old wooden table

melodrama through the eyes of a (fellow) synaesthete

hello everyone! just like lorde herself, i have a strong case of synaesthesia (I get colour visions, but also tastes and scents as well), so this is my attempt to review the masterpiece that is melodrama through my synaesthetical experiences

let’s go

green light: car air freshener, heated highway and the visions you get when you drive in heat (a la mirages), blackberry-scented cheap shower gel, a pistachio green silk scarf, old school adidas kicks, lemon juice drops on fresh summer salad, beige satin, old black cars (a la classic cadillacs and jaguars), maple syrup, the heat of cairo at around 11 am

sober: ripe honeydew, the smell of guitar wood varnish, red satin ribbons, smudged glass coffee tables, spilled lemonade on said tables, peach vodka, the feel of white plaster in old museums where security guards are very strict, cough syrup (both the colour and the flavour), artificial smell of mint, mint gum, velvet red carpeting in old and badly aired town halls, the humidity of rainforest

homemade dynamite: 4 am sunrise straight after a storm with torn dark grey, nearly black clouds being ripped, smell of gasoline, deep puddles in cracked pavement, dimmed street lights about to go out, magenta, white musk perfume from the body shop, deep indigo of the nearly sunrise of mid may, that walk home from a rowdy night out when everyone is more or less sobered up, but not sober enough to feel shy yet, still drunk enough to be honest with affection and cursing and slightly slurred speech

the louvre: bamboo blinds, bamboo shoots, bonsai trees, flowing honey, varnished birchwood, sunlit old halls in ugly grey soviet buildings, silver hellium-filled balloons, white shiny doors between a party-filled room and a closet where hook-ups and one-night stands take place, old oil paint, the sunny, lemon yellow butterflies, muddly skies of july, edelflower syrup in a glass of white wine, edelflower flower crowns, an expensive pool in a mansion-like house in hollywood hills, the eerie comfort and anxiety of the opening credits of twin peaks

liability: massive bouquets of lily of the valley, white lace curtains knitted by a grandmother, greyness of a sunday in a village on a last warm october day, a single light in an office on a late night in a massive skyscraper, dried flowers, drops of nosebleed on a crystal clean white sink, grey that turns into pastel lilac, the feeling of ripped paper

hard feelings/loveless: faint sunrise shining through the windows of a manhattan apartment in a skyscraper, all shades of orange spilling onto a hi-tec kitchen, cointreau liqueur, sunny warm nights on ocean beach, lukewarm bathtubs when the bath foam has fizzled, bonfires and burned marshmallows, just the beginning of feeling buzzed (like a glass of wine in), tender shades of yellow, rustiness of old heavy doors into a basement, scaffolding sounds, first sunniest days of spring after a heavy winter, sunset in the ocean, heavy fluffy sweaters / neon diner signs, anime eyes, porcelain dolls, peach-flavoured bubblegum, glass bowls

sober ii (melodrama): colour of crimson, heavy red velvet couches, smudged matte red lipstick, glass shards, ripped pearl necklaces and scattered pearls on sticky floor, red limelight, stilettos, tight black bodysuits, smoky-eyed tall models in revealing tight and latex dresses, marble furniture with golden decor, fistfights during a party, ripped suits and thrown ties and unbuttoned white shirts on boys with wealthy fathers

writer in the dark: light parakeet green, whitewashed starched tablecloths that crunch, old wooden tables, rusty cages for canaries, Advocat liqueur, big pearl necklaces on black dresses, big sunglasses (a la Audrey’s in Breakfast at Tiffany’s), sunny Sunday mornings on a patio with a cup of fancy tea, sunday clothes, white churches in greece, silver tears and crying in the backseat after a breakup, wilted flowers in a vase with dirty water

supercut: light green and orange, Love Is bubblegum, peaches, apricots, mint, Mojitos, fairy lights above people at a rooftop party, roadtrip one takes after a breakup with all thier belongings, flavoured water that doesn’t quench thirst, sparkling water with lemon and ice cubes, worn down picnic blankets, fancy dresses girls wear to the entrance into a nightclub, folding chairs, chilled champagne

liability (reprise): cold winter wind of february, the feeling on the tip of the tongue from scolding hot tea, big white rooms in museums, light green, light smoke of e-cigarette that smells like peppermint, the smell of sunscreen, the stillness of a swimming pool at noon in heat

perfect places: red wine, swinging chandeliers, red plastic cups, glass grand pianos, the last summer party in august, that warm feeling at the end of the party where everyone’s buzzed and affectionate and there’s a lot of kissing and hugging and swinging, big fake golden earrings, summer fruits, fancy hotels and luxurious lifts/elevators, skinny dipping, black velvet dresses that touch the floor, uncontrollable laughing in comfy sweaters

Imagine: The That 70’s Show series finale opens with Eric on a plane saying to the passenger beside him, “And I bet that that is exactly what happened while I was gone! I’ve only been in Africa for six months but I had to come home and make sure my whole life hadn’t turned to crap. It came to me in a dream. It’s like when Luke Skywalker….” The other passenger rolls his eyes and asks a stewardess for another drink. When Eric gets home he finds that nothing has really changed that much after all. His dad is tinkering away in the garage and calls him a dumbass who can’t remember what month it is before clapping him on the shoulder and leading him into the house. His mom is in the kitchen preparing food for the New Year’s Eve party they are throwing and cries when she sees him, telling him that he isn’t allowed to leave her ever again. Her sobs cause someone to enter from the living room and there is Donna, still blonde and beautiful and smiling at him as she charges forward to wrap him in a hug. She pulls back after a second to smack him on the chest and calls him a dillhole for not telling her he was coming but less than a second later her arms are back around his neck and she tells him it’s more romantic this way anyway. After being reassured by his parents and girlfriend that nothing too out of the ordinary happened while he was away Donna leads him down to the basement where he is met by the welcomed sight of Hyde and Jackie sitting on their usual chair, and Fez across from them in the lawn chair; all of them watching a random rerun on the television. They all stand up and greet him with hugs, even Jackie who then proceeds to shove her left hand in his face showing off the diamond ring that Hyde had put there after they returned from Chicago, and he congratulates her before glancing at his best friend who has a smile plastered on his clean-shaven face. He realizes that the unholy couple looks happier than he ever remembers them being and he congratulates them both again with more sincerity. Hyde answers by pulling Jackie back to their chair as he suggests a welcome home circle and they all eagerly gather around the old wooden table. Fez proves to be his usual pervy, fun-loving and awkward self and takes it upon himself to fill Eric in on all the boring details of what he’s missed as they pass the joint. Just like old times. Once their highs begin to wear off Eric follows Donna as she starts to drag him yet again, this time leading him out the basement door, up the stone steps and across the driveway to her house for a more private reunion. When they finally make it back to the Forman’s they find everyone in the living room where the party has already started and they are just in time to see Kelso enter through the front door with Betsy and Brooke and the last piece of the puzzle shifts into place. Jokes are told, burns are made and a minor crisis or two is averted until finally it is time to move the party to the driveway and ring in the 80’s. Fade to black.

The transcult has begun summoning spirits.

I followed the cultists with their pink, blue and white cloaks into a run down barn. In the middle of the barn floor they had their cults symbol huge in purple paint, here’s a picture: 


In the middle of the symbol lay a old wooden table. They lit two blue candles, two pink candles, and one white one. Then, one of them pulled a Ouija board out of their cloak. Two of the leaders sat down at the table to try to conjure up the most evil spirit they could find, and her name was Jenny. They then asked Jenny what each of their members names was; in order to know that the new cult names they assigned themselves were their actual names. Jenny responded to every name request as the new name the cultist had.

Be careful out there cisters, if these terrible cultists can change their name in the spirit realm, who else knows what they can do!

Conquer You - Chapter 6

Originally posted by whenimaunicorn

@tomboy-till-death @ladyvampirelove @neverlands-little-lost-girl @itharley @samantha24015 @peculiarleah @skeletoresinthebasement @thenorns-themoirai @kirah31 @ruler-of-hel

Chapter 1 - Chapter 2 - Chapter 3 - Chapter 4 - Chapter 5

———————————————————————————————————–

Thyra slowly opened the door to the small hut at the outskirts of Kattegat. Had it been a good idea to come here? She wasn’t sure. She wanted answers but she was also afraid of them. She took a deep breath to fight her nervousness and stepped into the hut. It was almost dark inside. Thick curtains kept the sunlight out and the only light was coming from two small candles in the back corners. She blinked and waited for her eyes to adjust to the twilight.

“What do you want?” A dark voice asked.

“I have a question for you, oh wise one.” She said into the darkness.

“Everyone comes here with questions.”

Thyra could make out a hooded figure, sitting on an old wooden table. She had seen the seer in town before but being alone with him in the dark hut felt a bit creepy. She had heard so many stories about him since she had arrived in Kattegat. People said he was supposed to have died many lifetimes ago, but still he was alive. In a strange way he was connected to the gods, who shared their wisdom with him and he shared some of it with the people who came to seek his council, but usually in riddles she had been told. Thyra had never talked to a seer before and she had hesitated to come here for a long time, but she had to get some answers. She knew her fate was already written. The norns had spun the strings a long time ago. But she needed to know if the path, she had not yet dared to go down, was the one she was destined for. It was a tempting path for sure but she needed no seer to know that it would also hold hurt, loss and terror.

“Allow me one question and I will no longer bother you.” She said to the old man.

He made an annoyed grunt but gestured for her to come closer. “What is it you desire to know so badly, Thyra Halvarsdottir?”

Thyra took a deep breath, trying to find the right words. “Am I destined to tie a bond with the son of Ragnar Lothbrok?”

The old man gave a croaky laugh. “If that is your only question, you have wasted your time coming here because you already know the answer.”

Thyra gritted her teeth. “No I don’t.” She insisted.

“You know very well that you have already passed the point where you have a choice. There is only one path for you now, Thyra blóðug rós.”

So her fate was fixed. Thyra blood rose he had called her. What could that mean? But before she could ask about it, the old man continued.

“Even though there’s only one path to go, it can lead you to two different places. The first is filled with happiness. You will be a queen and have sons and daughters. But you only get there if can prevent him from keeping his promise to another woman. If you can’t, you will end up in the other place which is dark and miserable because you won’t be able to forgive him but you also won’t be able to walk away from him.”

Thyra closed her eyes to let what she had just heard sink in. Ivar was promised to another woman? The thought broke her heart more than she would ever admit, even to herself. She knew she had no claim over him, but she also knew that there was something between them. Something she couldn’t name. Some dark and primeval sort of attraction. Or had he just played his games with her?

The seer started to laugh as if he had read her thoughts. “It is a different kind of promise than the one he has made to you, Thyra blóðug rós.”

That name again. But she had more important things to figure out now. Ivar had never promised anything to her, at least not with his words. Why did this old man have to be so damn confusing? She wearily rubbed her face to get all her conflicting feelings under control. What promise could Ivar have made to another woman?

Then all of a sudden it hit her. Lagertha! Ivar had promised to kill Lagertha. It had been the first time Thyra had laid eyes on him. He had boldly challenged the queen to single combat and as she refused he had promised her that one day he would kill her. A shiver ran down her spine at the memory of that day. She hadn’t known back then but from that moment on she had been under his spell with no chance to escape. And now she had learned that he was her destiny. They even had a chance of being happy together. She couldn’t help but smile at the thought, for it was so absurd and alluring at the same time. But the seer was right, she could never forgive him if he killed Lagertha. She was not only her queen, she was like a mother to her. She had to stop him.

“How?” She looked at the old man. “How do I stop him?”

The seer shook his head. “You all want me to solve all your problems, but I have already said more than I should and I will say no more.”

With that he expectantly held his palm out to her.


Thyra was glad to leave the ghoulish atmosphere of the seer’s hut behind. What she had learned left her deep in thoughts. So Ivar had been right. The gods had decided to tie her fate to his and who was she to question their judgement. In a way she was relieved that she no longer had to fight her feelings, for there was no point in arguing with the gods, even Lagertha and Astrid must understand that. But she still felt guilty for sneaking around behind Lagertha’s back.

To Thyra’s entire surprise Astrid had kept her word and hadn’t told the queen about what she had seen in the cabin. Instead she had said that she hadn’t found Ivar that night. They had brought him to the great hall to be questioned the next morning and Thyra had made sure that she was busy at the training grounds during that time. She had tried to avoid Ivar for the past few days, afraid that Astrid would find out and act on her threat to tell the queen. But things were different now, she had to go and see him.

Her steps felt surprisingly light as she guided them towards the cabin Ivar shared with his brothers. She found him just outside of it, seemingly trying to bring in some firewood which looked like a great struggle because he had one arm full of wood and had to pull himself forward with the other.

He looked up as he noticed her approach and to her surprise his features hardened. “What do you want?”

“I want to talk to you.” She said and crouched down next to him. “Let me help you with that.”

He shot her an icy look. “I don’t need your help.” His voice was cold and repellent.

Thyra froze, perplexed by how much his behavior towards her and changed in just a few days. It took her a few moments to find her voice. “There’s something I have to tell you.”

Ivar turned away from her and looked to the ground. “Whatever it might be, I don’t want to hear it.”

“What is going on? Why are you like that?” She asked, fully confused by the way he was acting.

He slowly turned to face her again and his eyes were blazing with anger, even hate maybe. Thyra instinctively moved away from him. He pulled himself up on a bench to be more on eye level with her and looked around to see if anyone was within hearing range before he turned his cold eyes back to her.

“You ran away from me.” He snapped. “And not for the first time. Now you come and want to talk to me? Obviously only as long as nobody is around. Of course you don’t want to be seen with the cripple! What did you tell your friend Astrid? Hmm? That I forced you?”

His voice was full of anger and disdain but there was also hurt. He hid it well but it was still there and Thyra felt a wave of guilt roll over her. The way she had acted it must have really seemed like she had abandoned him after Astrid had found them together.

“It’s not like that. I didn’t mean to….” She started, but Ivar interrupted her. “You don’t have to explain. I don’t want to hear it. Now leave.”

She was desperate to make him listen to her. That he thought that she had turned away from him because of the fact that he was crippled broke her heart. “Ivar, please.”

She could see him clench his jaw. “I said leave!” He was almost yelling now.

For a few moments Thyra was unable to move, while he stared at her with an icy glare. As she felt tears forming in her eyes she quickly turned around so that he wouldn’t see. She felt like her heart had been ripped from her chest but she would not cry in front of him or anyone else. She bit on her teeth so hard she was afraid her jaw would break and started to walk down the path on weak knees.

———————————————————————————————————–

These two stubborn ass kids. I swear I’ll get grey hair from writing this story.

I hope y’all like it anyways.

after

The sun goes down. From the basement Will listens for the locks on the door clicking open, but there’s no sound from upstairs except his dad’s relentless pacing. His mom and Skinner don’t come home.

Will lies on one of the twin mattresses in the basement, arms crossed over his chest like he’s lying in a coffin. He doesn’t light a candle — it seems like a waste, just for him — and there’s no light from upstairs either. Eyes wide open, he stares into nothing.

Finally — after a long, long time — Will rolls onto his feet and goes upstairs. Everyone can hear you coming up from the basement; Will can’t count the number of conversations that have stopped abruptly, the second the adults heard the telltale creak of Will’s feet on the basement stairs.

So it seems like bad news when his dad doesn’t move at all, not even in acknowledgement. He’s sitting at the kitchen table with his head in his hands and a bottle of — probably vodka? — on the table next to him. He looks like hell.

Will realizes this suddenly, even though his dad doesn’t look any worse now than he did six hours ago, or yesterday, or last week. The changes have been so gradual. His dad has lost weight — they all have — and his hair’s too long and there’s so much more gray in it than there ever used to be. His beard’s grown in scraggly and unkempt; the rest of his face is ghost-white. When he finally looks at Will, his pupils are so huge that his eyes look black.

“Dad,” Will says, without meaning to.

His dad makes no movement to hide the liquor. Maybe this is being an adult, Will thinks. When adults stop trying to hide things from you.

He’s not sure he likes it.

“How do we even have that?” His parents aren’t heavy drinkers. There’s always wine and beer in the house somewhere, and maybe eggnog at Christmas, which his dad loves and his mom can’t stand, but not much else. And it’s not like Will hasn’t looked.

His dad’s gaze follows Will’s toward the bottle, coming into focus and then out again. “Not ours,” he says.

Will feels a sudden lump in his throat. Which house, Dad? he wants to ask. Which of our dead friends are you stealing from? And not just stealing food or lighter fluid or firewood, not things you actually need to survive. What he actually says is, “That’s fucked up.”

“Yeah,” his dad agrees. At least he doesn’t argue. He does take another swig from the bottle. For a second Will is worried his dad is going to offer him some.

“Remember the first day?” he asks, taking the seat furthest from the bottle.

His dad doesn’t say anything.

“Mom came home,” Will persists. “She’ll come home. And she’s not gonna be impressed with you.” That is definitely true.

They sit together in the dark. Will thinks that years from now — if he lives that long — this is how he will remember his sixteenth year: this old hand-me-down wooden table, the night pressing in from outside. Knowing that the world outside is falling apart and you won’t see when it finally collapses.

“I wanted your life to be better than this,” his dad says finally. “Better than mine.”

“This isn’t your fault.”

His smile is sad, and small. “No way to know that for sure.”

Will doesn’t know how to comfort his father; he still sort of feels like he shouldn’t have to. But he sits up with him anyway.

If they come back with a message, then Will’s going with them, wherever they’re going. They need him — need whatever’s flowing through his veins. And that leaves his dad here, all alone.

After a few hours his dad falls asleep, head resting on his arms on the table. Will takes the bottle and pours it outside, into the snow.

anonymous asked:

For 1 & 13!!!! HEADCANON PROMPT MEME: Send in a character and a number from this list and I will write a headcanon based on the word Love Hair

1. Love and 13. Hair from this list

“What’s this?” I heard as the apartment door open and shut behind me. I was curled up on Frank’s couch eating a slice of apple pie and ice cream from a plate, Max balled up beside me keeping my feet warm. We were watching Hoarders.

“Couldn’t sleep so I came over. I thought maybe you’d be here but wasn’t all that shocked when you weren’t.”

He locked the door and walked over to me, pulling off his jacket. “You’re… eating ice cream off a plate.”

“Yeah. Silly me for expecting you to own a single bowl.”

“I have a bowl.”

“Must be the tiniest bowl in Hell’s Kitchen ‘cuz I couldn’t find it.” He tossed his jacket across the back of the couch before sitting on the other side of Max, giving him a rub down as the pit sniffed at him excitedly. I rested the plate in my lap and looked at him. “Hi.”

“Hey,” he greeted with half a smile. “Glad you finally used that key I gave ya…”

I shrugged. “Tried getting a hold of you, tell you to come by my place, but you weren’t picking up.”

“I may or may not have left my cell around here somewhere.”

“Yeah, same place you left the bowl, huh?” He smirked, giving Max the final two pats of his little massage and sending him on his way. I watched as he kicked off his boots and stretched his legs in front of him as he turned to recline. I lifted the plate so he could rest his head on my lap. “Long night?”

“Long and unsuccessful.”

“Unsuccessful is good.”

He looked at me, brow furrowed. “Since when?”

“Well, means I don’t have to watch you shower off someone else’s blood tonight. Don’t have to whip out my kindergarten level sewing skills closin’ up bullet holes on you, either.”

“Hmm, I thought that was always the highlight of our lil’ visits-”

“-And you thought very wrong.” I shook my head at him and bent down, kissing his forehead before placing my plate on his stomach. “Here, eat.” He groaned and I rolled my eyes. I knew sweets weren’t his favorite but it was better than nothing, and way better than the slop he normally ate. “C’mon, I thought we could have somethin’ other than pitch black coffee tonight.”

“You know I don’t like change,” he spoke as he reluctantly scooped a fork of pie into his mouth.

“Really? I couldn’t tell,” I responded, suggestively running a hand through the grown out curls on his head.

He chuckled to himself. “It’s cold out. ‘Scuse me if a ball cap doesn’t keep me warm an’ cozy.”

“Growin’ out your fur for the winter?”

“S’at alright with you?”

“Why not just wear a thicker hat? I can give you one of my beanies?” I joked.

“Not my style.” He ate another bite of apple pie with a tiny bit of ice cream before returning the plate to me.

“Yes, because Frank Castle is nothing if not a man of style.”

“What,” he asked, looking up at me and fingering his hair as I did before I returned to my dessert, “you tellin’ me you don’t like it?”

“I only pointed it out.”

“That ain’t really answerin’ the question, now is it?”

“Oh… oh what is this now?” I put the plate on the old wooden table in front of us. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you be so self-conscious before; I don’t even recognize you.”

He rolled his eyes. “That doesn’t answer it either.”

“Are you looking for my approval, Frank?”

Y/N…”

I laughed at his annoyance before bending down and kissing his forehead again, hands on the sides of his face. “I love it.”

“You love it, hm?

“Mhm. It makes you look… youthful.”

“Oh, not like such an old man?”

“Shut up, that’s not what I mean. Just refreshed. Like you haven’t been through so much…”

“I see.”

“Plus, I love having a little somethin’ to pull on,” I purred, wrapping his curls around my fingers and gently tugging.

“Hmm, just a lil’ lower,” he groaned as he lifted his head upwards. I laughed and closed the distance between our lips, giving him a kiss in this upside down angle we were in. “That’s sweet.”

“What, that I love your hair?”

“No, your mouth.” He pulled me down to the point where I had to reposition myself, getting off the couch and kneeling beside him, accidentally bumping Max in the head with my knee.

“Imagine if I didn’t leave my real, human food here.”

“What’s inhuman about what I eat?” he mumbled against my lips.

“Absolutely everything. My kisses wouldn’t taste this sweet if I was eating pork and beans, I’ll tell you that-”

“-Hmmm, you got a point there.” He kissed me once more before pulling away, looking at my lips as he smoothed my hair. “So when are we gonna try this whole, uhh, hair pullin’ thing out, hm?”

I grinned and slowly rose to my feet, reaching for his bruised hands and pulling him up with me. “You know, I heard somewhere that was the perfect remedy for a sleepless night…”

Can I ask where your head’s at now, Arch? Jodi pressed, thinking back to the condition he was in nearly a week ago when he’d shown up at her door unexpectedly. That night his mood had wavered erratically from anger to sadness over what he’d found out. 

Levi listened intently, waiting for the blond to answer. Naturally, he cared for Archer & wanted to know how he was doing. As his friend, Levi was concerned. As someone who had always loved him deeply, he was curious. 

Are you going to try to work things out? Jodi continued.

Archer looked down at his fidgeting hands sadly. I really don’t think that I can, Jo. From the moment he said that, & so casually too like it didn’t mean anything, nothing was the same. I constantly wonder, from the second that we met, what was real & what wasn’t. 

Jodi nodded sympathetically. Does he know that it’s over?

Apparently not, Levi interjected.

It’s not easy to tell someone who meant everything to you a week ago that you’re ready to throw everything away & break up your family. 

Archer, I didn’t mean it like… Levi jumped in again to explain.

I know, Levi. And it’s fine. Resting both elbows on the old wooden table, he leaned forward & buried his face in his hands. I know it’s something that I need to face but it’s just… really hard. 

You know that we’re here for you, Jodi added, care & sincerity in her voice. 

Always, Levi affirmed, leaning over & gently resting a hand on the man’s shoulder. 

Full Multi-Part Fic - Should I do it?

I’m thinking about starting a full multi-part fic. I had this idea and it refuses to leave me, it even follows me into my sleep. Since I can’t stop thinking about it I already have a possible storyline planned out, but if I do it, the progress will probably be awefully slow because I still have many requsted imagines to write as well.

I have written down a small scene that would take place around the fifth chapter and I’d like you to tell me what you think about it. Is it worth continuing? Would you read it? Or should I toss it into the bin?

Excerpt:

Thyra slowly opened the door to the small hut at the outskirts of Kattegat. Had it been a good idea to come here? She wasn’t sure. She wanted answers but she was also afraid of them. She took a deep breath to fight her nervousness and stepped into the hut. It was almost dark inside. Thick curtains kept the sunlight out and the only light was coming from two small candles in the back corners. She blinked and waited for her eyes to adjust to the twilight.

“What do you want?” A dark voice asked.

“I have a question for you, oh wise one.” She said into the darkness.

“Everyone comes here with questions.”

Thyra could make out a hooded figure, sitting on an old wooden table. She had seen the seer in town before but being alone with him in the dark hut felt a bit creepy. She had heard so many stories about him since she had arrived in Kattegat. People said he was supposed to have died many lifetimes ago, but still he was alive. In a strange way he was connected to the gods, who shared their wisdom with him and he shared some of it with the people who came to seek his council, but usually in riddles she had been told. Thyra had never talked to a seer before and she had hesitated to come here for a long time, but she had to get some answers. She knew her fate was already written. The norns had spun the strings a long time ago. But she needed to know if the path, she had not yet dared to go down, was the one she was destined for. It was a tempting path for sure but she needed no seer to know that it would also hold hurt, loss and terror.

“Allow me one question and I will no longer bother you.” She said to the old man.

He made an annoyed grunt but gestured for her to come closer. “What is it you desire to know so badly, Thyra Halvarsdottir?”

Thyra took a deep breath, trying to find the right words. “Am I destined to tie a bond with one of the sons of Ragnar Lothbrok?”

The old man gave a croaky laugh. “If that is your only question, you have wasted your time coming here because you already know the answer.”

Thyra gritted her teeth. “No I don’t.” She insisted.

“You know very well that you have already passed the point where you have a choice. There is only one path for you now, Thyra blóðug rós.”

So her fate was fixed. Thyra blood rose he had called her. What did that mean? But before she could ask, the old man continued.

“Even though there’s only one path to go, it can lead you to two different places. The first is filled with happiness. You will be a queen and have sons and daughters. But you only get there if can prevent him from keeping his promise to another woman. If you can’t, you will end up in the other place which is dark and miserable because you won’t be able to forgive him and you won’t be able to walk away from him.”

Thyra closed her eyes to let what she had just heard sink in. Ivar was promised to another woman? It broke her heart more than she would ever admit, even to herself. She knew she had no claim over him, but she also knew that under the thick layer of hostility between them there was something else. Something she couldn’t name. Some dark and primeval sort of attraction. Or had he just played his games with her?

The seer started to laugh as if he had read her thoughts. “It is a different kind of promise than the one he made to you, Thyra blóðug rós.”

That name again. But she had more important things to figure out now. Ivar had never promised anything to her, at least not with his words. Why did this old man have to be so damn confusing? She wearily rubbed her face to get all her conflicting feelings under control. What promise could Ivar have made to another woman?

Then all of a sudden it hit her. Lagertha! Ivar had promised to kill Lagertha. It had been the first time Thyra had laid eyes on him. He had boldly challenged the queen to single combat and as she refused he had promised her that one day he would kill her. A shiver ran down her spine at the memory of that day. She hadn’t known back then but from that moment on she had been under his spell with no chance of escape. And now she had learned that he was her destiny. They even had a chance of being happy together. She couldn’t help but smile at the thought, for it was so absurd and alluring at the same time. But the seer was right, she could never forgive him if he killed Lagertha. She was not only her queen, she was like a mother to her. She had to stop him.

“How?” She looked at the old man. “How do I stop him?”

The seer shook his head. “You all want me to solve all your problems, but I have already said more than I should and I will say no more.”

With that he expectantly held his palm out to her.

La La Land -- (Ardyn Izunia x Reader) Ch.1

Ta da! I’m back everyone, writing a serious fanfic again! :D

Anyway, this fic is based on a prompt I made myself as well as a headcanon I had and another I have seen floating around. And I am tagging @poisonous-panda, @valkyrieofardyn, @ardynium, and @maty-yami. Enjoy!

Summary: Perhaps there are more to Ardyn’s illusions than what he let’s on…


Keep reading

Again, 5 Reasons to Love Her.

1. She’ll smirk as she tells you that she’s impressed. She steps into the “gulf” clapping, hooting, beckoning, “You walked all this way for me, why stop there?” You fight the urge to rationalize that you didn’t walk the entire Mississippi, just a miniature approximation. It balance with the romantic urge to scream back, as if from a distance “And I’d do it all again, on bare knees, as long as you’re still waiting at the end.” She knows you well enough to know that you’re thinking both of these things, along with a jumble of other half-baked plans and declarations. With wet hands and wet legs she emerges from the water, Persephone in cut-offs and a crop top. Her hands find the back of your neck and as her lips crash into yours. You’ll wrap your arms around her waist and let her drag you back into the gulf, where drowning with her seems like the only way into Heaven.

2. Her hand finds yours before you can turn around. She doesn’t wince at the leftover condensation from the bottle you just finished, she just pulls you into the dive-bar crowd, snaking through until she finds the center of the room. You tell yourself it’s just the beer, that you’d already lost count, but anybody can see through that pitch. Your hips are moving like you have some semblance of rhythm, your arms move with hers, and the way she beams at you is enough to keep your feet moving forever. She leans in close and whispers “It’s the brass. There’s just something about horns, they always make it all better.” Your lips graze her forehead before you twirl her out, claiming this little dive as another in the long line the two of you have conquered. You’ve never quite been sure that you’re much of a hero, but you can’t help but be loyal to a queen.

3.You burn your fingers carrying the ceramic mug. Knowing nothing about tea, you mutter Ave Maria under your breath, just hoping to yourself that you didn’t fuck it up too badly. It smells suspiciously strong, and your taste test served no other purpose than to remind you that tea is, well, not your cup of tea. You step gingerly on the hardwood, trying to avoid the two creaks while maintaining your speed, and you manage to burn the fingers on your other hand as you clasp the mug and sit down on the corner of the bed. She doesn’t stir until the sound of ceramic softly scraping the bedside table interrupts her sleep. She looks up at you with the most painful smile you’ve ever seen. That codeine grin breaks your heart as it becomes a grimace, she hasn’t the energy to hide it this time. She’s surprised to see you, but the sincerity coating the words as they stumble from her tongue is like aloe for the burns. You’ll gratefully take care of her through every moment of illness, just for the personal panacea of her smile.

4. It’s colder than late March has any right to be and Sunday mornings were meant for sleeping, but you’re up and awake and cloaked in the warmth. She’s giggling at you from across the old wooden table, lighting up the dark corners of the little hole-in-the-wall Irish pub. The beer is darker than you like, but the taste doesn’t matter, you were already halfway to day drunk just waking up next to her. You joke with every new song that it’s the Pogues. She reassures you after five or six wrong guesses that you’ll get one eventually, but you continue making bad jokes like a bellows trying to keep the fire in her cheeks aglow. You’ll sit there, dumbfounded at how incredible pointless conversation can be, her slender hand in yours, as you nervously rub between the knuckles on her ring finger, sure that you’ve finally done right this time.

5. It’s a crooked slow dance in a dark hotel, the band playing slow and sweet from a smartphone speaker. She’s slipped out of her heels, collapsing against your shoulder as if it were the plush of a king-sized bed. The back-and-forth sway of swinging hips, the brushing of cheeks and alcohol-coated lips. The way she holds you tightly, she knows she never has to fear you stepping out the door, never to return. Your arms wrap around her, holding her up, pulling her closer. She hums softly in tune with the song, before looking back at you. “The next time we do one of these things, can it be ours?” You smile down at her, sucking through your teeth to keep your eyes from tearing up, knowing full well she didn’t have to catch the bouquet to get the guarantee.

Ruffled Feathers

I can has request? ★~(◠‿◕✿) may I have any type of Samandriel wink!kink? If I can’t than that’s ok too. Thanks in advance!

This was my first ever wing!kink one shot so please bear with me, hope you enjoy!

Word count: 848

Reader Gender: Neutral 

——————————-

You were sitting in the bunker, bored out of your mind.  Sam and Dean were out on a supply run, leaving you with the bunker all to yourself.  So you did the same thing any hunter on their day off would do.  Watch Doctor Sexy MD in your underwear and an oversized plaid shirt.

You were about 20 minutes into the show when you heard the familiar flutter of wings in the living room.  “Hey Cas.” You said instinctually keeping your eyes on the screen.

“Um, hi (y/n).” Said a voice that was not Castiels, it was far too soft, too down to earth.

You turn your head around. “Oh- Samandriel, hey!” You blush a little as you grab a blanket to cover your lower half.  You didn’t know Samandriel as well as Cas.

He smiles warmly at you.  “Are Sam and Dean in? I have news from upstairs.”

“They should be back soon.”  You say turning your eyes back to the screen.  He nodded and began to walk around the living room, inspecting various papers on one of the old wooden tables.  “Want to join?” You ask patting the couch beside you.  It was obvious Samandriel didn’t seem to know what to do with himself until the brothers returned.

“Sure.” He took a seat beside you in his Wiener Shack uniform.  You had to admit he was pretty cute.

You both continued to watch Doctor Sexy until one of the infamous steamy on-call-room make out sessions began to go down.  “Kissing always fascinated me.” The angel remarked.  You loved how he wasn’t awkward about this kind of thing like Cas was.  Then again Cas had gained some skills from the pizza man- or so you had heard.

You smiled at his innocence. “It’s one of the best things in the world.”  You replied. The angel nodded awkwardly, avoiding your glance.  “Samandriel… have you ever kissed someone?”

He shook his head.  “Angels don’t really see the appeal in swapping saliva.”

You laugh.  “It’s more than that, you know? It helps you feel close to a person.”

He sighs.  “That sounds quite pleasurable, actually,” He remarks with his eyes locked on the screen.

“Do-do you want to try it…?”

“I-uh, yes, I would love to.”

“Okay.” You say with a smile.  “We’re gonna have to get a little closer first.”

He moves closer to you on the leather couch.  You cup his cheek lightly in your hand, running your thumb down his soft features.  You slowly draw his face in closer to yours, closing your eyes as you press your lips to his.  He’s stiff at first but then begins to soften the sweet, innocent kisses being exchanged between your lips.

You softly run your tongue over his lips.  He is first unsure what do but then he opens his mouth granting your tongue permission to enter.  You swirl your tongue around his.  The heat picks up between your bodies as your tongues fight against each other for dominance.  You bite down softly on his lower lip when you hear the flutter of wings.  You open your eyes expecting to see that he had left but instead you see too beautiful black wings emerging from Samandriel’s back.

“I’m-uh-sorry.” He mumbles, his face turning the colour of his uniform shirt. 

“No, no – it’s okay, they’re beautiful.” You say as you caress his face. 

“Thank-you.” He says angelically as he returns his attention to your lips.  You kiss him back, deeply, your tongues dancing in a display of passion.  You go to reach your arms around his back to pull him closer when you accidentally grab onto one of his wings.

“Sorry.” You mumble against his lips.

“No, it feels nice.” He says pulling away. “Can you… Do it again?” He asks

You comply.

You grab firmly on to the base of his wings as you kiss him.  Running your fingers through the black feathers that covered his majestic extremities.  You feel a moan come from his lips.  You smile against the kiss and continue running your hands up his wings, ruffling the feathers softly in a circular motion, and pulling lightly on the tips.

“(y/n).” He moans against your neck as he smothers it with warm kisses.  Something Doctor Sexy had demonstrated earlier.  You run your fingers through his soft wings, pulling him closer, kissing him deeper, you can feel the wings vibrating against your hands as if they were filled with arousal.

You pull a little harder on a feather that you noticed was extra sensitive as you straddle his lap, the blanket that was covering your underwear now lying on the floor.

“What the hell?” A voice gruffed in the not too far distance.

Your head snaps up to see a confused Sam and smirking Dean.  “I-uh…” You mumble as you dismount the angel.

“Did she ruffle your feathers there, Alfie?” Dean says with a wink as he sets the plastic bags he was carrying down on the table.

“Um-yes, yes she did.” Samandriel said with a half-smile before taking your hand and zapping you into your bedroom.

 

Siren Song - 7

Upon entering the lofty classroom, Y/N promptly scanned the room for an empty seat. For a fleeting moment, she panicked and thought she was late to class because the seats were almost all taken. Noticing an empty seat next to a girl with a red and gold tie, Y/N was reminded of Blaise’s advice upon entering the classroom: avoid sitting with a Gryffindor. Thinking Blaise’s words might be ill-advised, she decided to take a chance and sit next to the bushy-haired brunette she didn’t know.

“Mind if I sit here?” Y/N asked thoughtfully.

“Not at all.” The Gryffindor smiled.

“I’m Y/N L/N.” She smiled at the girl sitting to her right.

The girl returned the smile, “I’m Hermione Granger. Welcome to Hogwarts. You’re from America, right? I mean, you attended Ilvermorny?”

“I did.” Hermione began to rapidly pepper her with questions about her experience from her previous school.  Wrapped up with satisfying Hermione’s curiosity, Y/N failed to notice that Draco was sitting directly behind her.

Draco, however, was acutely aware of the pretty girl in front of him. She talked with her hands when she got excited, and he noticed that she was always smiling when he saw her. From her mouth, his eyes then travelled the length of her body, lingering on her curves, before he realized he was staring. He quickly looked around the room, seeking to eliminate the notion that some one might have caught him eyeing this blood traitor.

And she was sitting with Granger to make matters worse. Not only was she a disgrace of a pureblood, but now she was associating with mudbloods. Of course Draco was smart enough to realize Y/N couldn’t possibly know Granger’s blood status, she had just met the girl after all; this fact, however, did nothing to assuage Draco’s annoyance.  

Vexed by her presence, Draco sought to distract himself by looking elsewhere. Hanging on the back of Y/N’s chair was her bag, and in the front pocket, haphazardly sticking out, was her wand. He mentally chastised her: how careless and negligent did she have to be to leave her wand so helter-skelter? It could have easily fallen out of her bag at any point, and she would have never noticed. Not quite sure of what overcame him next, Draco stealthily snatched her wand from her bag. Maybe she deserved to be taught a lesson. He slid her wand in the sleeve of his robe and waited for her to notice its disappearnce. So much for ignoring Y/N.

From the front of the classroom cut a sharp voice, “Good morning Gryffindors, Slytherins.” Although Flitwick was not physically imposing, his presence dominated his classroom. “We have a new student with us today, as you all might have noticed.” The professor approached Y/N and welcomed her warmly. “We’ve just revisited Incendio, the fire charm. Do you know it?”

Y/N nodded, “Yes Professor. I’ve learned that.”

“Well,” he grinned cheekily, “not to put you on the spot, but could you show us what you can do? Only if you want of course, no pressure.”

“Sure, I don’t mind.” Y/N was confident in her ability to conjure fire. She swiveled in her chair to grab her wand from her bag, but to her horror, it wasn’t there. She raked through her bag, desperately hoping it would appear, but it didn’t.

As he watched Y/N squirm in her seat, Draco felt a spasm of guilt at what he had done. He knew he couldn’t possibly pass the wand back to Y/N without an admission of his own guilt, and there was no way Draco was getting in trouble for this girl.

Y/N placed her palms face down on the old, wooden table and closed her eyes. “I forgot my wand Professor…” her voice trailed off. How could she have left her wand? She was furious at herself.

Professor Flitwick tilted his head upward from where he stood and eyed his unprepared student shrewdly. “Miss L/N, I’m unaccustomed to the inner workings of how your Charms class was run at Ilvermorny, but I’m quite sure you were required to have a wand for class. I am correct, yes?”

Y/N looked at the floor, embarrassed, and then met Flitwick’s gaze again. She was hoping not to make a scene on her first day, but so much for that bygone plan. “Mostly, Professor.” She knew her answer was vague and controversial, but did not want to sound like a show off in front of her peers without her Charms professor first pressuring her into a direct answer. The class was silent and all eyes were on the Slytherin student and her teacher.

“Mostly, Miss L/N?” He took the bait and pressed Y/N further. “What does mostly mean? You were either required to use a wand or not use a wand.” Flitwick narrowed his eyes at her in annoyance at what he perceived was a defiant answer.

Y/N frowned and cursed her forgetfulness. How could she forget her wand to her very first class at Hogwarts? She swore she thought she grabbed it… Maybe the wand had fallen out of her bag… Regardless of the cause, now she was forced to explain: “Yes Sir, mostly. Wands are required in class at Ilvermorny. Usually.” She paused. “Until one day I discovered I could do some magic without my wand.” She opened her mouth and debated on telling the story of how she figured out that she possessed this skill. She snapped her mouth shut as she thought better of it… That story could wait for a different time when she didn’t have her entire Charms class as an audience.

Y/N’s admission was met with both shocked and skeptical looks from Gryffindors and Slytherins alike. Performing magic without a wand is an advanced feat; certainly a rare skill for a third year witch to possess. It was common knowledge that even some of the most skilled wizards and witches can’t perform magic without their wands. Wandless magic was often a hallmark of the exceptional or powerful. “The head of my house was working with me to develop my skill without my wand before I left.” She hoped this answer sufficed.

Flitwick tilted his head towards Y/N with curiosity because he recognized how unusual this gift, if true, would be for someone as young as her.

As all eyes focused on Y/N, she grabbed the blank piece of parchment on the desk in front of her, tore a strip from the bottom, and placed the piece in the palm of her left hand. She raised her outstretched hand in front of her face and carefully, like she was blowing a kiss to a lover in slow motion, blew on the piece of parchment.

The room was silent. Everyone leaned in to see if anything would happen. The edges of the parchment slowly began to curl up as if an invisible fire were burning the paper’s corners. Y/N took another large breath, exhaled, and then all of a sudden, the parchment, like a tiny frog testing its legs, sprung up several inches above her hand and became suspended in the space above her palm.

There was an unconscious, yet simultaneous deep breath from her classmates.

The hovering piece of parchment began to quickly reshape itself as if some unknown force was deftly creating origami at a warp speed pace.  Within no more than five seconds, Y/N had a bird gently flapping it’s delicate paper wings above her hand.

A small smile broke across Y/N’s face, and she looked to Professor Flitwick for his response. The corners of the Professor’s mouth turned upward in approval, and she took this as a sign to demonstrate a little more of what she could do.

Deep in concentration, her eyes fixed upon the bird, Y/N lifted her right index finger and pointed at her creation. With a sudden pop and crackle, the bird burst into bright orange flames. The parchment disintegrated in midair and her creation transformed into a bird formed entirely from fire. Growing up, Y/N had always admired the triumphant resilience of the phoenix and this magic was a tribute to her fascination with the bird.

The miniature phoenix continued to beat its delicate, fiery wings gently in place as if awaiting a command.  Y/N lifted her finger a couple of inches, and the creature soared several feet from its previous position. She motioned gently with her finger and her pet turned somersaults and performed tricks as its long tail feathers of fire glided through the air.

“Boring.  Unimpressive,” Draco Malfoy muttered from behind Y/N. Spoken under the Slytherin’s breath, Flitwick was unaware of insult.  

Y/N, however, heard the comment, recognized the hateful voice, and decided, with a glint in her eyes, that she would prove him wrong. Her phoenix dissolved into thin air like extinguishing the flame of a candle.

Deciding to play with a different element, Y/N balled her left hand into a fist and then released: spinning lazily in her palm was an orb of water. The sphere floated in the air  a foot above where Y/N created it. Then, maneuvering her hands as if she were pulling and stretching some invisible piece of taffy, the ball of water began to grow in size. Now the size of a quaffle, Y/N decided she was satisfied with the water and sent it tumbling above her peers around the classroom. As the orb moved, drops of water escaped the shape and sprayed into the air. Before hitting any surface, the rogue droplets seemed to hit an invisible wall, sizzle, and evaporate into nothing. Y/N, not wishing to irritate her peers, was cautious not to get her classmates wet.

An exaggerated sigh behind Y/N signaled that Draco Malfoy was still not impressed.

Abruptly, Y/N turned around to face him. And then she saw it. Poking out of his left sleeve was her wand; there was no question as to its ownership.

A heartbeat elapsed, she inhaled, and the orb floated above his head. Her defiant eyes flashed and challenged his steel stare. Y/N exhaled and her ball of water crashed, collapsed over the blonde’s head, water cascading down his shoulders. His hair was soaked and water trickled down his face and neck. Water drenched his once dry robes and the only sound in the classroom was the drip drip of a stunned and humiliated Draco Malfoy.

His eyes grew wide in anger as he quickly processed the situation. Seething, aware that everyone was staring at him, Draco opened his mouth to make some vague threat towards Y/N.  But before he could get a word in, Y/N puckered her lips and blew him a sassy kiss. Draco blinked and realized he was completely dry — there was no water on or anywhere near him. That sneaky little witch. He closed his mouth and then opened it again, unsure of how to respond.

“Excellent! Incredible talent Ms. L/N. Your command and manipulation of the Incendio and Aguamenti charms are rather impressive,” Flitwick took control of the classroom by diverting attention back to himself. “Ten points to Slytherin!” The professor beamed at his new pupil before turning more serious. “However, Ms. L/N, as splendid as that was, we do not use our magic to target other students. I’m sorry, but I also must take five points from Slytherin.

Now, everyone, please take hold of the teapot sitting in front of you.” All different styles and patterns of teapots appeared in front of the students. “We will be smashing our porcelain only to repair it…”

Draco Malfoy leaned forwards and whispered maliciously in Y/N’s ear, “You’ll pay for this. I won’t forget it.”