and now without the chains that hold them prisoner to the past

Guardian (XII)

Author: kpopfanfictrash

Pairing: You / Jongdae / Baekhyun

Rating: PG-13

Word Count: 3,833

Summary:  You keep seeing the same guy everywhere you go. In the coffee shop, on the streets, in your philosophy class. It’s getting to the point where you think he’s stalking you - only to realize that maybe there’s something much more mysterious at play here. (AU: Jongdae is your guardian angel)

Originally posted by kai-tastrophe

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The Other (Bucky x Reader) Part 13

Summary: Being a mutant with abilities is difficult enough, without having all this soulmate business to deal with in addition. Y/N meets hers in the least expectant place, but isn’t necessarily as thrilled as he’d hoped. However, a drastic turn of events require them to go to desperate measures to preserve what little they have.

Author’s Note: This one is so short it’s unreal. Tags beneath the cut. That’s how short it is. 

Chapter List


Part Thirteen

You glanced across the hall as Sam was led back to the opposite cell, and he looked as rundown as you felt. Sighing, you leant back and hit your head softly on the wall behind you as the guard locked him in. Suddenly, you heard the key grind in the lock of your door, and the door swung open.


You heaved yourself up and waited for him to unlock your restraints, before re-locking you to a chain and pulling you out the door. The commotion caused Sam to look over, a soft frown on his face. He held your gaze for as long as you could, but the guard was forcing you forward, and you had no choice but to oblige.

The guard yanked the chain on your handcuffs as he led you along the maze of hallways. You sighed as you walked, feeling tired and drained of energy. Every inmate you saw made you feel more and more dead inside. White walls, blue jumpsuits. Blue to separate you from the rapists and murderers who you shared the floor with. Charming.

You had stopped living, and were now simply existing in the present, floating around like time itself. Although you had no clue what time, date, or year it was, for that matter. You had been here a while. The musty smell of mold filled your nose, but by now you had become so accustomed to it that you simply ignored it. Trudging along, you focused your dreary eyes on the guard.

“And where are you taking me, again?” you asked, and the guard huffed. His familiar odour of cigarettes and cheap coffee attacked you like poisonous mist, but you knew better than to comment. Been there, done that. He was a fat, greasy man, with a thick, bushy moustache on his upper lip. You could have sworn he was the reincarnation of Stalin, only shorter, and not as slender. Plus, he definitely had no chance of getting hold of a job like that. A night-shift at a mutant prison, talk about #goals. The pay must be shit.

“Visitor,” he stated, wrinkling his piggish nose and spitting a huge clump of gob into the hallway. You casually avoided it as you walked past, instantly pitying whoever was living with him. There was no chance in hell this guy was capable of cooking, cleaning, or anything else in the ‘must-know hacks for life 101’ catalogue. Then, you frowned. Visitor?

Entering through a light green door you had never seen before, you gazed upon the sight before you. You know those rooms in American prison movies where there’s a chair on each side of a pane of glass, and there are phones on the wall for people to communicate with? That was exactly what this was. You moved your gaze from one chair to the other, until it landed on a chair in the middle of the row. Sitting there, waiting for you, was the last person you were expecting to see.

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these days (i can’t take too much) - part eight

Pairing: Bucky x Reader

Summary: Reader used to be a villain; a stone cold killer. But she doesn’t do that anymore. Helping the Avengers stop her old boss once and for all leads to a lot more than she bargained for, especially when it comes to Bucky Barnes.

Warnings: abuse, violence, language, torture, angst, death

A/N: there are some pretty graphic descriptions of torture/violence in this so pls read the warnings before you continue! let me know what you think/what you want to happen next? i’m open to suggestions ;)

masterlist - catch up on previous parts here

You are not well received when you arrive back at Avengers Tower. In fact, you don’t even get to walk through the doors before you’re being arrested right out of Bucky’s hands.

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Illyrian visitor

Just a little fanfic.

The familiar boom of wings roused Feyre from her sleep. She had not seen Rhysand in weeks and was aching to feel her High Lord, to touch him. Nobody noticed when she left the manor house anymore, Tamlin stopped visiting her by night now, Alis still treated her like she was sick and Lucien. Lucien knew something wasn’t right, he could still somehow smell the bond between her and Rhysand all over her. The only reason he didn’t reveal his suspicion to Tamlin was Elain, he craved any news he could gain about her sister and he knew where that news had to come from.

Feyre stalked to the clearing that had become their regular meeting place these past months. She saw the moon glint off of membranous wings in trees and frowned. Even in the shadows she could see this wasn’t her Illyrian male. “Feyre?” His voice was low, but steady. 
“Az what the hell are you doing here?” Her words were lined with confusion.
“I hope you don’t mind, I was visiting the mortal realm to assess the situation and I told Rhys I’d see how you where.”
“You mean to tell me that you’ve already passed over and didn’t stop the first time?” A smile played on his face as he stepped from the trees, his familiar shadows dancing around his shoulders whispering to him.
“I apologise my High Lady” He bowed deeply as Feyre playfully punched him in the arm. “How have you been Feyre?” There was a sadness in his voice that she didn’t understand. 
“I’m fine, I get lonely but I’m fine.” She managed in a small voice. “How are you? How is everybody? My sisters?” He ignored her question. 

Azriel was unseeingly staring straight ahead of him, looking at nothing that she could see. He was starting to unnerve her.
“Az” She began but she trailed off after seeing a flash of pain cross his usually serene face.
They sat there in silence for a few moments before he finally spoke again. “We can all empathise with you you know, all of us. We’ve all been trapped somewhere we didn’t want to be,“ she thought of Rhys under the mountain, More in the court of nightmares, Cassian left outside in the cold and Amren in that beautiful body. “we’re all grateful that you did this for us. It’s not a sacrifice we take lightly” Feyre gulped as she felt the weight of his words press on her. She opened her mouth to speak but he cut her off. “I was born into a prison I didn’t think I would ever escape.” 

“I don’t remember my mother, not what she looked like, nothing about her, despite seeing her once a week, I do however remember my father’s wife. The image of her will be forever engraved in my memory. My father was an Illyrian highborn lord, I was a source of shame for both them, but especially her. I was the bastard born child that her husband should never have brought home and she would not let me forget that. Eleven years I spent under her cruel watchful eye. I slept in a cell without windows, permitted to only leave for an hour a day, and she made that hour hell. For one hour every day she had me outside cleaning and working until my fingers bled, clad in heavy metal chains to ensure I would never try to escape. As if I had a chance of escaping in the first place.” He snorted bitterly as he slowly sat down on the grass, Feyre sat with him. “Once the hour was over I was dragged back to the cell, if she was satisfied with the work I had done I was left in the darkness, if not it was usually a whipping until I learned my lesson. A lesson I still 5 centuries later do not understand. She had two sons, I was not to call them brothers, I was not to taint their blood with such words. She had raised them both to be as sadistic as she was.” He looked down at his hands, at the scars on them. “When I was 8 years old they came in to my cell and dragged me to the kitchen. I was too weak to fight them, I had had every Illyrian instinct in me subdued since before I was born. My wings were a dead weight on back and I had no energy to stop them. They began to cut me at first. Long slow drags of their knives. They claimed they wanted to see how fast the bastard could heal. They quickly, too quickly, grew tired of their knives and began branding my skin to see if it scarred, when it didn’t they wanted to know what would scar me. I will always remember that smell Feyre, the stench of my flesh burning, melting away from my hands as they held them over the cooks fire. I screamed for a long time before the males from my father’s war camps bothered to see what the noise was. They found me on that kitchen floor, hands mangled and clutched to my chest. My father’s wife only complained that I had been let out of that cell and dragged me straight back there. It was that night that the shadows started to speak to me, comfort me, hold me.” When you spend so long trapped in darkness you find that the darkness begins to stare back she once told Lucien. “My father eventually threw me in a war camp, disturbed by the powers he saw developing in me. I thought that the war camp would finally kill me, but, well you know the rest.” he smiled gravely. “I’m sorry.” Feyre said blinking away a tear.

“Don’t pity me Feyre, please don’t look at me like a wounded animal.” She flinched at his words but understood. “I told you my story because it proves that even in the darkest imprisonments one way or another there is always realease . You will be free one day. And in the meantime we are here for you. Understanding more than you will ever know.”
“Thank-you.” She had no other words for him.
He squeezed her hand gently before taking to the skies once again. She watched as her friend flew away, flew home. And cherished the piece of him he had given to her. A piece he had never given anyone else.

The Darkness That Binds - A FeyRhys Fic

I caved and had a go at a little Feysand thing, I couldn’t help myself. Tad nervous about it but here we go. Massive thanks to @illyrian-baby and @widowshulk for reading this over for me before posting! 

Title: The Darkness That Binds 

Summary: Set in the middle of ACOTAR 3 after Feyre and Rhys are reunited. Rhys’ experiences Under the Mountain continue to haunt him. Feyre does all she can to help erase the dark stain from her mate’s soul. 

TeaserEven so, I let my voice wrap tenderly around him like a soft, midnight breeze, wanting nothing more than to comfort and ground him. “You’re safe, Rhys,” I promise him. “It was only a dream. I’m here. I’m here with you now. You’re safe, you’re safe.”
Safe with me. Safe in my arms where I won’t let the world touch him; where I will never allow harm to come to him – my mate, my lord, my love.

Link: AO3

I let a small gasp escape me as I’m jolted awake and into darkness. Disorientated, mind still thick with the fog of sleep, it takes me a moment to understand what’s happening.

I had been curled against Rhys’ warm body, my head pillowed on his chest, my hair a sea of molten gold covering his night dark tattoos. His arm had been draped lazily around my shoulders drawing me in close to him. Our typical position for the nights we were fortunate enough to spend together - which are few enough with the war raging around us.

As I calm myself and take stock of my surrounding at last, understanding floods me and causes my heart to tighten as though it’s been caught in a snare.


The moment my eyes find my mate I know that something is wrong. Nightmares. I can tell at once from the rigid set of his body and the way he lurches away from me, as though a physical force compels us apart. Seeking to protect me from those torments, distancing me from them– and from himself.

I watch from where I now sit upright in the middle of our bed, utterly frozen, as his wings flare with the tension that pulses and ripples through him. Then he staggers as far from me as he can can, spilling out onto the balcony beyond. His limbs flicker uncontrollably between human  and talon as he fights to control himself and to reign in that beast within that longs to escape, to roar, to fight, to unleash itself upon the darker demons that lurk beneath his skin.

At last he manages to reach the stone wall that rings our chambers and he grips it with a desperate tightness that makes my heart clench with pain again. Bracing himself against it for support his claws quickly reduce chunks of it to powder as they flex and gouge deep cuts into it as he struggles to pull himself back. Back from the black abyss of his past that’s opening out before him, threatening to swallow him once more.  

My soul aches for his pain, for the horrors that still haunt him and may never release him. We both got out – something he tells me so often to calm me whenever I have one of those, thankfully now rare, panics – We both escaped from Under the Mountain, shattered the chains Amarantha had bound us with. But I know that some part of him remains a prisoner to her and the things he endured beneath the earth and always will.

I know that’s why he sought out the balcony, the cool, calming kiss of the wind the sings in his bones lightly caressing his sweat slick skin. That and the smooth blanket of stars sprawled out above him – stretching on endlessly to every horizon, reminds him that he’s free now, free.

On instinct I reach out to him through our bond, seeking to soothe and reassure but I feel –nothing. My throat tightens with emotion even as a loud throb of panic constricts my chest like a clenching fist. Shielding me from whatever agony now twists his soul, from the things that dirty it so much he won’t allow even me to see them. He can’t even allow his mate to share in the heavy, dark burdens I see bowing his shoulders and hollowing him out.

I can’t blame him for this, for not being ready. I know it’s not a question of trust or the belief that I might somehow not be able to handle what he hides. But for fifty years my mate carried the weight of the world’s only free hearts and souls upon his shoulders – alone and in a cage of darkness and spite.

A habit – a promise, like the one I had made to my mother about keeping my family safe and whole. These were the only things that kept us going, kept us surviving in the years we struggled for each day; each moment, each breath.

I understand too well that burden, the odd comfort the weight bearing down upon you starts to provide over time. It’s familiar. It’s an anchor to cling to when the seas grow too rough, when the world feels impossibly small and begins to close in, suffocating, crushing the air from lungs, it’s a reminder to breathe. To try and take that from him before he’s ready….I can’t bring myself to.

Even though it takes every fragment of strength I possess to will myself to do nothing while my mate suffers. Taking every bit of self control I have to sit on our bed so meekly and quietly without acting while every fibre of my being screams for me to do something; anything. I’m urged to go to him, to hold him, to save him. But I know that’s not what he needs. That right now he needs to know that he can still save himself.

So I sit taut and silent but wary, ready to go to him if he needs me, as he fights to compose himself. I watch the strong muscles of his back bunch and knot writhing beneath his skin like they’re trying to break free of it. His whole outline is so stiff and hard and tense I might have thought him carved of stone had I not seen him shaking violently.

When the tension at last begins to drain from him and exhaustion and defeat start to displace the lingering, lightning aftermath of the nightmare, I snap the leash on myself. The sight of his wings sagging, as though they’ve been filled with lead and are now too heavy to hold up, the way his body caves in upon itself is too much for me to bear. I go to him, as I’ve been desperate to do since he first withdrew from me, sensing that he’s ready for me now.

But I don’t run to him as my heart cries out to do but instead make myself go slow, not wanting to startle or upset him, giving him time to note my approach. Drawing up behind him I gently ease my hands beneath his wings and wrap my arms around his waist, fingers locking in place across his abdomen, holding him close to me.

“Shh,” I whisper softly onto his skin, squeezing him gently. I drag my nose lightly along his spine between his wings, seeking to soothe with the soft, intimate gesture.

“Shh,” I breathe again, resting my brow in the valley that separates his shoulder blades, keeping myself strong for him as I hold his broken pieces together and stop him shattering.

“Shh,” I murmur once more, cradling him to me as his body shakes, wracked by the silent sobs he can’t – and doesn’t have to – contain any more now I’m holding him in my arms.

I reach for him again and this time find the bond shuddering like a recently released bowstring between us, emotion thrumming through me. Back. It’s back. He’s still in there.  

Let me in I send down it to him, not a demand or even a true request, more a gentle invitation to open up to me if he’s ready- a hope. He grants it. Pain and darkness, shapeless as smoke but just as suffocating, wash over me from him. My heart clenches tightly again but I push the sensation down deep and allow my own darkness to seep into him, enveloping him in our night. It is still and patient and eternal, always ready to quietly show him the way back home. He follows it to me and I feel him gradually start to settle and calm in my arms.

Even so, I let my voice wrap tenderly around him like a soft, midnight breeze, wanting nothing more than to comfort and ground him. “You’re safe, Rhys,” I promise him. “It was only a dream. I’m here. I’m here with you now. You’re safe, you’re safe.”

Safe with me. Safe in my arms where I won’t let the world touch him; where I will never allow harm to come to him – my mate, my lord, my love.

After a long while held close to me, breathing in our combined scent he straightens from the hunched bow the monsters in his chest had dragged him in to and I know he’s come back to me. Slowly, so reluctantly, I withdraw from him and move to stand by his side.

“Feyre,” he murmurs softly to me.

His voice is hoarse but within that one word and the life he breathes into it when he lets it fall from his tongue- my name contains eternity. The answer to every question he’s ever posed, the axis upon which his world sits and shifts, the beginning and end of everything he is or may yet be.

Reaching out to him I cup his cheek softly in my hand and ask, my gaze fixed on his, “Do you trust me?”

The stars in the rich, violet velvet of his eyes seem to burn as he answers me without hesitation, “With everything.”

I swallow tightly past the lump in my throat. With everything. Everything he is; everything he has; everything he holds most dear. He is mine. As I am his.

Wordlessly, aware of his eyes on me, I balance upon the broad lip of the elegantly carved stone wall that wraps around the balcony. Then I spread my wings. Rhys’ eyes go wide with wonder as they always do whenever I reveal them and I feel that now familiar thrill of dark delight down the bond. With one powerful beat I’m airborne and Rhys radiates nothing but awed pride as he watches me.

“Feyre, darling,” he purrs, revenant as a prayer whispered directly into the ear of a god as he beholds me. “You’ve been practicing,” he observes, a delicious blend of pleasure and reproach gilding his words.

Pleasure that I can now hold my own with him in the skies; reproach that I kept the long, gruelling hours of training to myself and didn’t let him share the fun. His reaction now was worth every second.

I extend my hand to him in invitation. “Coming?” I ask, my lips quirking into a faint, daring smile.

He slips his hand into mine, cool and callused, the perfect fit as always, but doesn’t move to join me. “To where?” he asks, a bright gleam kindling in those wicked dark eyes.

In answer I only let my smile broaden as I tenderly stroke the bond. Trust me I murmur into his mind.

Rhys launches himself into the air before my heart has time to get in another beat.

We fly far more slowly than I know he’s capable of on account of my inexperience but neither of us minds. There’s no rush to get to our destination. And this flight, this first flight together, is about us, about being together and banishing the pain of our pasts as we look forward to forging our future together.

My mate seems incapable of looking at me with anything other than radiant wonder whenever his eyes find me as he drifts around me in lazy circles. Show off I shoot at him as he floats serenely past again. He only smirks at me.

There’s an effortless grace to the way he moves through the air, a natural ease, the same kind of thing that comes to me whenever I hold a paintbrush. It’s something inherent within us, something we were born with and that no other being can ever be taught. I know I could fly and train for centuries, could live up here amongst the clouds and never possess even a fraction of his skill.

This is one of the places that he belongs. In the arms of the heavens – as in mine – he comes truly alive.

As we reach the outskirts of Velaris, the mountains that keep our city nestled safe within their embrace, I begin to gradually spiral downwards. Rhys follows me without hesitation, his eyes on me all the while. As we land my first thought, as it is every time Rhys has brought me here before, one of his favourite spots in the world I know, is that I would love to paint it.

The city spread out beneath us is a living mirror of the night sky sprawling above. The only difference being that its constellations are created by the lights of streets and homes rather than the wheeling heavens. Towering over it all like the bones of some great, fallen beast is the ruin of the temple we now stand in. Ancient and glorious, though it crumbles, beautiful for the history it remembers, for the things it has seen rise and fall, outlasting it all.

The three walls that remain bear carvings of such rich complexity and detail that I could spend an eternity trying to capture them all and never even come close. But it’s the fourth wall we head to, wordlessly, on some shared instinctive impulse- or at least its ghost.

We sit side by side upon the barren foundations – all that remains of the once mighty structure – our wings still spread, our legs dangling off the edge of the world. As a mortal girl I would have been terrified to perch here and look down at that drop, nothing but air and cold between me and certain death.

But now, with my wings, with my mate, that fear is gone. Flying, as Rhys had once told me before I’d mastered it and asked him if it ever scared him, is only falling with the knowledge that the wind will always catch you. Indeed, I close my eyes and let a soft smile lift my lips as a cool breeze rises to meet me and caresses my skin, running its fingers through my hair, tossing it up around my face.

When I look up and take in my surroundings again I find Rhys watching me. He trails his hand softly through my thick brassy hair, tucking a few of the loose strands behind my ear with exaggerated tenderness. When he lowers his hand to brace against the cold stone beneath us again, tearing his gaze from me to look out over Velaris, this one oasis of peace amidst chaos and carnage, I realise that he’s still shaking.

Even with nothing but the gentle light of the moon and the stars to help me I can tell that he’s pale too – his skin leached of the colour the Mountain had stolen and the warm sun of the Night Court had returned to him over time.

Reaching for him once more I take his hand in mine and squeeze gently. “Close your eyes,” I murmur quietly to him.

Rhys’ eyes blaze as they lock with mine for a single, thundering heartbeat that seems to contain enough power and force to rattle the very bones of the earth had I not kept it contained within my chest. Then he obeys me. I smile faintly and close my eyes too.

Then I fill the world around us with music.

I begin soft and slow, wanting to get it just right for him. I want to use the sounds to mend the torn fabric of his soul, to surround him with that emotion, that majesty that consumes the being of any who stumbles across it and wrap him in the gentle, soothing embrace of familiarity and pleasure. I want to stop him from breaking the way I know he’s still so close to doing. As he had once done for me.

The piece is the same one he sent to me in that bleak, lonely frigid cell Under the Mountain. It’s one of his favourites, I’d come to discover. Whenever it’s being played in the city I take him to see it and tear my eyes away from the musicians and the spectacle to just watch him.

Each time he would sit so, so still, as though frozen within this one moment where nothing existed but him and the music. I swear he stopped breathing during every performance. As though he was afraid that even that would interrupt the magic – one beyond either of our abilities, one reserved only for gods and dreams – that seemed to swell around him. The intensity with which he had listened; with which he had given himself entirely to that music, could have toppled empires and levelled worlds.

The first time he had taken me with him to see it played I had found myself crying silently in my seat beside him. I had understood what he was sharing with me in that moment but had also only then realised the enormity of what he had shared with me Under the Mountain.

A gift – not only of relief, not only of salvation that I had so desperately needed as I had teetered upon the edge of an abyss from which I would never have emerged, but also of him. A piece of himself; of his soul, the only thing they had not managed to take away from him or twist and blacken in that darkness. The only piece of hope he’d had he’d given to me to save me when I’d believed that no more hope existed in the world.

From the first few tentative bars I know he recognises it as I see his spine snap straight and that unearthly stillness enclose his whole body, his whole being, once more. He sways slowly in time with the music, brushing faintly against me each time. But he lets it consume his body, giving it free reign over his limbs and movements. It’s as though each line I let play connects a new string to his body now a mere puppet to the whims of the music. I let it build into a crescendo to shatter the pain that still clings to his soul like a shadow, ever present, inescapable, eternal.

When it ends, leaving an echoing silence that thrums with the memory of the melody he slowly opens his eyes and meets mine. They’re faintly gilded with silver and I reach up and use the ball of my thumb to brush away the single tear that falls.


He whispers my name again like a newborn god giving life to its dearest creation. And the power of it, the love he infuses it with shudders through the very core of me. He cradles my cheek in one perfectly steady hand then draws me in close until our lips meet again.

It’s a tender kiss, all lips and tongues and warmth but it’s deep and long and intense and aching too. It’s a kiss that takes a little of me and gifts it to him as he claims me; and I him. It’s a kiss that lives and breathes and loves all on its own, guiding and filling and fixing us. It’s a kiss that binds and burns and forges that bond between our souls in a way that tells me I’ll never lose him, my mate, my equal, my eternity. It’s a kiss I never want to end.

I’m breathless when it does and feel…not entirely myself. As though some part of me still lingers in the missing space between our mouths. His thumb softly strokes my face where it still lingers, calling me back to myself, back to him.

“Thank you,” he whispers to me, such thick emotion coating his voice and pulsing into me through our bond that I feel my throat go tight again. Too tight for speech so I only nod to him. It’s enough.

Together we lean in to one another and touch brows. His hand slides around behind my head, his fingers easing deeply into my hair as he pulls us even closer. I breathe him in with every breath and it makes my spine shiver like it’s being showered with shooting stars.

“I love you,” I whisper to him in the darkness that cloaks us and hides us for just a moment from the ravenous gaze of the insatiable world beyond.

A declaration of truth – the greatest one I possess. It’s a promise to him that I will never leave him, never let him linger alone in that darkness while I still draw breath. And it’s a prayer to whoever and whatever might listen and still care that they never allow anything to take him from me.

“And I you,” he murmurs back. He’s still so close to me. His lips graze mine with every word he speaks, every syllable pressed tangibly onto my mouth. “My lady. My love. My darling. My mate.” The last word is spoken with such reverence, such devotion that it might have been holy, might have been the last sacred thing left to us, to the world.

Our hands manage to meet as we kiss again and I squeeze his and he squeezes mine in turn. When we break apart we nestle in close to one another, cocooning each other in our wings for warmth. Then we turn simultaneously and face the distant horizon and the soft, warm glow that spills above it as the sun rises, heralding a new day, bringing with it more war, more blood, more pain, more nightmares.

And we’ll face them together – as High Lord and Lady of the Night Court. As friends. As partners. As mates. As one.


The Way Back

So, everyone can thank willowaus and livingdeadblondequeen that this is even seeing the light of day. I think this was perhaps one of the very first things I tried writing. Cleaned it up a little, but there you go.

Caroline slowly opened her eyes and looked uncomprehendingly at the old familiarity that she’d left behind decades ago. Sitting up with a gasp, she jerked back into her headboard. Frantic, her gaze jumped from place to place, and she couldn’t breathe.

Home. She was home. Mystic Falls.

Tears burned the back of her eyes, but she refused to blink them back, afraid she’d disappear. Her bedding strained under her hands, and she forced herself to relax; to gain some control of the emotions clamoring in her chest.

“Oh God, Bonnie. What did you do?”

Grabbing a pillow, she pressed her face into the old memory of the fabric, and she breathed in and out until her throat wasn’t so clogged. Had it really been decades since she’d seen this house? Slept in this room? A sudden, forceful realization that her mom was alive left her winded. God, she needed to think.

Home. Diner food. Her Mom’s perfume.

Lifting her face, looked around. What year was it? Obviously, she was a vampire. How far back had Bonnie sent her? Sliding out of the bed, she hunted for her phone. Where, where… the old, familiar case and dated technology had her swallowing heavily.

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anonymous asked:

Since theres a kidnapping trend goin on right now, how about one for gaius?

(Want to change the name? Use this!

“Okay, we’re outnumbered forty to four. Any ideas, babe?” Gaius’ back pressed to your, Chrom’s and Frederick’s, the four of you hopelessly surrounded by the brigands who caught you by surprise. How it happened, you didn’t know. The walk to camp was quiet and cold one second, and swarmed with thugs who popped out of the snow the next.

You grit your teeth while you tried to think of a solution. “There’re too many of them for us to handle. I-I’m not…I’m not sure what we can do.” You replied hopelessly. Chrom’s sword wavered.

“What do you mean, you don’t know? Surely you know how we can fight through this!” He protested, unconvinced you couldn’t figure a way out. Frederick and Gaius mirrored that. You bit your lip, noting how they were coming closer.

“Let me rephrase; I’m not sure if there’s something we can do that’ll let all four of us get out alive.” You corrected yourself, “The best solution I can think of means leaving me here while you three escape.”

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anonymous asked:

hello :) do you have Illya/Napoleon fic recs? Thank you!

yes i have <3

to sleep by tallihensia [7,148 words]

As they wait to go on their next mission, the team splits up for some rest. Napoleon and Illya end up in the same apartment, which leads to some misunderstandings, some reflections, and later, some sleep.

 Illya yawned again, his stern face relaxing. “Your country has a saying about that…”

 “It’s British. But satisfaction brought him back - that’s American.”

love in the times of cold war by merle_p [6,773 words]

“Don’t blame yourself,” Waverly says, almost kindly. “No one saw it coming.”Illya looks down at him, surprised and perhaps a little condescending, because he knows better than to blame himself, and he doesn’t understand why Waverly thinks he would. Solo is good at what he does, one of the best, and Illya has always been more than aware that Solo could trick him if he really set his mind to it.No, Illya does not blame himself for not seeing the signs. If there is anything he should blame himself for, it is that he let himself assume that he wouldn’t have to look for them in the first place. But socialism is a future-oriented ideology, and there is no point in dwelling on the past. Illya has made a mistake, is all. He is not going to make it again.

this war against your faith by ingu [8,917 words] 

Napoleon had really hoped to never have to go through a thing like this again. Being strapped once to an electric chair was trauma enough. The last time, he’d had nightmares for weeks after the fact, not that he would ever have told a soul.

“Hold down that button long enough,” the voice continues, “And your partner will die.”

It takes a second for the significance of the man’s words to register. Napoleon stills.

“You want me to kill Peril?”

the prison and the open hand by ingu [wip] (sequel to this war against your faith)

“We’re good friends,” Napoleon admits, and he can’t help the edge of bitterness that slips into his voice. Illya hadn’t precisely held a gun to his head when Napoleon made that concession, but it doesn’t stop the indignant fury that arises at the memory. His anger is mostly directed at himself, for not realising in time that Illya would turn Napoleon’s own questions against him, for not knowing when to leave well enough alone, and for shattering his hope with reality before he really even got the chance to dream.

But Gaby doesn’t know any of that, and it’s better to let her come to her own conclusions about why Napoleon is annoyed.

“I just don’t see why he’s making such a fuss over this particular mission,” Napoleon continues, recalcitrant.

“Then talk to him,” Gaby moans.

taking care of business by mangomartini [4,066 words]

“That is a good plan,” Illya admits, as if he can’t quite believe those words just left his mouth directed at that American. He lowers his gun. “I could kiss you, Cowboy.”

And he knows it’s an expression, one he’s not exactly sure Illya picked up. And he knows the law back home, and what trouble someone like him could get in doing something like this with someone who wasn’t down. But he also knows his own silver tongue, and if he could talk his way out of his own death, Napoleon Solo could talk his way out of this.

“You could, you know.”

Or, what happened between Illya trashing his hotel room and the two of them chilling on the balcony.

needs must when the devil drives by zealouslyquixotic [wip] *T H I S F I C*

When it boiled down to the bare elements, Napoleon had always lacked the ability to treat serious things with the respect they deserved, and Illya was nothing if not serious.

A serious person and a serious relationship right from their stumbled attempts at friendship through to the nebulous lines surrounding loyalty, lust, love. He had never known where they stood because he refused to quantify his own emotions. How could he begin to comprehend Illya’s when he was so far in denial about the sheer extent of his own? He had wasted years in that same manner; denying, joking, maintaining a front of shallow interest, of want founded solely in carnal gratification.

His time had long since run out and now all he had was an undeserved sacrifice, a cracked veneer, and a paraphrased line from a 17th century poem.

“Had I but world enough, and time.”

Damning last words of regret and forgiveness.

i’d like to (put my fingers on you) by colonel_bastard [4,314 words]

Illya has a jealous streak. Napoleon encourages him.

the gemini affair by manic_intent [46,876 words]

In the first month of being co-opted into working with Illya Kuryakin full time at U.N.C.L.E., Napoleon stole Illya’s father’s watch four times, twice out of spite, once out of drunken curiosity, and once out of sheer boredom. After the fourth time, Gaby sprained one of Napoleon’s fingers and threatened to do worse if he did it again.

“You are not a spy,” she told him firmly, dangling the watch out of reach as Napoleon curled in a wincing, fetal position on his Le Corbusier couch in his upstate apartment. “You are a thief with the self-control of a child. Now give me back my ring.”

“What ring?” Napoleon asked innocently, even through the pain.

“How fond are you of your nose?” Gaby shot back blandly.

baby, when they made me, they broke the mold by sparklylulz [3,387 words]

Napoleon bent over the table, letting his forehead rest upon the cool wood, trying to sort his thoughts. He’d lost partners – friends, even – in the field before. He didn’t know that he would call Illya a friend – but he wouldn’t not call him a friend, either. The sight of his red blood pooling on the white leather of that backseat had unnerved Napoleon in a way he hadn’t experienced in a long time.

(In which Napoleon takes a long time to come to an understanding of a very simple thing.)

pressure points by sospes [4,494 words]

Illya wakes to chains around his wrists and a knife at Napoleon Solo’s throat. Just another day at the office - until it’s not.

if i run it’s not enough by ingu [5,534 words]

Greed, and lust, those were the two sins that defined Napoleon Solo, and Illya Kuryakin aroused the two precise desires in Napoleon he never chose to resist. With his stoic gaze and chiseled jawline, Kuryakin was as beautiful and inscrutable as a Greek statue, and Napoleon had never been one to leave works of art undefiled.

the space between by sospes [5,405 words]

Solo goes missing. Illya all but panics. And Gaby’s the one who holds it all together.

heart to heart by sildominarin [1,902 words]

No one, not even Napoleon Solo, can go through electrocution without consequences.

the show must go on by ingu [7,147 words] *THIS FUCKED ME UP :D*

It’s not that you don’t think about dying. You know with a clear certainty that yes, it may well kill you. But the part where your mind trips over itself is in the possibility, the uncertainty behind an inevitable eventuality.

Yes, it might all end terribly, just maybe not today.

kiss from a rose by el3anorrigby [3,639 words]

As he opened the door to his office, he almost expected to see Napoleon at his desk, greeting him with his famous smirk. But he wasn’t there.

The story where Illya is missing Napoleon, a little bit more than he’d expected.

through the fire by el3anorrigby [4,439 words]

Illya’s watch is his priceless treasure. Napoleon knows that from the first time they’d worked together in Rome. And he would do almost anything to ensure Illya doesn’t lose it again.

antidote by wneleh [804 words]

Napoleon looks awful in the dimly-lit room, pale face slightly elevated above even paler sheets, a tube running into one arm. Carrying the fluids hospitals love, and the alleged antidote, and something else entirely to counteract the nasty chemistry that occurs when poison meets poison.

my lonely heart is racing by brodinsons (aeon_entwined) [1,169 words]

Napoleon’s luck runs out.

mutually assured distraction by merle_p [5,142 words]

“Why didn’t you, then?” she asks, a reasonable question, and he turns his face towards the window, watches the Valencian night rush by.

“I was distracted,” he says.

She is quiet for a while.

“Distracted by whom?” she finally asks, and he keeps his eyes on the window.

“I do not know.” It is a lie, and he is sure that Gaby knows it is a lie, but she is kind enough not to point that out.

first kiss by taniarose [449 words]

Kuryakin’s lips were stiff and cold under his own.

electric sickness by unitedpen [2,552 words]

Illya and Napoleon deal with the aftermath of Napoleon’s torture at the hands of Uncle Rudi.

all there is to a fire by endquestionmark [3,065 words]

Illya, angry, is about as subtle as a wall to the face; Napoleon knows this because he’s seen Illya angry, and he’s taken a wall to the face, two incidents which occurred in very quick succession, and has been forever unable to separate them since. Illya focused is something else entirely. Rain, and eight inches of steel, and the sound that it had made coming out of the sheath: in retrospect, Napoleon had been moderately concussed at the time, most likely, but he deals in illusions, in the setting of a scene, and the blocking had stuck.

the be and end all by ingu [5,141 words] (SAD SHIT BRO! IT’LL MAKE U CRY! BE PREPARED)

Illya has heard the stories, been taught the tales since his childhood. He has been warned of the degenerates who will entice and corrupt unsuspecting young men toward irredeemable sin, who will go against nature and turn their lust against their own people, those without morals or care for the innocents they will one day destroy.

He is trained to see the signs, to heed the warnings before its too late and he is swallowed whole. Illya is someone who knows better than most, and when he first steps out into the world after a childhood built on perseverance, he thinks he is prepared. He will never fall victim.

But then, he meets Napoleon Solo.

crimean shore by merle_p [7,436 words]

“Does he ever talk about his past?” Napoleon asks, the words escaping his mouth before he can tell himself to hold them back. He coughs. “You know. During all those fake romantic nights?”

“His past?” Gaby asks slowly, and gives him a curious look.

“Yeah, you know,” Napoleon gestures, feeling tired and out of his depth. “Lovers. Family. Russia. That kind of thing.”

glad to see you: after the chair by ironwomanstark [2,295 words]

Prompt: Takes place immediately after Illya saves Napoleon from The Chair. Sure, he’s able to walk away from it but that much electricity coursing through your body will definitely cause some lingering problems. Like the fact that Napoleon has a hard time catching his breath, is experiencing heart palpitations, chest pain, dizziness, and basically just having a bit of a hard time recovering from the electrical torture he was just put through.
Illya is desperate to rescue Gaby but also realizes that his partner isn’t doing so hot either. Cue him being all awkwardly worried and not sure what to do but (surprisingly) not willing to just leave Napoleon behind.

the locked room affair by ingu [1,410 words]

“Why are you being like this? We do not need to be in here.”

“Probably not,” says Napoleon, “But like Gaby said, we’re in time out. Which means we both need to cool down before we can leave.”

future affinity by ceredin [4,544 words]

The age old trope of taking off their clothes and cuddling to preserve body heat.

fear of uncertainty by el3anorrigby [5,498 words]

Illya was livid. He could not believe it when Gaby told him Napoleon was off on another lone mission.

domesticity by chartreuser [wip]

Illya attempts to bring Napoleon back, and Napoleon attempts to bring him to somewhere like home.

it’s been a long day without you, my friend. by fineandwittie [926 words] *BY THE FCKIN TITLE U CAN TELL IT’S A SAD FIC*

Exactly what it says on the tin. Telling you any more than the tags say would spoil things.

i’m with you by el3anorrigby [4,300 words] *mcd* (THIS FIC D E ST R O Y E D ME AND I LOVE IT SO MUCH BYE)

Illya hated the way they’d become, formal, cold and stiff. They weren’t like this before. Perhaps the only time they’d acted like this had been the first time they’d met.
The one where they realise love, but they’re just a little too late.

Reflektor - Chapter 1

TITLE: Reflektor


RATING: M, language, eventual sexual content, violence

SUMMARY: Kylo Ren isn’t fool enough to believe that her capture was a happy accident. He didn’t believe it was good fortune, and he believed least of all that it had anything to do with the reconnaissance skills of Hux’s half-wit stormtroopers. If they have The Girl Called Rey in custody, it is because she meant for it to happen. It was because she had a plan and this was a step in executing it.

NOTES/WARNINGS: Hello, friends! I’m trying this multi-chapter, slow burn thing. This…is going to be interesting. And dark-ish. We’re going to have fun! I hope you enjoy; please let me know what you think! 

Title is taken from the Arcade Fire song of the same title.

Edited to add: HUGE thank you to @southsidestory for her glorious beta services/support. She’s just posted part two to her very steamy fic A Proper Education, and you should go check it out right MEOW.

Next Chapter


What Must Be Done

Kylo Ren isn’t fool enough to believe that her capture was a happy accident. He didn’t believe it was good fortune, and he believed least of all that it had anything to do with the reconnaissance skills of Hux’s half-wit stormtroopers. If they have The Girl Called Rey in custody, it is because she meant for it to happen. It was because she had a plan and this was a step in executing it.

He could feel rather than see the leering smirks on the stormtrooper’s faces when he had ordered she be taken to his personal chambers for questioning, but he cared little for that. Of course they were so base as to think his keeping her in his rooms had anything to do with some physical want. The truth, of course, is that he had no mind to let her out of his sight this time. He’d not more than glanced the other direction before those idiot bucketheads had armed and released her when last he had her.

Not this time.

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After the Storm - We can finally rest.

Also on AO3

“So um…you coming?”

Castiel blinked and looked up in astonishment. Dean was staring at him expectantly, firmly clenching his jaw and holding himself tensely, his eyes full of fear but also, Cas thought, hope.

“What?” Castiel answered whilst trying to figure out what Dean was asking him. He was so tired and weary after the past few days that he could barely think straight. His purely human brain failing him in its ability to decipher all the intricacies in the look Dean was giving him. Dean’s shoulders slumped at his answer in obvious disappointment. Castiel furrowed his brow.

“Whatever man… Sorry. I… I’m going to bed… I’m exhausted. You must be too.” Dean made a motion to turn and it occurred to Castiel that Dean’s defences were back up and strong once again but Castiel reached out and touched his shoulder. His mind had finally caught up.

“Wait. Yes, Sorry. I meant yes.  I’m coming… with you, that is. Of course.” He stuttered over his words and held Dean’s gaze hoping that that would clarify his meaning. Dean’s lip twitched in a microscopic smile and he nodded.

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anonymous asked:

Imagine Jamie meeting Claire the first time he stays at Leoch and Collum promises him to someone. But they end up eloping together at the gathering just like his parents before.

Running in the family; How to elope - Fraser style.

So to make this a wee bit more tangible I have altered the Jamie-Claire age gap. Jamie is 16 and Claire is 18, so only 2 years difference. She is still a time-traveller and has come through the stones, though.

The announcement still rung in his ears as Jamie paced the courtyard.

‘…engaged to be married…’

‘…on her sixteenth…’

Those few words cut him to the core.

What if he didn’t wish to marry her?

What if they weren’t meant to be?

He barely kent the lassie, and she was still just a wee bairn to him.

Another pawn in his uncle’s games, Jamie knew he was being thrust into this ‘partnership’, not for his own benefit, but for theirs. Marrying him off to the wean kept Lallybroch in their clutches.

Stomping through the silent halls, Jamie walked the length of the castle, from the grand hall right down into the recesses of the peat-scented cellars.

The sound of a rattling chain pulled him from his melancholy and he twisted his head in the direction of the noise.

Cautiously, he tip toed towards the closed door, the thick bars of the viewing window hindering his view of the captive that lay beyond. As he approached, a flash of deep brown passed into view. He swore he’d seen thick curls and he tilted his head in confusion.

“Hello…” he broached, laying his hands against the rough wood as he peeked through the prison door.

Catching a glimpse of her profile as she turned, Jamie took a stunted breath and stepped back a little.

So it was a lassie, a young one at that. She couldn’t have been more than a few years older than him.

Glancing down, he could see the thick manacle that kept her chained to the floor. Bolted around her ankle, she could move a wee bit about the tiny room, but it wasn’t enough to allow her access to the door.

“What have they got ye trussed up in here for?” he whispered, once it became obvious that she wasn’t offering anything up herself.

He couldn’t fully understand himself, but something about her had him *captivated*.

“Theft…” she spoke, finally breaking her silence as she turned fully to face him. “I stole a horse. Mr. Mackenzie didn’t seem particularly pleased at my explanation, and so here I am.”

A sassenach. No wonder Collum had her locked away.

“…and why, pray tell, did ye steal a horse?” he replied, a hint of wonder in his voice. To steal from the Mackenzie took some *nerve*.

“I was trying to escape,” she retorted, a glimmer of rebelliousness lighting up her liquid amber eyes.

“Ach, I take it ye didna get verra far then, aye?”

Shrugging her shoulders, she blinked slowly, a coy smile lighting her face. “Quite far, and yet,” sighing, she turned away from him, “not far enough.”

“Aye, I see that lass,” Jamie returned, his interested piqued. “Do I dare ask why ye were trying to escape?”

Rotating slightly back towards him, she twisted her head back in his direction. “They were holding me prisoner.”

The hallways were dark now, the candles extinguished as the evening’s celebrations had come to an end.

Hand in hand, Jamie led his newest companion through the quiet castle, hoping that all of the inhabitants were suitably half-cocked; enough that they all might be incapacitated for a time yet.

“This isna right. I dinna even ken yer name,” he whispered, slipping his fingers through hers as they came to a stop by the last corner. “Seems only polite since we’re sneaking awa’ like this.”

“It’s Claire,” she replied, a hint of humour in her tone. “Claire Beauchamp, and I’m so very pleased to have met you…”

“Jamie,” he finished for her. “Jamie Fraser, at yer service.”

Only one man stood between the pair and the portcullis. An elderly guard leaned against his broadsword as he napped at the exit to the castle.

‘Ye need to be utterly still, Claire. We can get passed him wi’out much trouble, I’m sure. But if Collum had ye paraded through the castle on yer return, afore he had ye clad in irons, yer probably well known to all o’ clan Mackenzie.”  Pulling the pilfered cape around her face, Jamie tucked her stray curls beneath the heavy fabric.

“Thank you…truly,” she added, stepping closer to Jamie’s side as they readied themselves for a swift exit. “I don’t know what I’d have done without you, Jamie Fraser.”

Jamie had been right, it didn’t take much to sneak past the snoozing guard and it wasn’t long before he had Claire mounted on his horse. To his mind, he couldn’t work out *why* he’d needed to free her so badly, but something deep in his heart told him he should.

“Where were ye going, Mistress?” he asked rather formally, feeling the breath of his father against his neck, combined with Claire’s as she wrapped her arms around his waist.

“Would you think I was mad if I told you I couldn’t remember?” she answered, her heart pounding as she clenched her thighs around the outside of his legs, the steady gait of the horse forcing them together.

“I’m promised,” Jamie began. An unspoken truth lay between them. In the short time they had been acquainted, he and Claire had forged something of a bond, “to a lass that I dinna wish to marry.”

Clicking his tongue, Jamie tugged the horse off the trail, to avoid trackers hunting them down once they discovered Claire’s disappearance.

“Oh,” Claire whispered, her hands gripping solidly at his hips as they picked up pace through the underbrush. “And is there a girl you *would* like to marry?”

“Aye, I do. If she werena to object to the idea…”

Nuzzling her nose into the back of his musty jacket, Claire forgot her initial quarms and lost herself in Jamie’s scent. “I don’t think she would be…” she sighed, her mouth watering at the prospect.

This was daft, a complete leave of her senses. But she couldn’t find it in herself to be perturbed by the situation.

Jamie clenched the reins in his hands, the heat of her filling him with warmth from toe to head.

‘Jamie,’ a tender voice echoed in his ear, ‘ye’ve the Fraser about ye, my lad…’ the wind whipped up around them, stealing the soft ghost of his mother, his cheeks pinking at the illusion.

“My da stole my mam away, Claire,” he began, the memory of his parent’s stories alight in his mind now, “just as I did you. Weel, apart from springing her from prison, aye?”

Claire scoffed, rolling her eyes as she snuggled closer still to Jamie, revelling in the close proximity of his alluring body.

“Maybe,” she murmured, letting her hand slide down and along his thigh as the stars twinkled through the breaks in the trees above them, “this is just a case of history repeating?”

Chuckling, Jamie tightened his heels around their mount, urging him ever onwards. “Maybe yer right Claire,” he replied, an eager lilt to his tone as his soul lightened at the prospect of marrying a girl he actually had designs on, instead of one chosen for him by his greedy uncles. “Either way, I think my da will love ye.”

‘…as I do…’ he thought, but did not say.

‘One look was all it took,’ he remembered, his father’s voice now reverberating around them as the crickets began to chirp beside them, ‘just one look, Jamie, my boy.’

“Springing a criminal from the Mackenzie jail, damnit Jamie lad!” Brian Fraser muttered, irritation lacing his tone. “I sent him there to better him, Murtagh. No’ to have him upset half of our relatives. Where did I go wrong?”

“Gi’ the boy a chance, mo bhràthair, we dinna ken the circumstances yet. He might have a good reason for doing what he did,” Murtagh appeased, trying to keep Brian from throttling his young son moments after they tracked him down.

Through the trees, Murtagh caught a brief glimpse of wee Jamie’s horse, and nodded at Brian, a knowing look in his eye.

“He better had, Murtagh, I’m telling ye now,” Brian chuntered, his gaze hardening as he caught his first view of Jamie through the trees.

Claire sat on a rock facing Jamie as he readied the fire for the evening, tugging the thick tartan around her shoulders, she shrugged the hood from her head, letting the slight breeze blow through her loose locks.

“James Alexander Malcolm *MACKENZIE FRASER*!” came the billowing voice through the forest, making the birds scatter from the branches in fear.

Jamie’s face paled as Claire sat bolt upright, her eyes wide as she took in the two men who strode, meaningfully, through the tree line and into their little camp.

“What are ye playing at, mo mhac?” Brian boomed, slamming his palm against the bark as he stared blindly at his son, rage colouring his whole being.

“Da, hear me out…” Jamie began, shuffling his feet nervously in the detritus of the forest floor, “it isne…”

“What I think? It better no’ be! I had Dougal on our doorstep, Dougal Mackenzie himself, Jamie. Have ye any idea the thoughts that have been going through my head?”

“He saved my life,” Claire piped up, standing behind Jamie and peeking out from behind him, brave but not so bold as to take on Jamie’s father without some moral support. “It was my fault. Mr. Mackenzie had me locked away for stealing his horse, and Jamie got me free.”

“A sassenach?” Murtagh whispered in awe, his and Brian’s eyes fixed solely on Claire now as they took the measure of her.

Jaw clenched tight, Claire stood straight, coming out from behind Jamie as she took full responsibility for her part in the whole affair. She would not back down, nor would she cower.

As Brian took a step forward, Claire took one back, certain that her number was up and Mr. Fraser and his comrade would have her marched back to Castle Leoch before sunup.

“A lassie, a wee sassenach lass? Tell me yer pulling my leg, Jamie?” Brian questioned, looked between the pair as he stepped closer still.

“I love her, Da…” he sighed, his eyes holding his father’s as Claire coughed and spluttered behind him, her heart pounding against her chest as the words hit her ears, “and her name is *Claire*.”

“Ah Dhia,” Murtagh cursed, lowly, his jaw dropping as he saw the truth that lay between the young pair. “It’s happening again, Brian, lad. She’s his Ellen,” he exclaimed, watching as Claire slipped her hand into Jamie’s and swallowed, audibly.

“Ach, Christ, Jamie,” Brian murmured, dropping his head in defeat.

“Ye willna send her back, will ye, Da?” Jamie begged, pulling Claire into his side and shielding her from any would be harm that might befall her from his father and godfather.

“Nay,” Brian replied, a hint of ire still lacing his tone. “I won’t.”

Turning to Claire, Brian eyed her, skepticism written all over his face. “What, and tell me honestly, are yer intentions for my lad, Claire? Since I dinna ken where yer from or *who* ye are.”

“I…” she began, her hands shaking as she tried to reason with herself what had occurred between her and Jamie. How could she explain to his family, when she didn’t truly know herself? “I would never hurt him, Mr. Fraser.”

“Do you know what you’ve started, Mistress?” Murtagh broke in, certain that there was something powerful between Claire and Jamie, but also fearful of the wrath of clan Mackenzie. “What lengths Collum and Dougal will go to get justice for what Jamie has done? No’ only did he free ye, a known thief, but he also eloped away from his obligations.”

“I know fine well what he did for me, sir,” Claire bit back, shifting forward slightly, straightening her shoulders as she spoke, “and…” she paused, taking a large breath as she finally acknowledged the strange feelings bubbling under her skin, “I love him too.”

Smiling from ear to ear, Jamie stepped back in line with Claire. Dropping her head against his side, Claire exhaled, letting out a breath of relief at her admittance.

“Weel then, bairns,” Brian said, scratching his head and chuckling under his breath, all manner of irritation extinguished, “it looks like we have a wedding to organise.”

“And fast,” Murtagh interjected, humour coating his words, “afore Collum catches up wi’ ye, again!”

A Different Path: Chapter 2

A promise made years before leads to Hanzo taking a different path when Genji’s fate is decided, paying the price with his own freedom. Written for Nanowrimo 2016.

Disclaimer: As always Overwatch and its amazing characters don’t belong to me, I’m just borrowing them.

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A Pound of Flesh - Part 4: In This Quiet Company (End)

For a prompt that said: Would you ever write something with Bill trying to take over, but Ford helps Stan subdue him? I’ve seen a lot where Bill succeeds or where Stan defeats, but especially with the way you write protective Ford, I bet he’d be right there helping Stan

Masterpost for this Fic: Part 1, Part 2, Part 3

Ao3 Link

Amazing fanart for this fic here made by @yourlocalviking which you should definitely check out

Whelp, this is it. The final chapter. Fin. Thanks to everyone to who followed/encouraged/commented on this little project! Hope you find that the end satisfies.

People generally assumed, as far as she could tell, that being any variation of psychic either made life a breeze or came with a hefty burden of knowledge. None of them considered that it might be neither, because visions were a fickle thing, and rarely ever appeared in a discernible, chronological order.

Or, perhaps it was like that for some. For her, it was more of a puzzle – she got snippets, fragments of whole pictures, often incomplete without the means to decipher them.

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Four Days

When Solas hears of the miraculous woman who stumbled out of the Fade, he is eager to offer his services to help.

The first four days after the destruction of the Conclave, from Solas’s POV.

—Day One—

“Do we know anything about the prisoner?” Solas asked calmly as he followed the Seeker. “Perhaps her background holds some clue as to how she obtained this scar you speak of.”

“No,” the woman answered, her voice low and tense. Even as she guided him down the set of stone steps, her face was pulled into a look of severity that was not difficult to read. She was angry. Frightened. She did not trust him. Solas did not blame her for that. She had little reason to. Convincing her to allow him access to the prisoner had not been easy and he was certain her suspicions were raised. “We do not know her name nor where she came from. She is Dalish, which makes her presence at the Conclave suspect. Her people had no place in these negotiations.”

“Do you truly believe she was here for some nefarious purpose?”

Cassandra shot him a look that would have probably struck fear in him, if he were the sort of man he claimed to be. “It is no longer a question of what she was sent here to do but why,” she said sharply. “The Dalish are certainly aware of the chaos this conflict between the mages and Templars has produced. Perhaps they wish to use this war for their own purposes - stage an uprising while the Chantry is weakened. For all we know, this could only be the beginning.”

Solas said nothing. There was no purpose in arguing. He knew their elven prisoner was not responsible for the explosion at the Conclave, but her fate had all but been decided by the people of Haven. Perhaps they would stage a trial of some sort, but he doubted it would be anything more than a lynch mob dressed up in the guise of civility. Maybe it was a blessing, then, that she would most likely die before they had a chance to slip a noose around her neck.

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Yellow Fever - Part 3

Word Count: 3795

Pairing: Dean x Reader

Warnings: Language, hallucinations

Series Rewrite Masterlist

“This is the Garland file.” Deputy Linus handed the folder to Sam while Dean and you stood back, leaning heavily on each other and swaying. “Are they…drunk?”

Sam looked back quickly and you smiled at him and he quickly turned back to Linus. “No.” Sam said firmly. “Deputy, according to this, Luther Garland’s cause of death was physical trauma. What does that mean?”

“The guy died 20 years ago, before my time.” Linus shrugged. “Sorry.”

“Then can we talk to the sheriff?” Sam asked.

“Um…he’s out sick today.” Linus lied.

“Well if you see him, will you have him call us?” Sam asked. “We’re staying at the Bluebird.” He grabbed the file and walked out the door without Dean or you, the two of you still standing there.

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Play Time

Title: Play Time
Pairing: Ren / Shiroba / Koujaku
Rating: Explicit
Kinks: Spitroast, Blowjob, Blood, Rough


All-round Bad End. Shiroba enjoys playing with his two favourite pets and they certainly enjoy playing with him - sometimes a little too much. Their rough fucking is always on the verge of going too far, but for Shiroba it’s all he could have wanted.

… Or is it?


Inspired by allmate-ren‘s artwork 

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TSDF Exclusive!  Summary for episode 5.16, “Conquer”

We want to thank everyone from the TSDF Family and all of our sources for being with us this season. Without our sources and our members, we would be nothing. Now on to the spoilers! Credit:  Bulbasaur

Morgan wakes up in a car. He makes some porridge-type food by a fire. An armed man (Benedict Samuel) walks over and points a gun at him. Morgan asks what the W on his head means. He explains a backstory about the wolves. He says “You know the first settlers here, put bounties on wolves heads, brought the natives into it, made them hunt them. Didn’t take them to long to kill them all (points to the W on his forehead). They’re back now.”  After threatening to take Morgan and kill him, Morgan takes him out ninja style with his hiking stick along with a second Wolves member (Jessie C. Boyd) who jumps out of some bushes. Morgan ties them up and puts them in the car. He sounds the horn and walks off. Aint nobody gonna mess with Morgan! 

Rick wakes up to Michonne watching him. She says that Pete is in another house. Carol, Glenn and Abe enter. Carol butts in and asks why Rick took the guns (hiding the fact she was involved). Carol tells Rick that he should tell a story the town wants to hear (that he will follow their rules) at the meeting later. Carol says that’s what she’s been doing since they got there. Michonne asks why. Carol replies, “Because these people are children and children like stories.”  Rick engineers a plan to reinstate the Ricktatorship and hold Deanna’s family at knife point so they can take the armory.

Maggie tries to persuade Deanna to change her mind about Rick. Reg backs Maggie up.

Sasha buries some walkers and takes a nap in the grave because why sleep in a warm bed when you can sleep in a cozy grave of death?

Carol wakes Sleeping Beauty (aka Rick) and gives him back his gun. She didn’t tell the others about the guns just in case they didn’t understand. Rick says he does not want to lie. Carol says, “You want this place and you don’t want to lie. Sunshine, you don’t get both.” Carol keeps it real.

Daryl and Aaron watch a guy in a red poncho from afar. Recruiter spy mode activated.

Nicholas watches Glenn while acting suspicious. Maggie comes over to chat about working everything out. What a babe.

Glenn sees Nicholas climb the walls. GET BACK IN THE FUCKING HOUSE, NICHOLAS!

Father G leaves the community unarmed. Ok, you can leave that’s fine.

Daryl and Aaron lose red poncho guy, but find a food warehouse. Daryl opens a truck, which triggers a trap opening three other truck doors. It releases a hundred or so walkers. There are torsos hanging inside on hooks. Daryl wins zombie kill of the year after beheading three walkers with a rusty chain in one swing. They both take refuge in a car, surrounded by walkers pounding on the window. Inside is a note saying, “Trap, bad people coming. Don’t stay.” Too bad they didn’t see that memo a little earlier.

Carol visits Pete in an effort to get him to check on Tara. She brings Pete some food and holds a knife to his throat after he tells her to get out. Carol continues to keep it real.

Glenn follows Nicholas through the forest. After pausing to look at a dead walker, Glenn is shot in the shoulder and rolls down a slope. Damn you, Nicholas! Why couldn’t you have just stayed in the house?  

Rick checks up on Jessie. Pete sees them both from his ‘house prison’.

Daryl formulates a plan to fight his way through the crowd to give Aaron a chance to run. Aaron wants to fight together because that’s what BFFs do! Before they head out, our hero Morgan shows up like a boss and helps them both to a safe distance.  Aaron tells him about the ASZ. Morgan says he is going somewhere else but is lost and pulls out a map. Daryl shows him where they are on the map. He sees the note, “Sorry I was an asshole, come to Washington. The new world’s gonna need Rick grimes.” Daryl looks at Morgan, but does not acknowledge the note.

Father Dick finds a walker and is ready to die by its dirty dead hands. He notices a noose around the walker’s head. He changes his mind and then uses the noose to rip the walker’s head off. He cries in the middle of the road.

Abraham visits a bed-bound, unconscious Tara. Rosita and Eugene are there too. Abraham and Eugene both apologize to each other for what happened in the past.

Gabe returns and Spencer asks him to shut the gate. Gabe barely even makes the effort to close it and walks  off, leaving it unlocked.

Nicholas and Glenn fight, leaving Glenn stuck under a pile of walkers.

Michonne asks Rick if he is ready (for the meeting). He explains to Michonne how they took the guns and attempts to give his piece to Michonne. She pushes his hand away and lets him keep it. She explains that she’s not against Rick and will follow him however it all pans out.

Rick, while in his room, recounts an old conversation with Bob: (Rick’s voice) 'This is the real world Bob.’ Bob replies, 'No this is a nightmare, and nightmares end.’

Rick finds the gate open and some blood on the lock as well as some on the ground. He locks it and runs off.

Gabe returns to his church to find Sasha waiting for him. She wants to talk about what she is going through.  

The meeting is starting without Rick and Glenn. Deanna talks about how Rick took the pistol and pointed it at people.

Nicholas is navigating the forest while Rick is searching the community. It’s now night time. (Sunset came rather quickly.)

Gabe refuses to console Sasha and very nastily talks about how Bob was dismembered causing Sasha to scream at him and pin him to a wall. Father Dick is full of fail.

Deanna, Abraham, Maggie, Michonne and Carol say their piece to the town about Rick. Meanwhile, Gabe is wrestling Sasha’s rifle out of her hands. Rick is fighting off three walkers in the town and Glenn is beating up Nicholas.

Two members of the Wolves bring red poncho guy to the trap that Daryl and Aaron escaped from earlier. They slit red Poncho’s throat and reset the trap using music (to get the walkers back in the trucks). Fairwell, red poncho guy. We hardly knew thee.

Glenn points a gun to Nicholas’ head, but spares his life.

Back at the meeting, Tobin is defending Deanna when Rick walks in with a walker corpse. He throws it on the ground.*corpse drop*

Sasha is pointing her gun at Gabe, who is stopped by Maggie. Gabe shouts that she should have let Sasha shoot him because everyone died because of him.

Rick explains how the walker got in through an open gate and that the dead and living will always find a way in. He says, “The ones out there will hunt us and find us. You need to change now.” While he is saying this speech, we see Glenn carry Nicholas away, Carl with Judith at home, Maggie, Sasha and Gabe praying together, Tara waking up, and a Wolves member going through Aaron’s photos of the ASZ.

A wild-looking Pete appears wielding Michonne’s katana and shouts “You’re not one of us!” He pushes Reg out the way, slitting his throat by accident. Abe pins Pete down. Deanna hysterically holding a dying Reg says, “Rick, do it.” Without hesitation, Rick executes Pete. Goodbye, porch dick. Now, you’re just a dead dick.

A familiar face calls Rick’s name. Rick looks up to see Aaron, Daryl and Morgan standing there.

Morgan and Rick share an intimate eyefuck.

Screen to black.

Stick around for another after credits scene!

Posted by Shinyfirefly

Photo credit: AMC

NOTE: The information is correct at the time of posting. As always and especially with a finale, anything and everything could change by the time we see it on TV.

The End - Part 4

*Soon to be adapted as an original novel by Tristen Ross, called Exitus*

The End -  The End - Part 2 -  The End - Part 3

Warnings: Death, blood, dismal setting, apocalypse, language, angst,


“It’s fine. Just please don’t tell Dean.” In a bout of of maternal instinct, I wiped my thumb along his chiseled jaw to catch the liquid slipping down. The action felt hauntingly reminiscent… I shouldn’t have been so close to him, holding the chin of a man who the entire camp seemed to believe was a murderer. But a stomach churning sense of deja vu kept me from removing my touch. When his lips moved I was barely able to focus on listening.

“That’ll be difficult.” That voice, that deep, gritty, lazy voice…  I didn’t have time to question the statement before I was analyzing that all too familiar noise again.

“It’ll be difficult, because you’re telling him right now.”

The bottle I was holding fell to the floor with a clatter and my calves slammed into the legs of the table as I backed away from occupied chair. 

"Hey, easy! It’s okay.” That voice, his voice, was suddenly all I could hear. It was Dean’s. I looked around the room frantically for some kind of clue as to what was going on, some imperfection that would affirm this was all just another nightmare. 

“Calm down, listen to me. It’s not going to make sense, but you need to try to understand… You may be the only person that hears this.” Something about the way he spoke was irresistibly comforting. It was the voice of the man I loved. It was that deep, scratchy familiarity, but delivered with less harshness. I panted and gripped the table for support, my knees threatening to cave from the shock of it all. The prisoner was still chained to the chair, but the freedom of his lips to speak was paralyzing me. It was perfectly clear now, the exact semblance of Dean’s mouth. The strong jaw, the slightly dimpled chin, those scars… It was all Dean. I swallowed back my fear of the unknown and stepped forward to examine his partly covered face closer. I could barely remember what Dean looked like without scruffy facial hair and dirty smeared over his skin, and yet here he was. His tone grew more slow and pleading.

“You were kind to me. There must he some part of you that knows who I am…” I could see the muscles in his jaw tighten, identical to what I saw on the face of the man I slept beside every night. It filled me with both awe and terror. 

 "Let me explain…“ My hands were shaking as I reached for the gag around his neck, contemplating returning it to the mouth that imparted this insanity upon me. For a moment I thought that just maybe, if I could stop him for speaking and cover his face again, I could go back to the way it was before. I could pretend it never happened, just like I pretended not too care that Dean was always drunk, or pretended not to notice the blood always splattered on his clothing when he embraced me. This entire pedestal life was pretending, all for the sake of the compound. For the greater good. In that moment I felt like what I imagined Dean did most days, the all powerful leader making decisions for his flock. I began to replace the fabric but never got it past his chin. The captive spoke quickly, desperate to get my attention before I took away his one chance at freedom. 

"Just… Go get Sam. He’ll believe me. He’ll know it’s me.” The sincerity in his words made me feel sick with grief. He truly had no idea where his brother was. He had no idea about Detroit. As hard as I tried, I couldn’t replace the gag or burlap. In a movement that would forever change the course of my life, the future, and even the past; I pulled the bag up over the prisoner’s head and let it fall to the ground. Dean’s face stared back at me, jade eyes blinking at the sudden brightness. There was no air in my lungs or strength in my legs. I fell into the nearest chair, hand smothering my gaping mouth. We stared at each other for a long time, unsure of how to begin. I was mesmerized by the very small differences between him and the man that bore his same name. When I finally regained some composure I was able to speak again. 

“Please… tell me everything." 


 "So, let me get this straight. You’re the Dean Winchester from the past? And you were sent here, by an angel…” My head was swimming with information that I had never known possible. I had heard the stories of angel’s power from Castiel, but I never knew it included affecting space and time. The prisoner was being very patient, but I could see his gaze flicking towards the sides of the tent every time someone passed by. Each shadow was a threat of being overheard or interrupted. “-sent here by Michael, to see the Croatoan apocalypse that you have to stop?” He nodded, clearly grateful that I was beginning to understand. 

“It’s some real ‘back to the future’ shit, but yes, that sums it up.” I couldn’t take my eyes off him, and the two of us were still content to study each other for another long period of time. Dean’s stare fell to my knees and he appeared concerned.  

“Your legs, they’re still bleeding…” I remembered the mess of cuts that covered my knees and laid my hands over them in a futile attempt to hide the damage. My cheeks were flush when I mumbled an excuse, but this Dean’s tone wasn’t chastising like I would have expected.

 "Oh it’s nothing, just a scrape.“ He wasn’t satisfied with my answer but tugging against his restraints reminded him that there was nothing he could do. Something about the way he scowled told me he would have examined them further, given the chance. We stayed quiet again, both unsure of how to communicate our numerous questions and curiosities. 

 "I don’t mean to be demanding, but could you let my hands lose?" 

 "I can’t, Dean will be back soon." 

 "Right. Got to say, I turn out to be a real asshole.” A irrepressible chuckle shook my chest and I immediately coughed to stifle it. I shouldn’t laugh at Dean, especially not in the presence of a total stranger… then again, he wasn’t at all unfamiliar.  

“Don’t judge him too hard, he’s been through so much… He’s just trying to keep us all safe.” There was no life in my words, I sounded like an answering machine repeating the message I had been taught to spew over months of living in the compound. Thankfully the man tied to the chair was too filled with rage to recognize my insincerity. He scoffed loudly, gritting his teeth and clenching his bound fists. 

 "What, by nearly killing me? When he realized I wasn’t a demon or some kind of shifter, he dragged me back here with a bag on me head. Pretty sure he’s got the whole compound under the impression that I’m some kind of murderer.“ I remembered Dean’s earlier explanation and wrung my hands together. The riled crowd outside, surely he didn’t incite that response unjustly?

"It’s all a misunderstanding, I’m sure. Dean wouldn’t let an innocent man killed….” That same mechanical speech exited my lips, an empty oath to a man who was becoming more tyrannical every day. Still, I held tightly to the Dean that I loved, the one that kissed me goodbye each morning. I was too lost in thought to notice the prisoner closing his eyes, in either pain or painful memory.

 "That’s not what I saw out there.“ His brow was furrowed in a tight crease between his eyes, mouth pursued with bitter taste. The grief in him was evident, and it made me shudder in fear. 

 "What do you mean?” I was afraid to ask. The conditions outside these compound fences were bloody and filled with death. My nightmares were bad enough, but Dean had reassured me the reality of living in this world was much worse. He once compared it to purgatory, saying he’d much rather be there again than on an earth with the virus. 

 "Today, before he captured me…he killed a teenager point-blank. Shot him right between the eyes and didn’t even flinch. I feel terrible. It was like watching myself…“ Blood rose to my cheeks and pounded in my ears. I jumped from my chair before he could go on. 

"No. Don’t say that. Dean wouldn’t, not without a reason. Things have changed a lot since your time.” I turned my back and retreated to the kitchen, where I compulsively splashed water over my face in an attempt to wash the image from my mind. The prisoner wasn’t sated. He yelled after me, his voice threatening to breach the walls of the tent. 

My time? What, murder is hunky dory in the future?” My head snapped back in his direction and I prepared to shout back at him, but the fear of being heard got the better of me. I drew close and lowered my tone. 

 "You don’t understand. Dean has had to kill a lot of people. If someone gets bitten and infected by the virus…“ The man shook his head and let it fall back in a limp show of disregard for my explanation. When he faced me again he looked upon me with pity and regret. 

 "What? I know that look. You’re not telling me something.” He gnawed at his lip, obviously contemplating whether or not to speak his thoughts. I waited for him without wavering. Finally he looked away from me and continued. 

“The boy wasn’t bitten.” I was about to argue that wasn’t possible, but he wouldn’t let me interrupt. “The kid got his leg stuck in a trap, and it was torn up pretty badly. I was watching from nearby. The rest of the men with him were going to cut it the leg off, but "Dean” told them it was pointless. Said he would never survive the amputation, and that he was a liability to the group…“ As much as I hated to admit it, that did sound like something Dean would say. My chest refused to expand, less I mishear a single detail. 

 "He sent the rest of the party back to the truck, pulled out his gun and-” I winced and threw up my palms in surrender. I felt like scrubbing my hands under the sink, a sort of transferred guilt staining the creases in my skin. 

“Stop. I don’t want to hear this. Dean isn’t a killer, he’s a good man…” The prisoner looked solemn, but unrelenting. I could tell he was just as sickened by the thought as I was, if not more. 

“Believe me, I want to have as much faith in him as you do. That’s me out there… But what I saw wasn’t a good man, Y/N. That’s not who I want to be.” There was something both hurtful and healing about seeing Dean’s face giving this confession. It made the possibility of what he might have done seem even more real. The man watched my reaction closely, possibly regretting his choice to tell me what he had seen. There was nothing I could say or do, besides shake my head in denial. He sighed, eyes meeting mine when he spoke softly. 

“He doesn’t deserve your faithfulness.” I barely had time to consider his words before noise disrupted our conversation. The dogs began to bark wildly, signally movement outside. It took me a few seconds to spring forward. 

 "That’s Dean.“ I hands fumbled with the fabric around his neck but I somehow managed to slip the gag in his mouth, fingers brushing his chapped lips. The gravel nearby was crunching under the weight of a pair of boots, each step louder than the last. Once the burlap sack was in my hands I rose to pull it back over Dean’s face. My frantic gaze locked with his for a fleeting moment. His pale green eyes were searching mine for any kind of reassurance, any sign that I was on his side. I sighed and chewed at the inside of my cheek nervously. I wasn’t sure which Dean I trusted, if any at all. I heard the footsteps stop outside the tent door and felt my spine crawl. 

"It’s going to be okay.” My words were half spoken to calm myself and half for the sake of the prisoner in front of me. I had just finished clumsily re-tying the cord around his neck when the door fluttered open, allowing new sunlight to illuminate our dusty home. A voice, more harsh but still Dean’s, made my skin feel clammy and cold. 

 "What’s going to be okay?“ 


 Watching Dean drag the prisoner away was heart wrenching. I had played off my misspoken words easily enough, but there was no stopping him from having the covered man relocated to one of the holding cells. I silently wondered if that would be the last I would ever see of the less callous Dean. 

The empty bottle on the counter started an inevitable fight, one that ended with profuse apologies from me and wordless dinner together. I poked at the food on my plate. Prisoners weren’t fed, because their trials rarely lasted long enough for it to matter. Scraping my leftovers into my napkin instead of onto my partners plate felt strangely dishonest. 

 "You didn’t ask.” I froze at the sound of his voice from across the table, and thought for a moment he might have seen what I was doing with my rations. A sip of water before responding allowed me to gather my composure. “Ask what?” Dean was studying me, looking through me like he could see my every intention. I couldn’t tell if he was suspicious of me or just in an antagonistic mood because of the days events. He slowly cleaned his knife off with his teeth. 

 "You always ask how many.“ Suddenly I knew exactly was he meant. Our evenings were undeniably routine, and I couldn’t remember a night that didn’t include me asking how many had died that day. The prisoner’s story about Dean made me shudder, but I pretended it was just the cool nighttime air coming from the tent’s open flap. Honestly, I had no interest in knowing how many had been lost. I was terrified of the answer I already knew. 

 "Oh, I guess I forgot. Today has been a strange day after all…” I jumped from my seat and busied myself with gathering the plates. I scrubbed at the dishes roughly in an attempt to distract myself from the guilt that threatened to betray me. Technically I had done nothing wrong, yet, but the very thought of keeping secrets in this household felt like a unforgivable sin. 

“Just one.” Dean’s voice was startlingly close to my ear as he placed a cup that I had forgotten in the sink beside me.  

“Bitten?” He didn’t respond right away. I could hear him unlacing his boots and getting ready to get into out bed. I wasn’t ready to join him yet, not with the thought of that poor boy still haunting me. Finally he spoke, a heavy sigh preceding his words. 

 "Sometimes you have to make sacrifices for the betterment of the whole.“ My question remained unanswered, and in that moment I knew the prisoner’s story was true. 

I lied awake all that night, the heavy arm around me feeling more suffocating than comforting. I needed answers, and those weren’t coming from the man at my side; they were coming from the man on the floor of a dirty cell. My leftover meal was tucked carefully behind the engraved wooden chest in the corner. Watching the tent’s walls change color as the sun finally rose into the sky was agonizingly slow, and I dreaded the kiss I would receive before my plan could go into action. 

And to think, it all started with a stolen can of peaches.