#This Never Happened

[dipperscavern]

jon snow brainrot rn.

like imagine finding him after the whole thorne execution, post-death and post-revival

i need to hold him so bad🙁🙁 in spite of the horrid crawl of his skin, hair at his nape standing on end, urging him avert his gaze as you approach, he can't help but seek your soft stare, his own eyes weak with feeling, brows curved with vulnerability. and his heartbeat is quickening, and his breathing grows sharp

his hand trembles and no matter how desperately he tries to hold fast, he crumbles when you near, raising a hand to his cheek; warm and soft and tender. his breath hitches violently in his chest and his head falls to the crook of your neck, his silent sobs disrupting the quiet with small soundless gasps

and you hold him close, with a gentleness he deserves that he'd never before recieved, a hand in his curls and the other a firm warmth on his back as he helplessly leans his weight on you to finally release the overflow of agony he'd all but drowned in 🙁🙁🙁

SWEET BOY, I NEED TO HOLD HIM💔💔

SONGBIRDS — JON SNOW

pairing: jon snow x fem!reader, 3.1k words

synopsis: the ask above <3

authors note: ouh this was a rough one! i did in fact steal sentences from this ask, so thank u anon!! i love u!! become a writer!! thank u to my febu frongers @useralba & @eldrith for helping me not lose my sanity over this, love y’all!! enjoy i guess 🙄(if possible) (i’m gonna be quiet now)

SNAP

you’re brought out of your thoughts with a jolt, startled so badly you near fall out of the tree you’ve found sanctuary in. that doesn’t sit well with you, you’ve always been steady.

so was bran, a small voice whispers. so was he, another part of you agrees — and the one it mentions has naught to do with climbing.

was, your mind echoes bitterly. it seems like everyone who once surrounded you is only that anymore, a was. a whisper of the past, faces seen nowhere but in living memory; and now, he has joined them.

fresh tears roll down your cheeks, and you wipe them as soon as they join the conversation of grief. bitterness — mourning — desperation, all cradling you at once.

you readjust your form, limbs beginning to fall asleep from the tight position they’re in. if only you could do the same. it seems the gods have deemed you unable, as every time your eyes droop, you see the face of the lord commander.

the mere thought of him is paining, and the sight of him was entirely too much to bear. so much so that you fled, the memory squeezing uncomfortably at your chest.

his eyes, once ever-expressive, dulled to nothing but an expressionless saccharine blur. lips parted, yet no air being brought in to fill his lungs. the snow beneath him was stained a bloody crimson, and you can almost feel the familiar cold of the icy ground beneath your knees as you kneel beside the form of the man you love.

at first, you had cried. whispering pleas to whomever would listen, clutching any part of him you could reach — you had even attempted to stop the bleeding. stupid, stupid girl.

then, it seemed to occur to you that you were touching death. slowly removing your hands, looking down at the lifeless body of jon snow. and just like that, repulsion had entered your veins. no — rejection.

you rejected this. you rejected death, you rejected the finality you had been dealt. you had stood, clutching your bow, arrows lightly jostling from the movement. hunting.

you had been hunting while jon was dying.

if only time had dealt you a mercy, perhaps you would’ve made it back in time. to save him, or just to say goodbye, you’re not greedy in your wishing.

you glance to your hands, still stained with his blood. suddenly, your eyes flutter shut as you see the image of his body again — his wounds smoking in the cold nights air. it feels like a lifetime ago. rejection has long since abandoned you, leaving bitter acceptance in its wake.

you blink, eyes threatening tears, and your gaze finds the white and red blur of a weirwood tree. you return to the woods to escape, yet the gods find you anyway; what cruel mockery.

how could they, yet again? don’t they see all you lose? they must, you think, as they’re the ones who keep taking. is that the only joy a god may find? maybe now, that’s why you hunt; to send them a life as sick compensation for the one they took. what an acidic dance.

CRACK

this time, when a twig breaks, you are not so foolish as to think it only by coincidence. you aren’t the only hunter out here — yet you did not think to find yourself as prey.

whatever stalks you is enough to bring you out of the cynicality of grief, snapping you into a different mindset. though previously unsure how much more you can withstand, your body proves otherwise, flawless in its transition and execution.

you heart increases its rhythm, surefire in its performance, allowing extra blood flow and oxygen to be pumped to your aching muscles. your breathing changes, now quick and rapid breaths to take in more air which prove effective as you shift yourself from your sitting position.

you had chosen not the tallest tree, but the thickest and most concealed. it gives more room for stability, allowing you to exercise your position; a small decision you now are thankful for as you move forward, outstretching yourself on its thick limb to try and catch glimpse of whatever it is that seeks you.

unfortunately, the concealment that hides you does its job too well. you try to peer through the branches and leaves for what feels like ages, but they prove too thick. you curse under your breath, withdrawing from the branch to retreat back to the trees trunk once more.

closing your eyes, you listen. the gust of wind, the rustling of leaves, a raven cries in the distance. you wait.

there — your ears are graced with the light chirp of birds, in your own tree and in others nearby.

“If danger is near, the birds don’t sing.”

ned starks voice rings through your ears, so loud and clear that for a moment, you almost lose concentration. if asked why, you’d never be able to directly say why your eyes didn’t snap open, why your head didn’t swivel around, looking for the source of the voice you’ve heard. can you and the gods share a secret, if it’s one they decide not to include you on?

as the melody of songbirds continue, you shift to begin your descent.

in any other scenario you would stay in the tree, concealed by its branches until the threat was certainly gone. but things are different. jon is dead — you seek a fight. (do you, or do you refuse to allow the stranger your soul as well?)

the decision made, even in grief, isn’t a rash one. whatever it is isn’t nearby enough to silence the singers, and this may be your only window of opportunity to flip the coin; restoring yourself as predator, not prey.

your feet hit the ground, and you wince at the noise made. it’s midday, so you cannot hope for nightfalls rescue of concealment.

you pause, peering around you while you allow yourself a moment to think. your hunting grounds have always been the forest that surrounds castle black, and you had retreated to the very edge of it. your hunter has come from the north — funny enough, from the direction of castle black itself. if you’re careful, you can make a loop back east, foregoing your usual trail. swallowing your nerves, you begin to move your feet.

your senses are heightened, alike to how they are in battle, but this is different. instead of blood pulsing in your ears, they’re attuned to every sound, no matter how minuscule. the smell of blood and death is replaced by nature, the scent of oak & pine leaves fighting to not be smothered by the cold.

you don’t make much progress before you turn a corner and yelp in surprise, being met with a hulking figure, red eyes boring into you.

“Ghost—!” you shout; in surprise, frustration, and relief all at once. your breathing heavies, heart now beating wildly, ready to supply you should you need to run at a moments notice. then, somehow, you’re smiling. you smile at ghost, at the birds, who didn’t notice him enough to quiet themselves, and the childness of it all. you kneel, shouldering your bow and outstretching an arm.

ghost seems like he’s been waiting for your action, stepping forward immediately. you register his willingness — had he been searching for you? or did he find jon dead and left, as you did, finding you accidentally? if only he could speak; the phantom of a thousand words.

he’s soft under your hands, a small comfort parading in the wake of sad relations. and suddenly, you feel guilty. how long has ghost been by jon’s side? how fierce, the loyalty the direwolf has shown him? how fierce the devotion jon had shown him in return? he mourns alongside you, grief arguably more substantial, as he was given no explanation. how could he understand such matters?

an idiot thought, you're quick to push it away. you both have every right to grief, there is more than enough to go around.

eventually, ghost pulls away, and begins padding in the direction to castle black. you think he means to be solitary, but after a few paces, he stops, turning to look back at you. expectant.

though your breath hitches and grief nags at you once more, you swallow it down, and begin to follow the only remnant of jon snow — a piece of him that the gods saw fit to leave you. what cruel mercy, coming from the same hands of injustice.

though content to wallow in your anger, your disbelief, you refuse to allow the direwolf to return to castle black alone. strangely, the farther you follow him, the more you get a sense of deja vu. it can’t be more than a few minutes before you see a tree with bark missing, torn off and left bare its left side, which is now your right. a mark you had left to remember your trail. ghost has tracked your scent from castle black.

with the realization arises conflicted feelings, as if they can’t agree on how you feel. loyalty rings faintly in the back of your mind, the things done for love.

you forcibly close your mind, numbing yourself as to be fully in the present. you’ll have the rest of your days to dwell on it; but only now are you here, in the company of trees and wolves and birds, oh how they sing.

and suddenly, the melody is quiet.

time itself has been stopped, halted in its tracks. there’s no rustling of branches, of leaves, no sound of birds, no sound at all — the world has become inaudible.

you and ghost mirror each other in the ways you both lurch to a halt. a sick feeling infects your gut, hairs rising on the back of your neck, and the instinctual need to flee almost takes over. but something keeps you there, rooted to your spot, feet unmoving. what anchors you, is another secret between you and the gods; another peculiar joke that you stay the punchline of.

then, after a moment, a gust of wind graces the forest. it blows your hair, rustles through the trees, and almost hesitantly so, the birds begin their song again. ghost looks back at you, surveying as if this is the first time he’s seen you.

he begins to lead the way once more, but a thought still lingers in the back of your mind, and you’re unable to shake off the unease in your gut. what has dismantled the harmonious balance among living things so?

━━━━━━━━━━༺✰ ━━━━━━━━━━━

he wakes with a gasp.

━━━━━━━━━━༺✰ ━━━━━━━━━━━

it must be hours later when you approach the gates of castle black. one of the guards on watch takes notice, shaking the other awake. as they both stare down at you, you wonder.

are they close enough to see the mourning that rests forefront on your face? were they the same men who opened the gate for you upon your return last night, only to do the same thing minutes later after you found jon? do they feel guilty? should you?

the wooden gates protest opening, loud creaks and groans as it gives you access, and at first, you don’t see it.

at first, you walk in, and your gaze is trapped on the ground, lost in thought. you’ve come back empty handed, as you came back to jon — or rather, his body. but you don’t think anyone was expecting a stag draped across your shoulders. amidst the unexpected.

when you finally do look up, you’re startled for the ? time today. four men hang in the middle of the courtyard.

you stop in your tracks, but this time, ghost pads on ahead of you. he stops not for anybody, curving them all to fair left. the direction to jon’s chambers.

you don’t have long to dwell on the wolfs mistake, as peoples eyes find your frozen figure. among them, friends; edd, grenn, pyp, others you don’t recognize. some, not dressed in black. wildlings. you begin to walk forward, and a tall, ginger bearded figure spots you. tormund walks to meet you, an expression on his face unreadable — unable to be identified by your tired eyes.

confusion — surprise — apprehension — curiosity; all fight for their seat at the forefront of your mind, but they’re forced to share.

as you and tormund find each other, you glance past him at the hanging men. then to your left, expecting to see ghost still scratching at jon’s door — but he’s not there. was he shooed off? did you misread his intention?

“I don’t— what’s…” you start, but don’t finish. how could you even begin?

tormund reaches for you, hands settling on your biceps. whether he’s keeping you in place or checking for injury, you don’t think you care. the weight and warmth of the gesture is welcomed.

“Tormund, you’re scaring me—” your admission wouldn’t usually come so easy, but you can’t be bothered to guard yourself. you’re exhausted, your muscles are stiff, you’re confused, and you hurt.

he only turns you toward jon’s chambers, pointing, a hand on the small of your back. “In there, little bird.” he says, and you wish to tell him what a help he is. but you don’t. for some reason, you bite your tongue, sparing a last glance at him, before slowly making your way over.

all of the eyes on you make you nervous, and frustrate you all the same. why do they all act like they’ve seen the father?

it doesn’t take long for you to reach the door, curiosity guiding your step. you see ghosts muddied paw prints on the wood, but they don’t turn left or right — ending at the chamber door. your brows furrow almost instinctively. you can’t help but linger on the thought, setting your bow & arrows to lay nearby; your shoulders welcome the reprieve. with bated breaths, you push on the wood, stepping inside. what you find is beyond even your wildest imaginations.

what you find is jon’s head turning to look at you, and you can’t help the sharp inhale of air you take.

his bottom half is clothed, but his upper is uncovered, torso wrapped in bandages; covering the stab wounds that you know took his life.

you think him a hallucination, mind willing his fate to change so desperately it has conjured up its own delusion. but you glance to ghost, dutifully curled by his feet, and shift to turn, looking at the paw prints that led you here.

you turn back to (jon?), closing the door behind you. while your own flickers to ghost once more (an affirmation), jon’s gaze remains fixed on you. you inch closer, surveying him.

his eyes, now encasing life — not quite the same as you knew, but life nonetheless. lips, parted, as to suck in air to fill his lungs. lungs that in return, work in correspondence with his heart, beating to keep him alive.

no. this can’t be…

but it is.

he’s rigid — uncomfortable, yet a part of him fights to relax in your presence. how can it all be so unbalanced and so right all at once? you’re here. you’re all he’s ever wanted. but a part of him keeps him withdrawn, fighting him on reaching out for you.

perhaps it’s the horrid crawl of his skin, urging him avert his gaze as you approach. even so, he can't help but seek your gentle stare, his own eyes weak with feeling, brows curved with vulnerability. you see it as you close in — the turmoil within himself.

a different part of him wins, and he reaches for you. you’ve been waiting, it seems, and reach for him with equal fervor. his hands are cold on your waist, strikingly so. your eyes widen, disbelief written on you like ink on parchment.

you had not expected to feel him. no, you expected for him to vanish underneath your very fingertips.

one of your hands find the bare skin of his torso, experimentally reaching out. jon is hungry for your touch, offering any part of himself for your taking. he has craved you desperately ever since he awoke.

he watches, patient as you register the warmth underneath your hand. there’s blood circulating through his veins. your pupils blow wide in the realization.

you’re anxious for more assurance, your right hand moving to his forearm to keep him in place (jon wouldn’t dare to move), as your left finds his chest. specifically — the part of his chest that keeps safe his heart. you feel it beat underneath your palm, and your reaction is immediate, eyes fluttering shut.

if he didn’t want to be touched, jon would’ve shied away from you by now. but he hasn’t. no, his eyes bore into you with the attention only divine beings receive

jons breathing heavies in anticipation, expectant. he gauges every ounce of your reaction, waiting for your evaluation of him — as a sinner would their god. is he worthy? do you deem him so?

when your eyes open, something clicks into place. jon is here, in the now, alive and breathing; your fingertips said so themselves. you don’t know how, but you can’t find it in yourself to care much in the present, not when you finally have him in your hold once more. what you would’ve given for this, hours ago in your tree. what wouldn’t you have given?

and now, your eyes roam over every part of him, drinking in all that you can. your gaze trails fast, mapping the expanse of his shoulders, down his arms, to his torso, across his bandages again.

your hand removes itself from his chest, only momentarily, but jon chases your touch all the same. you can’t bear to leave him wanting, sliding a hand up his shoulder, feeling the lithe muscle beneath it. you’re desperate to ground the feeling of him, to commit it to memory — and jon seems equal in his need.

you hand stops it’s ascent when it reaches his neck, cradling the juncture of it, thumb smoothing over the soft skin of his cheek, as you meet his gaze. your touch is warm and soft and tender, and in an instant, his eyes are watery. the hands on your waist tremble, and his breaths turn shaky in an attempt to hold himself together. his brows pull together, and his breath hitches violently in his chest. something stirs in you at the sight, the expressions of a broken man.

jon has passed your test of realism with flying colors, and when he realizes, he crumbles.

his head falls to the crook of your neck, closing the small distance between you. you’re quick to wrap your arms around him, and jon’s immediate in pulling you closer — as close as you can get. the tears begin their flow easily, releasing the buildup of emotions harbored from death snaring & absolving him; akin to poison swallowed and retched before fully digested.

your touch is gentle, a hand in his curls and the other a firm warmth on his back. he leans himself into you, almost helplessly so, as if he couldn’t stop himself if he tried. you accept his weight with open arms. if jon was asked why he fights so desperately, even in times it seems hopeless, he would say to repay the gods for their gift to him; you.

the only things that disrupt the steady quiet that surrounds you are his silent sobs, accompanied by the small soundless gasps that flow from his lips as a river of melancholy.

his grip is tight; he drowns in a vast sea of agony, and you alone are his anchor.

[the-torchwood-magician]

"You said you would fight"

"Then I take it back, alright?! I take it back! But not him!"

[wolfsong-the-bloody-beast]

The feel when you're forced to kill your lover and friends from another playthrough.

[another-clive-blog]

i think clive is really cute as a kid

AGREED !!!

This was his mother gently taunting him in my mind ahah <3 What a loving family =)

[lokitty-supreme]

[yourtwistedlies]

girly you are SPEEDING through justice you need the medal for fastest fanfic reader

stop calling me out 😭😭

ITS SO GOOD THO AND I LOVE ESMERAY WITH MY ENTIRE HEART AHHHHH SHE EATS UP EVERY TIME

AND YOUR OC ALIZA ITS SO COOL THAT YOU USE HER TO RP AND WROTE A STORYYY

i already read it a while ago :D i just hadn’t commented or read the newest chapters so i’m sadly not as fast as i’d like to say but

why should i ruin my own lore lmao

[swagrum76]

A hypothetical scenario

Who fucking stole my mountain dew,

I swear, if I find you, I will forcefully shut your bumhole shut with glue,

This is uncalled for,

What's next, are you going to steal my entire door,

Or maybe even the tiling on the floor,

Listen, you can't steal stuff from others, kid,

It's unacceptable and I may be selling your boxers for the highest bid

[deritosmi]

Me: *makes a character*

Me: hmmm I think I will make you Hot

Me: *makes the character Hot*

Me: *shares character with the world*

The world: I want him to rock my world 😍😍😍

Me:

Me: Okay now it's time to add the Asexual Pride Flag

[murderoushagthesequel]

hELP i just saw a ship edit of brad and david from mythic quest and why does it make sense in my brain i'm going to cry

i really didn't need the sudden urge to write MYTHIC QUEST fanfiction right now

i am laughing HYSTERICALLY

[hearts4pearlescentmoon]

tallytober day 6: Rob Cantor

Trying to color in black and white was fun

Prompts under cut

[totallyuseless-ugh]

Sticky Note on the Dashboard

Wild West AU idea

A good half hour ride away from town stands the Old Ashton Ranch. It’s been passed down through generations and known for the excellent steed being raised and trained on the estate. But after a long drought, the family was forced to prematurely sell half of their horses and let go of all ranch hands in order to keep the rest. Cristoff also had to take on a job as cowboy to get money in hopes of getting the ranch back to its former glory.

The unfortunate events left Joane to take over with the help of her mother and three children, Henry, Aaron, and CJ (Cristoff Junior). Helena took care most of the house chores as best she could at her age, and Joane tended to the horses’ needs. Aaron and Henry also tried to help out as much they could after school. But the biggest role that Cristoff had left open was taken over by his oldest son.

From sunrise to sundown, they would be out training the younger horses and taking them to neighbouring farms and towns to accustom them to the presence of other animals, noise and crowds of people. CJ always looked up to their father and aspired to take over the ranch some day, but only now had they come to fully understand the amount of labour it took to run everything. So whenever possible, they would ride into town and go into a few shops to buy anything the family asked for, but also taking their time to chat with the shopkeepers (“to get the horses used to waiting outside”).

Their favourite place to stop at was “Hodge’s Crafts”, a large shop known for the wide variety of products they offered. Anything related to clothing, fabrics, yarns, leather or wood work could be found or commissioned here. And it was visible in every piece sold how much love the family had for the craft. If the Ashtons ever needed something, this was the first place they would go looking.

On a particularly tiring day, CJ rode off to the shop for a much needed break. Just the way into town was already enough to keep up their grumpy mood. Jackvill, the young horse CJ had been training for a few months, would not stop bucking his hind legs out at every other step, nor would he go any slower than a trot. All they could hope for was at least a few minutes of peace in the store, once Jackvill was tied to the pole.

Darnell's head perked up at the sound of the bell hanging over the door. Finally, a customer had come in. It was starting to get boring to the point of him starting to sort all the bills in the register to face all the same way. "Welcome to Hodge's Crafts. I'm Darnell, let me know if you need anything."

CJ already knew the standard greeting here. They would usually just nod their head, say a 'hello' back and then disappear somewhere in the store to get the things they needed. But after this horrible ride, they really needed some company to get their mood back up. "A bunch of things, actually."

"Oh," Darnell was surprised, yet relieved. He would not have to stand behind the counter awkwardly and pretend he was not peeking around the aisles to see what the customer was up to. "Well, what can I help you with?"

CJ put a creased piece of paper down in front of him. It was a rather short list, but the horrible handwriting made it a riddle to decipher any words. At least CJ mostly remembered the contents of the list anyway, thus making it easier to find everything.

On their way back to the till, they both passed the storefront windows. Darnell noticed the horse tied to the pole. One, because of the beautiful pattern of its coat. But mostly because Jackvill had his ears turned back flush to his neck and would not stand still for even a second.

CJ sighed at the sight, "Sorry 'bout him. Jax is still pretty green 'n stubborn.."

"I dunno, he seems a bit.. too uncomfortable for that," Darnell muttered. "Would you mind if I took a closer look at him?"

"Not at all. Though I dunno how much you might be able to find."

The two drop off the items by the till and headed outside to where Jackvill stood, or rather danced around. Darnell watched him for a while, how the horse rolled up his neck as far as possible to straighten out his back.

"Could you maybe give me the saddle for a sec?" Darnell asked after a moment. CJ shrugged. They were not entirely sure what the other was up to. But at this point, they were willing to try anything to have Jackvill be less of a nuisance. And just a couple of seconds after removing the saddle stood Jackvill more relaxed and let his head hang, ears twitching from side to side.

Upon closer inspection back inside, Darnell found the source of all the trouble. "This saddle is utterly worn. Must be the core that's got Jax in pain."

"Well I'll be damned," CJ cursed under their breath. "I s'pose I need a new one then?"

"Perhaps. But maybe it's possible to just change the core and readjust the saddle to fit Jax."

"Just what I needed.."

Darnell saw the dull look on CJ's face. It took no expert to see this surprise cost would not be easy for them to pay for. But that was the moment he got a brilliant idea.

"Okay, how 'bout a deal."

"What kind?.." CJ gave him a cautious look.

"I'll get the saddle repaired at no charge. But in return, you get our new carriage horses ready for their new job."

CJ still seemed suspicious of the offer, glancing at Darnell for a moment as if to figure out his intentions. Regardless, they eventually extended their hand to shake his. "It's a deal."

That day, Jackvill had to be walked back to the ranch as is back was loaded with no saddle or bags, but still had to carry the new things CJ had bought for their family. But they were happy nonetheless. About the deal, as well as the opportunity to leave the ranch more often and yet be in good company with one of the Hodges.

[biarritzzz]

"Gender non conforming butch lesbian"

You are dressed in a boring t-shirt, a boring pair of jeans and wear boring sneakers. Exactly like 90% of women. You are completely ordinary.

Stop making homosexuality into a political statement, it's a neutral sexual orientation.

Comparing yourself to Dubai Instahoes when most women aren't in fact Barbie Doll tradwives. Time to log off.

[dongtopus]

Rumata all but leapt from the horse as its hooves ground into the loose gravel. Both monks stationed either side of the gate ran toward him, deceptively frail arms waving in their oversized tunics.

Rumata pushed some stray hairs from his face and gripped the hilt of his sword firmly before raising his wrist. four silver bracelets shone in the firelight.

“Boy if you don’t get the fuck outta my way you’re going to find out just in whose name it really is!”

“In His name!” the pair replied before backing away and returning to the wall.

Just as quickly as he had arrived, Don Rumata disappeared in the keep grounds.

 “Sheeeeeeeesh!” one monk proclaimed with a screech, pushing fingers into his forearm.

“Bet.” replied the other.

[arasakas-ronin]

“On second thought, let’s not invite any workmates to the wedding, samurai.”

[protokolz33]

🎶🎶🔥🔥