it might fall apart

One thing I really like about BNHA is the constant acknowledgement of the fact that the shonen manga “I can do anything if I just push myself hard enough and refuse to ever rest or back down” mindset is incredibly self destructive.

Like. All Might is falling apart, physically. Midoriya, at just 15, has destroyed his body so many times that he risks paralysis every time he channels his power through his arms. Iida has severe nerve damage in one hand. And literally no one who cares about them is pretending that this is an acceptable way to be. Even the resident magic cure-all, Recovery Girl, can’t do enough to keep up with the damage they put themselves through, and in Midoriya’s case has threatened to stop healing him so as not to enable his self-destructive tendencies.

Plus, a lot of their character development revolves around learning NOT to be like that. Iida spends several arcs after his fight with Stain trying to atone for the trouble his recklessnes caused and trying to prevent Midoriya from getting into the same type of trouble. All Might has to learn to live as a civilian after he gives his power to Midoriya and then CONTINUES to push his body so far that he pretty much breaks. Midoriya develops a new fighting style, reevaulates his tendency to rush in, and learns to ask for help from the Support department in order to keep from destroying himself in the same way.

It’s honestly refreshing; I was a little sick of the Bleach-style “the hero can loose twice his weight in blood and be totally fine an episode later” type of storytelling.

9

Not all relationships are perfect. Their relationship is clearly NOT PERFECT, but is everything sunshine and rainbows in real life? No. It’s not. Bakugou Katsuki and Midoriya Izuku have a strained relationship. To quote All Might, “Both of them are actually pretty clever, but they fall apart in a second when it comes to each other:

Envy, Hate, Pursuit, Awe, Rejection, Pride: 

From what I’ve heard, they have so many different feelings about that they don’t know how to interact anymore.” -All Might (Toshinori Yagi)

They really don’t. Which is why, when you see that Katsuki actually lowered his pride by one 0.01% to actually team up with Izuku to plan, angry planning with scary af kabedon punch to the wall near Izuku’s head, but they still planned shit! They planned shit together to try and get a leg up over All Might:

They still have a LONGGGG way to go as heroes, growing teenagers, strained rivals and as the two main characters of this story. All Might has hope for them, I have hope for them, so these two are changing. Changing slowly, sooo slowly (in the anime-since the manga is further), but it’s change. These two are dynamic character with drastically different personalities, but overall similar motivations. They clash here and eventually team up at the end, enough to pass together.

And though Bakugou Katsuki probably won’t be happy this happened:

But this is what needs to happen. Katsuki needs to be humbled and this is a START. Only a start, but so satisfying, just like the deserved wake-up punch Izuku did to Katsuki:

This is Bakugou Katsuki’s Origin: Fighting along side the person he’s looked down upon, bullied and thought was just “the pebble on the side of the road.” 

Sooner or later down the line, Katsuki would probably look back fondly at this and reveal that to no one (especially Izuku, because come one, Katsuki wouldn’t want anyone to know that) and at that time he would have grown so much. I don’t know what chapter that will be…(chapter 500+ idk lik), but by then they’ll all have developed as characters. Midoriya Izuku would have grown alongside the boy who used to be his childhood idol turned asshole turned horrible rival turned healthy rival turned friend. That’s how well written characters are supposed to be, ever changing for the good and bad. Thank goodness that this happened, because this was a good change for them both.

I eagerly await for Izuku and Katsuki to evolve more as they already have here. This is now my favorite episode. Legit. Serious. 100% favorite episodes because, of all the emotions within this. They portrayed how it was in the manga perfectly, all the gut-wrenching and tears. Yep. 

This is the best…for now. Love you, Bakugou and Midoriya. Stay ever evolving budding heroes that you are:

Here’s a BNHA theory

I love Boku no Hero academia and I was reading manga again 4th time when I realized something.

TODOROKI AND DABI CAN BE BROTHERS!!!
here’s how:

His Dad mentioned his older brothers and how Todoroki is better then his brothers because Todoroki has both ice and Fire Quirks and his one brother could have fire and one could have ice power so basically his brother’s are ‘useless’ to father.

I think Todoroki is mad with his father because his father never pay’s attention to other sons and only care about Todoroki surpassing ALL Might and that’s what cause his family to fall apart and Dabi to leave his home and join Villain Alliance.

Look how when Dabi met Shigaraki he never told him his real name because he don’t want Villians to know that He is son of Endeavor. He probably burned his skin so he won’t show any resemblance.

ANd PROBABLY THat’s the way artist draw or IT’S BOTH BROTHER’S WAY OF DOING CURVY HAND WHEN THEY USE FIRE QUIRK!!!??

AND in here when they met Todoroki looks confused and scared but Dabi looks excited to see his little brother and Dabi even KNows Todoroki’s full name

AGAIn it’s just a theory I made and I think they are related as brothers.

We’ll find out about rest while reading new chapters

With the CS wedding coming up, I think it’s a good time to talk about the divorce. Because the truth is there’s no version of reality in which this particular marriage doesn’t fall apart. OUAT might be off the air before we see it, but that doesn’t alter the fact that it’s inevitable. Want to know why I’m so sure? Good! Because I made a list…

1. They have literally nothing in common. I mean, I guess they both had shitty childhoods, but by that logic Emma ought to be marrying Archie. Or, you know, Regina.

2. I mean seriously, what do Emma and Hook even talk about? There’s a reason whenever we see them on their own they’re making out. Because they must spend the rest of the time in slightly awkward silence.

3. Emma’s a modern woman - she’s kind of forgotten it at the moment, but she’ll remember soon. And Hook is very much not a modern man. He asked her father for permission to marry her BEFORE HE EVEN SPOKE TO HER ABOUT IT. I know how I’d react if my partner ever had the nerve to do that to me.

4. They’re unbelievably bad at figuring out what the other one is really feeling. That’s why they’re so good at keeping terrible secrets from each other.

5. Speaking of which: they keep terrible secrets from each other. Pretty much all the time.

6. Hook has no real friends of his own, no job of his own, no life of his own outside Emma. That’s *incredibly* unhealthy for a relationship.

7. Emma is her worst self when she’s with him: selfish, self-absorbed and frequently miserable. ‘Marry a man who brings out the worst in you’ is a phrase that literally no one has ever said ever.

8. Emma doesn’t love Hook for who he is - she just likes the image of the dashing, handsome pirate who lets her play-act her perfect heterosexual marriage. She’s not going to deal well with him aging, or with the day-to-day revelation of his flaws that marriage brings. We saw that in the Wishworld, where all she could feel for old, drunken Hook was a contemptuous sort of amusement.

9. Actually I’m not sure Emma even really knows who Hook is. Every time he tries to talk to her about his past, she shuts him down. There must be a part of her that senses she couldn’t deal with - or love - the man he truly is.

10. Emma’s a lesbian. It’s something she’s obviously struggling to acknowledge, but then again she’s still younger than I was when I realised I’m gay, so she’s got plenty of time.

11. Also, she’s desperately in love with Regina. And you can only ignore the elephant in the room for so long, especially when you and the elephant are co-parenting a son.

Prodigy Lance Fic Part 7!!!!

Lance chocked on a gasp as his back slammed against the wall, air rushing out of his lunges. Momentarily paralyzed from the impact, he crumbled to the ground. “LANCE!!” ‘Wa-was that Keith?’ Lance thought. He didn’t know, his brain felt cloudy all of a sudden. He logically knew that he was on the brink of unconsciousness, which he would gladly welcome. Everything hurt. And the Galra soldier wasn’t finished with him yet. But as said Galra grabbed a fist full of his hair and punched him in the ribs, he couldn’t come to regret his decision. It was apart of his plan after all. It was rather simple to be honest. The Galra were bigger hotheads than Keith, by a very large margin. All it took was for Lance to toss a few irritating comments and throw around insults for the Galra to get rilled up enough to release the cuffs from Lance’s hands by keying in a certain code and saying something in Galran into an alien like computer. Lance smirked. *Bingo* That smirk didn’t last long as he was getting the ever loving shit beat out of him. The Galra was shouting at him, probably insults, but Lance couldn’t hear him. It was as if he were underwater. He slowly raised a hand to his ear, and when he brought it back, it was painted red. ‘Oh. That probably explains it.’ The Galra grabbed Lance by the wrist and sneered right in his face. “You pathetic waste of space. You call yourself the Blue Paladin, the defender of the universe, and yet you crumble at a single punch. Disgusting.” “You know, if you’re gonna get this close to my face, could you please use a breath mint? Surely you have space TicTacs or something cause holy quiznak, have you ever brushed your teeth?” Lance was replied with a punched to the jaw, and the force of it made it him slide against the wall. Stars bursts across his eyes. He knew he wasn’t going to last long. But he needed to stay awake. He had to. For his team. The Galra braced his hands against the wall, and began to kick Lance, over and over again, anywhere he could kick. After what seemed like an eternity, he stopped. The Galra wiped sweat off his brow. “I’m not finished with you yet. When I come back..heh, well you’ll just have to wait and see.” And then he was gone. Lance stayed on the ground, tears streaking down his face, ragged breathes rocking his body. “Lance! Lance! LANCE!!!” came a broken shout. 'Yep, definitely Keith.’ Lance slowly raised up, and his legs nearly crumbled against his weight. He tried to access the damage his body had just received, but his vision was obstructed by a swollen, black eye that almost made his eye completely shut. From what he could see, he had infinite bruises and scratches, he was bleeding somewhere, probably in multiple places because his whole front was almost covered in crimson. And with the wheezing and struggle to breath, he was pretty certain he had a few broken ribs and some internal bleeding. Forgetting his pain, on wobbly legs, he made his way to the computer. He ignored the shouts from his worried teammates. If he saw their faces, he might fall apart. He reached the computer, and it was all in Galran. “Lance, what are you doing?? It’s all in their language, come over here and we’ll figure something out! Please, don’t hurt yourself even more!” Pidge cried out. Lance tilted his head toward her and sent her a small smile. “It’s okay Pidgeon..I’m afraid I haven’t been completely honest with you guys.” “What are you-” Lance turned around and in clear, perfect Galran, repeated the phrase the Galra said. The computer came to life under Lance’s fingertips. He couldn’t help but smirk. 'Too easy.’ Lance glances and the keys and he could easily read and understand what they were. Lance quickly went to work, hands flying against the keyboard. Lance’s brain took over. He no longer felt the pain in his head or his body. His minded was zeroed in. “Lance..how-what-?” “Their firewall is pretty elementary which is surprising. Of course it’s more advanced than the Garrison’s but come on, even a child could break through that firewall. I thought I would’ve had to bring out the big guns, but no. You would think they would have a stronger security than this. It would be easy to create. For example, there is this one line of code that you can place as a trap. If anybody tries to break through, it attacks them back, destroys their technology. It’s quite effective.” He chuckled. In the back of his mind, Lance knew he was rambling. He couldn’t really help it when he was in Prodigy Mode. That’s what his family called it when he got like this. As Lance typed, he couldn’t see the shocked and disbelieving looks on his teammates faces. “Ah! There it is! Just the one I was looking for! Just a few more seconds and you’ll be-” the doors of the room busted wide, and the Galra looked at him murderously. Lance froze as he noticed that in one hand, the Galra had a knife. “Why you little piece of-” the insult died on his tongue as he charged toward Lance. Lance tried to move, to defend himself, but his legs gave out from beneath him. The Galra was on top of him, pining his weight to the ground, and he slowly raised the knife to his chest. Keith thrashed wildly against his cuffs. “LANCE, NO! I’M GONNA KILL YOU, YOU SONOFABITCH DO YOU HEAR ME? DON’T YOU DARE TOUCH HIM!” The Galra raised up bringing Lance with him. “Oh, I see what’s going on here…I wonder how the red Paladin would react if he had to watch his precious blue bleed out. Right in front of his eyes.” Lance closed his eyes, crying softly. “It’s okay guys. I’m sorry I failed, but I knew this was coming.” He gave them a weak smile. “Lance…” “Enough of this sob story! It’s time for you to die!” Just as the Galra was about to thrust the knife through him, a deafening crash rang around them, and one of the walls shattered. Lance chocked and gagged as the dust settled when he heard Keith murmur “…Red?” It was, in fact, the Red Lion…but his back was toward Keith and the others. Red was looking directly at Lance and the offending Galra. Lance stared in shock and disbelief. Unfortunately the Galra was the first to react. He grabbed Lance by the shoulder, and buried the knife deep into his abdomen. Lance made a gurgling noise from the back of his throat as his mind went blank and all he could feel was a searing white, hot pain. “LANCE!!!” Lance couldn’t respond, his eyes wide. A roar ripped from the Red Lion and he attacked the Galra. Lance’s hand slowly reached down to the gaping, bleeding wound. His brain took over once more. His body slowly taking him back to the computer keys. “Lance! Come back right now!” “Lance, it’s not worth it!” “Please, stop!” “You’re gonna hurt yourself even more!” Lance ignored his team. His fingers reached the keyboard and he typed the final line of code. The team’s cuffs fell to the ground, just when Lance did. A broken “L-Lance!” ripped from Keith’s throat as he ran to him. He pulled Lance into his lap, trying to stop the bleeding. “Come on Lance, stay with me! You can’t leave me, you idiot, you can’t!” Tears were starting to spill from his eyes. Lance smiled weakly again. “Looks like we’re having another bonding moment. I’m sorry, but I don’t think I’ll ever remember this one.” “Lance, please. It’s okay if you don’t remember, I don’t care. Just please stay awake, please stay with me.” Lance grabbed his hand and gave him a small smile. The team gathered around him, Pidge and Hunk sobbing while Shiro had a dark look in his eyes. “It’s alright guys.” Lance closed his eyes, welcoming the calming darkness. “It was all part of the plan.”

trans keith hcs

ft. lots of klance at the end

(this starts out really messy but it pulls itself together tbh)

- Keith having a huge surge of confidence when his voice drops after starting t, and he wouldn’t stop talking for like a week, which was the most conversation anyone had ever had with him, and the most happy Shiro had ever seen him. Even now, he still really loves his voice.

- Keith losing everything after dropping out of the garrison, pulling money from his father’s account to continue his t doses, but surgery seems like a distant dream.

- Because of this, Keith distracting himself from dysphoria and concerns about his future by focusing on the weird energy he feels out there in the desert and searching nonstop for whatever it is that he needs to find.

- Keith being relieved when he finds Shiro, who he thought was long gone. Keith’s desperate for a friend back that understands him and can help him through this all, but the other three kids that show up are an unexpected addition.

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steven universe lyric starters

it’s over isn’t it
“ i was fine ”
“ after all those years - i never thought i’d lose ”
“ it’s over… isn’t it ”
“ why can’t i move on? ”
“ what does it matter? it’s already done. ”
“ you won. ”

stronger than you
“ i’m never going down to the likes of you “
“ let’s go - just me and you ”
“ i think you’re just mad ‘cause you’re single “
“ ‘cause i’m stronger than you. “
“ this is who i am “
“ i won’t let you hurt my friends “

do it for her
“ you do it for him/her “
“ balance is the key “
“ keep your eyes on me “
“ concentrate! “
“ everything you have - everything you are - you’ve got to give “ 
“ that’s how you know you can win “
“ deep down, you know “
“ i can make a difference “
“ i can be his/her knight “

here come’s a thought
“ take a moment “
“ here comes a thought that might alarm you “
“ you’re/i’m losing sight “
“ you’re/i’m losing touch “
“ i might lose you “
“ is this how we fall apart? “
“ but it’s not “
“ it’s okay “
“ i’m here “
“ they confuse me “
“ you’ve/i’ve got nothing to fear “
“ it was just a thought “

haven’t you noticed (i’m a star)
“ i can’t help it if i make a scene “
“ everybody needs a friend “
“ i’m too famous “
“ haven’t you noticed i’ve made it this far? “

something entirely new
“ i think we made something entirely new “
“ where did we go “
“ oh - um - well i just can’t stop thinking - “
“ so - um - did you say i was different?”
“ when would i have ever? “
“ now you’re here forever “
“ we’re here together “
“ what about you “

still not giving up
“ hey there have you heard? “
“ i sure have made my fair share of mistakes “
“ i feel like i messed up “
“ we’ve had some good times “
“ i’m/we’re still not giving up “

i could never be (ready)
“ i could never be ready “
“ isn’t it lovely in theory? “

what’s the use of feeling (blue)?
“ what’s the use of feeling? “
“ why do you want to be here? “
“ you’ve got to be a leader “
“ now there’s nothing we can do “
“ drowning in all this regret, wouldn’t you rather forget? “
“ start looking forward, and stop looking back “
“ don’t you know i miss her too? “

giant woman
“ i know it’ll be great “
“ if you give it a chance - “

strong in the real way
“ i could show you how to be strong “
“ i want to inspire you “
“ i want to be your rock “

full disclosure
“ i don’t want that for you “
“ everybody tells me life is precious “
“ i have to protect you “
“ you’re better off not knowing “
“ you don’t need this - you don’t need me! “

what can i do (for you)
“ what can i do for you “
“ what can i do that no one else can do “
“ i hadn’t planned on finding you quite this entertaining “
“ i like your song “

tower of mistakes
“ maybe you’re better off with her “
“ i think she’s better for you “
“ i forgot how great it felt to be us “
“ guess i got carried away “
“ i don’t care about that now “
“ is there’s something i can do “
“ can i make it up to you “

Try Me

Namjoon x Reader // College!AU, Rugby!AU // 12.8k words

Summary: You wanted nothing more than to leave behind your old self when you graduated from high school and moved on to college to play rugby but when you see your high school classmate, resident fuckboy and captain, Kim Namjoon, at the rugby department orientation, you feel like everything might fall apart.

Genre: Fluff

A/N: lmao soz for the weird header but I couldn’t find a good gif. Anyway, this was once supposed to be part of a collab but I’ve since revamped it and I hope you guys like it!! this one’s mainly for @hijoonie who sent me numerous encouraging messages when I talked about how inadequate I felt compared to those other bigger writers (’: I hope you like it!!


Forgettable. A single word that encapsulated who you were. You drifted in and out of high school, always in class, always present at practice yet whenever your name was mentioned, the usual response is a short pause before they say something along the lines of, oh right, her… I think I’ve seen her around before… 

It wasn’t that the people in your school were overtly unfriendly in any way but you had come in to the school halfway through sophomore year, the only new face they had seen in years and the stares you got made you feel so out of place. Just about everyone had their own group of friends and it just seemed like there was no space for you or at least that’s what you told yourself. You hated the move to this new town, to be uprooted from the place you had called home for so many years and you were so, so bitter. Dread was all you felt whenever you woke up in a house that wasn’t familiar and gloom was all that surrounded you when you walked on a path to a school you didn’t recognise. 

Your classmates were excited of course, about Y/N the new transfer student but you didn’t seem to share in that emotion, always trying to push them away. You didn’t want to like this town and so, subconsciously you were trying to make it seem like this school was a horrible place. It was an almost masochistic way of living, if you will. Slowly, your classmates gave up on trying to include you in their conversations because they weren’t going to waste their time on someone who just wanted to be left alone. 

Year after year, you sat in your seat, letting yourself stew in thoughts about how much better your life would’ve been if you hadn’t moved, hatred brewing within you with each passing day. Wake up, school, homework, sleep, repeat. That was all you did for 3 years. In a way, you weren’t really making the most out of your time at high school. You were simply drifting through life, trying your best to get through high school unscathed. Sad. It’s the only word that could describe what you were but you only had you and your stubbornness to blame.

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Shatters And Glue

Season 13 episode 4 spoilers!

Characters: Sam Winchester, Dean Winchester, Winchester sister!reader, Jack Kline

Words: 2000

Warnings: Verbal fight

A/N: Hey guys! Hope you’re having a good day :) So, I while ago a little birdie ( @ocean-calls-me ) told me that it would be kind of cool to include Jack in fic since his a smol bean. I started writing this a while back, but since I’ve been running a little short on time to write lately, I decided to center it around a scene in 13x04 to make it easier for myself. I’ll try to come up with something a little bit more different next time. I kind of needed to post something anyways, so I hope you enjoy this still!

Feedback is very much appreciated <3

Originally posted by allgifz

Your name: submit What is this?

Being quite a few years younger than your half brothers, you had always put them on a pedestal. You looked up to them like nobody else, they were your heroes.

And you had always trusted Dean’s decisions, just like you trusted Sam’s.

But not anymore. At least not right now.

Your small family was in shatters. Pieces that wanted but couldn’t seem to fit together as good as they did before. You had been through bad spots before, the lowest of low. You had been through times when you though that there was no light in the end of the tunnel, that the light had forever gone out.

Things had been better for some time, but now you were back in that same spot, as if you’d never been anywhere else. Cas, dead. Crowley, dead. Rowena, dead. Mary, gone. Your world was simply echoing empty.

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anonymous asked:

Can you please recommend me some really long fics? Thank you💕

Sure! Just in time for SCAWeek too :) I’ll list these by writer, and most of them will be Steter but a few will also be polyamory and I’ll specify those.

bxdcubes/nezstorm

Make Your Own (Buns in the Oven)

Stiles opens his mouth a few times, but no words come out as he feels tears welling up again. He takes a deep, shaky breath, exhales slowly to calm himself enough to do this.

Peter waits, brows furrowed in worry as he watches Stiles.

“I think I’m pregnant,” he finally says, “And I don’t know what to do.”

Or the one where Stiles is a human incubator and Peter is not the baby daddy (until he is).

it’s not the color i came in

Stiles is a bit of an anomaly among the Omegas he knows, or everyone on the spectrum really.

For him, heats are about comfort and safety, and not at all about sex.

Guede

Bittersweet Creek

When Stiles finally steps off the westward trail to California, he’s the last of his pack. He starts building a den, but then he finds a dying man next to a burnt-down house and it turns out he’s not really much of a settler, after all.

The Time Travel Grammar Book

The story that was supposed to be about time-travel, but is really a stealth AU of the first two seasons where Talia’s a struggling single mom, Peter’s the eponymous teen wolf, and Stiles, Scott and Lydia…are time travelers (so that part’s not totally inaccurate).

The Sphinx of Beacon Hills (Stetopher)

Stiles is a sphinx, and he’s winging his way to visit his buddy Scott when a storm drops him in Beacon Hills, the craziest, crankiest, coldest place ever. And somehow, he ends up with a bunch of werewolves.

Dead Men Tell No Tales (Steterek)

Sociopathic mercenaries Stiles and Lydia pick up some Hales in the middle of killing Kate Argent. They’re not rescuers.

Movement in Alpha Major (Stetopher)

Peter Hale, thirty-four, shady but successful human lawyer, knocks on his nephew Derek’s door one night because he’s just been bitten by a werewolf. Somehow, this ends up being a lot more awkward than one would expect.

yogi-bogey-box/Green

Set the Sun, Rise the Moon

Stiles wakes up a werewolf, with no memory of how it happened. Understandably, he panics.

“He wasn’t supposed to come home,” Stiles whispers. He knows Peter can hear him even with the shower running. “He woke me up and I remembered and I panicked…”

“Your father,” Peter says, and it’s not a question.

gingersnapwolves/KouriArashi

Sympathy for the Devil

Stiles gets a job as a hospital orderly and finds himself becoming strangely attached to the catatonic man on the long-term care ward, and finds out that there’s a lot more to Peter Hale than there seems…

Get Off (Me)

Stiles hates being left behind with Peter while the pack is fighting monsters, because he never knows exactly what Peter will get up to.

Devil of Mercy

Peter’s heard people talk about what it felt like when they saw their mate for the first time, from those who actually believe in the mystical bullshit. Like a magnet, like gravity. Peter just feels… sharply curious.

Call My Name

After moving to Beacon Hills, Stiles starts having recurring dreams of a man in some kind of prison, who needs his help. Things get so bad that he ends up in Eichen House, where he finds out that the man is real.

DiscontentedWinter

Save Me

Peter is the Alpha.
He’s nobody’s savior.
Not his pack’s. Not his town’s. And not that kid’s.
But sometimes salvation goes both ways.

Infinite Space

Stiles needs Peter’s expertise to help stop the latest threat to Beacon Hills.
And, as the pack falls apart around him, he might even need Peter for more than that.

Sanctuary

The Hale Wolf Sanctuary isn’t just for wolves.

It turns out it’s for Stilinskis as well.

thesushiowl/SushiOwl

Baby Boy

What the heck is FetLife?

Stiles is too curious for his own good, and he can’t help himself, so he joins a website advertising to be a good place for “kinksters.” He just wants to be nosy and see what total strangers are up to. Then he meets Peter, who wants to be called Daddy.

Could Stiles be his baby boy?

Pigments and Pentacles

“One–” He stabbed the needle right through skin and cartilage, pulling a loud squawk out of Stiles.

Stiles sucked in a few quick breaths then started to laugh. “You son of a bitch,” he snorted. “You said on three.”

“I lied,” Peter replied, smiling down at him.

ShippersList

All In A Spin

Stiles can’t really talk anymore but, with Peter, he realizes he doesn’t have to. Even if their spoken communication consists of one swear word and stuttered syllables, they understand each other. And that’s what counts.

and-now-presenting/mia6363

If You Want to Sing Out, Sing Out

Commander Stilinski looked like he fell out of a propaganda video, his armor still smoking as he pulled off his helmet and handed it off to First Officer Argent. He had a few bruises down his neck but his smile was bright.

“Glad to see you safe and sound, Mr. Hale. I’d hate for Derek to lose a member of his family.”

“I told you,” Derek snapped at his superior, “he’s not worth this, Commander.”

Pirotess666

Spark of Dark

After being abandoned by Scott, Stiles feels empty and tired. Sick of life. Until Peter re-enters his life and makes him want to live again.
All of a sudden he’s not so alone anymore…and neither is Peter.

ladypigswagon

Out Of The East, Never See The Sun Rise

In the beginning, there are three absolutes.

One. Stiles is a god, forged of starlight and collapsing galaxies and he is eternal.

Two. Peter is human, fragile bone and viscous blood and he is temporary.

Three. Stiles and Peter are in love; love that claws its way inside one’s heart like fish hooks; all encompassing love that is beautiful but dangerous.

Stiles is a god. Peter is human. They love each other.

Three absolutes.

LadyArinn

You Had Me at Canapes

Stiles doesn’t mean to sneak into the Hale wedding, and he certainly doesn’t mean to have cliche coat-room sex with the bride’s uncle, but what had happened, happened, and it wasn’t like he could just leave. At least, not until he got to have some of that cake.

wordsformurder/pprfaith

Naughty Hookers (Swathed in Wool)

Stiles is happy with his store, his hobbies, his friends. Peter’s just trying to figure out how to raise his nieces and nephew without fucking them up too badly.

Paths cross.

FeelingsDusk

Runes and all kinds of things

Enough is enough. Stiles is tired of being always a last choice when he always tries to do his best for his precious people, so they better get their act together or face being left behind.

OR

The things in the Argent’s basement get nearly fatal, the Sheriff finds about the supernatural, Allison can have a wicked, wicked mind and Peter Hale appears to be everywhere.

Oh, and Stiles can’t seem to stop breaking the laws of physics with his magic.

moonstalker24

Worn Out Shoes

When the dead rise, and the world comes to an end, the McCall Pack must learn to live in this new world, or die in the attempt. This is the story of the end, and of the year that follows.

Proposing To Strangers

At the end of a strained relationship, crime novelist Stiles chooses to hide from the world inside a bar with far too many motorcycles outside it for comfort. Here he’ll meet the man of his dreams, eat food and propose marriage, all within the first five minutes.

Peter doesn’t know who this kid is, but he’s cute and looks like he could use a break. So he feeds him. He’s not expecting a marriage proposal, but with what comes after, he doesn’t really mind.

The Unexpected Marriage of Peter Hale

This is the story of how Peter gets married without technically dating anyone.

“You can bring your boyfriend with you,” Talia says.
Peter stops giving Henry more bits of dried fruit to stare at his sister “Boyfriend?”
“Of course!” Talia gestures at Stiles who looks around behind him with wide eyes. “I’m sure the whole family would be interested in meeting your young man.”

taylorpotato

Do You Like to Hurt? (Then Hurt Me)

Stiles shows up at Peter’s apartment, drunk and horny. Peter almost does the right thing—before it all deteriorates into a voyeuristic power game and Stiles has a mind-shattering orgasm. Things snowball from there.

Whiskey is My Kind of Lullaby

Peter is a simple saloon owner on one of the outer planets between the Aaru Belt and the Olympus Galaxy. He’s done with trouble. Done with adventure. So fucking done with rustlers. That is, until a cute young outlaw named Stiles wanders into his bar. Peter has this problem where he can’t seem to resist charming narcissists (perhaps because they remind him of himself). And when said narcissists turn his life upside-down, the worst part is he’s not even that upset about it.

Gamer Trash

Neither of them is aware of it, but Peter and Stiles play the same MMORPG. After Stiles moves away from Beacon Hills and goes to college, he and Peter start raiding together by accident.

Heatstroke (The Strongest Thing I Ever Felt Was Feelings For You)

“Dear god,” Peter snorts. “Alphas and their obsession with bodily fluids. Do you really find the narration of biological processes arousing?”
“You mean you’re not into the idea of smelling like me for days after this?” Stiles grins.
“I don’t know about days. I’m sure the birth control hormones will flush it out after about twenty-four hours.”
“You—what—I thought it suppresses your heats how are you—?”
“I like sex. So I take the pill that gives me shorter pseudo-heats. I’m still infertile. You gonna cry about it?”

(Or the one where Peter is a strong, independent Omega who don’t need no Alpha, but maybe he starts to like having Stiles around anyway).

the real d.e.n.n.i.s. system

(d)eny your emotions

live with the man you love for your (e)ntire adult life and never confront your feelings for him

(n)eglect (yourself) emotionally

(n)arcissism, to cover up your deep-seated insecurity

(i)nternalize every perceived slight, fall apart at the mere insinuation that you might have A Flaw

try to fill the emptiness and fear in your heart by having meaningless (s)ex with lots of women, which is emotionally straining for both them and you

Reversed Roles

Hope you like this little story of no structure. And hope that you’re well. x

Plot: H and her have lost their minds.

Warnings: Sex, cursing words and angst. You’ll love it. Hopefully.

It marked the second week of Harry not speaking to me. For exactly fourteen days had he refused to utter as much as one word in my direction and by that point I felt silly. 
The need to hear him, get some kind of communication and contact with him was there, very much so. My heart ached, ears rang and with every move he made I hoped a sound from his throat would follow. But it never did. And maybe I should have caught on and known better.
Harry was cold to me when he used to be kind, like a flower that bloomed wonderfully in all its colours during the summer and then froze when the cooler months neared.
The immense pain that grew to live in my chest was nothing I believed I would ever manage to get accustomed to and frankly I did not want to either. 
I didn’t want to accept that where once there had been warmth, reigned now the harshest of winters.

“Kiss me.” 

It’d been a desperate plea, uttered with a voice so thin and fragile I hoped it wasn’t mine. My very last hope, the last bit of my strength lay in that simple phrase.
Harry didn’t turn around form where he was standing, feet apart and arms crossed over his chest as he faced me with only his back. The sight of his muscles tensing by my desperate wish was nothing other than imagined, my words didn’t even cause his body to somehow react. He halted so briefly I barely noticed so perhaps my brain tricked me and he hadn’t even done that, before he continued to stride towards the kitchen where I knew he would search for a burning liquid.

“Harry,” I cried, cheeks smeared with hot tears as all the weight I’d been carrying on my shoulders crushed down on me so hard it was difficult to keep my eyes from falling shut.
We might as well have stood worlds apart and been separated by oceans rather than the tiny space of our hallway.

That was it. He left me like that, empty of love and filled with a need I didn’t know where to extinguish.
But I knew I would need to try.

….

A gasp fell from my lips as the tall man before me began to move. His hands were settled on my waist in a tight grip, ensuring that I wouldn’t move away as he lead both of our bodies’ motions. Sweat damped my skin and made it sticky, but given our close proximity and the other many dancing bodies around us I didn’t find it in myself to feel embarrassed. 
The man didn’t seem to mind either. His own forehead was wet and his hair felt wet to my touch whenever my hands ran through it in order to find something I could hold onto. I didn’t care. I needed him. 
Kissing this stranger soothed the ache caused by Harry’s wordless rejection. 
Kissing this man had energy curse through the cells of my body I believed dead and kissing him brought me so much joy I felt myself smiling. 
He moaned, bit my lip, held me close and closer even when impossible. 

“Want me to take you home with me?” 

My head nodded without thinking twice about it. A big hand found mine and he pulled back, looking into my eyes once more to make sure I was certain with my decision before he began to slowly lead me out of the building.

I can’t specifically remember sleeping with him, only that it was easy. There was no alcohol or any other drug cursing through my veins that could have clouded my memory, and still I forgot.
Maybe because he told me his name when he wanted me to sigh it into his ear, perhaps because his scent was nothing but unfamiliar and finally I think it could have been because I crawled out of his bed before his eyes reopened.

….

“You fucked somebody else?”

Harry’s knuckles turned white when his hands tightened into fists. 
But my feet didn’t move back. Why would they?
It was him who stood in a place that wasn’t his and it was Harry who’s turn it was to leave.
Only the green of his eyes would manage to look so utterly lost whilst filled with hate and rage as they travelled up and down my figure where I stood by the door.

“You’re bearing his mark all over you.”

I smiled and stepped closer to where he seemed frozen to. “I missed your voice.”

“Are you insane?” Harry’s bottom lip quivered, “How could you do that to me?”

“Do what to you? Have fun? Have sex?” 

“Yes!” he yelled and as though struck by a lightning Harry stepped closer until he had me pushed up against the door. I groaned as the knob pressed into my back uncomfortably. “Yes to all of that! How dare you, Y/N?”

“I needed to feel something,” I whined, “And he did me good.”

With those words I knew I had him. Harry visibly gagged and released me as if my skin had caught on fire and burned his fingertips.
He stepped away and brought as much distance between us as he could before his own back knocked into the wall behind him.

“I- I c-can’t-” his throat closed and the words were lost with it. Desperately he searched for anything he could say or do that would make the last hours not be real and me not so far gone he couldn’t pull me back to him.

“You’re crazy for feeling lonely now,” I told him indifferently whilst touching the skin I could still feel another’s kiss on tenderly.

Harry shook his head against my nod. “Yes, you are.”

And with that it was my turn to leave him standing on his own, with no physical reaction given from my body. I didn’t shudder when I heard him sob and I didn’t feel like my heart could burst when he began to cry my name.
Finally, I suppose, winter had reached me, too.

Don’t know what this is tbh but I hope you liked it! It’s very similar to my other story called Cold on Your Fingertips so you may want to check that one out, too.

This is also what I came up with when thinking of my requests to the song Cold by Maroon5. I don’t want to copy any other story that was inspired by those songs so this is what I can come up with.

This is my Masterlist which I hope you will also enjoy very much. Love you! x

A Hundred Lesser Faces: (Nine)
  • The first section of this story stems from the premise: what if Voyager!Claire had gone first to Lallybroch instead of directly to the print shop in Edinburgh?
  • The second section will explore the aftermath of Claire and Jamie’s reunion, following their journey as they work to build a new life together.
  • Section Two {A Hundred More}: [ (Eight) ]

(Nine) 

A kiss in my hair and a murmured, “Good morning, Sassenach,” brought me out of my stupor.  

“Is it?” I croaked. I made a bleary-eyed reconnaissance, but could ascertain only that I was a) on a horse, b) in front of Jamie on the saddle, my head lolling on his shoulder, and c) blissfully warm against his chest.

…d) quite unbelievably happy. 

“Is it good?” He tightened his arm around my waist, and I could hear the smile in his voice as he leaned his head against mine. “Aye, never better.”

No,” I laughed sleepily, snuggling back into him and squeezing his arm, as it was the only bit of him I could reach. “Is it morning?

“Nay, quite a few hours to dawn, still; but we’ve arrived in good time.”

The cloak—tucked around us both like his plaid might once have been—slipped a little, and the chill rushed through my clothes as I peered out into the darkness. Inverness. The streets were quite dark and it was hard to discern much of anything other than that we were making our way down a reasonably wide street or avenue. To be frank, though, I couldn’t have given a fig for sightseeing at the moment, in any case. All that mattered was that we were in a reasonably modern town with an inn, meaning a hot meal and a warm bed were mere minutes away. 

Jamie kicked up the horse and turned down a sidestreet, his hand instinctively coming up to keep me from getting whiplash as we made the turn at speed. I don’t know why such a practical movement should touch me so, but there came a sudden lump to my throat, and I clutched him back as tight as I could, closing my eyes to savor him. Jamie. 

God, it still hardly felt real. It was like…

…like trying to sleep after you’ve spent the day on seaboard, or swimming in the ocean. Even if it’s hours and hours later, lying on the mattress that night, you still feel the rise and fall of the water in your body, the memory of it, something within you triggered into perpetual motion, no matter how much you might have hated the waves nor how many miles your bed may be from the sea. There, then, on the horse, in my body and behind closed eyes, I still felt the physical sense of running up that terrible, screaming hill. I still was being eviscerated with every heartbeat in the knowledge that I had to let him go forever, again; that I would never see him again; that it was the end

But it was all over. He wasn’t happily married; I wasn’t making him choose between me and his own children. His life was ready and waiting for me. Thank you, I whispered silently to whomever might be listening. Thank you, thank you, a thousand times more, *thank you.* 

Jamie had slept in my arms, there on the hill. Not for very long, certainly no more than an hour, all told. But oh, how I was glad of it, of the chance to just hold him in peace, to hear the steady rise and fall of his breathing, counting every rise and every fall against my chest, knowing he was safe and mine (How many times had I held his daughter in just that way, in just that peace?) …and beyond that, to immediately cement the intimacy between us.

It was that, I think, that kept either of us from suggesting a move down the hill into the relative warmth of the cottage. At face value, it was an excellent and obvious plan. While the snow had tapered off to a mere scattering of flakes here and there, it was bloody well freezing, and the wind was not gentle.  And yet such a notion had felt to me an enormous risk, one I wasn’t willing to take. 

We were afraid not to be touching, I think; fearful of any gap, however momentary, that might form between us if physically separated. Something would snap out of place, a voice within me had screamed in warning; hesitations or fears or the awkwardnesses resulting from TWO DECADES of separation. If we weren’t touching, those things might so easily slip into the still-gaping cracks—gorges—that existed between his life and mine.

For my part, even if he had suggested moving down to the cottage— I felt an icy chill come over me at the very thought. There were just too many ghosts in that place, both of twenty years ago and of mere hours. It’s where I had said two devastating goodbyes to the love of my life, and even under these ecstatic circumstances of our reunion, I didn’t think I could bear being under that roof again. It would have reminded me too viciously of the loss and regret and wasted time that lay beneath the surface of our joy, and those were raw and throbbing enough as it was. 

No, that cottage could not be a house of joy for me, again.

And so, when he’d awoken, temporarily refreshed from his hellish ride, we’d taken care to always stay linked—even if only hand in hand—as he located satchel and horse (he’d whistled, and the beast had bloody appeared! A veritable John Wayne!), and got us on our way toward Inverness. A few hours’ ride, we’d decided, was well worth having a good meal and a warm bed awaiting us at the end, and the method of travel allowed us to stay holding each other the whole way.

A warm bed.

A warm….husband

Before my mind could fully articulate the anxieties underpinning those two words in relation to this evening, there came a Gaelic command rumbling richly against my back and we slowed to a halt.  

The dingy public house was torchlit and reasonably inviting-looking, I was surprised to find. A stable-boy came promptly up and Jamie exchanged a few words in Gaelic while hopping down from the saddle, swiveling his satchel to the back, and reaching up to help me dismount. 

I swung my leg over and made to slip down into his outstretched arms, but then froze dead like scented prey. “What? For God’s sake, WHAT??” I wanted to crawl out of my skin. He was looking—staring—up at my face as though in horror.  “Jamie,” I croaked in dread, “just bloody say—”

“—most beautiful woman…I’ve ever seen.”

The breath left me in a whoosh. I smiled down at him, but—nervously. “That’s very sweet, Jamie.” 

He was being kind, and I didn’t doubt he was happy to see me, but I was staunchly middle-aged, and no two ways around it. My face—however much I took care of it—had been weathered by time and parenting and more than a decade of a punishingly-demanding job, and in that moment,  I wanted to bloody crawl into the ground to hide from him and never ever come out

“Truly kind, love,” I repeated tightly, trying to move things along, “but you really don’t have to say—”

“I do,” he said at once, his eyes never once leaving mine as he lifted me slowly down. “I must, for it’s the truth.” 

“To you,” I started to say.

“To any man that’s the eyes wi’ which he was born. Claire, mo chridhe, ye are….you…You’re the same.” 

And even the scattered snowflakes seemed to slow as we looked at each other, there in the flickering torchlight. 

We’d both been so frantic on the hill. I personally had spent tremendous energy in trying specifically NOT to look at his face, and by the time we’d finally fallen into each others’ arms, it had been full-dark. That time held close under my cloak had kept us in darkness, too, meaning that this was the first time we’d gotten the chance to truly study each other at length. And God…even filthy and matted and half-dead with fatigue, he was unspeakably beautiful; he was Jamie. 

So slowly, he lifted both hands and cupped my face between them, drinking me in still deeper, shaking his head wordlessly. 

“Dear holy God…” he whispered after a few endless heartbeats. “So ye are a witch, then?” 

He said it with the exact same expression on his face as back on the hill when he’d first gotten sight of my face. Is that what had made him stagger back?  My smile back to him was genuine, playful, almost. “If you like.” 

But there was no jest in his own eye. “Claire….Jesus…” And he could say no more.

I was fairly well speechless, too, and could only pulled him down to me, taking his lips softly and slowly. 


But then, the distance did wedge between us, and fast. 

It happened quite naturally, likely without a thought, on his part. He simply let go my hand as he passed through the tavern door to go speak with the proprietor, and I felt a cold emptiness fall between me and him, like a sudden eclipse. In that darkness, the doubts assaulted me in great, unrelenting barrages, one after another, after another. 

You need to guard your heart more carefully, Beauchamp. The other shoe will drop any moment. 

You and Jamie are just riding the high of being together. This isn’t real life—this is only the honeymoon. This might fall apart in weeks. 

Even if everything with Laoghaire goes right, WE might go wrong. 

What if we can’t stand each other after a time just like happened with them? 

Beauchamp, that’s poppycock, and you know it. You wouldn’t have come back for him—left BREE for him—if you weren’t certain. 

That was so. That was comfort, at least; and everything we’d experienced thusfar since crashing together on that hill had felt right, had felt true. 

But GOD, the anxieties had the upper hand, now, and I felt as though I were the only person for miles, alone in some wasteland in my heart. Fear. So much fear. 

I had thudded down onto one of the long benches, apparently, for I blinked and was looking at my hands before me on a table. Claw-like, they seemed. The hands of an old woman. 

He’d spoken true when he had looked into my face and proclaimed beauty, for I’d seen it in his eyes and heard it in his voice, but it wasn’t him I was worried about, so much, but me. Us. It was truly occurring to me for the first time that it had been a long, long time since I had been actually intimate—fully intimate—with a man, and that perhaps it had been too long. I could feel the truth of that fear in my very bones: that perhaps I wasn’t capable of such an intimacy any longer. Yes, I acknowledged, feeling a vice tightening around my chest, something in me would certainly have been lost. 

There had been sex in my years with Frank, yes, plenty of it, but not passion;  need and urgency, of course, but never anything coming even remotely close to that sense of one-ness that Jamie and I had shared so naturally, so instinctively from the beginning. Frank…Frank was….

I felt my body seize up, a great weight pressing down upon my face to smother me. So many years ….So many long years in which the very concept of being touched by a man (….my only experience with being touched in that way by another human being…) was inextricably linked with having hurt him, being resented by him, resenting HIM right back. Sex meant sensing the other women on his skin and not being able to say a damned word (because of the other man—THE man— that still lingered in mine!). It meant wanting—needing—so badly to touch and be touched, and yet being unable to get true relief, nor seek it elsewhere or ANYWHERE, and being left only with this writhing, seething, screaming —


Jesus. 


Yes. 

Time was not the only thing that had been lost. 


Those aging hands were shaking and my entire body jumped in panic when a steaming platter appeared on the table. “The cook was awake, thank God,” Jamie said enthusiastically, taking the seat across from me and tucking into the bread and cheese and honey with gusto. 

There was a savory broth as well, making it an excellent meal in any century, but I couldn’t seem to taste or smell anything. That didn’t keep me from fixing my eyes carefully on the food, though. It was something to occupy my hands and my attention.  

Warm bed. 

Warm husband. 

Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ, I screamed weakly into nothing. What if I couldn’t do this anymore? What if I could do…that anymore? The way it ought to be done? The way I wanted to be with him? The way—GOD, the way I’d craved for twenty fucking—? 

“Are ye quite well, mo nighean donn?” 

I started and the piece of bread I’d been pinching and balling up rolled away off the edge of the table. “Yes, I—Sorry, just—” I smiled, though it could hardly have been convincing. “Lost in thought.” 

“Aye,” he said, graciously not pressing me. “Is it enough food? Shall I get more?” 

I shook my head and demurred, feeling as though I would vomit or faint from the dark storm roiling within my heart. 

He went back to his food, inhaling it at lightning speed. 

Just take my hand, I begged him silently, but couldn’t get my lips, my lungs to comply, nor my own fingers to move. Just grab onto me, Jamie, and then everything can be alright. Everything *might*….God, Jamie, please… 

But I could see that he was already preparing to leave the table, sopping up the last of his broth with bread. “You go on up to the room, mo nighean donn. Top of the stairs on the left. I need to go directly to talk to the keeper (while he’s still awake) about buying a shirt off him, and perhaps a mirror to shave, and then I’ll be up to join ye presently.”

The room.

The expectations—his AND mine—

No, it was mine. My own expectations were the ones making the room spin, along with the knowledge that I almost certainly couldn’t meet—

“You don’t need to shave for my sake, Jamie,” I said hastily, not meeting his eye, trying (failing) to sound casual. “I’m sure you’re bone-tired.”

He caught the implication immediately and only nodded. “I am, and I thank ye, but I’ll be shaving all the same. I want to—to be presentable for my wife,” he said formally, not meeting my eye either. He started to say something else, but then stood quite suddenly and brushed crumbs off his hands as he walked around the table, making for the kitchens. “I willna be long, I swear it.” 

I jumped to my feet, violently enough that my head spun. “Jamie, wait, I—” but I stopped, my mouth working vainly before I shut it again. He was looking down at me expectantly, with a hint, I thought, of a keen anxiety in his own eye. 

My mouth was slack. I didn’t bloody know how to say it. Well, no, I did

You don’t HAVE to have sex with me tonight, Jamie, if you don’t want to. 

I DO want to have sex with you—want it a great fucking deal, in fact— 

….but I’m also TERRIFIED of it—Almost more terrified than I’ve EVER been at the prospect of going to a man’s bed…And it will be next to impossible to explain why and it will likely make you angry or sad or both and so I shall avoid it like the plague…

….and even though I just said you don’t HAVE to have sex with me, on some ridiculous, vain level, I honestly don’t know what I’ll do if somehow you DON’T want me, or if you can’t find me sexually attractive or—

Before I could voice any of this, he stepped directly in front of me, took my face in his hands and kissed me. I’m here, the kiss said. 

And then he dropped a hand to my hip and pulled me tight—gently, but nonetheless firmly—against him, so I could feel— 

…Oh…

He nodded and gave the tiniest smile.

I blinked, taken aback. “How do you bloody do that? STILL??”

“I’m none so verra decrepit, Sassenach.” The corner of his mouth twitched in that way that still drove me wild. “And as for how, if ye dinna ken the process by now, I’m none so verra—”

“Not that,” I groaned, laughing but completely serious. “How can you still know exactly what I’m thinking?”

He quieted and took a pace back, studying me, though thank God he didn’t let go my waist. “Ye think just because we were apart these twenty years, I stopped thinking of ye?” 

That startled me. “Well, no, Jamie, of course not, but—” 

“Not just about ye,” he clarified. “Thinking of ye as though we were speaking to one another, throughout the day, throughout the years…..What ye’d say in a conversation that was wearying to me….What your face would have done in seeing some sight or other at my side…..When—whether—ye’d laugh or only roll your bonny eyes when I made a joke….” He cupped my cheek. “… And picturing always how your truth would ever be in plain sight on that face for me to find. Ye’ve kept me company, these twenty years, Sassenach, whether ye willed it or no’. Naught but a lonely man’s pitiful longings, true, but ye stayed wi’ me.” He swallowed, his voice going still more hoarse as he finished, “And I’ve been given a gift this day to learn that my pale imitation was a true image, Claire….for you’re exactly as I recall. I ken ye like I ken the sound of my own voice.” The last was a whisper. “STILL.

I dipped my head so he couldn’t see that I was trying not to cry. 

He brought my chin back up and kissed me softly, kissed my closed, tear-straining eyes and my brow and my temple, before whispering in my ear and pulling me once more against him. “And aye, Sassenach…I want ye.”

And that meant a great deal, I reflected, watching his long hair swishing behind him as he disappeared down the corridor to the scullery. It was one great weight off my mind, the weight of vanity and fretfulness over the body. While I chided myself for its foolishness, it had NOT been a meaningless burden in honest reality. Hadn’t getting Joe Abernathy’s sworn statement regarding my sexual attractiveness been (absurdly, I grant you) one of my pre-requisites for deciding to find Jamie at all? 

Yes, Jamie wanted me, and Lord knew I wanted him back. 

But could we truly be one again, in that way that had changed everything all those years ago? We might, in some abstract sense, yes, for whatever it was between us it was still there; but in looking at the bald facts and making a clinical assessment, was I still able to supply my half of us, and all that it entailed? Was I still ‘me’ enough to love him, truly love him, body and soul?  

I honestly don’t know. 

That honest admission had the seams of my heart—so new, so fragile—aching. Anxiety and dread and shame in myself dogged me in every lonely step up to our empty chamber.  

Just touch me, Jamie. And forgive me if I fall apart. 


Friendship is a difficult thing to put into words, no less so than love is (and, really, sometimes the two flow into one another, with the boundaries growing smudged and hazy). But many of those that, in a multitude of different timelines and alternative realities, have been Marked by the Anchor, and ended up leading the Inquisition, still do try. And sometimes, they even succeed - for they have a treasure trove of memories at their disposal; a whole wondrous archive to choose from, leafing through the cherished entries and juxtaposing them against this curious word. Friendship.


Friendship is when the Iron Bull looks away from the smoking wreckage of the dreadnought, before the frothing grey jaws of the sea are quite finished munching it up, and his boss, Issala Adaar, rests her hand over his thick, pale-scarred arm, and does not let go throughout his conversation with Gatt; this one last talk with one who was once his brother, which dooms him to a life of an outcast, unwanted and despised, a Tal-Vashoth like her. She does not let go - and he knows why. He has looked into her background (because of course he has, being a Ben-Ha… being who he once was). She used to be a junior Tamassran, this big, soft woman with a huge burn mark on her cheek and Antivan-made adornments on her horns. She defied the Qun when the Arvaraad came to chain one of her favourite students, a little girl who turned out to be a Saar… a mage. The girl died, in an explosion of magic that warped Issala’s skin - but she still defended her to the last, choosing her over the Qun. Because that girl was family - just like the Chargers are family. Just like the Inquisition is family. This is what Bull thinks of, when Issala holds on to him - and glancing up at her, he reads an affirmation of this in her eyes, bright-yellow and speckled with Fade green, and brimming over with silent tears. Breathing in the powdery drizzle, he grunts a brisk ‘Thanks, boss’ - which would seem weird to an outsider, for sure (thanking her for touching him? for getting weepy?), but is not weird to them. Because this is what friendship is.


Friendship is when Varric settles more comfortably on the makeshift bench by the side of a roaring fire and flaps his hand against the splintering wood, as a welcoming gesture to the Herald, Nakamoa Lavellan, nicknamed Nana by the children she would often baby-sit back in her clan, before a herb-gathering mission gone wrong resulted in her stumbling on the Conclave and being appointed by a bunch of shemlen as their goddess… or something. She accepts the invitation eagerly, crackling her joins and stretching her throbbing weary limbs, as she fire’s warmth swaddles her in a fuzzy, protective blanket. And suddenly, it strikes her that this is what a hahren would do - an older elf, weary and perhaps a little downcast after seeing too many years rustle by, like dry leaves carried by the sad, grey autumn wind. After that thought, comes a second one: she not only acts like a hahren, she feels like one. Mournful over something she has lost but can never regain. Which… Which is not like her at all. She used to be so cheerful, so full of jokes and songs to amuse and delight and soothe her precious little da'len flock; and now, she is oddly empty on the inside, with a drab veil cast over her eyes and draining the world around her of half its colour; even the supposedly dazzling golden fire somehow looks faded, muted to her, more like a picture of a fire in an old book than an actual cheerfully crackling blaze. Startled by this change within herself, she cannot help frowning - and when Varric asks her what’s wrong, she explains it to him as best she can, though not as much for the sake of informing the dwarf of her troubles (she does not expect him to care, to be honest) as for helping herself figure out her feelings by putting them into words. But, to her astonishment, the dwarf does care; he gives her an earnest, sincere nod, and lifts his short arm to pat her on the back. 'Yeah,’ he says gravely. 'It’s hard to be all sunshine and sparkles when the world is drowning in demon shit and your old friends are scattered all over the place, putting themselves in Maker alone knows what kind of crazy danger… But you know what - sometimes you gotta pretend that you are still the same, still with a roguish twinkle in your eye and a smug smirk on your lips… Because if you don’t… You might just fall apart’. And after she is finished talking, Nana edges closer to him and silently squeezes his hand, a tiny voice in her mind murmuring that she just might find all this Fade-induced insanity a little bit more bearable with this dwarf around. And that this - this is what friendship is.


Friendship is when Saarath Adaar, a blue-eyed, unsettlingly rake-thin Qunari with sawn-off horns and stitching scars around her mouth, glides like a wraith among the creaking cots where the wounded soldiers toss and turn, their breaths like gusts of scorching summer wind. She kneels next to each of them, whipping back the long silvery braid that keeps dangling down and getting in the way, and gloves her hands in gently chiming healing magic - a refreshing autumn rain that brings an end to the sweltering heat. Very often, far more often than she could possibly have hoped, her spellcraft does take effect, and the soldier opens their heavy, swollen eyelids, the dim feverish glaze lifted off their eyes, and, fingering weakly at the gnarled stretch of healed-up skin that once used to burn like a splash of lava, mumbles a husky thank-you. This always makes Saarath tear up with joy, while a disembodied voice chants rhythmically somewhere from behind her back, 'Whole, healthy, happy, all by my hand. The hand that used to be stiff and cold and wilted, drowning in icy chains like a nest of snakes. They bound my hands because they thought I was going to do harm, to hiss curses and hurtle magic and hurt, hurt, hurt people unless I was stopped. But I have learned that, apart from hurting, I can undo the hurt caused by others. I am not a dangerous thing any more’. And every time it speaks to her - of her, but also of itself - Saarath looks up and opens her palm, beckoning the voice’s owner to hold her hand. And he always comes to her, stepping out of nothingness, the rim of his oversized hat flapping in the breeze like the sail of a ship, and slips her fingers into his. He is not quite sure what it means, but it helps her do her helping, so he is only too glad to oblige. And they complete the rest of their round side by side, a former Saarebas and an odd spirit boy, seldom speaking but feeling wonderfully soothed by each other’s presence. Because this is what friendship is.


Friendship is when Vivienne strides through the merchant galleries of Val Royeaux, arm in arm with a lanky, blonde, tattooed elf, and shoots a petrifying icy glare at any masked gossiper who, not having recognized her companion as Arryn Lavellan, the chosen of Andraste, starts whispering that the high-class clothing stores are not the proper place to bring a knife-ear to. With an impeccably refined smile and a carefully balanced dose of honey and venom poured into her words, the Imperial Enchantress navigates the world of Orlesian fashion, having the traders roll out their finest fabrics, puff small roseate clouds of their sweetest perfumes, and even fish out a coveted little box of dazzling glitter (with actual gold dust mixed in), because 'darling, surely you have not forgotten the favour you owe me’. And when she is done, when the series of dives into dressing rooms is complete, Arryn emerges transformed, with his wiry frame swathed in glimmering silks, a fluffy weather from his dashingly cocked hat curling round his shoulders, and just a few dashes of make-up highlighting his pale eyes… But not hiding his ritual markings, oh no - he is going to flaunt them proudly in the face of every Orlesian he comes across! His poor old Keeper and mentor would probably have a heart attack if she saw him like this, dressed up more lavishly than all shems she has seen in her lifetime combined; but her reaction would be nothing compared to the outraged hisses of the same faceless dolls they passed on their way in. A rabbit - and a godless mage, no less! - walking among humans as an equal! Spending his gold on the things he likes, like a normal person! How dare he! How dare he! Yes, he dares - he dares to enjoy himself, to treat himself to the little pleasures of luxury, without cowering fearfully away from human clothing, as though he had touched that does not belong to him. He dares to mingle with the 'proper society’, and to challenge the shemlen, one and all, to a match of their own Game, which he will win with flying colours. Because he has been taught by the best, by the master of rising above the people who despise you for what you are, and making them bow in respect instead. By Vivienne. Who is now watching him saunter triumphantly through Val Royeaux with a little smirk of pride. Because this is what friendship is, is it not?


Friendship is when Solas catches himself smiling when he watches a swarm of curious spirits flutter round Kulak Cadash, the Dwarven Herald who, after accidentally tapping into the power of the Fade, has gained an ability to experience dreams, utterly unexpected, and thoroughly baffling, if you were to judge by the blank, loose-jawed, bulgy-eyed face he made when he first saw 'sodding pictures in his head’. But that was long ago; now, with Solas’ help, the child of the Stone has begun to adjust to the journeys along the winding path of visions. And sometimes, he actually enjoys dreaming, especially when, after pestering Solas with demands to 'introduce him to this joint’s good crowd’, he gets to meet friendly spirits, which, in turn, are irresistibly drawn to someone so alien to their native realm (even the most passive ones cannot but stir at the approach of someone so bafflingly solid). Given Kulak’s gruff, pointedly rude demeanour, and his tendency to flaunt his physical strength and past feats of violence, Solas has to admit to being briefly concerned that interacting with him would twist the spirits’ nature, and turn them into malevolent, demonic entities that would reflect the dwarf’s key negative traits (which have so very often infuriated his elven companion). Like the flaring, lava-like Rage, and its many-faced varieties: Cruelty, Aggression, Bloodlust… But, as it turns out, he needn’t have worried: no matter how much time this brutish Carta thug spends around spirits, they remain unchanged. They are still the same Kindness and Faith and Hope; their aura is still pure and untainted, and they allow the dwarf to bask in its tingling radiance, raining white and green sparks over his outstretched arms, while he grins happily and listens with reverent attention to the stories they choose go tell him, sometimes using his imagination to crown the spirits’ heads with flower chains, because this delights him so. He is less loud in the Fade, less brash and short-tempered - less like the roughly chiselled image of his kind that Solas has had in his mind. And frankly, he is uncertain how to feel about this; he is uncertain that it is a good thing, this smile that touches his lips when he hears Kulak chuckle and call the spirits 'you cute little green ghost children’. Things will be more difficult now, once he regains his stolen Focus and prepares to use it for its true purpose; this discomforts him greatly - but as this hour has not yet come, for now at least he can allow himself a brief moment of idyll, teaching the Marked dwarf the ways of the Fade and looking on fondly at his games with spirits. After all, this is what friendship is - or so he heard.


Friendship is when Maaras Adaar, a hornless Vashothari mercenary who has spent most of his life with a full-faced helmet concealing his features, so as to fit in better among humans, tosses that protective metal mask aside, earning himself an approving hoot from Sera. Inhaling deeply, he tilts his head back, and lets the fresh evening breeze caress his skin, while his eyes travel with a content idleness over the rooftops of Skyhold, which are bathed in the the liquid gold river streaming from the setting sun. His mouth is still full of lumpy, half-raw, half-charred cookie dough, which he just holds over his tongue, not quite ready to bring himself to swallow. But even though this lump in his mouth is far from savoury, it does not ruin the moment for him. Because the cookies’ taste does not really matter - what matters is the little figure of the one who tried to bake there ridiculous things for him, cross-legged and rocking back and forth precariously on the roof’s very edge. Maaras knows about Sera’s history with the baker and the woman who raised her; he knows that, like him, she has been taught to hate herself for what she is, to squeeze out every last bit of 'elfiness’ out of herself, just like he has been trying to squeeze out all of his… 'Qunariness’, to pass himself as an exceptionally tall human, to keep a distance from his horned, glaringly grey-skinned family members - who, even as Vashoth, still clung on to some remnants of Qunari culture and customs, and were the ones that tossed the nickname Maaras after him when he left, as an insult and a warning. A weighted word that means both 'alone’ and 'no-one’. And for the longest time, he has, indeed, felt that he is no-one, racked on the inside by guilt over being born the way he is; just the way Sera has, he suspects. She does not like to stop and think about things, this impatient little girl, never the quietest, never the gentlest - but if she did, she would have discovered that she and Maaras are very much alike. For her, baking cookies again, going from 'pride cookies’ to 'Inquisition cookies’, is the same as embracing his Qunari name (after years of going under 'Martin’) has been for him - along with taking off his helmet and showing his face. His true face. He still cannot swallow the cookies - but he nods enthusiastically when Sera remarks, 'It’s good, innit? We’re good!’ and ponders to himself if this is what friendship is.


Friendship is when Maedhros Lavellan, a stern, reticent Dalish mage with deep lines etched into his weather-worn skin and threads of silver glinting in his long ginger hair, comes down to the stables, carving tools under his arm, and spends the afternoon in the company of the man he has come to know as Blackwall. They both work their craft in silence - and for them, it is not the least bit awkward or constraining or boring. For it is not a tense silence - not the same kind of silence that they used like a heavy pall to shroud their past regrets, the shameful tales of a Keeper whose negligence resulted in the death of his whole clan, and a fugitive soldier for hire who once looked upon his men as they chopped through the doors of a carriage to reach for the children that hid quivering inside, their morbidly cheerful song about a bird that sees dead people cut to an abrupt, bloody end. No - this silence is not like a concealing pall; it is more like a pillar, for it supports them both, and bolsters their strength for the next day, which they will likely face in battle side by side. Two grizzled, world-weary men who shall be forever tainted by the unwashable splatters of blood - and yet still press on, fighting for the good of the whole world, always coming to each other’s aid should their quest turn too dangerous. And this silence of theirs is a pact that reaffirms this. Their silence is friendship.


Friendship is when Naali Adaar, a brawny, rough-voiced Vashoth woman who used to run a mercenary company (inherited from her mother, or so Leliana’s files say) prior to getting 'roped into’ the Inquisition, works together with Cassandra to pitch up the tents for a brief reprieve on their journey through the blighted wastelands, stripped down almost to their smalls in order not to completely melt away in the fiery maw of the desert - while the men in their adventuring party look on at them from afar, dazedly admiring their sculpted muscles and the bold dashes of scars across their sweating flesh. When their task is complete, they shake each other’s hand with a wordless nod of appreciation, and lower themselves on a not-so-scathingly-hot boulder in the shade, leaving the men to complete the rest of the work around the campsite. Slanting her eyes in distaste at the damp spot under her arm, Naali grouses, 'All these waterfall thingies are well and good, but I am so pestering Josie to arrange one of them proper baths when we get back home…’ - and then claps her mouth shut, stunned by her own choice of words. 'Home’… She has never been at home anywhere, not really; more like, floated about all sorts of weird far-off place where her work took her, shunned and pointed at with fear and disgust whenever she went. And from what she can gather, Cassandra - who is an absolute bloody delight to carve shit up with, honest! - has been feeling this way too. Like Naali, she has known little in life apart from her work, not taking root anywhere like a stern-faced tumbleweed. Which is why Naali is ready to let out the stupidest, the most shameful girlish scream when Cassandra holds her stupefied gaze and says in agreement, 'Yes, I suppose Skyhold has become rather like a home to us, hasn’t it? Books… Books always say that home is where one’s friends are, and it… it could be true’. Well, Naali is not a fan of mushy fluttering nonsense (the only difference between herself and Cassandra that she can think of) - but she’ll be damned if she doesn’t agree this once. Home is where your friends are. And this thing they have going right here - it’s friendship.


Friendship is when Dorian, on the way to the tavern, to both shock and dull his senses with the slurpy swill they call mead, stops in his tracks and comes over to offer a comforting embrace to young Cassia, a small, short-sighted, bushy-eyebrowed Laetan that apparently travelled south as an unobtrusive junior scribe in Erimond’s entourage, only to wake up - quite in a storybook fashion - after a mysterious blackout with her hand ripped up by the glowing Anchor that her boss’s master covets so much. She is very weepy, the poor child - and, while Dorian gets more than mildly annoyed by it on occasion, he can understand why her tear ducts are so easy to disturb. Sneered at for her origins and pushed out of the way by her 'betters’ all her life, Cassia is finding the weight of her lofty mission far too much for her fragile shoulders. And add to that the insults she has to endure on a daily basis, for being an 'evil Tevinter’. Dorian can shrug those off with his enviable, effortless elegance - but he cannot pretend that they do not sting. This is why, whenever he sees Cassia crying, he abandons whatever he has been doing, and offers that tactile comfort that seems to be a bit of a tradition among the lower classes. 'Hush now, puella,’ he murmurs to her, playfully ruffling her clumsily cut hair (not quite as much a disaster as Sera’s, but still pretty close). 'These hilarious bumpkins may seriously believe that you and I drink the blood of the infants for breakfast, but we both know it isn’t true. So why don’t we go on with this marvellous day, our heads held high with the thought that we are better than all those cardboard cut-out magisters they scare their children with?’. And when Cassia repeats breathlessly after him 'We are better’, he finds himself thinking how splendid it would have been if Felix had lived long enough to get to know this silly sniffling child better, and what an incredible world-saving Tevinter crew they would all have made… And there is a soft pang in his heart that knocks the wind out of him for a fleeting moment - a shot of pain that is both bitter and yet strangely sweet. Which, he supposes, is what friendship is in general. Bittersweet.