gingeremoji  asked:

he doesnt tell anyone to avoid the chirps but dex was a contestant on chopped in high school. nursey just happens to be watching reruns of chopped one day and thus it begins

My dude, sorry this took 5ever. But finals are done now. Yay! Also, I don’t really know how to cook, nor have I watched Chopped, so. Anyway. Enjoy. Thanks for the prompt!

There is one voice in the world Dex had hoped to never hear in the haus, and it was the voice of Food Network chef and TV personality Alton Brown. Yet, that is exactly what he hears when he pushes open the door of his bedroom.

A flash of familiar red hair on the screen has Dex across the room in an instant. He shoves Nursey out of the way and slams the laptop shut.

“Hey, what gives?” Nursey says.

“No,” is all Dex can say in response.

A devilish grin works its way across Nursey’s face. “How come I’ve never gotten to taste your hollandaise sauce? If you could pull off eggs Benedict with pig’s feet and those premade rolls, it’s gotta be killer.”

“No,” Dex repeats, throwing his bag under the desk, and flopping face-first onto the bottom bunk.

Nursey awkwardly uses his heels to roll his chair back from where Dex had pushed him. “So, it’s not killer?”

“No.” It’s muffled this time by Dex’s pillow.

“Did you win? I didn’t even get to see if you won.”

Dex turns his head to the side, so he can glare at Nursey. “Yeah, I fucking won.”

Nursey’s eyebrows raise, impressed. Contradicting his expression, he derisively says, “You sure? If you won, there would be nothing wrong with me seeing the end.”

Dex remains silent. He stares into the distance and wishes he could go back 60 seconds to the time before Nursey learned a secret that made him incredibly annoying. Scratch that – more incredibly annoying.

“I can’t believe that woman beat you. Her soufflé was atrocious. And her salad. Who would garnish a salad with a vegetable? A salad is vegetables.”

“Right? The garnish just became another component of the fucking salad,” Dex whispered.

Nursey has no idea about cooking. He will consume whatever takes the least amount of time to prepare. The other day, Dex found him eating a dinner of spaghetti and cut up Slim Jim. Naturally, Dex had also partaken of the meal. But he wouldn’t have made it.

“Will you at least tell me how it ended?” Nursey is past appealing to Dex’s pride. There’s a hint of a whine in his voice.



Dex flicks his eyes to Nursey, acknowledging his desperation. “No.”

Nursey stands. “Please?”

Wariness thaws Dex’s resignation. “No…”

Nursey takes Dex’s hand. “Please?” he says gently.


Nursey ducks into the bottom bunk. He straddles Dex’s lower stomach, bends down, and murmurs, “Please?”

A shiver runs down Dex’ spine and through his limbs. His “no” is a little strained.

Another few inches, and Nursey’s lips brush Dex’s ear. Sweat breaks out across his brow. The heat of Nursey’s breaths floods across the side of his face, fills his brain with steam. “PLEASE?” Nursey fucking screams in his ear.

A startled Dex shouts in terror and flails, his elbow catching Nursey under the chin. With a grunt, Nursey rolls to the side as Dex scrambles out of the bed.

“What the fuck, Nurse?” Dex yells.

“Ow,” Nursey mumbles in response. His hand, cupped beneath his chin, is catching the blood dripping from his lip.

“Christ. Fuck.” Dex grabs a handful of tissues from the box on the desk. He shoves them in Nursey’s direction and sits cross legged on the opposite end of the mattress. His heart is still thumping rapidly in his chest.

“Will you tell me now?” Nursey manages around his lip and a wad of tissues.

The blood weakens Dex’s resolve considerably, but he still says, “On a few conditions.” Nursey nods. “You can’t tell anyone else on the team.” A moment. “Or formerly on the team,” he thinks to add.

Nursey shrugs and nods, conceding. “But I get a condition, too, since you broke my face.”

Dex’s expression is deadpan.

“My beautiful face, Dex. I can never dance again.”

With a sigh and an eye roll, Dex says, “Fine.”

“You teach me to cook.”

Dex considers. Best-case scenario, he bonds with his roommate, and he gets to cook in a setting that is not his grandmother’s restaurant, with someone who is not a member of his family. Nursey will hopefully eat his spaghetti with normal meat that is neither slim nor jim.

Worst-case scenario, Nursey slips and falls on a knife or sets his arm on fire, and the team discovers his televised past. The cooking accident and the chirping put Nursey and him in the ground, respectively.

But it could be fun. Dex decides he is practiced enough to avoid the worst-case scenario. He is the primary member of the Nursey Patrol, and kitchen Nursey can’t be too much more of a danger to himself than drunk Nursey.

“Sure,” Dex agrees.

Nursey perks up. “Really?”

Dex glares.

“Alright,” Nursey says.

“Did you watch any of the desert round?” Dex asks, jumping into his story.

“No. You opened the basket and it had sour cream and almond liqueur.”

“It was those and something else. I made cheesecake and put the liqueur in the crust. Wang” - Jean Wang, his opponent – “make some crepe thing. It was honestly a mess.”

“The cheesecake or the crepe.”

“The crepe. You saw her salad.”


“The judges said the crepe had a weird texture. They loved the cheesecake, but –“

“But what?” Nursey gasps dramatically.

“But Alton fucking Brown said it was dry.”

There is a moment of silence in which both men absorb the weight of that criticism. It’s broken by Nursey. “Brah. How the fuck can cheesecake be dry?”

“Right? And the other judges just nodded along with it. But I still won, so.”

“Yeah you fucking won. She made a plain ass salad and crepes. Crepes taste like weird flat noodles.”

Dex nods eagerly. “Uh huh. And imagine a bad crepe. Weirder flat noodle.”

Nursey mimics barfing, stands and grabs his bag. He throws the bloody tissues in the trash, but his lower lip is still swollen. “Fuck Alton Brown. The first thing I want to learn how to make is dry cheesecake.”

“My specialty,” Dex says.

Nursey grins, walks out the door, and leaves for class.

A smile stretches Dex’s lips, hidden in their empty room.

Wrote a teeny thing for @inbetweenwars, who shared some lovely headcanons with me the other day :’)

Now on AO3!

It’s the last night of summer vacation during Kageyama’s third year at Karasuno High School, and everything is terribly wrong.

Well, alright, not that wrong. He hasn’t been informed at the last minute that he’s been kicked out because of his grades, or that the volleyball club is disbanding, or that Oikawa has become their new English teacher, or anything. But there’s been an unease growing and gnawing at his stomach for the past month. It’s been making him very grumpy. And tomorrow, he’ll confront the source of it once and for all. He’s not sure what’s going to happen.

The cold hard facts are that tomorrow, along with returning to school, they will return to volleyball practice. They’re the much lauded Karasuno third years, they’ve brought the team to Nationals twice already, he’s their captain (Tadashi is the vice-captain, now, and thank god—Kageyama would die if he had to give all those inspirational speeches to all the first years, but Tadashi usually handles it for him). There is so much riding on their shoulders.

And Kageyama—he’s out of practice.

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No, Seriously.

It irritates me so much that people turn a blind eye to B.A.P. And no, this isn’t just because I find them cute or hot or anything like that.

B.A.P is seriously the most different kpop group​ out there. I can say that with confidence. Absolute confidence.

Other groups out there produce the most trending music. They create hard dances. Show off their bodies and aegyo to get fans. At the end of the day, all of that fades. Bodies fade. Music trends die. Doing cute stuff when your thirty loses it’s appeal. 

It’s all be done before. A cycle of unoriginality mixed in with what’s the most popular thing right now creates​ stardom. It ceates​ main stream groups and the same old songs just with different keys and different vocals.

Here’s where I make my point.

B.A.P, the six men that make up the band. It isn’t all about smiling. It isn’t about putting off the picture perfect boy group, where everything is cookie cutter with them. No, it isn’t.

B.A.P has been through things most people never do in their lives. Contracts that pay them less money than minimum wage. Being forced to work when sick and having other issues. Eating disorders. Suicidal thoughts. Alcoholism. Lawsuits that make them lose a huge amount of their fanbases. They’ve been through struggles I hope no one else has to go through, sincerely.

I was just minding my business today, but a song popped up in my head. Their song ‘Wake Me Up’. I listened to it, and unconciously clicked on ‘1004’. I watched their old episodes of Weekly Idol, and voyaged further back into their history. Watching their performances and their interactions.

In the end it left me thinking: Do people not see what the lawsuit did to them? Do they not see how strong they are? How they decided to put out harder songs about real issues in the world rather than gain back popularity with another generic pop song?

They don’t have to dance hard to get your attention. They don’t have to be the best rappers or vocalists to get noticed. If you’re open to deeper concepts than just a school love or sadness over a girl, B.A.P is perfect.

And that’s what makes them unique to me. They chose being real and sticking to themselves when they came back from their hiatus. They chose to give out real concepts with their songs. Have you seen the ‘Wake Me Up’ music video? The diversity? The emotion? How the members struggled throughout it?

What about the choreography? Where the leader walks through two other members. Where he takes back the leader position and leads the boys. It makes everything so much more intense, and my heart aches for him. For his axiety and panic disorders. I respect him so much for coming back. I respect all the boys.

Sure, you could go against me and say, “What about ‘Feel So Good’? That song was just upbeat and smiley. They’re fake too.”

They have never been fake. They have never acted like a perfect group. They’re so much more than that. Yes, they put out a smiley song about happiness. But really, how often do they do that concept? How many of their comebacks were about dark situations and deeper stuff?

“But my oppas are special too!”. Yeah, they are. But, just hear me out, what’s their latest comeback about? It it about a girl? Is it EDM? Pop? Maybe they lift their shirts. Maybe they do some wild hip thrusts. Hell, they might even lick their lips and tease.

Is that wrong groups are like that? No. Each group has the right to want to be popular, and find the best way to do it. The only reason I stress this is because it shows how different B.A.P is.

I’m happy your oppas are singing about their first loves and heartbreak when they aren’t even legal yet. I’m happy they’re doing that. Genuinely. It’s popular, and spreads K-pop around the world more. 

Most people start off with the most popular groups before moving to others. So yes, let them sing their heart out. Let them dance in tight pants and shirts that are a little too unbuttoned because that’s what’s popular. And that’s what spreads. Has B.A.P partaken in these actions? Hell yeah. But they don’t make their career about it. Look at all their comeback songs. 'Badman’, 'Warrior’, 'No Mercy’, 'One Shot’, etc. Tell me now, are they generic?

Long story short, before I make a book out of this, B.A.P deserves so much more. 

They might never be the trendy group they were before the lawsuit, but they’ll probably always be the realest group out there. Pumping out songs that challenge society. More than many other groups out there can say.

Go stan them and stan them hard. They deserve it so much. You will never regret it.


A big ol’ BABY (fandom name of course)

Stress Cleaning (ALiL Deleted Scene)

Summary: (College!AU) In which you’re too stressed to get any schoolwork done so Bucky offers an alternative plan.

Pairing: Bucky x Reader

Word Count: 2,370

A/N: An anon requested The reader is really stressed and Bucky helps her calm down. It’d be cool to see them clean the kitchen together and joke around. This occurs between “The Little Things (Part One)” and “The Little Things (Part Two)” I should be doing work and preparing for finals, but I was too stressed so I wrote this instead

“A Lesson in Love” Masterlist + Soundtrack

Originally posted by calif0rnia-lovers

You stare at your textbook, willing the words on the page to somehow become more interesting. When they don’t, you move the book from the table onto your lap in the hopes that this new angle will help you absorb what you’re reading. After you catch yourself skimming over the same paragraph for what is now the third time in a row, you slam the textbook closed in frustration.

Midterms are upon you and what you should be doing is studying for the exams you have this week. Unfortunately for you, your brain is not in compliance with this plan. It wants nothing to do with the study guides, outlines, and index cards you’ve created. You had hoped that switching gears and reading straight from your textbook might work, but that attempt failed just as badly as the rest.

You lean forward and rest your forehead on the edge of the cool, wooden table as hopelessness and frustration overwhelm your senses. The last thing you should be doing right now is nothing, and yet, nothing is all you can bring yourself to do.

“Hard at work I see.”

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Two Can Play - M

anon request

a/n - k so… it’s the first smut i have posted so like idk if it’s gonna be steamy~ or even any good. but i tried

Characters: Jaehyun, Reader

Pairing: Jaehyun/Reader

Genre: Smut/M

Word Count: 5.1K

“I’m going to make you eat fucking dirt, Jaehyun,” you growled, setting your feet apart and bending slightly, ready for the set that you were sure would come your way.

He stood just opposite to you, only a couple of feet away and blocked by the hatch-marked lines of the decrepit volleyball net. His smirk was a concoction of tantalizing and infuriating, one dimple caving in his cheek with a description only definable as ‘cute’. It pissed you off. He raised his eyebrows at you, cracking his fingers in theatrical preparation.

“Please, sweetheart, we both know you’re at a disadvantage,” he chuckled, reaching across and upwards to twist a fraying string with his two fingers, the white straggler wrapping around the pale, lithe digits.

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me, touring the country after experiencing la solar eclipse, speaking to those less fortunate whomst have not partaken in such an occasion

it was mesmerizing, folks, you just had to be there. the sun was there one minute and the next it had simply gone dark. the sky was black, like nighttime. yet everyone was forced to wear these government approved sunglasses for no reason at all. it was a scam, and im not afraid to speak on it now. the glasses were unnecessary. they were so superfluous

LWA: Years Later AU

Updated Post (4/26/2017)

Since my AU is constantly updating as little witch academia releases more episodes, characters, and info on the world building, I thought it’d be best to make a new post on this. Many people have partaken in this AU, and I appreciate every single one of you.

Those that have helped build this AU to what is it now:

@hanasaku-shijin @theaceofgays 

i am so sorry mobile users


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Affable Stoner Jonathan Harker

Some time ago I commented that Keanu Reeves’ Jonathan Harker seemed perpetually stoned, and someone commented that, given the medicine of the time, that was entirely possible.  So here is this story.


After the accident, Jonathan feared he would never have use of his left leg again.  He had panicked too soon, it turned out- the feeling and the use came back, but at the price of great pain whenever he put pressure on the limb.  Mina wept to see him suffer, and because he did not want to see her weep at least as much as for his own seek, he sought out treatment from the best doctors he could find.  Laudanum was out of the question (one simply didn’t drink at work) as was morphine (Jonathan had a terrible fear of anything puncturing his skin), but at last an American doctor offered him a solution.

“They used this stuff in the War Between the States”, Dr. Morris told him.  “Before my time, of course, but if it’ll do for wounded soldiers, it’ll do for you.  And they make it in chocolate bonbon form, so you won’t even have an aftertaste.”

The doctor was right- the bonbons worked wondrously for Jonathan, at least as far as the pain was concerned.  When it came to allaying Mina’s anxieties, at least she no longer wept, though she did still seem worried.

“Are you alright, my love?” she asked him.  “You seem preoccupied.”

“What?” he asked, not entirely sure what that last word she’d said was.

“I said, you seem preoccupied.  Are you thinking of something?”

“No,” Jonathan said with partial honesty.  (He had been thinking of something, but could no longer remember what it had been.)  “I apologize.  It may be the medicine.”

And so she extracted from him a promise not to partake of the bonbons at work, where he would have to interact with Mr. Hawkins.  It was a promise he entirely intended to keep.


Mr. Hawkins was telling him about a new job…somewhere.  He would have to travel, was what he was getting from this.  And then Mr. Hawkins had stopped talking, and Jonathan had the horrible realization that he was expected to respond.

“I would be honored to accept this position,” he said.  It felt like there was a gap of a full minute between each word, and Jonathan prayed that his sense of time was being distorted.  It was imperative that his employer not sense any weakness in him, or know that he had partaken of strong medicine before drawing up legal contracts.

“Excellent, my boy!  I knew I could count on you!  So, what do you know about the land of thieves and ghosts?”

“Yes,” Jonathan responded.  It seemed like the right answer.


Dr. Morris gave Jonathan a good supply of the hashish bonbons before he left for (what turned out to be) Transylvania, and as the pain had been going down anyway- it was almost entirely gone by now- he swore to himself that he would not use them unless absolutely necessary.  But aside from pain relief, they had been providing an alleviation of his anxieties, and the long, jolty ride on a carriage driven by a suspicious character through a wolf-filled mountainside called for something to calm his nerves.

It was a testament to Jonathan’s strength of character that when he got off the carriage and finally met his host, he did not immediately demand to know what was wrong with the man’s hair.  He was thinking it.  In fact, he could not listen to a single word the man was saying to him because in his mind, every sentence had turned to “Look at my terrible hair.”

He was going to have to abstain while in this castle, it appeared.  The hair probably wasn’t that bad, when seen with a clear mind.  Under the influence of hashish, alas, it became a terrible monster, reaching out to grab at him with shadowy strands, attempting to pull him into the greater part and turn his body into yet more volume for the great and unknowable coif.

“Are you tired, my English friend?” asked Count something (Jonathan had temporarily forgotten the name.)

His client could not know he was being so unprofessional.  It would be a terrible disgrace.  It was a miracle that Jonathan still had enough control over his head to nod.


The she-monsters came upon him in the night, just when Jonathan had begun to think his mind was clearing.  Hashish bonbons had never yet caused him to see things that were not there, and he did not think such a thing was possible.  It turned out both of these assumptions were wrong.

Just what happened next was not entirely clear, but it appeared that Count something had given him to these creatures to feast upon, and a great panic swept Jonathan as it never had before.  There was fear and then there was this, the knowledge that everyone in the world, from these monsters to the people back in London, hated him and desired his death.

This panic was so great that he did not even notice the teeth puncturing his flesh.  He did, however, notice when the women ceased their feeding, sluggish, and began to sprawl on the ground.

Jonathan vaguely recalled the word “tolerance”, but was not sure how it applied to this situation.  It was something he contemplated as he climbed out the window and down the castle walls.  Castle-climbing seemed like a very good idea at the moment.

sundaesanchan  asked:

In your opinion, is Judaism a sin? In my studies, the word Christian means "Christ Like" Jesus being a Jew, my family looked into the religion and found that it's deeper than Christianity goes. You partake in communion or Lords Supper, but have you ever partaken in a Sader/Passover meal? If you've heard the song "Dayenu" then you'd know how deep and praiseworthy God is to people of the Hebrew faith. TL;DR How much of other religions have you studied?

I’ll be studying world religions much more in depth as per the curriculum of my theology studies, though that doesn’t mean I haven’t looked into them before or examined their tenets.

Judaism isn’t a sin, but Jews need saving too. It is not the fullness of truth.

Think of Moses. He could lead people to the Promised Land but never enter it; Joshua would be the leader from that point on. So it is with Judaism and Christianity. It is not “false,” but it isn’t the fullness of truth. It takes us up to a point where it cannot enter, where Joshua (the Greek translation of Jesus’ name) will take us from here. Christ is the one who can take us to the Promised Land.

I actually planned on attending a Passover supper (with the four cups of wine and all), but I never made it. I would definitely like too one day.

Jews aren’t sinners in their Judaism, only that they deny the divinity of Christ and the Holy Trinity. It’s not “wrong,” just lacks the whole truth. It can’t take us to Heaven.

You’ll find Catholicism preserves a lot of the traditions and spiritual aspects of Judaism in their own celebrations.

Nyx-Chapter 15

Pairings: Thor x Reader, Bucky x Reader

Summary: Thor makes a critical decision about his future with Nyx. Loki helps.

Warnings: Just Angst, No smut for the next few Chapters.

Word count: 1083

Thor strides purposefully through the gilded halls, lost deep in his own mind. Images of Rayne filter through his head, but he clamps down on them, conjuring your face in his inner eye instead. The betrayal in your eyes as you stormed away from him brings back the acute shame he felt.

He knew what it meant the minute Rayne laid her hand on him. A spark so pure, so potent, so mind altering had shot through him. Her eyes had sucked him straight in, and he had no idea what to do about it.

The love he held for Nyx was still there. A love nurtured over many years, albeit in secret. You had never paid Thor much attention, choosing instead to spend your time with Loki, only attending to Thor when you needed a sparring partner.

How torturous those days were. Your lithe body moving with deadly grace against his own. How he longed to have you for himself. Your fierceness drew him toward you immediately, your compassion for others, your kind heartedness. Now you were his, and while he was filled joy at the prospect of taking you as his bride, he longed for another, a yearning he could not stop or control.

It filled him with fury. He wanted answers, a way to stop it. A way to return to the elation he felt before he met… her. Which meant he had to consult with his brother who would, in all likelyhood, choose not to lend his aid.

Loki’s affection for Nyx, the bond shared between them, rivaled the brotherly love he held for Thor. Perhaps even surpassed it.

Turning a corner he rans into the man himself. “Brother,” he greets, dipping his head in acknowledgement of the raven haired God. “It is unwise to be in my company at the moment.”

Loki merely smirks. Grabbing Thor by the arm he steers him to a conveniently placed divian, he shoves him down, and takes a seat next to him. “How this reminds me of the past, when we were once equals,” Loki says quietly, his face curiously blank of emotion. “Tell me what ails you, brother,” he adds as an afterthought, crossing his legs in effort to become more comfortable.

“I have found my one,” Thor replies hanging his head in quiet shame, not daring to look his brother in the eye.

“And it is not Nyx as you had hoped?” Loki says as he cocks his head to the side, intertwining his fingers on his lap.

“I fear not. It is the sergeant’s Lady. I made quite a fool of myself at a gathering, angered Nyx, and in the process lost my heart to fiery beauty. I know not how to proceed,” he says as he sighs heavily, placing his head in his hands.

“Brother,” Loki croons, a hint of mischief in his voice. “Nyx is not now, nor will she ever be yours. Break the engagement! For the sake of your sanity, for the sake of your heart, let her go! She will never be yours.”

Thor sucks in a shuddering breath, his eyes squeezing shut as he attempts to find a lie in Loki’s words. “I love her, Loki. I have loved her for many moons,” he says softly. “ I have partaken of her body, given her my promise. How could I, in good faith, destroy her honor and my own, for a woman I barely know?”

Loki contemplates his brother’s words carefully, tapping an index finger on his knee. “Nyx was no blushing maiden when she came to us. She bore children, had a husband. She has been through much in her time, and no matter what you think, brother, she does not, cannot, love you.” His words are harsh but necessary.

Thor pauses, finally lifting his gaze to his brothers, searching his eyes for any deception. “What does that say about me? That I would so casually cast aside a woman who has been nothing but true to me. I cannot do it, brother, I cannot betray her so,” he says, blinking back the tears threatening to fall.

Loki sighs, fully fed up with the conversation. He hardens his gaze, squares his shoulders and stares Thor straight in the eye. “She will leave you. That snivelling mortal oaf has accepted himself. It will not be long before he stakes his claim. He could save her life, and she would be happy. Instead you preen and moan about honor, completely disregarding the fact should you distance yourself from your woman, you too shall perish. Use what little brain you have, Thor! Break the engagement and save yourself. Save Nyx! For you shall die if you cling to her, so shall your lady, and Nyx is almost there.”  Loki holds his breath in silent hope his thick skulled brother will accept his words.

Finally Thor speaks, grim determination in his eyes, his jaw set in a hard line, the muscles in his shoulders tense, the blue of his eyes stormy. “You are right. I will end the engagement. She will be banished, but she will be with the man who could save her life.” He sighs heavily. “I only wish it did not have to come to this. That there were another way, some way to save us all the pain.”

Loki laughs, a genuine laugh, one which does not often come to light. He throws his head back, and Thor revels in the melodious sound of his brother’s laughter, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “Nothing worthwhile ever comes without a little pain, dear brother. You will be happier for it,” he says as he catches his breath.

Thor finds himself nodding stoically at Loki’s words, a renewed sense of purpose brewing in his breast. He would inform his father immediately of the new developments, and pray Nyx would forgive him given time.

Tag List: Under the cut

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What manner of vile fuckery is this?

Just now have I heard with mine own two ears that Master Ren’s lineage hath been moste cruelly impugned. That amongst some antis he is but a ‘second hand Skywalker.’

Mayhap they have partaken of moldering bread such that their senses are completely overtaken!

I would be well prudent not to repeat such ill humored nattering within the presence of my Master, lest he cleave me in twain with that monstrous fiery sword of his.

Not to mention if his good mother, the Lady Solo, were to hear such ignominious slander, she’d blast their misogynist asses from the heavens.

A pox on them!

My co-worker tried bringing up how illegals should just leave and how DACA is bad and what not.

I stopped what I was doing and said “Listen, Jan, you don’t even want to start with that shit, because look who you are surrounded by.”

Jen is white and four of our co-workers(including me) are Mexican, one has partaken in the DACA program.

“But my husband says..”

“No, I don’t care what your husband says. You’re not him, have your own damn opinion.”

It goes quiet for like 30 seconds until I sighed and said..

“Anyway, the real terrorist in this country are White Men.”

It wasn’t until we were driving home from dinner that my wife Diane told me that the chips and guacamole I had been eating hadn’t been meant for the entire table.

“Deb and Gary ordered it for themselves when you were in the restroom.”

“What!?  But I thought that everybody was…”

“Nope, just you.”

“Oh no!”

Diane slouched casually down in the passenger seat and kicked her feet up on the glove box.

“It was strange,” she said.  "Your face was so red and contorted.  It was like you were eating just to see if you could eat everything.“

In a cold sweat I thought back to the dinner and realized that my wife’s description was spot on.  Not only had I partaken in the chips and guacamole, I had been attacking them like a starved animal.  At one point I was even rhythmically alternating between hands the way a boxer might attack a heavy bag.  Left chip, Right chip. Dip, dip.  Eat, eat.

"You couldn’t have told me?” I asked weakly.

“We were trying to tell you without making a big deal out of it,” said Diane.  "I called your phone a couple times and I know Greg was trying to kick you.“

"That was Greg?  Christ, I thought that was you!”

And in fact, I HAD noticed the kicking.  Thinking it had been a rare moment of erotic spontaneity from my wife, I had returned the ‘kick’ by removing a dress shoe and pinning my opponent’s leg with a single stocking foot before sliding my toes inquiringly up and along the length of the accompanying inner-thigh.

“How did Greg seem when we left?” I asked.

After Diane went to bed that evening, I sat awake sipping whiskey sours and replaying the evening’s events in my head.  It wasn’t until after my third or so drink that I decided it was best to simply call up Deb and Gary to apologize and explain the miscommunication.  But I was unprepared!

“Hello?” answered a groggy voice.

“Avocados,” I slurred.

“Who is this?”

I hung up.  

The next morning it dawned on me that probably every single phone had Caller ID.  I wanted to ask Diane if Deb and Gary had Caller ID, but in a way that seemed casual so as not to reveal my actions from the night before.

Over coffee I said, “So last night Barb was telling me that Deb and Gary don’t have Caller ID.  Haha!  Man!  Is that even true?”

“Why would Barb say that?”

“She just did, goddammit!”

Dulled Mind - Chapter 1

“Welcome to the greatest hive of scum and villainy in this entire damned sector,” Bulat chuckled as he landed the cruiser in the spaceport of the most aptly named Avarice Quartus. “Now, let’s get fucked up, shall we?”

Naomi leapt off the ship, going through the bubble of contained air after their ship had been maglocked to the port. They landed on the surface of the spaceport, and walked inside. The artificial gravity kicked in, and Naomi’s feet planted firmly on the ground. She brushed the clinging static of the containment field off her black shirt and waited for Kate to get off the ship.

Kate’s long hair stood up in messy strands from the static electricity, levitating in the air. When she straightened her hair and let it hang down again, Naomi decided to have a little fun. Kate’s hair floated back up, suspended high in the air like some sort of creature that had taken up residence on her head. Kate flattened it down again, shrugging it off as just some electricity that hadn’t quite gone away.

Naomi made it rise up again. Kate caught on, glaring at Naomi, who responded with a smug smile. The hair came to life under her influence, moving and twisting around to form a false mustache around Kate’s mouth.

“Hey, stop!” Kate pushed the hair away, trying and failing to hide an amused smirk. “That tickled.” 

Naomi blew a kiss over in her direction.

“Love you, babe,” she said.

Keep reading

This Ends Tonight Part 4


Warnings: NSFW


part 1

part 2

part 3

part 4

part 5

part 6

Patience 1.1

Pillow talk

Pushing buttons

Bedroom Convesations: Fly on the Wall - Ivar’s Yes Girl

He studied her face for so long, she felt her courage begin to waver. His brows were knitted together and his lips were set in a hard down turned line. She thought that he looked…angry, or perhaps even pained. Searching his face, she couldn’t quite decipher. Her husband was such a mixed bag, she had given up trying to predict his moods.

Although she more often than not tried to avoid him, it wasn’t such a difficult task to do so. His days were busy, if she saw him at all, he would usually greet her with a curt nod, only paying her enough mind to acknowledge her presence. The times she actually attended dinner in the great hall, while they obviously sat together, he either ignored her to the point of making her feel she didn’t exist, or seemed so displeased with her presence that she wished she would cease to.

However, each night he would come to bed and reach for her. Though it was often well past midnight and she was usually half asleep or feigning it, night after night, he would settle in under the furs and pull her into his arms. Sometimes he would simply embrace her before falling fast into sleep. Usually she would wait until he had and she’d slip herself from his hold, moving her body clear to the edge of the bed, putting as much distance between them as possible. But at times, she was so tired that she allowed it and would awake the next morning with her back still tucked up into his chest.
Other times, he would nuzzle into her, rake his fingers through her hair and press gentle kisses to the back her neck before her lack of response and reciprocation had him cursing under his breath and falling back onto his side of the bed in frustration.

Recently, she had felt herself just starting to warm to her husband, not being able to deny how warm and content she felt waking up in his arms. How being roused by his breath and lips tickling her neck shot undeniable waves of pleasure to her core. He confused her and frustrated her so yet her body wanted him.

Then one night about a week ago, she had been roused awake by his hand having found it’s way in between her legs. She had awoke in such a state and in such shock that at first she just lay there frozen on her back struggling to find the words to protest the violation. Ivar had been propped up on an elbow next to her, eyes glazed over, breath ragged, drenched in sweat with his hand shoved up her shift. His fingers were slowly pumping in and out and curling inside of her, the pad of his thumb rubbing tight little circles to her bundle of nerves. Coming to her senses, she had bolted upright with a shriek. Scooting herself back up against the headboards and away from his wicked hand.

He was obviously drunk and apparently, he had partaken in mushroom tea that evening.

He had practically begged her that night. ‘Let me make you feel good, please…I promise I can make you feel so good if you just let me try.’ he had slurred.

At the time she had been so furious. She had felt violated, nevermind that he was her husband. How dare he.

In response to his pleading, she had shot him a downright murderous glare, but his altered state had emboldened him. She had just made to move from the bed and find sleeping quarters elsewhere, when he took hold of both her ankles. Sitting back on his knees and using his arms, he had drug her body towards him and obscenely spread her legs open as wide as they would go. Gripping her hips, he hiked her legs up over his shoulders and attempted to bury his face in between her legs. When she screeched and struggled to get away, he just laughed, tightened his grip on her hips and pulling her pelvis closer to his face. She had tried twisting her upper body left and right, attempting to get leverage but he was just too strong. She dug her fingernails so deep into his forearms that she broke the skin, but damn if he wasn’t unflinching. His mouth had been so close, laying open mouthed kisses on the inside of her thigh and she wasn’t sure if she wanted him to stop but she couldn’t keep the frustrated tears from falling. She become absolutely undone, sobbing and pleading with him to stop … and to her relief and surprise, he had. Albeit, reluctantly.

He threw a real tantrum that night. As she sat sniffling, hugging her knees to her chest, he sat at the edge of the bed, grumbling and spitting curses at her. He struggled in his inebriation and frustration to affix his metal braces to his legs. He then had called her a bitch before stumbling out of the room on his crutches. He angrily swung one of his crutches at the wash basin on his way out, sending the bowl and it’s contents flying towards the bed, just barely missing her, it had clambered against the wall a few feet away from her.

Drenched, she had felt her blood immediately rise and boil.

“Bacraut!” she had spat at him. “Brusi!”

“Alicarl meyla” he had shot back over his shoulder, slamming the door behind him.

Up until tonight, he hadn’t come to bed since the incident. He had busied himself down by the ship docks and with his men on the training fields and she had spent the last week taking meals in their chambers. Although she had spent the last week hiding away from him, stewing in her anger and laying awake and alone at night in nervous anticipation, she had woken each morning cold and morose in his absence, thinking what a mess had become of things. She was a strong woman, she was no shield maiden by any stretch of the imagination, but she was Viking…which was why despite her husband’s reputation having proceeding him, she had stepped into the union unafraid. Many forces had worked to try to destroy her over the course of her short life.

Loss. Abandonment. Underestimation.

However she had prevailed, none of those things having been able to break her. But, she was finding out that none of those forces had anything on the force that was her husband.

Ivar the Boneless had already begun to break her.













@reading-is-fundimental @redheadedtrollop







Getting Toasty AU

For a person who has never - how shall we say - “partaken in the more dank things in life,” Character A doesn’t exactly feel obligated to get high when 4/20 comes around. Instead, they invite their friends over to “get toasty” with a large fire, marshmallows, and several dozen blankets.

They have a wonderful time until one friend, uh, well, they didn’t get the message and they show up completely plastered. As they begin to have an existential crisis, everyone else is forced to handle their ramblings and make sure they don’t choke on marshmallows.

Love will make a fool of ye.

This is a continuation of the pieces I have done of ‘lost moments’ told from Jamie’s perspective - the first can be seen here:

I have take a wee bit of liberty here as @juniblue suggested a wonderful title to me (not used here because I couldn’t make it fit) and I wanted to write one of her ideas out as a thank you for both the prompt and the great title (to be used for a future work!) Thanks for reading! H xxx

Jamie gently guided her through the halls and corridors that lead to her surgery and smiled to himself as she lurched and staggered, her step heavier than usual but no less certain. She was a feisty lass even when she was half-gone with drink. She seemed more likely to brawl than to weep and Jamie found himself more attracted to her than ever.

He guided her into the surgery and carefully eased the door shut behind them to avoid prying eyes. He knew that Claire was likely safe enough in here now, the men who might have followed her had she left the hall alone had seen her leave with Jamie and were unlikely to try their luck tonight. Dougal was another matter though and Jamie discreetly thumbed the lock across the door.

He saw Claire startle as she noticed his movement, her eyes hard and wary as she looked at him.

“I’m not about to do ye any harm lass, I merely dinna wish to get myself into a strammash wi’ any drunken clansman who might have a mind to chance his luck on ye.”

Jamie folded his arms and leant against the thick wood, willing his heart beat to calm and his palms to stop sweating. It was the truth, he would never seek to do Claire harm, but he had partaken in a fair amount of drink himself and now he was alone with her and she was looking at him like she might skelp his arse if he put a foot wrong and the fierceness of her gaze was turning his gut into a roiling mass of butterflies, all flapping their wings.

“I should think not! I’ve patched you up more than enough times already and I told you to rest … which you haven’t been.”

She was smiling at him again, that perfect wee cat smile that came out when she was relaxing, he hadn’t seen it often but he knew what it meant all the same. It was the smile she gave when she was just being herself and not trying to be whatever Collom or Dougal or any of the others wanted her to be.

“Aye ye have, and I am grateful.”

Jamie’s voice sounded strange even to his own ears and he wondered absently if it was perhaps affected by the sudden change in the direction of his blood flow.

“I have been resting as much as possible, though there is still work to be done in running an estate such as Leoch.”

“And plenty of other men that could do it too.”

Claire stepped around her table and pulled out a chair, gesturing to it with her free hand. Jamie had been so busy watching her face he had not noticed her produce a small flask from her pocket. The scent of Rhenish filled the small room and Jamie’s head swam.

“Come and sit down, I’ll have a look and make sure everything is healing as it should be.”

He crossed to the chair and sat obediently, hurriedly removing his waistcoat and draping it across his lap to hide the startlingly prominent bulge.

“If ye drink much more of that then it may be you who needs tending in the morning, Mistress.”

“Well then, you’ll have to come and tend me won’t you?”

Claire laughed but before Jamie could even think of anything to say she had frowned and turned her attention to the bottles and pots on the table, her fingers flitting from one to another without ever really touching them.

“Forgive me, Mr McTavish. I think you are right, I have taken too much drink.”

He desperately wanted to tell her that he didn’t mind, that she had only to say the word and he would be by her side to offer whatever assistance that she might need but his tongue felt clumsy and thick in his mouth.

“Please remove your shirt or … come back tomorrow, I have kept you from your party for far too long.”

The thought of being asked to leave the quiet sanctuary of her rooms shocked Jamie enough to loosen his tongue and squeeze a few words past the knot in his throat.

“If ye dinna mind looking now, I would appreciate it. It is rather sore.”

He shrugged off his shirt and sat ramrod straight but his eyes sought hers and found them glowing amber in the firelight.

“Dia, ach tha thu `alain”

The Gaelic tumbled from his lips, like honey from a carelessly knocked over jar and although Claire could not understand the language whatever she saw in his expression caused her to blush gently and pushed away the last gossamer threads of awkwardness between them.  

“Thank you.”

She murmured and Jamie wondered if she had understood after all, a faint ray of alarm mixed with hope that warmed his core and once again set the butterflies in his belly into motion. As she smoothed her hands across his shoulders he realised that she was thanking him for removing his shirt but with her fingertips on his bare skin, he no longer had thought to spare it.

*Hail Mary full of grace …*

Jamie squeezed his eyes shut and was grateful for the dull pain that radiated from his shoulder when Claire pressed her thumb against it.

“I’m sorry, did that hurt?”

“No… yes … but it was … fine.”

Jamie’s legs were trembling lightly and he felt beads of sweat, like the morning dew, appear on his chest and beneath his armpits. His balls ached almost worse than his shoulder and as Claire bent to examine the purple bruising around his collar bone, a soft curl of her hair brushed his ear lightly and Jamie gave himself over to God entirely, for he could no longer trust himself not to turn and press his lips to hers and allow his hands to run down the gentle swell of her hips.

He was so focussed on reciting the rosary in his head that he had not realised Claire had released her hold on him and was stood back watching his lips silently form the words. Colour flooded his face and he hastily cleared his throat and stood up.

“Will I live?”

He asked, carefully putting his shirt back on, offering Claire a lopsided grin

“As long as I don’t hear of you getting into any more scrapes or doing anything else to inflame that shoulder, I see no reason why you won’t live to a very old age.”

She returned his smile and stepped forward to straighten his cravat and Jamie allowed his finger to brush against soft skin of her wrist.

Recognition sparked in her eyes and for a tantalising moment Jamie knew that she wanted to kiss him almost as badly as he wanted to kiss her, he could feel it in the air between them the same as a filly sniffy a coming storm on the breeze.

But neither of them moved forward and the moment passed as Claire stepped back from him.

“I should bid you good night Mr McTavish.”

She smiled again and Jamie bowed deeply to her.

“Good night Mistress Beauchamp. Claire.”

He allowed his eyes to rest on her face once more and then turned away, forcing himself to put one foot in front of the other as he left her. As he stepped into the corridor, he turned and poked his head back into the room.

“Ye’ll lock the door after I go, aye?”

“I will.”

She promised and Jamie nodded to himself feeling pleased that she would listen to him and more pleased with memory of the look in her eye as she had touched him. Perhaps his hopes were not entirely fruitless after all! He wished that Murtagh or someone had been there to see the look and maybe help him grasp its full meaning but at the same time he was elated to have experienced such a moment just between himself and Claire … Jamie shook his head and grinned at the floor ruefully, hearing his father’s voice in his head:

*Love will make a fool of ye, yet!*

(For the writing prompt about Padawans and Masters XD I managed to put this together late into the night. I would have liked to write more , but I’m preparing to go back to Uni so I didn’t have much time to write it. It’s not the best thing I’ve written :C But I wanted to participate)

Title: Birds of a Feather
Summary: Ahsoka needs a Master, and Plo is determined to find her just that (just as long as it isn’t him).

“But why can’t you be my Master, Master Plo? You’re the one who found me, it only makes sense that you would be.”  

The old Kel Dor fought the growing urge to groan underneath his mask, the fear of offending his former charge the only thing keeping him silent. Though he would have been lying to himself had he believed the battle was not a losing one, for Ahsoka Tano had been at this for hours, and even his legendary calm had begun to falter.

“Because, Ahsoka…” he hesitated, then continued, careful of his words “The student does not choose the Master, young one. And—”

“Then choose me, Master Plo.”


“You promised you’d pick me as a Padawan when I turned fourteen if no one else did. I’m fourteen, and no other Master has picked me, yet,” the young Togruta plants herself firm in front of his path, arms folded across her chest and gaze stern, “So why haven’t you chosen me?”

If Plo Koon could sweat, he certainly would have done so by now. Especially since he had just been forced into a corner.

It was true, he had promised Ahsoka that he would take over her training had she not been chosen by a Master. But that had been a promise made to a three-year-old, terrified of being shipped the Agri-Corps had she aged out.

It was never meant to be taken seriously (for, in all honesty, Plo had believed Ahsoka skilled enough to have been chosen by a master well before the age of fourteen).

And on top of that, Plo could not deny his attachment to the young Jedi. She was like a daughter to him, and that would certainly complicate things had he decided to go through with his promise.

“Because,” Plo responded, voice uncertain, “You do have a Master.”

It was a lie. A blatant lie. And by the inclination of her eyebrow, and the way in which her lips pursed, Ahsoka knew it.

“Oh really, Master. Who is it then?” She asked, utterly unconvinced.      

“You will find out soon enough, Little ‘Soka,” Answered the Jedi, turning on his heel, painfully aware of the new task he had subjected himself to, “We both will.”


After a brief discussion with Master Yoda in regards to Ahsoka’s future, it turned out, to Plo’s relief, that the young Togruta had indeed been chosen as a Padawan. Yet to his absolute horror, said Master was Obi-Wan Kenobi.

Obi-Wan Kenobi was not a bad Master, and by human standards, Obi-Wan Kenobi wasn’t a bad man.

In fact, Plo counted the younger man amongst his small circle of friends, having grown acquainted to the Jedi soon after he had earned his seat on the council.

They had partaken in many battles together, and had occasionally found themselves in each other’s company often, as friends do. Though for Obi-Wan, it was much more than friendly conversation between the two.

As it was during these many occasions that Obi-wan had voiced his many fears to Plo.

Fears of being on the Council, fear of being a Jedi, and fear of being the Master of the Chosen One, Anakin Skywalker.

Kenobi was a very, very insecure man, and that hadn’t changed after Qui-Gon had thrown the responsibility of a lifetime on his shoulders.

But there was no denying that his apprehension towards training Anakin evolved from terror to agitation as the years progressed. The boy was hard headed, dense, and stubborn, and had been the cause of many of his Master’s late nights at the bar.

It was during these late night escapades, were meditation did little to take Obi-Wan’s mind off of his failure of a student, that he had dragged Plo to the bar with him, and told him he’d ‘rather be shipped off to the Agri-Corps than have another student like Anakin’ and that ‘the boy’s knighting ceremony was the best thing to have happened’.

It was for that very reason, Plo left Master Yoda’s room feeling more worried than he had before. Yes, Ahsoka had a Master, but for how long? If Obi-Wan thought Anakin was hard to deal with, then Ahsoka wouldn’t last five minutes under his tutelage.

She would be sent right back to the Temple, knocking on Plo’s door once again. And if it came to that, he would not be able to refuse her.

The only one who could handle a Padawan like Ahsoka would be a Master like Ahsoka, and there was no Master that Plo could think of who had the likeness of Ahsoka.

But there was a Knight.

Underneath his mask, Plo Koon smirked. He may have just turned his problem into a solution.

It was true that Obi-Wan would no longer take a Padawan like Anakin Skywalker.

But Anakin Skywalker may be a different story.

The old Master turned on his heel, robes billowing behind him, as he quickly headed back to Master Yoda’s quarters.

Ahsoka might have a Master yet.


There it is! As always, if you liked it, give me a heart and hit the reblog 😊

Gummy bears

Hello, love bugs!
I just want to say thank you for all of the love and follows. You make me so overjoyed that someone enjoys my stuff.
Warnings ⚠️drug use, smut. God, love thigh riding fics.

Gummy bears 2

Today was the first time you ever partook in an edible. You had smoked weed before once or twice but this was a new experience. You had received gummy bears from a friend who said it would help with your anxiety. You had been saving them for a day when you were really stressed out. Today happen to be the day where everything was adding up and you needed to get away from it all. You started off with just a few thrown into your mouth. Then after twenty minutes of nothing, you decided to toss in a few more. Just when you thought they were duds they hit you. Now you lay upside down on the couch watching an anime with the French subtitles on. Did you speak French? No. But you thought you could start to learn a new language by just reading the words. You found out you were wrong but your body was too tired to change it. This was the life you were going to live now. French subtitles were going to be the new norm. Dan had been gone for a couple of hours doing some running around before he found you in this position. When he saw you he first thought this was a weird existential crisis. Then he saw the bag of bears on the dinner table and put it all together.

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Taking a Stand / Sansa Stark [Bolton!reader]

Words: 2400

You weren’t sure why you did what you did, what you always did, to protect her. Perhaps it was only because you wanted to stop the destruction your brother was causing, to save as many people as you could from him, or whether it was because of something more.

You had taken a liking to the Stark girl the moment she had arrived. You were able to read her like a book. No matter how hard she tried to disguise her thoughts and what she felt, you could see it on her face.

The way she greeted your father that day, you knew what she was thinking. You admired her strength, to be able to put on a facade that well after all your family had done to hers. 

A sense of dread had hit you the moment your brother had approached her. You knew what the plan was for the girl, you’d overheard your father. You were suddenly overwhelmed with the urge to protect her, to keep her safe-no matter the cost.

The wedding of your brother to Sansa seemed to fly by for you, though you knew it must have been agony for her. The days passed and you had not seen her. 

You knew that something was wrong and took the first opportunity you found to see her. 

You had gone to see Theon, upon arriving you noticed he was a complete mess. You convinced him to open up to you, to tell you what your brother had done. 

It made you feel sick, guilty, disgusted.

You followed Theon into Sansa’s room, shutting the door behind you both. You immediately spotted Sansa on the bed, her back the the door. Slowly, you approached the her as Theon placed the food tray on the table.

She shifted her head around as he shut the panels on the window.

“It’s okay,” you said gently, taking a seat on the edge of the bed. “Do you know who I am?”

“(Y/N) Bolton,” she whispered, pushing herself away from you.

Hanging your head, you hummed a response. “Please don’t be afraid of me. I’m not going to hurt you.”

Her attention fell on Theon who was about to leave, “Theon wait,” she insisted.

“Not Theon, my lady. Reek,” he answered, attempting to leave once more.

“Help me,” she begged, risking a quick glance in your direction. You offered her a small smile, resting your hands on your lap. 

“You’re his wife now.”


“Do what he says. Do what he says or he’ll hurt you.”

“He already hurts me every night.” Closing your eyes, you took a deep breath. “All day I’m locked in this room and every night he comes-it can’t be any worse.”

“It can,” Theon denied. “It can always be worse”

Resting your hand against your stomach, you rise as Sansa does. It was as if she had completely forgotten you were there. “What did he do to you?” she asked.

“No, please!”

“You betrayed my family!”

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry!”

“You have to help me! Theon help me!

“He’ll see us, you don’t know him.”

“Theon’s right,” you announced, taking a few steps towards her. “My brother is…resourceful, more cruel than you can imagine. Please let him go,” you requested, placing a hand on her shoulder.

She flinched at your touch, darting away from you but letting him go. Theon took the chance to move towards the door. 

“Wait,” you said softly, slowly approaching him. “Be careful.” He barely gave you a nod before slipping out of Sansa’s room. 

You’d grown close to him, you had been helping him when you were able. It took far too long for him to begin to trust you. You wished you could undo all that Ramsey had done, but that was not possible. So you settled for bringing the man as much comfort as you could, whenever you could. 

Turning towards the redhead girl, your smile returned in hopes of calming her. “Let me dress your wounds.”

It took a moment for her to sit, to let you treat her. “Why are you here?”

You sighed, “My brother…he is not well. That is no excuse for what he has done, there can never be an excuse. I don’t want him hurting anyone else.”

“It’s much to late for that,” Sansa snapped.

“I know,” you whispered, carefully taking hold of her arm. “I’m going to help you,” you said just as quietly, not wanting anyone to overhear you. “I couldn’t save Theon, but I will get you out.”

“Why?” she questioned, her eyes trying to meet yours.

“No one deserves this,” is all you said.

For the next the days, you visited Sansa as often as you could. You went to Ramsey, begging him to stop hurting her, but he wouldn’t listen. He never listened. 

Unlike your brother, you were a legitimate Bolton heir. But you were nothing like him or your father. Ramsey had always had a soft spot for you because you had never treated him as anyone or anything but your brother.

You had never agreed nor partaken in his games and you always tried to stop him. At times, you could sway him to refrain but most of the time he ignored your pleas.

Before Stannis had attacked, you had gone to find Theon. The pair of you had spotted your redheaded friend take this opportunity to escape and you were more than willing to help. 

Your heart sank as Myranda stood opposite Sansa with her bow and arrow. You and Theon slowly made your way towards them.

“My lady,” she began. “I’ve come to escort you back to your chamber.”

“Go with her,” Theon encouraged, moving to stand behind the dark haired woman. “Please.” For a moment, you almost believe he was actually on their side.

“I know what Ramsey is. I know what he’ll do to me. If I’m going to die, let it happen while there’s still some of me left.”

“Die?” You had never liked Myranda, her obsession with your brother was more then enough of a sign that she was not to be trusted. “Who said anything about dying? You can’t die. Your father was Warden of the North and Ramsey needs you. Though I suppose he doesn’t need all of you…just the parts he’ll use to make his heir. Until you’ve given him a boy or two and he’s finished using them. Then he’s got incredible plans for those parts,” she said, lifting her bow once more.

You swallow hard, taking another step towards them all.

“So shall we wait for him to come back or should we begin now? You’re leaving it to me? Good. Let’s begin.”

You exhale as Theon grabs Myranda, shoving her over the rail. “We need to hurry,” you told them as he and Sansa stood, looking down. The arrival of the soldiers only proving your statement to be true.

“They’re coming back,” Theon announced, taking Sansa by the arm to pull her along. You lead the way until you come to a stop at the top of the wall. 

“You need to jump,” you insisted.

“What about you?” Sansa asked.

You shook your head, “I can’t leave. Not yet.”

“I don’t want to leave you,” she cried. “Come with us.”

“Go!” you encouraged, moving away from them.

Theon and Sansa stood on the ledge, gripping their hands together before leaping-not looking back. 

Since Sansa and Theon had gotten away, you tried to avoid your brother more than usual. You had spent most of your time with your people, trying to keep Ramsey from them all.

After your father had died, you rarely came into contact with Ramsey-not wanting to face him. Despite the story he had encouraged to be spread, you knew the truth about what happened to him and to Walda and the baby. 

You weren’t in a position to stop your brother, so you did all you could to help the people in Winterfell. 

When you had heard that Rickon Stark had been delivered to your brother, you didn’t know how to feel. There was no way you would be able to get to him, to help him escape.

News of the wildling’s death, the one who had travelled with the Stark boy, was not much of a surprise to you. Ramsey would happily get rid of anyone who stood in his way.

You had no idea that your brother had managed to convince Jon Snow to come back to Winterfell, learning from a servant that Ramsey had taken Rickon with him to meet the commander.

An unsettling feeling had risen within you, the one you had grown so used to after being around your brother for so long. 

Racing to the horses, you wasted no time in taking one. Despite the shouts form those in the stable-you took off, leaving the castle behind as you sought your brother.

It was impossible to miss the army of men, you saw from afar how they made way for Ramsey to ride to the front. Picking up speed, you urged your horse to take you to him.

As you reached the front lines, you jumped from your horse-sprinting towards Ramsey. You grip on to his arm, forcing him to spin around and face you.

“What do you think you are doing?!” you snarled, eyeing the rope that held the Stark boy captive.

“What are you doing out here?”

Ramsey had never spoken to you in such a way, never so harshly-the look you saw in his eyes was never one he had used on you. You had angered him, for the first time in your life. 

“Answer me!”

Your brother snatched his arm away so you were no longer holding him, “You can’t do this,” you told him.

“I can do whatever I want,” he taunted.

“Ramsey, please,” you begged. “If you care for me at all-let Rickon go.”

A smirk formed on his face, “I plan to.”

Shutting your eyes, you shook your head, “No. Give him to me.”

Ramsey’s body tensed, “I can’t do that.”

“I swear to-Ramsey! You will hand this boy over to me or I promise you I will kill you myself!”

Your brother clenched his jaw, “You dare to speak to me this way?”

Fear had began to spread within you, but you stood your ground. “You are my brother,“ you began, “and I can’t change you,” you admitted. “It has taken me a long time to come to terms with this, with who you are. Give me Rickon, Ramsey.”

His grip only tightened on the rope. You could hear the men behind you start to murmur amongst themselves.

“Ramsey!” you screamed. “Don’t make me ask you again, I promise you-I am not bluffing.”

Your brothers eyes fall to your hands that were inching closer to your waist where your dagger was positioned to retrieve at the ready. Taking a deep breath, he released the rope. “You are no blood of mine,” he told you quietly. “When I am done here,” he laughed, moving his head towards yours, his head turning so he was speaking into your ear, “we are going to play a game. But this won’t be like the ones from when we were young,” he whispered.

Gripping Rickon by the arm, you pull him to your horse-helping him up before riding back to Winterfell. 

“What are you doing?” he asked you as you untied the rope from his wrists.

“I’m going to get you back to your sister,” you answered. “We don’t have long. I don’t know what’s going to happen out there,” you said. “We can’t be here when Ramsey gets back.”

“Why are you helping me?”

“I have waited too long,” you told him regretfully. “I had done all I could to stop my brother, but it was never enough. He would only listen to me for so long. Ramsey can’t go on,” you continued. 

“None of this is your fault,” he declared quietly. 

You smiled, “Isn’t it? I could have done more to stop him, I could have ended this ages ago.”

“I don’t think it’s that easy.”

Without giving him a response, you hold out your hand, “Come on. We need to get a few things.”

The pair of you weren’t quick enough. They all arrived back to Winterfell before you could leave. You watched from the tower as Jon Snow made his way towards your brother, beating him to the brink of death.

You didn’t watch him die, you stayed far away as Sansa finished what her brother had started. 

You weren’t upset that your brother was dead, nor were you happy-you felt numb but that was something you decided you could deal with later on. 

Leading Rickon to the main hall, where you knew your redheaded friend had retired to with Jon, you took a deep breath. You weren’t sure what your own fate would be, being a Bolton in the now reclaimed Stark land.

Sansa spotted you first, she rose to her feet and charged towards you. Throwing her arms around your shoulders, she clung to you tightly. “I’m sorry for leaving you behind.”

Pulling away, you clutched her arms, “Don’t apologise,” you smiled. “I couldn’t leave, my people were here and they needed me. I couldn’t leave them under his control. I have someone I think you want to see,” you told her, stepping out of the way as Rickon moved into everyones sight

“Rickon,” she breathed, barely giving him time to respond to her before attacking him with a tight hug. “Brother,” she murmured, refusing to let him go. “You’re alive.”

“Because of (Y/N),” he told her, he, too, holding on to Sansa tightly, afraid that if they let go of one another, they would ntt be there any longer.

Your friend shifted her head, “Thank you,” she cried, her tears starting to finally fall.

You avoided her gaze, your eyes locked on to the floor. “I’m sorry I couldn’t have done more.”

Sansa let out a breath, “(Y/N)…” she trailed off. “You’ve returned my brother, whom I thought to be dead for so long. You are not responsible for Ramsey nor his actions. You helped so many people, not only yours-but mine. I can’t thank you enough.”