jay345sal28 replied to your post: Naruto is convinced that there’s 3 girls in his...
Omg what if he thinks shika is the cutest out of the three because they don’t hit Naruto or yell at him?
Oh my god yes. Yes a thousand times yes.
Someone asks who the cutest girl is and Naruto’s like Shika-chan!
And everyone screams at him about it and Naruto is really confused as to why but honestly Shikamaru is just over there in the corner turning red because ‘shit’
17. Describe a fic that is still in the ‘ideas’ stage.
Lmao there’s like 20
I think I really do want to tackle some sort of Olympics AU–not sure if it’d better served in a canon-esque verse (because how would the Olympics even come in to be in Middle Earth??? Who knows???) or a modern AU which part of me wants to do sheerly for the joy of making a playlist to go along with it.
I don’t even know what sports I would have everyone doing other than Boromir and Theodred are former-rivals-turned-boyfriends that met through competing in some terrifyingly difficult event. Merry and Pippin row together maybe?? Arwen and Aragorn are definitely that couple that no one understands how or why they’re together, bc she’s like a 6th generation Olympic Dynasty Family member and he’s a dirty triathalon junkie who wanders out of the wood-work every four years to win gold. Eowyn is the most Horse Girl equestrian competitor to ever live and Faramir, a long-term track star, loves it. Legolas and Gimli have been banned from interacting on Twitter. All of the Dol Amroth boys are swimmers? Lothiriel dives? Don’t ask me about Eomer bc I have Not A Clue what event he’d participate in.
Harry Potter AU lothiriel x Eomer. It can be a day in Hogwarts as teens or post Hogwarts working in their respective fields. Slytherin! Lothiriel and Hufflepuff! Eomer
These aren’t the Houses I usually put them in, but this! A good prompt, 10/10 would write again.
In the end, Voldemort was nothing more than a man. A man whose body hit the floor of the Great Hall with a dry-sounding thud. And in the wake of that thud, there had been moments of long and disbelieving silence. But now it seemed the world was waking up again, waking up to death and destruction and injury, but to hope as well. The kind of hope the Wizarding World had not tasted since the night that Voldemort had tried (and failed) to kill the Potter boy.
Lothiriel had Apparated into Hogsmeade with the other Mediwizards who had left Mungo’s at the first notice of trouble, had cast her share of defensive spells and curses at masked Death Eaters. Each time, she felt an unpleasant twinge in her stomach: had she walked to class with that one, once? Had she shared a cauldron in Potions Class? Were these the siblings or parents or children of people she had known?
But the guilt had worn out quickly: there were too many injured, too many children injured, and indignant, righteous anger soon replaced every ounce.
She had done what she could in the field, had seen the end of the battle, and now she stood in the rubble-strewn hall and wiped sweat and dust from her forehead. Her job wasn’t done, not yet.
The worst injuries had been treated as well as they could be, then sent on to St. Mungo’s. The injuries now were smaller: minor spell-damage, cuts, other injuries that could be cured with simple wand-work and vials of potions. And all the time, she had been keeping up an awful kind of mathematics, trying to keep track of the people most dear to her: her brothers (Amrothos, pale but grinning, sent back to St. Mungo’s an hour ago. Elphir giving her a hug before heading home to check on his wife and his son. Erchirion…so far, unaccounted for) her father (last seen directing the clearing of people and rubble). Faramir and Boromir, both injured, had been sent off to St. Mungo’s among the first wave of patients.
It’s in the middle of this mental accounting that a familiar face - - tired, bloodied, but blessedly living - - appears in front of her, knocking one more number into place. A face she knew she might see, had been both hoping for and dreading their meeting.
It knocks the air from her like a blow.
But it is her job to attend to injuries, not to dwell upon the past or on faces that still make her heart race, so she makes him sit down and clears the blood from his face with a spell, attends to the cuts and scrapes and burns on his face, his neck, his hands, with salves and poultices and potions. And though they do not speak, his eyes follow her as she works, with the same sort of softness she’d only ever seen directed at her.
Oh, she had missed him! Missed the weight of his hands in or over hers, the way her own seemed so small in comparison.
“They took my sister to St. Mungo’s,” he tells her as she bandages his hands. “They wouldn’t let me go with her.”
“I know,” she murmurs, though she doesn’t look up from her task, wonders who possibly could have stopped him: Gandalf, perhaps, or her father. Aragorn. “They won’t let anyone follow ‘til things settle down. Not even my father. My cousins are there, too. And my brother. ”
“Erchirion.”
“No,” she says, and she does look up, then, catches his eye and has to look away. “Amrothos. I haven’t…I haven’t seen Erchirion.”
“I have,” he says. “They took him to St. Mungo’s. He wasn’t conscious, but he was breathing.”
It makes her pause a moment, makes her catch her breath. All three brothers living and accounted for. Everyone she had been looking out for at least alive, if not undamaged: her father, her brothers, her cousins, Eowyn, Eomer. Her eyes flutter closed to hide the tears she’s been suppressing.
She hears rather than sees him stand, feels strong arms wrap around her shoulders, pulling her close to a warm, broad chest. Her ear rests over a beating heart whose rhythm soothes her shaking breath, but he kisses her hair and it nearly starts the tears flowing.
“I’m taking you home,” he tells her, his voice half words she can hear and understand, half a low rumble underneath her ear. “You’ve been here for hours. You need to rest.”
“You’ve been watching me?”
“Of course. Since you got here. I couldn’t let anything happen to you.”
She thinks of the Death Eaters who had stumbled away from her by some well-timed spell, realizes they hadn’t been coincidences at all, and shivers against the warmth of him. His arms only wrap more tightly around her.
“I already spoke to Aragorn,” he says. “They have enough mediwizards to be getting on with. Let me take you home.”
She nods against his chest, unsure what “home” means, but following him anyway, exhaustion she hadn’t known she was carrying bearing down on her.
Almost a year ago they had gone their separate ways, a war and sheer uncertainty between them. And now the war was gone, and they were here, and before she knew it she was standing in the bedroom of the house they had once shared. The one she had left, along with her engagement ring, when she had fled to her father’s house.
She didn’t mean to snoop. She had meant to crawl into the bed and sleep for days, but in her fatigue she’d bumped against the dresser, knocked scattered items to the floor. It was in setting them to rights that she saw it: the seashell-shaped dish, so obviously hers. The sapphire ring the only thing inside of it.
He’s sitting on the couch with his head in his hands when she emerges, wearing one of his old shirts and cradling the engagement ring in her palm like some delicate and injured thing.
“You kept it.”
She perches beside him, watches as he lifts his head to look at her, the sweep of his eyes taking in her loose hair, the shirt, the ring cupped in her palm, and he nods.
“Yeah,” he says, in a voice gone low and rough. “I kept it.” His eyes haven’t left the ring in her hands.
“Why?”
He shrugs, lifting just one broad shoulder, then reaches out to touch the ring’s white-gold band.
“Fool’s hope, I guess.”
Before he can pull his hand away, she closes her fingers, feels the sharp intake of breath.
“Lothiriel…” She’s been looking at him all this time, and so she meets his gaze as soon as it turns to her. And his eyes are so wary and yearning and hopeful that she can feel her heart breaking all over again. Don’t give me false hope, that gaze seems to plead, and she has no intention of it. The fingers of her free hand alight gently on his lips to quiet him, and her grey eyes are solemn.
“I’m the only fool here,” she assures him, gently threading their fingers together, trapping the ring between his rough, bandaged palm and her smooth one. “I’m sorry, Eomer. I shouldn’t have left, I didn’t want to, but I was…I was so scared.” He had been throwing himself into the fray with so little fear, so little self-preservation. The fear and the uncertainty, the dread and the grief of war had slipped into her brain and whispered it would hurt less to leave, now.
Listening to that whisper had been the greatest regret of her life, the howling pain and fear that had followed her through every Daily Prophet list of the dead, every dark Ministry announcement, every moment of every day.
“Can you forgive me?”
Without a word he surges forward to capture her lips in a searing, desperate kiss that she returns with all fervor and a little gasp. She lets him pull her into his lap, whimpers as his kisses move to her neck.
She doesn’t feel him slip the ring from her hand with deft fingers until he pulls away, until they’re both breathless, until he takes her hand in his and kisses her palm before holding it still, the other hand holding the ring up for her to see.
He doesn’t speak the question, but it’s one he has already asked. She can see it in his eyes, can feel her own tears hot on her cheeks as she nods.
The ring fits just as perfectly as it did the day he had proposed, but she barely notices: the hand that wears it is buried deep in his hair moments later, as he pulls her back for another kiss. It takes every ounce of her strength of will to pull away, to rise from his lap and stand before him. And for a moment he looks so confused, so bereft, that she almost slips back into his arms again. But she holds out her hands instead, tugs him to his feet and backs her way toward the stairs.
Tomorrow, they’ll have to go to St. Mungo’s. Tomorrow, they’ll have to face the injuries and scars and memories. But that’s tomorrow, and they’ll face it together, and she knows that the sight of the ring back on her hand will make Eowyn smile. But that’s tomorrow, and they’ll face it together, and there’s no way on earth she’s letting him sleep on the couch.
“It’s been a long day,” she says. “You should come to bed.”
Understanding sweeps across his face in one brief, happy moment. He doesn’t let her walk there, scoops her up in his arms despite her laughing protests, and carries her to bed.
Thank you so much for the bury your heart update! Little sasuke and ashura hugging was adorable. I just need him now to know that there might be an old God stuck inside ashura and being double over protective. The day he finds out Naruto is similar is the day he decides the world is too stupid to live and how did konoha last this long
Y E S won’t it be fun?? This is basically my Sasuke fix-it fic and I’m having so much fun with it. Sasuke deserves the world.
jay345sal28 replied to your post “I love that time traveling /dimension hopping au you recently...”
So what happens when byakuya meets this very charismatic healer version of Hisana
I mean, she doesn’t show anyone her face for the longest time-- like she walks around with a high-collar cloak with a hood that covers the top half of her face and a mask that covers everything else, so Byakuya has no clue who she is. What Nobody’s face looks like is a subject of major debate, in both the Seireitei and the Rukongai.
It isn’t until she’s seriously injured and on the verge of death that her identity is finally revealed.
(Byakuya shoots to his feet the instant he sees Unohana emerge. There’s a strange expression on her face, like she isn’t quite sure what she wants to say.
“Kuchiki-taicho.” She pauses, hesitating.
“What is it?” He demands sharply. “Is she alright?”
“I believe you should come in and see for yourself,” is all Unohana says in response.
Needless to say, when he walks into the post-surgery room and finds his wife lying unconscious in Nobody’s clothes-- paler, older, but still unmistakably Hisana-- he almost has a heart attack.)
Hiya! I don't know if you've already answered this but what are your thoughts on Kira from teen wolf and on Derek's mum?
I’m sort of neutral on Kira, I’ve never really explored her character in-depth before, although I do have plans to have her play a bigger role in my ghost!Laura fic so we’ll see how that goes. She’s sweet but not sickeningly so, and the way she blurts out some things reminds me a little of Stiles.
As for Talia, I could go either way with her. Generally, I headcanon her as a capable Alpha who was good to her children/most of her family but had a pretty contentious relationship with Peter at best and looked down on him/his role as left hand/his age/etc. and basically never respected him at worst. But I also have that one fic where the Hales adopted Stiles, and that’s my best version of Talia - capable, and more merciful than Peter would be, but her pack comes first, even if that means coming down hard on her enemies.