after the war is over and the uncles are all dust

mirandatam  asked:

Hm... something about Rey and the ghost of Shmi Skywalker?

Rey is 273 days on Jakku when the woman with the dark eyes and the faint lines around her eyes bends down, and helps her wash the dust and debris from a hyperspace drive port. (Two and a half portions, never let it be said that Rey doesn’t know her worth.) “There,” the woman says, and when she smiles the lines around her eyes carve even deeper. When Rey drags the brush over the drive port, no sand kicks up. “Shiny and new. Go on, now—you can’t let him run out of portions.”

“’m Rey,” Rey says, breathless, clutching the port to her chest.

“Go!” the woman says, and Rey runs. She gets in line just in time to get the last three portions from Unkar. But when tries to find the woman after—

The sand is empty of sentients, and no one seems to know the human woman with dark hair, darker eyes, not even when Rey wanders among the camps and asks for her. Rey is only 273 days, and hungry, and so she eats there, squatted down in the sand outside someone’s tent—scarfing down half-mixed portions because she’s dizzy with starving, and she can’t wait. If the dark-haired woman wanted some, she should have been easier to find.

Rey sleeps that night full—or, at least, what she thinks is full—and dreams of a wattle-and-daub hut, and a woman with dark hair, dark eyes, laughing. The woman’s son sits with sun-bleached hair, his mouth is skewed as he works on a droid to help his mother with the customers that come. Rey helps too, and when he smiles at her, it feels like coming-home.

They are so happy, and Rey wakes crying, even though that is water she cannot afford to lose.


“No, not that one,” the woman says, and Rey drops the part like it burns her hand to touch. She whirls around, and there is the woman with the dark eyes, dark hair. She’s smiling, a little bemusedly, at Rey, at the specific part Rey was trying to extract from the mess of decay and rust.

“What’s wrong with it?” Rey demands. She is six hundred and seven days now, and she thought—

“Navigation systems are fiddly,” the woman says, stepping towards her, and then she is there, close enough for Rey to touch, to—“Biologic growth damages them first, interferes with the electro-magnetic signaling. This has—” she grunts, and the part comes away in her hand. “This has overgrown. It’s not worth installing again, it’ll just send the ship off-course trying to follow all those awful fractals.”

“What good does that do me?” Rey asks, thinking of all the portion she’s lost, if this stranger is right. She’d just wanted—

But the stranger smiles, and her eyes crinkle at the corners. “Come on,” she says, lowering herself to sit on the durasteel floor of the mighty star destroyer. “I’ll show you a trick my unscrupulous master showed me, on how to make it look as though tech has never been damaged.”

Rey spends the whole afternoon with her chin hooked over the woman’s soft shoulder, watching as she shows Rey how to reroute, undo, lay down new electric pathways. She smells like something sharp, the way Rey has always imagined ozone would smell if Rey had ever found the courage to leave the atmosphere. Her eyes are older than her face, that much Rey knows for sure.

“There you go,” the woman finally says, pressing the piece into Rey’s hand. “Good as new. Plutt won’t even be able to tell the difference, so you shouldn’t accept less than five and a quarter portions—”

“What about you?” Rey asks. The woman is warm, and alive, and human, and Rey finds herself hoping she’s her mother. Just to have something, someone. And especially her, with her crinkled eyes, the way she rests a hand against Rey’s cheek like—

“Oh, I’m fine,” the woman says, and Rey’s heart falters. “You will be full, on five and a quarter portions. That’s enough.”

Rey eats alone, eats until she is sick on constituted bread and meat, and she lies in her own bed biting down on her fist to keep herself from crying.


Sometimes, Rey looks out of the corner of her eye, and there she is, the woman with the dark hair and the dark eyes. “Hello, Mother,” Rey begins greeting her at some point, muttered in between breaths as she extracts another part, as she wakes from her midday nap in the shadowy berth of a star destroyer, as she forces herself to stay longer, work harder.

Sometimes, she hears someone murmur, hello, daughter, but she’s not sure. She’s not.


Poor affection-starved Rey, longing for a family, any family, even a ghost. Even the vague shape, even a shadow. Even the hint of a mother, whispering in her ear, droids have always been harbingers of good news, of better things ahead. Strangers may be angels. You are more. Run, go. I will follow you there.

Rey  isn’t sure, really, but in the barracks of D’Qar, Rey tosses and turns, until a cool hand comes to rest on her forehead, her neck. Shhh, a voice that is not quite the Force but might be something similar, whispers. It strokes its cool knuckles over the rabbit-pulse of her jugular. Shh, rest. You have a war to fight in the morning.




Luke has holos of his family—Padmé Amidala and Anakin Skywalker, Uncle Owen and Aunt Beru Whitesun-Lars. But it’s the holo of their their step-mother, Shmi, that stops Rey in her tracks, stops her breathing at all. Anakin’s mother, Luke says, but Rey is holding onto he lightsaber too tightly to hear.

I know her, she says, and Luke goes still, blinks. 


She used to—sing me lullabies, Rey says, because that’s all she can remember just now, the dark-haired-dark-eyed woman—Shmi Skywalker, chosen to be Mother of the Living Force, blessed, holy—humming in Rey’s darkened AT-AT. Shmi singing in Huttese; warm and calloused hands, a rough voice singing of how much she loved, would protect—

Luke catches Rey before she hits her knees, gathers her up to his chest. Shh, Luke murmurs, stroking her hair as Rey sobs. Shhh, it’s all right. Everything will—it’ll turn out right. It’ll be—it’ll be right.

Rey feels a cool touch at her forehead (impossible, Luke’s hands are hot at her waist, and—) and she sobs again, feeling hollow, feeling like she’s come home, somehow, impossibly. It is a war, she shouldn’t feel….

Shh, Luke and his grandmother whisper together, cradling Rey against the bulwark of light they represent. Shh.

I did the prompt

So this is for my previous post about everyone pinning for lance.

Ps: trigger warning. This does hint at possible rape.

-lance is an omega.
-everyone else in the war is an alpha.
-lance didn’t know this or think it was important so he didn’t find the need to tell anyone that he was an omega on suppressants due to the garrison.
-everyone eventually finds out because his body has gotten used to the suppressants so his scent leaks.
-everyone was cool at first. Other than a few worries about an omega fighting a war.
-the first real sign was when voltron had invaded a galra base.
-haggar just happened to be there and attacked lance first.
-then she got a whiff of his scent after tackling him.
-it went down hill from there. With haggar trying to scent him and eventually mate him. And the team (mostly Shiro and Keith) almost killing her yelling “MINE! My omega!Mine” (also mostly Keith and Shiro)
-this resulted in lance being a curled up crying mess because he was scared.
-it didn’t help much that Keith and Shiro didn’t stop and then started prowling towards him. Growling like animals looking like they will either rape or kill him.
- pidge and hunk manage to fight them off until alura and coran get there.
-cue angry uncle coran who is also an alpha and about ready to kill the three who attacked lance.
-things only get worse as they save Matt and he starts trying to court lance like the others have been.
-and then during battles lottor, haggar, and zarkon are all trying to get him into bed whether he wants it or not!
-then they have a meeting with the blade and they all try to bed lance. Only this time very few were trying against his will.
-cue stressed, confused, and scared lance who ends up hiding away in corans room who seems to be the only one who doesn’t want to get into lances pants!
-Coran guards the door and doesn’t let anyone in. AT. ALL. He also cuddles with lance whenever lance wants land lance lets him scent him so that they are officially family. (No romantic or sexual attraction. Just a common need to have family.)
-the team eventually manage to get into the room where lance is.
-he is scared shitless and is sitting in the corner crying and shaking.
-Shiro comes closer and try’s to get lance to look at them. He puts his hand on lances cheek and lance turns his head to where the hand is covering his mouth.
-as Shiro goes to reposition his hand in order to not muffle the poor thing something strange and painfully stings his hand. He lets out a cry and brings his hand to his chest.
-there on his hand is a very dusting bite mark. Lance bit him.
-and then lance gets up and just books it.
-but the door is blocked by hunk.
- “lance calm down!”
-“lance it’s ok!”
-stay away from me! Get off! STOP IT! CORAN!“ And then a soft whisper of “help”
-when he gets pinned to sit on the floor and thinks it’s over. I’m gonna gat used by a bunch of alphas. I’m gonna lose my virginity. I don’t want this.
-but then arms gently wrap around him from all angles. Exactly six pairs. And they do nothing more
-“you-you aren’t going to bed me? Why aren’t you breeding me?” It’s barely a whisper but it’s there. Through sobs and hiccups.
-“lance it’s ok. I’m so sorry for all that we did before. We aren’t going to rape you. I can’t account for the galea but the blade won’t either. It’s just we got exited about having an omega and we scared you. And I’m so sorry for everything.” Shiro whispers into lances ear and lance starts to calm down.
-“I personally promise that if anyone try’s anything on you they will be dead before they can get to the punchline. Unless of course you approve and it isn’t one sided or forced.”
Keith smirks into lances neck.
-the rest of the team apologizes and lance slowly starts to relax and purr.
-this of course turns into one big team cuddle pile and coran joins in eventually so it’s all great. (Matt counts as team now)
-at the next blade meeting everyone apologizes. And lance notices the scared looks of the members. Along with the stern looks from Thace, Shiro, and Keith.
-at the end of the meeting thace personally apologizes to lance and even got on his knees to beg for forgiveness.
-this drew a quiet giggle from lance who covered his mouth and blushed.
-then he very timidly asks thace if he could hug him.
-which thace agrees to very quickly and they hug while lance purring.
-(thace had to bend down considerably and lance eventually lets him pick him up)
-so in the end everyone is still attracted to lance but doesn’t do anything without permission and never pushes.
-also lots of cuddles from lance for everyone.

So yeah some one write a fic and make sure i know about it so I can read it. Also shout out to @mutantgurl
angel || p.d.

Originally posted by romanoff-nat

Requested by @valeriariosarevalo

Prompt:  Hi!!! I saw that your request are open. Could you do a one-shot/ imagine with Poe in the last Jedi where reader is Leia’s daughter and they’re married and the reader is pregnant and Poe is just really overprotective of her. Thanks?

The only thing I changed about this fic was that it’s not taking place in the Last Jedi. I can’t write fics for this movie yet because I don’t have a solid grasp on the plot, and not everyone has seen it. Come Wednesday, I will begin writing TLJ fics for you guys. 


I was SO tempted to turn this into a Christmas oneshot.. but why not just go for a crap ton of fluff. I hope you guys enjoy! This is mainly composed of snippets: Ex - First meeting, first date, proposal, marriage.. pregnancy. well, you’ll see. 

REMEMBER: Feedback is critical to keep writers writing. Please.. tell me something. Anything goes! I promise I don’t bite! 

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Kylo Ren Kneeling in Reverence - Reylo and Redemption

–Note the similar lighting, the color and composition in both scenes, and the posture of Kylo. These two scenes are clearly meant to mirror each other –  JJ is a master filmmaker; he knows what he’s doing and this is clearly meant to look similar and those similarities are symbolic of something.

– Rey literally reveals Kylo Ren’s greatest fear in the interrogation –  which coincidentally happens to be that he cannot measure up to his grandfather’s legacy. During his scene with Vader’s mask, he is revealing that fear by begging for guidance toward the Darkness and away from the “pull to the Light.”

– In both scenes, Kylo is desperately seeking something which will guide him. From his grandfather, it is a path to the Dark Side. From Rey it is a map to Ahch-To. Funnily enough, if he shows up on Ahch-To in TLJ by following Rey there, he will find a path to the Light Side through Rey and perhaps his Uncle Luke.
So in the first scene he is seeking guidance in the Force, and yet failing to find that path (as is evident in his ever-waning powers in the Dark Side throughout the film)… but in the second scene the Force is guiding him in its own will through Rey and her mind - regardless of Kylo’s own desire or even awareness of it.

– These are the only two scenes in which Kylo Ren kneels. They are also the most vulnerable moments for Kylo Ren. In one he is basically crying beneath his mask, and in the other he removes his mask for the first time, showing a great deal and range of emotion throughout the entire scene.

Kylo Ren fits into the Knight Templar character archetype. As such, to show him kneeling reverently to someone (or something) is an extremely important symbolic gesture on his character’s part. Knight Templar characters are dogmatic in their beliefs - they only bow to those they think are superior/worthy to them; and what he worships or deems worthy is what defines who he is and how he develops. What he kneels to defines his morals and sense of justice.
VERY few tick off the criteria for a Knight Templar to consider them “superior” or worthy. In the above link, it states:

One of the more effective ways to change a Knight Templar’s mind is to, frankly, kick their ass down to the ground. This is because some think Might Makes Right, and that since they are good they only kill the evil, so if you beat them but don’t kill them, you are good too.

Interestingly, our heroine did just that later in the film.

– As a literal knight, to show him kneeling symbolizes allegiance, reverence, and perhaps even worship (considering Kylo Ren is a religious zealot) - and in Rey’s case, it could foreshadow such allegiance and reverence down the line (to both Rey and what she symbolizes - the Light). We already know his reverence toward his grandfather, but this moment could symbolize a shift in Kylo’s understanding and frame of mind for the future. His allegiance may at some point shift from the Dark to the Light - toward Rey…

–Which brings me to this interesting quote:

“I feel it again… the pull to the light.”

In the scene with Vader’s mask, Kylo is pleading for his grandfather to show him the darkness. From this moment forward, however, Kylo only continues to weaken in his power in the Dark, until he is left bleeding in the snow, all teary-eyed after a strong, pretty girl literally kicked him to the dust and stole his grandfather’s sword - a sword that gave Rey a vision almost entirely made up of Kylo Ren.
So… let’s get this straight: Kylo prays, kneeling, to his grandfather because he feels a pull to the light in one scene. In another scene with the same lighting, similar composition/coloring, with Kylo Ren in a reverent position, he is kneeling before a woman (literally called “Rey”) who is lit by a spotlight as he looks on her from the darkness, looking up.

–Jumping off of that last little detail, it’s interesting that Kylo is looking down at Vader’s mask, but that he is looking up at Rey. To look down is to look to his past, and to what will eventually be beneath or behind him. To look up, however, is to see his future - what lies ahead. It is the example for him to - literally - “look up to.”
He feels a “pull to the light” in one scene… and in the other he is literally looking up toward it reverently –  in a scene in which he gives more than passing glances over a girl who captures his intrigue, who later takes his grandfather’s own saber, and then brands him with it. A girl who has the map he’s looking for, where she is allowed to go by the end of TFA, and he is not. Where he is going to meet her once again –  and this time, when the Force wills it.
This all emphasizes further that he will be pulled away from the delusion of following what he believes to be his grandfather’s legacy of “finishing what Vader started,” by instead finding another place of belonging: through that “pull to the light,” which he will find in Rey. He will have to move his attention away from his past, and into his future.

And I believe that, in doing so, he will be set up to directly support Rey as she learns about her own past and family legacy – whatever that may be.

As Rey struggles with what may be abandonment, conflict, and loneliness as she discovers her past in TLJ and beyond, Kylo/Ben would be in the best position of any character to help guide her through those feelings.

As Rey struggles with the Dark Side, its temptations, and her own weaknesses, who better to lend a helping hand than the man who has fallen so far, only to somehow have clawed his way back up into the light again?

This is why I believe both redemption for Kylo/Ben and Reylo (to some extent) are in the cards for the Sequel Trilogy. They are both integral to each others’ development and growth. Only, Kylo has to get there first so that he can help Rey when she – the hero of the story –  is in dire need of guidance later on. In her darkest hour, who better to be there than the man who has already suffered through his own - literal and figurative - darkest moments?

Top 25 Larry Fics of 2016

I read a lot of fic and the majority of it is larry. I like making lists and I like larry so I thought I’d do some minimal research of the top 25 larry fics published/completed in 2016 in order of least to most kudos (with links). All of these fics are top notch so you should all check them out!

An honorable mentions list will probably come soon, because there are so many brilliant fics that don’t reflect in their kudos.

25.) I Love You Most by @alienproof (11k)

Friends with benefits has always been enough for Louis. Until, of course, it isn’t.

24.) Just Like the Wolf Before He Bites by @crazyupsetter (11k)

He’s loud, Louis is, and that’s far from unusual for him, but the volume of it still has Harry pulling back the curtain. There’s a half-formed thought in the back of his brain about telling Louis off, because it’s fucking half three in the morning, but then.

But then Harry’s eyes get stuck on the soft glint of Louis’ stubble in the light, and he’s making his way across the room before he even realizes it.

Louis, for his part, just tips his chin up to give Harry space and keeps talking, waving the joint in his hand around for emphasis. He doesn’t even bother to greet Harry, going on with his story to his semi-rapt audience, just settles a hand in between Harry’s shoulder blades and pushes him down firmly.

Harry just. Relaxes. His eyes slip closed, pushing his entire face into that spot underneath Louis’ chin, where his hair is still growing, neat and prickly. The scent of Louis’ cologne drifts into Harry’s nose, light and fresh, and it’s calming. Comforting. His breathing syncs up with Louis’ quickly, and Harry feels so much better than he had five minutes ago he almost wants to cry.

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A little gift for @gentlesleaze, who seemed to like the idea of Benvolio in armor as much as I did… :)

Rough alarum bells rang out in violent echo through Verona’s streets – yet they were barely heard over the city-wide panic that seemed to grip its citizens by their very throats. Shopkeepers boarded their windows and barred their doors, looking to find some way to protect their goods from pillage and destruction. From open doorways mothers cried out for their children and then quickly pulled them inside to safety. Able-bodied men had been told to find a weapon – although some carried little more than kitchen cleavers and pitchforks – and, once assembled into small companies, to make their way to the city gates to meet the danger that now threatened them all.

An army, led by the duke of Milan, was on its way – and it was growing ever closer as the day progressed. The host numbered eight thousand men, so the rumors said, alongside two thousand German mercenaries well-known for their savagery.

A citizen militia, however set they might be on defending their homes and their families, could do little against such highly-trained soldiers, so the prince had called upon the aristocratic houses, asking that each send forward their best men-at-arms to ride out against the enemy. And so Rosaline had spent the morning hours – like all the women of her house – in a whirl of activity, helping to ready the men for battle and the palazzo for the possibility of protracted siege. She had worked tirelessly, running from one task to the next with little rest, not wanting to let her mind lay idle, not wanting to contemplate what horrors might be unleashed were her Capulet kinsmen defeated and her city taken by the enemy.

The men had at last assembled in the courtyard, fully girded for war, led by her uncle, who sat sternly atop a hulking gray destrier. The women had donned ribbons of Capulet blue in their hair as a measure of support, and even with tears threatening in their eyes, they waved their handkerchiefs as the men departed in a cloud of hoof beats. Only once the dust had settled did it occur to Rosaline that she was tied not to one house, but to two. It was from a sense of duty – and only duty, she told herself – that decided she must go and bid farewell to one last man before he departed for the field of combat.

She did not bother to take a servant – it would have been too much trouble, and besides, she resembled one well enough, a fact that allowed her greater ease of movement through the streets. But the mood outside was riotous, a barely-controlled chaos that seemed ready to erupt at any moment, and so she avoided the crowds, skirting close to buildings and drawing the hood of her cape up over her head as she hastened towards her destination.

As she walked, the streets became less and less familiar – she had few dealings on this side of the river, the heart of Montague power – but she guided herself by landmarks, her eyes continually keeping watch on the tall granite bell tower that guarded over the abbey church of San Sebastiano. His palazzo, she knew, was just there, tucked nearby. It was not as handsome or as grand as her own home, she noted as she approached it from the street, but it bore the trappings of wealth nevertheless.

People were still coming and going from beneath the arched portico, and she hurried inside, hoping that she hadn’t come too late.

Within the house, few took notice of her – she was dressed plainly, after all – and she found herself moving aside to make way for a group of knobby-kneed squires bearing armloads of pikes and brightly-polished poleaxes. She had half a mind to stop one of them and ask where she might find their young master, until she glanced past them, gazing into the wide courtyard beyond.

Near the center of the courtyard, just next to a burbling fountain, a young man was quietly adjusting the leather straps of his horse’s bridle, wrapped deep in thought. Warm sunlight gleamed brilliantly against the burnished steel of his armor, curling over the fluted breastplate and the round pauldrons that encased his shoulders. His arms and legs were similarly covered, and a final plate circled protectively around his neck, ending just below his trimmed hairline. He had set aside his slim rapier, exchanging it for a heavy broadsword that hung from the belt around his waist. Looking at him, Rosaline felt her heart quicken with a sudden jolt. She did not understand how, but her Montague betrothed had been utterly transformed. In her mind, she had associated him with all the callow excesses of youth: irresponsibility, recklessness, a desire to live only for his own pleasure. In front of her, though, with his marble-cut profile and hair turned red and fiery in the rays of the sun, was a man, one arrayed to practice the lethal arts of war. Were it not for the somber, melancholy strain in his eyes, he might resemble Mars himself.

His task complete, he gave the animal an affectionate rub along the length of its muzzle, and moved to place the reins up towards the front of the saddle. With a turn of his head, though, his gaze found hers, his expression at once overcome by surprise and confusion.

Her feet compelled her forward, powered by an urge she did not fully understand, until she was but an arm’s length away from where he stood.  

“My lady… Rosaline…” he said softly, his brows furrowing inward. “Why have you come? Why have you not stayed at your uncle’s?”

The words came slowly, trapped as they were between her head and her heart. “I have come to see you, before you ride out. To offer you a farewell,” she at last replied. “It is only fitting. For we are betrothed, are we not?”

He said nothing to her question, but dismissed it with a sigh and a shake of his head. “The streets are dangerous and the Milanese army almost to our gates. You ought not to have concerned yourself with me.”

She wanted to argue back, to tell him that she would concern herself with what and whom she pleased, to remind him that they were yet unmarried and for now, at least, his will would not prove a master over her own. But she bit back her tongue, knowing that she could not start a quarrel, not now. For she had not come all this way just to let him depart with only foul words having passed between them.

That he might never come back at all was a possibility she had not fully contemplated until this moment.

A curly-haired squire clad in dark red livery approached, carrying a round metal object polished to a high sheen, which he held out for his master to take.

“Your helmet, my lord,” he said.

Her betrothed grasped it tentatively, his gaze following the squire as the young man turned and disappeared back into the shadows of the house, and then finally falling upon the steel helmet in his hands. From his silence, his unfocused gaze, and the pale pensiveness that had begun to cloud his features, Rosaline could tell that he was thinking of the battle to come, perhaps wondering if he would live to see the end of it. She could not say why it pained her so to see him disheartened, for he was nothing to her – and she to him, no doubt – the two of them bound to each other solely by royal decree. Still, some small voice within her urged her to speak, to offer him the balm of what few comforting and encouraging words she had to give.

“In more chivalrous times, they say, a knight would go into combat wearing the colors of his lady, to furnish him with strength and to help him remember what he was fighting for.” She reached up and pulled the blue ribbon loose from her hair, holding it towards him. “Will you wear them for me?”

If he seemed surprised by her words, he said nothing, but raised his arm in acquiescence, allowing her to tie the ribbon around the top of the metal plate that encased his elbow. Once she had finished, she looked up at him once more, noting – with some small pleasure – that his mood had brightened. A ghost of a smile curled along the corner of his mouth, and there was something in his eyes as well, a trace of that brash, sardonic humor she had come to know well since their betrothal.

“Look not so pained, my lady,” he said in gentle mockery. “Perhaps I shall fall in battle, and then you will be free. And as we are not married yet, I’m certain your mourning period would be brief. You should be able to cast aside your black veil by Michelmas at the very least.”

She shook her head, feeling a smile begin to play upon her lips as well.

“If you could try not to die, for my sake at least, I would well be pleased,” she replied, realizing at that moment that she spoke the truth. She was certain – that is, fairly certain – that she had no desire to marry him, but she did not wish to see him taken from this earth. “For black does not flatter me,” she added, “and I would fain not have to wear it for so long a time as that.”

“Now there you are wrong,” he murmured, “as any color would suit, for such a face as yours.”

His compliment was unexpected, as was the warm flutter that stirred within her chest. She pressed her lips together, suppressing a smile – and then, out of some unknown impulse, she leaned over and gave him a small kiss upon the cheek.

His eyes turned wide with surprise, his mouth open to speak, when suddenly a great clamor of shouting was heard throughout the courtyard.

“To arms, Montagues! To arms!”

The rallying cry had been sounded, armored men on horseback now thundering through the courtyard, and Rosaline knew that the moment had come to say goodbye. It seemed far too brief a time to her, though, too brief to voice the thoughts that came unbidden to her mind, too brief to do anything but look back at him, her breath turning raw and unsteady as she met his gaze.

His eyes were like two fierce stars, blazing with determination, but she had little time to wonder why, for without warning he grasped her by the waist and pulled her to him, pressing his mouth firmly against hers. Her palm was flat along the smooth metal of his breastplate, and she might have pushed away, struggled somehow to release herself from his hold. Yet she did not. Instead, she surrendered, her body melting against his as their lips met in passionate desperation.

And then just as quickly, he released her, and after having found his mount and hoisting himself up into the saddle, he circled closer and met her gaze one last time.

“If you would be so kind, lady, as to keep me in your prayers?” he asked. She nodded breathlessly, still feeling the warmth of his lips on hers, and with a spur of his horse he galloped from the courtyard to join his kinsmen, the dark blue ribbon on his arm fluttering against the bright gleam of steel.

[my Still Star-Crossed ficlets are on AO3 – read them here] 

Happy Thanksgiving Y’all

A quick Dean X Reader drabble for the holiday. (PS I am thankful for all of you. I really mean it. Thanks for letting me share my crazy thoughts and weird stories. Thank you for your encouragement, motivation, and friendship.) 

Word Count: 1700

I’m especially thankful for you @misguidedconqueress! Thanks for always checking over things and just being amazing! 


The heavy door of the bunker creaked wide open as the boys waltzed through, Cas included, returning home from a hunt. All Dean wanted to do was hold you close; a fresh change of clothes and cracking a beer could come later. You had stayed behind this time, stating you had felt under the weather. It had been the longest time you and Dean had spent apart; he desired so bad to close that distance. As a wave of a bright and hearty smell hit Dean he exchanged a confused look with his brother. The bunker felt warmer, the light almost having a orangish glow compared to the usual harsh fluorescents.

As the boys headed down the staircase, the sound of chattering grew as did their confusion. Castiel proudly grinned having successfully hidden a secret from the two. His job was to ensure the hunt would last long enough but not too long as so they would arrive home on this exact day.  

They strolled through the war room into the library to find it fully converted into a dining area decorated with assorted squash, leaves, candles and a table completely set. Not to mention the overwhelming amount of people drinking and chatting back and forth.

Garth lit up like a Christmas tree upon seeing Dean. “Look who decided to show up.” He sauntered over to them. “Happy Thanksgiving hombres.” He hugged Dean first and then Sam.

Along with Garth, was a large group of people. Garth’s wife, Jody, and Donna with Claire and Alex, Eileen, a few other hunters. Dean gritted his teeth seeing Crowley casually browsing the books.

“What’s going on?” Sam slightly chuckled, stepping out of Garth’s hug.

“Dude, Y/N planned it all. I can’t believe you haven’t had us over before. Man, this place is balls.” Garth gushed.

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The Rain (14) Final

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x fem! child! reader

Warning: fluff, sadness

Summary: Bucky finds a child in the rain. After noticing a few weird things about her he decides it’s best if she  stays with him. Now They’re on the run.

well not anymore.

Note: Alright shed some more tears this is the end I hope you like it .

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Originally posted by dailymarvelheroes

It had been a few weeks since the incident. Tony had moved into the compound, bring along (y/n). Rhodey could walk again but need crutches for a while. Peter was officially an unofficial Avenger. And Tony had adopted (y/n). 

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Dawning in Dust: Part XI

Thanks to everyone who reads and messages me about this story. It’s so fun to write and I hope you are all enjoying it!

Previous chapter

Lallybroch was thrown into a flurry of activity after Fergus’ announcement. Jamie had given her an apologetic glance before hustling out of her new surgery and informing his family and tenants that Dougal MacKenzie was due to arrive within a few hours. Claire went back inside, trying to stay out of the way. Uncle he may be, but it was clear that Dougal MacKenzie’s presence was not the most anticipated of events. Orders for preparations were being given but Claire got the impression that most of them weren’t about cleanliness and hospitality. She made her way to the kitchen, hoping to be of some use.

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In the end after the wars have been fought and the dust settles, I want Sansa to initiate things with Jon. Because I hope that her heart will have healed to a degree. And I want her to feel empowered enough to take charge. As we’ve now seen her do in other matters. She’s been repeatedly beaten down and forced to be with these men. For her to, in the end, be like this is what I want. This is what I deserve. And for Jon to just be like, me too, of course, let’s sit by the fire together for the rest of our lives. In their home. With their people. And laughter and children and wrinkles and grey hairs will follow.

And they visit Uncle Bran at the godswood everyday. Sit and talk of happy times and never forget those lost. And Aunt Arya and Uncle Gendry are there too. Sometimes. But they travel a lot and are like wind in the Spring, brisk and warm all at once.

And the children of spring become men and women of spring, and the North flourishes with their King and Queen at the helm. Who are now reminders of the Winter that was. And one day, as they walk hand in hand, watching their grandchildren play before them; young Edd runs up yelling in excitement over a group of wolf pups he found up ahead. Jon and Sansa share a smile. Jon names one of the wolves Lady, and Sansa thinks her greatest choice in life was him.

a tempest, a cyclone, a goddamned hurricane

This is… an AU that just keeps growing, lol. The premise is that Sansa can see ghosts, but the actual world-building behind that will be explored in greater depth next chapter.

When Sansa is three years old, she sneaks away from her nurse’s watchful eyes and into the godswood. Her father had taken Robb there, not quite a week previous, and Sansa had felt furious at being left out.

And though she’s now in the godswood, there’s nothing special here; only cold air and a tree with leaves as large as her face, as bright as her hair.

Sansa is cold, and hungry. After some finagling, she curls into a hollow beneath the base of the white tree, huddled for warmth. She doesn’t cry, exactly, but she wants to- her mother and father likely won’t find her, not here, and even if they did they’d start yelling, and she hates that, hates it deeply.

Then she hears a voice.

“Come out, little one,” says a woman, her dark hair plaited back in a fashion that Sansa’s never seen before. Her eyes find Sansa unerringly, and she waits for her to clamber out of the roots with an expression that’s both disappointed and loving. “Your parents are looking for you,” she says, and her hands brush over the godswood leaves resting on Sansa’s shoulders light enough that she can’t feel it. “Now clean yourself up, sweetling. I’ll take you home, don’t you fear.”

The woman does. Sansa is in her chambers, wrapped up warm and toasty in her blankets, when she asks the woman her name.

“Lyarra,” says the woman.

She steps out of the room, and when her parents ask her where she was, who brought her back- well. There’s nobody named Lyarra in Winterfell, according to her father; the last person who bore that name was his mother, and she was buried decades ago.

Sansa speaks to her the next week.

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Title: Total Eclipse of the Heart
Fandom: Naruto
Genre: Romance
Ship: Kakashi/Sakura
Characters: Haruno Sakura, Hatake Kakashi
Word count: 1,049
Rating: T 
dditional Tags: Soulmates AU, Fluff
Summary: Sasuke smells like dusty books and winter, things that Sakura loves and Sasuke is the only one that Sakura could smell - if she disregarded sweat and blood, every shinobi in Konoha smelt of those two frequently.That is, up to the point where Sakura meets her new sensei. Nothing, not even her auntie’s tales on when she met her uncle, could have prepared for his scent. 


In academy, Ino and Sakura had bickered frequently over Sasuke’s scent. Only soul mates produced a smell strong enough for them to smell and since both of them could smell Sasuke, it made sense that one of them was his soul mate.

Sasuke smells like dusty books and winter, things that Sakura loves and Sasuke is the only one that Sakura could smell - if she disregarded sweat and blood, every shinobi in Konoha smelt of those two frequently.

That is, up to the point where Sakura meets her new sensei. Nothing, not even her auntie’s tales on when she met her uncle, could have prepared for his scent. His smell is like dust motes on a sunbeam, lazy Sundays at home and safety. His smell is like her auntie cooking curry while Sasuke is more of a faded scent.

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Interruptions (Thomas Jefferson x Reader)

Word Count: 1675

Genre: Mostly fluff…humor?

Request/Summary: “[{(MODERN AU)}] Can you plz do a tjeff x reader where you’re Washington’s niece and you invite Washington and everyone from the offices to a festival that you are helping out with. Then, Thomas starts to flirt with you, but Washington gets really protective.”- @winniepoohffg​ (this request was originally sent into @daveeddiggsit​ (check out her blog if you haven’t already, look you can just click on it right there. go homies. I belive in you. k I’ll shut up now) but I stole it because her requests are closed (: )

Pairing: Thomas Jefferson x Reader

AU: Modern

Warnings: One or two dirty pick up lines, probably cussing

A/N- Thank you so much for letting me steal this @winniepoohffg​ sorry this probably kinda sucks, I tried my best, I just loved the idea so much, I couldn’t help commandeering it. Also sorry this took forever.

Standard TJeffs a/n: Yes, I do write Jefferson but keep in mind that I think historical Jefferson was an evil dick. I write for Jefferson from the play

“What do you need me to do?” You asked your uncle.

“Thanks for helping, (Y/N), can you put these on that table over there?” He requested, piling several boxes into your arms so you could barely peek over them to see where you were going. After you set them down on the table, you opened the top of one of them to see several holiday decorated cookies stacked on display inside.

“Hey uncle George? You want me to set these out?” You called across the room.

“That would be great!” He responded. You set out each cardboard box one by one on the table, tearing off the lids to put the various sweets inside on display. Afterward, you went back to your uncle, who was now hanging up a cluster of fake mistletoe in the doorway.

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Dawning In Dust: Part 1

Claire awoke abruptly, gasping for air. The sky was still dark and the air around her small hiding place in a niche of the little hill was still and silent. Her skin was cold and clammy and she raised a trembling hand to wipe the sweat from her forehead. No explosions. No screams. No suffocating weight or bone deep chill. The smell of blood was replaced by the smell of dry earth.

A dream. It had only been a dream. Breathe in. Out. Slower. In…. out…. in…. out.

She rolled onto her side, curling in on herself under the solar blanket that was her saving grace on cold nights like these. It had slipped off while she slept, which may have explained the nightmare. Claire never could sleep well when chilled, especially after her parents died in that car crash when she was small. It had been a cold night that night too. Almost as cold as her parent’s had been when she said goodbye for the last time before the funeral…

“Stop it, Beauchamp,” Claire whispered firmly, trying to relax her shaking muscles. She closed her eyes, trying to focus her mind on something to hang on to until she could relax into sleep again. Warm things. Warmth. Frank’s lips against hers…

Claire flinched involuntarily. No, too painful. Something else. Anything else. Campfires. The sun in Egypt, high and hot as a furnace over one of her Uncle Lamb’s archeological dig sites. Fresh tea. Hot baths.

Claire almost groaned at the thought. Yes, that would do. She breathed out slowly, imagining how the warmth of the water used to seep into her muscles. The steam would have coated her face like her sweat did now and she breathed in and out again, imagining the scents of candles and soap. There would have been nothing to worry over, no shifts to get to at the hospital, no dinner parties with Frank’s colleagues. Just time and space for her mind and body to go blissfully blank for a bit. Claire vaguely registered that the solar blanket was warming her again before her muddled mind gave in to sleep once more.


Claire Beauchamp Randall was never a woman to panic. Being raised by her eccentric archeologist uncle and therefore being voluntarily toted around the world from a young and impressionable age did much to dispel emotions of this type from entering her mind. Joining the British army and becoming a nurse when the Last World War was declared only solidified her ability to emotionally detach as needed. She was, however, realistic.

She bent at the edge of the stream, wanting nothing more than to drink greedily and damn the consequences. It had been almost two days without water and the mere sound of it lapping against the bank made her swallow. Claire sighed, pacifying her thirst by swishing a handful of water inside her mouth and spitting it out again before gathering small sticks for a fire. She ran her damp fingers through the curly mass of her hair, tying it back and out of her way.

If her unusual upbringing taught her anything it was that ill prepared food,drink, and medical supplies could kill just as well as a wild animal or person could, albeit much slower and sometimes more painfully. She thought the stream might be safe enough, but couldn’t take the risk. At one point, most water sources around the world had been destroyed or filled with chemicals as a weapon.

While Claire didn’t think Scotland had fallen prey to those tactics, being so far removed from the centralized sources of conflict, she had to proceed as she would anywhere else. After all, rumors still circulated of continued conflict and uses of force, despite the fallout of technological civilization. Groups of wanderers coming together to make their own new civilization and social structure of sorts. Claire avoided what appeared to be large encampments of people for that very reason.

The only person or thing she could trust was herself and, for all she felt safe in this quiet forest of trees, Claire allowed herself a rare moment to let that reality sink in. She’d come to terms with her parents’ deaths quite readily, being young and thrust into new worlds unknown. The vague memories she had of them were pleasant ones and she kept them locked safe away in what she pictured as a small, ornamental box in her mind.

Uncle Lamb had been killed in a bombing raid toward the end of the Last War while he was lecturing at University. At this point, any thought for civilian lives was shot to hell in the attacks on schools, libraries, cinemas, and any other manner of public gathering place. British military had been evacuating mainland Europe when it happened. Claire didn’t find out until she went to Uncle Lamb’s flat and found it dusty and vacant, all belongings looted. He’d died two weeks before.

Frank. The thought of her husband brought her right hand automatically to her left, fingers caressing the simple gold band on her ring finger. Claire had made it home during the evacuation. Frank had not. They’d had little contact throughout the War, partially due to the need for secrecy and partially due to the breakdown in communication technology after the data viruses were set loose. Uncle Lamb always joked that technology would be the end of man.

He was right, Claire thought. She bent to her studiously arranged pile of twigs and dry sticks, pulling the flint and small knife out of her cargo pants pocket. She was about to strike the first spark when a shot rang out, echoing through the trees overhead and all but making her heart stop.

“Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ,” she gasped, ducking low and gathering up her pack. Too loud to be a pistol. Not automatic though… Another shot, this one closer and accompanied by yelling from two different directions. The last thing she needed was to get caught in the middle of territory dispute.

Claire ran, keeping as low as she could while trying not to slip down the bank and into the water. She grabbed her canteen to keep it from making noise as it thumped against her side. Another shot, this one even closer….


She’d ran smack into a man hiding in the trees. He grabbed her and wrapped his arms around her to keep her from falling. Or perhaps more, as Claire discovered, to keep her from escaping. She thrashed in his arms.

“Let GO of me you bloody..”

Claire turned, ready to slash at his face, but ceased fighting abruptly. Her first thought was that he was Frank, but that thought vanished as quickly as it took him to shove her to the ground. She felt her palm scrape on a rock of some sort and her pack fell off her shoulder. She sat gaping at him like a landed trout. Seeing him now, she knew it wasn’t Frank. Still, the resemblance…. lean body, brown hair, handsome, and his eyes…

“Who are you?” Claire asked, hoping her voice sounded steady.

“I might ask you the same question and with considerably more justification,” the man replied, moving to stand menacingly over her.

“Just what do you think..?” Claire began, trying to stand up. The stranger put a hard hand on her shoulder, forcing her back down again.

“I am Captain Jonathan Randall, British Army. And you, madam, will stay put.”

Claire had to repress the urge to stand and salute. Instead, she kicked him hard in the shins and whirled to make another run for it. All the air left her lungs as he tackled her to the ground.

“Oh, like that is it? Well…” Captain Randall turned her over, gasping, onto her back and pinned her arms above her head in a viselike grip. Black dots clouded her vision as he put his face within an inch of hers. “Who are you and what are you..”

Whatever he’d been going to ask got cut short as a figure stepped out from behind the nearest tree and clocked Captain Randall in the back of the head, sending him toppling to the side. Claire gasped for breath, the dark spots overcoming her. The last thing she remembered before she gave into them was looking up and seeing a pair of slanted blue cat-like eyes.

They bury Leo’s father on a cloudy Summer Sunday morning. It’s one of Leo’s least favorite days of the week, always leaving him feel melancholy and empty and today he feels like he’s been weighed down by a million things, dragging on him so that he can barely get out of bed. 

By Sunday afternoon, neighbors line up outside their farmhouse for the repast, filing in so that they duck inside the home where grief lingers like a dust cloud, ducking out before it affects them too much. 

By seven that evening, the house is empty and echoing. His mother is in bed, Leo put her their himself, and he shuffles toward the sitting room couch, the only place that doesn’t feel wrong and just slumps. 

Outside he can hear the cicadas and mourning doves. He can hear his heart too which hasn’t stopped pounding since his Uncle Mac–his dad’s doctor– grasped his mother’s hand between his two calloused firm ones and told her that there was nothing more to do than make him comfortable. 

He thinks he drifts off–he isn’t sure what the difference between sleep and awake feel like any more but a solid knock on the farmhouse jolts him up before he realizes that his eyes are open and he’s blinking crust away. 

It’s eight o’clock and the sky is a vivid paintbrush smear of violet and pink. A young man, a few years or so younger than Leo, is propped between the screen door and the porch beyond, his arms sinking into the weight of a huge foil pan. 

“Um, hi. Sorry. This is for you.” He lifts the pan a bit and the foil crackles. “It probably isn’t very good.” he mutters as a sweet warm scent wafts up for it and Leo swallows like he can eat the aroma. 

It takes Leo a moment to wonder why in the hell someone is giving him food  (that probably isn’t good) at eight o’clock at night on a Sunday but then he remembers and he takes a stumbling step back into the hall as the weight of the day crashes into him all over again. 

“Thanks.” He rasps. “You want to come in?”

“No, no. I’m okay. But are you okay–that’s what i wanted to say first. I’m sorry. Dads dying suck. Not that I would know. My dad died when I was a baby. Never knew him.” The kid’s rambling and Leo can’t help but raise his eyebrows as he steps back, one arm holding the screen door open so that the kid can shuffle in. 

“And I’m sorry. I ramble when I’m nervous. I’m Jim. Jim Kirk. My mom, brother and I moved into the old Perry house in town?”

Ah. He’s the new kid in school that everyone’s been abuzz about–the one his friend’s Mark’s twin sisters, two-years-younger, have staged an all out war over  since Melanie was able to show him around and Maggie was relegated to staying in Chem class. He’s also been the talk of the town since his mom flew in, two boys in tow and bought the long empty Perry house, the one that looks every year like a good wind will crumble it. Somehow, she’s already managed to get it painted, fix the garden, knock down the fence and put up a new one. It’s a feat and one the town has been talking about almost as much as they’ve been talking about Leo’s father’s illness and now, passing. 

“It’s okay. And you really didn’t need to bring anything over. But tell your mom thanks.”

Jim blinks then looks away as if he’d been caught in a lie or something. “Ah, yeah. I will.”

He gestures toward the kitchen, which is a mess of their good plates, stacked by the sink and drying, wine glasses stained with the day’s refills, red solo cups positioned around the room as if their owner’s will be back to collect them any minute. It’s a product of the very unfortunate loss of Leo’s temper as people started to overstay their welcome and he caught Jocelyn come in with Erick from AP Physics. He kicked everyone out shortly after that as his mom looked like she was getting smaller and smaller every time someone would come up to her and Leo thought that he would pass out if someone else came up to him to say how very very sorry they were. 

“You can put it here,” he gestured toward the island that was mostly devoid of anything but plates of colorful cookies and a carrot cake he didn’t know what to do with. 

Jim unloaded his burden but the effort made him look small if not relieved. 

“It’s a family recipe. My dad’s mom used to make it for us all the time when shit went down.” His lip quirks. “It’s called Apple Bottom Middle Pie. Don’t know why. Kirk family secret, I guess.”

Leo lifts the foil to a face full of apple, cinnamon and brown sugar steam. He gulps and suddenly realizes how tired he is. 

“Sorry that I didn’t bring any ice cream. All we have at home is lactose,” he frowns, and Jim knows he’s the culprit of that requirement. “And the store was closed.”

“Nah, it’s okay. We have some.” Leo walks over to the fridge, yanking the freezer door open and finding the vanilla that they always kept in the house for his father, who had a bowl of ice cream each night while watching the nightly news. He dumps it on the table as the cold stings his fingertips. 

He takes two bowls out and a large serving spoon–one of the only clean pieces of silverware still left into the house. Jim lifts the rest of the foil and Leo grins for the first time in days at the crumbly brown mess of apple and sauce and pecans. 

“Damn, that looks amazing.”

“Thank you,” Jim grins back and when Leo looks at him he smooths his expression, clears his throat. “I’ll tell my mom.”

“But didn’t you make it?”

Jim’s sheepish shrug tells him all he needs to know. 

They devour two bowls together, talking about nothing and everything until Leo is bent over on the other side of the island, stitches in his side from gasping for breath between laughter he muffles between the inside of his elbow. 

“Why the hell did you say this isn’t very good? This is fucking incredible.” Leo licks his spoon, signaling the end of the devouring, a delicious glob of melted ice cream and pieces of warm apples and brown sugar crumble colliding in his mouth in the final swallow. 

Jim makes a sound of indifference and then takes his bowl and Leo’s to the sink. 

“I should go.” Jim says, washing his hands in hot steamy water. 

Leo doesn’t want him to but he doesn’t know if he can ask him to stay, either. 

“Thank you. For the Apple Soggy Bottom Middle Pie or whatever it’s called” It’s what I needed. He wants to say. 

Jim nods. You’re welcome. 

Later, Leo’s mother finds him hunched over the foil pan of Soggy Bottom Middle Apple pie. He wordlessly hands her a his spoon and she sighs, her eyes closed, as she chews through mushy apple. 

“Wow, that’s…exactly what I needed.” His mom says. 

“You have no idea, Ma.” He says before taking another spoon and shoveling in a mouthful. 

Feeling strange again. I heard the music in my ear,
two lackeys hitting it up on the sidewalks, feet clicking

and it was bound to be jolly. I shut up and thought
about Art. I was going to be a Poet, goddamn

Yessir. I threw it back like liquor. Only that was a massive
lie. I was only seventeen - imagine - newly minted 

seventeen, still soft, still stupid. But the world hollered
like a mad dead thing. I wanted to dance. I hurt myself 

with it, the wanting. How do you explain a thing like
that? It was all very crazy. I sat next to this boy

in English class, every two days. I fell in love. I was
ready to rip open the sky. Touch touch touch; that was all

I could ever think about. My body like a chimney
soot all over the insides. I wrote about it in the afternoons,

thought about him on the train. Everything muffled
except that awful music. I dreamed I was a fish, or maybe

a whale, stoppered in a very big jar. I was fined fifty dollars
I grew cancerous hands. After a while, it all turned

to dust. In the end I shook off my own skin, a perfect 
reptile. Stormed out belting some sort of war song.

The Illustrated Woman

My body is a kaleidoscope of shapes and colours, an endless jigsaw puzzle, a patchwork quilt pieced together out of strokes of ink, bold and fine, light and dark, wavy and angular. Good thing that wielding dual blades (not always daggers; sometimes I pick up two swords as well, or even two barely wieldable war hammers), I can use both my left and my right hand with equal ease, which means that no inch of flesh on either side of me (on the front, at least) is going to be left uncovered.

I began tattooing myself back when I lived in Orzammar - in secret, at first, adding neat little rectangles and zigzags and dots where my clothes would conceal them, because I was not sure how my father’s law-abiding merchant side of the family would react to such a hobby. Tattoos are the hallmark of the casteless, after all, of my mother’s people: they are forced to walk with a brand of shame all their lives, shadows of dust, untouchable by respectable dwarves (unless, like my father, you are desperate for an heir and will turn to a pretty noble hunter ‘for help’); but some of them take pride in the lines etched into their skin, and expand them on purpose, adding new colours and geometrical forms till their whole body becomes a statement. 'Yes, I am casteless; you sodding sons of nugs have been trying to trample me down, to mix me into dust, but I am still standing, so eat it!’

I, on the other hand, was not really trying to make a statement. Not… Not like that. I wish I was, actually; I wish I was as bold as the casteless; I wish I stood up earlier, and gave a good, long glare to my father, with all the expectations he had for his precious 'heir’, and said, loud and clear,

'I am a woman, duster. Eat it’.

But I did not. Through most of my youth, I left those words unsaid, tucked away under my tongue, at the back of my throat like a lump that sometimes would not let me breathe. I was too afraid of how my family, the people around me would react: my father would probably just refuse too listen, absorbed as he was by listening to his own voice retell the plans he had flr my future; his merchant relatives, not too thrilled by him having taken in a noble hunter, would probably have thought me crazy, my head muddled by 'that damn brand’s foul blood’; and my mother’s kin, who were elevated in caste after I was born, would be angry and terrified, as  caste is passed down from father to son and mother to daughter, and me being a daughter would have meant exile back to Dust Town for all of us.

So down my throat I pushed those words, choking on them in silence, and in the quiet of my room, I decorated my body with tattoos - which felt like the only way I could shape myself the way I wanted to. The only way I could have control over what I looked like, and actually smile when I touched my own skin.

But then, in my late twenties, a day finally came when the words that had so long burned at me from within burst out, loud and resounding, just like the bang of the door when I burst out of my father’s house in the Diamond Quarter and, dodging the guards with some secret tricks taught to me by a perpetually tipsy ex-casteless uncle, made it straight towards the surface.

Once out in the open, my head floating away into emptiness, I have mustered enough  courage (once the initial wobbly feeling passed, that is, and I settled down in a human city) to begin inking the parts of me that everyone can see. My face. My neck. My forearms. And not just with abstract shapes, either: I have turned my skin into a chronicle of my adventures (and, since I stumbled my way into this Inquisition business, there have been many); a collection of Memories to rival the Shaperate’s, honouring the friends I have made and the journey we have all travelled together.

There is a swirly flame tongue curling round my right bicep, rising out of a twisting stream of water - a symbol of that line they say in the human Chant, about a woman who is made strong by her faith, so strong that, when she walks through fire, it touches her softly and gently, like water would. Or, well, at least that’s what I assume it means; I have felt too awkward about asking, being a supposedly heathen dwarf and all; I suspect that if I did, the Chantry ladies would have just clucked at me angrily instead of explaining. Either way, the fire and the water stand for Cassandra, while next to them, there is a picture of a rose, with blood-like droplets oozing off its curling petals.

I found the picture of the rose in one of those botany books Dorian and Vivienne dig up for me (at odds as they often are, they both call my fascination with surface plant life 'endearing’) - and I was very proud when I managed to copy it onto my skin. It symbolises Leliana, and I guess it would have been more logical to tattoo it on my other bicep, because Left and Right Hand of the Divine and all - but the spot on my left arm has already been taken by a swarm of bees, shaped like a pair of hands giving the middle finger. This one is for Sera; I added this design to my collection of tattoos in her presence, to amuse her when she grew restless and aggressive after our blood-curdling trek through the Raw Fade (apparently, this much walking upside down and wading through jiggly-bellied black spiders was too much even for most of the people who have dreams every night). The middle fingers stretch out when I flex, and this never fails to make Sera howl with laughter.

And now that I have mentioned Dorian and Vivienne, my flesh Memories also include a tattoo for each of them. The latter gets a string of diamonds, trailing along the veins of my left arm, with many facets and tiny sparkles floating around them; I was very meticulous when tracing their outlines, as Madame de Fer only deserves the very best. The former is symbolised by… no, not a snake; that would have been too predictable. His Memory is the image of the mouth of a cave, as seen from within, with stalactites and stalagmites framing it, a little bit of crosshatching showing the floor, and tiny clouds and   rainbow just barely visible outside. This tattoo is personal for both of us: we have lived our youths inside a dark cave, Dorian and I (both figuratively and literally, in my case), stumbling in the dark, and stifled by always screaming on the inside - and then, we found our exit. I think that Dorian teared up a little when I showed the recently inked picture to him; though that might have just been the spicy food Bull was whipping up for us.

Bull’s tattoo, in turn, shows a literal bull racing across my calf (pun… probably intended), wrecking some vague dark squares and rectangles, with a tiny cream-puff on his back (that little thing has stick-figure-like limbs, spread out gleefully, and a broad grin on its face). I do not quite remember how that thing appeared on my leg; I think I may still have been drunk after celebrating our very first successful dragon hunt. But, ridiculous as it is, I cherish it as much as the others; Bull crouched down next to me when the dreadnought burned, the gaze of his only eye travelling to where he knew that charging beast was drawn and, nodding in silent understanding, I kicked off my muddy boot and let him take the night of it in, until a small smile touched his lips.

Josephine’s tattoo is an intricate lace-like pattern round my ankle, retouched with golden ink, based on the Antivan leg jewellery she showed me when we decided to distract ourselves from the finale of that House of Repose business by going shopping in Val Royeaux. Whereas Varric’s encircles my other ankle: the words 'Well, shit’ written on a serpentine papyrus scroll in the most over-the-top calligraphic font I could think of. He loves it to bits, by his own admission, and has made me promise that if I ever trip up my enemies in combat, I use only this foot.

Cole, who often watches me work on the canvas of my skin, making those jumbled comments of his, the more creepily accurate the more you think of them, has asked for a rabbit - because 'everything is better with rabbits’.  So now there is a chubby long-eared fuzzball nestled about over my shoulder blade, 'little paws hopping, hurrying, hearing the whispers of the stories that live in your skin’. While I made the design, I had to ask Solas to help ink it, since I read somewhere that tattooing people is a huge part of elven culture, which he knows so much about - but for some reason, he seemed disgusted, if not outright horrified by my request, almost slamming his door in my face with a sharp, slightly hoarse 'No!’. But after, startled by such an abrupt change in my usually reserved and courteous elven companion’s behaviour, I explained what my tattoos were for, he mellowed a little and gave me an apology (a bit stiff one, but an apology nonetheless), and we spend the afternoon occupied by a very interesting conversation about the memories of the dwarves Solas had seen in the Fade (I especially loved the one about the casteless rising up to defend their city from the darkspawn when no-one else would), while I lay on his couch and he etched a rabbit into my back.

He proved surprisingly good at it (though he might have cheated with a spell or something; you never know with that magicky folk), so, since my other shoulder blade still had a blank spot left, I offered Solas to add a tattoo of his own, one that he thought would best represent himself, but he shook his head softly and evaded the subject, offering to draw me a lion for Cullen’s strength and courage, instead. I agreed, especially since I had recently had to comfort the Commander in his struggle to break free from lyrium addiction, and an image like that seemed encouraging - and quite a fine lion it has turned out to be, too, with many curls in his mane, like frothing sea waves, with snatches of shattered chains flying off him in all directions. As for Solas’ tattoo, I still do not have one - because body art seems like a bit of sensitive subject for him, and I would rather not hurt his feelings. He is my friend, after all.

And finally, right over my heart, there is an image of a shield, which I began working on late at night, when still caught up in the feverish flush of the kiss I shared with Blackwall - that is why the wings adorning it on either side stand not only for the griffins, the ancient and noble companions of the Grey Wardens, but also for this soaring feeling that spreads inside my chest whenever I catch his gaze and he calls me the thing that a younger me would never have dreamed of being called. 'My Lady’.

That feeling is still there, even after that life-changing step he took forward on the gallows, with such a look on his face that you might have thought there was a bottomless black abyss at his feet. That feeling is still there - perhaps even stronger for it, because I know what it is like, living among people who are convinced that you are someone else. And luckily enough, when I first tattooed myself with the shield, I never really added any emblem to it - this has allowed me to fill it in after Blackwall’s judgement. With the picture of one of my absolute favourites among the weird things that happen in this vast and wondrous sky: rain clouds drawing apart, a single ray of sunlight shining through.

Oath | Ch.13 | Jungkook

Genre: Angst | Mafia!AU

Members: Jungkook | You/Reader | Yoongi | Taehyung | Namjoon | Hoseok | Jin | Jimin |

Summary: What if one day everything you ever wanted is taken away and your whole world comes crushing down? If you were to forget today, who would you be tomorrow?

Originally posted by kookieluvcookies

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Word count: 3848

Having heard the commotion, Jimin was desperately looking for any sign of survivors. He tried to look through the thick smoke but it was impossible.

“What the fuck was that?! Is everyone safe? Answer me, damn it!!”

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Scene Short: From a Distance

Just a little bit of looking back from a long way down the line.

I mostly don’t ask because I’m sick of hearing everyone say I’m too young, that I shouldn’t worry about unpleasant things. I only get to know the basics, like we are from a country called Norta, my mother is from the Lake Lands. We left Norta after their civil war in which my mother, aunt, and uncles all fought. It was a battle in the war that killed my father before I was even born. I may have stopped asking, but I didn’t need words to put together some of the story, I fill in the gaps with daydreams and stories of my own.

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