battle weary

Black Butler (黒執事)

A new poster art for the film Kuroshitsuji Book of the Atlantic shows a battle-weary Sebastian, Ciel and Elizabeth Midford, illustrated by key animator Keisuke Furuichi (古市佳祐) and featured in the March issue of Animedia Magazine (Amazon US | eBay).


Boy you got me helpless
Look into your eyes, and the sky’s the limit, I’m helpless
Down for the count, and I’m drownin’ in ‘em!

Please forgive me for what I’ve done to your masterpiece LMM, I just really wanted to draw a loyal as hell blue kid from a big family who always feels second best swooning over over a hotheaded, reckless orphan soldier with beautiful eyes

….but I went with Lance and Keith instead of Eliza and Alexander

Listen to this track and imagine this…

Imagine Aelin and her court returning to Terrasen, battle-weary but victorious, Erawan and Maeve both destroyed.

Imagine them all entering Orynth on horseback, Aelin in the lead with Rowan and Aedion flanking her on either side while the rest trail behind them.

Imagine that as they ride through the city streets, the citizens turn to see who is approaching and stop dead in their tracks.

Imagine Aelin watching them all as she passes, not knowing whether they fear her for her power or hate her for abandoning them for all those years while she killed and reveled in their enemy’s kingdom.

Imagine her fear and dread turning to awe as one by one the citizens of Orynth form a crowd behind her court, following their horses as they approach the palace.

Imagine Aelin and her court reaching the palace gates. She dismounts her mare and slowly, so slowly, moves to step before the crowd, Rowan and Aedion still at her sides, Lysandra, Elide, Lorcan, Gavriel, and Fenrys behind them.

Imagine that she stands before her people in a city she’s seeing for the first time in ten years. A city no longer ravaged, but rebuilding. There is a pause as Aelin looks out among her people and her people stare back at their long-lost queen. Imagine Aelin holding her breath, waiting for them shout and jeer, condemn her as a traitor, surge for her and beat her until she is nothing but dust under their feet.

And imagine those citizens standing in the front of the crowd nearest to her sinking into low bows. And then the crowd ripples like a wave as they all move to kneel before her.

Imagine voices raising, calling out her name and chanting, “Long live the queen!” Narrok’s vision come true at last.

And imagine that as tears stream down Aelin’s face, Rowan takes his mate’s hand and squeezes gently, and never in her life has she ever been as happy as she is in this moment.

Made with SoundCloud

beemichelle7  asked:

So, I'm an Olicity shipper (because I have eyeballs and a heart)...I'm also a fan of Arrow as a whole, in case anyone had a wrong impression that those two descriptors were mutually exclusive. But, anyway- I'm a hardcore Olicity shipper and proud of it. So, knowing that- is 5x20 going to make me happy? I know it's Olicity-centric, answers Qs etc & I'm excited for it.. But also a little scared.. But mostly excited. I should be, right? It's good? I'm battle weary. I need hand-holding, that's all😉

I think it’s been well established that I don’t know what makes Olicity shippers happy.  ;)

That said, as long as you’re not expecting them to get back together at the end of 520, you’ll be quite happy.

Fic: Shelter [Keyleth, Vex | Episode 85 Spoilers]

[AO3 | FFN | More Fic]

Keyleth chases down Vex in the immediate aftermath. Major spoilers for episode 85.


“Not now, Keyleth.”

Keyleth’s heart is pounding too-loud in her ears, and not just from taking the steps three at a time. Now that she’s caught up with Vex, now that she can hear the catch in her breathing, now that she can see her clenched jaw and narrowed eyes, she doesn’t know what to say. She’s not good at this, never has been, but hells, maybe there are only so many harsh words you can hear from family before they stop meaning anything, because she reaches out and grabs Vex’s hand and starts walking.

“Keyleth.” It’s more of a resigned sigh than a rebuke, the special brand of exasperation that sometimes gets under Keyleth’s skin because it’s just a little bit condescending, just a little bit of a jab at her naiveté. “I think I just want to be alone.”

Not trusting herself to speak around the lump in her throat, Keyleth squeezes Vex’s hand distractedly, and pauses, unsure of her direction after the headlong dash through the corridors. She can find her way through forests and mountains and even open sky without losing her path, but the human-built enclosure of the castle still trips her up, sometimes, much as she’s come to think of it as another home. Now the labyrinthine walls feel like a betrayal of that budding familiarity, and the knot in her chest tightens at the thought.

Vex sighs, pulling her hand free and crossing her arms. “Two lefts to the main gate. Come on, then. Let’s go find something to drink that’s strong enough to beat Grog at arm-wrestling.”

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Tengen Toppa Gurren Lagann (天元突破グレンラガン)

Simon and Nia, battle-weary and worn out, illustrated by Sushio (すしお) as part of a set of MOVIC (ムービック) stick posters. The illustration appears again in the art book Gurren Lagann Art Works (Amazon US | JP).

I think one of my favorite things about Baze Malbus is that he sees surly, closed off, battle weary killing machines, and thinks “Those guys look life friends.” He thinks a man in the midst of carrying out an assassination has the face of a friend. He calls a hardened child soldier leading a suicide mission “Little Sister.” He knows they’ve done things, but he still sees them as friends and people, and that makes me emotional.

thirtythreebetadelta  asked:

Hi! Can I please request headcanons for Optimus Prime not being a morning person? 🐝

The alarms were blaring throughout the base. Grumbling something unintelligible and rolling over onto his front, Optimus threw his arm up over his audials to block out the noise. Even though it happened every single morning, it still felt as though it was far too early to be functional as the heavy footsteps of battle-weary Autobots echoed down the huge corridors. Optimus heard a quiet sshhhk of his door sliding open and closed again with no noise being heard in between, it was the most obvious hint that it was you, the footsteps too stealthy to even be heard. 

He counted the seconds as you approached. 1… 2… 3… …17, 18… Finally, there was a tiny hand placed over top of the throbbing audial flare where you could reach. As though touching it were a button, the alarm ceased and silence settled throughout the base once more save for the muffled voices of the others outside. Your voice was gentle as you stroked the metal.


A groan of dismay from the gigantic Autobot.

“The others are already awake, you should come out and refuel.”

Another groan, and a dismissive curl of steam rising from the exhaust pipes on his back. I heard you the first time.

You sat there, stroking the sensitive metal of the leader’s helm while he huffed and mumbled his way into alertness. A finial flicked. Optics cracked open with a sliver of blue. Systems beeped and booted up, and an engine idled on with a low, healthy rumble.

Optimus rolled over onto his back, giving you the opening to crawl up over his chest and lean against the crook of his neck to stroke the cables there. He let out a heavy exvent and stared unfocused at the ceiling of the base’s room, letting a hand come up to cradle you against him. When you started stroking along those long finials, he let out a quiet, throaty moan and his optics slipped shut once more.

“Five more minutes?” He pleaded sleepily. 

You rolled your eyes and smiled to yourself, admiring the bot’s beautiful features, though you complied and continued your ministrations. There wasn’t anything particularly important that needed to be done today. No Decepticons on the scanners. No attacks on their base. Fowler wasn’t banging on their door asking for explanations. The other Autobots were healthy and happy, all things considered. 

Everything was doing… pretty alright.

“Five more minutes.”


A Solavellan Drabble
Takes place during What Pride Has Wrought

One thing that still always blows me away is knowing that at some point, however brief, Solas decided to abandon his duty to be with Lavellan. Obviously he backed out, but I was thinking a lot about when and what that moment of truth happened in my canon, which led to this little drabble. 

She watches him as they make their way through the Temple’s entrance that has been all but claimed by the surrounding jungle. He had known of what to expect when the Inquisition had first become aware of the activity in the Arbor Wilds, had prepared himself for the inevitable. Mythal’s temple would merely be a shadow of what it once had been, like all the forgotten temples and ruins still remaining. 

Seeing it in person however, was another matter entirely.

“I am sorry, Solas.” She turns to him while The Iron Bull is busy clearing a path of rubble for them to proceed.

He pauses at her odd statement.

“What have you to be sorry about?”

“Ancient elves are your passion. To be in a place like this, and have no time to explore its memories in the fade? It must be quite a disappointment.”

“My attitude is in deference to the lives and people that once filled these temple walls, not to any lost opportunity for me to study them. I know our mission is to come first, Inquisitor.”

Her eyes meet his, before darting away to look at a piece of crumbled statue on the ground. She gives a little shrug. 

“It’s okay to be a little selfish about it. I know keepers that would sacrifice their first born to be where we are now.”  She exhales harshly, turning her head aside so all he sees is a flash of dark hair. “I just hope whatever Corypheus is doing here won’t do any further damage.”

“There is little more he could do that hasn’t already been turned to ashes several times over.”

“I suppose so.”

She reaches for his hand and gives him a gentle squeeze before moving ahead to direct the group deeper into the temple.

He mulls over her words as they walk past walls that once gleamed like diamonds, and now stood bare and eroded by time and the elements. He had been far more selfish than she knew. Selfish enough to think he could keep duty and love separate, instead of the opposing forces they were. The time was quickly reaching the point where one would have to come before the other.

He watches now as she puzzles over the altar, with words on the tip of his tongue. Yet he remains silent;  another truth held back, another secret hoarded that churns inside him so strongly he feels the weight of it could nearly crush him. Especially here of all places, where memories lurk behind every cracked ruin and faded mosaic. He had seen these rooms in all their grandeur and walked their floors to perform the very rituals that blocked their path forward.

So he sits, weary from battle as he leans his weight onto his staff in the dusty bones of his former world, and feigns ignorance to the witch’s baseless speculations next to him. He does not trust himself to speak from the grief that threatens to rise up his throat at any moment. He focuses his attention instead back to the Inquisitor, allowing her once more to act as his anchor to this world.

After several failed attempts, she stops and stares at the altar, finger counting a beat in the air. Something has clicked, and now her back straightens, her movements becoming almost dance like. 

He blinks; realizing it is a dance, however subtle. There are no dramatic whirls or flourishes, but a fluidity in her stance that speaks to a familiarity to the pattern as runes begin to activate after thousands of years of being inert. The dance is not flawless; and with each misstep the runes stutter and fade out, until she steps back and tries again. She repeats the pattern and adjusts; his heart beating rapidly against his chest as he recognizes what she has created. 

A medley of Ancient and Dalish; a combination of faithful contemplation and ritualistic dance that had been passed down to her through generations of elves that came before her. 

And it works. A connection from his world to hers; a small spark that still remained in this shattered temple. She glances over towards him, eyes bright and skin aglow from the light of the fully active runs.  

There was still hope, in these people.

Perhaps…he could be selfish.

Lotance: On a whim Part 2

The group returns to the castle in tense silence.

Lance has been captured, however willingly he left, and they could do nothing to prevent it. As a leader, Shiro feels as if he failed. He’s seen what the Galra can do to a person, and yet, he let Lance go. He wonders if fighting back would have accomplished anything; they were very much outnumbered, and overpowered. As a tactical move, letting Lance go was the only option that let all of them live. It doesn’t mean that he agrees with it.

Pidge knows that her weakness is in her physical strength. Fighting was never her forte; so she focused instead on what she was good at: computers. If she had’ve tried harder in training, put in more effort like Keith did, maybe Lance wouldn’t have had to accept the deal. As Allura and Coran flittered about, setting the cryo-pods to heal their injuries, Keith paces the room, almost running into them more than once. His arm still bleeds from the gash on his shoulder, creating a trail of blood where he walks. She wonders how much he blames himself; while Lance is her best friend, he’s Keith’s everything.

Hunk is more sore than injured really. Okay, sure, he has cuts and bruises like the best of them, but that pales in comparison to the injuries that Pidge, Keith and Shiro have sustained. They actually need the cryo-pod. Hunk is only gonna use one because he’ll be more useful not sore. He hopes that they heal fast; it could take up to a week potentially, but Lance shouldn’t have to even spend a day in Prince Lotor’s grasp. He decides not to think about what Lotor is doing to him now. He decides to not think about Lance with a robotic leg or arm of head. He decides not to think at all.

Keith wants to hit something. Hard. He wants to break something into a million pieces, but he can’t, not here. It’s not like the thing he wants to hit is here anyways. Prince Lotor. How had they not expected Zarkon to have a successor? It was almost painful to think of how stupid they’d been. A prison ship, completely uncloaked and close to their last known location? What the hell could it be other than a trap? Keith does another lap around the room, only to almost run into the open door of Pidge’s pod.

Allura frowns. “Enough.” She rests a hand on her shoulder, in a deceptively gentle way; She could break his shoulder if she wanted to, and she knows that he knows it. “You need to heal too. Pacing isn’t going to get him back any sooner.”

Keith almost growls. “Wasting time in a damn pod isn’t gonna save him either.” He stares at his hands, scratched and marred with burns. “I couldn’t save him.”

Allura is quiet when she speaks, her tone softer. “Lance knew what he was doing. Give him some credit; he cared about you enough to willingly walk into the arms of the enemy.” She leads him to a pod. The others are already inside theirs, and seem almost peaceful, as if they are asleep and not in a medically induced coma. “Now heal up, so that you can get Lance back.”

Keith is too tired to argue anymore. His adrenaline rush is finally leaving him, and the weariness of battles lost seeps into his bones. He’s wants to stay awake, to find Lance all on his own, but Allura doesn’t even give him the chance to respond. She pushes him into the pod and closes the door. The last thing he sees before succumbing to sleep is her face, sad and unnoticing of his stare.

I’ll get you back Lance. I promise.


Lance’s neck burns at the touch of his collar. It’s a pretty gold thing, deceptive in its opulence. Every Time Lotor yanks at it, his neck chafes, and he’s sure it’ll start to bleed if the yanking continues.

“Dance with me.” The Galran Prince commands, a hand outstretched in invitation.

Lance shakes his head. “No thanks. I’m good.”

He pulls on the chain, forcing Lance to stumble closer to him. “Dance with me.” He repeats, more forcefully. Lance doesn’t have a choice, so he crosses the distance between them and drops his hand into Lotor’s. The prince smiles, and Lance holds back a shudder.

Music plays from a speaker out of sight, and they dance.


Pidge is the last to heal.

Keith paces nervously, anxiously as they wait for the last few ticks to pass by. Shiro and Allura are still talking battle tactics, and while he knows that it would be more helpful to listen in, to provide insight, he instead chooses to pace. He paces because it’s better than sitting there, doing nothing while Pidge heals and Lance waits, somewhere deep in the grasp of the Galra.

“We may have found him.” Allura says, turning to face him. Her face still looks tired, with dark circles under her eyes and her eye markings a dimmer shade of blue. “But we can’t be sure unless you actually check.” She turned to the console, and pressed a few buttons causing a hologram to expand around them. Mixed in the swirl of lights were several clusters of purple, each one surrounding a darkening purple light. “Lotor knew that you’d try to get Lance back as soon as possible, so he set up several decoys, each one hosting either him or a general, with a cluster of fighter ships guarding them. There are four that he’d be likely to go to.” She points at one of the cluster’s the closest to the decoy prison ship’s location. “Here,” she turns and points to one in the opposite direction, close to a blue sun. “Here,” She moves the holo-map to the left, and points out another. “Here, and…” She scrolls to the opposite side of the map and points at the final coordinates, “Here.”

Shiro crosses his arms. “He was smart. The only way we’ll be able to search without giving away our location, is to split up. We have to attack simultaneously, so that they won’t be able to warn the others about the incoming attack.” Shiro sighed. “Which also lessens our defenses. One lion per sector, is our only choice.”

Behind them, Pidge stumbles out of her healing pod into Hunk’s arms. “Geez.” She wobbles. “That felt weird.”

Hunk helps her out of the room, presumingly to the kitchen.

Keith stops his pacing. “After Pidge eats, we can finally start looking.” The horrible heaviness he’s felt since they returned without Lance finally lifts; they can get him back soon. He’ll finally come home.

Shiro shakes his head. “Not until we have a better grasp on their defenses. The last time we rushed in their half-assed and got overwhelmed. This time, we’re each going out on our own; if we aren’t prepared, someone could end up dead.”

As much as Keith wants to ignore him, go to his lion and fly to the nearest coordinates, he knows Shiro is right. If they all rushed out their half-assed, someone else could get captured or worse, and then they’d be right back to where they started: missing a paladin.

“I hope he’s okay out there.” Keith says, staring at the holo-map. He could be anywhere, he thinks, but Keith will find him anyways, no matter what it takes.

Told Ya

Characters: Sam, Dean, Reader

Pairing: None

Warnings: None, just fluffy humor

Word Count: 1,022

Summary: What happens when Reader gets curious about Sam’s green smoothie? Hilarity ensues, that’s what.

A/N: I kept the reader as neutral as possible – MJ can be interpreted as any gender, in any ship you prefer. Special thanks to @jerkbitchidjitassbutt for her advice and expertise (love you, girl!).

The Impala cruised along, effortlessly gliding over the long, dark stretch of highway. The radio was off and conversation had long since dwindled, leaving nothing but the familiar soothing, throaty growl of the engine to lull you into a state of blissful relaxation. You stretched your battle-weary limbs and reclined across the length of the backseat. Dean remained intently focused on the road, while Sam gazed out the window as he sipped contentedly on… something. What is that? you wondered. You hadn’t even noticed the cup in his hand until now. Where did he even get that? The contents looked like pureed Martian, but Sam seemed to be enjoying it. You were intrigued…

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anonymous asked:

The skelebros (however many you are willing to take per ask) of your choosing have an SO that works in customer service. One day, while the skelebros are visiting/dropping by, a customer gets very upset and starts screaming at SO and their coworkers. SO ends up with a broken nose before security steps in. SO just resets their nose and continues about their day like this is totally normal.

((I don’t have a character limit, so I just went ahead and did the main 4 sets plus Error cuz I really like him))

UT Sans: Jeeze kid. "i nose you say you’re fine, but do me a favor and take a break.” He’s going to sit with you through your break and might follow you around for part of the day, but if you say you’re fine then who is he to argue? He’s not going to push you but he’s also going to drop subtle hints here and there that you should take the rest of the day and come home with him. “i’d love to cuddle with someone on the couch, but it’s not the same when you’re not there.” “you know in some human cultures they take a nap at noon? what’cha think, babe, should we try it?”

UT Paps: He is going to fuss over you like a mother-hen. While he’s impressed with your combat prowess he can’t believe someone would hit you! He’s going to have some very stern words (and overcooked spaghetti) for them very soon! He is going to ask if you’re okay no less than once every two minutes. If after the first half hour you insist you’re still fine, he’s going to point out that your nose might have started to turn purple and he doesn’t think that’s normal for human–UNLESS OF COURSE IT IS! IN WHICH CASE, I ENJOY THE NEW COLOR VERY MUCH!

UF Sans:  He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t impressed. He’d also be lying if he said he wasn’t scared shitless. You really know how to give him anxiety, don’t you? It’s good that you can take a hit but you should never have to. He’s not going to fuss over you and if you act like it’s not a big deal, he’s not going to either. 

You will, however, find a bag of frozen peas on your counter (with the receipt and your name tapped to it). 

UF Paps:  He’ll insist on training everyone who works there. The entire staff is going to be prepared if and when it happens again. WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU CAN’T HIT THE CUSTOMERS?! He’ll also insist that, while your work is important, a warrior must recuperate after a battle. The last thing he needs is a battle-weary S/O. It’s hard to miss the admiration in his voice though. You handled yourself better than he thought a human could AND you were willing to continue working afterwards. He won’t allow it, but he can appreciate the sentiment. 

US Sans: He’s likely to gasp in shock. While impressed with your work ethic, he insists that you take the rest of the day off! He know exactly what will make you feel better and that’s… rest and something cold for you soft human nose. You thought he would make you tacos? HUMAN IF YOU WANTED TACOS SO BADLY YOU DIDN’T HAVE TO GET INTO A FIGHT TO GET THEM! He’ll always make you tacos, all you have to do is ask!

US Paps: There are three things in the world that people don’t get to touch: his brother, you, and his honey. He’s going to joke with you, but his puns and joke are going to sound a little forced and the grin on his face is going to be pulled just a bit tighter. “guess that customer is going to have to face the consequence.” He might tease you a bit, but once he’s sure you’re okay, he might take off for a while. That customer is going to get a very NASTY surprise threat. 

SF Sans: It’s very unlikely that security would get to step in. Look, you’re his S/O–he knows you can handle it. (It doesn’t actually matter if you can’t, he has your back 100% and fully believes you capable of doing impossible things.) That aside, he’s probably all over the customer the second that they started yelling at you. He probably threw the first hit. Fair warning, the second you crack your nose back into place (if there’s only a few people or you’re alone) he’s going to look at you for a solid three seconds like a love-struck doe. 

Enjoy it, it’s a look you will not see often. He’ll boast that he expects nothing less for the mate of the Mighty and Terrible Sans! But… if you need to take a few minutes… it wouldn’t hurt anyone… He’ll probably also bring you several ice packs through the day and take you out for you lunch break–he had it planned anyway! Stop pestering him! 

SF Paps: He’s gonna beat himself up. You can insist that you’re fine and not hurt all you want, but he feels like a complete failure. He let someone hit you. He. Let. You. Get. Hit. Don’t just go back to business as normal, don’t do that to him. Look, he knows you’re not made of glass but spend the rest of day with him. If you can stand the sting, press your head into his chest. He feels the most comfortable with his arms around you, because that’s where you’re safest. 

That’s not to say he won’t be paying that customer a visit later. 

ERROR Sans:  He’s probably gonna miss you resetting your nose, but then again nobody is going to find that customer’s body. There is a fine, fine line in the sand and that line reads “if you touch my s/o, you’re not going to live”. Hitting will SET THIS GUY OFF. Since security had to step in, the customer wouldn’t have even apologized–not that it would have helped. 

You might have to actually stop him from gently deter him from destroying your universe. You probably couldn’t stop it if he really wanted to end your universe. (Pro tip: so long as you’re alive, that universe is good. He might say how he’s just “saving it for last” but really, as long as you’re in it it’s safe. Which is why you shouldn’t let him take you out of it much and if he does, keep him in sight–if you lose track of him, it might not be there when you get back.) 

earnmysong  asked:

jyn & cassian, i've got fireflies where my caution should be... (for the meme)

where my caution should be. all ages. 1.2k words.

After Scarif, some attachments aren’t so easily left behind, even when they’re inconvenient. In a war, that has consequences.

Prompt: I think I’ve got fireflies where my caution should be. (Instead of slowing down, I just shine brighter.)

{read at ao3}

His last glimpse of Jyn for a very long time is the incoming light playing in her hair, strands escaping in the rising wind. She smells of the standard soap on Yavin Four, sea salt, and singed plastic. The copper tang of blood lurks beneath, but that’s easy to ignore. He holds her tighter. He holds her as if the light will not tear him away, scattering his particles across the world.

I am glad you’re here with me, he says, or she says, or both. Their hearts beat in time, slow and restful.

The plans stream across countless stars. He chooses to believe, because she does, that somewhere, someone listens to the greatest difference he has ever made to the galaxy. Their names will turn to dust like their bodies, but this legacy will live on.

“Thank you,” he whispers into her ear. Her fire forged the last bricks on this path. He will not forget, for what remains of his life.


The rest of his life is longer than he thinks.


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Thoughts on The 100 S4 Premiere:

- How can you not talk about the Bellarke chemistry? I’ve shipped them since S1, and it’s good to see that the ship now has a very strong chance of happening this season

- Watching Jasper’s suicidal behavior is like a twisting knife in the gut. I’m proud of the way the writers are handling him. Jasper says he wants an “upgrade” because after the world has been saved, he feels he has no purpose in life. He wants his last moments to be himself staring at a painting that reminds him of Maya. It’s sad and sweet. Jasper also wrote Monty a suicide note, which I think Monty will end up finding later.

- I used to roll my eyes whenever someone called Clarke “Princess” but here it was an adorable callback. All of the characters are so battle-weary that it’s refreshing whenever we get to see their old S1 selves peak out. 

- With Murphy’s character development, I was afraid that he’d become boring and lose all of his villainous bite. But nope. Even if he’s for the most part redeemed, he’s still a bit snake-ish, stealing a gun and ducking away from his people. 

- Harper and Monty :D

- Octavia is still a lil’ badass.

- Kane as a father figure to Bellamy <3. I still believe the crackpot theory that Kane will be revealed as Bellamy’s biological father.

[ Request: Chibs imagine, where he’s watching his twin daughters while his wife is at work and it’s kinda tough ] - i didn’t know how old you wanted the twins to be, so I decided to make them toddlers to give him a little extra slice of hell. 😂 

“You sure you can handle them all day, babe?” you asked. You turned to your husband who was leaned against the doorway, watching you with a smile as you applied your makeup in the bathroom mirror. “I mean, I’m not going to be home until at least five, and they can be a lot to handle for just one person.” 

You were getting ready to leave for work when your nanny had called and said she couldn’t watch your twins today. Chibs insisted he could stay home with them so you wouldn’t have to miss work, but you weren’t sure he really knew what he was signing up for. Your daughters were just a few weeks shy of four, and they were 100% energy all the time. As much as you loved your girls, you knew they were more than a handful, and they left behind a trail of chaos wherever they went. 

Today would be the first time Chibs had stayed with both of the girls entirely on his own, and you were skeptical of how he was going to handle it. Chibs may have been able to deal with all the shit that happened with the club, but three-year-old twin girls were an entirely different story.

“I’ve dealt with much worse,” he laughed, “I think I can handle my own girls.” He flashed you a toothy grin before leaning over and placing a kiss on your forehead. “Don’t worry, love.”

You smirked and turned back to the mirror. “If you say so.” 


“Aye, stop running in the house, loves,” Chibs groaned. He pushed his hair back and sighed loudly as he collapsed onto the couch. He had never witnessed two children with as much energy as these two seemed to have, and they were wearing him out. The moment one kid mellowed out, the other was off somewhere getting into trouble. He couldn’t seem to keep up with them, and he was convinced they were multiplying. It’s like they were challenging each other to see who could make their dad wave the white flag first, and he was at a loss. He was amazed that you managed to have the energy to chase down two toddlers every single day. It had only been a few hours, and they were already kicking his ass.

“Daddy!” a soft little voice called from somewhere in the hallway. 

Chibs looked up in confusion. There was now just one of the twins sitting on the living room rug. “Shit,” he mumbled to himself, wondering how the other child had managed to sneak off so quickly without him noticing. He stood from the couch and walked down the hallway. The second twin was standing at the end of the hallway, a crayon in her hand and a grin on her face. Chibs made a face. He already knew what had happened. 

“Daddy, look!” the precious child exclaimed.

Chibs pursed his lips and turned his eyes to the wall. Your child had drawn what Chibs could only assume was an artistic representation of how he felt right now. The squiggles and lines went halfway down the hall. The little girl looked up at her father, her brown eyes bright and excited. She was clearly proud of her work. Chibs couldn’t even be mad at her. Especially not with a face like that.

“I see, love,” he told her, flashing her a loving smile. The little girl’s eyes may have looked like Chibs’, but the way they shone with excitement and wonder reminded him of you. 

He let out another loud sigh and scooped the toddler up from the floor, walking towards the kitchen to grab any cleaning products that might help remove the new decorations on your walls. He loved his daughters more than he could ever explain, but he couldn’t wait until you finally got home.


You opened your front door to reveal Chibs standing in the middle of the living room. His hair was a mess, and his eyes were wide and distraught. He looked like he had just emerged from battle, weary and defeated. You couldn’t help but smirk at his appearance. You had given him fair warning after all.

“Jesus Christ.” Chibs dropped the toys he had been holding in both of his hands. He crossed the living room and enveloped you in a tight hug. “I’ve never been so happy to see you, love,” he mumbled against your shoulder. He looked up at you, a bewildered expression on his face. “I don’t know how you do it,” he continued, shaking his head. “Our children are absolute heathens.” 

You let out an amused laugh and pulled back from your husband. “Tough day, huh?” 

He nodded his head. “They’re a lot to keep up with.” 

You playfully rolled your eyes and walked into the living area, glancing around the room. “Speaking of keeping up with them, where are our kids, babe?” 

Chibs sighed and tiredly flopped himself down onto the couch. “They’re sleeping like little angels now.” He watched you sink down onto the couch beside him. “You’re amazing, you know that?”

You kicked off your shoes and snuggled up beside your old man. A smirk played at your lips. “Yeah, I know.” 

“Honestly, I don’t know how you do it,” he continued. He took your hand in his and raised it to his lips, placing a kiss on the back. “You’re a saint, love.” 

Chibs looked down at you as you lay with your head against his chest. A proud smile formed on his lips. He knew now that he didn’t tell you nearly enough how much he appreciated you and everything you did for him and your girls. He couldn’t believe how lucky he was to have a woman as strong as you. 

You looked up at your old man and grinned. “Tell me more about how amazing I am.” 

Chibs pressed a kiss to the top of your head. “Anything for you, my love.” 

If You Want

By Skyler10

Summary: Tentoo and Rose have just been left alone on the beach in Norway. But what kind of life do they each envision “spending it with you” entails?

Notes: For a variety of @doctorroseprompts Tentoo x Rose prompts this week, but specifically “just after the beach, figuring things out.“

Read on Ao3

He had known this was coming. It was his mind in another body that had devised it, after all. But it didn’t make it any easier to see the pain and confusion on Rose’s face as she stared at the spot in the sand where the TARDIS had been.

She understood the explanations left unsaid, he knew. He didn’t doubt her clever mind had worked out the Time Lord’s intentions. But her heart would need more time. More time for what, he wasn’t sure, but his inner Donna told him to be sensitive and the rest of him was all too eager to put off difficult conversations if it meant he could keep her holding on to his hand for dear life as she had been since the dematerlization sequence made the blue box pulse out of sight. Feeling lucky (the luckiest man in existence), he had slipped his palm against hers and entwined their fingers. He’d held his breath until she made a move in response. Would she pull away? Shout? Cry?

No, she stroked his thumb with her own and met his gaze.

The sun set rather quickly on their walk to the nearest village. They were only a few miles out, but it progressed in bursts of questions from Jackie, which he answered as best he could, and carefully worded questions from him about this universe and their time here that received short, nervous answers from Rose. The whole thing was so out of character for the three of them that it was almost comical, but none of them dared comment on it.

They reached a seaside bed and breakfast with a (fitting) nautical theme just as their stomachs began to rumble.

“I’ll check in,” Jackie offered when they reached the oak captain wheel that served as a reception desk. “You two go on.” She nodded to the dining area where the other guests were gathering for the evening meal.

Rose checked the Doctor’s face to see what he thought, but he just shrugged and said, “After you.”

Keep reading

Since I’m just as scared and sad and worried about the outcome of Tuesday’s election as many other Americans… I want to imagine what would happen if it was Cassie who won the 2016 presidential election.  When the policymakers lowered the minimum age to run from 35 to 30, it was Jake they had in mind (after all, he received over 50,000 write-in votes for the 2004 election) but most people are just as happy to have Cassie in charge.  

Imagine that she runs on a Democratic ticket, because she has to choose a party if she wants a nomination, but that neither party knows what to make with her.  She makes speeches in jeans and hiking boots, morphs wolf and runs the campaign trail rather than wasting money on a helicopter, and doesn’t so much set up photoshoots as she gets caught accidentally by photographers in her moments of being awesome: feeding pigeons on a bench in Wisconsin, listening intently to little girls who want to be just like her under the Arizona sun, helping one of her own interns change his flat tire midway through Louisana, plunging elbows-deep into a calf birthing gone wrong at an Iowa farm.  

Imagine that she’s a little shy, a little awkward, during her speeches, but that people lean in to listen to her anyway.  Anyone who hears her—either during one of her many informal gatherings or through their home televisions—knows why it is that this short, overweight, soft-spoken young black woman captures American idealism in a way that forty-three tall, bellowing white men never have.  She doesn’t make grandiose promises, and she doesn’t use fancy campaign slogans.  Instead she tells them honestly, in plainspoken language, that she’s angry.  That she’s an idealist who has been battered and shoved around by this harsh, ugly world since she was thirteen years old.  That she’s tired.  Tired of being called an American hero one month and reduced to her gender and race the next month.  Tired of inequality, of loss, of seeing poverty and hatred all around her.  Tired of this country dismissing its poor and ignoring its minorities.  

Imagine that it’s not all smooth sailing and easy wins, because as much as she wants change she still has to live in this world.  So the press tell her she’s too young, too battle-hardened, too uneducated, too well-connected, too unpolished.  People use unrepeatable words when talking about her, and she can’t turn into a polar bear and threaten them all.  People comment on her hair, her body, her fashion choices, and she doesn’t have Rachel there to defend her.  She averages three hours of sleep most nights, and she and Ronnie barely get to see each other in between press events.  People give her pitying looks whenever she mentions one of her boys—Ax and Jake, Tobias and Marco—in the present tense, and unflinchingly declares that until she hears official news of their deaths she’ll keep assuming they’re out there somewhere, thanks.  Conservative pundits make veiled pokes at her competency any time she talks openly about her nightmares, her insomnia, and her other battle scars.  

Imagine she wins anyway.  That she’s the first female president, the first African-American woman to shatter that glass ceiling, that she’s the youngest president in history, that she attracts more conservative voters than any Democrat before or since.  That she makes a short and humble acceptance speech, then rolls up her sleeves and gets to work the instant January 20 rolls around.

Imagine that for four years, she chooses diplomacy over war.  She cuts taxes and brings in thousands of new jobs when she dismantles all the parts of the U.S. military that are unnecessary in light of the new kind of warfare the yeerks brought to this planet, repurposing those resources and those funds and those selfless warriors to building this country up from the inside.  She shatters monopolies and cracks down unforgivingly on racism and classism and religious fear and hatred in all its forms.  She speaks softly and carries a very big stick in the form of the millions of Americans whose lives she has changed for the better—with education reform and new health care policies, with business incentives and job creation—who will defend their president to the death.  

Imagine she gets re-elected by a landslide, even though she spends almost the entire election season helping Florida bring in a new immigrant-citizenship program and all but misses her own campaign.  That her opponent is smiling as he concedes defeat.  That she sits him down the day after the election ends and tells him he had some good ideas for small-business startup incentives, and she’d like to hire him on as her Secretary of Labor.  

Imagine that during her presidency, unity triumphs over division.  That love triumphs over hatred and the common identity of being human triumphs over all other meaningless distinctions between people.  That the economy thrives and human rights move forward in huge bounds of legislation.  That even the people who don’t agree with the president will admit she knows what she’s doing.  

Imagine that as the President of the United States she is one of the first people alerted when the U.S.’s andalite allies spot an unidentified flying object fast approaching Earth’s atmosphere from the outer reaches of the solar system.  Imagine she’s the one who officially accepts the salutation from the craft, tears in her eyes.  

Imagine that she’s standing there on the Washington Mall when the Rachel touches down on the grass and the seven warriors—two of them nothlits, three of them far from where they started, all of them battle-weary but so grateful to be returning at long last—step off the ramp of the fighter and onto the soft grasses of home.