and this coloring made their skin so light i am angry

anonymous asked:

Your Athena made me cry, I'd like you to know. And we got Medusa! Who, her ending, wow, just. Wow. And the whole thing with Aphrodite and Athena was really interesting, and like Hephestus is shaping up to be the most wanted of the gods, which yes.(Her gift is to turn all who would harm Medusa in that way to stone. It acts as a curse, but she meant it as a gift, and gahhh) Also, Amphitrite is super interesting and is there any way I could tempt you into expanding on her? Or, well. Any more, truly

Zeus claims the sky as his domain, free and open and pure, and his it becomes.

Hades goes to the underworld, and it’s messy and horrible and heartbreaking, but he claims it uncontested, and his it becomes.

Poseidon goes to the sea, but it already has a sovereign.


His first though is that she’s beautiful. Skin the color of pearls and hair the dark, rich green of seaweed. She’s tall with the type of aristocratic bone structure that would make him think her delicate if not every other aspect of her was as fearsome as Hera at her most irritable.

“You come to my land seeking to make it your own,” she says, and she’s not quite walking and not quite swimming as she circles him. “Who are you to rule the sea?”

He clears his throat, and he’s a powerful god, he and his brothers are the most powerful gods that still exist on this earth, but his knees shake before her. It’s not a good feeling. It’s not infatuation – it’s fear. “I am Poseidon.”

She tilts her head, and her pretty blue eyes are as cold as sea floor they stand in. “Goodbye, Poseidon. Perhaps your brother will be able to find what’s left of your corpse in his underworld.”

The water whips around him, doing its best to rip him apart, forcing itself into his lungs and suffocating him. He didn’t think he could drown, but he might be about to be proven wrong.

Then a net closes around him, pulling him up so he breaks through the surface and takes a large, grateful gulp of air. He’s hauled over the side of a boat and dumped on its floor, the person who saved him wildly fighting the angry waves. “You must have really pissed the Lady off,” a light, teasing voice says. Poseidon is still coughing, his eyes watering and lungs screaming. This boat is going to capsize and they’ll both die, so he doesn’t get how this person can sound so lighthearted.

Except they’re not. Their little boat is being expertly handled against the thrashing waves. Poseidon blinks, and he’s inclined to say the person sailing is a woman, considering the budding breasts and hips. But the hair is cut short, and the chiton is designed for a man.

“What’s your name?” he asks.

“Caeneus,” his unexpected rescuer answers.

That’s a man name, and Poseidon opens his mouth to questions it – then closes it again. “Thank you,” he settles on, “You saved my life.”

Caeneus finally steers them to land, and Poseidon dismounts to help him pull and anchor his boat to shore. “Anytime,” he says cheerfully, “What did you do to make the Lady so mad, anyway?”

“You know her?” he asks, staring. This man appears to be a mere mortal, yet how could a human know that woman?

He grins at Poseidon and points out to the glittering sea. “We all do. She is the ocean itself, and just as powerful and unknowable. You better be careful not to anger her again – I don’t know anyone who’s survived her wrath twice.”

“Right,” he says blankly, even though that’s unavoidable. He’s to be the god of the sea, and if he has to wrest the mantle of monarch from her corpse then so be it.

Caeneus claps him on the shoulder, his work-roughed palm more comforting than anything else Poseidon has known since escaping his father’s stomach. “Come to mine, you look half dead. I’ll make you something warm.”

He takes a long look at his savior. Skin a dark shade of brown, and his eyes are amber in the setting sun. His black hair is cut short, and the muscles of his arms and legs shift with each moment. “Very well,” he answers, and is inordinately grateful that he’s too cold to blush.


Caeneus takes him to his home, a hastily constructed shack on the beach’s edge. The wind whips through the cracks in the wood so that no matter where you stand you’re always chilled. “This is the worst woodwork I’ve ever seen,” he says. He slides his hand across the wall and is completely unsurprised when it comes away with splinters.

“I’m a sailor, not a carpenter,” Caeneus answers, intent on mixing together a bunch of ingredients Poseidon only half recognizes. “It stay upright.”

“Barely,” he returns, cupping his hands around the cup that’s shoved at him.

Caeneus doesn’t ask him to leave. Instead they squeeze onto Caeneus’s too small bed. Poseidon curls around the smaller man, tangling their legs and tucking Caeneus’s head under his chin. “You’re so warm,” Caeneus murmurs, half asleep already, and Poseidon’s heart clenches.

He makes sure he’s asleep when he carefully, so carefully, lowers his head and brushes his lips against Caeneus’s cheek.


When Poseidon wakes up, the sun is bright and Caeneus is gone.

He should go marching back to the ocean, but first he has something important to do. He’s just not sure how to go about it.

He can’t ask Zeus, his younger brother knows plenty of war and not much else. Which leaves –

It’s easy enough to slip into the underworld, although he regrets doing so the second he arrives. It’s almost completely dark, and lonely. Lost souls are immediately reaching for him, cold hands brushing against his skin.

“What are you doing?” a familiar voice demands, and Poseidon nearly wilts in relief when Hades appears at his side and guides him away from the wailing souls. “It’s not safe here.”

“What’s wrong with them?” he asks, glancing back, his chest clenching at sympathy at their cries even though he knows there’s nothing he can do for them.

They slip through the realm, and they land in front of a partially built stone castle. The goddess Hecate guides them construction with her magic, her visage that of a young child since it’s still morning in the mortal realm.

Hades sits on the ground, and the skin beneath his eyes is dark and bruised. He looks like a strong wind would blow him over. “Nothing, everything, I don’t know. I’m working on it. Why are you here?”

“I don’t suppose you know how to build a house?” he asks, though he doesn’t expect much. It seems he’s not the only one having trouble claiming authority over his domain.

His brother laughs, eyes crinkling at the corners. “You’ve come to the wrong sibling, little brother.”

Oh. That’s true. “Do you think she’ll help me?”

“Yes,” Hades answers, lips still twitching. “Now leave me to my anarchy, I have more than enough trouble to deal with without you causing more.”

That’s fair enough.

Poseidon heads to Olympus next, careful to peer around corners to avoid Zeus and Hera. Their marble palace is already constructed, and he tamps down on the bitterness that they rule unchallenged. In the center of the throne room, next to a roaring fire, sits Hestia.

“Sister,” he greets, tentative. “I need help building a home.”

She looks from her fire to him, and when she smiles he feels all his tension drain from his shoulders. “Of course, little brother. If it is help you require, then it is help you shall have.”

Hestia tears apart the shack with a flick of her hands, says, “I’ll ask Demeter for some better wood,” and is gone and back in the blink of an eye. They build it by hand after that, and Hestia’s soft voice guides him whenever he hesitates or stumbles. They are gods, so it doesn’t take too long, and when they finish they have a small, beautiful house right on the edge of beach, one with a large bed and lots of light, one with a fire pit in the center that has Hestia’s name inscribed in the bottom so that she may look over this home she helped build.

“Thank you,” Poseidon says, the sun beginning to set.

Hestia winks at him, “Anytime, little brother,” and is gone in the next moment.

He hopes Caeneus likes it. Unfortunately, he won’t be able to stick around to find out.

He has a queen to challenge.


He finds her again, in her palace of polished rock at the bottom of the sea.

“There’ll be no helpful sailor to save you this time,” she says, head tilted to the side. Already the water is colder around him, the current stronger.

He swallows, “I am Poseidon. I am to be the god of the sea.”

She glances him over, unimpressed. “Why do you want it so badly? There is nothing about you that is of the sea.”

“I am a god,” he answers blankly, and doesn’t say that it was this or the underworld, and that wasn’t a mess he was willing to take on.

She snorts, a flicker of amusement appearing in her emotionless gaze. “You are too soft, and too kind, to ever be a master of the sea.” He opens his mouth, but she raises a hand, and he closes it. She takes slow, deliberate steps towards him, and he swallows and doesn’t look away. “I will make you a bargain, Poseidon, god of nothing.”

“I’m listening,” he answers, and tries not flinch when she places a cold hand against his chest.

“I am Amphitrite,” she says, “sister of Gaia, and I have lived long before your conception, just as I will live long after your death.” Poseidon pales, and oh, he had no idea the class being he was dealing with here. This is very, very bad. “If you wish to rule the sea, then you must rule me.”

He swallows, “Lady, I – a thousand apologies, I did not know–”

“Silence.” His mouth clicks shut. “I was born as I am, and I will die that way. But – I need not live this way.” He doesn’t understand, and she must see that, because she touches her own chest and says, “I have a heart as cold and dark as the oceans I bore. I will give it to you, and I and the sea will be yours to command. But I require your heart in return, so that I may know kindness and softness.”

He doesn’t know what to say. Hearts aren’t things to be given away lightly. But he must become lord of the sea.

“Take time, if you must,” she says, that same cold amusement in her eyes. “I am as immovable as the ocean, and I will be here when you make up your mind.”

He’s propelled up and onto the shore, far more gently this time around.

“POSEIDON!” he barely turns when a body slams into him, and lips press against his. Caeneus pins his wrists to the sand and kisses him, long and slow and more than distracting enough to make him forgot about the offer from the personification of the sea itself. “You built me a house,” he murmurs, “You built me a house.”

“Do you like it?” he asks, dazed.

Caeneus grins above him, wicked and beautiful, and rolls his hips into Poseidon’s. “Come with me, and I’ll show you how much I like it.”


Poseidon means to go back to the sea, to Amphitrite, but every morning Caeneus kisses him good morning. He learns of the sea, though. He goes out with Caeneus each day and learns it motions and its temper, the taste and smell of it. Learns how to understand it, and learns how completely and totally uncaring it is, how the coldness of its depth is the totality of it.

The sea is not kind. It has no sympathy, no love, no capacity for such small things as forgiveness or mercy.

He means to return to her, but it becomes harder and harder every day.

Days turn to weeks turn to months. He and Caeneus grow closer, and closer, and Poseidon has no idea how he’s supposed to turn his heart over to Amphitrite when it’s now held by a mortal with amber eyes who leaves mouth shaped bruises all along Poseidon’s collar bones.

“Poseidon,” Caeneus says, quiet in the oppressive stillness of the night, head on his chest and curled into his side. The moon is large and high, and pools silver on their bedroom floor. “You’re a god, right?”

“I am,” Poseidon says, amused. Caeneus knows what he is, but this is the first time he’s mentioned it.

Caeneus pushes himself up so he can look down at him, and Poseidon reaches up to cup his face. Caeneus leans into it, covering his hand with his own. “Could you make me into a man?”

“You are a man,” he says automatically.

He rolls his eyes and pulls himself up so he can swing his leg over Poseidon, straddling his hips. “You know what I mean.”

Poseidon shifts enough that both their breaths hitch, and he says, low, “No. I’m sorry. I’m not – I have no domain, and my powers are limited.” He could maybe do it, but transformation is not among his natural talents, and Caeneus is too precious to risk unless he is certain.

He’s disappointed, but smiles through it, and leans down to kiss him. “It’s all right.”

It’s not. If Poseidon were the god of the sea in more than name, if he had taken Amphitrite’s offer, he would be able to transform his lover like he desires.

He’s a god, brother of Zeus, and he can’t give Caeneus the one thing he’s ever asked of him. What good is he, what good is any of his power, if he can’t make the people he loves happy?

He’s flips Caeneus over and kisses his neck so his lover won’t see the self-hatred that’s plain on his face.


Poseidon sneaks away in the middle of the night, presses a soft kiss to his sleeping lover’s slack mouth, and enters the ocean.

“You’ve decided then?” she asks, head tilted to the side.

“I will not be a loyal husband,” he declares, back straight. “I love Caeneus.”

She laughs, and for the first time he’s not afraid of her. “Do with your mortals what you wish. It’s no concern of mine.”

“Okay,” he says, and steels himself. “Okay. I accept your offer Amphitrite, sister of Gaia.”

She holds out her hand, nails more like claws, and tears open her own chest without flinching. Her blood slick and dark as it pours from her, swirling in the water around them She pulls a dark, round thing from her chest and holds it out to him.

“I,” he looks down at his chest, and he doesn’t – he’s not sure if he can do what she’s done, and he would feel foolish asking for a knife.  She steps forward and places her hand with its claws against his chest, slippery and warm with blood, and cuts open his chest for him.

It’s excruciating, and his knees buckle against the pain of it. Amphitrite holds him up, and waits.

She can’t to this part. It has to be him. He reaches inside his chest and pulls out his heart, beating and warm. He clumsily places it in her chest. It’s startlingly, violently red against the dark green color of the rest of the inside of her. She does the same, slipping her own heart into his chest.

Their skin heals over instantly. Amphitrite’s mouth drops open, and her cheeks flush pink. She smiles, small and soft, and for the first time she looks – happy.

Her heart in his chest cold as ice, and its chill suffuses his body, edging out to fill him entirely.

He can feel the ocean now, all of it spread across the globe, the tides and the creatures the reside in it, it’s plants and animals and nymphs. “It’s so much,” he says, and is surprised at the sound of his own voice, at its curtness.

“You feel only part of it,” she says, stepping forward, “It is a force too powerful for a god to control. I am a force to powerful for a god to control. However, you hold my heart. As I will now obey you, so will the sea.”

“You could overpower me,” he says clinically, knows the power she wields by what he can’t feel rather than what he can.

She presses a hand to his chest, and they both startle. She’s warm now. She wasn’t warm before. Or perhaps he has simply grown colder. “I could,” she says, “but I will not.”

He has no reason to trust her, but he’s painfully aware that he doesn’t have a choice in the matter. “I’m going to Caeneus,” he says, and a sense of unease grows within him. Even the shape of his lover’s name in his mouth doesn’t feel the same anymore.

“Do as you wish, husband,” she turns from him, going deeper into her – their – palace.

This time, he uses his own powers of the sea to push him to the surface.

It’s not as satisfying as he thought it’d be.

gods and monsters series part x

Mixed Black African Girl (Cameroonian/French)

I’m a mixed black african girl who grew up and lived most of her life in Cameroon, in Central Africa. My dad is half-white (french) and half-black (cameroonian), and my mom is 100% cameroonian. There’s little to no black african characters in popular fiction, which has always bothered me, and it would be so nice to read about someone like me for once.

  • Culture and food

Cameroon is a country created during colonization, with borders defined by europeans. Because of that, Cameroon is actually made of 200 ethnic groups, each of them having their own language and culture. So the culture and daily habits vary a lot depending on which region of Cameroon you are in. In the big cities, though, everyone is mingled no matter where they’re from. However, so many different ethnic groups cohabiting together often causes tension. There are also a lot of stereotypes about every ethnic group.

I grew up in the central and coastal areas of the country, and I’m Bassa. The Bassa are one of the main ethnic groups in Cameroon. If your parents are from two different ethnic groups, it is decided that you officially belong to your father’s ethnic group. My mother is Bakoko but my father is Bassa, so I’m the latter. When I meet another Cameroonian, two of the first questions we usually ask each other are : What are you (meaning, what’s your ethnic group) ? and Where is you village ?

Villages are very important in the Cameroonian culture. Your village is where your father’s ancestors were born. Even if you’re not born there, you usually have grandparents or great-uncles or family friends living there, and if you have enough money to do so you must regularly visit your village. And usually, when people earn enough money, they send money to their village so that people living there can have a better life, build more houses and schools etc.

Cameroonian food is very diverse, and varies depending on the region. The national dish is Ndolé, a dish made with ndolé leaves, stewed nuts, and meat (fish, beef or shrimps). Other common foods are bobolo and miondo (food made out of fermented manioc), soya (spicy grilled meat on skewers), and plantain. My dad is half-french though, so at home we eat almost as much french food as cameroonian food (crème brûlée, shepherd’s pie, beef bourguignon, A LOT of bread and cheese).

  • Language

There are hundreds of different languages, but the official languages are French and English. Cameroon was colonized by France and England so Northern Cameroon mainly speaks english and central/southern Cameroon mainly speaks french. Most people also speak their ethnic group’s language. I don’t know how to speak Bassa, though, because neither do my parents. When me and my siblings were kids, our dad asked our baby-sitter to teach us, but she could only do so much and I only remember a few words.

  • Beauty Standards

Like most countries, there is a lot of colorism in Cameroon based on European beauty standards. When you’re a woman, the lighter you are, the prettier and more desirable you are considered. Dark skinned women are often mocked and considered not as pretty. A lot of people, mainly women but also men, use dangerous products to lighten their skin. Internalized racism and white beauty standards are very insidious, and a lot of people want to look like white people, including me when I was younger. As a kid I remember wishing i was a pretty blonde-haired blue-eyed white girl like the heroines of the books i was reading. Growing up I stopped wishing that, but I relaxed and straightened my hair a lot, wanting to have long straight hair without realizing that it was still an attempt to look like the ideal version of a white girl. I’m sure that if I had more black female characters to relate to when I was growing up, I wouldn’t have spend so many years hating myself without even realizing I was doing it.

Also, Cameroonians usually consider thick, curvy women to be the ideal beauty standard. But being thin is still an ideal broadcast by the media (especially that american and european media are heavily broadcast and consumed in Cameroon) so most women still diet a lot and go to the gym to lose weight.

  • Clothing

Women wear a lot of skirts and dresses, be it casual or for work. Most cameroonian schools have uniforms and mandatory hairstyles (either cornrows or short shaved hair).

Elderly people often wear more traditional clothes and outfits. The most prominent traditional item of clothing is the Kaba. The Kaba is a long dress made of wax fabric and other materials and is owned by pretty much every woman. The dress looks different depending on the situation : the Kaba you wear when you stay at home is usually very long and very loose, the Kaba you wear during official/formal events is more tight-fitting and stylized, etc.

  • Dating and Relationships

I’ve never dated anyone, but when I was in high school none of my friends ever told their parents they were seeing someone. Having your parents know about and meet the person you’re dating after only a few weeks or months is something that just doesn’t happen (unless someone gets pregnant). It’s when things get serious that you introduce them to your family. Also, a lot of parents would prefer their children to marry someone from the same ethnic group.

Homosexuality is still illegal there, and you can go to jail for being gay.

  • Home/Family life

My parents are still happily married, and I have 3 siblings. My parents are both close to their siblings, and I’m close to mine. Me and my siblings grew up with our cousins, we were always at each other’s houses. I pretty much consider most of my cousins as extra siblings. We have a very big extended family and every day I discover new distant cousins, aunts, great-uncles etc. My dad being half-french, when I was growing up we sometimes went to France during summer to visit his relatives living there.

In Cameroon, most people who have enough money to do so send their children to study abroad once they’ve graduated high school. I’m currently living in France for my studies, and most of my high school friends are also going to college in France, England, Canada, Brussels, South Africa etc.

  • Identity issues

Despite being only ¼ white, I’m very light-skinned. My siblings being much darker skinned, when I was a kid I thought I was adopted (i’m not, it’s just genetics). Cameroon being a black country, when someone is visibly mixed and light-skinned as i am, most people just label them “white”. A lot of people would refer to me as “the white” and it always really hurt me. My family wouldn’t understand why i was so angry and hurt, they’d say “they don’t mean anything by it, it’s just that you’re light” but the fact is it made me feel like i don’t belong. I’m cameroonian, i’ve lived in Cameroon almost my entire life, i’m black, and still some people see me as “other”, they see me as white. And so for a long time, I didn’t dare to call myself black, I’d say “I’m biracial” or “I’m mixed” instead because I somehow felt like a fraud. But I’m black and not white-passing at all, and I still experience racism abroad (but I’m aware I have a lot more privilege than dark skinned people).

  • Daily struggles

So I’m currently living in France. On one hand, sometimes white people are racist toward me, or just totally obnoxious and ignorant, trying to touch my natural hair and thinking that people in Cameroon don’t have computers or whatever. On the other hand, when I randomly meet other cameroonians and we start talking, they always assume that because i’m mixed i’ve lived my entire life in France and i don’t know anything about Cameroon. And there’s nothing wrong with being a child of immigrants and not knowing the country your parents or grandparents came from, but i know that if i wasn’t visibly mixed they wouldn’t question the fact that i know Cameroon and lived there my entire life.

  • Misconceptions

Because of how the media depict African countries, a lot of people think that everyone in Africa is extremely poor and starving, that we don’t have electricity and internet and that everyone lives in huts. Which is so false. We have rich people and poor people, we have huge modern cities and regular cities and small villages with huts, almost everyone has access to a tv and internet, etc.

  • Things I’d like to see less of

Cameroon and other african countries being depicted as poor unfortunate countries where everyone is starving and illiterate and waiting for the generous white people to save us. What we need is for people to see us as the humans we are, and to allow us to grow in peace.

  • Things I’d like to see more of

Black african characters being written as the complex human beings we are. Shy black african characters. Nerdy and hella smart black african characters. Mixed black african characters who struggle with their identity. LGBTQ black african characters.

  • Tropes/Stereotypes I’m tired of seeing.

The “savage”, “uncivilized” african. African characters who are aggressive, dumb and shout all the time. The poor africans in need of saving by white people.

Read more POC Profiles here or submit your own.

The Real Drug War

Drug Wars - You should probably read this first

mafia!Jungkook x Reader

Clever as the devil and twice as pretty.
-Holly Black

Warnings: There will be very explicit sexual content, violence, drugs,…

A/N: For people who read my J JK fic, I’m sorry, you’ll recognize one part - I just really wanted it here. None of these pictures are mine - credits to the owners.

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Pounding Heartbeats // The Color Of My World Part Three [A Stiles Stilinski Soulmate AU]

Series Masterlist

Relationships: Stiles Stilinski x Reader/Stiles Stilinski x OFC

Warnings: NSFW, Explicit Sexual Content, Smut, Oral (Male on Female), Fingering, Unprotected Sex, Virginity Loss, Cheating, Stiles Being The Fucking Cutest, Abusive Boyfriend, and Swearing. 

Word Count: 6,373 

Song: Heart by Sleeping At Last (This song is so beautiful in Stiles’ POV, holy shit)

Putting his hands on my waist and pulling me up with his strong arms, Stiles sat me down on the surface of his kitchen counter. Once he made sure I was comfortable enough, Stiles let go of me to walk over to his refrigerator. Opening the door to the freezer, he pulled out a frozen bag of peas.

“Sorry, I don’t have any ice so…” He trailed off as he approached me again.

“It’s okay.” I smiled, allowed him to push my hair back and place the icy-cold bag of frozen food against my still stinging cheek. Stiles’ eyes stared at me with concern when I winced at the slight pain, but stayed to let him keep it there.

“I can’t believe he did this.” Stiles shook his head in disbelief, hurt evident in his voice. “He doesn’t deserve you, Margaret.”

“I-I’ve never seen him so angry before.” I stated, my own voice weak as I felt the tears continue to fall. “He’s always been so sweet, I just don’t understand what happened.”

“It’s all my fault.” Stiles whispered, unable to keep his face from faltering. “I know how much he hates me and I was way too mesmerized by you that I forgot I was trying to steal someone that belongs to him.”

“Stiles, I don’t belong to him.” I said, bringing my hand up to his chin and lifting his face to look at me again. His eyes were in pain and I desperately wanted to make that anguish go away. “Do you know the Greek myth of how soulmates were born?”

Stiles shook his head and, letting go of his chin, I grabbed his free hand with both of mine.

“According to Greek mythology, humans were originally created with two heads, four arms, four legs, and two hearts. They were happy and extremely powerful. Zeus, fearing their power, decided to split them into two separate beings and condemn them to spend their entire lives searching for their other half.” I explained, my thumb brushing the back of his hand. “Stiles, you are my other half and I belong to you.”

My words sparked a small glimpse of light in his eyes and the beautiful sight made my heart fill with hope. After tonight, my story with Theo is over and now I can officially start a new one with the person I am supposed to be with all along. The small amount of time that we spent together made me realize that what we have isn’t exactly love at first sight — it’s soul recognition.

Stiles tugged me closer and my hand pressed against his warm chest, preparing myself for what was coming next. I felt his heartbeat underneath my touch, the thunderous, rapid pounding bringing a smile on my lips in amusement. Our breaths mingled together as we stared at each other, both of us a little unsteady. Hunger glowed in his golden eyes, his hand lowering the bag of peas and putting it on the counter beside me.

Looking down at his lips for the slightest second before closing my eyes all together, I slowly leaned in. I felt like I would regret kissing him so soon if I did, but I knew that I would regret it even more if I didn’t. With my heart pounding against my chest, much like his, I could feel Stiles’ breath pick up as our faces inched closer together. We took our time to just enjoy the drumroll of our upcoming kiss, allowing the sexual tension to take over the air.

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Constellations (M)

Summary: He was the president of one of the most notorious fraternities on campus. You had expected him to be the same as his other brothers – a sex-crazed, binge drinking maniac… But the truth ended up surprising you – in more ways than one.

Genre/Warnings: College!AU, Fratboy!Namjoon. It’s pretty much all fluff up until the smut part… Then my trash self happened and added some dirty talking and teasing, along with slightly rough sex. There’s also swearing.

Word Count: 10.7k. (is it too late now to say sorry?)

A/N: IT’S FINALLY DONE!!! I spent the whole fucking day writing this fic and it is now 2:30 A.M and I’m fucking exhausted. I love this fic so much, okay. It literally feels like I put my entire fucking soul into this (although that might just be the sleep talking lol) but I hope you guys like it!!!

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Lannister!reader x Jaime...

((Just for the purpose of this one shot, Jaime was released from the Kingsguard after Robert’s Rebellion and retook his place as Tywin’s heir. I did my best to stick to your exact request. I hope you like it!))

Word Count: 2,162

Warning: Some Smut. Definitely. I suppose cousin incest.

You were born to Ser Kevan Lannister and Lady Dorna Swyft and were raised in the halls of Casterly Rock right alongside your cousins, Jaime and Cersei. You were beautiful, as all Lannisters are, and you had a bit of wit and spunk as well. Growing up, you had the typical look of a Lannister and was often compared to Cersei.

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Imagine: complaining about Loki's yellow cape to Tom

Originally posted by homensdoseculo

You glared down at your phone screen, eyes locked onto the offensive yellow of Loki’s cape in the early looks at Thor: Ragnarok.  Most people thought you would have known all about it, as you were Tom Hiddleston’s girlfriend and a rising actress, but you had no such luck.  You were discussing a contract with Marvel, and while you tried to get information about the third Thor movie, Tom made sure you heard nothing.  He wanted the movie to be a surprise for you, as he knew you had a weakness for Loki.

As you walked along the sidewalk, you regularly glanced down at the photo.  Tom looked fantastic as Loki, but you dearly hoped that the other side of the cape was green, or else there was going to be a mountain of angry letters for the costume designer.  You made a mental note to stay involved in the designing of your character, if you and Marvel came to a contract agreement.  You could hear the occasional murmur or camera click as you walked through the light crowd, which drew your attention away from your phone.  The odd feeling of being recognized in the street momentarily distracted you, until your eyes landed on your destination: a lovely little teahouse.

You tried not to storm in, but as you were gracefully seated in the back room, your anger was apparent on your face.  Tom had arrived before you, and when he looked up to your not-so-smiling expression, he knew that you were one of many who had seen the recently revealed Loki first-look.  He chuckled nervously when you sat across from him, huffing lowly when your phone buzzed.  You turned it off, before glaring at Tom, who offered you an apologetic smile.

“My dear, whatever is the matter?”  He asked, ever the gentleman.  He knew exactly what was wrong- you could tell- but he had always been gracious towards you.  The sentiment melted away some of your anger, reminding you why you loved this dorky, glorious man… but you weren’t about to let him get away so easily.

“What’s the matter?”  You began, giving Tom a moment to steel himself for the flood.  “Loki’s cape, that’s the matter!  I love you, but did you say nothing about it?  Did anyone try to stop the fiend who calls themself a costume designer?  It’s… yellow!”  You stated, your hands swirling in elaborate gestures to aid your argument.  “Loki’s signature color is green, and his palette is green, black, and gold.  Yellow is not a part of that combination, and his green cape held so much… meaning!  As the complimentary color to red, his cape represented his separation from Thor as a person… Two brothers, who were very much so opposites.  Is yellow the complimentary color to red?  No!”  You ranted, not even looking at Tom at this point.  If you had looked at his face, instead of focusing on your hands and memories from the MCU Loki scenes, you would have seen his struggle at holding back a massive grin.

“Darling, [Y/N], I am simply an actor.  I don’t make the final decisions for Loki-” He began, but bit his tongue when you sent him a steely glare.  Your nose was scrunched up in frustration, and he couldn’t hold back any longer.  He let out his signature chuckle, closing his eyes and dipping his head.  His contagious laughter got under your skin, soothing your glare and pulling soft chuckles from your throat.  A soft smile grew on your lips, and you shook your head lightly at Thomas.  “Love, you are a treasure!  I’m sorry you’re upset about his, or rather, my cape, but I must say… your reaction was adorable, and absolutely worth it.”  He noted with a cheery grin.

You pursed your lips, and despite still holding resentment towards the color choice, you melted under that smile.  Thomas could drive you a little crazy sometimes, but he wouldn’t have been the man you fell in love with if he had been any different.

hlwily series extra: ‘for all that blooms is beautiful’

Note: It can be assumed that both Harry and Rosie sign and speak verbally in tandem, unless the story otherwise indicates.

word count: 3.7k

warning: for discussion of bullying, deaf/hoh struggles/upset, etc.  

Rosie, age 6

Harry turned into the school’s parking lot and fit himself into a space near the entrance. Pushing the gear shift upward, he undoes his seatbelt and sits back, switching off the car’s radio. Looking out over the parking lot and across the courtyard to the front entrance, he watched clusters of parents collecting their children, who run towards them with delight, book bags swinging on their shoulders. Others are chattering excitedly to one another as they wait for their way home.  Some of the teachers are out front, making sure everyone gets where they need to go.  

It’s early autumn, the start of a new school year and everyone is wrapped up in thick cardigans and winter coats, bearing the school’s crest. The clouds are thick overhead, washing the light that coasts down from them, overcast. It heightens the muted colors of the leaves on the trees that surround the school’s front walls.

Running a hand over his face, he sat back and tried to squash the anxious feeling twisting around in his belly and up to his chest. Playing the phone call from her teacher over and over again in his mind until it rang in his ears.

There was an incident with a couple of the other children in class. She wasn’t hurt, but she’s very upset. I think it may be best if we speak in person at the end of the school day.

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Illustrated Haiku // Ten Chittaphon


the prompt: a soulmate!ten au where y/n loves to write poetry on her arms, and ten likes to illustrate them.

words: 4157

category: fluff

authors note: this isn’t a request, it’s just something I was working on so I hope you guys like it! (also appreciate the gif below of my lil bub)

– destinee

Originally posted by visualjaehyun

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You Can Count On Me

For Friday 13th I wanted to write something different than the usual boys. So I hope you guys don’t mind me throwing these guys around. And I hope you all like a little Vampire story-telling.

It’s not scary but I wanted to write something different for a change.

Originally posted by animegifstrash

The instant you stepped off the train and into the darkening streets, you knew it had been a bad idea to come home at this time. Even Dark, upon getting your text messages scolded you fiercely for the decision. 
“You are aware of what day it is, yes?” His growl of a voice vibrated through the phone’s speaker. You sheepishly nodded, even though you knew Dark wouldn’t see it. 
“Yes, yes, Friday the 13th. I’m aware. I’ll speed walk home, it won’t take long.” 
“The Manor is at least six blocks away from the train station, (y/n). And you need to walk through the side streets to get here. No, stay there and I’ll come and get you.” Dark’s voice held no room for an argument. But you were already two blocks away from the station. And upon hearing his, Dark grunted. A noise that sounded between a heavy sigh and a feral growl. “Fine. If you are so intent on getting yourself killed then I have no voice in your decision.” 
You rolled your eyes at Dark’s dramatics. He always complained about Wilford’s exaggerations and then he goes and says things like that. The two could rival one another on theatrics. But you knew he was only getting irritated, and dare you say concerned, about you walking home at night. While you’ve been away, there had been string of murders in the area. And the very thought had you walking a little faster when you remembered Google’s explanation on the gory details. Something you had asked him for over the phone while on your holiday. You didn’t learn quickly enough to be careful what you ask of Google. The Android didn’t know how to filter details. 
“I’ll be ok. My battery is dying so I need to go. But I’ll call you when I’m close.” You said and Dark made another exasperated sigh. 
“You better. And if you take too long, we’re all going out to look for you. And you won’t like it if I find you first, (y/n).” 
“I know. Trust me, I won’t be stopping to pet any stray animals. I’ll see you soon.” You hung up after that remark. Pocketing your phone but keeping a tight grip on it.

Every shadow seemed to mock you as you walked. The lights were a lot dimmer than you remember. But then again, it was cloudy night. The full moon was peeking through the rain clouds to cast it’s silver glow over the streets. It was eerie. But you were glad for the luminescence.
You turned a corner and halted your steps for a moment. A man stood in the centre of the street. He was thin, facing away from you. But the shadows from the very dim street lights cast a shadow over him. Making him appear to be a shadow himself. You didn’t know whether you should turn back around or keep walking. But your decision was made when you blinked and the figure disappeared. You stayed there for a moment, looking around for the man, but continued walking when you found no-one. Your skin crawled with a shiver and you couldn’t help but survey the area around you. There was a sensation on your back, like a pressure. You knew this feeling from living with the Ipliers for so long. 
You were being watched. 
Your footsteps sped up. Gripping your phone tightly you deeply regretted not accepting Dark’s offer to pick you up. A sound carried on the wind. A giggle. Or a high pitched cackle. You weren’t sure, but it unnerved you and soon enough you sped up to a jog. You were about to turn a corner when something snagged your elbow and jerked you into the shadows of a building. A figure loomed over you. Reeking of a metallic scent and their grip soaked your jacket with some kind of warm liquid. Through the gloom, your gaze was transfixed by the stranger’s. They were warm and pools of sparkling emeralds. You couldn’t tear your eyes away from them. They were beautiful. Even as a clawed hand skimmed under the material of your shirt or as the man’s tongue dashed out to taste your skin, you were stuck. Staring into those green gems. 
“Yer not gonna scream for me.” The man’s Irish accent was thick, but it was snatched up by the rumble that radiated off his chest. “And yer gonna stay still while I treat myself.” 
You found your head bobbing on it’s own. Even as your eyes widen when the man leaned down, you didn’t fight his lips brushing over your neck. Your mind willed for him to stop, but your body molded into his as he drew you closer. 

“Release them. Now.” Another voice boomed and suddenly the green-eyed man was thrown away from you. The haze lifted and you stumbled back. Straight into a pair of arms that cradled you against a firm chest. You shook your head to get rid of the fog in your mind, looking up as a monster rushed towards you. In a blur of movement, you were swept into your rescuers arms and soaring into the air. You were set down on the roof of the building as the man landed on it. He barely made a noise as he did and you turned to him. Backing away when the moon’s glow lit his face. 
“D-Dark?” You asked. But it wasn’t him, something was off about his gaze. His complexion sharing that hint of difference to Mark’s appearance. 
“I’m afraid not, my dear. But introductions will have to wait.” His voice held a hint of Transylvanian accent. Like the ones in movies. The man moved you behind him, keeping his arm raised as something crawled over the side of the building and onto the roof. 
Anti… No. Again, the resemblance to the Youtuber was almost identical. Save for the glowing green eyes, that seemed to swirl in their sockets. Like small colored vortex’s. 
“I told you this was my hunting ground, Count.” A hiss of a voice echoed over the roof to you. “That mortal is mine.” 
“They are beginning to suspect you, Marquess.” The man, Count, said in a calm but firm tone. “And we never agreed on hunting grounds. This is my land by right. My brethren live in this area. If you do not stop they will come after you.” 
The other man, Marquess, moved forward. His steps graceful and light, like a dancer. 
“I do not care for brethren like you do, Count Iplier.  Or else I would have scurried to my “kin” as you call them, long ago.” Marquess stepped closer. And Count moved you back. The cloak of his outfit brushed against your skin and you felt a chill run through you. Had that just moved against you? 
“I won’t say again, Marquess Septiceye, leave this area. Before you make me do something I do not want to do.” There was an undertone to Count’s voice. It reminded you of Dark, when he was beginning to lose control of his shell. But this man didn’t seem to be getting angry, only impatient. And even so, he showed no emotion but a small crinkle around his gaze. 

“Then battle me, Count. Let’s fight for these bloodbags.” Marquess leapt into a sprint before he finished speaking. He left a cloud of dust in his wake and you barely saw him move before Count had him by the throat, and threw him into the ground. His cloak exploded and rose high above Count. Looming over him like a beast as he bared two fang like canines at the fallen man. 
“I do not want to battle you. Purely for the sake of keeping this human from seeing our true faces. This one is under my protection. I will not let a dear friend to the Iplier Manor fall victim to rabble like you!” 
The shadow beast crashed down on the Septic Ego and then lifted off into the sky. It left it’s master on the roof but carried Marquess high into the air before erupting into what appeared to be hundreds of small bats. 
Count turned to you as the sound of the other man’s crying filled the night sky. 
“My apologies, my dear. If I had known you were arriving tonight, I would have escorted you home myself.” 
You were unable to speak. Your eyes widening further as the swarm of bats dived down to gather around Count’s back. Reforming his cloak just as the other Ego plummeted into the alley beside the building. You didn’t hear a splat or a cry of pain, so you could only suspect that the man had landed neatly and ran off. 
But your guess was shattered when a green cloud of crackling vapor shot into the air and dived towards you. You saw a misty form of reaching claws and eyes that glowed brighter than lightening as the mist raced towards you. 
Suddenly you were enveloped in a chilling cloud of black as Count flew his cloak around you. It was like being wrapped in a thick furry blanket, but it was as cold as ice. It shook as the vapor struck it. A screech of fury from the other being could be heard and then a bellowing roar filled the air as Count spun, swiping at Marquess as he formed flesh. Black claws raked down the Septiceye’s chest and he reeled back as Count charged forward. His eyes ablaze with a deep pink brillance. The same swirling vortex sight filling his iris’. 
“Leave, Marquess. Or I will make sure your coffin stays shut forever!” Count bellowed. The air shaking with his voice. 
Marquess hissed and disappeared over the side of the building. You stayed silent for what felt like an eternity. Waiting for the Septic-Ego to come back. It was only when Count turned to you, his eyes had returned to normal. But you could see the tips of his fangs poking out from beneath his lips. 
“Excuse my indecency. That creature brings out the worse in me.” Count said. His voice careful but smooth. It reminded you of Dark when he was trying to coax you into calming down. 
“I…I’m sorry, I’m kinda of in shock right now. Who are you?” You forced the words out so you weren’t standing there like a fish gasping for air. Count smiled patiently and nodded, bowing and sweeping his arm in a gracious curtsy. 
“I am Count Iplier, my dear. And I must apologize again for my ignorance. It is true I have yet to make myself known to the rest of my kin. But I know all about you and the other Ipliers. I wanted to know if this…Manor was of my tastes and I had to investigate it. And I must say, my kin aren’t exactly…. altogether.” 

You couldn’t help but chuckle. Nodding in agreement. “They’re a bunch of strange men. Who are probably out hunting for me right now.” You quickly checked your phone and cursed quietly. You should have at least reached the Manor’s security border by now. Google would have seen you on the cameras and no doubt would have sent Dark out to escort you the rest of the way. Count looked off into the distance. His eyes narrowing a little and he offers you a gloved hand. 
“Perhaps it is time for me to introduce myself to the rest of my brothers. Would you like assistance getting off this roof, my dear?” He asked, as casually as you would when asking someone if they wanted a glass of water. You rolled your eyes, already seeing the resemblance between this man and the others. You took the offered hand, the leather rather cold against your skin, and the man pulled you tightly against his side. Count guided you to the edge of the roof, holding you steady when you wobbled from looking down, and then dropped. 
You yelped loudly, but Count was careful to hold you so he landed first and could soften you fall by lowering you gently to the floor. 

Dark heard the yelp echo through the streets and made a beeline for you. He stalked through the shadows, coming into the street just as you did. His snarl was beyond furious and you backed up a little when he closed in. 
“I gave you a fair warning to what will happen if you take your time-” But Dark’s threat was cut off by Count stepping out of the shadows. The two regarded each other for a long, tense moment. And you could practically feel the air between them ripple with suspicion. 
“I take it you are the cause of all these deaths.” Dark’s tone returned to it’s natural calm drawl. And the Count nodded. 
“A few. But the real culprit is Marquess Septiceye. Another Vampire Ego. I’d suggest retreating the others to the Manor. He’s been feasting for three days. He’s strong if you’re caught in single combat.” Count replied in an equally cool tone. You dearly hoped these two kept on good terms. You knew how younger Egos weren’t as strong as the popular, older Egos. But you had a feeling that Count was a threat in his own right. Being a….Vampire. 
Your thoughts were scattered when Dark’s firm gaze turned back on you. 
“We aren’t done. But I will save your scolding when we get home.” Dark took a firm hold of your elbow and went to drag you behind him when he quickly spun back around. 
His fingers came away wet with red liquid, and he quickly removed your jacket to inspect the area. 
“Marquess had recently fed.” Count informed Dark, as the Ego withdrew his hands and returned your jacket upon seeing no injury. “He is covered in blood. You will smell him before you see him.” 
You didn’t want to put the jacket back on. The red stain sickened you. And now you could feel the blood sticking to your arm that had soaked through your coat. Count seemed to sense your unease and took the jacket from you. His eyes strayed on the stain for a second longer than was necessary. But he nodded to you, trailing along behind you and Dark as the older Ego led the way home.

Tomorrow, He Would Be

Peter Parker x Reader (Peter’s POV)

The fantastic and talented @jedistardust​ requested prompts: 3,4,20,25,94 as part of my follower celebration and specifically requested some angst. (Can’t tell anyone that I don’t deliver.) Her chosen prompts gave me an idea and inspired me to write this sixth and final part to ‘It’s A Lot Like Falling.’

Like the other parts, you can read this as a stand alone, but I promise the read won’t be the same if you haven’t read the other parts first:

Part I  Part II  Part III Part IV Part V  Part VI

Prompts:I never want to see you again.” “I’ll die without you.” I’m not ready to say goodbye.” Don’t you give up on me.”
Or in this case: gravity fails you.
Or: the moon falls from orbit.

Peter is 22/23.

Warnings: You’re not going to like this.

Somehow, she and Ned had both managed to convince him that going to Times Square for New Years was a good idea. The both of them had been so excited when he’d finally agreed, beaten down by their eagerness; at the way she had described what she imagined millions and millions of fluttering pieces of color and laughter would be like dancing in the cold air, how it would feel to stand in the middle of it all; amidst the lights and sounds of the city enthralled with the night.

She had smiled this sweet, lazy smile as she’d thought of it. She’d thrown her head back, hair shining as it ran over her shoulders like a lazy river, long eyelashes kissing soft cheeks, hands in the air grasping at imaginary confetti as it fell around her; everything about her soft and warm and cozy.

Maybe they were going; if only to see the confetti in her hair.

Ned had him fully convinced a few days later when he talked about how his mother had been to see the ball drop a long time ago; when her heart still beat and her eyes carried this light in them like Ned’s did. She’d told him that it was the most beautiful, life altering thing to be surrounded by so many other warm bodies; people joined together in celebration of the great panorama; another set of painted days alive and here and present. More days to hope, and love, and experience; to feel and to change, and grow.

Of course they were going; if only to see the smiles on their faces.

They’d planned the whole day out carefully: layering long sleeve shirts, sweaters, and jackets; it was a bitterly cold one. It was the kind of day that made you hold hands and push into warm shoulders, surround yourself in soft, sweatered arms, and push noses into beanies that smelt like flowers and reminded him of spring. She’d spent the whole day with her hand wrapped up in his and smiling at the way Ned and his girlfriend were doing the same. He’d spent the whole day nosing at the hair around her ears and cold, rosy cheeks; all ticklish strands and ticklish words.

Truthfully, the packs of people, hundreds of thousands of jittery bodies had his nerves standing on end; the sounds of so many hearts, breaths, and voices in his overly-sensitive ears building and sticking together to create one large, buzzing noise in his skull. There were so many people, so many different things that could go wrong; it was too cramped, it was too loud, and it was crushing.

He was even more nervous because he had left his suit in their apartment; had hung it up and tucked it away in the closet to only be put back on in a new year.

He had wanted to be Peter Parker today, Peter Parker only.

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Future | Dick Grayson x Reader

Description: Everyone thinks about the future. Dick Grayson’s looks pretty bright.

Words: 2193

Notes: Part 1 of fics I recovered from my old blog.

Masterlist | Inbox

Taglist: @followeroonieclassic @instantangelstudent @puggleprincess @robincoalition

“And what do you think your future wife’s gonna be like, Grayson?” You tease, your palm cupping your cheek and your head cocked to the side like a loaded gun. It’s fired right into Dick’s chest when you smile at him, and he actually feels the emotion clouding his thoughts get thicker. He feels the pink lens replace the dark one, letting the world be seen the way you make everything seem; beautiful. Dick drowns in love and lets himself sink. He sinks, he falls, he tumbles and trips right at your feet. Where you pick him up, dust him off and tell him it’s okay.

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Rise Up

Chapter Eight

Previous Chapter

Pairing: Steve Rogers x Reader  |  Word Count: 4162
Warnings: swearing

Song: My Silver Lining by First Aid Kit

His girl stood panting at his side, hands clenched, and chest heaving after screaming for the trickster god. But Loki did not appear to smirk and tease, or flinch beneath her anger.

The stallion - for clearly it had to be a stallion with it’s sheer size and muscle tone - took exception to the loud noise by rearing up and bellowing out a god awful sound. Enormous wings spread wide, so wide they seemed to block out the sun. When he dropped back to his hooves, he dug at the grass and snorted his contempt, tossing his mane and making it billow in the light wind.

“Oh, shut up,” (Y/N) huffed, striding forward and avoiding Steve’s hand when he reached for her. “Where is he?”

“Baby? Who are you talking to?” Steve asked, eyeing the stallion, but keeping pace with his girl.

“Him!” She waved at the horse. “Where is that no good, shiny horned, mischief making, man child!”

The horse’s wings snapped out a second time, and he half-reared, popping his front feet off the ground.

Steve grabbed his girl by the waist and jerked her back, out of the way of those flashing feet. “Easy,” he called to the horse, holding one hand out and keeping his voice calm. “Easy, big fella.”

“Steve, he’s not going to hurt me. He’s just being petulant,” she grumbled. She tugged at his arm until he reluctantly unwrapped it.

“You don’t know that.”

Steve glanced toward Bucky, standing a few yards away from the stallion having been staring at the equine from a safe distance.

“Yeah, Buck. I do.” (Y/N) gave a sharp sigh and walked toward the animal again. “Steve?”


“What color is he?”

He paced her, staying close enough to protect her should the animal, now much calmer and peering at her quizzically with forward pricked ears, prove dangerous. “He’s black.”

Her hands scrubbed down her face when she came to a stop no more than a foot from the steed. She stood just off to his side, close to his shoulder and within his line of sight. From there, Steve played witness to the strangest conversation he’d ever been party to.

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Too Young - Spencer Reid

Originally posted by toyboxboy

hello!! this blurb is inspired by Too Young by Post Malone :) gif isn’t mine but it gives me heart palpitations.


warnings: death, being shot, stress, guilt

word count:  1,778

Spencer Reid stood next to you, his coworker and best friend, during the plot the two of you had. You were holding his arm tightly, constantly looking down at the skirt of your long dress to be sure that you weren’t going to trip on it.

The two of you were at the Mayor’s Ball, which was held every year for the small island of Hilton Head, South Carolina, where there has also been a series of single shootings at multiple events throughout the island.  The councilmen of the island had thought about cancelling the event, but you all knew better.  It was the perfect event to attend as if it were normal, to get the unsub.  There was a gun strapped to your ankle, and a tiny one in your clutch, and you were nervous as all hell.  

Your “date” was gorgeous, and it made a longing feeling in the pit of your stomach form.  Spencer was your boyfriend, and no one on the team new of this except the two of you.  They all assumed for you two to be best friends, always together when outside of work, able to hold up intellectual conversations without skipping a beat, but little did they know of the life the two of you truly had.  

It was so far progressed that you had moved in with Spencer many months before, and kept your previous address on file at Quantico to keep suspicions from building.  

The thought of being able to be around your friends and showing affection to Spencer made you upset.  Both of you knew it was for the better that no one knew of the relationship, but it was still difficult for you to hide.  You were so proud to be with Spencer, but you were simply unable to show it.  

The two of you walked to the bar, where you ordered wine, and Spencer a gin and tonic as your eyes scanned the crowd.  You wore a red sequin dress that fell down your body beautifully and your hair was curled to perfection by none other than Jennifer Jareau, another close friend of yours.  

“You look absolutely breathtaking.” Spencer leaned down and murmured in your ear, and his long hair tickled your neck.  

A blush as red as your dress formed on your face as you smiled shyly up to him.  “Focus, my love.”  You murmured back just as quietly and sipped your wine.  Spencer hummed and looked out into the large crowd of the venue.  

A moment of silence between the two of you started as you focused on the crowd, looking for anyone that could possibly be of question.  You hadn’t noticed Spencer’s eyes on you until you looked up at him, about to ask a question.  “It is so hard to focus when there is someone as beautiful as you standing next to me.”  Spencer murmured and smiled lightly as his hand brushed against the bare skin of your arm.  

You smiled, and the two of you turned back to the crowd.  “Maybe, after we catch this unsub, the two of you can return to the hotel, and you can join me in my room tonight?”  You murmured to him as your cheeks were blazoned red.  

Spencer smiled without looking at you, but before he could reply, a loud, clear gunshot rung throughout the ballroom.  Spencer drew his gun in an instant, scanning the crowd for the perpetrator.  What he didn’t notice was your face falling, as the deep, dark red color leaking from your stomach.  Your hand went to it slowly, and your vision became blurry as you pulled it away and looked at your blood covered hand.  

“Spencer,” you whispered among the screams as you fell to the floor, slipping in and out of consciousness.  

The team, from various posts around the venue, chased after the unsub as he ran from the building.  Spencer noticed you fell, and his breath hitched in his throat as he looked at you on the floor.  “She’s down, (Y/N) was hit!”  Spencer screamed into his small microphone on his collar as he kneed down, taking you into his arms quickly.   “I need a medic!”  He screamed and began running with you, out of the building, towards the flashing lights of the security and police vehicles outside of the building.  “I need an ambulance!”  He screamed with all of his might as one pulled to s stop with a screeching of the tires.  

Officers ushered guests from the building, making it difficult for Spencer to weave through the crowd.  “Get out of my way!”  He yelled desperately, carrying your bloody and limp body.  

“Spencer,”  you murmured again, and your eyes fluttered open.  “I don’t want to die too young.”  You told him as medics quickly took you from his arms.  

“You won’t!”  Spencer cried as his entire body shook.  He loved you with all he had and he felt numb about the entire situation.  He was right there, he could have saved you, but didn’t.  He hadn’t even seen it coming, and it ached to know this.  

Spencer moved to climb in the ambulance, but personnel stopped him.  “Only family.”  They ordered.  

“I am her boyfriend!”  Spencer cried.  

The person shook their head and closed the door, and the ambulance sped off as quick as it came.  He stood there, frozen as the commotion gathering around him, but he couldn’t move.  He was numb, watching your ambulance rush away, down the street and turning quickly.  

“I will drive you to the hospital, Spence.”  JJ said softly over the commotion. 

Spencer turned, a desparate look on his face, but nodded.  The two of them ran towards the car and climbed in, turning the siren on as the zipped through the streets.  Spencer was silent as tears fell from his eyes quickly, in a steady pace.  

‘He’s dead.”  JJ said after many moments of silence.  Spencer nodded, solemnly.  JJ frowned.  “She will be okay, Spencer.  (Y/N) is always okay.” Se reassured and gave him a faint, broken smile.  

Spencer slammed his hands on the dashboard.  “You didn’t see her!”  He cried.  “You didn’t see her like I did.  She was so hurt, so gone.” He hissed, angry for no reason.  JJ stared at him, unamused.  “I’m sorry.”  He murmured upon seeing her face.  

JJ nodded. “I understand.  If Will was hurt, I would be upset too.”  She told him with a frown.  “Why didn’t either of you tell us?”  She asked him quietly, almost hurt.  

With a guilt mind, Spencer shook his head.  “We thought it would best if we kept it to ourselves.”  He said weakly as JJ pulled into the emergency room parking lot.  

Spencer launched himself from the car as JJ dialed Hotch’s number.  Spencer ran into the emergency room, to the nurse’s station, and interrupted one of the nurse’s work.  “(Y/N) (Y/L/N).  Where is she?”  He asked quickly.  

The nurse typed it into the computer and frowned.  “In the operating room right now.  You are welcome to wait.”  She told him with a bitter sense in her voice. 

Stressed, Spencer ran his hands through his hair.  JJ entered quickly, her phone to her ear.  “Okay, I will tell him.”  She said and hung it up quickly.  “Spence.”  She murmured and he clasped his arms around her, sobbing against her.  “Hotch said the team will be here in only a few minutes.  She will be okay, Spencer.”  She repeated and led him to a row of benches, sitting him down.  

He sat with his head in his hands, trying to steady his breathing.  The team entered the emergency room quickly, looking as if they were performing a raid.  Once they spotted JJ with her arm around Spencer, they crowded around as well.  Spencer stood, trying to remain calm, but he failed as Emily Prentiss wrapped her arms around him quickly.  

Hotch watched with a pained look on his face.  “We think that he targeted her specifically.”  He told Spencer with a stony frown.  Spencer’s mouth fell open.  

“You need to understand that if we knew this, Spencer, we would not have ever let her go with you.”  David Rossi added quickly.  

Spencer rubbed his face.  “This is my fault.  This is all my fault.”  He hissed to himself and the tears commenced.  

“Kid, it is not your fault.  None of of knew that it was going to happen.”  Derek said quickly and put a hand on his shoulder.  

Spencer shook his head.  “It is my job to protect her, and I failed.”  He murmured and rubbed his eyes furiously.  

Hotch frowned.  “It is no more your job, than all of ours, Reid.  There is no reason to blame yourself.”  Hotch told him assertively, trying to make him feel less reasonable.  

“She is my girlfriend.  We have been together for over two years now, and it was my responsibility to protect her and I failed.”  Spencer admitted, hanging his head as he tried to hide the tears from his co-workers.  

A silence overcame the group as they took this information in, and JJ wrapped her arms around Spencer once more, trying to comfort him.  

“We had no idea.”  Rossi said softly as the group moved to a section of seating.  

Spencer nodded.  “That was our intention.” He murmured and the group was silent once more, at a loss for words.  There were no words that could fix how Spencer felt, besides the words from the doctor, who took over an hour to finally emerge, scanning the room.  

“(Y/N) (Y/L/N)?”  He called, and Spencer stood immediately, walking briskly to the doctor, who was wiping his hands with a paper towel.  “The bullet shattered one of her ribs, which thankfully did not puncture her lung or her heart.  unfortunately, it did shred a part of her large intestine, which we had to remove.  She is expected to make a full recovery.”  The doctor explained quickly.  

A breath that Spencer didn’t realize he was holding slipped from his mouth as he ran his hands through his hair once more.  

“She’s going to be okay.”  Spencer repeated over and over as the group all smiled weakly.  

A feeling of relief passed through him, and he knew there was not going to be a time in the future where you were going to be on the job without a bullet proof vest.  He felt an even more advanced feeling of protectiveness wash over him, and he was grateful to know you would always let him do it.  


(Okieriete Onaodowan x Reader)

Word Count: 6033

Request/Summary: No request! (again…). Based off of Ed Sheeran’s Happier

Warnings: Brief diet smut, drinking because of emotional pain, way too many Dirty Dancing references (may or may not have been watching it while writing…)  angst, cussing.

Tagging: @satans-little-midgets @imagineham (extra special thanks to Steph for helping me with the title) @gwynstacee  @bleepblopbloop56 aaannnddd thanks to @hamilton-noodles most of this fic exists, so thanks, Jo.


Side note- Italics is the past, regular is the present. The present is organized linearly and the past is ambiguous to any specific order.

“Good morning.” Oak’s voice crackled as if he was speaking to you through a phone somewhere with bad reception, still coarse from his full night of sleep. You smiled. You couldn’t be mad at him for waking you up. You couldn’t be mad when he whispered in your ear like that. When you were encased in those big arms of his. When it was just cold enough in the room for you to want to stay close to him and under the mess of covers.

“Good morning.” You muttered back. You didn’t want to leave this moment behind. Not when he had his body wrapped around you, his breath against your skin, the room smelling just slightly of coffee, the covers soft against your skin, not when you were feeling like you were sinking into the mattress more and more with every passing second. You rolled over in his arms, your fingers finding the smooth polyester fabric of his navy colored t-shirt. You fiddled with the hem of his sleeve.

“I don’t want to get out of bed.” You told him, inhaling the scent of his chest- lavender, just like the soap bar you kept in the shower… for yourself.

Keep reading

For those who say that "Humanz" sound nothing like Gorillaz

So, I decided to check to order the newest Gorillaz album “Humanz”, as I wasn’t able to preorder it. What immediately caught my eye was that the album, that came out just today, has only 3 stars. Wondering what was so bad already about the new album, I checked the reviews. What I saw made me angry beyond everything. Yes, there are 5 star reviews, loving the new songs. But there were also 1 star reviews and they all said basically the same thing - “This album sounds nothing like Gorillaz used to sound. Bring the old Gorillaz back!”

So, let me get this straight - you dislike this album because it sounds nothing like Gorillaz? Can you please describe to me how Gorillaz actually sound like? Because what I have heard of, the definition of Gorillaz is that they have no defined genre of music. Ironic, isn’t it? Please, name me three iconic Gorillaz songs. For me, it would be Feel Good Inc., Clint Eastwood and Melancholy Hill. And whoopty doo, they all sound like they were written by three different artists! One is soothing, other has a sick beat. The band, that is known for their freedom in genres are writing songs in an unusual to them, more modern sounding genre? WHAT?!?!?! THAT IS PREPOSTEROUS!!!!

Now listen, I’m gonna drop some truth on you - if you consider yourself a fan of ANYONE, and you do not support the changes that the artist chose, stop calling yourself a fan. It’s like taking an iPhone 7 and hating it because “Oh, it doesn’t feel like the good old iPhone 3, I mean, it changed so much, all these additional apps and functions, bring the good old iPhone back !!!!1!!” Change is good, ESPECIALLY AFTER 6 YEARS OF THE BAND’S HIATUS!!!! I would be surprised if the music sounded like “Demon Days” or even their first album “Gorillaz”.That would show, that they have run out of ideas and that they are AFRAID TO CHANGE. Damon Albarn and Jamie Hewlett even did something that many creators, especially in animation rarely do - they age their characters, Noodle grew up from a tiny girl into a grown up woman, and Murdoc went from a nice brown coloured skin to pickle green. And the change in music style makes so much sense, giving the fact that the band was silent for 6 years. It shows, that the band is not stuck to the things that got tons of attention (like Feel Good Inc. or Melancholy Hill), and tries to replicate it, but rather tries out new stuff to make things interesting. For the love of Pazuzu, “White Light” from “Demon Days"album has like, what, 3 words in it? 4, if you count in “do do dodododo” that goes between the actual words. “El Mañana”, other great song, that sounds nothing like the upbeat “19-2000” from a previous album. Oh, “Hallelujah Money” has a weird tempo that sounds strange? What about “5/4”? See, they DO sound like the old Gorillaz!!!

I love the new songs. “Saturn Barz”, “We Got The Power”, “Apprentice” are so far my favourites (I’ve blasted “Apprentice” on repeat for around 6 good hours, when it came out), and I am positive that I will love the rest of the album too. And the name, “Humanz” actually makes sense, seeing how many artists have joined the Gorillaz and put their effort in this album. Some speculate, that the name, “Humanz” means that they are evolving from the “Gorillaz”, gorillas are turning into humans. Changing. Unlike the hipster “fans”, who sit on the band’s first album or “fans” who know the couple of the most famous songs and can’t remember the names of the members. But we, actual fans, who actually love anything Gorillaz related and who know these characters to the detail, these characters, who, although animated and brought to life by imagination, are more “human” than the famous artists you see everyday on the screen, singing songs that 20 writters have put together for them. None two songs of Gorillaz are alike. Not at all. That is why we love these colorful cartoons and the men behind them so much. And if you got the nerve to say that the new album sounds “nothing like Gorillaz”, then you don’t know, what Gorillaz sound like. You don’t know what Gorillaz are and what they stand for - creativity and love for music of any genre.

Pardon me my poor grammar - english is not my first language

Cleopatra (Tom Holland)

Originally posted by j-murphy

Pairing: Tom Holland x Actor!Reader

Warning: Mention of death

Summary: Y/n writes letters to her ex-boyfriend, Tom when break up after he asks her to marry him. She writes all the letters in hope that he’ll come back to her. 

Author: Dizzy

A/N: Just a little fic I decided to write while listening to “Cleopatra” by The Lumineers.  Antony is the sequel with Tom’s responses to the letters Y/n writes.

Masterlist Request a Prompt

                                                                                                       May 30, 2017

Dear Tom,

It’s been two weeks since you left me and I really wish we hadn’t fallen apart. It’s been three weeks since we buried my father and I wish he was here to help me figure out how to move on.

But please, baby, you have to understand why I said no to your proposal. You asked on the first saddest day of my life, the second being your departure from my life, from our town. 

“No” just seemed to fall from my lips without warning that day. That makes sense though, believe me. I couldn’t get engaged the day my father was put to rest. 

Don’t you remember? I couldn’t eat, I couldn’t sleep. Hell, you had to force me to take a shower by doing it with me, by washing my body for me. I was sobbing on the bed in my childhood room when you knelt beside me. When you kept the mascara that stained my face from staining those pink rose and white sheets. 

It was when my sobs subsided, when everyone stopped coming by to see how I was that you pressed that ring into my hand, the one my father gave you when you asked for his hand in marriage. The very ring he placed in my mother’s when he asked her to marry him. 

“Marry me.” was all you had said, so simple and effective. 

I was shocked, my face sticky and my mouth dry as it hung open and your lips pursed into a nervous smirk. 

“No.” fell from my lips and the tears once again began to flow, not from my eyes, but yours.

It was the first time I had seen you cry. The first time I had seen sobs take over your being as you repeated the question of “why?”

Yet, I couldn’t answer why I said no, why I allowed the answer to fall from my lips when I truly wanted to say “yes”, especially when you stained my bed sheets, the beautiful pink roses, with angry tears.

                                                                                                          Forgive me,


p.s. Happy early birthday. I hid a present for you under the staircase.

                                                                                                        June 1, 2017

Dear Tom,

I’d hate to rain on your birthday parade, but I couldn’t get you off my mind. You’re welcome for the gift, it was the least I could do. I still love you, you know. Even if we aren’t friends or dating. 

I have some news. I will be playing Cleopatra in the movie adaption of Cleopatra and Antony. I know you probably don’t care, but I am very glad to have landed such a large role. 

That day still runs through my head. That Sunday. 

I remember how I left the mud stains on my father’s beautiful white carpet when you chased me out of the rain and into the warmth of that little house on the hill. I remember the sticky and sweet smell of the rain on our skin, the way you shook you head to dry off. 

I still remember how it took you all day to find out that the mud on the carpet couldn’t be removed because of how it hardened and cracked like my heart did when you announced you were leaving me. 

That day, Sunday, had gone by so slowly. The rain droned on overhead. The umbrellas were all black except for yours, with it’s bright and odd blue that seemed to make us stand out more than when I came crashing into you with loud and overwhelming sobs. The rain didn’t touch you, didn’t seem as if it ever would, like it was scared of the strength you had. 

I know you loved my father as much as I did and your lack of emotion, or should I say your perseverance of emotion, was all to protect me from the dark and dreariness of the day. I know when you discovered the mud stains on the carpet had cracked and dried, your eyes didn’t glazed over and your brows hadn’t furl because of what you thought people would think when they saw it. I know that they did that because you, yourself, were trying to keep from crying at the thought of how my father would’ve joined me in making those stains in the carpet he hated so much.  

I took up his way of transportation, taking the subway instead of the cab. It’s better for me that way. The sounds of the conductor’s unintelligible voice and the rumbles of the train on the tracks keeps me distracted from all the strangers around me that remind me of you. 

Like now, for example. As I write this letter, there’s a little boy and his mother that sit across from me.

The little boy looks as if he could be your son, with the same tousled hair, the same big eyes and bright smile. He speaks of animals and the heroes in his little children’s novels with such intelligence, just as your mother said you had done at that age. 

Sadly, not the conductor nor the thunder like rumbles and crashes of the subway can keep me distracted from this child, this little boy who makes me wonder what would’ve happened if I kept you around. 

                                                                                                           I miss you,


p.s. I hope you have a great birthday. Say hello to Harrison for me.

                                                                                                     June 4, 2017

Dear Tom,

I went to a church today. It was magnificent, open and stained with colorful streams of light that came from the windows. The tragic faces of Jesus and the saints seemed to make me feel comforted for the first time in a while.

Yet, it still made me feel empty, still made me miss you somehow. 

Maybe it was the speaking of how the church discouraged the lust for you that burns within me or the way they frowned upon my own beliefs that made me yearn for your comfort more than that of those red candles that burned around me. 

So, I left. I couldn’t stay much longer and I don’t know if I really want to go back because the only gifts from the Lord the church spoke of so highly were birth and my father and the Lord already took one of those gifts away. 

But maybe you were a gift as well. I may never know since we’re drawn apart, New York and London. Across the pond and worlds away.

Well, I feel like I should talk about, that I must admit it. I would marry you in an instant. Hell, I’d be your mistress if that meant I could have you around, in my world, on my side of the pond. 

The way your tears stained my bed sheets, the way your rosy cheeks turned a fiery red when your sobs subsided and you looked into my eyes is still a permanent image in my brain. 

To answer your question, no, I didn’t think of you that day. I didn’t think about how you felt when you had to pull me out of the rain, when you sobbed on my bedroom floor or how you felt when you left town. 

I guess I was late in figuring things out. I’m always late, Tom. Don’t you know? I’m always damn late. In getting out on time, in getting things done, in figuring out that you’re the love of my life. 

                                                                                                I’m sorry, my love,


p.s. My new apartment has a master bed and a joint bathroom, a place for you. 

                                                                                                        June 7, 2017

Dear Tom, 

Yes, if the offer is still on the table. If you will let me.

                                                                                                             With love,


liltoothbrush  asked:

Oh boy, what do we have here, I WANT ALL OF THEM jk can i request a 30 for kacchako? You're the best 💖

I think this is gonna be the toughest and shortest one out of them because this is too tight as plot-wise and… idk? It turned out to be a bit clumsy. I’ll just let my imagination fly. And you are the best hon, where did your creativity come from? WRITE ME A FIC TOO.

Bakugou Katsuki hated libraries.

This was general knowledge among all students that dared come near the blonde– which reduced the count to, like, a pair of people? which was a bit sad actually. But Bakugou didn’t mind having a lame social life as long as nobody took him to a library. He had actually tried some tutoring with Kirishima some months ago and trust him, being kicked out of the quietest place on Earth was everything but pleasant.

Today, however, he had no other option but stay there, in the jampacked library full of nerds listening to music or reading books like their life depended on it. All tables were taken around him: shelves were surrounded with people swarming for tons of emboilled wording, tables were packed to the brim with bags, sheets and notebooks. There was this lingering scent of wood, pine, and closeness around him, silence that tried to be silent but ended being composed of hushed murmurs.

He knew why,

It was because of his table.

His table had the best spot in the entire library. It was near enough to the entrance, but not as close as to let winter breezes reach him. There was a big window by his side, letting night snow be seen, but cars weren’t heard this late in the evening. It shows that Yuuei was going through it’s final exams– Bakugou had, no joke, been there from sun to sun and he was too tired to deal with people.

They whispered.

They whispered because his table was completely devoid of any people but him, everyone too scared to approach him lest he threw a tantrum over personal space and threw them off the window. The fire king was fierce, had possesion of the best table around and was undeniably untouchable.

Bakugou, again, hated libraries. They weren’t as silent as they preached to be, there was always this subtone of hushed voices that spoke no pragmatic matter, only petty gossiping that brought no good to his ears. He was easy into focusing, and quirk to do his homework, but that little toneless chatter was pestering him– hell, if he couldn’t stand Deku’s mumbling for a living, how was he going to condone such generalized murmuring all around him?

Another of his pencils broke in twain when he heard his name being pronounced among a pair of girls. Maybe his pencil breaking business was what got him so isolated. There were people sitting on the floor, as if truthfully fearful of the explosion boy.

Suddenly, a low voice came beside him.

“Can I sit here?” oh, he could recognize that voice anywhere. “All other tables are full.”

He pulled the chair out for Uraraka to take, and she gladly jumped in with a stack of hero law books tucked in his arms. She silently tidied her place with a little smile– people could only stare at her, mouths agape, as if she had dared to cross a forbidden threshold for all humankind. His response to her presence was almost inmediate and utmost unkind. “Don’t make any fucking noise, Uraraka. I can sniff your chatter urges a mile away.”

She rose an eyebrow to him. The first thing he noticed was the lack of spark in her brown pools, a evident sign of exhaustion that he had learnt to tell apart from other ocular displays of her– blinking ‘I need your help’ eyes, doe eyed ‘you’re so cool’ eyes, or the now ‘please I am tired don’t be too hard on me’ eyes, devoid of shine and only full of the brown color of her soul. Drowning in them was the only pathetic way he was willing to die

“I have better stuff to do other than talk with you, you know. As I said, I only sat here because there are no other tables available.”

“You can sit with all those fuckers down on the floor.” he stiffled in a yawn. “I don’t give a damn.”

She decided not to answer that and decided to focus on her books. Uraraka had decided to come to the library mostly because she was too tired to make her way to the dorms without getting some rest. Admittedly, she had expected to find the place empty so she could nap for a pair of minutes in a corner– her plan obviously backfired when the library ended up being full and she had no ther option but sit by Mr. FireHell Blondelocks.

As far as she was concerned, Bakugou’s dorm was being repaired due to some of his angry fits being thrown towards a wall, making his dorm look creepily open. That huge hole by his bed was all but tranquilizing. She should have known he would be in the library while his dorm was under repairations, because he couldn’t stand noise while studying and the crew taking care of his room would sure make too much of it.

Brief story: she was stuck with Bakugou until she finished her homework. And time was passing by way too slowly to her liking.

There was a moment when people started leaving the room. Stars twinkled outside the building and threw some shadows across the wooden floor, and lamps lit up the cozy place with a dim, orange light. Uraraka found this to be a bit too pleasant for her tired senses– there was a second in which her head fell a bit too down for Bakugou’s liking, who had been watching her silently as she started to doze off.

“Oi.” he nudged her rudely, and her head snapped up again. “Don’t go falling asleep on me.”

She started messing with her hair sheepishly, making Bakugou fidget uncomfortably in his seat. That antic of hers drove him insane: she was always doing it in front of everyone, in front of teachers, in front of fucking Deku. And he sometimes wondered what the fuck did that bastard have to make her so nervous when he couldn’t wake a single of her hairs up while being by far the most fearsome boy in their class.

“I’m sorry.” whispered she. He saw her grimace, keeping a yawn in– and it made him outwardly yawn, hand covering his mouth. “It’s been a rough day, today. I’ve been going from one place to another and I just couldn’t wait to crash the bed.”

And Bakugou understood the struggle. He was also fighting the exhaustion away, barely keeping it at bay and the fact that the staff had decided to royally mess with him by turning on the heat was not fucking helping. He had already removed his jacket and he was still a bit too warm to his liking. Knowing Uraraka and how sleepy she was, the fight must be tougher for her.

He shuffled a bit closer to her, feeling himself more tired than ever. “There’s not much people around.”

Her head rested on her palm now, looking at him with an interested gaze. “Mhm.”

“You can have your damn sleep, now.”

This– this startled her. He could have a heart, too? What was the world coming to that night? “Are you suggesting to keep watch on me… and actually let me have a little nap?”

“I am not gonna be your fucking babysitter.” spat he, crimsom eyes glaring at her despite the kindness within his flames. He eyed her unkempt hair and the dryness of her pretty stars, and her skin suddenly seemed paler than usual. “You look like a car ran over you. If you can’t take care of yourself I’ll have to show you how to fucking do it.”

He legit slammed her head against the wooden table, making a loud terrifying noise. Somebody could have mistaken that with a murdering attempt. Uraraka, however, laughed at his antics while watching the snowflakes drop before her. “I could use… some sleep.”

Bakugou almost didn’t catch what she said, as she was inmediately out of commision the moment her head crashed against the table. “Stupid woman.” mumbled he, taking a last glimpse at his diagrams and summaries while keeping an eye on her. Her hair was a mess, and he could tell it was bothering her.

Bakugou caressed her cheek with his fingertips and quickly brushed some strands away, the notion inmediately bringing him close to rage with this newfound feeling of intimacy. “Fuck this girl, fuck her!” he glared at her. “Fuck her in hell…”

But the way she was sleeping was kind of cute, too. Her head rested atop her hands, even breaths fanning some locks away and her face in peace for the first time in a while. He had never seen her so relaxed until now, and the image filled him with a sense of peace that he didn’t know he could feel until he stumbled with her.

His back was throbbing. He bet hers wasn’t right now.

She must be… comfortable, too.

Bakugou looked away and started cursing colorfully as he took his jacket from his spot on the chair’s back, and put it on top of her quiet body. The thought of her scent impregnating his clothes wouldn’t occur to him until midnight clocked by– and he would fall asleep thinking about her, too.

The blonde blushed, and all he could think about now was about how good a nap would be to him and how nice her warmth would be– he was half a meter away from her and he could already feel her whole self lulling him to sleep against his will.

That had to be illegal. His heart shouldn’t be racing as hard as it was.

Eventually, Bakugou gave in and his head ended up on his arms too, both teens closer together than they had ever been– and Bakugou had taken her sweater as a paid back, he thought tiredly and without much logic, and draped it across his back. 

Uraraka shifted closer to him in her sleep, and he was only drawn to her scent. The sound of snowflakes melting against the windowpane made him remember that he hated libraries, but he would never hate this spot and he could forget about this hatred for a while as long as Uraraka was by him all the time, too.

She had had tons of space to sit at– floors and on top of shelves. But all tables had been full and, at the end of the day, he couldn’t find the heart to complain.

Aizawa eventually found both kids fast asleep on the table and sighed. “Man, kids these days. They grow up so fast.”