiss on your head. Broad fingers squeezed yours.

“Always.”

****
I known with Vikings sharing is caring, but I imagine some of them are not into it. Happy Sunday! ❤️

rociposse  asked:

I remember when I chose to do BroRyder first, that I thought about the "FShep vs MShep discourse". I worried that the same thing would happen again. That people would judge me for "not choosing the right Ryder" even if that way of thinking is SO subjective and not actually based in any kind of fair fact. And honestly, playing BroRyder showed me so many weaknesses in the relationship development that I wouldn't have seen if I played what I would normally. 1/

I wouldn’t have seen the issues and I might have pretended they didn’t exist or like not have acknowledged them because “Well SisRyder has problems too!!!!” and not opened my eyes and ears to other problems in the story. For me, playing the male character gives me a chance to look for those issues and perspectives that I might have missed or not given any thought to. It makes it easier to listen. So for me it’s not about who is better. It’s about what I can learn from both. 2/2

Yes. 

(I don’t think people in this fandom here on Tumblr play male protags and think “they’re better” but “I feel more comfortable playing them” or “this is nice trying this character” etc…
And some play both!)

And I get the message, we shouldn’t forget the LGBT+ men in this fandom. Which is extraordinary to me! How come so many people in the MEA romance survey, including women, talked about standing with the m/m community because their lack of options wasn’t fair, only for those MShep vs FShep debates to make a come back? Let’s not even talk about pairings where both MShep and FShep can romance a character.

“I haven’t signed anything.”

“I hate you.”

I read this fic by @byakurangesso and i am suddenly cured. all my problems have disappeared.

Building characters up for the big ending of the book without really knowing how the “final battle” is actually going to play out

Originally posted by zorpeezi-squeezy

5

“pardon my computer” from jughead’s double digest #102 or “the one where a computer is told to formulate a girl jughead would be attracted to and immediately explodes”

quite a few older stories involved “UGAJ” or “The United Girls Against Jughead” who made it their life’s mission to try to “fix” jughead often by harassing him or kidnapping him or attempting to brainwash him

it never worked