this is all carrie's fault

Well what had happened….

We’re playing an underdark campaign; party includes barbarian (me), monk, fighter, and cleric, and we’ve been taken to a large city. We’re not welcomed of course and I’m a CN dwarf barbarian. The cleric, a drow tells me not to get into trouble. Naturally I make my way to the closest tavern.

DM: So you enter the tavern and take a seat at the bar. While you’re waiting on your drinks you hear a group of loud Duergar boasting in the corner.

Me: Do they look tough?

Monk: Don’t…


DM: yeah they’re pretty huge

Me: I go over to the table and challenge their strength!

Monk: WHY?!

Me: I’m a barbarian no one’s tougher then me!

DM: alright so you go over to their table and challenge them all to an arm wrestling contest. Roll for strength for all 3.

Me: Aw yeah! Let’s do this, rolled 16, 19, and 20.

DM: You beat them quite easily, they all howl with laughter and say. “Lugo! Get out here we’ve got a tough guy!” The largest Duergar you’ve ever seen steps through the back door, he’s so huge he shouldn’t really be considered a dwarf. “So you think you’re tough?”

Monk: See! this is why you don’t do this! You’re screwed man.

Me: I ain’t scared lets get it!

DM: Roll strength, my man I’m just saying walking a way is always an option

Me: Rolls a nat 20

DM: Whelp, You square up to arm wrestle and destroy the guy. You slam his hand on the table so hard it breaks the table. The room goes silent all the Duergar in the room just look at you.

Monk: You’re so screwed they’re going to kill us all and it’s all your fault!

DM: The Duergar start cheering and start to carry you off chanting “Bring him to the temple of Asmodeus.

After being taken to this temple they make me a champion of Asmodeus and I get covered in tattoos and become the leader of a sect of barbarian Asmodeus followers. The rest of the party meets up and they all stare at me. The cleric is the last to show up and just goes bananas.

Cleric: What did I fucking say! What did you do?!

Me: I’m huge now, and I kinda lead a pack of Asmodeus worshipers.

Cleric: I fucking hate you so much.

Me: I’m huge though.

The rest of the party just busts out in laughter, me and the cleric now butt heads on everything, it’s great this campaign is going to be hilarious.

All of my thoughts are with Catalonia right now. The treatment of polling stations and the people at them is terrifying, and I fear that no matter what the outcome the Spanish Gov will cling onto the region as much as they can.

Please hold strong. Please be safe. You deserve to have your say.

his disobliging ways are a matter of habit

@marcoweek day 3; was meant to be “love” but…?

“So, hey,” Ace says, fingers twisting together. “You know how you said my crew was welcome to join the Whitebeards too, if they wanted to?”

Marco nods slowly. “We did say that, yoi. We don’t generally take captains, but we’d never separate you from your crew if you didn’t want to go.”

“Right,” Ace says, but he’s still fidgeting. “All my crew, right? You said.”

Marco props his hands on his hips. “What’s this about, yoi?”

Ace takes a deep breath. “I saved him,” he says, spreading his hands. “And he’s very well-behaved, I promise. Mostly sticks with me, you know, because fire, but I just thought I should check because–” he trails off, waving to demonstrate…something.

Marco sighs and does not raise a hand to rub at his head. Ace is still new and tetchy enough that he won’t take well to it, and this is the first time he’s ever asked for anything, or, well, tried to, anyway. “If he’s part of your crew, he’s welcome, yoi,” Marco promises.

“Okay,” Ace says and takes a deep breath. He steps back and opens the door behind him. “Marco, this is Kotatsu.”

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Malfoy has a hickey

Harry shuffles some papers around the desk. He folds some parchment into neat squares. He lines his textbook up with the table edge. He checks the stash of ink bottles in his bag. He ruffles and then straightens the feather of his quill. He engraves circles into his textbook with his wand. He flicks his hair away from his eyes. He kicks the table leg. He pops his knuckles.

Ron finally raises his head, and a questioning eyebrow, annoyed, and fed up of his friend’s fussing. Harry just shakes his head. He can’t concentrate. He is sorry for being so twitchy. But he can’t help it. And it’s all Malfoy’s fault.

They must have gotten carried away last night. They met in the Astronomy Tower. Midnight, sharp. Just like they do most nights. They stayed there for some time. No insults were hurled, no wands were drawn, no skin was tarnished. Well…

Draco is sitting prettily at his desk, (he always looks pretty), in the middle of Transfigurations, with a rather large, rosy-red bruise on his neck. On the left, close to his ear. It’s right below that adorable mole. 

Harry can’t stop himself from looking. He doesn’t want to stop himself from looking. But every time he glances in that direction he has to grind his teeth and squeeze his eyes shut tightly. He can hardly believe it. He doesn’t believe it. Malfoy always spells away his hickeys.

Harry loves giving hickeys. (Hickey - what a hideous word). Almost as much as he loves receiving them. But Malfoy spells them away, always. Harry likes to make sure Draco hides one, lower down, on Harry’s collarbone. Just so that he can walk about, knowing it is there, a constant reminder that Draco is his, that he is Draco’s. That this is real. Draco doesn’t leave any hickeys on his own skin, no matter how much Harry would like him to. Maybe it’s because Harry wants him to. But Harry couldn’t ask him to leave one, to stop spelling them away. He couldn’t explain to Draco why he likes it so much, why he likes hickeys so damn much, (or why he likes Draco so much!) He can’t even explain it to himself. Nobody likes hickeys. Harry accepts that, he knows that he’s the weird one, it’s not unusual. Malfoy always spells them away.

But today, today he has left it there, on show, for the entire school to see. For Harry to see.

Harry looks up again, he can’t stop it. His boyfriend, (not yet), is staring at their professor. He’s tilting his head to the side, as if he’s interested in what McGonagall is saying. Harry knows him better. He knows Draco couldn’t give two shits about Transfiguration. And he knows Draco is trying to drive him crazy. And he knows that Draco knows he is succeeding.

The sunlight makes Draco’s pale skin seem almost translucent, and the mark contrasts harshly against the creamy surface. It’s so fucking obvious. If anyone were to just look at him now, just glance at him, just for a second, they would see it. Notice it. There’s basically a sign above Draco’s head - ‘I’m snogging Potter! Harry licks his lips and imagines it’s the smooth skin of Draco’s throat that he’s tasting. Why does he have to be such a git?

Harry tries to catch Draco’s eye. Tries to glare into those misty pools of silver. Tries to communicate his discomfort, his concern. But the teasing Slytherin purposely avoids his gaze, pretending to be engrossed with Parkinson’s split ends. Harry huffs frustratedly, and he thinks he can see Draco’s mouth twitching. Draco’s mouth is moving. His lips are turning up at the corner. He’s smirking, the bastard.

But then Harry is distracted by Draco’s mouth. As if the movement was intended to distract him in that way. From over here, at his desk, at a distance, those thin lips don’t look like they’re good for much, except maybe sneering. Or maybe that stomach-melting smirk. But once you get close enough, so close that you can see the swirls of blue in Draco’s eyes. So close that you can see the tiny, nearly-transparent birthmark on Draco’s cheek, right below his left eye - that little smudge. When you’re that close, you quickly realise that they are actually perfectly good lips. Pouty, and soft, and addictive, and tasty. Delicious.

Draco ruffles his white hair with an equally fair, bony hand, acting as though it’s a casual gesture. But Draco never ruffles his hair. At least not in public. Actually, he always smooths it back, away from his forehead. He hasn’t done that today. Harry loves it when Draco’s hair is fluffy, fluttering over those high cheekbones of his. Draco knows that. Every move is calculated, measured.

Harry growls. Ron turns back to stare at him again, with wide eyes, he’s alarmed. Harry grits his teeth again and turns his attention back to McGonagall. His nails dig into his palm.

When the bell rings, Harry sweeps the entire contents of the desk into his bag, including Ron’s slimy chunk of wood. They were supposed to be turning a fish into a pencil. Harry’s fish was laying, sweating, on his tile. And his pencil is somewhere on the floor. He throws the grubby bag aggressively over his shoulder, then rushes away from the desk, shadowing Draco as he exits the room. He hastily shouts a last-minute “goodbye!” to Ron without turning back, and dashes out of the room, having to force himself not to run. A gang of Hufflepuffs have overtaken him.

Harry quickly spots Draco’s distinctive platinum hair amongst the crowd. He also notices the tapestry he knows leads to a secret, quiet, desolated corridor. Hurrying forward, he grabs Malfoy’s pointy elbow and drags him away from the crowd. Merlin, everything about that boy is pointy.

Ducking past the flimsy material, Harry dumps his bag and slams Draco against the wall. He swallows the Slytherin’s protests with a heated kiss, and Draco gasps in happy surprise. After a minute, Harry pulls back to nudge Draco’s chin upwards with his nose and stare at the bruise there, tarring that perfect skin. Marking him. Showing Harry that Draco is his. It’s bigger that he first thought, and positioned directly beside his vein, which is throbbing with Draco’s accelerated pulse. Harry smirks and allows his gaze to slide to a spot under Draco’s jaw, finding the other cute mole, biting his lip. Then he reaches down to bite another hickey in beside it, and another. And another.

“Merlin, if I knew hickeys made you act like- mm- this, I’d have stopped spelling them aw- uh- away ages ago!” Draco gasps out, pulling Harry up by his unruly hair.

“Fuck you,” Harry whispers before kissing him again.

Too Much To Ask (Part 2)

BUCKY BARNES x plus size reader


Reader sees Bucky for the first time since their break up.

Warnings: sad, mild cursing, read at your own risk

a/n: originally this part was going to be a lot longer, but I decided to break it up and add another part. Things aren’t entirely clear, there’s more to the story I promise. Basically what I’m saying is the third part is halfway done, so keep on the look out. Anyway, hope you enjoy. 

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Just One Word Book Photo Challenge
September 2016

Day 28: Significant 


Words: 900 (including lyrics)

Summary: Castiel is finally done with angel duties and able to reunite with the girl he loved and lost. Inspired by the song “Pieces” by Red. Lyrics in italics.

Warnings: Extremely cheesy fluff; you’ve been warned.

A/N: Unofficial sequel to “Only You,” but can be read on its own. Constructive feedback is always appreciated. If you’d like to be added to me master tag list send me an ask or DM.


Castiel paced up and down the bright white hallway; pausing briefly to look at the door labeled with your name and the years you were alive.

How could he face you after all this time? What if you were still hurt and angry? What if you hated him? He couldn’t bear the thought that you might still harbor all those negative feelings toward him.

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If you give me a request about learning to control powers, then I have no choice but to make a Frozen related title. Sorry, I don’t make the rules. This one is for fuckyeahheedus and it got a little bit fluffy at the end but I quite like it so I hope you do too. I’m experimenting with this technique where I try not to use adverbs if I can help it - it’s supposed to improve the quality of writing by showing the audience what the characters are feeling rather than telling them. I’m also having so much fun posting more than one thing today so I’m uploading this with about 2 other things. Enjoy, my darlings! 

Prompt: I was wondering if you could do a Loki X reader where they grew up together and Loki helped her how to control the powers she has but now they’re older they have developed strong feelings for each other and try to hide it by arguing a lot. But at the end of a fight when Loki tries to be intimidating the reader says something about him being a great king then feelings come out? sorry its long XD

“Conceal, Don’t Feel” (Part 1)

The forest looked as though it were ablaze, each silver leaf of the trees reflecting Asgard’s orange sky as the sun set. You wandered through the tree trunks, hopelessly lost, and spun around at the sound of a branch snapping.
“Who goes there?” Your infant voice called out, hardly the most threatening of things. You raised your fists, the only way you could think to protect yourself, and let the magic running through your body ebb and flow.

“You have magic?” A bodiless voice asked. It was a higher pitch than you’d anticipated and seemed to echo throughout the entirety of the forest. Had you not been so petrified, you might’ve found it funny.
“Y-yes. Now come out, or I’ll use it.” You stammered, trying to convey the strength you did not possess.  

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It was probably wrong to steal a voice, but Damian didn’t care. The ability was useful, and that was all that mattered. He could imitate them perfectly— it was one of the many, many things that made him both superior and effective. Security was a lot less secure with that kind of talent.
But the voices were useful for other things too. Damian sat alone, staring at the pile of fur that was Goliath, asleep in the next clearing. He was thinking about the Year of Blood again, and honestly? He felt like garbage.
He couldn’t let the others find out. They were all aware of his past— that had never been a secret— but in this case, the devil really was in the details. It wouldn’t matter to them that it was years ago, that he was sorry, that he’d changed, as long as the evidence was piled against him, overflowing from a bloody, tainted vault. He didn’t want to see their faces. He didn’t want to watch as they all stopped trusting him. Again.
What would they say? Todd would probably understand. Damian laughed a little bit at the thought— the two of them had more and more in common lately He wasn’t sure that was good thing.
Damian checked around him to make sure he was still alone— this would be embarrassing if he wasn’t. He couldn’t see anybody. Goliath couldn’t make fun of him. He might as well.
Really, what would Todd say? Damian crossed his arms and dropped into Jason’s too tall, ex-smoker voice.
“You try your best to do the right thing, and then you live with the consequences.”
Yeah, probably something like that. It wasn’t particularly helpful. And should anybody really be taking advice from Todd? The man wasn’t the best example of metal health— or the best example in general.
Besides, it wasn’t the same thing. Todd still killed people— most of the time, he didn’t seem to regret that. It was part of his “doing the right thing.” He never pretended to be a hero; he didn’t seem to care what Batman or anybody else thought about him. But yes, he would understand.
Drake wouldn’t. Damian imagined Tim in the batcave, underneath the dinosaur Damian pushed him off that one time. He would probably smile— Drake was always talking about how Damian was a murderer. He would take all of this as proof he was right. Why in hell was Drake always right?
Okay, since he was already committed— Damian pulled himself into a standing position and stuck his hands on his hips, adopting Drake’s voice.
“See? What did I tell you? You can’t hide who you really are, demon spawn, not from me. And now he knows too. It was only a matter of time.”
Drake didn’t know anything. He just didn’t want to accept that Damian belonged in Gotham— he didn’t want him to be part of the family. His problem, Damian thought, not mine. I’m doing my best. That’s his fault.
“You want to be like him so bad, but you’ll never be Batman. He’s a good person, Damian, and you’re… well…”
Shut up. No. That was enough. Damian didn’t want to think about it anymore. Who cared what Drake thought? Drake was an idiot. It didn’t matter.
Someone else— he needed someone else. Who could he—? Not Father. Damian sat down again, breathing deeply because the thought of his father finding out made him feel physically ill. He put his face in his hands.
Pennyworth? Gordon? No, neither of them— he wasn’t sure what they would think. Maybe he could call Mia again? No. Was he really about to do this?
It was definitely wrong to steal a dead man’s voice, but Damian didn’t care. Sometimes, he just needed to hear it. Grayson would know what to say (at least, he would if he was still around).
“Listen, kid,” Damian began, the way Grayson usually did. “You know this doesn’t change anything, right? I don’t care about any of that stuff you did with the League.”
Damian hoped that’s what he would say, anyway. Grayson had seen more of his bad side than anyone. It had never seemed to bother him before.
“Bruce doesn’t love you for the stuff you do, you know? That’s not how it’s supposed to work. He cares about you because you’re his son.”
Except Father hadn’t loved him at the beginning, had he? That was recent. He could lose that. Maybe he was about to.
“Anyway I promise I— damn.” Damian’s voice broke, cracking back into his own register. Dammit. He needed to get this right. He had to.
“I promise I’ll still—” Damian’s throat was getting tight. His eyes were starting to burn. No, he had to finish this. What would Grayson tell him?
“I…” Damian gave up. He couldn’t finish— he was crying now. It wouldn’t work.
Damian buried his head in his knees, sobbing quietly. He just wanted to make it perfect. He should be able to do this.
If he couldn’t be perfect, what was the point?


imagine: after the horrifying death of your brother athelstan, ragnar ends up comforting you and promising to protect you at all costs. 

  An ear-piercing mourning parted from your dry, crackled lips as tears streamed down your broken and pained complexion, whilst it felt as though your heart was being shattered into a billion pieces of sharp shards of glass; fragile and caustic. It was like your worst nightmare had come true, laced selfishly in vivid melancholy colors.

  It felt as though one of their Gods, Hel the Goddess of Death was knocking at your door, ready to steal all that kept you sane, kept you alive.

  She appeared in the darkness, freezing over everything you knew for God knows how long. It felt like all the happiness on the Earth had been stolen away in just one slashing swipe.

  “N-No…” You whimpered out defenselessly in a small cry of disbelief, consuming every inch of you. “Th-this cannot b-be h-happening.” You murmur more to yourself than anyone or anything else.

  Your knees suddenly gave way and you collapsed onto the muddy ground of the forest, your mind in a lucid clump of disbelief in regards to the words that had left Ragnar’s lips. This must have been some sort of mix up, a mistake that Ragnar had only dreamed up like his witch of a wife.

  “You are u-uttering l-l-lies!” You thus began to weep, letting out another heartbreaking wail that provoked a slight feeling of rage, but an enormous ocean of grief filling your soul, your very vessel. “You must be!” Roaring like a ferocious lion, louder than you had meant it to come out, harsher than you had wished it to sound. It was like your voice stunned the King of Kattegat like one of Thor’s lightening bolts crashing into him, rattling his very existence.

  Once your quaking form broke once more, The Great King of Kattegat witnessed it with shattered eyes, a shattered mind and a shattered body, feeling a weight squashing him down. Guilt riddling his entire being of what he had so mercilessly robbed you of. Your brothers blood on him.

  And his heart began to burst in a wrenching sort of way, crushing his once strong shoulders. This was all his fault. 

  Slowly, his slightly quivering legs carried him over towards you, somehow, miraculously. He found nothing in his heart to pity you, to think of you any less, and selfish as it may be; he only pitied and hated himself for causing you to lose your beloved brother. How could he have done this?

  His legs gave way beneath him, causing him to kneel before you, like someone had forced it from his already weak-self.. If the Gods or the Christian God that your brother believed in were to blame or punish someone, he wished it was himself, - feeling it panning out already in that moment -.

  Watching your lonely, saddened form in such screaming agony was killing him. This was all his fault. All his fault.

  The promise he had vowed to you to keep your brother safe, alive had not only been fractured but simply demolished barbarically he felt sick of himself for not keeping it.

  His fault. His fault. His fault.

  Somehow, as if it were a miracle in the works, he found some way to move his, what felt like at the time, icy and frozen, yet shaking arms around your trembling body, and pulling you into him. He embraced you tighter than he imagined he would have, as though he wished to squeeze all this pain and suffering out of you.

  His dry lips fumbled, kissing the damp with sweat, messy crown of your head. He squeezed his oceanic orbs shut so tightly it pained him more, embracing you much tighter to him.

  “I wish it weren’t the truth, but I would be a fool for saying any different…”

ragnar lothbrok gif : source - 🏹

hope you enjoyed! please follow for more, lovelies.

The Black Pearl Ring 5/5

Inspired by the Donovan family books by Elizabeth Lowell. An Olicity AU where Felicity comes in possession of the much sought after Donovan Black Pearl.

I’d like to say a very special thank you to @captainolicitysbedroom for creating such beautiful artwork and to @almondblossomme for all her support being willing to proof read. I’m very, very grateful!

Also available on AO3

Thank you so so much for reading, commenting and reblogging it means so much to me!! So grateful for all your support. I truly hope you enjoy the ending.

                                           Chapter 5: Light Her Up

Oliver called 911 the moment the door close. He told them the situation as he watched Carrie steer Felicity toward a car in the parking lot. As soon as he knew Carrie wasn’t watching, he rushed out the door and down the stairs to get her license plate number and provided this as well.

The 911 operator tried to keep Oliver calm and assured him the police were on the way. They wanted him to stay on the phone but Oliver insisted he other phone calls to make and he knew every second counted.

He hung up with the 911 Operator and called John’s cell phone.

“Hey Oliver”

“John she has her!” Oliver could not hide the desperation in his voice.

“Calm down Oliver. Who has who? Did someone take Felicity?”

“Yes, Carrie Cutter took Felicity at gunpoint. I didn’t have my gun,” Oliver began pacing back and forth. “John I didn’t have my gun. Carrie took Felicity and it’s all my fault.”

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Everything was in slowmotion as Midoriya watched his boyfriend, Todoroki, fall on the ground, a piece of ice piercing through his chest.

“Shouto!!” Midoriya ran towards Todoroki, hot tears streaming down his face. “No! No, please! Shouto!!” Landing another punch against the villains chest, the villain was blown back by the force, impaling himself on the ice that Todoroki had created.

“Miyo-” Iida was held back by their teacher, Aizawa who shook his head.

Falling on his knees, Midoriya looked down at Todoroki. His whole body was shaking and his quirk was still activated.

“Midoriya…it’s for the best if you keep your distance,” All Might stood behind him. “They need to take him away." 

Midoriya stood up slowly, his fists clenched as he slowly made his way to Aizawa.

"Pl-please…t-take it away.” When he didn’t get a reply he raised his voice, more tears making their way down to his face. “Take it away! I don’t want anyone else to die because of me!!”

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Johnny’s Girl Gets Jumped

The last thing you remembered before waking up on Darry’s couch with the whole gang surrounding you, was running from a car full of socs, and then everything went black. 

When you woke up, you had pounding pain in your head and there were pairs of eyes that belonged to the gang all surrounding you. Then there was Johnny. You saw him in the corner pacing, and talking to himself under his breath. 

“She’s up.” Soda had said and Johnny rushed over to you. “Oh my God, I am so sorry! This is all my fault, I should have been there. “ He was so upset and distraught. “Its okay, Im okay, Im fine.” you tried reassuring him but he kept on apologizing. He always does this. He puts the blame on himself for basically everything. A part of you felt guilty for him doing this to himself all the time, and it was your fault for not carrying a blade, like usual. “Johnny, sweety, I really am okay, I just have a few scratches.” He didnt say anything, he just pulled you close and kissed your forehead. He took care of you all night long.

Marigolds and Hyacinths

Summary: Hanahaki Disease - a (fictional) disease, where the victim regurgitates and coughs up flower petals when they suffer from unrequited love. The illness can only be cured through surgical removal, however any existing romantic feelings are also removed with the infection.

Adrinath August Day 6: Rivals

Read on [AO3]

Running, gasping, burning. Chat Noir pumped his arms, pushing himself to go further, to jump higher, to fly across the rooftops until he was touching the moon. The cold spring breeze stung his face, dried his eyes, filled his lungs. Then he stopped, sliding until he was perched at the end of a roof.

He looked in front of him, as far as he could see, taking note of how the city blurred and darkened in the distance, spoke of homes and streets that were worlds away. He took a deep breath, and then exhaled. He watched as a lone petal fell lazily to the pavement below. He felt the familiar burn in his lungs.

Then he saw him, sitting on the rooftop like he always did. Silhouetted by the soft glow of a nearby streetlamp. He too was watching the city breathe.

Chat Noir tensed his legs and jumped to the next rooftop, and then the next, until he was standing on the roof of the neighbor’s house.

“Lovely night.” Chat said, looking at the boy who sat only a rooftop away. Drinking him in. He watched as the boy turned to look at him, his ocean eyes filled with warmth. But also a sadness he couldn’t quite place.

“Yeah, it is.” He replied, his voice small as he looked at the superhero before him.

“Hey Nathanael, is something wrong? Is it –?” Chat asked, moving to sit on the roof. Only a small strip of alleyway separated them. This is what they did whenever Chat would visit. They would sit there together, and yet apart. Chat didn’t know what would happen if he ever had the courage to sit beside Nathanael.

Nathanael put on a forced smile and went back to watching the city. A couple was walking lazily down the street across from them. “Nothing’s wrong Chat. I appreciate the concern but –”

Nathanael suddenly broke into a coughing fit, and Chat could only clench his fists as he heard the awful hacking noises between shuddering breaths. He hated feeling this helpless, but there was nothing he could do.

Then flashes of red and orange caught Chat’s eye. Even in the darkness, the colors stood out, stark against the shadows. He watched as the flower petals fell to the ground in front of Nathanael to rest on the roof.

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