dainesanddaffodils  asked:

Remember how Rumple once asked David for romantic advice (like waaay back); I am just imagining him doing that to Bog. ("You and Marianne - how does it... work?")

HA! Gosh, and Bog stutters out “Ah…Ah don’ know…?” 


But can we also agree that Bog could also easily know just what to say, given that he and Rumple are pretty much two peas in a pod? I can just picture him leaving back into his throne and cracking his neck before he starts. 

“First of all, respect her. If she faced you at your worst, you damn well owe it to her to be your best. So respect her - her intelligence, her independence, her ferocity…everything.” He points a claw at the Dark One, blue eyes serious. “That includes her love for you. Respect it by giving yours to her just as selflessly…”

The King of the Dark Forest pauses before continuing on, “…and by loving yourself. That will be the most difficult bit, believe me. But…if someone so magnificent, so…beautiful…can love a beast such as m–” He stops, then waves a claw between him and the Dark One, “–well, like us, then perhaps…perhaps there’s something there after all. Something still deserving of love, wretched and wonderful as that strange magic is.” 

He then snorts, a smirk slanting across his face. “Which also goes back to their intelligence. Marianne is fond of pointing out women are naturally perceptive and that self loathing renders one quite blind and totally stupid.” 

Rumple sighs, dropping the cackling façade of the Dark One as he wearily leans  against the wall of the Castle. “Strange magic…all magic comes with a price, Your Majesty.” 

The Bog King’s smile now shows his fangs, but his eyes are sincere. “It’s one I’m willing to pay if it renders me worthy of her.” 

Rumple ducks his head, hair hanging in front of his eyes. He flexes his fingers, the temptation to summon up a spell that will deflect such introspection itching through the tendons, before dropping his hand to his side and whispering his confession to the floor. “As am I.”  

To the anon who asked to me write about McCree, Tracer and Reaper thinking their s/o is dead, only to find out they joined Talon!

Don’t worry, I havn’t forgotten you! Here’s the one with Reaper <3

He usually does relatively good at suppressing his rage, but not this time. His normally demeanor had turned even worse, his face warped in an all consuming anger. His hands closed into fists as he crouched forward, daring them to repeat their words once more. The words that had torn his hearts into fragments.

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There is witchcraft in your breath, your lips, the tips of your fingers. A word uttered in silence, a symbol etched into the wax of a tapered candle, these are the gestures of your craft. The passion of your creative mind and the ferocity in your eyes are the craft itself.

Ferocity: Chapter 1

                                       This is a Galra Keith story 

Words: 1,822, Chapters: 1/?, Language: English 

Voltron doesn`t belongs to me

Summary: Keith is captured by Zarkon, he lost connection with the team, and his only hope now it to die rather than being a lab rat for the Galras.

It was darkness, the only thing he could see, it was a dark and lonely place, and he could almost taste the obnoxious coldness of the space in those old walls.

He listened to the footprints of his enemy, they probably been like that for a couple of hours from now, the sound was so old, the boots of the enemy sounded louder than normally did, but Keith was sure something was wrong.

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There’s a fire that burns bright within you.  That’s called your purpose.  Some will take their entire lives before discovering theirs, and others won’t have to wait as long. Regardless of when you find yours, chase after it with an endless ferocity.

What if, sometime in the future, after most of the original crew has retired or become admirals, the children of various couples on the ship (becoming interested in the federation through their parents’ stories/being partially raised in space) are assigned to the Enterprise.

Chapel and Uhura’s daughter carries the former’s same ferocity, but can also serve as an assistant linguist in a pinch. She soothingly talks to her patients in whatever is their native tongue, given she can speak it. Her twin brother is the actual linguist, and has a hella good singing voice, too. They’re both huge pranksters.

Sulu and Chekov’s kids vouch for the garden to be expanded. There’s nothing wrong with replicator food, they say, but home-grown just tastes better. They’re especially good at boosting ship’s morale, and are the best people to go to if you want a laugh or need some cheering up.

McCoy’s kid focuses their education on the more technical side of things, and eventually becomes lead transporter technician. Despite their mechanical background, any burns or injuries received are quickly patched up until they can get to medbay.

Spock adopts a bunch of children because “Denying a child a home when one has the resources to provide for them is illogical” (And the easiest way to see him displaying emotion from then on is by seeing him with his beloved kiddos)

Before she goes off on her first assignment, Scotty takes his daughter by the shoulders and says, “If you take good care of The Enterprise, she’ll take good care of you. I trust she’s in the absolute best hands.” and then gives her a tight hug.

Kirk’s child, finally, takes after their father in that they’ll flirt with whatever sentient life they come across, species or appearance notwithstanding. Despite not being captain (yet), they’re almost always chosen for away missions because of their charismatic nature.

Whenever an admiral comes on board, there’s a large chorus of “Hi Mom/Dad!” because as far as they’re concerned, anyone on the ship is considered part of the family.

@veesjan This headcannon cleared my pores and added three years onto my life

Jesus came to the foulest, filthiest place possible (earth), a place full of ungrateful, self-destructive people who would betray Him far more than they’d love Him (a whole planet of Judases). He broke His body for rich people who would curse Him the second their prosperity was endangered. He poured His blood out for those who would take His word and use it as a bludgeoning tool. He became the offering for people who would slander His name with ferocity, yet His grace was theirs for the asking until the drew their last breaths, even if all they could offer Him was a lifetime of hatred and one moment of repentance.

CS AU Week: Teen Wolf Crossover (minus the teens)

Dream me oh dreamer
down to the floor
open my hands and let them
weave onto yours

Reminder that @evil–isnt–born wrote a perfect companion piece to this with me and you should read it immediately. It’s here.

They streak through the night, twin blurs flying over hills and slipping between trees so fluidly the branches barely quake. Most of the time it’s tough to say which one of them is faster — that depends on the phase of the moon, on who’s angrier, on whether the thing chasing them is a monster or a memory.

Tonight it’s unequivocally Emma. The muscles of her shoulders flex and retract at a blinding pace, enough to hurt if it weren’t for the adrenaline the moon brings. A dim part of her is aware she’ll feel it later, when she’s not walking around on all fours, but right now she’s chasing a stronger instinct than the one that recognizes pain. The urge to run has never quite left her system, but then isn’t that why she’s here?

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Que nadie se entere de las ganas de tocarte,
dejemos en secreto ese frenesí de pasión que nuestros cuerpos imploran,
que nadie se entere de como tus labios imploran los míos,
dejemos en secreto esa manera tan cruel de desearnos,
que nadie se entere ¡Por favor! de todos esos pensamientos llenos de lujuria, que… Tu boca, tus piernas, tu cuerpo, atrapan mi mente,
dejemos en secreto que cuando estamos juntos, jugamos sobre la ropas y peleamos bajo las sábanas,
que nadie se entere que la inocencia entre nosotros ya está extinta,
dejemos en secreto que las mejores luchas fueron sobre tu cama mientras tus padres no estaban y que las reconciliaciones en el sillon de mi habitación,
que los daños mas feroces fueron; mordidas, chupetones y marcas sobre mi espalda.

Que nadie se entere….
Que mis húmedas madrugadas,
mis letras y
el deseo,
son solo para ti.

—  Pensamientos Lujuriosos, Bryan Aguilar

A/N: WHERE HAVE I BEEN? BTW, SQUAD IM NOT DEAD. :D @lovefromdean @cains-mane @supernaturalapocalypse @ambersagen @winjennster @destielintheimpala @whelvenwings ANYWAY, HOPE YOU LIKE.

Dean turned and twisted under the covers. He had been trying to go to sleep, but it just wasn’t working. He flopped onto his back, arms splayed out on either side of him. Why was he still here? What made him important enough to keep around? What quality prolonged his existence?

He was a liar. He closed his eyes, squeezing them tight. He was a thief. He clenched his fists. He was a cheat. He growled.


His eyes flew open. In the doorway, backlit by a halo for dull light from the hallway, Castiel stood, all righteousness and ferocity.

Dean hadn’t been waiting for Cas, but he had slowly been getting used to Cas coming into his room unannounced. It was new for him to show up at night, though. It was a little weird, but Dean found himself relaxing as Cas stepped in.

“What do you want, Cas?”

Cas didn’t speak immediately; he sat on Dean’s bed, hands clasped in his lap. He turned his head toward Dean and he almost seemed to have a halo from the door behind him.

He was an angel. What in the world made it that an angel, a good and righteous angel, would be stuck with such a pitiful human as-


Dean blinked up at Cas, his increasingly closer companion.

Shaking his head, Cas laid a careful hand on Dean’s chest. The heat of his hand traveled through the blankets. “I rebuilt you. You were fearfully and wonderfully made.”

Dean had to close his eyes, hiding his pupils from the intensity of Castiel.

“You are righteous and beautiful. Your heart feels like nothing else and your morality is clear cut from the most precious material of the universe.”

Dean felt calmer than before, but also shook with frustration. Why would Cas say that? Cas really means it, but why?

Silence fell and Dean calmed. As the pause stretched on, Dean felt like his upset was ebbing away in waves, leaving Cas’ words in their wake as truth.

“You need your sleep. May I help?” Cas slightly shifted his hand into the same two-finger gesture as Dean had gotten familiar with.

Dean tensed a little, not anything like before Cas showed up though.

Cas’ hand fell back to a more natural position laying on Dean’s cloth-covered chest. “Or…”

Slitting one eye open, Dean peaked at Cas.

“I could just stay with you?”

Dean didn’t say anything; he just quirked a small smile and relaxed into the bed. He fell asleep so surprisingly fast that he wasn’t entirely sure that Cas didn’t zap him asleep, but it was still nice; it wasn’t lonely.

One final question surfaced through the waves of calm in his mind before he completely succumbed to sleep: Was I made to be lonely?

demonjester123  asked:

I don't know if you're still taking requests but I'm completely hooked on your Hawke and I've read quite a few of your fics in the past 2 days and Hawke is always talking about finding Fenris on his doorstep like a drowned rat is there anyway if you had time if you could write a fic about it?

The storm outside struck with a ferocity that rattled the windows in their panes and made the old Hightown mansion creak and groan. It suited Hawke’s mood.

His thoughts were slow and dark – whiskey-thoughts that burned his mind like the rich amber that seared his throat.

“Are you certain I can’t convince you to take some dinner, messere?” Bodahn asked. Hawke didn’t lift his eyes from the orange flicker of flames within the fireplace. He drank. Bodahn shifted in the library doorway. “In that case,” the dwarf said, after a while, “I’ll take my leave to retire, ser.”

Hawke’s lips twisted. He lifted his drink. In time, the dwarf left. The library door clicked softly behind him.

The thunder crashed, and lightning lit up the darkened library. Hawke’s eyes remained fixed on the fire without really seeing it. It was years his mind saw. Long, empty, torturous years. He couldn’t go back.

A floorboard creaked. The house suddenly felt too small, too dark, too empty. Hawke pushed himself up out of his chair. He downed his drink and left the glass on the end table. He turned for the door.

It was open.

Fenris stood in the open doorway, a small puddle forming at his feet. His hair was slicked down to his head, his soaked clothing stuck to his slender body, and his eyes –

“I’m sorry,” Fenris said, and Hawke could hear the weight in his voice, the fear – yes, that was what it was about his eyes, they were terrified. He was shaking.

Hawke was across the room before he could say another word.

Fenris was cold natured to begin with, but it had been a cool day, and the storm didn’t help. Hawke had him stand by the fire while he fetched towels and fresh clothes, and Fenris only watched him, silent, his eyes tracking his every move.

Hawke,” Fenris said again, and Hawke found he couldn’t even remember what they’d been fighting about. The only thing he knew was how cold his hands felt in his own, and how troubled his eyes were. An icy drop of water slid down the end of Fenris’s nose as he watched the mage, waiting.

“Forgive me?” Hawke asked, and saw the relief that filled those eyes, the light that rekindled.

Fenris said, “Don’t be so stupid next time.”

Hawke answered, “I can’t promise that.”

Day 330: Failure

Don’t we all have those rough days at work?

“I cannot understand this. It should have worked!”

Heavy winced as the petri dish smashed against the wall of the infirmary. Whatever it was that the doctor was working on, hopefully it wasn’t infectious.

“Is okay, Doktor. Can try again tomorrow.”

Medic paced around the room to grab a broom and dustpan to sweep up the shattered dish. With just as much ferocity, he pitched it into the trash with as much vitriol as he could muster before turning to his desk, stacked to dangerous levels with all manor of books, journals, files, and random papers of all colors and sizes. He grabbed one seemingly at random, glaring at it as if the object itself had plotted his downfall.

“No, no, no, no!” Medic flipped through his notes again, examining page after page of scrawling handwriting that wavered between barely legible to an incomprehensible scrawl. “The calculations are precise, the equations are correct…” Tossing the pad away, he started grabbing at his files and ransacking one after the other, as if somewhere the answer was to be found staring back at him from one of the thousands of document within. When none of the provided satisfaction, he threw them back down with a frustrated hiss.

Heavy could see the rise and fall of Medic’s shoulders, and his hands still balled into fists. Slowly, one hand came up to remove his glasses, while the other covered his face.

“I…” Medic’s voice trailed off as all of the energy seemed to drain away. The papers in front of him now lay in chaos as he helplessly took in the disaster in front of him.

Heavy left his post by the door and approached the desk. Medic’s moods had always been mercurial, and never so much as when it came to his work. His real work. For as much as the doctor reveled in the senseless violence of their battles with BLU, it was nothing compared to the passion he displayed for his experiments. They drove him almost obsessively,

And now the white tails of Medic’s coat hung limply, seeming to match the mood of its owner.

Heavy lay a hand on Medic’s shoulder and gently turned him around. Medic didn’t meet his eyes, but that was of no matter. His pride was wounded as much as anything, and it was not Heavy’s place to wound his doctor any further. Instead, he pulled him close. He felt the warm breath of Medic’s sigh through the thin fabric of his shirt and the tension bubbling just below the surface.

“I just wanted this to work.”

“Da. I know.” Heavy whispered as he held Medic in his arms. “I know.”