father of terror

Things that I DON’T want from The Last Jedi
  • Kylo’s sad back story
  • Kylo redemption arc
  • Kylo sad crying face
  • People treating Kylo like he’s not that bad
  • People dying for trying to “give him a chance”
  • Luke making up excuses for Kylo
    • Anyone not acknowledging he’s gone to the dark side by choice and killed hundreds and killed his own father and tortured and terrorized the main trio 
3

Monster (Carl x Reader)

“Imagine being Negan’s daughter. Simon lets you go scavenging around in the area outside the Sanctuary, but you end up lost. Everything will change when you run into the son of your fathers enemy.”

A/N: Just something random I did up to take a break in between requests.

Warnings: Swearing and Spoilers from season 7.


You weren’t sure what exactly you were planning. The sun had already started to set and you knew that your dad wasn’t going to be happy when he found out that you had left the Sanctuary. Simon had told you ‘just a few hours’ and that was the original plan but you got lost pretty quick. You hoped that your dad wouldn’t be too hard on Simon, he had trouble saying no to you and you enjoyed his company when your dad was out terrorizing the other settlements or with one of his many ’wives’. You continued to move through the thick brush as you tried to find something that looked familiar.

You heard the branch snap from behind you and you reacted quicker then you thought you could. You had tackled the assailant behind you, about to drive your knife into his skull before you noticed the color of his skin. The boy took your shock to his advantage and threw you off of him. You moved to get back to your feet but you heard the safety click off of his gun.

“Don’t move, put your hands up…”

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Happy Father’s Day!!


(…it IS father’s day right?? I mean in our country there’s only one day called father’s day on the date of mother’s day so i barely even knew about it;;)
(Also I speed-drew this in 2 hours
Please forgive me if it’s bad ; w ; )

(The Kardreamscapians (ft’s entire family)+Night Terror series belong to Mx.Bones/Deo, Drawn with ibispaint, like + reblog plz, + Happy Father’s dayyy)

anonymous asked:

it always bothers me that after claire save marshali from the pirates, jamie doesn't give her any credit for being brave he just scolds or focuses on her wound. would love to see a missing scene where he thanks claire for taking care of his stepdaughter

Humble Pirate  (or some less terrible title)

Mod Bonnie says: 

Okay, lads and lasses: this falls fully into the category of CANON REWRITE. To refresh your memory on why anon (and I!!!!) get ragey about this: 


CANON says: 

Voyager, Chapter 54, Diana Gabaldon

[….]


FANFICTION SAYS… 

Do you honestly—” I choked out, absolutely, blisteringly, and woozily outraged, “—HONESTLY—think I went above decks in the middle of a sea-battle looking for—a THRILL?? A casual funtime adventure?!?” 

“I THINK—” he said, snarling between clenched teeth, “—you’re so heedless and cock-sure of yourself, woman, ye somehow thought ye could be of USE and—”

Cock-sure?” I gaped at him, hoping my face was contorted with exactly as much disgust as I felt. “Ohhh, that is RICH, coming from you, James Fraser.” 

“This isna about me, Sassenach—” 

I threw up my good hand. “Could have BLOODY fooled me!” 

“What this is ABOUT, is—” 

And ‘DO I KNOW that I came damn close to dying’?? Why, YES, Jamie, I had the *slightest* premonition of it, RIGHT around the same time as I was being chased and slashed at by a cutlass-wielding maniac.”

My voice was hoarse with screaming and ragged from waves of pain but NOT meek. I struggled halfway up, panting, and Jamie (who had the absolute gall to look exasperated) tried to force me back down. *Tried,* mind. “And as for ‘will I never do as I’m told’…” My head reeled with the excruciating effort of remaining upright, but I glared at him with all my strength. “…Lesson *bloody learned,* my infallible lord and master. I’ll just sit obediently in the corner with my hands in my lap next time and allow your daughter to be raped, *SHALL I*?” 

And that, at last, got his attention, for he went as white and still as death. 

It only threw gasoline on my fire. “And YOU coming in here all—looming over me all—and—banging your fucking fists—” I panted and spluttered. “Not bothering to ASK me what happened or WHY I might have chosen to put myself in danger—Just—shouting and threatening like I was no more to you than—And you—YOU—Oh, Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ, Jamie….” I was still spitting with indignation, but the pain was overwhelming most everything else, and I fell back onto the pillow as my vision began clouding over with black. “Did Marsali not TELL you what happened?” 

“No.” Quiet. Restrained. “She—She’s been so distraught for ye, she’s scarcely gotten more than ten words out…” 

I waited, blinking up from my pillow. I could smell the blood on him, still—gunpowder—the sweat of battle—fear.  

“Was the lass…” He didn’t meet my eye, but I could see the muscles of his face working as he tried to muster up the courage to ask it. “…being attacked?”

Lord, the pain in those five words—his memories of his own trauma and that of those he loved; his fears and insecurities as a father; the terror and concern and love and barely-contained drive for vengeance over what I’d implied could have happened to Marsali. 

I wanted to be angry at him still. Well, and I was, at that. I had every bloody right to scold him into next year—but I lowered my voice. 

“Marsali got frightened when the cannon-fire started, and she bolted. It’s easy to forget how young she really is, you know? She was too terrified to heed me calling her back. I had to chase after her—Couldn’t find her or hardly even see in the dark—and I was shouting for her, shouting, and I—I heard her scream and—” 

Jamie’s jaw clenched tight but he didn’t say a word, nor did he look up from the floor between his feet. 

“By the time I found her, one of the pirates—a huge brute—had come down into the hold, grabbed her, and had her clutched by the arm. She was doing her best to fight him off, but he was triple her size and—” I heaved a deep breath to keep the blackness at bay. “—And I just….I had to get her away from him…in any way I could.” 

He looked up at me, and his eyes were still and bared to his soul. He tried to say something, but gave up, that gaze imploring me.

“So I slashed at him—cut off his toe, I think, and that set off a rage in him, naturally, and—” I shrugged, “—I couldn’t think of anything except to let him chase me, so I ran as far away from Marsali as I could—barely could see two feet in front of me, just—ran—and—” I shuddered, violently, a latent panic attack, I remarked absently, as the remembered terror coursed through my body. “There was so much mayhem on deck, the only place that seemed safe was UP, somehow, and —I was—c-climbing the rigging—I thought surely with what I’d done to his foot, he couldn’t climb—but he could, and he was gain—gaining, and—If the bloody pe—pelican hadn’t knocked the bastard off balance…” 

Jamie reached for me, to comfort and soothe me—but then he faltered, and shrank back, ashamed. 

“Jamie…” Shaking, I reached for his hand, a peace offering. 

He accepted it and clasped my hand tight, gasping a little as he released the control he’d held over his emotions. “I’m…” He leaned over me to lay his forehead lightly on mine, to cradle my head in his hands. Looming, no longer: he offered me his warmth and his comfort; and, more importantly, his repentance

“I’m so verra sorry, mo chridhe,” he whispered, kissing my face and sniffing as he thumbed one of his own tears from my cheek. “Can ye forgive me?” 

I started to say, ‘of course,’ but he couldn’t seem to stop from blurting, “I was—I’ve been half-crazed wi’ fear that you’d die, Claire—” Jamie’s face was indeed wild, searching mine as though disbelieving, every sight and second. “Lord, I still am afraid that the wound—” He shook his head, his curls tickling my forehead. “But that’s no excuse for—for how I treated ye. And I’m sorry for it.”

“Well, no, it isn’t…” I ran my fingers back through his hair, still damp and dirty from the efforts of battle. “But thank you for saying it; and yes, I forgive you.” 

He made a little, soft sound—something between a sob and a sigh— and kissed me. 

“Perhaps next time…” My tone was light, loving, understanding, even if the message itself was difficult. “….you might start by assuming the best of my intentions, rather than the worst? One capable adult to another?” 

‘I promise.” Such gut-wrenching regret and shame. “I’m sorry I’m—such an arse. Ye deserve better…. I’ll be better.”

To his credit, he did not lower his eyes. They were looking right at me when all at once they brightened. “T’was verra brave and noble what ye did, for Marsali.” 

“’Noble’? I repeated, bewildered.

“Aye. Ye put yourself in such terrible danger, for a girl not even your own—Laoghaire’s daughter, of all people, who you’ve no great reason to love. Ye didna have to—” 

“For Heaven’s sake, Jamie, do you truly think so ill of me?” I felt the sparks of another bout of pain-addled indignation. “You think just because her mother happens to be a—” (raging, homicidal bitch) “—misery of a woman, I’d have left her to fend for herself?? To be—” 

“No, no, no, mo nighean donn,” he said at once, sitting up and showing a hint of laughter (perhaps at my careful epithet and perhaps the implied one, too), before his expression again went serious. “Jesus, never, I only meantjust—Ye risked your life for Marsali, and it….”

He squeezed my hand again; his voice was thick and cracked as he said, “…Thank you. Truly, I....Thank you. ” 

Not only for rescuing her, I thought, from the depth in that expression….

For accepting his life the way I’d found it; all of it, after a notably rocky start. For making the most of the challenging parts we could not change. For not letting petty things get in the way of the *new* life we had before us. 

I smiled and gripped his hand.  

Always, love.” 

Aight I was very busy but I’m done!
Wanted to do the background better tbh but meh
First time drawing my favorite clock man anyways :p
Well.. At least on the Ibispaint app!
Father Time (the character, obviously) belongs to Mx Bones!
(….Please like and reblog .. …-..ngh-.. please…)
maybe. .. .
.)..well, thank you for at least .. glancing at what I drew.. Means a lot.

Afraid and Happy -- 5 times Ronan came out to the Gangsey, and 1 time Adam did.

hello!! i have been writing this fic for ao3 for the past few weeks now, and it is finally done!! i posted a teaser of it a little while ago and it did well on here, so i supposed i would upload the rest of it? fair warning: this is about 10k words, but it’s worth the read! if you prefer to read it on ao3 it is here

Part 1—Ronan had always known he was gay. He may not have known it in words, but the thought was always there, pressing somewhere in the back of his mind, waiting until Ronan was ready to fully reveal itself. When he did put words to the music playing dully in the back of his mind, he kept it to himself.  Ronan told himself that he wasn’t embarrassed, or ashamed. He pretended that he was just waiting for a better time to make himself known, if there ever was such a time. Ronan thought that maybe his life would always be too full of dead fathers and night terrors to have room for such nonsense ideas as sexualities. Whatever excuses he came up with for hiding himself, it was all the same: he was afraid.

Those were the thoughts that clouded Ronan’s mind as he sat at a Nino’s booth with Noah, Gansey, and Adam on a Wednesday evening. The three of them were all talking of a homecoming dance, Ronan excluded.

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FANFIC * NESSIAN * PART THREE

Originally posted by evilbjork


Sorry for the delay! I’ve been on a damn quest, an adventure…an epic journey to get to my current location and I am finally here and part three is edited!! Just to let you know, the longer I take editing-the better these parts will come out. haha. Anywhoha, enjoy! :)  


Nessian Part Three by L.J. LaFleur 


“You stole something precious. Something sacred,” his gravelly voice made my skin crawl with bumps. Darkness surrounded me, blocking my view but I knew that voice. We had only come face-to-face a couple of times yet he was forever burned into my memory…my nightmares.

I could feel his breath on the back of my neck, tiny hairs pulling away from me. “You’re dead,” I shuddered, turning only to face nothing but an unending black pit. “I took off your head. I watched you die.” I almost stuttered, not out of complete fear, but outrage. I killed him, I twisted and twisted until his head popped off. It was a nightmare that I couldn’t outrun, bloody hands that I couldn’t get clean.

Hybern’s unnerving laughter echoed around me, I couldn’t tell where he positioned himself. “Nesta Archeon, the Cauldron thief.” Spit left his lips-hitting me on my neck. The smell of rot made my nose wrinkle with distaste. “The cauldron wants your gift back. It wants more than what you received and what you stole, it wants you.”

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OC Aesthetics → Jacob Baratheon (Rightful Prince of the Seven Kingdoms)

“He was a man of eight and ten, but he fought more battles than most of these greenlanders. As his father’s heir, he wears his war scars proudly and can command men twice his age. The son of Stannis Baratheon was afraid of nothing; he beat down Ironborn men and wildlings beneath the Wall. The Boltons and Freys have not seen the steel of Robert Baratheon reborn within his only nephew.”

The Third Elegy

by Rainer Maria Rilke

It is one thing to sing the beloved. Another, alas,
to invoke that hidden, guilty river-god of the blood.
Her young lover, whom she knows from far away–what does he know of
the lord of desire who often, up from the depths of his solitude,
even before she could soothe him, and as though she didn’t exist,
held up his head, ah, dripping with the unknown,
erect, and summoned the night to an endless uproar.
Oh the Neptune inside our blood, with his appalling trident.
Oh the dark wind from his breast out of that spiraled conch.
Listen to the night as it makes itself hollow. O stars,
isn’t it from you that the lover’s desire for the face
of his beloved arises? Doesn’t his secret insight
into her pure features come from the pure constellations?

Not you, his mother: alas, you were not the one
who bent the arch of his eyebrows into such expectation.
Not for you, girl so aware of him, not for your mouth
did his lips curve themselves into a more fruitful expression.
Do you really think that your gentle steps could have shaken him
with such violence, you who move like the morning breeze?
Yes, you did frighten his heart; but more ancient terrors
plunged into him at the shock of that feeling. Call him…
but you can’t quite call him away from those dark companions.
Of course, he wants to escape, and he does; relieved, he nestles
into your sheltering heart, takes hold, and begins himself.
But did he ever begin himself, really?
Mother, you made him small, it was you who started him;
in your sight he was new, over his new eyes you arched
the friendly world and warded off the world that was alien.
Ah, where are the years when you shielded him just by placing
your slender form between him and the surging abyss?
How much you hid from him then. The room that filled with suspicion
at night: you made it harmless; and out of the refuge of your heart
you mixed a more human space in with his night-space.
And you set down the lamp, not in that darkness, but in
your own nearer presence, and it glowed at him like a friend.
There wasn’t a creak that your smile could not explain,
as though you had long known just when the floor would do that…
And he listened and was soothed. So powerful was your presence
as you tenderly stood by the bed; his fate,
tall and cloaked, retreated behind the wardrobe, and his restless
future, delayed for a while, adapted to the folds of the curtain.

And he himself, as he lay there, relieved, with the sweetness
of the gentle world you had made for him dissolving beneath
his drowsy eyelids, into the foretaste of sleep-:
he seemed protected…But inside: who could ward off,
who could divert, the floods of origin inside him?
Ah, there was no trace of caution in that sleeper; sleeping,
yes but dreaming, but flushed with what fevers: how he threw himself in.
All at once new, trembling, how he was caught up
and entangled in the spreading tendrils of inner event
already twined into patterns, into strangling undergrowth, prowling
bestial shapes. How he submitted. Loved.
Loved his interior world, his interior wilderness,
that primal forest inside him, where among decayed treetrunks
his heart stood, light-green. Loved. Left it, went through
his own roots and out, into the powerful source
where his little birth had already been outlived. Loving,
he waded down into more ancient blood, to ravines
where Horror lay, still glutted with his fathers. And every
Terror knew him, winked at him like an accomplice.
Yes, Atrocity smiled…Seldom
had you smiled so tenderly, mother. How could he help
loving what smiled at him. Even before he knew you,
he had loved it, for already while you carried him inside you, it
was dissolved in the water that makes the embryo weightless.
No, we don’t accomplish our love in a single year
as the flowers do; an immemorial sap
flows up through our arms when we love. Dear girl,
this: that we loved, inside us, not One who would someday appear, but
seething multitudes; not just a single child,
but also the fathers lying in our depths
like fallen mountains; also the dried-up riverbeds
of ancient mothers-; also the whole
soundless landscape under the clouded or clear
sky of its destiny-: all this, my dear, preceded you.
And you yourself, how could you know
what primordial time you stirred in your lover. What passions
welled up inside him from departed beings. What
women hated you there. How many dark
sinister men you aroused in his young veins. Dead
children reached out to touch you…Oh gently, gently,
let him see you performing, with love, some confident daily task,
lead him out close to the garden, give him what outweighs
the heaviest night…
Restrain him…