since i'm done with the fanfic

top five writing (fic) tips
  1. Just Do It: a bad idea put down is literally infinitely more useful than some imaginary perfectly executed concept. writing is a process, everyone starts with crap and then builds up from that. if you have to, start with “Once upon a time…” because what’s important is that you start
  2. Begin at the End: every time you write a story you should know vaguely where you want the story to end. you don’t have to know how to get there, just know where you want to go. picture the final shot in the movie of your mind, and make it your goal
  3. Motivation is Key: the most important aspects of your characters are always their motivations. when character motivations clash, you get dramatic conflict, and the resolution of a dramatic conflict is the essence of storytelling. each of your characters must want something
  4. Read Away: you are what you eat, and you write what you read. be sure to branch out periodically, but just never stop reading, be it stories, poetry, essays, articles, or textbooks. all words have writers behind them
  5. Practice Makes Perfect: the most obvious, the most essential, and the hardest of them all. be kind to yourself with this one, and don’t give up

silverheartlugia2000  asked:

Hmm well I've got another brogane idea if you're interested? Back in the first episode they never told us what happened when Shiro woke up at Keith's but I can imagine after being strapped to a table as soon as he gets back home then seeing a familiar face he can finally let himself cry and acknowledge he's free again :3

This was a great prompt!  I hope you don’t mind I did Keith’s POV instead of Shiro’s.  <3

Keith hovered beside the couch while the others poked through his kitchen.  The big one, Hunk, seemed vaguely familiar and was currently criticizing his cabinets full of non-perishables.  Lance seemed bitter about something, making veiled negative comments about everything in the little house.  Pidge was at the edge of the kitchen, mostly quiet and glancing frequently over at Shiro, too.

Keith thought probably his feelings should be hurt, but he couldn’t focus on the others.  Shiro was right there, alive and breathing and Keith couldn’t think about anything else.  He’d thought he’d never see Shiro again when the Kerberos mission went wrong.  He hadn’t believed it was Shiro’s fault, because Shiro was too good a pilot for that, but he’d thought that either way, that was it.

Shiro looked different, and when they’d first gotten him on the couch, Keith hadn’t been able to resist running his fingers over the new scar on his nose.  The white hair was disconcerting, though not as much as the missing hand, and the longer Shiro stayed unconscious, the more Keith worried about all of it.

When Shiro started stirring, still asleep, Pidge drifted closer, but Hunk pulled her and Lance outside to check the perimeter, like he knew Keith wanted time with Shiro.  It was a relief, and Keith made a note to himself to remember it.

Keith realized he was fidgeting and probably looked nervous.  He moved to sit on the table next to Shiro and after a moment reached out to grab Shiro’s hand, to give his own hands something to do.

Shiro came to with a gasp, bolting upright.  He pulled his hand out of Keith’s, twisting to look at the room around him with wide eyes.  With his back pressed up against the back of the couch and his knees drawn up in front of him, he looked terrified, and a spike of pain ran through Keith’s chest.  Shiro was never scared like that.

Keith needed to say something, but he wasn’t sure what.  "Shiro?“

Shiro’s eyes narrowed as he focused on Keith’s face, looking confused.  "Keith?”

“Yeah, Shiro, it’s me.  I - we’re - what happened to you?”

Shiro shuddered, but seemed to have relaxed a little, putting one leg back down on the ground.  He shook his head.  "Where are we?“

That wasn’t an answer, but that was ok.  Keith told himself it was ok.  Shiro was here and the rest could wait.  Couldn’t it?  "We’re safe,” he said first, “We’re in a cabin in the desert, a little ways away from the Garrison.”

“Away from the Garrison?”

“They lied about you.  They lied, and I knew it, and I couldn’t-”

Shiro nodded, but Keith wasn’t sure he really understood.

“They wouldn’t come for us,” Shiro said, “They wouldn’t look.  We were alone.”

Keith felt a shiver running down his spine.  "Yeah.“  He’d hated that.  He’d hated knowing Shiro was out there and no one was looking, and he’d hated that his own small telescope was useless and couldn’t even see that far, but something in Shiro’s voice said that was just the tip of the iceberg.

"What happened to you?” he asked, reaching out to touch the shock of white hair over Shiro’s forehead.

Shiro shook his head.  "I can’t.  I’m - I can’t.“

Moving on instinct, Keith reached out toward Shiro, who grabbed back at him.

Shiro buried his face in Keith’s chest, his arms coming up around Keith’s back.  Keith stood up, letting Shiro pull him closer.  He wasn’t sure what to do with himself, but tentatively laid a hand on the back of Shiro’s head

"I’m just glad you’re home,” he said quietly.

Shiro started crying, a soft sob leaking out before he could stifle it, and Keith pulled him closer, leaning over to wrap Shiro in as much of a hug as he could.

“I just wanted you to be ok,” Keith said, starting to choke up himself.  Shiro didn’t cry like this.  Not like this.  Whatever had happened to him must have been awful.  "I’m just glad you’re ok.“  He needed Shiro to agree, to tell him he was alright, but he didn’t.  He just clung tighter to him and cried more softly.

Keith hunched over Shiro’s head, trying to keep his breathing steady and his eyes dry before he cried into Shiro’s hair.  He tried to think about the fact that Shiro was here and ok and not about the white hair or the scar or the fact that one of the hands holding onto his back wasn’t human anymore.  He tried to keep himself under control as Shiro got on top of his feelings.  He tried not to let his emotions take over, because there was still so much they didn’t know, and there was still so much to be afraid of.

When the others burst back in, Keith and Shiro sprang apart, and each of them only had to wipe their eyes once.  Keith figured that was good enough.  The others didn’t say anything, and they leapt into trying to make plans.  If Keith sat a little too close to Shiro on the couch or Shiro hovered a little too close to him once they were up and moving again, nobody said anything about that, either.


hi guys!!! sorry it’s been awhile since u heard from me - i have been busy and stressed and just wrote this lil belated valentine’s themed daydream because ???????? 
anyways i am garbage for young lin so here i love you all lets hope this isn’t as trashy as i think it is i definitely didn’t write this procrastinating writing muse definitely not i am a better person than that

summary: isn’t valentine’s day SO lame? very lame. especially without a tall, dark & dorky teenage boy to cheer u up.
word count: 2100+
warnings: belated holiday spirit?????? unapologetic cheesiness??????

Keep reading


i’m obsessed with my own fanfic. send help. updated version of this disgusting thing from four months ago [x].

i colored digitally. i colored digitally. my god it’s been so long since i’ve done anything remotely decent like this digitally.

read final tour[x]

3. Wingman // Klance

« {Part 3 of my Valentine’s collection.} »

The space bar was exactly what Keith would have expected a space bar to look like. He almost expected the Star Wars cantina song to start playing.

“Dude! Check out that giant keg thing! Oh my god, I’m going to get space-wasted!” Lance said, shifting from foot to foot in excitement. “Do they have legal drinking ages here in space? Shit, I don’t have a space-ID—”

“I’m sure it’s fine,” Hunk said. “Look—they’re not even asking for ID. It looks like… self-serve?”

He pointed at where some short alien people were serving themselves cups of electric green liquid from the “keg thing” Lance had noticed earlier. The aliens put coins into a slot and then pressed a button to fill their cups.

“Let’s just get some of it before Shiro and Allura notice we’re gone,” Pidge said. “I really don’t want to get another lecture about responsibility.”

“Psh. They’re still at that space movie theater. We’re free for the next couple hours for sure,” Lance said. He sidled up next to Keith, slinging an arm over his shoulder. “So, what do you say—should we get completely shit-faced?”

Keith rolled his eyes. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Hey, you didn’t have to come along,” Lance said, poking a finger at Keith’s chest. Then he turned to Hunk. “Hey, Hunk—be my wingman for tonight? There have to be some pretty alien ladies in this bar.”

“Uh,” Hunk said. He shot a quick glance at Keith and then looked back at Lance. “Not tonight, man. Sorry. Pidge and I were going to…”

“We were going to play space foosball,” Pidge said quickly. “I thought I saw it when we came in, so….”

“Yeah,” Hunk agreed. “We’re going to do that.”

“Well, damn,” Lance said. He looked back at Keith. “Well, it looks like you’re going to have to be my wingman tonight, Keith. You up for it?”

Over Lance’s shoulder, Hunk and Pidge gave Keith a pitying look. He sighed. “Sure, I guess,” he said. “Why not?”

Why not wingman for Lance? Why not wingman for the guy he might sort of actually like in a not-so-platonic way?

This wasn’t going to end well.

Keep reading

Me: I have very high standards!
Everyone: -submits their fanart/fanfics-

I’m sorry. Not really. I just love all your fanarts.

Open wounds, closed heart

Synopsis: Sometimes it hurts. It’s not a physical pain, but the marks that they leave are real, too real, and it express itself in the most diverse forms. The heavy breathing, the sleepless nights, the bad habit of thinking too much about matters that should be trivial, and so many other symptoms chase after the young writer who, no longer enduring his own routine, decides to accept any help. Yuri Katsuki opens his arms and welcomes the opportunity to change, and to learn how to live with his worst and most insistent companion: his anxiety. 

Main pairing: Victuri

Warnings: Mental Illness and lots of drama, slow burn

*:・゚✧*:・゚✧ UPDATES EVERY SATURDAY ✧・゚: *✧・゚:*

Read it on Ao3!

Day 1

Day 2

Day 3

Day 4

Day 5

Day 6

Day 7

Special thanks to @croptoptomlinson​ for being such a lovely friend and doing this edit! You are the best and I can’t thank you enough.  ♡ ♥ ♡

Feed You the Sky: Chapter 16

After what was definitely way too long between updates, here’s chapter 16! Sorry it’s been so long, thank you all so much for bearing with me! I’ve had this scene in my head pretty much since I started writing the story,, so I hope you guys enjoy it! And as always, much thanks to my lovely beta, @shesafreesoul, not only for sharing this idea with me in the first place, but for her continued support and encouragement!

Credit for the moodboard of course goes to the amazing sister wife, @underthenorthstar. I still can’t get over how pretty it is!

And now, trigger warnings: Blood, death, violence. Ivar being sort of psycho. Violence against a pregnant woman.

AO3 link, if you prefer:

And, without further ado, Chapter 16!

It felt strange to be unarmored on the field of battle. She felt vulnerable, naked despite the fact that she wore Ivar’s tunic over her breeches, a belt cinched between her heavy breasts and her ungainly middle. Only two or three moons and the babe would be in her arms. Maybe then she would feel less slow, less sluggish, more like a warrior. Despite that, her old battle-lust coursed through her, quickening her pulse and making the blood rush in her ears like an arctic wind.

It was time to do the part Ivar promised he would not steal from her. The fighting was not for her, not when she had her child to protect. No vengeance was worth the life within her, the growing flame of the love she shared with her husband. She rested one hand on the mound of her stomach, feeling a strong jab to her side. Her little one must hear the singing in her veins, be dancing to the song older than time itself—violence.

She had watched the battle from the edge of the carnage, feeling like some ancient weaver of fates as she prayed to the gods. They answered her plea. Ivar had led their army to victory—using the strategy they developed together. She knew her uncle and she knew this land like her own body; there was no hill or glade that was a mystery to her. This land was hers, its fields watered with the blood of her forefathers and tamed by the hands of her foremothers.

Being with child, it made her think strangely sometimes, made her feel the connection to the rest of her people, to their land, all the more deeply. Kára knew she would never leave her people defenseless, would die a thousand deaths to keep them safe and welcome her namesake Valkyrie as an old friend. Proud even in death, she would laugh with her sister warriors and wait for her brilliant, bloodthirsty husband to join her in the hall of the victorious dead.

But not today. Today, she would kill for them, make their land fruitful with the blood of the men who had forsaken her. She strode forward with all the confidence she could muster. Watching the battle instead of fighting in it had made her feel useless. But this, this was her time to contribute. Ivar was waiting for her, a row of a dozen defeated men on their knees behind his chariot. Victory suited Ivar—the manic gleam in his bright blue eyes, the beautiful crimson of blood contrasting with the perfect paleness of his skin and the inky blackness of his short beard.

He bared his even white teeth in a feral grin at her approach, and she could see a drop of blood fall from his front teeth. Kára nearly faltered, the sight making her knees weak, but she would not show weakness in front of these traitors. In front of Brynjar.

She reached her husband and pulled his head roughly to hers, a kiss that was all hunger and passion and the taste of blood—a kiss that was the essence of her and Ivar. He handed her the beautiful ax he’d given her as a morning-gift, and she hefted it in her hands. It felt good there, like it had been crafted just for her, just for this task.

Ivar thought his wife had never looked more like a Valkyrie than she did now, with her auburn hair streaming unbound behind her, belly great with his child and the promise of death in her glittering hazel eyes. The golden head of the ax flashed in the light of the early afternoon sun, biting deep into the neck of the first man. His name had been Vidar, and he died on his knees, no weapon in his hand. And so it happened for the rest of the traitors. She said their names, looked into their eyes as she took their lives.

“Harald.” The splatter of warm blood on her cheeks. “Thorbjorn.” Her arms shuddering as the ax took his life. “Audun.” The way the light faded from blue eyes like the moon blocking the sun. And on down the line she went, ensuring her face was the last to be seen by any of the men who had betrayed her. At last, there was only one left. Only the man who shared the blood that ran in her veins. “Brynjar.” Her voice was cold and hollow, empty as the wind.

“Kára.” He lifted his head to look at her, his face so familiar, so ingrained in her earliest childhood memories, that it made her heart ache. Suddenly she felt so tired she wanted to curl up and sleep on this field among the slain. How fitting would that be? They should have all been her men, and the thought of it made tears well in her eyes. “I will gladly die by your hand, blood of my blood. Only let me enter Valhalla. Let me hold a sword while I die.”

She hesitated only a moment, ignored Ivar’s enraged scream at her back before drawing the sword at her hip and holding it out to her uncle. It was the one Ivar had given her on their wedding day, the sword her father carried into battle. It had been given to him by her mother at their wedding. It was a sword of her people and of Brynjar’s. It seemed fitting for him to die with that sword in his hand. He grasped the hilt reverently, kissed the shining blade as Kára hefted the ax and prepared to strike.

She was ungainly now, and slow, and Brynjar snarled, striking so quickly she barely had time to turn away. Kára felt the burn of steel slicing her side from the middle of her ribs down to her hip, and out of instinct she curled herself up around her middle, kicking her legs as she hit the ground to roll herself out of the way of another hit.

And then with a roar Ubbe fell upon her uncle like a wolf, pinning him easily and wrenching the sword from his hands. Ivar was at her side, his large, warm hands pulling back the tunic to assess the damage. He could see little past the welling blood, but neither the whiteness of bone nor the strange glistening pink of organs sent off alarms in his head. A crew of the healers who marched with the army were upon them in an instant, and he relinquished his wife to their more experienced hands; with growled instructions to find him immediately should he be needed.

He slithered quickly to his brother and the traitorous bastard that dared harm his fierce Valkyrie and the child she bore. Ubbe moved aside for him without a word, and Ivar settled his weight on top of Brynjar. He leaned his face down so they were a mere breath apart.”You will die slowly and go to Hel. There will be no glory for you, and the last thing you see will be me.” He took the small knife from his belt and cut Brynjar’s shirt in half, making sure to not slice into the skin. He did not want to ruin the carvings that would follow.

When Brynjar’s chest was bare before him, he did not hesitate. He carved the runes carefully, biting deep into the flesh. The sight and iron tang of the blood in his nose encouraged him. When he was finished, he cut off a piece of Brynjar’s dirty tunic and used it to wipe the blood away. He inspected his work: “I am Brynjar, who betrayed my blood, my king, and my land. I died an inglorious death at the hands of King Ivar the Boneless.”

Satisfied, he licked the edge of his knife and looked down on Brynjar, scorn dripping from his voice. “All who look on you will know of your shame.” The blood continued to flow, and Ivar no longer bothered to wipe it away. He leaned forward again and drew the blade in deliberate strokes across Brynjar’s forehead. His voice was calm and cool, but he spoke loudly to be heard over the other man’s screams. “Of course this one burns the most, Brynjar. I am carving the name of your niece into your forehead. Now all will know who you betrayed. It will follow you even into the gloom of Hel. You may hide the carvings in your chest, but you cannot hide from this.”

He sheathed his knife, watching as Brynjar frantically shook his head, trying to free himself from the stinging of blood in his eyes. “I will still have this kill, husband. You promised it to me.” His blue eyes left the dying man to find his wife beside him in her bloodstained tunic. Her face was pale but her voice was steady, her hazel eyes strong as they met his.

“So I did, Kára.” He flipped the knife and held the handle toward her. She took it and grabbed her uncle’s hand in a manner that could almost be considered tender. Slowly, she turned it palm up. The point of the knife kissed the bundle of veins at the base of the hand, and she increased the pressure until the hilt was halfway buried in her uncle’s arm. Gritting her teeth, she ripped the skin from wrist to elbow before yanking the knife free and collapsing onto her knees.

Ivar gathered her in his arms, pulling her close into his chest, and drowned out the dying moans of her uncle with his own words whispered in her ear. “I am sorry it had to come to this, my Valkyrie.”

“I am not,” she answered simply. “I would choose you every time.” She leaned in to kiss him, but he placed a bloody finger on her lips to stop her. She licked it, and he moaned softly.

“The child?”

She shrugged, suddenly refusing to meet his eyes. “It is a shallow cut, but I have not felt any movement.” Blackness threatened to swallow him whole as she finally looked at him, the fear in her eyes mirroring the hollowness he felt in his stomach. He only pulled her against him, one hand clutching hers, the other resting on her stomach in a tense fist, waiting to feel something, anything, to let them know the child still lived.

Imagine celebrating Jared’s birthday in the hills

“Get up! Get up! Get up!” I shout, jumping on the bed.

Jared rolls on the bed, using one of his pillows to cover his head. I keep jumping, shouting at the top of my lungs. When all the shouting doesn’t work, I take Jared’s covers to pull them off. He’s half asleep, and in his attempt to grab one of my ankles, he doesn’t realize that he’s almost on the edge of the bed, falling with a loud thump.

“Oh my, Jared?”

I fall on the bed, kneeling to watch him on the floor.

“Are you okay?” I ask him, seeing him rub his head, “Is it a bad moment to say happy birthday?”

“Give me… Oh, my head… Give me a second”

I nod, without taking my gaze from him. Jared sighs, still rubbing the top of his head. I wait, forgetting about the surprise I prepared for him. It takes him a few minutes to wake up, still on the floor. When Jared stands up, he jumps on top of me, tickling my belly, ribs and armpits.

“Stop! Stop!” I shout, not being able to stop laughing, “Jared, please!”

He does stop, both breathing heavily, a bit of laugh still in the air.

“Happy birthday” I mutter, a permanent smile on my face.

His lips go straight to mine, his hand starting to caress my cheek. Our breathing is still heavy, forcing us to end the kiss quickly.

“You need to get dress, I let you oversleep”

“What time is it?” He asks, getting off of on top of me.

“Midday, I’ll wait for you downstairs”

I give him a quick peck on the lips, getting off the bed.

Once I’m downstairs I check everything one more time. I’m sure everything’s ready, I’ve probably checked it three times by now. But you can never be sure with me, there’s probably something missing in my bag and I haven’t noticed.

When Jared comes to meet me his eyes go straight to the bag by my side.

“Are we going somewhere?” He asks me, lifting both eyebrows.

“Of course” I say with a smile.

Jared looks confused. This is his first birthday with us as a couple, and I wanted this be special. Jared helps me with my bag, taking it to my car. I drive, he changes the radio. I spend all the way avoiding his questions about our destination. The city looks pretty dead today; The weather is nice, thou, and that’s perfect for what I’ve prepared.

When we reach the point in which we cannot continue by car I let Jared know. We hold hands, sharing quick glances once in awhile, we walk in silence, but smiles never leaving our faces.

Jared is one of the most outgoing, adventurous man I’ve ever had the chance to meet in my life. Reason why I decided to spend the afternoon in the hills, enjoying the view, the nice weather, and being in touch with Mother Nature. the exact spot for our little adventure is a hidden place among rocks and trees. There’s plenty of shadow, green areas and warm breeze for us to sit and enjoy.

Jared looks around, fascinated by the view of the city and how nature seems to enjoy it’s days without caring about the people destroying the city at its feet.

“This is beautiful” Jared says, laying on the lonely spot of grass.

“Happy birthday” I say again, feeling a warm in my heart just by looking at how happy he looks.

Jared takes my wrist to make fall on top of him, his right hand caressing my cheek, pulling away strands of hair.

“Thank you for this” He mutters, the smile glued to his lips, “Really, thank you so much, I love it”

“You don’t have to thank me” I say, kissing his cheek and resting my head on the space of his neck, “I just want you to have a nice birthday”

“It’s going great so far”

“We can stay the whole day like this or we can eat something first and then lay for good, what do you prefer?”

“Let’s eat and then lay for a bit”

We both prepare the space for our picnic; I lay everything I prepare for him during the morning, noticing how amazed he looks. Once I tell him that he can start eating, half of the things in the plates disappear in a matter of minutes. I try to ask him if he likes the food, but his whole attitude is confirmation enough.

Jared kisses me whenever he’s not eating, or telling me how amazing the food is. I just laugh and kiss him back, happy that he’s enjoying his birthday.

When he’s finally done eating we lay for a bit, discussing about what we see in the clouds, or how we think they will show us next. Our bodies warming each other, his hand holding mine with no intention of letting go.

An hour passes by before Jared sits up really quick, his head turning to me with a big smile.

“I got an idea”

Jared stands starting to pick all our things, telling me to hurry. I keep asking what’s going on, but he just shushes me, saying that he I’m going to love. What? I have no idea.

We leave everything in the car, and I can’t get to ask again when Jared holds my hand, taking somewhere between the trees and rocks. He looks so excited that I decide not to ask again, and just enjoy the walk to wherever he’s taking me.

And, actually, the view is breathtaking.

We’ve been in this place for a while, and in any moment we’ll start to see the sundown. Everything starts to fusion with the colors of the sky, the little puddles mirroring the clouds, the leaves dancing with the wind. And, even though it takes us a while to get where Jared wants, I just can’t seem to believe how beautiful everything is the higher we get.

“We’re almost there” Jared assures me, and it is only there when I notice how tired I am.

But I seriously couldn’t care less. We walk for a couple of minutes more, and when Jared finally stops I just can’t believe what’s in front of me.

From the spot that I chose for us to have the picnic most of the city was at our feet, we could see the beach at one side, and people living their lives on the other.

But from here… Everything seems so little, and it actually feels like all our tables were left behind, in those distant buildings, with that distant people.

I walk towards a rock, sitting on the edge, still amazed by everything. I turn for a second, to call Jared by my side. He sits next to me, putting his arm on my shoulder to get me closer to him.

“I was supposed to be the one giving you surprises” I mutter, not being able to take my eyes away from the view.

“We have a whole lifetime to fill with surprises” He says, leaving a soundless kiss on my forehead.

“Good” I say, pulling away a bit to look him in the eyes, “Because there are more surprises waiting for us when we get home”

A laugh burst from him, and in no time we are kissing again.

“I knew there was a reason why I am so in love with you” He mutters between kisses.

“Wait, what?”

I pull away again, my eyes fix on his. He just said he is in love with me. This is the first time. I feel something on my chest, it’s tight, but my heartbeat is threatening to let me heart escape in any second, and a smile appears on my lips, and suddenly I’m feeling everything and nothing at the same time. And Jared is looking at me like he wasn’t supposed to say this right now, like he was holding it for later.

“You’re in love with me” I whisper, a smile nailed on my face, “You said…”

“I am” He says, taking his hand to brush his hair, “Good, I finally said it”

“Finally? How long have you been holding that?”

He shrugs, and we can’t help but laugh. Jared hugs me again, leaving little kisses on top of my head. My arms wrap him tight, never wanting to let him go.

“Are you in love with me?” He asks, as if he’s afraid of my answer.

“What do you think?”


“Of course I am” I laugh, adjusting in my place to look him in the eyes, “I’m in love with you, Jared, I thought it was pretty damn obvious”

“I can be a bit blind”

“Well, now you know. Happy birthday!”

“Best birthday ever” He says, moving to kiss me on the lips this time.

Liebesträume: An Austria/Hungary 150th Wedding Anniversary fanfic

Title: Liebesträume
Genre: Romance, slice of life
Rating: PG-13
Word count: 11,088 (sssssorry)
Chapters: 7

Summary: On the morning of their 150th anniversary, Austria and Hungary are in awe at how long it’s been, a bit at a loss for how to celebrate. A phone call jars their memories more deeply than they expected, and they reflect on their relationship, how it paralleled the relationship of Franz Joseph and Elisabeth, and how it differed.

Keep reading

Baby, It’s Cold Outside

“I really can’t stay.”

“But, baby, it’s cold outside.”

Sam’s eyes squinted as he stared at his brother and his best friend from his perch at the table. His eyes narrowed almost to closing as he watched them over the screen of his laptop. Part of him wanted to laugh at the lines, and another part of him seriously considered that they had no idea they were quoting a Christmas classic.

“I got to get home.” Castiel’s deep voice echoed through the silent bunker.

Dean raised an eyebrow with a plea lacing his pupils. “But, baby, you’d freeze out there.”

At this point Sam had had enough. With a loud sigh he slammed his laptop shut, gaining the other two men’s attention, before he glared at the both of them evenly. “Seriously?!”

At that, Dean smirked with a cocky shrug. “What’s got your panties in a bunch?”

Sam pointed a finger at him with growing agitation. “You two. All it ever is around here is you two being disgustingly in love. If you’re going to play weird games where you quote romantic shit, go to another room. I’m glad you two are happy together but seriously it’s too much to witness every goddamn second of every goddamn day and I’m trying to do research.”

Castiel couldn’t help the small smirk upturning his lips. “Dean said that it would be fun to see how long it would take until you cracked.”

The last thing Castiel heard before both brothers darted from the room was the sound of Dean’s belly deep laughter. The fallen angel watched with a priceless smile as the younger brother chased the older brother through the bunker halls with obscenities spewing from his lips.

It was the first Christmas that Castiel felt he had a home to finally find happiness in.

When the laughter died down, and no more thundering footsteps were echoing against the walls, Dean came charging toward Castiel with a shit-eating grin on his face. The two embraced like an old dance they had practiced for decades.

Just as Dean was pressing his lips to Castiel’s forehead he whispered, “Baby, it’s cold outside.”

Castiel could only chuckle as he sunk deeper into the warmth of Dean’s chest and let himself forget about the waging snow crashing down on top of the bunker.

You know, between the highly popular “Stan’s attempts at flirting constantly attract cryptids” headcanon and theories about Bill there’s a lot of post-finale fic involving Ford protecting or rescuing Stan. Which I’m sure does happen, y’know. Stan stumbles into his fair share of trouble and when he does I’m sure Ford is quick to go after him.

But with a  617.19% distress quotient holy cow clearly we need more post-finale scenarios of Stan rescuing Ford. And now that I’ve brought it up I feel personally obligated to make a list or something.


Aaaand more fanarts for Homra-san’s amazing fanfiction!!! I really am in love with it and nothing can stop me!!!

The last one was a little bit rushed so I didn’t like it very much… And there was another one I was going to make but I couldn’t fit it in the remaining paper so I’ll do it another time XD (because yes, of course I’m doing more!!! I said it: I’M UNSTOPPABLE!!!)!

The rose one is my favorite! It’s hard drawing flowers (roses particularly, to me) but I always like how they look in the end!

I hope you like them, Homra-san!!! And since I can’t really stop, bear with me for some more time XD 

rebbkatt  asked:

I enjoy your solavellan fanfics soooo much ❤ Every line is so beautifully crafted, like I'm witnessing it before me.~ Could you please do one about them meeting in secret in the fade or "in between" while at war after the end of DAI+tresspasser?

Oh you are so lovely for saying so, and of course I can! But since I’ve already done a few post-Trespasser Fade meetings, how about one in the flesh…?


the world’s a beast of a burden (you've been holding up a long, long time)

Her bones are aching, but she suspects it has more to do with spending two consecutive weeks on the road, than it has to do with age. A scant three decades in this world hasn’t made an old woman of her, but it’s a begrudging acceptance, at least when she’s willing to make it, that the last few years have taken their toll. But then, a scant three decades and she’s achieved more than most would in twice as many years – has lost more, too, and had more titles than anyone would need in a lifetime. First. Chosen. Herald. Inquisitor –

Traitor. Conspirator. Wolf’s Bane

The cold water knocks against her, stinging her skin and quenching the churning thoughts – every syllable of every title (one a prayer, another a curse) echoing a failure. She wonders how many they’ll have for her when it’s done; if they’ll even remember Ellana when it’s all over.

Dragging her hand across her face, it’s as much an attempt to physically wipe the thoughts from her mind as it is to rub away the sweat and dirt that’s gathered. It’s been days since her last real bath, although her definition of real is something rather different now than it was when she lived in her large quarters, with its deep copper tub and lavender oils. And taking one now, even just a short one, means travel time lost, and it’s a two-day journey yet to cross into the Anderfels – longer still if she dawdles.

Rocking back on her heels, she considers the expanse of water stretching out in front of her; the river meandering through the landscape, a glassy blue touched with silver from the sun. The temperature is pleasant if a bit chilly, and there isn’t a soul in sight – it’s definitely an opportunity, if she ever needed one, and there’s half a bar of soap tucked away in her pack somewhere.

Her decision made, she’s about to reach for her rucksack when there’s a soft tremor in the air – in the Veil, she realizes with some surprise. He’d taught her how to look for it; how to sense the slight shift in the atmosphere signalling someone’s presence. And she feels it now, but it’s a deliberate thing, the soft ripple almost like a caress – not intrusive, but a gentle warning.

And only one person in her acquaintance knows the workings of the Veil well enough to mask his presence, let alone deliberately announce it.

Keep reading

Riley and Lucas try to host their very first Thanksgiving together.

Cross Posted to FF.Net

Author Note: So this randomly came to me the other day and I had to write it. Happy Thanksgiving everyone!

Riley balanced the groceries she was carrying on her hip as she opened the door of her and Lucas’ apartment. As soon as she stepped in she knew something was off, the balance of energy just didn’t seem right. “Lucas, are you home?”

She brought the groceries into the kitchen and started unpacking everything onto the counter to double check that she had everything she needed before taking the turkey out of the last bag and moving to put it in the fridge only to discover another turkey already waiting. “Lucas Friar where are you?”

He came running into the room like a lost little puppy dog, “Hi honey, something wrong?”

Keep reading

Because cloneinstitute is a terrifying force to be reckoned with. And when she asks for Hollstein fluff, one must deliver (even if it is the wrong package). So, this is obviously dedicated to her… or for her. And I apologize in advance for it not really being what you asked for at all… this is just what my fingers ended up doing before I could stop them (although, it’s sort of fitting, seeing as how that seems to be a theme in this piece).

Not My Box (Part One)

Laura looked down at the package sitting in front of her apartment door and let out an excited squeal. Finally, she thought, the entire DVD collection of Doctor Who with all the special features she ordered weeks ago had arrived. She picked up the box and swung her door shut behind her with a kick of her foot. She could barely contain her smile as she contemplated where the best spot on her package was to stab with her scissors, ensuring no damage would happen to the precious cargo within. She decided to delicately trace the lining of the tape, carefully tearing it apart. She fumbled with the edges of the cardboard, too excited to properly operate her fingers. But when she finally managed to open the box, her face froze in its stretched smile, then slowly turned into a gaped mouth full of terror.

That was not the box collection of Doctor Who.

That was…

Keep reading

say it every day

summary: 25. it sucks to be colour blind, but you always tell me how beautiful I am to be super sweet and loving AU. requested by effulgentcolors.

word count: ~ 2,300

rating: t.

a/n: i tried. i really did. (sorry it took so long, haha.)

For her being unable to differentiate colours sometimes…it’s tough on her, and she’s always struggled a little with it, even after developing her own coping mechanism with it. As a kid, she remembers screwing some colours up, mistaking violet for blues or reds for a brown when colouring.

And yet, twenty-nine years later, all she can do is deal with it.

But luckily for her, she knows she’s not alone. Emma still has some amazing friends and a boyfriend who’s been more than accommodating to the entire ride within the last few months since they’ve been together.

Reading traffic lights, looking at colour-coded graphs or anything of the sort, has always been extremely annoying. She hates having to drive around if the traffic lights aren’t those that flash; her greens would look like brown and then the red and yellows look the same. Luckily enough, Storybrooke doesn’t have that much traffic, so it’s not that big of a deal.

Emma always needs David to be in charge of distinguishing colours. It’s just how it is in her daily routine of things. But, of course she has a way to handle with things, she’s adapted generally well through the years.

It’s a late night patrol that keeps her out until a little past midnight, when she enters her dark apartment, flicking the lights to her bedroom on while she hears the water running in the washroom. Most people thinks about the colour of the clothes they wear. Emma sometimes thinks about that, but it’s not every day, not unless she has to put together some outfit. She just grabs a pair of flannel pants and a t-shirt, not even thinking about what colours they are, and slipping it on, chucking her jeans and jacket aside onto a chair.

She is beyond exhausted from the day’s amount of paperwork, problem-solving with some of the dwarves, and a late night patrol.

“Oh, you’re home.”

She’s startled, placing her phone down from setting the alarm, turning around to see him at the doorway. “Yeah, just got back.”

Keep reading

steve/bucky + the gaslight anthem’s get hurt (8/16)

helter skeleton

See, I know the taste of the spike in your brains
As you crawl to me, a little closer to me
I guess you’re in the place I used to be baby,
Now it’s down to me, so simply down to me,
Oh but I’m a fool and I fall apart too easily
But you know me, how I love to be Madame Misery
Come and visit me, I’m on the 99th floor of apathy

But you can still lean on me if you wanna,
Why don’t you lean on me for a while?
Since you only get high on the weekends,
Why don’t you feed on me tonight? [x]

anonymous asked:

MSR, 22 pls

22 - “i’ve seen the way you look at me when you think i don’t notice”

he is hideously obvious. she turns his bruised hand over gently and his feelings for her are written in the swell of his knuckles, the smear of someone else’s blood on his skin. his nailbeds, probably.

she knows. she must know.

“did you break his nose?”


and she’s angry. he knew she would be.

come on, he finds himself thinking, because she has not taken her hands away from his and his palm is starting to sweat. i know you know. say something about it.

there is a silence in which he holds her hand and listens to her heartbeat on the monitor. it’s the same as the flutter he can feel in her wrist, but he’s feeling it for real and the machine is not so he wins.

and then.

“i see the way you look at me,” she says quickly, into the silence, and she’s trembling like they’re still freezing in the cemetery rain in oregon. in a way they are, in a way they have never moved from there in all these years (even then she could read his thoughts). if he had a choice they’d end up there again at the finish.

please, he thinks distantly, because he hasn’t prayed since she stopped having nosebleeds but now he’s praying for the next expression on her face. anything but pity, he thinks, please, anything but pity.

but she has never pitied him. not even in oregon when he’d spilled his guts to her after knowing her for only a day.

it’s not dark. he always thought it would be dark when they had this conversation. but here they are, in the hospital, and light is spilling in through the window and making the air dance. her face, lit up pale and gold, says nothing. he is suddenly sure that his face says “i love you,” or something equally damning in neon letters.

he’s still holding her hand. he should let go so he doesn’t seem so pathetic.

she’s staring at him, mouth slightly open, and since she is not going to say anything else he thinks about saying, you almost died and i don’t know what i would’ve done if you had. i hope i broke his nose and if i didn’t i’ll try again.

but she knows already.