uncoiling

Uncoiling All Of My Plans

Context: I dm a group of players in a heavily homebrewed game and we were coming to their characters end of the mission sequence so that they could make new characters and all of that. One of my friends used to play an elven bars that never really did much, but they always collected items that boosted charisma.

They make it to the cave entrance

Me: you come across a large cave entrance and-

Bard: I’m going to start drinking all of my charisma potions as we walk down.

Me: ok go ahead then.

Final fight rolls around:

Me: as you walk into the end of the cave, you are met by… the bones of ancient dragon. You see a woman riding atop the creature, staring down at you all.

Me as Boss: Leave here, retched creatures. You need not know the power that you try to best.

Me OOC: everyone roll initiative

The elven bard gets the highest initiative.

Bard: Why leave now when I’m struck by your everlasting beauty?

Bard OOC: and I say that to seduce her

Me OOC: I mean if you want to… roll everything plus those potions you’ve been drinking. How many of those did you have?

Bard: 287…

Me: *wideyed* what?

Bard: yeah… plus I have all my charisma gear… my whole armor set is dedicated to boosting my charisma…

After a solid minute or rolling all of his die

Bard: the final score comes down to… 363

Me: I still have to roll a check to see if she defeats that score…

*rolls Nat 1*

Me: YOU CHARISMATIC ELVEN SON OF A GNOMISH WHORE!!!!

Long story short, they married and had 8 children…

9

favorite jaime/brienne tv show and book moments [part one]

“You want her? Go get her.” So he did. 

He put his good hand on the marble rail and vaulted over, rolling as he hit the sand. The bear turned at the thump, sniffing, watching this new intruder warily. Jaime scrambled to one knee. Well, what in seven hells do I do now? He filled his fist with sand. “Kingslayer?” he heard Brienne say, astonished. 

“Jaime.” He uncoiled, flinging the sand at the bear’s face. The bear mauled the air and roared like blazes.

“What are you doing here?”

“Something stupid. Get behind me.” He circled toward her, putting himself between Brienne and the bear. 

cinderdrilla  asked:

hit me up w/ some voltron goodness 8)

Lance puts his foot down, and Shiro/Slav have a long overdue talk.

Shiro never figured Lance for the snapping type. They all had their moments, under the constant stress of intergalactic rebellion, but Lance kept a reasonably calm lid on it – his self-titled “rivalry” with Keith aside. Looking at him now, there is only surprise at the way he’s holding himself, the set of his expression: Lance looks both nervous and pissed off.

‘Keith – could you give us a minute?’ he says, in a deliberately calm voice. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Keith hesitate, as if reading the tenseness of the situation and worrying that it might get out of hand. ‘Now, Keith. Go check on Slav’s sector.’

Reluctantly, and with a suspicious look at them both, Keith exits. Lance looks even more nervous when he does. More so when silence settles on them, and he raises a brow at Lance. Well? says the look, say what you have to.

‘I just… you’re way too hard on him,’ Lance repeats, a far cry from the irritated way he’d snapped Can’t you just cut Slav some slack? ‘He’s trying to help, Shiro. I-it’s not… he doesn’t mean to annoy you. It’s just how he… is.’

‘Excuse me?’ His previous calm turns to surprise. He keeps his voice low, not meaning to menace – but Lance scowls a little deeper, mistaking it for nonchalance.
Don’t, Shiro. You sound just like Iverson when you do that, a-and he was an ass,’ Lance says, voice rising only in pitch. Angry and nervous, like a cornered cat. Shiro takes a small step back to give him breathing room, but Lance stays tense. ‘Slav only wants to help. You treating him like a nuisance isn’t – it’s not fair, okay. He can’t help being jumpy; he was a prisoner for ages –’

It takes a second or two for that to sink in. When Shiro goes quiet, when his stare goes vacant as he processes this, Lance steps forward, speech picking up momentum as he grew more defensive.

‘– and it’s not easy to adapt out here,’ there’s a note of hurt in his voice, and it hits Shiro more than the chastising. ‘Slav got taken from his people and thrown into a war just like we did. He’s handling it different. YOU handled it different, we all did. I thought you’d understand him because of it, since you both got tortured by the Galra.’

That’s almost an accusation, and now Shiro fully understands what has Lance so fired up, so recalcitrant. And that understanding brings with it a sense of guilt, especially with the way Lance had said I THOUGHT you’d understand.

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anonymous asked:

Imagine you're riding Harry and when he's cums, his stomach is clenching so hard and his butterfly tattoo is just wiggling on his tummy

So let’s say Harry just got out of the shower.

He comes out with a towel wrapped around his hips, using another one to dry his hair and back. He’s rubbing it over his broad shoulders as he pads barefoot over to his cabinets, digging for a pair of briefs as he rubs his skin dry. You’re watching from the bed, where you had been watching a rerun episode of Baby Daddy, but Harry’s much more interesting at the moment.

His back muscles flex as he reaches behind him as far as possible, trying to rid his skin of all the wetness, shoulders and arms going taut as he works the linen over his body, tattoos wiggling and stretching along with his movements.

Harry walks over to the edge of the bed, plopping down next to you and you catch a glimpse downwards, the towel around his waist shifting lower on his hips to expose the beginning of his pubes. And he knows exactly what he’s doing, the smug smirk on his ruby lips showing it off perfectly.

He leans forward on his palms, giving you a slow once-over as his hair is damp and matted to his neck, his skin smelling of Tom Ford aftershave and Dove bar soap. “D'you think you can help me dry my hair, pet?”

And you nod immediately, taking the already damp towel from his hands and trying your best not to shiver at his warm touch. He settles himself out on the bed between your legs, laying back against your stomach as you shake out his hair with the linen, going through his phone nonchalantly. When you finish, he flips around onto his stomach, crawling upwards until his face is right below yours, chin propped on your upper chest.

Harry quirks the corners of his mouth. “Thanks.”

You just nod, gulping quietly.

And then his hands are coasting up under your legs, squeezing the back of your thighs temptingly and he just comes out and says it right away, blatant and slightly arrogant, matching the dark, mossy green gaze he’s gifting you. “Wanna fuck?”

He doesn’t have to ask twice. It all happens fast. He flips himself onto his back, scooting up against the headboard and pulling you over to straddle him. He undoes the knot on the towel around his hips, chucking it towards the end of the bed carelessly as he tugs the tie of your sweatpants loose.

Soon enough he’s panting into your mouth, biting down on your lower lip as your thighs slap down against his. Your hands are tangled in his damp curls and you move to kiss down his jaw and bite at the slope of his neck, his Adam’s Apple bobbing thickly, brows furrowing in pleasure.

Harry throws his head back against he wooden surface of the backboard, gasping out softly as he feels you squeezing him, his teeth worrying his plump lips as a smile carves his dimples into existence. He chuckles in amusement, the sound stuttering do to how hard you’re going at him. “Such a tight little cunt, Y/N. Fuckin’ ruining me, darling.”

You don’t say much, too busy with concentrating on getting him off along with getting yourself off as well, so you just hum in agreement, breathing warm and gooey against his pulse.

His huge hands are cupping and massaging your ass as you sink over him, a hard smack hitting you every now and then. “Perky as a peach, aren’t you?”

Your arms wrap around his neck, pulling him into your chest so that his mouth is pressed against your throat, tongue and teeth rawing the skin as you swivel your hips in tight circles, feeling him pressing deep in your stomach.

Harry’s having a ball, grinning against your skin and letting out tiny whines and gentle whimpers with every swing of your hips, encouraging you to keep going. His arms snake securely around your waist, keeping you down on him as his hips begin to buck up into you. His words are sticky and hot on the sensitive flesh of your jugular. “Such a sweet girl f'me, yeah? Taking m'cock so deep and loving it. Proper Daddy’s girl, y'are…”

And when he comes, it’s messy. The warm shower had managed to rid him of most of his stress, allowing his body to uncoil from tension, which in turn allows his release to flow easier. He spurts out thick and hot inside you, groaning wetly into the little dip between your neck and shoulder, his shoulders shuddering and thighs clenching.

You pull back a bit, looking down at him as his climax thunders over his entire body. Harry’s chest is heaving heavily and his tummy is tightening exceptionally hard, the butterfly tattoo spreading its wings and contracting as he gulps for air, the whole image quivering to life as he himself quakes in pleasure. “God, you’re so fucking good to me.”

Once everything has washed out of his system, he goes limp against the headboard.

Harry’s knuckles drift over your outer thighs softly as he lays there with his head tilted to the side, a wispy, satisfied smile tickling the edges of his mouth, wet hair sticking to the sides of his neck and across his sweaty jaw.

His tired eyes shimmer with fondness over you, loving how you’d taken him so suddenly without question. “You’re a right gift, y'know that? Dunno what I’d do without you.”

“You’re hand would probably be more sore.”

Harry releases a fit of giggles, shaking his head at you gently, grabbing your hips and pressing you into the mattress. “And you wouldn’t have anyone to eat you out into oblivion.”

“‘Oblivion’ is a big word. ’M proud of you, Har.”

He flashes you a lopsided grin, ducking down to press suckling kisses at the mouth of your stomach, gazing up at you through his thick lashes as he gives his eyebrows a suggestive quirk. “Well, ’m a big boy, sweetheart.”

stormy nights || stiles stilinski (smut )

word count: 3550

prompt: my smut for lacrosse week!

warnings: smut, swearing

author’s note: this is my first solo smut and i hope you guys like it! let me know if i should keep writing smut. please leave feedback on this!

masterlist

coming soon

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Heart on the Line (part 12)

Masterlist

You and Bucky had your differences in college, but now you need a place to stay and he needs a roommate, and in order to make ends meet, you two start a phone sex line together.  

“For a Good Time, Call…” AU


author: sugardaddytonystark (formerly buckysbackpackbuckle)
pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader
word count: 1223
warnings: phone sex, masturbation

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Ever think about taking care of Harry when he’s feeling ill?

Like, he’d come home from the studio early even though a song is thisclose to being finished because every note irritates his scratchy throat and the sound of the bass reverberating through his skull during playback matches the pulsing of his migraine. 

And he’s disappointed when you’re not home because the only thing that can make him feel better and forget all about his hay fever is your cuddles. So he relaxes the best he can, flipping through his phone and holding his head in his hands trying to ignore the way his eyes are heavy and his body is exhausted.

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7

 The amount of lore going into ARMS that has been made available exclusively on a Japanese twitter account is staggering. Let’s try to break down some of it via an internet translator and context clues, shall we?

  • The process that causes “armsification” has evidence dating back at least 1,500 years, but it’s argued that it’s always existed.
  • The ability is not restricted to humans, and has been observed in plants and various animals.
  • The most common age for the activation of the armsification process is 10, but it’s been recorded as happening as old as 74.
  • About 20% of the population is known to have the ARMS ability, but that figure could be higher, as the 20% comes from people who have reported to the ARMS league (more on that later).
  • However, ARMS used to be so rare that they were just considered to be fairy tales. The number of people with the ability (and their popularity) has increased dramatically, but no one knows why.
  • It is possible for someone to have the ARMS ability at birth, but the rate is roughly 1 in every 100,000 people. Kid Cobra is one of these people.
  • When the armsification process happens, it’s usually affected by things that are near the person at the time- so, for example, Min Min’s noodle ARMS and Ninjara’s chain ARMS.
  • The report that explains the previous point makes a point of saying that this is not always the case, and that a certain “exception” fighter is being investigated.
  • The reason that all ARMS fighters wear masks is because the masks (somehow) stabilize their ARMS into a tight spiral shape. The translation for this is difficult to parse, but not having a mask either causes their ARMS to revert to “normal” (possibly long and uncoiled), have crazy uneven spirals, or some combination of the two.
  • The masks were developed by ARMS laboratories in the late 19th/early 20th century (120 years ago, specifically). The creation of the masks allowed for the fighting competition to exist, as the way ARMS work without the masks would make fighting difficult or impossible.
  • The masks are given out for free to anyone with the ARMS ability who reports to the ARMS league. This is why the previously mentioned population figure may be inaccurate, as there may be people who haven’t reported.
  • This reporting appears to either be very informal or intensely private, as nobody actually knows what Kid Cobra looks like under his full face mask. Specifically, it has not been announced or revealed what “tribe” he belongs to (whether this is a weird way of saying “race” or could possibly mean he’s a non-human species is unknown).

I AM SO INTO THIS SHIT YOU DON’T EVEN KNOW YESSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS

I tried to make them kinda different, but in the end they still wound up pretty similar, Please Forgive.

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The Serpent Sigil

While serpents ordinarily rule over life/death/rebirth, fertility and the dichotomy of “good/evil” and light/dark, wishes need not be confined to these parameters – apply instead the concept of the kundalini,the force of desire. || for more information on my use of the serpent, see Feeding the Black Serpent ||

A Few Uses

  • The Wishing Serpent: To use, simply write your desire, beginning where the neck of the serpent meets the head. If you choose to recreate the sigil in favor of printing (when this sigil is used at its exact size, the “uncoiled” measures around 3 feet), ensure there is room to complete your desire. Cut along the lines, which should leave you with a long, serpent ribbon. This is best performed outside, though it may be done inside away from flammables over a large-mouth bowl. Using a candle placed on the ground (of a fitting color – red works as a default), allow the tail of the serpent to catch, holding the snake by its head, allow it to burn from the bottom to the top. If used inside, scatter the ashes to the wind, otherwise they have already been aptly scattered. 
  • The Healing Serpent: Utilizing much of the same procedure as above, write the name of he/she you wish to heal 7 or 9 times upon the face of the sigil – again, starting from the neck of the serpent. Cut along the lines. Coil the serpent back and flip it over, on the reverse, write 3, 7, or 9 times the name of nature of their ailment(s). Using a black, white or red candle, perform the same process as above – reading the prayer:

Coiled serpent, now – 
Unwound – Behest: 
My bidding, go about 
The soil,
Viper tongue splayed –
Oh, Black Serpent,
Recant the poisoned-
Tooth venom,
And devour that sickness
That you hath cast,
Recant – by witch’s will – 
And feed it to the forge.

  • The Witches’ Watch: Should an event arise that calls for a timed ritual, this serpent might serve as time-keeper –such as for opening the realms, crossroads work, evocations, invocations and possessions. Simply cut along the lines and drive a piece of cotton cord or thread through the head of the serpent and hang it in a safe place. When you are ready to begun your working, ignite the tail with your working candle – burn times vary based on paper used, circulation, temperature, etc. I recommend trying a test burn using the same paper and location, to get a general idea of your time frame. Play with the size of the sigil to shorten or lenthen your working time.
  • The Poison Serpent: On the face of the sigil, write out your unsavory desires, perhaps something to the extent of: “May the poison serpent rot the flesh and mind.” On the reverse, write your victim’s name nine times, beginning not at the neck, but at the tail. This pairs the elevation of your desire (over your victim) with the symbol of their force of will (to fight) being eaten away as the serpent is devour by the flame and freed into the aether. Collect the ashes and blend with sulphur powder, a poisonous plant of your choosing (ideally one that’s symptoms match the nature of your desire), iron oxide (optional) and bone dust (optional). 

There are countless uses! Please, by all means get creative with it! I’d love to hear what some of you guys [would] do with it!

anonymous asked:

91, 84, 82, 100, with hobi!

Prompt request: “Help me hide!” + “No, I didn’t murder them. I accidentally knocked them unconscious forever, that’s all.” + “My back’s a bit sore from when you stabbed me with your knife.” + “You’re my soulmate!?”

Pairing: Hoseok/Reader

Genre: Fluff (I guess?) + Humour

Summary: In a world where soulmates are identified by matching marks, you meet your other half a little unceremoniously (featuring bad boy Hoseok).

Word count: 1.1k words


With a tired sigh, you glanced up at the clock. It was almost ten–closing time. The record store you worked at part-time was located in a sketchy part of town, and you hated closing. Walking home alone was always a frightening experience.

Since you had nothing else to do, you perused through the racks of CD’s, humming along to the music playing from the store’s speakers.

As you were browsing through the 80’s rock section, the front door swung open, banging against the wall loudly. Your head shot up in surprise, your heart beating wildly.

In front of you, there was a boy about your age, donned in all black and a leather jacket. He was panting heavily, sweat beading on his forehead. You were a bit taken aback by his handsome features–a pointed nose, high cheekbones, and a strong jawline.

But more than anything, you were annoyed. The store closed in three minutes.

“Sorry, the store’s clo–”

“Help me hide!” the boy practically screamed, advancing towards you rapidly. “Hurry! They’re going to find me!”

“Who are they?” you squealed, almost tripping over your feet as you walked backwards. “Who are you!?”

“We can save the introductions for later,” the boy said hurriedly, eyes wide in panic. “I swear I won’t hurt you, just lock the damn door.”

Peering into the boy’s large, almost innocent-looking eyes, you couldn’t help but believe him. Plus, you knew you were in danger now, too.

You grabbed the store keys from where they sat at the cash register and darted to the front door. With shaking hands, you jammed the key into the keyhole and twisted the old, temperamental lock.

You turned back to look at the boy, who seemed to visibly relax.

“Let’s hide,” he said, turning to walk behind the cash register. “Just to be safe.”

Left with no other options, you followed the dangerous boy behind the counter, ducking down with him. You were so close to him, able to feel his radiating body heat and hear the quiet sound of him breathing.

Casting a brief glance at the boy, upon closer inspection, you realized his hands were covered in blood.

“Oh my god,” you choked out, falling onto your butt. You scooted backwards until your back hit the wall. You could feel your heart practically beating out of your chest. “Did you kill someone?”

“What?” the boy asked, looking at you, surprised. Then, his gaze shifted to his hands and he laughed. “No, I didn’t murder them. I accidentally knocked them unconscious forever, that’s all.”

“Holy shit,” you whispered, mostly to yourself. “Tonight is the night I die. So young, too. I had my whole life ahead of me.”

“Relax,” the boy laughed. He wiped his bloodied hands on his black jeans, the sticky substance smearing everywhere. “I’m joking. The guy’s not dead. I just momentarily delayed him, hence the hiding now.”

“That’s reassuring,” you squeaked, pulling your knees up to your chest. You could feel your body shaking and your breaths quicken.

“Hey, hey,” the boy frowned, moving closer to you as he sensed your distress. “Nothing’s gonna happen to you, I swear. No one’s gonna find us, and even if they do, I won’t let them touch you.”

You eyed the boy suspiciously, but you felt your body begin to uncoil.

“I’m Hoseok, by the way,” he continued with a sunny smile, which contrasted starkly against his dark appearance. “Most people just call me J-Hope, though.”

“That’s a pretty lame street name,” you blurted out unthinkingly. The moment you said it, you slapped a hand over your mouth, regretting it instantly.

Hoseok just laughed. “Trust me, it’s not the worst. I have a friend called Baby G.”

You winced at that, smiling a little bit.

“So, what’s your name?” Hoseok asked conversationally.

“Oh, I’m Y/N,” you replied. Then, you questioned if telling him was a good idea. Belatedly, you realized you were wearing your name tag the entire time.

“Nice to meet you!” Hoseok said cheerily. “Although I wish we could have met in different circumstances.”

“So what happened?” you asked, nodding in the direction of Hoseok’s still slightly bloody hands.

“It was a deal gone awry,” Hoseok shrugged. “It happens sometimes.”

“Are you in a gang?” you whispered, body on alert once more.

“Oh, no,” Hoseok said, laughing in surprise. “I’m actually an underground rapper. One of my friends deals, though, and I was just helping him out.”

You sighed in relief, happy to not be stuck in the middle of a gang war. You lapsed into silence, listening carefully to the sounds coming from outside. In the calm, the sound of Hoseok’s cell phone ringing caused both of you to jump.

Hoseok grabbed his phone and squinted at the display, a frown etched on his face.

“You asshole,” he said immediately, although his words didn’t hold much venom. You could hear the sound of someone talking faintly through the tinny-sounding phone. “Yeah, I’m fine. My back’s a bit sore from when you stabbed me with your knife, though.”

“Are you hurt?” you gasped, ready to reach for the first aid kit stored underneath the cash.

“Oh, no,” Hoseok said, pulling the phone away from his ear. “Figuratively speaking.”

He turned back to the phone, speaking quickly. Hoseok listed names, presumably of the people involved with the drug deal gone south. Eventually, he hung up and turned back to you.

“The coast is clear,” he announced as he stood up. He stretched his long legs a little bit, then extended a hand to help you up. You took it apprehensively, realizing Hoseok could still feel the slight tremors that ran through your body.

Hoseok frowned at this. He shrugged his leather jacket off and draped it over your shoulders. The warm material comforted you immensely. As Hoseok withdrew his arms, you noticed his soul-mark.

It was quite small and delicate looking, which matched Hoseok’s gentle demeanour and clashed with his bad boy persona. His soul-mark was an abstract, winding pattern that reminded you of constellations. It was also shockingly familiar.

“You’re my soulmate!?” you shrieked, staring wide-eyed into Hoseok’s own large eyes.

He gaped at you, glancing down at your clothed forearm. Hastily, you presented your arm, yanking the sleeve of your shirt up to your elbow. Indeed, the perfect match of Hoseok’s soul-mark was drawn into your skin.

“Fuck,” Hoseok managed, completely awed. He looked back up at you with stars in his eyes. “I knew there was a reason I liked you.”

- Girl in Luv

Sorry this took so long to write! These prompts were the funnest ones, so thanks for requesting them! Hope you enjoyed. If you want to request an imagine, check out our prompts page for inspiration. Happy reading!

florabell  asked:

Omg I would love to read your take on the "I can hear you having mental breakdowns" AU because I can absolutely imagine Clarke being strung out with med school stress and Bell being a Mum and fretting over her

A|N: this got…. really, really long, so I’m just gonna apologize in advance and put it down as me being trash for neighbours!bellarke. Hope you like it!

_____________________

It only occurs to him that he has a new neighbour when he wakes to the sound of a distinctly feminine voice cursing out someone.

And it’s not like Murphy was ever quiet or a remotely considerate neighbour or anything, but Bellamy’s pretty sure that he’s never woken him up at six in the morning with his yelling. Huffing, he shrugs on a shirt, shuffles over to the kitchen to make himself a cup of coffee. He has to be up in an hour for work anyway, so there’s no point in trying to go back to sleep.

He does, however, start feeling a little concerned when the muffled swearing grows progressively louder instead of abating. Maybe his new neighbour is actually hurt or something, and the increasingly profane swear words are her way of expressing her distress. It’s plausible, right? The nice, neighbourly thing to do would be to check up on her. Or at the very least, maybe pound on the wall and tell her, in no certain terms, to shut the fuck up.

As tempting as the latter option is, he finds himself edging out of the door anyway, crossing the hallway to knock at her door cautiously.

The door jerks open at the second knock, and he he has to hide his surprise at the figure standing by the doorway. She’s a lot tinier than he expected her to be, dressed in stained scrubs with her hair piled up into a messy bun, stray strands drifting over her collarbone distractingly.

She arches a brow over at him, the tilt of her chin challenging. “Yes?”

“Uh, hi. I live over at 5C? Just next to you?” He gestures over at his ajar apartment door, resisting the urge to make a snide remark about how thin the walls are in the complex. “And you just— I don’t know what’s happening, but you’ve been yelling for the past hour or so? I just wanted to make sure you’re not being murdered, like, five feet away from me.”

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anonymous asked:

StarkQuill post CW the team returns thinking but they can pick up where they left off thinking everythings fine But Tony has the Guardians now and prefers to spend time with them, Spider-Man & Rhodey but he knows he'll need the Avengers for the big battle. Steve thinks that now that he's back he can be with Tony again but soon realizes Tony's moved on with Quill and becomes possessive and jealous of Tony believing once the GOTG are gone everything will be fine but it wont, Tonys done with him

Even after two years, the compound hadn’t changed much. It was a welcome sight after months spent on the run. Steve could feel the tension uncoiling from his shoulders and he hadn’t even gone inside yet. He couldn’t wait to go into his own kitchen and make himself a sandwich, then go to his own bedroom and have a nap in his own bed.

Maybe with his own boyfriend.

He eyed Tony, but didn’t approach just yet. Tony was talking to what looked like a group of baby SHIELD agents. That was one of the changes. The compound was no longer reserved solely for the Avengers; some SHIELD agents and a few other superheroes were housed here as well. The change wasn’t exactly welcome, but Steve figured he’d give it a few weeks and then explain to Tony why the compound was best kept for the team.

When the crowd of agents dispersed and Tony took out his phone, Steve figured that meant he wasn’t doing anything important. He stepped closer and cleared his throat. Nothing. Tony didn’t look up from the screen of his phone. Steve rolled his eyes, amazed all over again at Tony’s lack of manners, and spoke.

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Overwatch fic: The catdads and that time they met up with McCree after the Fall.

Remember when I said I was writing this, a year and a day ago?  No warnings.  The cut is just for length.
***
Jesse’s clients showed him the documentation on his targets before he took the job, and it’s pretty clear he’s after a real pair of desperadoes.  These two have left a trail of bodies, theft, and occasional devastation in their wake from one hemisphere to the other, and he reckons it’s about time someone put a stop to it.

When they nail him in an ambush, he realizes that someone’ll have to be someone else.

His arms get pinned from behind by a grip that feels like a bear’s, claws and all.  The other one drops down in front of him from an awning three stories up and then uncoils from his crouch like he’s made of shock absorbers.  “Jesse McCree,” that one says in a low growl of a voice.  Grand, being recognized always goes so well for him. “You look like a werewolf, kid.”

The man holding him laughs.  It sounds beyond rough, almost inhuman, and kinda smug.  Jesse knows it well.  He’s heard that insult more than a few times, too.

“Well, damn,” he says faintly as the shock sets in.  

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EVAK FANFICS RECS / PART 7


ONESHOTS:

  • riches and wonders by anathema (azirapha1e)
    Summary: In some universes, love blossoms in swimming pools. In others, there are kittens involved.

  • #hashtag by Bellakitse
    Summary: Even gets Instagram, it’s all about Isak.

  • sickeningly sweet like honey by tomlinsoln 
    Summary: coffee shop!au; Even likes to write pickup lines on Isak’s cup.

MORE UNDER THE CUT

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The Epoch of Dancing
The Epoch of Meeting Him During His First Month Sober
The Epoch of Pretending We Did Not Meet the Way We Did
The Epoch of Eggshells and Peanuts on the Bar Floor
The Epoch of a Pop In the Chest
The Epoch of Going Home With Him on the First Night
The Epoch of Hearing Him Sing
The Epoch of Seeing Hidden Tattoos for the First Time
The Epoch of the Beginning of His Sheets
The Epoch of Steve Sleeping on the Couch Downstairs
The Epoch of Trying Not To Wake Him Up When You Panic at 2am
The Epoch of Letting His Music Put You Back To Sleep
The Epoch of Convincing Yourself This Night Was the Same As Any Other
The Epoch of Convincing Yourself It Was the Same With Him As It Had Been With Any Other
The Epoch of Accepting You Are Wrong, All the Time
The Epoch of Staying the Whole Next Day
The Epoch of Cohesion
The Epoch of Songs About Suicide 
The Epoch of Telling One Another Terrible Things
The Epoch of Nakedness
The Epoch of Making It to 28, and to 31
The Epoch of Promising to Call On That Birthday
The Epoch of Feeling Your Heart Stretch So Far You Think Something Is Clinically Wrong With Your Breathing
The Epoch of Dreaming About Stones in Your Windpipe
The Epoch of the Re-Entrance
The Epoch of Saying Things Too Soon
The Epoch of Wondering What He Is Like When He Is Not Sober
The Epoch of Father Poems
The Epoch of Mother Stories
The Epoch of Worrying He Will Love Her, Again
The Epoch of Making Up Stories and Trying to Take Them Back
The Epoch of It Being Too Easy to Love One Another
The Epoch of Worrying You Will Be the One to Break That Easy
The Epoch of Not Knowing How To Trust Ourselves to Love Someone Else
The Epoch of Condemning Easy, Good Love
The Epoch of Sleeping Better With Him In Your Bed
The Epoch of “It’s All Good”
The Epoch of Spaceship
The Epoch of Overhearing and Overthinking
The Epoch of Not Saying What Is Wrong, Because It May Just Be You
The Epoch of Reminding Yourself Not All His Friends Will Love You
The Epoch of the End of Fleeting and the Beginning of Staggering
The Epoch of A Hand Absorbing Stress Pressure Like Sand
The Epoch of Worry That You Are Falling Into Your Old Patterns
The Epoch of Contemplating the Disease of a Bread Knife
The Epoch of Re-Learning Your Name As Your Own and Keeping Him Beside You
The Epoch of Wanting to Stay
The Epoch of Not Concerning Yourself With Worry Over Being Unpolished 
The Epoch of Not Lying
The Epoch of Saying Things You’ve Said Before and, This Time, Meaning Them 
The Epoch of Pressing Your Cheek Against the Linoleum and Hearing Someone You Once Knew, Fuck In a Kitchen Below You
The Epoch of Being Asked to Be His Girl
The Epoch of Elation in the Span of His Palms
The Epoch of Being Petrified Rock
The Epoch of Uncoiling the Wire Until Weeks Feel Like Gifts
The Epoch of Waking Up Next To Him, Still
The Epoch of Staying
The Epoch of Wondering Where You Turned to Get You To This Sunlight
The Epoch of Willing Out the Congestion, and of Smiling and Meaning It, and of Dancing In A Graveyard Kitchen, and of Wanting to Go On. And of Wanting to Go On.
— 

“Lifespan of a Love” By Emma Bleker

(Structure inspired by Anne Carson’s Eras of Yves Klein)

Poe buys Finn soap.

When asked, he says: “I was thinking of buying it for Rey, but she likes the sonic better than the water shower, and I know you like baths a whole lot more than she does.”

Finn does like baths. The First Order had rooms with flat showerheads that ran for two minutes at a time, just long enough for the muscles in his back to start to uncoil under the pressure before they abruptly shut off. Water in plenty has been an exciting luxury, which almost makes up for the corroding smell and taste and touch of everything else. The First Order valued cleanliness and straight lines and antiseptic, while on D’Qar everything is slightly tilted just enough to look wrong, and there’s a stickiness to the walls that holds dust and the finger-marks of a thousand species.

Finn doesn’t take baths often; the concept of waste has been drilled into his head too often for too long that using that much water at once still makes him uncomfortable, but the Resistance base is settled on a planet made up of vast clearwater lakes, so he likes to think that maybe a bath or two every couple of cycles won’t do much harm. He doesn’t miss the First Order at all, even when the Otherness of this place raises the hair on the back of his neck and suspicious glares sink deep into his bones, but he likes being busy and he likes achieving things, so in between quietly recalculating their resources under the watchful eye of General Organa and learning how to see the Universe with his eyes tightly shut, he has baths.

The soap itself comes in several small, round balls, flecked with tiny spots of colour like the blossoming petals of a flower. They smell sweet, but hold their shape firmly in Finn’s hand, and when he rolls them between his fingers they leave a fine trail of sparkling dust. It takes him a good week, but he finally catches an R&R day, so he runs a bath in Poe’s small bunk, and drops one of the fragrant spheres into the water, and watches at it dissolves, frothing pink foam and filling the air with a delicious perfume.

Yes, Finn thinks to himself quietly, Rey would definitely hate this.

((i’m gettin there @peradii . i’m gettin there))

It didn't happen at once ( a destiel short story)

It didn’t happen all at once. So one could never look back and say that, that moment was the turning point. In fact it happened slowly and gradually, the years of tension and unresolved questions and curious looks wrapped together, came forth and slowly uncoiled themselves. So it was never really a big surprise for anyone of them.

Sam was busy searching for some sort of solution for their current case. The trio had returned earlier that afternoon dirty and unsuccessful. Dean was annoyed, Castiel was frustraited and Sam was just tired.

The bunker was covered by a blanket of complete silence, when Sam got up from his seat to get some fresh air. These sort of cases where there wasn’t any sort of lead or the clues were jumbled up were the worse. They just involved days of untouched beds and bottles of alcohol.

Sam walked out the door, momentarily glancing at Dean and Cas who were with their own books in their laps, feet dangling off the couch. Sam couldn’t exactly pinpoint when he noticed the change in them, because, there had always been a certain type of closeness between them. Call it their time in hell together or the human-angel interspecies relationship or just the two them being them. But in the last couple of months, they had developed something new.

It’s when Sam started noticing these things that it made all the more sense.

How the touches had become frequent, the stares had become longer. How Dean just knew these little things about Cas, like how Cas developed a liking to take warm showers before bed (despite no need of having to take one) so Dean would make sure to make his showers were quicker so he wouldn’t finish all the hot water. Or how Cas liked his toast a little crispy from one side and soft from the other, so Dean would go through all the effort of grilling Cas’ toast on a frying pan to get them right. Or how after Cas commented about loving flowers as they passed by a woman’s garden during their hunt, so they would often find a new flower pot in the balcony of the bunker every two weeks. No one commented on these things, they just left them unsaid.

Though Cas returned all these gestures in his own way.

In the last few months Cas had figured out Dean’s taste in music and movies. So it was no surprise when they occasionally had a movie night (like an average domestic family) after a successful day of hunting (not like an average domestic family) and it would be Cas’ turn to chose the movie he would always pick one of Dean’s favourite movies. At first Sam thought that Cas did it entirely for Dean’s sake but then he realised that Cas actually enjoyed them. Cas would occasionally make references related to the movies or quote something sarcastic during the moments when he would be sassing Dean. Dean would stare, dumbstruck, while Sam would be laughing, clutching his stomach.

Cas had even started cooking a few things (learning simpler meals from his growing collection of cookbooks). But it was surprising for both of them the morning the two brothers came down to make breakfast and were greeted by the sweet smell of apple pie.

“You’re kidding” Dean had spoken, eyes wide and mouth agape.

Startled by the sudden presence Cas just held up the pan looking nervously at both of them “Pie?”

Dean had raced towards him, grabbing the hot pan, not even caring about it burning his fingers. Sam was sure he hadn’t seen Cas any more nervous in those few seconds Dean took to taste the pie.

“This is awesome” Dean had said before digging in for another bite. Dean wasn’t much for compliments but Sam had seen the pure delightful grin the comment had brought on Cas’ face.

Cas had started making pie every weekend from there on.

So it was safe to say that Sam wasn’t surprised when he came back an hour later and saw Castiel resting his head on Dean’s shoulder.

One of Dean’s arm was around Cas’ back and the other was in his lap holding the remote. The TV was turned on, one of the episode of whatever show they were catching up on. Sam didn’t miss the way Dean slowly turned his head and placed a gentle kiss on Cas’ head. He didn’t miss th way Cas laced his fingers with Dean in his lap, and he surely didn’t miss the content look on their faces as they tried to find happiness in what they could have in this life.

The End

(Please tell me how it is)

(Book) Jaime appreciation post (II)

Here goes the 2nd part of the appreciation/comparison post of book Jaime and show Jaime when rescuing Brienne from the bear (when book Jaime and show Jaime still had something in common)…

Part II:

[…]

Well, what in seven hells do I do now? He filled his fist with sand.
“Kingslayer?” he heard Brienne say, astonished.
“Jaime.” He uncoiled, flinging the sand at the bear’s face. The bear mauled the air and roared like blazes.
“What are you doing here?”
“Something stupid. Get behind me.”

He circled toward her, putting himself between Brienne and the bear.
“You get behind. I have the sword.”
“A sword with no point and no edge. Get behind me!”

[…]

Brienne tried to dart around, but he kicked her legs out from under her. She fell in the sand, clutching the useless sword. Jaime straddled her, and the bear came charging.

There was a deep twang, and a feathered shaft sprouted suddenly beneath the beast’s left eye. Blood and slaver ran from his open mouth, and another bolt took him in the leg. The bear roared, reared. He saw Jaime and Brienne again and lumbered toward them. More crossbows fired, the quarrels ripping through fur and flesh. At such short range, the bowmen could hardly miss. The shafts hit as hard as maces, but the bear took another step.

[…]

“You thlew my bear!” Vargo Hoat shrieked.

[…]

“We’re taking the wench.”

“Her name is Brienne,” Jaime said. “Brienne, the maid of Tarth. You are still maiden, I hope?” Her broad homely face turned red.
“Yes.”
“Oh, good,” Jaime said. “I only rescue maidens.”

[…]

“Ser Jaime?” Even in soiled pink satin and torn lace, Brienne looked more like a man in a gown than a proper woman.
“I am grateful, but … you were well away. Why come back?”

A dozen quips came to mind, each crueler than the one before, but Jaime only shrugged.
“I dreamed of you,” he said.

Jaime VI, ASOIAF A Storm of Swords by George R. R. Martin