he needs to catch his swords in his teeth more often

Chaos is a Ladder

I need another ship like the ocean needs salt, but these two … I can’t help myself. Thank you for being wonderful enablers encouragement, @alchemistc @seethelovelyintheworld @kliomuse & @nfbagelperson . Not beta’d because I haven’t written in forever, so it’s post or delete this whole dumpster fire. 

_________________________________

She isn’t exactly surprised to find Jon Snow outside her door, his firm knock a poorly veiled cover for the uncertainty gracing his finely wrought features bathed in the warm glow of candlelight. But that’s been the puzzle of him all along, hasn’t it? This King of the North, with all of his father’s loyalty and honor, softness in his eyes that belies his often harsh words.

He is not a politician. He speaks plainly. Oh, how she wanted to laugh sitting on the hard stone of Dragonstone’s throne when he hadn’t given a damn about any of her titles or the imposing gloom of the place – when he hadn’t paused to consider all the terrible things she might visit upon him for speaking to her as he had.

Demanding things. Refusing, respectfully, your Grace, to bend the knee.

Except he had, eventually. First after nearly dying, after making her watch as he nearly died being brave and idiotic, and then again in King’s Landing, his bloody stupid honor nearly ruining everything. She’d wanted to murder him as much as she’d wanted things she really had no business wanting.

After all, when has a romantic entanglement ever done her any good? Her husband died. Jorah fell in love with her and nearly died trying to prove himself. Daario had been more trouble than he was worth, and in the end she’d felt nothing as she’d sailed away from him.

Daenerys Stormborn doesn’t have time for Jon Snow – doesn’t have time for the distraction, the political complication, the potential of him burrowing into her already fractured and clumsily patched heart.

She is the dragon. She doesn’t concern herself with wolves.

She opens the door wider to allow him to pass.

Keep reading

The Pack Survives

About 1800 words.  This shipfic takes place between S06E09 and S06E10.  I may write more but consider this a one-shot to be safe.  Beware spoilers.


Jon Snow lay in his bunk, staring into the wall.  A fire still crackled and popped behind him, casting shadows around the bare room. He’d learned long ago not to watch the flames when trying to sleep, instead to focus on the darkest patch of brickwork he could find.  Even so, he was restless in spite of the slate-gray mortared bricks filling his vision.

Jon was exhausted. Fighting and killing Bolton men days before had worn him down to where he could barely stand, much less ride a horse or direct the reclaiming and rebuilding of Winterfell.  Sansa had taken up those responsibilities while he recovered, for which he had been grateful.  It was just as well; the rightful Lady of Winterfell should be the one to lead those efforts, not Ned Stark’s bastard.

So here he lay, the small room quiet except for the hearth’s deliberations.  Jon wished he could sleep and frowned, stone-faced, at the difficulty such pursuit warranted.  They had joked at the Wall that men would sleep when they were dead.  In Jon’s experience, that was a lie.

A demure knocking interrupted the quiet.  Jon started beneath the furs piled on top of him and reflexively reached for the dragonglass dagger Sam had left him; Longclaw was out of reach, so he kept the crude blade at his bedside.  It was a better weapon for the tight confines of his quarters than the hand-and-a-half sword.

In better days, Jon would not keep any killing tools by his bedside.  But the faces of dead men were still too clear in his thoughts, and he’d been caught with his guard down before.

He lurched from bed and stumbled, but settled his weight and stalked to the door.  He unfastened the lock and drew it open, careful to stay clear of the gap.

Jon swallowed and asked the darkness, “Who’s there?”

“It’s me,” a woman’s voice answered, haltingly.  “Sansa.”

Jon’s brow furrowed and he opened the door a little wider.  “You haven’t got a lantern?”

“I don’t need it.  Not here.  Could I come in?”

Confused, he stood aside and gingerly placed the dagger on a shelf.  Sansa did not notice it as she strode inside, or at least pretended not to. Jon shut the door, set the lock, and turned.

There was no mistaking her in the light.  Sansa stood taller than him, auburn hair braided loosely and thrown over a shoulder. She had no lantern, but carried a clay pitcher with both hands.  Jon waited patiently for her to speak as she turned her eyes to him.

“I can’t sleep,” she said slowly, “not here.  Not yet.”

Jon nodded cautiously. He’d thought Sansa would need time to get comfortable in Winterfell again, after all she had endured here.  But he had good sense not to ask her about it, figuring she would mention the problem when she was ready.

“Neither can I,” Jon admitted.  He crossed the room, careful to step aside Sansa’s skirts, and stoked the fire. “Want it built back up?”

“I would.”

Sansa’s eyes were dull and her mouth set in a thin line, so Jon busied himself with reviving the hearth. “Set that pitcher on the desk, if you like.  What’s in it?”  He added a dried log to the fireplace but, unsatisfied with its progress, broke up a peat brick and tossed it into the coals.

Sansa stepped next to where he crouched by the fire and offered a cup.  “Mulled wine.  The kitchens are short on spices, but it’s passable.”

Jon politely tilted his cup back and savored it.  “Best I’ve had in years.”  Jon stood and surveyed the earthenware cup in contemplation.  “The Old Bear loved it, but never shared with me.  Guess he thought it was a perk of command.”

“The Old Bear?”

Suddenly aware that Sansa was still standing, Jon hurriedly moved the room’s lone stool from its place at his desk for her to sit by the fire.  He talked as he worked.

“Lord Commander Mormont. Lady Mormont’s grandfather.  He was Lord Commander before me, I was his steward.”

“His steward?” Sansa asked inquisitively, and for the first time Jon looked hard at her.  She wore the wolf-hide cloak that was twin to the one she’d gifted him over her nightgowns.  As always her face drew his attention and he tried not to stare, but for the moment her mask had slipped.  A thin dark eyebrow rose in surprise and her mouth quirked with the beginnings of a smile that threatened to reach her eyes.  “You served the Lord Commander his meals?”

Jon smiled wanly in remembrance.  Hers was contagious.  “Aye, and fetched hot water for his bath.”  He gestured at the warming hearth.  “And kept a fire burning in his chambers, changed his sheets and blankets, and everything else the Lord Commander asked of me.”  Jon sunk to the floor near Sansa’s seat and stretched his legs out before the fire.

She drank and leaned forward, resting her free hand on her knee and cupping her chin.  Sansa’s blue eyes pierced into Jon over the rim of her cup. “That all seems beneath you.”

“I was a man of the Watch,” Jon explained, “I did my duty.  Then I died. Now I’m here.”

Sansa’s eyes flashed. “Is that how you got that?”  She traced the scar that crossed Jon’s eye with a finger drawn across her own brow.

“No, that was an eagle.”

“You’re joking.”

“I wish I were. Damned thing hurt.”

Sansa sipped her wine, not deigning to respond.  Minutes passed in silence before she spoke again.  “I hope your Old Bear had better wine than ale.”

Jon grinned at the memory of Sansa choking down the filth at Castle Black.  “I’m sure he did.”

“Was he kind to you?”

Jon thought before answering.  “He was patient.  I was too proud, then.  But he saved my life and I his, once.  Then I avenged him.  And he was kind, in his way,” Jon turned and gestured at his sword, which stood in its scabbard in a corner, ruby wolf-eyes glinting in the dark.  Sansa followed his gaze as he talked, “he gave me Longclaw. House Mormont’s Valyrian steel.”

“Do you think Lyanna wants it back?”

A pained expression crossed Jon’s face.  “I haven’t asked,” he sheepishly admitted.

Sansa gently shoved his shoulder.  “You’re terrible.”

“You’ve always said that,” Jon laughed, looking away and smiling.  “Remember when Arya and I threw snowballs at you?”

“Which time?”

“When Father rode off to White Harbor and Karhold with Robb, to show him the seas.”

Sansa nodded in recognition, teeth flashing in a brief grin.  “Jeyne and I had spent all morning practicing Southron braids, and you two just ruined our work.”  Her face stilled and darkened.  “Father thought the next Warden of the North should know the limits of his domain.”

“He did,” Jon said quietly.

Sansa still hadn’t moved her hand from his shoulder, and he found himself leaning into it.

Her voice was firm. “He would be proud of us.”  She squeezed his shoulder in punctuation.

Jon’s voice was guarded. “Have you been down to the crypts yet?”

“I haven’t.”

“I had fresh torches sent down this morning.  The Boltons let them burn out.”

“That’s good of you.”

Sansa straightened and held her cup with both hands, leaning again towards the fire.  They endured the awkward silence until it became comfortable again.

“You really should make an offer to Lyanna,” Sansa appealed.

Jon sighed.  “It’s on my list.”

“It’s a terrible dishonor, for a family to lose its Valyrian steel.  The Lannisters took ours and melted it down.”

That got Jon’s attention. “They destroyed Ice?”

“Tywin Lannister had it reforged,” Sansa said, “it was enough steel for two swords.  He gave one to Joffrey and its twin to the Kingslayer. Lady Brienne has one of them, now.”

“Maybe we should ask for it back.”

Sansa rolled her eyes. “So I can wield it?”

“Maybe,” Jon replied quickly.  Sansa did not answer that so he turned to look at her again, catching her in a rare state of surprise.  He shrugged beneath her stare and explained, “Winter is here, and the enemy is marching. We’ll need every bit of Valyrian steel we’ve got.”

Sansa sniffed.  “The sword would be in better use in Brienne’s hands,” she paused to draw breath, then added evenly, “but if you think I should learn some skill at arms, you will teach me.”

It was Jon’s turn to be surprised.  “Me?”

“Yes,” Sansa answered confidently, “we have no master-at-arms, and you were always Ser Rodrick’s best student.  He said so.”

“When did he tell you that?”

“He visited mother’s sewing circle often.  She wanted to know how you boys’ education progressed.

“But as Lady of Winterfell,” Sansa sped on smoothly, not letting Jon respond, “you are a guest in my home.  You’ve taken my bread and salt, Jon, and I expect you’ll honor me.”

“Always.”  Jon drew his legs up and leaned on his knees, but did not meet her gaze.

Sansa took their empty cups and set them aside, then hung her cloak on an iron hook in the wall next to Jon’s.

She moved the stool and sat next to him on the floor, crossing her long legs.  He carefully turned to meet her eyes.

“Hey,” she said quietly, “we’re home.”  She took his hand in her own.

Sansa was convincing someone, but Jon knew it wasn’t him.  His fingers felt warm against hers, and initially he kept his locked tight together.  But she gently – insistently – threaded hers through his, and they sat there a while together, watching the sparks dance in the hearth.

Jon’s throat was drier than he’d felt in a lifetime, but he soldiered through it.  He stubbornly looked away from her.  “You can rest here tonight.  The bed is yours.”

Sansa’s grip tightened gratefully.  “I’d like that.”

“I’ll stay here by the fire, just give me one of the furs.”  His speech was hurried.

“You’ll be comfortable?”

Jon nodded, his mind in a cave beneath the Wall.  “I’ve stayed in worse.”

Sansa exhaled and stood, loosening her hold on him.  He didn’t move as she stepped to the bed and returned with a thick blanket, setting it around his shoulders.  She retired to the bed and reclined beneath its layered furs.  The sensations of it felt more like home than in her own quarters: the warmth where Jon had lain earlier, the soft, combed furs, and the faint scent of juniper berries.  This was their home.  There were Starks again in Winterfell.

She watched him sprawl before the fire beneath the blanket, a wolf’s shape in the dark. “Thank you, Jon. Good night.”

“Good night, Sansa. I’ll be here.”

Star Cross’d - Prologue

FUCKING @saxxxology ! I should’ve never given her my number, because this shit always happens!

So, this was, originally, going to be the prologue that then split off into a Sam version and a Dean version. Saxxy and I basically wrote the outlines in a frantic series of texts back and forth, where she wrote the Sam, I wrote the Dean. Then she went to England and was like, “I NEED TO WRITE THIS.” So now there’s a Dean version and that’s it. You can read her AMAZING series when it comes out on Sept. 5th!

Also, you’ll notice this was partly for A/B/O Appreciation Day. Which was yesterday. This is late because I couldn’t pick a title. I’m dead serious. Titles are the bane of my existence.

Both boys are around their season five ages, just for reference. And the reader is eighteen. Yay age gaps!

Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Alpha!Dean x Omega!Reader
Words: 1790ish
Summary: Mr. Merchant seeks out escorts for his daughter
Warnings: None
Other Parts: Masterlist

Keep reading

tindra44  asked:

Ello! I would like to make a request please as I have spent my break just going through your masterlist and I need more! Could I get one with the four main bros seeing there S/O being kidnapped by Ardyn and they are being rendered unable to stop all they can do is watch?? Who doesn't enjoy a bit of angst now and again haha well thank you for your time and have a lovely day!

Hope this is what you had in mind :)

Noctis 

He was never going to make it. You were too far away and Adryn already had his hand around your neck, jerking you to one side as he taunted the prince. Though he watched at the villian’s lips moved, he could only hear the ringing that grew louder in his ears as he sprinted forward. Maybe if he could just get close enough to warp he could - 

You were gone. In a flash, you were gone and he stared open mouthed at the space you had just occupied. Falling helpless onto his knees, an inhuman sound escaped his throat - something between a growl and a scream. How was he supposed to protect his people if he couldn’t even protect you - the very person he loved more than anything else in the world. 

You were gone…and there was nothing he could do to stop it…

He would find you. He had to. Prophecy be damned - he would find you even if it proved to be the last thing he ever did. 

Prompto 

Your name left his lips in a desperate scream as he stumbled forward. He’d raced through the maze-like hallways of the Nif’s keep in order to find you. It was another form of torture designed to run him mad, all orchestrated by the burgundy-haired madman with a penchent for the eccentric. 

“Too slow,” Ardyn’s voice reached his ears the same instant his eyes landed on you. Your toes dangled above the stone floor as you scratched frantically at his hand where it wrapped around your neck and held you up. tears leaked from your eyes and it was obvious you couldn’t breathe. “You’re going to have to be faster than that,” Ardyn tutted. 

He snapped his fingers and Prompto was sucked through space, appearing at the entrance to the keep once more. The same thing had happened a dozen times; he was too late to reach you and Ardyn took joy in hurting you right in front of him. 

“This time,” he growled as he sprinted forward. 

Gladio

 Another MT fell in a twitching heap before it disappeared into a cloud of darkness. Glancing over his shoulder, Gladio caught sight of you taking down your own target. You were so focused as you landed the killing blow that you missed the Chancellor walking casually up behind you. Before he could scream your name in warning, a hand gripped the hair on your head and jerked your head to the side. 

Rage bubbled inside his veins as the Shield took stock of the situation, he barreled forward and summoned his greatsword once more. 

He wasn’t going to make it. 

“Better luck next time,” Ardyn tipped his hat before you disappeared in your own puff of writhing darkness.

All the air left Gladio’s body in that instant and he lost his footing. The large man fell into the damp ground, barely managed to catch himself before he smacked his face into the mud. Your name was a strangled roar as he moved the hair from his eyes and summoned his sword back into his shaking grasp. 

Nothing would keep you from him. 

Ignis 

Everything was going perfectly to plan as Ignis watched his friends take on the imperial forces that had attempted to take them by surprise. Each had their own group of enemies to face but everyone worked in sync, falling one after the other. Sharp as ever, the strategist noticed the soldiers focused on you seemed to be intentionally guiding you away from the group with your attacks. 

Calling your name, he used his pole arm to end an enemy in his way as he turned in your direction. To his horror, he recognized Chancellor Izunia as he gripped your face, his fingers digging into your cheeks as you grit your teeth against him. He chuckled, tilted his head to the side, and shot an icy smile towards Ignis. 

“Doesn’t seem that everything is going to plan, then.” He smirked and jerked your forward, his hand sliding down to your throat and squeezing. 

Ignis made a move to reach you but found his path blocked by another group of Niffs. The calm mask he wore so often shattered and panic rose in his throat like bile. He called out your name once more, swinging his daggers with an unreal speed in hopes of freeing you. Just as the last soldier fell, Ardyn tipped his hat and disappeared, you caught in his grasp. 

He dropped his daggers, flinching as they clattered once before disappearing into the light of the crystal. 

Ruins

Robb Stark x reader

Imagine saving Robb’s life

Author’s Note: I saw an imagine that aligned with something that had been fighting to get out of my head for awhile now. Warnings include, well, The Red Wedding, in part. I was never okay with it, and this is a portion of what may turn out to be a series if I let it. I can claim no ownership of Robb, which is kind of unfortunate for him because if I could, I’d have never let anything happen to him like what did. 


Red.

That was mostly what you remembered about that night.

Red and that song. That Lannister song. You still woke up in the middle of the night, screaming, that waving melody just beyond the veil of consciousness.

In a coat of gold, or a coat of red,

A lion still has claws

And mine are long and sharp, my lord,

As long and sharp as yours.

Keep reading

HyLink Fic Preview: What Blooms in Darkness

Hey guys, so @redprincessofdawn came up with the best headcanon ever?? Basically the idea was that the goddess Hylia posed as a young woman under the alias ‘Zelda’ that attended to the first inarnation of Link when he was imprisoned, as depicted in the manga. Over time, they become sweet on each other because I’m a hopeless romantic. And since I’m utter trash for these two and loved her idea, I started writing a fic. I’m sorry this took so long? I always take forever, just thought I’d leave this here to give people a little preview and confirm that I am indeed working on it.

Not so subtly tags @notsosilentprincess , thank you for your support as well I hope you look forward to the full fic!

If anybody else wants to be tagged for the full fic, feel free to let me know!


Hazy azure eyes followed the slow trickle of water seeping along the worn grooves of mortar, a siren song weaving between mold and bricks stained a darker red. Long ago the sight might have made him bite his chapped lips, straining against the chains in desperation. Instead he attempted to swallow against the sandpaper of his tongue, averting his eyes as he forced his breathing to slow. With what little energy he could spare he strained to look up at the heavens, the raw ache of his wrists and ankles no longer drawing a pained hiss as his head fell back. Were there stars above, gracing the children of Hylia with their twinkling courage as they drowned in a similar darkness? Or would the sky be the color of his mother’s eyes? A blue so soft and bright it made him long for the summers before he became a knight, dozing beneath the sky beside their little abode in the woods.

Too soon his limbs collapsed, the harsh clang of his chains filling the enclosed chamber. A sigh clouded in the low draft that carried winter’s chill, eliciting a mindless shudder as goosebumps alighted across his exposed flesh. Whether a blessing or a curse, it dulled his wounds enough to help him think clearly. It was the reason why he could now sense the elegant footsteps descending the longest staircase in the fortress, sharp with haste and slowing every so often with fatigue. Funny thing—that slip of a girl—always in a hurry to see him. For what, he could never fathom. He was little more than she, a disgraced knight with nothing but shame staining his hands.

Finally the door opened with a slight creak, the newly replaced obstruction already suffering in the dampness as it closed behind her with an answering groan. The tray in her arms trembled as she began to shiver, small puffs following in her wake as she clattered her way to his motionless form. His head was still bowed; weak and unwilling to face the pleading concern in her gaze when he refused to partake. It was enough to suffer her insistent stare, boring into his skull coupled with a misery that made her voice hoarse with unshed tears. He never understood the depth of her despair at the sight of him; why she spoke as though she were the one bruised and bloody.

He didn’t want her pity. What had befallen him had been his own fault. Where he thought his people would see reason, they were blinded by envy.

“Sir Link,” She began, as she always did. “You should try to eat.”

Her answer came in the myriad, grating sounds of doors being wrenched open throughout the fortress.

She tried again, and he could feel the heat emanating from afar in the small space as she stepped closer. “You must regain your strength.”

He could hear the water lapping at the sides of the waterskin she held it inches from his face, but besides the twitching of his fingers, he didn’t move.

“Please,” The whisper urged, “At this rate you’ll die.” She grew louder with each word, voice hoarse and cracking midway under the weight of her own thoughts.

He stifled a dry cough of a laugh, exhausted and bitter.

After a long, obstinate moment the routine was sure to come; he would hear her sigh as she placed the tray by his feet, waiting for the telltale scrape of the one left behind long before leaving with her. And what little peace he had come to make with his fate would return as soon as the door closed behind her and her footsteps faded, mercifully anesthetized by the relative silence she left in her wake.

He flinched when frigid, trembling fingers brushed the nape of his neck instead, adjusting a scrap of white cloth to cover as much of his exposed flesh as possible. When she was satisfied after a few tugs, her tiny hands retreated and curled around each other before they disappeared from his line of sight, a relieved sigh her only explanation. Only then did she move to exit the room, the audible clatter of teeth chattering and shudders wracking her small frame amplified in the empty space.

“Why?” He managed to croak, her hand freezing inches away from the door.

“I wanted to,” She eventually replied, voice soft. “It’s freezing down here.”

He pursed his lips, frowning. He would have expressed further disapproval had there not been an undertone of steel in her answer, a fierce insistence on his behalf unlike anything he’d ever known. Though her motive remained unclear, one thing was certain—she was being honest. Whether by a whim or some notion of compassionate obligation, she had done this of her own volition.

Before he could ask her further she departed, his head rising on its own to catch naught but a glimpse of a white dress and long, flaxen hair bathed in the glow of the torchlight. She seemed to be a peasant girl—as most prison attendants were—of simple dress and station. So what reason could she possibly have to help him? Had somebody bribed her? No, the thought was immediately amended, she stood too tall and seemed too stalwart for that. Though the hands around his neck had been dainty and clean, despite the cold peeling away at her fingers. Anything she had suffered was notably recent, no scars lining the expanse of her pale skin. A noblewoman in disguise, perhaps? It would explain why he had never seen her once in the Hylian settlement.

The night was spent wracking his brain as to the identity of the strange girl determined to aide him—even at the risk of her own imprisonment for treason, his once detached mien eluding him as curiosity took hold. When sleep finally took him he dreamed of the fields of wildflowers he often visited as a young boy, chasing the lazy bumblebees weaving among the stems—reminiscent of the scent that would cling to his neck long after she disappeared.


“You waste your efforts on a disgraced knight,” He murmured wearily before she even crossed the room to him. It was her fifth attempt—this time toting a fresh pastry—to coax him into eating, the intoxicating aroma of freshly baked bread and sweet filling blooming from her form. The scent wafted to where he was chained, a low gust of air behind the door carrying it across the room. His fingers twitched.

“I don’t see any disgraced knights here.” She replied calmly back, unperturbed as always as she approached his form.

He scoffed, though his voice was hollow. There was no anger or indictment to punctuate it’s cadence; only frank apathy. “Then you are mistaken or misinformed. Surely you were witness to the trials,”

“All I witnessed was the public humiliation of a good man. No more, no less.” Her words flowed so easily as she set down the tray that he almost believed them. “And I’m certain I’m not the only one who thinks so. Lord Dagianis may be a cunning man, but he is neither noble nor courageous. He will fall before the flowers bloom with the call of spring, and the people will be in desperate need of a hero when the Demon King rises again.”

He blinked at her bewitching insistence, her strange eloquence. Was this woman truly a peasant girl? Or even a disguised noble, for that matter? Everything about her opposed the notion. She did not cower, her speech was not broken and uncertain. Her wit was sharp and complex, but also unabashed and willful. Her presence was so compelling, invigorating; her prediction more akin to a prophecy than an offhand observation. Every word tugged at his numbed senses, peeling back his reasons for becoming a knight in the first place—why he’d accepted the title hero with grudging yet hopeful determination. The face of the priestess who relayed the divine message of his hero status surfaced, the faces of all the children who followed him excitedly to the outpost on their way to school, chattering away with relentless curiosity. The faces of his mother and father—long since departed and with Hylia—and the unsatisfied flame within him burning to make them proud. The statue of the goddess herself imbued with the strangest aura as he stood before it, gentle words steering him forward on the path the gods had evidently paved for him. How had he lost sight of all of those things in his time here? Would he really be satisfied, cowering here in the dark, simply because his people doubted him? Was he meant for more, or was it his destiny to rot in this prison? Did he care if it was? He felt even more confused than before.

He let out a low laugh, raising his head for the first time to lance her in place with a cold look—pale eyes frosting over. “Even if I was the hero of prophecy, what makes you so certain I wasn’t the one who killed them? What if Lord Dagianis was right?”

She gazed at him, deadpan, before walking up to stuff the pastry in his mouth. When he made a muffled sound of scandalized protest, she merely shrugged. “Just in case you were going to spout anymore nonsense. Don’t be absurd, anybody that knows you knows you would never do such a thing.” She finished, pulling off what was left of the pastry as he chewed and swallowed.

“And what could you possibly know of me?” He shot back, irate.

She met his glare with a vehement one of her own, before she sighed. “Henry.”

His brows furrowed, unable to make out what she said. “What?”

“I was curious,” She rubbed her arm and looked away, worrying her lip. “So I asked around, and eventually people pointed me to Henry. He said you were both stationed at the same outpost for a long time.” His eyes widened before he sagged into the chains, deflating. He began to laugh, the sound stolen from him at the thought of his best friend’s gushing. A rueful smile crossed his lips as he remember how long it took to convince the young man not to storm the court room on his behalf.

“That dolt. He spilled everything didn’t he?” He shook his head. “No wonder you kept trying. He’s convinced I’m going to save the settlement.”

“He was very convincing,” The light sound of a giggle shocked him, his head snapping up to find a brilliant smile on her face. “I believe him.” She murmured, voice soft.

anonymous asked:

Chocobros reactions to s/o was half daemon n half human. She lost her sense of sanity during a battle and the only way to stop her chaos is to heavily injure her. (Could end it with her death or surviving. Up to you ^^) love your work! Keep it coming! 👍🏼

Goodness me! This is gonna be fun! These have become some of my favorites to write.

~~~~~~

Noctis

Noctis watched as you turned away from the large deamon you went after, after it tried to ambush the two of you while he was fishing for dinner. The deamon struck so fast and quickly that you only had time quickly shifted from your human guise to your deamon form, it often remind him of Carbuncle, yet instead of the smaller fennec, you rose to the Prince’s chest, yet everything else the same from the red stone, large ears and fur.

Your pure silver fur now only marked by the blood of the deamon you quickly struck down ,yet now instead of reverting back to yourself, you turned those hollow black eyes to the Prince, your mouth opening in a hissing roar.

“Y/n,” Noctis called, only to quickly dodge out the way as you leapt going for his throat. “Y/n, what’s wrong! I’m not going to fight you!”

Noctis watched as you lowered your head, hissing angrily in the back of your throat, tail lashing behind you, he had never seen you like this. You always were in such control of your other half, able to shift in and out. Yet there was something wrong! Horribly wrong.

The young man wasn’t given much time to think, as you suddenly launched again your muzzle open to show your large sharp teeth. Only for them to clench down on a summoned lance, your strong jaw in this form almost went through it.

Noctis took this as a distraction, scrambling away from you, as you shook the long weapon in your mouth much like a dog with a chew toy. Drawing a sword he knew he had to defend himself, yet refused to hurt you. Noctis turned to you, as your jaws went through the staff of the lance, before turning your head back to him.

“Y/N, I know you’re still in there.”

Keep reading

Road.

Bobby x Reader

Angst + Fluff

Warning: just a few F-bombs

Originally posted by inetzhere


“I can’t believe you called me over because of a fucking clogged drain.” 

You exasperate as you push pass the tall boy hovering at the doorway, not really caring what he has to say. All you wanted is to get this over as quickly as possible so you can return to your first day off in months. Just a half hour ago, you were wonderfully drifting among the cloud of your dreamland when that annoying default ringtone that you never bothered to change went off giving you a rude awakening. To make all matters worse, you had picked up without even checking the caller ID only to cringe at the voice spewing out of the speaker.

“Well, hello to you too.” 

He sasses you back, making the discomfort in his voice obvious before sauntering back inside the house, slamming the front door. You shoot him a glare sharper than any sword, knife, cutlery since the beginning of time combined.

“Don’t give me that. You’re the one that called me at 7 in the morning to come over, don’t act so miserable.” You scoff. Bobby was the sweetest guy you know but when he wants to give you attitude, it was worse than a wet cat in the middle of winter.

“Miserable… Oh, wow. You don’t even know. Uh, I’d probably be less “miserable” if my ex isn’t making herself at home on my couch. On that note, could you please not make it seems like you live here cause you don’t.” 

This is gonna be a long morning and you were far from prepared for it. You had always imagined running into Bobby for the first time in over a year looking like a damn Victoria Secret’s angel - glow the fuck up, making him drools sort of thing. It’d happen in a club or mutual’s friend house party, you’d be slightly tipsy (you know, confident boost… or really just help you forget all your filters and common sense), dancing sexily amongst the crowd, catching his attention. Well look how life’s a bitch because here you are, sitting in the living room that once was yours in legging, an oversized t-shirt that you’re pretty sure belongs to him, not a lick of make up, and hair in the messiest of bun.

Keep reading

Breath (Avatar Gency AU)

So sorry I haven’t been writing much dolls, I’ve been studying but I managed to make time for this little Gency AU. Several anons asked for FireBender!Genji teaching Avatar!Mercy how to Firebend and the idea hasn’t left me since. Also, Mercy is air nomad born and I had a lot of fun writing this ♥


Gency. AU. Avatar!Mercy. AirBender!Mercy. FireBender!Genji. 


“Again.”

Cutting her hand through the hair, she pushes forward. Teeth grinding down as she focuses all her energy into the movement. Striking out, she stops when only a wisp of smoke appears at the center of her palm.

“Genji…” she sighs, letting her stance loosen. “Maybe we should take a break.”

Keep reading

Candy

Unlike other children, Eleven had never had the opportunity to taste this thing called candy. Actually, she had never even known what it was until a day ago when Mike had brought it up.


They were standing in his kitchen when he mentioned it, waiting for an Eggo to pop out of the toaster. Mike began to talk about random things. Things like Star Wars and D&D and Lord of The Rings. 

Eleven didn’t really understand these stories that he told. There were no such things as swords made out of lasers and dragons and these things called hobbits. But, one thing she did understand is that Mike enjoyed talking about these things, and she liked the way he smiled as he talked.

After the Eggo popped out of the toaster, Mike and El moved to the dining room where they continued to converse, except this time, it wasn’t about Star Wars or D&D or Lord of The Rings. 

It was in fact, about this thing called Halloween. A thing that made El stop devouring her Eggo.

“Halloween?” She questioned, the Eggo beginning to cool in her hands.

“Uh, yeah. Halloween. You know, the day where kids dress up in scary costumes and go to every house on the street asking for candy?” Mike explained. There were a lot of words Mike used that Eleven didn’t know. But these were by far the strangest.

 She sat her Eggo down on the plate in front of her, longing to ask Mike more questions.

“What’s cand-y?” El asked. Mike was often used to all of Eleven’s questions. But this one seemed to catch him off guard. 

“You’ve never had candy before?” El shook her head. Mike paused before getting up out of his chair. 

“Hold on a second,” He stated. Eleven lifted an eyebrow as he left the room and  entered the kitchen once more. Within seconds, he was back in the dining room, holding a red-colored package with colors of the rainbow on it. 

Mike began opening the strange package with his hands, but found himself failing, cheeks becoming pink, Eleven liked when his cheeks became pink, and resorted to using his teeth instead. Finally, with much struggle, the package was broken, and colored little dots spilled out onto the table. 

Mike grabbed one, an orange one, and didn’t seem to care about the mess he had made. 

“Here, put out your hand,” He said. Eleven did as he told and reached across the table. Timidly, Mike put his hand over hers, their palms touching. Eleven felt her cheeks becoming warm as Mike removed his hand, revealing the orange dot placed in her own hand. 

“Try it, It’s good” Mike explained. Eleven examined it in her hand. She didn’t think that something so small and strangely made could taste that good. She looked back up at Mike. 

“I promise,” He stated, his brown eyes watching hers. Eleven didn’t need him to say anything else. Without hesitating anymore, she popped the colored dot into her mouth, and was completely taken by surprise.

She had no specific words to describe the taste. But, she could compare it to feelings.

The feeling she got when Mike showed her the Lazy-boy in the living room. The feeling she got when the boys tried to teach her D&D. The feeling she got when Nancy leant her all of her old dresses. 

“So, do you like it?” Mike questioned. Eleven smiled. 

“I love it,”

Helmet Hair

Just a short something inspired by btweencande’s art. <– Here And my need for a break agh.

More under the cut. A reunion fic based on the Shiro Clone theory as well.


I just wanna say,” Lance starts, already making Keith frown. “We are blessed on this holy day for not letting helmet hair be a thing.”

Keith had to stop himself from groaning when he turns a corner, keeping to the wall with the black Bayard in his hand. It hadn’t been easy adjusting to the switches in armor and weapons but they managed to pull through (Keith had to lose Shiro a third time before he finally shed the red paladin armor and stepped into the black one). But they were on a stealth mission, scouting out the area for the hooded people Pidge said had taken her brother.

It was a high energy mission and Lance responded accordingly to help Pidge keep her emotions in check.

“Focus guys, we’re running close.” Keith stopped in an alleyway, eyes looking around the deserted streets for the building Pidge said the informant had given her. He had just pulled up the hologram into his visor when he heard Hunk and Allura whisper “Oh no.”

Keep reading

A Curious Man...

Fandom: Vikings

Characters: Ragnar Lothbrok, female reader

Pairing: Ragar x Reader

Warnings: Bad writing (so sorry), SMUT

Plot: There isn’t much of a plot really… Reader is a Pictish woman warrior from the Kingdom of Alba. Her and her people are enlisted along with the Northmen to fight for the Kingdom of Mercia in alliance with King Ecbert of Wessex. She and Ragnar decide to get to know each other.

Originally posted by vikings-ragnar

You sat around the small fire beside the river bank with the remainder of your people, scrubbing the blood from your blades and your tattooed skin. You and your people had all fought ferociously alongside the equally ferocious Northmen. Your fighting style was different but not dissimilar to theirs; they relied more on their brute strength and you on your swiftness. Your people often compared you to the great woman warrior Boudicca for your fearless prowess and strength in battle. That is how you came to be the commander of your people’s army.


You glanced across the camp at your allies and caught the piercing pale blue eyes of King Ragnar Lothbrok of the Northmen. He was staring at you a devious smirk playing on his lips. You had caught glimpses of his fighting during the battle; he fought with the same fearless confidence that you yourself display when you fight. You could not deny that you were intrigued by him. And if you were interpreting his behaviour correctly… he was intrigued by you too. This thought sent a shiver down your spine and gave you confidence. The adrenaline of the battle no longer through your veins and you were itching for a different kind of rush. You rose from where you sat, sheathed your swords and strode boldly across the camp towards the King, sporting your own sultry smirk.

Keep reading

anonymous asked:

Hi! Can u do a reactions to the MC accidentally kissing another suitor and their suitor ends up seeing it. Or the suitors getting jealous of something? (Dtl). Thank you and I hope your vacay was wonderful! The pics look great :)

Since you asked for two different things, let’s mix them up a bit by doing both!

Let’s start with the DtL suitors seeing an accidental kiss, and then some quick jealousy fics!

Kyo & Yamazaki: Nooooo! Precious Anon! Why do you want me to hurt these buns!? 

Hijikata: Doesn’t care that it was an accident, assigns the guy who kissed you extra shifts and runs him ragged for a week.

Kondo & Sakamoto: Sumbish betta run. I can’t see either one of them doing anything other than opening up some fine grade, vintage, top shelf Whoop Ass. But if you want me to write a story about it:

Once upon a time, Kondo & Sakamoto killed a dude until he died to death. The end.

Okubo: Without a sound, gets up and shuffles downstairs and out the door in the direction of the bookseller’s, mumbling all the while that his dictionary isn’t thick enough to “slap a bish” with.

Yuki (to your face): “Meh, it happens.”

Yuki (every time he sees the guy): Casually brandishes short sword.

Saito: He tried to remain level-headed, and maintain his business smile, but that only lasted as long as it took for him to get back from walking you home. Challenged the dude to a match in front of the whole compound.

Takasugi: It’s adorable how Katsura thinks Takasugi can hear his frantic cries of “it was an accident!” over the sound of him sharpening his knife.

Katsura: Actively suppressing the fact that it strangely turned him on.

***

Keiki: In a quiet dark alleyway, as the dust and dirt roll by his sandals, staining his expensive socks and marring the hem of his kimono, Keiki stops to collect his breath, before rounding to face the shadowy nothingness behind him.

“Leave me.”

Keep reading

Friendly Fire (A Little Wasted On Desire)

More Ichiruki feels here. This takes place at an undetermined time somewhere ahead of where I am in the anime currently. This is also for @hashtagartistlife who has been encouraging me so hard with my writing for this fandom. Thank you hun. 

2,204 words. Angst with a side of smut. 


Ichigo’s skin is a map of all the battles he’s fought. The battles he’s won, and those that he’s lost. Rukia wishes sometimes that he was still unmarked, still innocent of all the agony that he’s suffered. She knows he doesn’t count the scars or the costs, but she remembers, every time she tugs the ties of his shihakusho open exactly what the Soul Society (what she) has cost him.

Rukia has her own scars, a pair of them nestled between her breasts, and many more besides, but Ichigo - Ichigo has too many. They criss-cross his whole body, telling the stories of his life in their smooth and jagged lines. Almost all of them are because he was trying (is still trying) to save his family, save his friends, save the entire godforsaken universe and most often, to save her.

She looks down at him. He’s asleep in her bed (not their bed, she’s been very careful not to call it that, because as much as he spends most of his time here with her in the Sereitei, he is still alive and she mustn’t forget it), sheets tangled around his legs and bright hair nestled against her pillows. She’ll never get used to seeing him like this, she thinks, the way he sinks so completely into slumber, the way he goes boneless and languid and doesn’t stop himself from curling into her warmth. She runs a hand through his hair, and he hums against her hip.

The line of his body is warm against her legs, and she watches in fascination as goosebumps rise when she ghosts the fingers of one hand down the length of his spine. She draws her hand back up the side of his body, stopping to trace the line of a scar that curls up from the middle of his back and disappears over his shoulder.

Some of his scars are from battles she doesn’t remember (ones she wasn’t part of, or ones she fought in but not beside him), but this one - this one she remembers.

Keep reading

Imagine constantly messing everything up and Legolas comforting you when you get upset about it

For superwholockian111 :) sorry it’s a little late, i had awful writers block

~~~~~~

It was your turn to make dinner for the fellowship that evening so you were hovering over by the fire, a cauldron full of stew hanging above it. You had chopped up all the vegetables carefully into small cubes and added them to your meal stirring the contents around occasionally with a wooden spoon, although after an hour of stirring, things began to get boring and wearisome and you decided you would just rest your head on that comfy looking patch of grass…

“Y/n!” A loud sharp voice awoke you from a sleep you hadn’t realised you’d fallen into.

Keep reading

highwarlockkareena  asked:

#i need to write some battle magnus - i second this. you really do.

kareena your wish is absolutely my command (also because i’m itching to write something about it and i have no excuse at the moment!!!)

it was well past midnight, somewhere close to almost morning and in the heavy darkness of an alleyway, magnus could still feel the hum of the club in his bones. he was walking, not because he needed to, but because he wanted to. a portal was nothing, a portal would have been easy, but tonight the city was begging him to enjoy it’s heartbeat for a moment, and who was he to turn that invitation down? he’d always liked the darkness anyway, the thickness of it as you stood lost in the shadows in an area almost untouched by streetlights. he had always loved nighttime, especially in the city, with all it’s full quiet and all it’s eeriness. he was magic, living and breathing, and new york city at night was a strange kind of supernatural, making him feel like he was stitched into the very fabric of it.

Keep reading

A Hasty Landing - For My Sinster

Rating: Explicit

Words: 3500+

Tags: Demeaning language, sexual deviant Solo

A/N: This is a little Ben Solo fic I created for my sinster, @faestae .  I like to think Ben learned his talents from an earlier age, the ladies drawn to his perfection.  Come and watch me degrade the reader!

______________________________________


The thick forest on Endor was as beautiful as it was difficult to navigate.  You often spent time here, working with the Resistance, carving new trails in the thick of the forest.  After a long day of work and achieving new wounds over your shoulders from the stray branches springing back at you,  it was time to settle for the night.

Keep reading

the Untrue Future. (alternatively: everyone visits Kei in the hospital.)

Sensei visits me in the hospital.

Obviously everyone can’t spend all their time with someone who can’t escape their hospital bed, so the flood of people trickles off after a couple weeks. It takes Sensei a while to come on his own, though.

He was in the initial flood of people after I finally woke up, of course, but he never really did anything but smile weakly and hide behind… well, everyone. Which is odd, and a little hurtful, honestly. I’d think he’d be happy to see me alive after I saved his life. Well, whatever.

I guess it’s been hard for him to get away from his Hokage duties, but… It’s always hard for him to get away from his Hokage duties, and he’s always made time before.

Anyways. Sensei visits me in the hospital.

—–

“I’m sorry Kei,” he says.

I blink at him as best I can from my somewhat dubious vantage point (immobile in bed). I’m not sure if he can see my expression past my oxygen mask, and I definitely can’t say anything in response. Isobu and I screamed so hard that we caused long term stress damage on my lungs (something about chakra burns?) and my lungs need to recover. And also I got stabbed in the lung with a sword.

Sensei’s not looking at me anyways. He’s looking out the window.

I close my eyes and drift. If he wants to say anything else, he’ll wake me up or he’ll visit again.

I dream.

 

—–

He visits again.

“I just- I never meant for things to turn out this way. I didn’t think it would… I didn’t think something like this could even happen.”

Goes to show. I’m an S-Class Jinchuriki in a hidden village, his student, and he didn’t think I’d be in danger after he sent me out in a delicate state of mind. After I basically broke all over him and spilled my guts after a year in exile.

He leaves before I fall asleep this time. I wonder if he knew I was awake, or if he apologizes to me when I’m asleep too. Maybe he doesn’t know. Maybe he doesn’t want to know.

I think that it’s awfully selfish of him to apologize just for his own peace of mind. Not that he’s been apologizing anyways.

—–

Days pass, and other people visit. Everyone seems to be in a habit of talking to me to fill the empty air.

Obito and Rin tend to visit in a pair, and it makes me happy to see them growing towards each other. They mostly talk to each other – which makes sense, considering I literally can’t contribute to the conversation – but they talk loudly and happily enough that I don’t really care. I feel a bit like an excuse for them to spend time with one another, but even if I am, I’m not sure I mind.

Kakashi sometimes comes on his own, but he comes more often with Tenzō or Hayate, or both of them. Tenzō and Hayate come together sometimes too, though it seems less like a joint visit and more like Hayate is dragging a reluctant Tenzō along with him. On one exceptional occasion, Hayate, Yuugao, Iruka, and Tenzō barrel into the room holding an extraordinarily large basket of exotic fruit.

It’s a somewhat cruel gift, as I can’t actually eat any of it. When Hayate realizes – and sees the expression on my “liquid diet” face – he grabs one of the more normal looking fruits and sinks his teeth into it at lightspeed. He gags and nearly throws up in the tiny bedside trashcan while Iruka and Yuugao howl with laughter. Each time the laughter starts to trail off, Hayate makes another face that sets them off all over again. Tenzō doesn’t laugh, but he does looks vindicated and slightly smug.

“It’s a Mangosteen,” Tenzō says serenely, and I glance at him out of the corner of my eyes. “You’re supposed to peel it, actually.”

I have to stop myself from smiling.

—–

I actually see Rin most often, though she’s not always visiting. Sometimes, seeing her pop her head in and smile at me before ducking out is reassuring. She has a job to do, obviously, but she makes time for me, which is nice. She can’t do it that often, but the fact that she does it at all makes me happy.

Besides Hayate, Kushina and Kakashi are my most reliable visitors. Kushina comes with Tatsumaki and Naruto, or alone. She looks a little tired (balancing a newborn and a toddler can’t be easy, especially when they’re energetic like Tatsumaki and Naruto), but overall she seems very happy. Discussing grown up topics must be a nice change of pace, though; it must be cathartic for her to discuss sealing and technique dilemmas with me and solve her problems aloud.

When Tatsumaki and Naruto aren’t around, she tells me in a terribly fond voice about how they’re growing up. Tatsumaki has just started to walk, and it takes Kushina and Naruto’s combined powers of attention to follow her while she toddles around at high speeds. Tatsumaki’s hair is growing in even more, she tells me, but they can’t tell whether it’ll grow in spiky like Minato’s or pin straight like Kushina’s yet.

When Tatsumaki and Naruto are around, the room gets ten times louder and correspondingly ten times more cheerful. Naruto hasn’t discovered pranks yet (he’s three), but he loves playing games and weird bugs and his little sister and his mom. Everything, basically.

Tatsumaki is only one, and she can barely walk, but she manages to love everything through sheer force of personality. She’s gurgled some fairly enthusiastic gibberish at me that I wish I could translate. She sticks to her mom a bit more than Naruto, though, so I generally end up with Naruto leaning as close as possible (carefully restrained by his mother) while Tatsumaki sits in her mother’s arms and babbles contribution whenever she feels the need.

Basically, the Uzumaki-Namikaze children are tiny balls of sunshine and screams, not necessarily in that order, and Kushina is blazingly proud of both of them, and I love them. And everyone loves them.

Kakashi spends most of his visiting time tucked on the window ledge reading. Instead of reading Icha Icha Paradise, he’s reading Icha Icha Tactics, which I’m pretty sure isn’t yet released to the public. I’m slightly jealous that he can read it and I can’t, but I’m pretty sure he’d read it aloud to me if he wouldn’t die of embarrassment. We sit in silence to the steady chorus of my heartrate monitor. He keeps the window open, he tells me, because he needs a source of fresh air; I have no doubt that that’s true, but I also know that he keeps the window open to let some light and noise in for me. I appreciate it.

When I get the Okay for contact, he summons his dogs for me. One at a time, and usually Pakkun (because if he summoned anyone much larger I’d probably be crushed), but it’s always the highlight of my day.

If Tsunade catches him she’d punch him through a wall, so if he ever hears her heels clacking down the hallway he ends up escaping out the open window.

Jiraiya visits exactly once, and spends roughly thirty minutes extolling the virtues of both the newly released Icha Icha Tactics and Konoha’s bath houses. I try my best to tune him out completely and sink into my hospital bed. His new book, I’m interested in; the virtues of Konoha’s bath houses, not so much. He also escapes out the open window when he hears Tsunade’s heels clicking on the linoleum.

I wonder, after a month and a half, why everyone even can visit so much. Kakashi’s usually up to his ass in ANBU missions, and Obito is as well; I shouldn’t expect to see them even a quarter as often as I do. And Kushina’s always in the village, but that doesn’t mean that she isn’t busy.

I guess she has a Tatsumaki shaped excuse? I wonder if Sensei’s been cutting back on mission frequency.

—–

I realize, with a momentous sort of impact, that I think I’m angry at him.

Sensei visits again after two weeks pass, and I can’t tell whether he looks sorry or not. That makes me even angrier.

I don’t think I actually stopped being angry, honestly; I just killed a bunch of people before I got beaten into the ground. I don’t think all that anger is out of my system yet.

God, it’s really not. What the fuck, Sensei? Isobu, slumbering inside me, shifts like a tectonic plate. I feel the urge to smash everything into tiny pieces, then smash those pieces, and a burning anger that has nothing to do with Isobu rises in my throat and spills into my mouth.

I just regained my ability to speak rough, rasping words; I want to scream the ache back into my throat. I want to scream at him.

I am immobile, stewing silently in my hospital bed. I dare Sensei to say anything to me. I know it will make me angry no matter what it is. He proves me right almost immediately.

“Really, Kei-” he pulls his hair through his fingers, roughly, and looks out the window “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to mess everything up.”

“Excuses,” I rasp, and he looks at me like I just denounced his teachings and his village. He looks completely and utterly gobsmacked. I lick my dry lips and try to speak again.

“Take… ownership. Of course… you didn’t… mean. But you… did.” I smile weakly at him, and he’s looking in my direction now, fully. I can’t really understand the expression on his face. “Just… promise… to try… to be… better.”

He grins at me. His smile is watery, and his grin is wavering, but it’s the thought that counts.

“Yeah, I’ll try to do better, Kei. I didn’t mean what I- but that’s no excuse.” He seems to restrain himself from looking away. He glances at my head and twitches his hand - to ruffle my hair? - before he abruptly changes his mind and decides to take my hand instead. Apparently he saw my expression and thought better of it. I can’t tell whether I’m happy about that or not, but there’s a curl of mean satisfaction in my gut that I can’t quite squash down.

“Thank you for saving my life,” he says, softly, and I close my eyes.

I’m still angry, but I’m softening.

All I wanted was a real apology. A promise to do better.

Sensei is holding my hand, and I feel him hold it just a little tighter as I drift off. I’m still hurt, but I’ll get better. I’ll recover.

I don’t regret it, I think. I’d do it again, even with how everything turned out. Especially with how everything turned out.

I fall asleep to the sound of soft breathing and the sensation of someone’s hand in mine.