// ᵐᵘˡᵗᶤ⁻ᶜʰᵃʳᵃ ᵒᶜ ʳᵖ ᵇˡᵒᵍ˒ ᵖʳᵉᵛᶤᵒᵘˢˡʸ ᵃᵗᵗᵃᶜᵏʷʰᶤˡᵉᶤᵗˢˡᵉᵉᵖˢˑ ᵖˡᵉᵃˢᵉ ʳᵉᵃᵈ ᵃᶰᵈ ᶠᵒˡˡᵒʷ ᵗʰᵉ ʳᵘˡᵉˢ˒ ᵗʰᵃᶰᵏ ʸᵒᵘˑ ᶤᶠ ʸᵒᵘ ʷᵃᶰᵗ ᵗᵒ ʳᵖ˒ ʸᵒᵘ ᶜᵃᶰ ᵃᶰˢʷᵉʳ ᵃᶰ ᵒᵖᵉᶰ ʰᵉʳᵉˑ

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Pretend to be my character’s mother/father in the ask box anonymously

Nikolaj Coster-Waldau by Claus Bjørn Larsen

{ OPEN }



He would have frowned, but aware of her reluctance to talk about her family, he decided not to push things. When it came to family, he kept a certain distance regarding privacy. 

Surely she’d tell him when she was ready without his prompt. 

"I just think it would be more pleasant if the wedding wasn’t full of my mother’s guests, that’s all."


"I’ll be fine, liebling." He flashed her a smile before pulling away to take a shirt out of the closet, buttoning them up swiftly. 

         ”—And, ah, is there anything you’d wish to do before our vows are made?” Johannes asked, raising a brow slightly at her. 

In all honesty, it wasn’t that she didn’t want to tell him. She did - most certainly, she did. It was simply that bringing up the topic wasn’t, oddly, that easy. 

"That I agree with," she replied, giving him a slight nod, lips pressing together momentarily.


Stepping away, she sat back down upon the chaise longue, pursing her lips as she thought over that for a moment, because she couldn’t be entirely sure of the extent Johannes’ mother would go to, if given the chance.

"By which I assume you mean hymns?" For a moment, she paused. "Do we know where it’s going to be, before we decide upon that?"

{ OPEN }



Friends of his mother would be bitter, foes would be curious, and Berlin would hold its breath as vows are made. The great city had its own monarchy of mafias, with the Eberhardts sitting on the throne, hands gripped onto the edge of the seat. 

With gifts from life came danger. And the chance of Saoirse harmed would drastically increase once it’s declared who the bride was. 

Johannes would not see her among the sea of bodies, not before his time came. The thought of it made his arms tighten around her, and he stared back at her silently. 


Johannes shot her a look. Never he have heard her mention a sister. The German merely raised a brow at her, before letting out a low chuckle.

"…And I’m looking forward in meeting her too,"

Saoirse wasn’t naive enough to know that such things would come without repurcussions. Of course she wasn’t - sometimes, she wished she could be, but that ever-present knowledge of what hung overhead prevented that from being the case. She was far too self-aware, if one could say that.

Gently pushing wet hair back from his face, she bit down on her bottom lips for a moment or two, looking down as she did, before looking back up at him.

"…Don’t get your hopes up too high."

She couldn’t help but smile, almost reassuringly, shaking her head, giving him a small shrug.

Tucking her hair behind her ear, she paused - 

                     ”…You’re going to end up getting a bad back.”

i have cramp of the butt, bare with me


Imagine your OTP coming up with baby name ideas, and Person A starts suggest joke name while Person B is trying to be serious. Eventually Person B gives in and they try to come up with the worst name possible




             He’s nearly at the top now, knowing that if he stops, his efforts have been for nothing. To roll backwards down that hill is something he’s not planning on doing„ and after losing some of the strength in his arms whilst at the hospital, he’s keen on building it up again.

             Turning, into his front yard, though the gate his wheelchair can only just fit through, he looks around.


             His eyesight’s always been good - had to be, really. And there he sees him, before putting his head down, full intention of hiding back in the house.

           It’s because he’s not looking for him, of course, that Sebastian can’t initially notice who he is. Who occupies that wheelchair, who’s struggling to get up the hill. He contemplates going to help; but the guy looks like he can handle himse-

                  … he looks… familiar-…

                            … no. No way. No fucking way.



               It’s breathless when it passes his lips, as a fist hammers to his lungs, cutting off his circulation and winding him. It’s not physical, but metaphorical can be worse. “Oliver Bow-… Oliver fuckin’ Bowdon?”

                                       ”Oliver Bowdon?!”

He’s not the best at hearing, these days. Shells will do that do you. As will land mines, and the likes - in fact, the state of his legs are an example of what those things can do. 

                                                                     A substantial amount of damage.

               As he’s about to go up the ramp, leading to his front door, he pauses, hearing that final shout, swallowing thickly.

                               ”…Ah, fuck.”

                At his name, he turns around, giving his ex-superior a swift nod. Because what else should he do? Because he sure isn’t happy to see him, and he can pretty accurately presume that the sniper won’t be either.