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author-morgan · 9 months

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i see your requests are open!! can you do something sweet with Harald? (and Halfdan if you’re comfortable with polyamory!)

Of courseeeee. Here is some Harald fluff (with a pinch of bittersweetness and angst). I was going to have this be polyamorous (bc those two come as a pair more often than naught in my fics lbr lol), but once I got started it just turned into something more Harald-centric. Hope you don't mind! (I went a little overboard for him again) Harald Finehair x fem!Reader

HALFDAN THE BLACK is the first to enter Tamdrup’s great hall upon returning from a successful raiding season. The doors swing open wide, and those gathered for the tribunal part, making way for the victorious. Rising from the seat of power, you go to him with open arms, smiling. “I see you brought my husband back,” you muse, watching Harald enter the hall at last, surrounded by a score of rowdy warriors and overjoyed denizens—rightfully so, they have returned with riches and have lost fewer than a dozen warriors during the raids.

“I fear what you would do if I didn’t,” Halfdan laughs, tossing down a heavy coin purse on the table before taking you into his arms.

“It is always good to see you again,” you smile, kissing your marriage-brother’s cheek. He is inclined to agree. After long days at sea and many weeks away, it is good to be greeted by a fair and familiar face such as yours. Halfdan clasps your shoulder as he steps around you, pouring himself a cup of mead—leaving you to his brother. “Harald,” you greet, and the hall falls silent as he approaches you.

His breath catches as he beholds you, standing before him regal as ever with a gifted silver circlet resting upon your brow. His wife. His queen. His heart. It is as though the rest of the world falls away when he stops before you, rough hands cradling your face with the gentlest of touches. “By all the gods” —he strokes his thumbs over your cheeks— “you’re even more beautiful than I remember.”

Harald’s kiss is slow and soft—save for the familiar scratch of his beard against your cheek and jaw—and speaks of the months of longing to return to your loving arms. You kiss him like you’ve done a thousand times before, falling into the rhythm as though you never parted. Your fingers comb through his beard as you part, foreheads resting together, but then your smile widens as you wrap your arms around him, holding him tight. “I’ve missed you,” you breathe. But now he’ll be yours again until the next raiding season comes.

THE WHEEL OF time does not slow, and the harvest season fades into winter and then to the first buds of spring. Nigh all the Vestfold gathered in Tamdrup tonight for the feast to celebrate sowing the first seeds of the new crop and seasoning the turned soil with sacred blood. But that is not the only reason the jarls and fighting men have come all this way. In the coming weeks, Harald, Halfdan, and anyone else willing to sail will make their way to Frankia to raid Paris with Ragnar Lothbrok. Festivities last long into the night, but Harald comes to you soon after you take leave.

He draws lines over the length of your spine as you lay with him, head pillowed on his chest, listening to the slow rhythmic beat of his heat, bare legs entwined, but then you twist in his arms and lean up to kiss him—featherlight and sweet as the mead still on his breath—fingertips following the blue-black scrollwork of his tattoos. Then he tilts his head back, letting you trace the curving lines on his neck and down to the ones on his chest—only your touch could ever make him tremble.

“Paris?” You repeat, following one of the silver scars on his ribs with your fingertips. He’s spoken of the city to the south and of Ragnar Lothbrok before, but with the night’s feast, it became official. Come the spring, he would prepare his ships and set sail to join the farmer-turned-king on his second venture to Frankia.

“Yes,” Harald says, his voice a low rasp. He sees it in your eyes, a flicker of hope that maybe this time you will sail with him and his brother—that you will be able to visit the distant lands so many speak of—but now is not the time for you to venture into the unknown. Your life is not something he can risk so easily and carelessly. Harald curls his hand around yours, then kisses the center of your palm and holds your hand close to his chest. “I need you here, my heart,” he tells you, but you already know that.

“I’ll plan a feast and a sacrifice before you and Halfdan depart,” you tell him—it is what any good queen and wife would do to see her husband and people return safe and with victory. And then he takes your lips and your breath, holding you close. You sigh into his mouth, letting his tongue brush yours, fingers slipping back into his unbound hair. His kiss is reverent, and you cannot help but miss the cracked softness of his lips against yours when he parts, but it is only so he can hold you in his arms.

TEN DAYS AFTER Harald Finehair first sets sail to Kattegat, his brother and the remainder of the fleet are ready to follow. The last of the barrels and crates are being rolled and loaded into the longships when you arrive on the docks to bid everyone farewell and good fortune on their journeys. Six hundred men and shieldmaidens from the Vestfold have gathered over the last two moons, all to leave on this day to join Ragnar Lothbrok in his endeavors—but Tamdrup will feel empty without their presence. Though, there is already a newfound hollowness in the wake of Harald’s departure.

You find Halfdan amongst the chaos, checking the yellow-red shields secured on the side of one of the ships. “Halfdan,” you call, and he turns on heel to face you with a half-bow—nigh teasing in nature, but you are, after all, his queen. Before he can stand upright, you reach out and rest your hands on his cheeks, and he bends a little farther, accepting the kiss you bestow upon his brow. “Be safe,” you tell him, hands moving to clasp his. “Look after your brother.”

Halfdan squeezes your hands. “You know I will,” he assures you. That is something you’ll never have to worry about—the bonds of blood and brotherhood run deep. You nod, and he steps back down into the longship. At your hest, they will set sail for glory and, if the gods deem it so, Valhalla.

One of your attendants hastens to the dock, stepping forward to present the gift commissioned from the blacksmith and jeweler—it's meant to be a surprise in celebration of another year of marriage, but alas, such care and detail took longer than expected. It’s a necklace of bronze and silver with a pendant shaped into the likeness of Mjölnir clasped in the mouths of two silver dragonheads on a chain of alternating links. “It was not finished before Harald left,” you explain, placing the necklace in Halfdan’s palm. “Give it to him, please.” Halfdan nods. “And all my love.”

RESOUNDING HORNS ANNOUNCE the return of Harald Finehair’s fleet in the dark hours of the evening. You rise from bed and make haste to the docks—handmaids following close behind with slippers and a cloak, but decorum is the least of your concerns. So few have returned, you think, counting the dwindling number of ships gathered compared to how many set off. The first wave departs one of the docked ships, and there is no air of triumph in those who press past you—eager to return to home and hearth and for solid ground beneath their feet. “Harald!” You call as he steps from the longship and onto the dock.

But he does not embrace you as he normally would after such a long voyage, and the spark in his stormy blue eyes is faded. It is only when you see who the men are carrying off the ship on a crude stretcher do you understand the cause of your husband’s sullen mood. “Halfdan,” you breathe, looking between him and Harald. You step to your marriage-brother and lift the pelt of fur covering his torso, grimacing—the wound at his shoulder is a festered, blackish mess, and the sweat on his brow in the first chill of winter speaks of the fever that’s set in during the return voyage.

You turn to one of your handmaids. “Call on Mjöll,” you instruct, “quickly.” The years have seen you clean and bind both Harald and Halfdan’s wounds, but this is far beyond your skill, and an herbalist will be needed to call Halfdan back from the cusp of the next life. The girl nods and sets off to the healer’s hut. Looking back at the stretcher-bearers, you point up the way to the great hall. “Take him to the great hall.” In such a state, Halfdan will need several pairs of watchful eyes.

Dark shadows cast from torchlight and iron braziers shroud Harald’s expression—he does not understand how it is you can stand with so much equanimity when faced with such loss. Harald steps to you, and his shoulders fall, then wordless, he slumps into your arms, resting his forehead on your shoulder—another weight you must bear—hands twisting into the fabric of your pale linen shift. You smooth your hand over his back, following the length of his braid-bound hair. “I thank the gods you have returned to me, my love,” you breathe, unwilling to let him part just yet.

Mjöll works to prepare a cataplasm of moss and herbs into the hours of the night, and you kneel at the prepared pallet of fur and pillows, placing a cool, damp rag upon Halfdan’s brow. There is little else you can do for your marriage brother besides trust the herbalist’s remedies, pray to the gods, and hope they are merciful. Mjöll nods for you to leave and tend to your husband. She and her apprentice will care for Halfdan.

He is pacing the length of the foot of the bed when you enter your shared chambers—hands flexing into fists at his side. You step into Harald’s path, hands going to the ties and buckles of his leathern armor. “If the High One truly sought Halfdan’s company,” you tell him, setting aside his vambraces before turning back, “he would already be feasting in the Halls of the Slain.”

To Harald, it is poor consolation but consolation all the same. And deep down, he knows you are right. Shrugging off his worn and stained tunic, he goes to the washbasin and splashes water on his face and chest, scrubbing away a mix of sweat and salt spray, and blood too. Harald returns to sit at your side on the bed—he stares ahead at the flickering flames of tallow candles. “What happened?” You finally dare ask.

“The magic of Ragnar Lothbrok failed,” he tells you. The lingering taste of defeat is bitter on his tongue—the gods had forsaken them on that river, had forsaken Ragnar. As it happened to be, he was just like any other man. “We were humiliated and pushed out of Frankia with nothing to show for it.” He does not remember the last time he returned to Tamdrup, to you, with nothing to show for his travels. It will take time for the Vestfold to recover from such a defeat.

You touch his cheek, fingers combing through his unkempt beard, drawing his gaze to you. “You live, as does your brother.” The rancor in his expression falters, his jaw unclenching, and he leans into you—his nose just barely bumping against yours. Yes, he and Halfdan escaped with their lives. That is more than can be said for many who embarked on the journey to Paris. Ragnar Lothbrok may have lost the favor of the gods, but they still smiled upon Harald and his brother. “That is enough for me,” you say, softly. He kisses you then, and you meld against him with a sigh and a slight smile that he can feel on your lips.

HE SITS ON his throne—slouched to the side and staring into the abyss, twisting his shark-tooth crown in his hands. Your king has returned, yet still, it is only you shouldering the weight of the kingdom. You stop at the dais and extend your hand toward him. “Walk with me.” It is not a request. Harald rises and follows.

The path through the forest is well-worn, both into the Earth and memory. It carves a winding route through the forest and up bare rock to a promontory overlooking Tamdrup and the mouth of the fjord—a place you frequent to look for sails on the horizon when the men are away, a place where Harald promised he would marry you one day what now feels like a lifetime ago.

But the morning fog has yet to lift from the land, just as the fog of bitterness in the aftermath of what happened in Paris has yet to lift from your husband and king. There has been no feast to honor the memory of those lost since his return several days ago and no promise or mention of what comes next for the Vestfold. It is as though he is lost in despair, mourning his brother already despite the day-by-day recovery—just yesterday, Halfdan’s fever broke.

You sit atop one of the boulders there on the promontory. There’s space enough for him to join you, but, for a moment, he lingers and stares. In the morning the light and mist, you seem like one of the winged women—ethereal. A sight that makes his heart twist and ache given the dark thoughts and mood which have taken hold of him since returning to Tamdrup.

Harald sits next to you and hangs his head, letting his hand rest on your thigh—a gentle weight and warmth. “I fear I have not been a good husband,” he confesses. It is never an easy thing for a prideful man to admit weakness and accept his faults, less so for a king. But the failed siege, his brother’s injury, and the long months spent away from you, from home, have been a heavy weight on his heart.

It does not feel right, leaving you time and time again, each longer than the last, to rule over his lands and care for his people—duties which are his. But you rule so fairly, and his people love you for it. “I have left you too often,” he breathes, a new softness and the tremble of guilt in his voice. “And I have left you to carry a burden meant to be shouldered by two backs” —his hand runs across your shoulders, down your spine— “not one.”

You never expected being wife to a king—being a queen—would be easy. Least of all, the wife of an ambitious man with dreams of uniting Norway under a single crown. Harald Finehair is vikingr. To deny him that would be to deny his true self, and even on the loneliest and coldest of nights, you could and would never ask him to be anything other than who he is—the man you love.

“I knew what was expected of me” —you card your fingers through his beard, the first tinges of silver beginning to appear, and he can find nothing but underserved doting affection in your soft gaze— “of you, when we married.” Harald covers your hand with his own, the rough pads of his fingers pressing into your palm as his hand curls around yours, a sigh on his lips. “And I happily said yes, remember?”

He remembers the day you married well—the crown of spring wildflowers you wore, the blood-tinged kiss after exchanging rings, the bridal race with Halfdan and your cousins tripping over one another to get to the mead hall first. It is still the happiest day of his life—tied with every other day the gods let him wake up beside you.

Shifting, you lean your forehead against his and gently slip your hand free from his. “You will always have my love and support, wherever you may be.” Harald closes his eyes and curls his hand around the back of your neck, thumb stroking the soft skin beneath your ear. And you press your hand against the center of his chest—feeling the outline of the Mjölnir necklace under your palm. “And I will be here or at your side,” you tell him, a soft whisper dancing over his lips, “wherever you need me to be.” And now he’s certain—you are too good to him.

[Harald-Halfdan taglist: @ahotmesswithprivilege / @alicedopey / @certifiedlittleshit / @charming-merlin / @elluvians / @erzsebetrosztoczy / @gearhead66 / @gossamarnie / @hc-geralt-23 / @hereforreadandwrite / @moonlightsspirit / @morganamayne / @mrsragnarlodbrok / @n0sferatus / @naaladareia / @queenyalo / @rigshak / @savagemickey03 / @xinyourdreamsx / @yalos-writing ] if your name is italicized, tumblr would not let me tag you. if you’d like to be added to my Murder Bro taglist, or any other taglist, just let me know with this Google Form! if I missed you, I am sorry! but make sure to mention it in the replies or fill out the linked Google Form!

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brucewaynehater101 · 21 days

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I have this asshole on my fics that keep deleting the comments from. Do you ever get hate mail for your aus? (above is just the only time I bothered to respond to them)

So, I've heard about that happening to authors before I started posting on AO3. For my fics, I have comments enabled only for registered users. I've also put a lot of comments in my fics of stuff like "dc stands for disregard canon" or "sorry if this is ooc, but hope you enjoy!"

I don't know if that combination has prevented mean comments so far, but it works for me. It doesn't excuse their behavior (and not doing preventative work does not give them permission). If someone is mad about fanfiction not sticking to canon work, they should stop reading fanficition.

As far as on Tumblr, I've only received two not nice replies. One was a reblog yelling at me to read comics (I didn't respond to them). The other got mad about how they interpreted the post. For the second one, I tried to politely explain how my character analysis was valid.

It sucks that people get mean over free fan work that people spend time and effort creating. As long as someone isn't doing something harmful (like spreading hateful messages), dni with work you don't like.

#thank you for the ask!!!!#hopefully they stop trying to comment mean things :(

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wishingmyhairred · 1 year

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Claps hands “Everyone gather round”

Haven’t seen a to-do list in all this chaos so Here’s your rudimentary checklist on what to do now to save it:

If you haven't already make sure you hit the love/double-thumbs up button on Lockwood in netflix.

Keep posting, reblogging, reacting and commenting on ALL social media to keep Lockwood trending. (Tumblr, FB, Insta, Twitter, Reddit, even Pinterest) YOU want to get other streaming platforms to notice!!!

Keep watching Lockwood on Netflix in the background.

Request the show from Netflix.

Keep up with @charmquarkstrangequark group watch on May 20-21. Post about any other group watches.

Vote for Lockwood on this cancellations poll (currently in 4th at the time of this post). Vote, sign and post any other polls or petition.

For those who have made original posts (gifs, AMVs, Fanart, Fanficition or original thoughts) Make a Masterlist post so other’s can quickly find a post and reblog.

Reblogging is better than liking. Tumble is not a place where you dedicate you page to one thing. I cannot tell you how many times people have watch and joined a fandom based of gifs of that show.

Donate to the WGA strike fund!!! Want to really stick it to Netflix? This is the way. Last strike lasted 100 days! Writes are just as unhappy as us so help them fight the system. Also the longer the strikes goes, more desperate platforms will be to get new content which could turn heads to Complete Fiction as they are in the UK and not affected. You can also buy groceries for the strikers.

Stream the Soundtrack on you music platform in the background. Amazon Prime has it.

Buy the e-books!!! (amazon kindle)

Buy the paperbacks.

I think the best platform to pick it up would be amazon as they probably have seen an increase in sells on the E-book. Hulu/Disney+ is another option as Disney has publishing rights in the US. I don’t like the idea of HBO picking it up cause I think they would sexualize it too much.

Finally do not be toxic, threaten violence and be a bully. Go to your basement and get you feelings out on Joe and Esmerelda. But if you want to get business people to take you seriously do not actually sent them hate and threats. Politely explain that you are upset and may/will be canceling their services.

Sincerely, a veteran Young Justice and Clone Wars fan.

P.S. Just found out you can name a tribute in your WGA donation. My tribute is to First name: Lockwook Last Name: & co.

#lockwood and co #lockwood netflix #lockwood and co fandom #lockwood & co #save lockwood & co #renew lockwood and co #renew lockwood & co #amazon prime

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hollowed-hallowed · 1 year

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Often times, the writing on TVD left Bonnie Bennett holding the bag, sacrificing everything to save everyone but herself. Bonnie was given little power or happiness, and robbed of most things she did have. This event looks to right those wrongs against her.

The rewrite is creating the happiness that Bonnie Bennett deserved. The space to grow and to grieve, to have family and friends, to explore the power that she was born with. Where canon failed Bonnie, we reimagine it to give her better. Welcome to the Rewrite!

Rules:

--There are three prompts for each day: a season, a major reversal of a traumatic event, and a word. Use as many or as little of the prompts as you'd like, as the prompts are just for inspiration. All are optional, not required!

--All creative media is allowed. This includes fanvids, collages, fanficition, gif sets, playlists, etc.

--Late posting is acceptable and ongoing until late March.

--Please tag appropriately, even if that means stating you choose not to tag. (This is mostly for fanfiction writers.)

--Crossovers, polyamory, lgbtq+, and original characters are welcome to this event!

-- Use #bbbdayjustice2023 so others can see your work. Tag me @hollowed-hallowed and/or @bbtvducollection to make sure I see and reblog your creations!

Prompts:

Day 01: Season One, Grams Lives, Encouragement

Day 02: Season Two, Lucy Stays, Mentorship

Day 03: Season Three, Abby Isn't Turned, Found Family

Day 04: Season Four, Bonnie Lives, Victory

Day 05: Season Five, Otherside Survives, Diplomacy

Day 06: Season Six, No Prison World, Power

Day 07: Season Seven, Not On The Run, Romance

Day 08: Season Eight, Enzo Lives, Happily Ever After

Day 09: The Originals, Klaus & Elijah Live, Loyalty

Day 10: Legacies, Bennett School, Revival

If you have any questions, please feel free to reach out. Look forward to seeing you all in the new year!

#bbbdayjustice2023 #bonnie bennett #the vampire diaries #tvdu #bonnie bennett events

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wildlygay · 1 year

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Transformers animated fanficition writers/artists; Consider.

DISCLAIMER: I’m not telling anyone that this is how mechpreg should go, this is my own personal opinion.

Should this be apart of my ‘Why the big strong mech should carry’ discussion that I started a few weeks ago? maybe. (Part two to that here)

Unpopular opinion, Blitzwing should be the one carrying. Look I found the perfect explanation for this. Ok, I saw a post once in the #blitzwing tag where someone once compared Blitzwing’s and Bumblebee’s sizes for there art. And turns out, Bumblebee is small as hell. So, my point? You know how in every single blitzbee fanfiction (I think) you see where it has carrying in it, it’s usually bumblebee.

My point - why Bumblebee shouldn’t be carrying and Blitzwing should be.

Let’s consider the sparkling’s wellbeing for a second. For it to grow and be forged properly, it needs room. If it doesn’t have room it’ll make it. For a bot as small as TFA bumblebee, the sparkling would DEFINELY need alot of room. I don’t think cybertronians have organs like humans do, but lets pretend they do. and i’m sorry if I sound like a idiot, I’ve been having a bad mental health day and I feel like throwing myself out of a window, (I’m getting better dw) and this came up in my head spinning like a microwaving hot pocket and I had to share it.

It’s simple

Blitzwing sparks bumblebee.

Bumblebee gets sparked.

The sparkling needs room because Bumblebee is quite small.

The sparkling proceeds to squish Bee’s organs and basically flattens them to get the room.

Bumblebee does not survive the forging process and offlines when the sparkling is forged.

(I know it sounds quite grim but it’s true.)

SO. The pros and cons of Blitzwing carrying.

PROS (more like fanfiction ideas but meh):

Blitzwing has a larger frame, and can provide the growing sparkling the room it needs.

Funny scenarios that might insue from Blitzwing while he’s carrying. Example; The sparkling kicks for the first time and Blitzwing is shouting in german in a panic because he doesn’t know that it’s normal.

Cuddly Random Blitzwing. That’s it. Just picturing Blitzwing cuddling Bee.

The autobots figuring out that Blitzwing is carrying and there’s differencing reactions.

Bumblebee realizing that he just got Blitzwing sparked. Blitzwing.

CONS (eheehe Cons ok i’ll stop my jokes are horrible):

It wouldn’t be a stretch to say that Blitzwing at first, wouldn’t care. He’ll still go out fighting the autobots, infact I think he’ll be oblivious. He would only start caring when Bee has a heart-to-heart convo with him about it, basically like “Hey uh Blitzwing I think your carrying..”

Then Hothead getting all upset that he can’t go out and smash Autobots into lamp posts anymore for 9 months because he’s carrying.

(Side bullet-point I think Random would actually want a sparkling. I just see him getting excitied. And that’s damn adorable but anyways.) (happy end; all three sides of blitzwing collectively agree that they want to carry a sparkling.)

Anyways thats the end of my tedtalk, as always if you want to join the discussion feel free to reblog or comment, whatever suits your fancy. thanks for tuning in ima go and lay on the floor for as long as I can love you guys stay safe Signed by, Your best friend - Quickshadow <3

#[reloading memes on my terminal; pc posting]#[quickshadow you’ve been on the site for too long; fanfiction reviews/rants]#[your local froyoholic; quickshadow]

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zenpai-senpai · 2 years

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Litterally havent posted anything here in almost a year lmao my art is fucking awesome, you just havent seen anything new and everything isnt my "masterpiece", its made specifically so i could make alot of it. Thats why all my "me vs other girls but make it lesbian" and " trender vs real trans but make it gay" arent shaded or highlighted at all. They are just lined and colored 😂😂

all the art posted here was made almost a year ago, i just cant post my new stuff because its 1. Im currently working on animations and irl art mediums like painting/knitting/diamond sequin art/fanficition/writing/working on my fanganronpa/etc aka stuff that dosent make sense to post on a digital art blog thats mostly misc. Fandoms and ideas, 2. Some of my newer good stuff is nsfw so it cant be posted on tumblr without being reported by bitchass pple like you, 3. There is no age limit on art, anyone can start at any age and all that matters is that people like the art they've made and lastly 4. Ive been considering coming back and posting some undertale au and sans oc art but ive had a pretty consistent art block, i think you just broke it lol thanks! I might come back!

Most of my stuff hasnt been postable here and judgeing me on a mixed bag of art thats anywhere from a year ago to almost 6 years ago( considering my reblogs of art i posted on my og blog) is not a proper way to judge an artist. Like just say your lgbtphobic or racist or something because you dont like i made alot of different types of people in my mvogbmg posts because you didnt even give mean spirited constructive criticism, you just insulted it without any specifics 😂😂 So like, take a dick up the ass and whine in someone else's inbox or sumthn, id like to see you draw something better.

I went from this at 13-14

First 2 are my ocs and last one has muffet. All of these draw on anime bases off google and colored on ms paint. This isnt even the oldest ms paint art, i have hetalia(i dont support hetalia anymore, i was young and dumb) stuff even older.

To this at 19-20.

One manga coloring w/stock photo background, one of my own oc with no tracing or even a reference w/stock photo bg and last one is kacchako w/o any tracing or body references with a bg and clothing i created myself.

Id say for there being a max 7 years and minimum 5 years, thats a fuck ton of improvement, not counting my 2 billion big binders of art made on lined paper. Im very proud of my art because its the strongest thing about me. No amount of wah wah unrequested judgement of it will ever sway me from enjoying my art and how it looks. I went to school for it ffs, lets see your graphic arts degree, hm?? Oh you dont have one? Shut up lol

#omfg lmao #imagine being so pissed of at fast art of someone whose only been able to draw digitally for like 3 years and is still getting used to it #have you checked out my tiktok? maybe my youtube channel?#i surely havent been lazy lol i just didnt feel like doing alot of digital art lately #im proud of my art and of myself #i maybhave record low self esteem but i dont fuckin budge on my art it looks awesome #and the nasty comments like this have always been outweighed by the loads of amazing compliments

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haitang-flowers · 11 months

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list 5 things that make you happy, then put this in the askbox for the last 10 people who reblogged something from you. learn to know your mutuals and followers ♡

Thank you for sending me this ask! Five things that make me happy are:

Sitting in my garden listening to all the birds singing

Driving in my car down a empty road, singing (or attempting to) at the top of my lungs

Making my friends laugh unintentionally

Eating some damn good food

When you get to the italisied 'oh' moment in fanficition!

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its-all-ineffable · 1 year

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List five things that make you happy, then put this in the ask box of the last ten people who reblogged something from you. Spread the positivity!! 💖💖

<33333333

That's so sweet, thank you! 😍💖

Fanficition (reading and writing it)

Heartstopper - I mean, how cute is this show?!

Dinosaurs. I LOVE dinosaurs.

One of my best friends in the whole world, Elliot!

My mum

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author-morgan · 3 years

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Okay, you have officially made me thirsty for King Harald. 😩🤦🏻‍♀️ So I went through your Prompt Lists and found a few things, especially those two: "What happened? I told you to stay by my side!" and "Are you sure? Once we start, i might not be able to stop." With a young virgin reader maybe? 👀 You absolutely don't have to do this, I'm kinda just dropping my thoughts and ideas. 🥰 Thank you for giving us all this great content! 😭

ask and ye shall receive, tho i cannot say no to Harald. fresh spicy fluff for our smol fierce king. Harald Finehair x fem!Reader

THE WOUNDS LEFT by his brother’s death are still fresh —still bleed if he thinks too long on what could have been had he stayed his blade in the heat of battle. They are wounds he does not think will ever heal —do not deserve to heal. The gods will not forgive him for slaying Halfdan and they punish him now for it, with yet another battle come quick as the last ended.

King Harald Finehair is awake when the war horn sounds outside the walls of his home and settlement. It is hard for him to find rest, and when he does it never lasts long —not even when his bed is warmed by his sweet princess. He sits up, running his hands over his face and through his beard. There’s a sinking feeling in his gut he cannot shake as he looks to his armor and sword lying on a table at the edge of his chambers.

You turn onto your side, having woken with the resounding horn, knowing what it means. Sitting up too, you rest a hand on the center of Harald’s back, thumb tracing a line of fading blue-black ink as you lean into him, pressing your cheek into his shoulder as though to ground him from the stormy thoughts and war waging inside him. “Harald.” His name is a rough, broken whisper.

He shifts, arm moving around your shoulders, fingers twisting into the thin linen of your shift like he needs to hold tight lest you leave him too. It is never easy for a man to admit weakness, less so for a king, but the weight of everything makes Harald’s heart feel heavy. “I cannot lose you,” he breathes. You know the look in his cold eyes —the determination and burgeoning scheme twisting the gears of his mind.

Parting from his grasp, you lean back, lifting a hand to his cheek, fingers combing through his beard. The slightest of smiles kinks his lips when he sighs, leaning into the touch. “But you cannot keep me locked away like a caged songbird either,” you tell him.

“No,” he agrees, gently pulling your hand from his face. He knows to keep you from his side, and the call of battle would only make you hate him —and he cannot, will not, lose you to his own folly. The gods presented him with a woman to love good and well, at last, and by the gods, he will love you as you deserve. Harald lifts his hand to your cheek, thumb dragging over your bottom lip. “Though I could clip your wings.” He means it in jest —the slight curve of his lips and the spark in his eyes tell you so. Smiling, you glance at the patchwork of wolf pelts. “Stay close to me today, elskede mitt,” he whispers. Harald does not think it is a tall task to ask of you.

You nod. “Of course.” If the gods are kind enough, they will not let Harald from your sight. You will stand at his side, shielding his back, and he yours. “I pledged my sword to you,” you remind him, fingertips following a fading scar on his neck and the dark lines of the tattoo just above it. Then you smile. It is not just your sword and shield you have promised Harald. “And my heart.”

Harald thought you naïve when you first came to his kingdom seeking an alliance —a young, beautiful princess with no suitors or family to challenge your title. The thought still makes him feel a fool; you were everything but naïve. It had not taken long for you to play him like a lyre —as most women did. But the longer you remained stranded in Tamdrup given the summer storms, the stronger the easy friendship between you and Harald grew, soon blossoming from a simple alliance to something else, equally as wonderful. He reaches for your hand, lips and greying whiskers brushing over your knuckles. “And I do not take those gifts lightly,” Harald answers, holding your hand against his chest.

Another cry of the horns echoes, and you both know this moment must end. He reaches for his tunic, shrugging the piece of burgundy wool overhead before rising from the bed. You follow after him, helping straighten his dark leather armor, tugging the buckles and straps taut, and tie the laces of his vambraces. Harald returns the favor, helping you into your leather and mail breast piece, and takes a moment of the time slipping away to braid your hair before offering your sword and shield. He reaches for your hand before you can leave the safety of his chambers. There’s a passing second where you study each other, as though you may not meet again in this life, but garbed in armor with sword, shield, and axe, you are both ready for war and whatever the gods may have in store.

“FORWARD!” HARALD SHOUTS, his voice rings clear across the narrow strip of grassland surrounded by thick forests. The first line of his army advances, a slow march to meet those who had come to take retribution for the murder of their previous jarl. You look to him, shield raised, and sword held aloft —feeling the anticipation of his next command rising in your blood and bones. He nods, and you unsheathe your sword, falling into stride with him as he shouts again, moving toward the heart of the bloody fray.

You both sink into the thickest of the fighting, cutting your way to the heart of the battle —among the few places in Midgard one could truly feel alive. The shield wall breaks into a hundred skirmishes. Stepping out of the arc of a two-handed axe, your back presses against Harald’s. He turns, lashing out as you lunge forward, thrusting your sword point into the warrior’s belly. You both share a nod, falling back into place once more.

It happens too quickly for either of you to do anything —both of you are swarmed by a second wave of the enemy pouring out of the forest, ripped apart from one another. “Harald!” You shout, hoping your voice will carry over the grunts of those locked in combat and the screams of the dying. Lifting your shield, you block an axe blow and slash your sword over the assailant’s throat.

The pain seizes you before you know what’s happening. A blade has cut deep into your thigh, cutting through your britches. The warm gush of blood sluicing down your leg sends you to one knee. You lift your sword, blocking the overhead death strike with both hands, pressing up with all your strength until you can spin, breaking the stalemate when you slice the man up the length of his back. But as he falls, you do too.

One of Harald’s vanguards sees you, struggling back to your feet —sword pressed into the ground as a crutch, shield lost. An easy target for those on the opposing side who know who you are. Skane makes his way to you, cutting down the man who raises his axe against you. You give a nod of thanks to him, searching the field for Harald, prepared to fight through the pain. But Skane hefts you up onto his shoulder, ignoring your protests, and turns from the battle to see the long cut on your leg tended. He cannot let Harald lose his future queen.

The battle ends. Harald’s forces are victorious, yet as his army celebrates, he searches the battlefield for you until he hears the news and quickly leaves for the forward camp. The healer ducks out of the tent when he arrives, thinking it best to leave Harald and his princess. You sit up, leaning back on a crate with a bedroll as a pillow. Thick bandages are wound around your thigh, blossoming red in some places. “I told you to stay by my side,” he grits out, pacing the small space in the tent, disguising his worry and anguish as anger. Then the anger ebbs, and he kneels at your side, hand resting on your shoulder. “What happened?”

You look at your hands, still stained with mud and blood, feeling your face grow hot. Hubris found a place in your thoughts as you cut down Harald’s enemies —it almost cut you down too. “I thought,” you start, shaking your head, feeling a fool, “I overestimated my capabilities is all,” you confess. Harald reaches for your hands and lifts both to his lips, kissing your knuckles and then the center of your palms, and allows himself to breathe a deep sigh of relief. The healer assures him you will live. This wound would heal given time, rest, and care. Harald will see you get all three and more.

TO SAY YOU do not enjoy his attention and affections would be a lie, but in the week since the battle, it has almost become an annoyance —how he frets over every little thing. Like now, he insists on carrying you from the mead hall to your shared chambers as if you are a delicate little spring blossom doomed to wilt if your feet dare touch the ground. Harald glances down, finding your exasperated expression amusing. You cross your arms, looking away, indignant. He laughs, the sound rumbling from deep within his belly reverberating through the both of you. “I am not crippled,” you remind him as he places you on the bed.

“No” —he smiles as he kneels before you, hands resting on your knees— “but you see, I wish for you to heal quick as you can.”

You lift a brow. “Why? Do you not enjoy doting on me anymore?”

Harald lifts his hand to your cheek as he rises, sitting next to you. The mirth in his grey-blue eyes fades, replaced by love and longing. “I would carry you to the ends of the world if you’d let me,” he says. Coming from him, it is not an exaggeration. Your breath catches under the weight of his gaze. “I wish to marry you on the summer solstice,” he says, a weight disappearing from his shoulders with the admission, “if you will have an old man like me.”

His proposal does not come as a surprise —you knew when your relationship began, he would seek to take you as his wife and queen. The lure of power is what first drew you to Tamdrup before you grew to know Harald Finehair. You smile for him, finding the gesture quickly returned —the fading blue-black tattoos on his cheeks and forehead wrinkling. “Old man?” You tease. You’ve seen him training, have fought next to him in battle, and seen the dense muscle in his arms and middle —he may not be young anymore, but he is certainly not old either.

“There is silver in my beard and hair now,” he says, laughing as he strokes the short-cropped whiskers on his chin.

“That makes you wiser,” you amend, leaning into him, “not an old man.” His smile doesn’t fade, not even as he awaits your answer. Your kiss is answer enough, sweet and loving. Harald holds your waist, drawing you closer, holding you tighter. And when you pull back, he chases your lips, settling for a quick kiss on the corner of your mouth, letting his beard tickle your cheek and jaw. “I will marry you” —you lay your hands on either side of his neck, thumbs running along his jaw, and kiss him again— “a thousand times.”

IT FEELS ODD to be a stranger sitting on the edge of a bed you have laid on a dozen times over, shared with the same man whom you loved, but tonight it is your marriage bed —and you know the duties expected of you by your husband and your people. Harald skirts around the room, lighting tallow candles and oil lanterns in place of the hearth. The summer night is warm, the air thick and made thicker by the growing tension and anticipation for this moment.

Harald sheds his wine-red tunic, draping it across the back of a chair. You’ve seen him like this before, know the scars on his arms and back as if they were on your own flesh —have memorized the curves and angles of his tattoos and the feel of his muscles beneath your fingertips. And yet, now, it is a sight that brings heat to your face. He studies the sheathed dagger lying on the table at the edge of the room and runs his hand down the length of his braid. He made a promise to himself, and now it was time to keep it.

Unsheathing the dagger, Harald goes to you and kneels —a king before his queen. Swallowing the knot in his throat, never believing this day would come. He peers up at you, eyes dark and kind. Unthinking, you lift your hand to his cheek, thumb stroking over his cheekbone and along a dark woad ink curve below, fingers slipping down to comb through his silver-tinged beard.

“I swore I would only let the woman of my dreams cut my hair when she married me” —Harald holds the dagger for you to take— “and she has.” You take the blade from him, fingers curling around its leather hilt, the dark lines of the metal ripple like water in the candlelight. “Cut my hair,” he breathes. It's a gentle command. “Please, elskede mitt.”

He bends forward, forehead pressed into your thigh. You run your fingers down the thick, dark brown braid, moving it to lay straight along his spine. Laying the sharp edge against his hair, you shore off his hair just below his shoulders. He feels the weight lift and straightens, smiling when he sees you clasping the severed braid. Harald rises, cupping your cheek —thumb stroking over your jaw, reverently. Then he leans down, pressing his lips to yours. Soft and slow and sweet with a burning heat you have not felt in his kisses before. When he draws back, Harald takes the dagger, placing it back in its leather sheath, and lays it on a low bench at the foot of the bed.

His attention returns to you. Harald has seen you wade into battle without fear, stand up to men of power without a second thought, but now you look like the young naïve princess he first believed you to be. His brows furrow —you have shared his bed for months, relished in his kisses, yet now as his wife, you quiver like an autumn leaf in a cool breeze. “Why do you tremble, wife?” He asks, fingers brushing along your neck.

“Harald, I–” you don’t have to say anything else. He understands your hesitance then; you are untouched, save for his kisses, having never lain with a man. “I” —he starts, jaw clenching. The lust in his stormy eyes gone in an instant. "I will not touch you if you do not want me to." Is all he says, voice deep, calm, and steady like the tides of an ocean. Harald has waited months and knows he is willing to wait many more for you.

You sink with the words, relieved, but the memory of what is expected of you, of the duties of a wife and queen, wash in with the next wave of emotion. You love Harald, yet fear still cuts you deeper than any sword could. Your face sours from your briefly agape expression at the thought. Bending your head, you draw in a long breath, eyes flicking to his. "No” —you shake your head, smiling, this is Harald, the man you loved, the man you now called husband— “I want you to,” you tell him, but the words break in your throat, and you grimace at how desperate you sound, as though trying to prove yourself a good and dutiful wife.

He looks at you, waiting for a more certain answer. It comes when you take his face into your hands, fingers sliding back into his hair, loosening the remnants of his braid, and kiss him with all the fierce desire kept bottled away. Harald rips himself away from your kiss with a low groan from deep in his throat. "You’re sure?” At that, you shatter. Your nod is small but firm. Harald is your husband, and you would know him as only a wife should. His hands curl around your waist. “Once we start,” he breathes in, eyes going dark again, “I might not be able to stop." Your smile tells him all he needs to know.

He begins with the slow drag of rough yet careful hands down the outsides of your thighs, over your hips, pushing your thin shift up around your waist. You can’t stop looking at his face, serious and handsome —only focused on you. Harald moves his hands to the soft insides of your thighs, squeezes them, then leans up on his knees and places a kiss below your navel —scraping the coarse whiskers on his chin and jaw over the soft skin. You jump at the tickle, and his low chuckle reverberates through you both, sending a wave of warmth washing over you, gathering low in your belly.

“Relax, wife,” Harald says, running his calloused hands over your thighs and across your pelvis, urging you to lay back. He can still tell you are tense even if your cunt is eager for his mouth and fingers. The deep rasp of his voice, the puffs of hot air across your slick folds as Harald tilts his head and breathes —warmth shoots through you as though you’ve been struck by one of Thor’s lightning bolts. He hums his contentment, turning his head to kiss your thighs, his coarse beard scraping over your skin before his tongue darts out, drawing quick patterns.

You lose conscious thought the minute he wraps his lips around your clit, hands holding you firmly in place as he laps and licks through your folds, methodical and slow with a long groan —letting you know this is just as torturous for him as it is you. Harald’s fingers brush through your folds, gathering the slick there, and he eases one finger into your cunt, curling, and stroking, then adds a second. He’s doing something devastating —the gentle pressure with each flick of his tongue— your breath coming in short gasps, chest heaving.

His mouth encircles your clit again, and he sucks gently as his fingers thrust deeper. Your moan is shaky, high, and loud, your hips curling upwards into Harald's face. He groans against your frazzled nerves, his free hand stroking over your thigh and stomach until it's crossing over the curve of your back. He sucks loudly, panting and groaning into your cunt, and you're nearly sobbing his name while digging your head back into your bed, body shaking as your pleasure crests.

He slowly withdraws his fingers, their wetness rubbing along your twitching folds as he kisses up your body. You suck in harsh breaths as you quiver, nails digging into Harald’s arms while he rises, hair a mess, mouth wet, and wide eyes wanting.

He slides his hands away from between your legs, pushing the rest of your shift up and off, leaving you bare and vulnerable before him. His hands slip below your hips, pushing you to the center of the mattress as he crawls over you —taking a moment to drink in the sight of you, a goddess lying in his bed, surrounded by soft pelts and linen blankets. Harald presses down over you, kissing you as though it is the only thing to keep him anchored in a raging storm. You sigh with him as he rocks into you, your legs winding around his hips to draw him closer.

The sweet and slow grind continues, and your sigh and plead for him in soft whispers and whimpers —music to Harald’s ears. His mouth showers your neck and chest with wet kisses, leaving your nipples standing hard and need swelling between your legs again already. A warm hand cups a breast up to his mouth, and your gasp as he sucks it deeply, tongue swirling over your nipple.

You twist a hand into his hair, arching back into the furs. Harald groans, hips rutting down into yours. His britches have sagged, and you feel the weight of his hard cock against your hip, his belly keeping it pressed into yours as he mouths across to your other breast.

With a pinched brow, you raise your head to press your forehead into Harald’s, mouth parted. His head had angled to watch your chest heave under his ministrations, but he turns back, nose brushing yours and heavy eyes meeting before he kisses you once more. “Harald,” you breathe. His name is a soft plea on your lips.

His torment has lasted too long. Shuffling back, he undoes the ties of his britches, pushing them down his thighs and off to the floor, quickly settling back between your thighs. Harald strokes his cock, thrice over as he kisses you and swallows the startled little whine you make when he slides the heavy, weeping head through your folds. He curses below his breath, beginning to press into you, slowly, watching your expression for any signs of discomfort —he finds nothing but bliss.

It is a pleasant ache, a dull burn as he presses his hips flush against yours, inch by inch, nudging you open, stealing the breath from your lungs, too full of him to think properly. You gasp, every nerve on fire as you clench your fists into the furs below, Harald’s cock still slowly sinking into your cunt —branching and crackling through your system like lightning. You whimper, pinned beneath him. Harald doesn’t move; instead, he presses soft kisses to your neck and then your lips, his breath shaking —the muscles in arms flexing over your as you draw in a deep breath.

And then he moves, and it’s so deep, and he’s so heavy and thick inside you that you can feel all of it, every ridge and vein, each pulse of blood in cock as he rocks his hips —his thighs already slick with you essence. Harald’s eyelids droop down, his mouth falling open. It’s so good it’s devastating. The pressure and pleasure make you want to cry, scream. You want more of him —harder, faster, deeper. He dips his head down, panting and grunting at your ear.

You see stars behind your eyelids. This must be what the poets sing of you think. For how could anything feel as good as the drag of his cock inside you. Slick and hot, you can feel every twitch of him as he slowly pulls his hips back, then presses back in just as slowly. It bows your back, your hips raising from the bed to meet his with a whine.

He shuffles closer on his knees, rocking his cock within you. He sits back on his haunches, a hand sliding under your bent knee, bicep flexing as he does. You groan when you sink upon him again, his cock pushing another wet sound from your needy body, fisting the sheets around you. You stare up at him, eyes wide, taking in his body and the way it looks between your spread thighs —the way the firelight flickers over the curve of his shoulders, around the muscles that hug his ribs and down over his hips.

Carefully rolling your hips in time with his, you moan, and he pumps inside a little deeper, a little quicker. You grip his arms, move your hands to his face, unsure what part of him you want to touch, which part to anchor yourself to. Harald leans down for a kiss, and you press your fingers to his cheek, kissing him with a burning intensity he’s not seen from you before. He groans against your mouth, and you pant as your bodies work together. It’s almost instinctual, the need to take him deeper, to meet, thighs hard against each other.

He presses your thighs further apart, leaning back to watch himself disappear inside you, the cling of you around him so tight it makes a cold shiver creep down his spine. Harald swipes his thumb across your clit, rubbing circles on the sensitive nub of flesh to watch you writhe and whimper for him. The way your breathing hitches and face twists in pleasure tells him you are riding the edge of a precarious ridge, ready to fall when he wills it. He leans back over you.

You drag your nails along his skin, and he shudders into his next thrust, an elbow giving out to press his body down into yours again. Then the other, curling near your head, his heat all-encompassing as is the rub of his skin into yours.

"Harald," you whimper, rolling your hips with his as he works his cock inside you. You feel lightheaded and breathless and full and– "Yes," he breathes, your name a prayer on his tongue as he kisses across your jaw and neck, back arching as his hips start to work up into an actual rhythm. By the gods, you love the way your teeth clench and your body shakes and how you can just barely take everything Harald has to give —every thrust, every moan, every kiss is yours.

His cheeks and chest are flushing even in the low light, and his hair sticks to his neck and forehead as his pace picks up, unable to withdraw completely from within you. Long, calloused fingers bury into your hair, angling you to look at him, his other slides down to where your bodies are joined, rubbing your clit, knowing by the way your walls flutter you are close, as is he. His forehead and nose press to yours, eyes locked —you’re staring into dark seas, happy to drown.

The budding pressure grows, setting you on a precipice ready to fall. It’s still a foreign sensation as your body begins shuddering against his, limbs limp but jerking, neck tilted back into the furs —shining with sweat and your skin so prettily flushed. Seeing you like this is enough to push him over too. Harald’s body tenses, his hip stuttering, cock twitching deep inside you with a spreading warmth. His groan is strangled, almost pained when he thrusts into you again, lazily —just to feel his seed begin to seep from your ruined cunt.

Harald holds himself above you, breath still coming in pants. He searches your hazy and tired expression, then dips down, taking another kiss —he does not think he will ever tire of kissing you. Sighing into his mouth, you run your hands up his sides and back, feeling the scars below your palms as you urge him to rest atop you. He does, head pillowed on your breast, listening to the beat of your heart, slowing with each passing moment. You brush aside his hair, tracing over the fading tattoo between his shoulder blades. “You have made me very happy,” he admits, looking up at you, “that happiest man in Midgard.”

You smile for him, brushing back his sweat-damp hair. “And I am grateful the gods led me to you.” The gods had woven your fate a millennia ago; they intended for the threads to twine with Harald’s of that you are certain. He turns his head, lips pressing to your breast. You both stay like that, with you tracing patterns on his shoulder, and he runes on your ribs.

On the verge of sleep, Harald rolls off you but is quick to draw you back into his arms. His lips brush against your forehead, and then in a rough whisper, you hear him breathe, “ek ann þér.”

Yes, you sigh, the gods had been good to you, and so had your husband, Harald.

[ Vikings taglist: @elizabethroestone @naaladareia @gossamarnie @n0sferatus @alicedopey @charming-merlin @ahotmesswithprivilege @certifiedlittleshit @pats-writing @gearhead66 @elluvians (for Harald) ] if you want to be added to my Vikings (Harald, Halfdan, and Ragnar) taglist, just let me know! if your name is italicized, tumblr would not let me tag you.

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good-night-dodger · 3 years

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I wanted to do something for the wonderful writers in our fandom so I've decided to create @bughead-quotes, a place to share your favorite fic quotes.

It’s Wednesday and Riverdale is on hiatus. Use the extra time to make a writer's day! I hope the blog can feature new or overlooked writers as well as popular ones. I don’t have a lot of time (ha! understatement of the year) but I'll do my best to post them fast.

I know a project like this existed a few years ago, but I've received their blessing to carry the torch so to speak. The amazing gif was made by @fyeahbughead.

#bughead #bughead fanficition #bughead quotes #fandom positivity #signal boost #please reblog

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nerdyfangirl67 · 4 years

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Make It Go Away - NCIS Reader Insert

Pairing: Tony DiNozzo x reader

Warnings: language and mentions of migraine and pain

Word count (original): 715 revamped: 964

A/N: I have decided to revamp this one for September Reblogs. Hope y’all enjoy this revamped version! This is one that is near and dear to my heart and I want to dedicate it to everyone who has ever suffered from a migraine. As someone who does suffer from migraines, I wish Tony could swoop in and take care of me. Since that isn’t going to happen, I guess I will have to write it! Keep fighting!

The throbbing pain that was pulsating through your head had you wishing you were anywhere but at work. You were currently sitting at your desk, with your head buried in your arms, trying anything you could to block the flickering fluorescent from reaching your eyes. All you wanted to do was be alone, surrounded by quiet and darkness.

You weren’t sure how long you had had your head on your desk when Gibbs’ brisk, “Grab your gear” had you groaning quietly in a combination of pain and frustration. From the lack of footsteps past your desk, you knew that Gibbs was standing in front of you.

You weakly lift your head, eyes blinking quickly, although each blink burned like fire, in an attempt to readjust to the office lighting, before making eye contact with Gibbs. Opening your mouth to deny whatever it was Gibbs was thinking, you were stopped when Gibbs turned to Tony, saying “Take her home DiNozzo.”

The pain within your head kept you from wondering if Gibbs had noticed how close you and Tony had grown in the last few months. Months in which the two of you had been dating and spending more and more time together.

You couldn’t even bring yourself to protest because the idea of being home as well as being with Tony has you actually feeling something other than pain, something akin to relief. Tony replies with a simple “Yes Boss” before gathering up his jacket and his bag, as well as yours. You slowly stand, barely clear enough in your head to hear Gibbs leaving with McGee and Ziva. Upon standing, a fresh wave of pain surges through your head causing you to squeeze your palms against your temples in an attempt to stop the throbbing.

You feel a hand on your shoulder, you realize its Tony’s from its familiar weight and the faint smell of his cologne, and feel him guide your arms into the sleeves of your jacket. Moving in front of you he slides his favorite pair of shades on your face, well aware of the fact that light only made your pain worse. “Come on Y/N. Let’s get you home.” He drapes his arm over your shoulder, gently pulling you into his side and leading the two of you to the elevator. He was wearing your favorite brown corduroy suit jacket and the feeling of it on your face was soothing.

“I’ve got you, sweetheart. We’ll be home soon, I promise.” You couldn’t even nod, instead, you let out a small noise of agreement as you buried your head further into his chest. The ride down to the parking garage seemed to last forever. And the ride home even longer. By the time Tony parks the car you are curled up in the passenger seat with your jacket pulled over your head. You didn’t move when he got out of the car and you didn’t move when he opens the passenger door.

“Ah sweetheart, let’s get you inside.” He slowly scoops you up, carrying you bridal style into the elevator, holding you close the entire ride up to the apartment, whispering soothing words to you. There is a struggle as he opens the door to the apartment, but doesn’t release you as he closes the door behind him with his foot. He continues to carry you into the bedroom, setting you down gently on the bed, propping your head up with one of the pillows he knows you like from his side of the bed. You struggle to sit up to remove your shoes but Tony is immediately at your side.

“Hey, you relax. Let me do that.” He unlaces your boots and slowly pulls them off, giving each foot a quick massage as he does. He helps you out of your dress pants and jacket, tucking you in to the bed before closing all the curtains in the room.

“I’ll be back doll. You relax.” Tony whispers, pulling the door closed behind him as he leaves the room. Alone in the dark, cool bedroom, you let the tears you have been holding back fall.

“I just want to make it go away.” You murmur into the pillow, the pain taking over your thoughts and words. “Just make it go away.” As you are mumbling nonsense into your pillow, Tony reenters the bedroom.

“What are you saying, sweetheart?” Tony’s voice jerks you from your ramblings. You turn towards his voice, your eyes scrunched closed, the tears still falling down your face.

“Tony. Just make it go away. Make it go away.” You beg, your voice cracking as a sob hiccups in your chest.

Tony quickly moves to you on the bed, scooping you up and pulling you close. He slowly runs a hand through your hair, combing it away from your face, while gently massaging your head in the process. After a minute, he retrieves the pain relievers he grabbed from his pocket, helping you sit up, while simultaneously handing you a glass for you to swallow them. He starts humming some song that you don’t know, but the deep tone of his voice and the rumble in his chest soothe you.

As his gentle movements lull you into a deep relaxation, you realize that whatever you are struggling with, he will be there to not only help you but also make sure you make it through to the other side.

Warmth fills your chest as you feel the pain start to retreat. Tony continues to hum to you while playing with your hair. “I love you DiNozzo.” You say, hearing his groan at the affectionate ‘nickname’ you give him.

“And I love you, sweetcheeks.” He presses a kiss to your temple as you start to fall asleep.

#ncis #ncis reader insert #reader insert #ncis fandom #fandom #ncis fanfiction #fanficition #ncis imagine #imagine #tony #tony dinozzo x reader #tony dinozzo x you #anthony dinozzo #anthony dinozzo x reader #tony x you #september reblog

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